Tommy had no idea how much they’d be worth. The whims of the art world completely eluded him. Though he was captivated by the story unfolding—every brushstroke adding yet another layer to the history of rock and roll—the origins of the world—the soul’s journey—the almost supernatural ability of music to inspire, heal, and connect seemingly disparate people from all over the world. It was all there, and it was magnificent to behold.
Tommy had always been biased enough to believe music was the highest art form, but watching Layla’s dad illustrate what it was music did best, he had to admit that in the hands of the right artist, an artist who truly loved and understood his subject, maybe no one medium was better than the other. Maybe they were never meant to compete, but rather exist separately but equally.
“H.D.,” Ira called, displaying no qualms about disturbing what appeared to be the artist’s deeply meditative state. “I want to introduce you to Tommy Phillips.”
When H.D. swung around, Tommy once again was struck by the resemblance to Layla. He also saw that H.D. clearly remembered the last time they’d met.
“Good to see you.” H.D. offered a paint-crusted hand, and Tommy didn’t hesitate to clasp it in his.
“You two know each other?” For whatever reason, Ira looked more interested than Tommy thought the situation warranted. But maybe that was just because Ira was a control freak who prided himself on knowing things long before they had a chance to occur.
Tommy hesitated, unwilling to share the story of how he’d taken Layla home the night she’d overindulged in Ira’s top-shelf tequila.
“Tommy stopped by the house once.” H.D. cracked a knowing smile that sent a riot of creases around his blue eyes.
Ira’s calculating gaze moved between them. “Well, we don’t want to keep you. Just wanted Tommy here to get a sneak peek, since it’s his job to make this room profitable once it’s ready.”
“It’s amazing,” Tommy said, feeling humbled and in awe and a little guilty for the way he’d recently blown off Layla.
H.D. nodded, wiped his hands on the sides of his jeans, and went back to work, as Ira led Tommy out of the room and back down the stairs.
“Since I’m going to be stuck here for a while,” Ira said, “and since I’m clearly not keeping you busy enough, I’ve got an errand you can run.”
Tommy stood in the doorway of Ira’s office and tried to look amenable, but he was running seriously late for his meeting with Malina, and she was not the type to keep waiting.
Then again, neither was Ira.
Ira retrieved something from a drawer and was circling around to hand it to Tommy when his hip inadvertently brushed the edge of his desk and sent a handful of papers scattering to the floor.
Tommy watched the papers flutter and land, his gaze catching sight of one in particular with a picture of a cartoon cat bearing what looked to be some serious injuries.
Before he could get a better look, Ira took another step forward and covered the image with his black Gucci loafer.
Had he done it on purpose?
And what was it about the image that seemed oddly familiar?
Tommy searched Ira’s face, but his gaze was impassive and gave nothing away. “Drop this by Night for Night on your way out and give it to James. No one else, just James.”
Ira handed Tommy a thick envelope that was most likely filled with cash. Having once been on the receiving end of one of Ira’s donations, he recognized the signs. Though he couldn’t help but wonder what James had done to earn it, or would be doing soon.
Tommy glanced between the envelope and the gleaming gold horse bit on Ira’s shoes, still unable to define exactly what was nagging at him.
“You don’t want to be late for your meeting,” Ira said, by way of dismissal.
Tommy nodded, slipped the envelope under his arm, and headed outside, steeling himself against yet another scorcher of a day. It wasn’t until he was climbing into his car that he flashed on Layla’s fearful look as she’d told him about the card she’d received along with Madison’s diary entry.
But you haven’t even read the card yet! There was a card that came with it—it had a cartoon picture of a seriously messed-up cat, and—
Only he’d cut her off before she could finish.
Was it the same cat he saw?
And if so, did that mean Ira was involved?
He adjusted his rearview mirror and looked back toward the Vesper, wondering if he should find a way to get inside Ira’s office and find that paper so he could bring it to Layla. His guilt over blowing her off was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. And what about her dad? Was H.D. getting sucked into this mess without even realizing?
Tommy knew Layla’s dad was short on cash and desperate for work, which was how Ira found most of his employees. It was certainly how he’d found Layla, and Tommy grudgingly included himself as well. And while it wasn’t exactly true for Aster, moments after she accepted Ira’s offer to stay on as a Night for Night promoter, she’d been arrested for first-degree murder as Ira . . . Tommy thought hard on the best way to describe it. While he couldn’t definitively say Ira had been expecting Larsen to show up at the Vesper with an arrest warrant, at the time, Ira had handled the detective’s sud