Around this time, Estelle’s worldly possessions began showing up at 88 Via Montana, overwhelming the closet spaces with her bright clothing and army of shoes. On the plus side, they finally had enough stuff to take the echo out of the larger rooms. Others might have lost their minds, gone off to find a real job and a place of their own, or at least move out to the Generator, but Clay wasn’t about to relinquish a caretaker gig where he could make his own hours and test his vocal range while he worked; and he wasn’t about to deal with a surly, celestial roommate.
A few days after Essie took up residence, a visitor arrived at the front gates. It was a quarter past noon, and Clay had only started filling the pool with its usual chemicals, holding his breath over a jug of muriatic acid. The chlorine was bad enough to work with, but the acid was the most hazardous chemical in residence; a single whiff paralyzed Clay’s lungs. He was emptying the sum of it into the deep end when the intercom buzzed inside the house. And Clay groaned, uninvited guests being about as common as spider webs and women’s shoes here. “Don’t worry, Es, I’ve got it,” he laughed. Because Essie might have come into their lives wanting her old job back, but these days she was content to sleep and watch TV.
Clay intended to switch the intercom off without saying a word, but the surveillance screen showed a familiar face. “Peter?” the face asked. “It’s Dave Ganek.”
Clay struck the button that parted the gargoyle head and Dave drove through the gates, while a Dark Hollywood tour bus watched hungrily from the cul-de-sac. Ganek didn’t play an instrument, but he could have easily passed for a musician with his straggly hair, tattoos, and billy goat’s chin—even if his pressed polo and spotless jeans suggested domestication. “My father’s at work,” Clay told him. “There something I can do for you?”
“I was just in town, visiting friends. My family loves Santa Cruz, but I’m nostalgic for the old place. I guess everyone gets curious about what the next owners do with their house.”
Clay gave him the official tour, showing off the turret room that his father had converted into his home office, the gym, the outdoor bar that had been installed in the covered shade of the summer kitchen. Other than that, not much had changed in three months. At least structurally speaking.
When they reached the back yard, Clay offered to show him the Generator—reluctantly. He hadn’t gone in since Boyle’s hissy fit (band practices were held over Fiasco and Spider’s, with the occasional session on The Knickerbocker’s roof), but surely Ganek would want to see it again. To Clay’s surprise, the roadie balked. “I’ve always felt uneasy in there. I almost bulldozed the whole thing.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. It’s become a music space again, for me and my band.”
“I figured you for a band guy.”
“I might have found something under the loose board in there,” Clay confessed.
“If you’re talking about a Rickenbacker 370 with a fireglow paint job, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ganek folded his thick arms thoughtfully across his chest. “I figured anything that Roc hid away I wasn’t going to touch.”
Clay nodded, self-conscious. “I have to admit I did more than touch it. Do you… want it back?”
“Hell no. You own the house now, and everything in it.”
Ain’t that the truth, Clay thought. “That’s good ’cause she’s in for repairs right now. I broke her neck at my first show.”
“Well, that’s something Rocco would’ve been proud of.”
Clay poured each of them a scotch from the outdoor bar and they sat out on deck chairs in the shade. “I take it you’re a Throne fan?” The look on Ganek’s face suggested he’d already answered for himself.
“As much as anyone who hangs out in that cul-de-sac.”
“Shirl, my wife, wanted to sell to non-fans, but I told her that was impossible.” He paused to bob his head (“Sober” was thumping on the bar speakers). “Now that you’re on the other side of the gates, though, are you getting sick of people lighting candles and shouting conspiracy theories?”
“A little. But I can’t blame them. I mean, I believe some of those conspiracies myself.”
Ganek drained his scotch and Clay stood to pour him another. What Peter didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him… at least until he went looking for this vintage bottle. “How old are you anyway?” Ganek asked.
“Forty-two,” Clay said. They were becoming quick friends.
“I guess sometimes I believe too,” Ganek said. “When the police closed the case, a few of us pooled our resources and hired an investigator. It never went anywhere—the guy was more interested in writing a book than actually proving anything. We figured if there was a killer, it was probably someone from Roc’s drug scene. He kept his music and drugs separate, and Strip dealers are a dime a dozen. Whoever it was probably slithered right back to the bottom.”
Or straight to the top, Clay reflected with a chill.
“Then there are other times I think the theories are nonsense. Rocco was an enigma no one could see all the way through. Not me or Deidre or anyone.” Ganek studied his already-empty glass. “He was capable of doing anything.”
“I’ve read every biography,” Clay said. “But there’s a hole in the story I’ve never understood. The books all
