Free Sleep of the Innocent by Medora Sale

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    â€œNo,” said the voice coldly. “We don’t give out that information. You could try her agent. Al Hamilton represents her. He’s in the phone book,” she added, lest he tax her energy further by making her read out the agent’s telephone number.
    â€œYeah, she’s one of mine,” said Al Hamilton when Lucas finally got through to him. “She doesn’t like being called Jennifer, though,” he said. “Claims it’s too sweet a name, too innocent-sounding for a singer. I think Stormi’s worse myself, but what can you do? The group started out modified punk, you know, and wanted real hard-driving names—but that stuff doesn’t sell anymore, not for all the bread-and-butter jobs. They’re into soft rock, easy listening. They get a lot of work; people like them. You know, weddings, dances, that sort of stuff. They’re out of town right now, doing a week at a ski resort.” He paused to take a breath. “You wanna hire them?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, out of town?” protested Lucas. “I was talking to Jennifer—Stormi—last night.”
    â€œJust a minute.” There was a pause and a muffled roar in the background. “You’re right. The job ended Wednesday. But they haven’t called in yet. Kevin always calls as soon as they’re back in town.”
    â€œKevin?”
    â€œYeah—it’s his group, Sex Kitten is. Not Stormi’s. Although you’d never know it to talk to her.”
    â€œHow far away is that resort?”
    â€œWho is this, anyway? You want to hire them, what difference does it make where the resort is?” Lucas identified himself once more, and the agent’s voice lost most of its energy and enthusiasm. That level of excitement was reserved for paying customers. “I see. Well, it’s not that far. It’s the Pine Valley Lodge—about two hours away, unless you’re driving on the weekend. Then it might as well be on the moon.”
    â€œYou got an address on her?” asked Lucas.
    â€œWhat’s this all about?” he said, his voice crackling with suspicion.
    â€œHomicide. Someone was killed, and we’d like to talk to her. Just as a witness, Mr. Hamilton. Look, you want to call me back? Look up the number in the phone book, ask for Homicide, then ask for me by name.”
    â€œYou know, Sergeant, I think I will,” said the agent and hung up.
    He sounded relieved when he got through to Lucas again. “Sorry about that, but you wouldn’t believe the sick guys out there trying to find out where the girls live. I gotta protect my musicians—they’re an investment, you know,” and he laughed to make sure Lucas realized he was being funny. “Anyway, she lives at four ninety-two Oak Street, downstairs, and I got her telephone number here, if you want it.”
    But the telephone rang at 492 Oak Street sixteen times without any answer, and Lucas finally gave up. He reported—yet again—on his progress, giving Baldy the address as proof he was still on the job, and went off to look at Oak Street.
    It was a street that had gone from never having been elegant to being actively rundown. Here and there, a few hopeful people were trying to renovate, but for most of its short length it retained a forlorn air. A good place for a musician, he supposed. A rock band could rehearse all night, and it would never occur to the neighbours to complain. They might heave bricks through the window, but they wouldn’t complain. At least, not to the police. The bell marked Ground Floor rang loud and empty through the rooms. He peered through a small window in the front door at a narrow vestibule holding a few coats and a pair of boots. He walked along the porch that spanned the front of the house and looked in the front window. A bedroom that without a doubt had once been the front parlour. Behind it, through an arch, he could see a