CaDell leaned closer to Cedrow. His cheeks and nose tip were red, and he had clear tan lines along his forehead, marking the spot he wore his hat while on the plains. I’d initially thought him much older than me, but I revised my estimate. The man had the wind-bitten, prematurely aged face of a rig worker.
“Vandie,” his voice low, eyes half closed. “This is a bad scene. Let’s not make it worse.”
“Worse?” She parroted the word, lips puckering as if tasting its flavor.
“They were asked to come,” he said. “And we certainly want a speedy resolution to this tragedy.”
“Sure we do,” she muttered, then faced the older man full-on. “Okay. I’ll leave it in your hands. Take them backstage and get this mess cleaned up.”
She pushed her way past us, shoulder clipping mine, not bothering to look at me as she added, “Try not to kill anyone while you’re here, okay?”
CaDell waited for her to be out of earshot, then pasted a smile on his wind-chapped face. “Follow me, please.”
He led us through a series of tented tunnels and temporary walls, laid out in a convoluted nest structure probably chosen for a mixture of security and insulation. It was like walking through a beehive or animal warren—our path lit by strands of overhead lights that intertwined through the tent framework like the younger Cedrow’s ear piercings.
I tried not to obsess on her anger. Vandie’s uncle had left a string of bodies and sacrificed the sanity of his workers in order to preserve the status quo. I didn’t regret my actions, and I’d have done it again if I needed to. I breathed through clenched teeth, counting to ten as I told myself to let it go.
Happily, the slow-moving man who was our guide seemed to share none of his counterpart’s ill-will. Instead, he provided a steady stream of information about the tent construction and how the various layers created air pockets, an insulated bubble that, while expensive, would keep the concertgoers and performers warm enough for the festival. He even spec’d out the type of material that allowed all that to happen, and in what order it was installed.
My lack of interest ran deep.
We finally emerged into a larger space, this one occupied by dozens of performers and roadies. We were in front of one of the oil rig’s administrative buildings, built into the tent system like a dollhouse consumed by a wasps’ nest. Standing in the middle of this space were a pair of humans in mid-argument. One of them was so famous that even I recognized her.
Tall and slender, Dinah McIntire carried herself like royalty. She wore a thigh-length dress gilded with sequins so large they looked like fish scales, each one a burnished yellow that brought out the gold flake in her eye makeup. The dark, thick swirls of her hair were accentuated by streaks of silver. Her dark brown leggings were an exact match for her skin tone, no doubt designed to make them invisible from the stage while still providing protection against the chill. She had cover-model features and a burning intensity in her eyes. It was no wonder she was a star. I wondered if she was also a killer.
She didn’t acknowledge our approach. Her attention was focused on a petite man in a green-and-red-striped sweater, the object of her anger.
“I don’t give two shits about difficulty, Cavanaugh. I want it done fast and I want it done right. You want a star on your stage, you better make it safe for me to be out there.”
“Of course we want it safe, Dinah. But getting things done fast? It’s Titanshade—we gotta grease some palms.”
She peeled the fake eyelash from her right eye and frowned, tone unyielding. “You’re a manager. Go manage it.”
CaDell cleared his throat and I held my badge aloft. The argument ceased, and we got the pair’s full attention.
“Sorry for interrupting,” I said. “Are you Miss McIntire?”
“I am.” The singer was all resonant voice and statuesque good looks. Two graceful strides with her hand extended. “And you don’t need to introduce yourself. I’m so pleased to meet you, Detective.”
I shrugged, pocketing my badge as I tilted my head toward Jax. “This is my partner, Detective Ajax. We—”
Jax stepped forward, gripping McIntire’s hand, and pumped it as he gushed. “I loved ‘My Tears Are Diamonds.’ I listened to it so much I wore out the 8-track. I’m really excited for the show and already have tickets for opening night, thank you so much for coming to town.” He was still shaking her hand, and McIntire withdrew hers a little forcefully.
“Thanks.” She raised an eyebrow, then looked at his hand. “You, uh . . .”
Jax glanced down. Her fake eyelash lay crumpled in his palm. He held it out, and she plucked it up with a grimace.
“I’ll let you get at it, then.” She waggled her fingers in a farewell and turned her attention back to her manager. “Cavanaugh, start from the beginning and walk me through it.”
CaDell headed back across the hall, gesturing for us to follow.
I hesitated. “We’ll need to speak with you later,” I told the pop star. But McIntire’s attention had already turned to one of her other assistants.
We stepped after CaDell, and Jax leaned in, muttering, “Did I make a fool out of myself?”
“Don’t worry, kid, you did fine.” I let him enjoy that for a few paces before adding, “We’ll just have to wait and see if she files a restraining order.”
We followed CaDell through another stretch of tented tunnels, the striped material lighting up in the sunlight, which at least told me what direction was south. He gave us the background
