A slight narrowing of his eyelids sharpened icy eyes, warning she’d hit a nerve. “Have a nice night, Rachel.”
The emphasis on her name roughened it in ways she didn’t like. “Thanks for the cab.”
“Any time. Be safe.”
She slid into the cab and he slammed the door closed. As the cab pulled away she felt his gaze on her. Her cheeks flushed. “Take me across town.” She gave her address.
She pulled the tape from her purse, wondering what Deke would have said if he’d known she had the tape of Annie.
At her house, she scrounged twenty bucks from her purse and paid the cab driver. She considered returning to work but the videotape weighed heavily in her purse. She fished her keys from a side pocket and got into her car. Thirty minutes later she’d bought a dozen glazed chocolate donuts, driven across the Cumberland River and stood in front of a small one-story house. The windows were barred and the front door well lit by a halogen and monitored with a camera. She dialed a number on her cell.
It rang once. “Better be good.”
“Chocolate glazed donuts.” She held the box up toward a security camera.
“How many?”
“A dozen.”
“You may enter.”
The door lock clicked open and she entered the dark house. Sid Danvers was in his early twenties and though he’d never graduated from any school he was brilliant with all electronics. She and Sid had met a year ago when she’d helped with a legal matter regarding an alleged hacking incident. She’d gotten him acquitted and he’d promised his future help in exchange for donuts.
Out of the shadows stepped a tall, thin man with long hair tied at the nape of his neck. He wore grungy jeans and a shirt embossed with Bogart’s image. He studied her. “Attorney Wainwright.”
She nodded. “Sid. Keeping your nose out of other people’s operating systems?”
“Of course.”
She knew enough not to push. She held up the box, “I need a favor.”
He took the donuts. “I did promise you one favor in exchange for donuts.”
She reached in her satchel and pulled out the VHS tape. “I want to watch this tape but don’t have the equipment.”
“That’s it?”
“Not much of a challenge, I will agree.”
“No. I’d have figured you wanted me to hack into Nashville PD computers and see what they are saying about your case. Or that reporter’s computer. That would no doubt be amusing.”
“No. This is totally legal.” Her grip on the satchel tightened. “Tell me you haven’t done that.”
A smile twitched the edge of his lips. “I have not.”
Again, better not to press. “Just the tape.”
“Do you want it transferred to a CD?”
“That would be great.” She scanned the piles of dusty, haphazardly arranged electronics. “Could we watch the tape now?”
He opened the box of donuts. “They’re still warm.”
“Out of the oven fifteen minutes ago.”
He held a donut up to his nose and closed his eyes. “We’ll watch the tape now.”
“Thanks.” Dragging in a breath, she entered the house. The main room, originally designated as a living room, was now his office and crammed full of hundreds of electronic devices. There were old projectors, computers, copiers, and a bellows camera. The stack of electronics left little floor space to maneuver, so she followed him along a narrow path to a long desk sporting four computer screens. One played a movie, the other news, the other a series of numbers, and the last satellite images.
He bit into the donut and chewed slowly. “So what do you have for me?”
She pulled the cassette from her purse. “It’s a recording of a singer performing at Rudy Creed’s thirty years ago. The singer is supposed to be Annie Rivers.”
Nodding, he gobbled the donut in two bites and then turned to his pile of electronics. He studied the collection, as a surgeon would his tools. He set several aside so he could reach an older dusty model. Chunky and thick, the machine looked awkward and clumsy.
“State of the art in 1981. Should do the trick if your tape is intact.” He settled the player on a lonely bare spot on his desk and using a mismatch of cords attached it to a power source.
She handed it over. “Here’s hoping.”
He took the tape, inspected it, and then pushed it into the machine. The image on the right computer screen turned grainy. Sid grabbed another donut and sat on a swivel chair in front of the computer. “Not looking good.”
She pulled up a small stool and watched, tapping her foot. “Could it be your machine?”
A thick brow arched at the imagined insult. “My machines work. It’s your tape.”
“I was told the tape worked.”
He shot her a glance. “If these donuts weren’t awesome I’d toss you out for questioning me.”
She grinned. “I actually waited until the donuts came out of the oven. The clerk tried to sell me donuts made an hour ago but I refused.”
He plucked another from the box. As he bit into the soft dough the screen’s static cleared to a faded color image of Rudy’s stage. It hadn’t changed in three decades and could have been filmed today. Same scarred floor covered with a small red rug. Same stool. Same collection of images in the background. The telltale giveaways were the large and unwieldy microphone and the curly or winged hairstyles of the women in the audience.
The crowds to the side and front of the stage cheered as two guitar players and a fiddler assembled on stage. Young guys dressed in jeans, they all sported long hair and thick beards. The musicians were laughing, finishing off the last of their cigarettes, as they started to play a lively tune.
A guitar player, which she realized was a younger leaner Rudy, leaned forward and stroked his beard as he smiled. “I guess ya’ll heard that Annie is here tonight.”
The crowd whooped and hollered with enthusiasm. Several started to chant, “Annie.”
Rachel scooted to the front of her seat. Seeing stills of the woman didn’t compare to seeing and hearing her on tape. Though age had yellowed the image and diminished some of its original color, her anticipation didn’t wane.
Finally a woman emerged, her head turned toward the band, the thick blond curtain of her hair hiding her features. She wore a blue cowgirl outfit cinched at a narrow waist, a silver concho belt, and blue boots.
She spoke to the band, tapping her foot as the crowd shouted her name. With a showman’s panache, she slowly lowered her head and grabbed the microphone. The crowd cheered. She waited a beat, raised her hand in the air, and then looked directly into the camera. A wide grin accentuated full red lips, enhanced a high slash of cheekbones and brightened blue eyes. She possessed a charisma, a glow that drew Rachel into the screen.
“Damn,” Sid said. “Hot as hell.”
“Her photos don’t do her justice.”