Troy curbed his impatience with her roundabout speaking style. He wanted to tell her to spit it out already. But he knew from experience that rushing her only slowed things down.
“You got any coffee?” she asked.
“I do.” He cut through the vaulted-ceilinged living room, heading for the kitchen, assuming she’d follow and hoping she’d compose her thoughts along the way.
Her heels clicked on the parquet floor. “I’ve thought about it and talked about it and I’m really sorry to bother you with it. But it’s kind of getting away from me, you know?”
No, he didn’t know. “Does ‘it’ have a name?”
“It’s not a person.”
He tried and failed to keep the exasperation from his voice. “Kassidy.”
“What?”
He rounded the island in the center of the expansive kitchen. “You’ve got to give me something here, maybe a proper noun.”
She pursed her lips tight together.
“What happened?” he asked. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. See, I told my manager this would happen.”
“You have a manager?”
“A business manager.”
“For your singing career?”
“Yes.”
The revelation took Troy by surprise.
Sure, Kassidy was a sweet singer, but she was really small-time. Who would take her on? Why would they take her on? His mind immediately went to the kinds of scams that exploited starry-eyed young women.
“What’s the guy’s name?” he asked suspiciously.
“Don’t be such a chauvinist. Her name is Eileen Renard.”
Troy found himself feeling slightly relieved. Statistically speaking, females were less likely than males to exploit vulnerable young women in the entertainment business, turning them into strippers, getting them addicted to drugs.
He gave her face a critical once-over. She looked healthy, if a bit tired. He doubted she was doing any kind of recreational drugs. Thank goodness.
He retrieved a second white stoneware mug from the orderly row on the first shelf of a cupboard. “Why did you think you needed a manager?”
“She approached me,” said Kassidy, slipping up onto a maple wood stool at the kitchen island and dropping her bag to the floor with a clunk.
“Is she asking for money?”
“No, she’s not asking for money. She likes my singing. She thinks I have potential. Which I do. It was after a show in Miami Beach, and she came backstage. She represents lots of great acts.”
“What were you doing in Miami Beach?” Last Troy had heard Kassidy could barely afford the subway.
“I was singing in a club.”
“How did you get there?”
“On an airplane, just like everybody else.”
“That’s a long way from New Jersey.”
“I’m nineteen years old, Troy.”
He set a cup of black coffee in front of her. “Last time we talked, you didn’t have any money.”
“Things have changed since the last time we talked.”
He searched her expression for signs of remorse. He hoped she hadn’t done anything questionably moral or legal.
“I’m doing better,” she said.
He waited for her to elaborate, taking a sip of his coffee.
“Financially,” she said. “Good, in fact. Great, really.”
“You don’t need money?” He’d assumed money would be at least part of the solution to her current problem.
“I don’t need money.”
That was surprising, but good, though it didn’t explain her presence.
“Can you tell me the problem?” he asked.
“I’m trying to tell you the problem. But you’re giving me the third degree.”
“I’m sorry.” He forced himself to stay quiet.
She was silent for so long that he almost asked another question. But he told himself to pretend this was a stakeout. He had infinite patience on a stakeout.
“It’s a few guys,” she said. She reached down for her shoulder bag and dug into it. “At least I assume they’re guys—from what they say, it sounds like they’re guys.” She extracted a handful of papers. “They call themselves fans, but they’re kind of scary.”
Troy reached for the wrinkled email printouts, noting the trace of anxiety that had come into her expression.
“What do they say?”
While waiting for her answer, he began reading the emails.
They were from six unique email addresses, each with a different nickname and a different writing style. For the most part, they were full of praise, laced with offers of sex and overtones of possessiveness. Nothing was overtly threatening, but any one of them could be the start of something sinister.
“Do you recognize any of the addresses?” he asked. “Do you know any of the nicknames?”
She shook her purple hair. “If I’ve met them, I don’t remember. But I meet a lot of people, a lot of people. And hundreds more see me onstage and you know...” She gave her slim shoulders a shrug. “They read my blog, and they think we’re friends.”
“You write a blog?”
“All singers write blogs.”
“They shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, well, we’re not as paranoid as you.”
“I’m not paranoid.”
“You don’t trust people, Troy.”
“Only because most of them can’t be trusted. I’m going to hand these over to our threat expert and see if there’s anything to worry about.” Troy remembered to glance at his watch. If he wasn’t done soon, Vegas would have to take the Bulgarian meeting.
He polished off his coffee, hoping Kassidy would do the same.
She didn’t.
“It’s not just the emails,” she said.
“Oh?”
“People have started hanging around the stage door after my show, looking for autographs and selfies.”
“How many people?”
“Fifty, maybe more.”
“Fifty people wait around to get your autograph?”
“You know, your confidence in me is inspiring.”
“It’s not that.”
Actually, it was that. He was surprised she had anywhere near that kind of a following.
“Things are moving fast,” she said. “Downloads of my songs, ticket sales, offers for gigs. A guy on a motorcycle followed me back to my hotel in Chicago last week. It was creepy.”
Talk about burying the lead. That could be truly dangerous.
“Were you alone?” Troy asked.
“I was with a backup band.”
He