by Lisa Turner
Teeth gritted, he walked toward Augie. “What the hell? You just tried to deck a twelve-year-old.”
Augie glanced around as if bewildered to find that he was standing on the street. “I didn’t do that.”
“You did, asshole,” Billy shouted. Tourists walking by stopped to watch. “You’re losing it. You’re breaking down.”
“Get off my back,” Augie shouted, and stomped toward the taco cart stationed at the corner.
Billy yelled after him, “You’ll never get back in this ballpark. Or any other park.”
Augie turned around, stricken. “You’ve never screwed up? What about that little girl . . . Rebecca Jane? The judge almost beat her to death because of you.”
The girl’s name startled him into silence. Shame, adrenaline, cold outrage surged through him. “This is about you, jerk-ass, not me and not Lou. You’re a nutcase, a waste of skin.”
Augie’s features sagged. He wheeled around to go and instead smashed into the side of the taco cart. The cart rocked. The vendor grabbed the handle and overcorrected it. Hot cheese sauce spilled down Augie’s bare legs. He yelped in pain and snatched off his cap to squeegee the steaming cheese off his shins.
The vendor began yelling in Spanish and pointed at Augie. “Su culpa! Su culpa! His fault!”
“Oh, shit. Hang on, Poston,” Billy said, rushing toward Augie.
“No,” Augie spat. “No, no, no.” He dropped his cap, reached for a Fanta bottle on the cart, and smashed the glass bottom on the cart’s leg. Suddenly Augie was pointing the jagged end toward Billy, his eyes hooded and empty of awareness.
Billy stepped back, hands raised. “Put that down, bud,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even.
Augie waved the bottle in front of him and lunged. Billy took a step back and felt for his SIG, forgetting he wasn’t carrying.
Augie dropped low and charged. Billy sidestepped and shoved Augie hard as he passed. Augie tripped, barreled forward, and crashed headfirst into a lamppost. His knees collapsed under him, and he hit the ground, rolling onto his side. He pulled himself up to crawl to the curb and sat with his head in his hands.
The cop in Billy took over. He kicked the bottle out of reach and squatted on his heels beside Augie, examining under the streetlight the goose egg already beginning to bulge on his forehead. Could be a simple hematoma, could be an internal brain bleed.
“We’re going to The MED and get you checked.”
Augie leered. He swung a wild punch that caught Billy on the side of the mouth and knocked him on his butt.
Hand on his throbbing lip, he struggled to his feet, feeling like the parent of a self-destructive kid. At some point you can’t protect them or yourself. You watch helplessly as they destroy everything reasonable in life.
“First stop is The MED,” Billy said. “Then we’re going to your place and get the photo you stole from me. Then you and me, we’re done.”
Augie got to his feet, suddenly seeming steady. He was swimming in his own waters now, a momentary return to sanity. “I may be a waste of skin, but I have something to prove. I’ll do whatever it takes to get there.”
A cab cruised up the street. Billy waved it down, but Augie was already striding away. He was having none of it.
Son of a bitch, Billy thought. That’s enough. He wasn’t about to drag Augie to the ER.
“This isn’t over,” he called out, thinking about the photo.
Augie turned and shot him the finger. “Like you said, Able, we’re done. I got business to handle.”
Augie’s phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket and walked into the muggy darkness.
Chapter 25
At a quarter to eight the next morning, Billy parked the Turismo in the back parking lot of Augie’s apartment building.
After years of obscurity, the DeVoy building had become a premier residence in downtown Memphis. Top architectural firm Kichline & Crockett had seen to the building’s high-end renovation, starting with new glass facades and installing marble and mahogany flooring throughout the lobby. Several of John Torina’s giant, moody agricultural landscapes hung in the public spaces, and handblown fixtures and wall sconces doubled as sculptural art. The building’s opulence attracted couples eager to escape their mini-mansions in the suburbs, bond traders who were looking to upgrade their image, and Grizzlies basketball players on the prowl for downtown nightlife.
Augie had signed a three-year lease for a ninth-floor penthouse. He paid top dollar for the wall of windows in his living room with a skybox view of neighboring AutoZone Park and for the privacy of having only one other tenant on his floor.
Billy entered one of three elevators and tapped in the security code for the ninth floor. He carried with him two cups of coffee from Denny’s and a bag of cathead biscuits with sausage—an excuse to drop by, apologize, and make sure Augie was all right. He had texted Augie twice the night before, asking if he was dizzy or nauseous. Augie had responded both times with “FU.” This morning he hadn’t responded at all.
Billy had a fat lip and a swollen cheek thanks to Augie’s sucker punch, but he figured the knot on Augie’s head looked worse. They both deserved a whooping for fighting like kids in a school yard. Augie wouldn’t see it that way, but that was all right. They’d both been in the wrong. After a restless night, Billy knew he would stand by his friend no matter what.
And there was the photo Augie had lifted. An explanation would be good to hear, but if nothing else, he damn sure expected to get the photograph back.
The elevator door slid open. He walked down the quiet hall to Augie’s apartment, surprised to find the door standing partially opened. He waited, not wanting to startle Augie, expecting him to walk into the entry at any moment. On the back wall, lights shone on the four-by-five-foot painting Augie had commissioned, a head-on portrait of him staring through a catcher’s mask. His green eyes penetrated the bars of the mask with an expression as intense as a samurai warrior’s. The painting was hanging crooked on the wall, as if someone had knocked it off-kilter.
Billy’s heart began to thud. This felt wrong.
“Hey, Augie,” he called. No answer.
He put the coffee and bag of biscuits on the floor of the entry, pulled his SIG and held it barrel up as he moved into the entrance. At the edge of the doorway that led into the living area, he peeked around the frame, checking for assailants or anything unusual in the room.
The place had been tossed—sofa cushions thrown around, bookcase doors hanging open, a lamp knocked over, papers scattered, and drawers upended.
“Augie!” he called. The apartment was silent.
For half a second he tried to convince himself Augie had gotten drunk and torn up the place, but he knew better. He moved in quickly and began clearing the room.
“Augie. Hey, man, where are you?” he yelled, louder this time.
A granite-topped island separated the kitchen from the living area. There was a half-eaten sandwich on a plate beside the sink. Across the top of the counter he saw the refrigerator door standing open, the interior light glowing. On the tile floor to the left of the island he saw Augie’s orange flip-flops.
Then he saw bare feet.
Stretched out on his side in front of the refrigerator, his right arm raised overhead like a swimmer’s stroke, Augie’s face was turned so his glazed eyes peered out from beneath his arm. The side of his face and back of his skull were caved in, hair matted with blood, white bone showing through. Blood spattered the cabinets and walls. Bloody handprints streaked the floor where he’d struggled to get up. The coagulated pool under his head and shoulders was dark and shiny, like blackberry jelly, its consistency and coppery smell indicating that Augie had been dead for hours. His body said, Look at me. Look what was done to me.
A buzz picked up inside Billy’s head. His vision narrowed to a murky green light, as if he and Augie were floating at the bottom of a pond. He bent to touch Augie’s fingers. They were cold.
Professional detac
hment slipped away. Augie was no anonymous victim. He was a member of Billy’s tribe, and he had suffered. It took all of Billy’s will to back away and tuck his weapon at his back.
He pulled his phone and was calling dispatch when he heard footsteps coming down the apartment’s back hall. With great purpose, he laid the phone on the counter, pulled his weapon, and trained it on the doorway. James Freeman walked in. His gaze went first to Billy then to the SIG.
“What the hell,” Freeman said, his brain registering the sight of the weapon.
Billy leveled the gun at his chest. “Hands over your head. On the floor. Now.”
Freeman raised both hands, his own phone clutched in his right one. Reluctantly, he knelt on the tile floor. He was unshaven, wearing gray sweats and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He showed no evidence of blood spatter and no obvious wounds.
Freeman glared at Billy. “Don’t shoot me, you son of a bitch. I’ve called the cops. They’ll be here any minute.”
“Shut up,” he yelled and frisked Freeman one-handed, adrenaline fueling his movements. He yanked Freeman’s hands behind his back, rougher than he had to be, and cuffed him with the flex cuffs he always carried, squeezing hard for the last notch. Freeman grunted as Billy dragged him over to the oven, yanked off his belt to run it through the oven’s handle then through Freeman’s arms, leaving him kneeling on the floor with his arms hiked up behind his back.
His training kicked in. He left the kitchen to move from room to room with his weapon drawn, checking closets, showers, and under the beds. An assailant could still be in the apartment. There could be more victims. He was responsible for securing the scene until someone on duty showed up. And strangely enough, he was responsible for Freeman’s safety until relieved of it.
He went into Augie’s bedroom. It had been ripped apart in the same haphazard manner as the living area. Pros don’t jerk out drawers and throw clothes around. They work from the bottom drawer up, very neat and quiet. Only kids or amateurs would destroy a room in this manner. Or someone who wanted to create a cover.
The sheets on Augie’s bed were white with red trim, the Cardinals’ redbird with bat insignia embroidered in the middle of the pillowcases. One pillowcase had been stripped off, probably to carry loot. Billy noticed the empty watch trays on top of the dresser. Augie’s vintage watches—every one of them was gone.
Augie was gone.
Grief flowed through him like anesthesia, leaving him addled and numb. He wanted to go to the kitchen, hold his friend and cry, but that would contaminate the scene. He leaned on the dresser, gathering his wits. Freeman was the obvious suspect, but he had to keep an open mind and work the scene, see the evidence for what it was. He wasn’t on the force. Middlebrook wouldn’t let him work the case. And after the fight with Augie last night, he would be a suspect, but once he got that cleared up, he could sign on and assist in the investigation.
In the kitchen, he found Freeman on his knees, sweat dripping from his forehead, his gaze fixed on Augie’s battered corpse. Beneath the stubble his face had gone pallid. Was it grief, or guilt triggering the response?
He walked past Freeman to the body. He recognized the murder weapon, trapped between Augie and the refrigerator. It was the bat Augie had used when he hit his two hundredth homer. He had it bronzed and inscribed with the date. He kept it in his living room, leaning against the bookcase.
The bat had been a weapon of opportunity. Whatever else happened here, the murder had not been planned.
He forced himself to visualize the assault—Augie standing in front of the refrigerator, about to reach inside for a cold one. The first blow landed on the side of his head as he turned. The second shattered the back of his skull. Already going down, he’d raised his right arm to ward off the attack, evidenced by the compound fracture of the radius bone poking through the skin of his forearm. Out of a blind survival reflex, Augie had struggled to get up and slipped in his own blood. More blows. The attack had been overkill, fed by anger or passion.
He squatted by the body for a closer look, the lump from hitting the lamppost still visible. Augie’s ghost floated in the kitchen, chiding him, his dead eye watching.
Billy moved to stand over Freeman, making him strain to look up.
“Did he suffer?” Freeman asked. A whiff of stale alcohol lifted off his sweating head.
“Yeah, Augie suffered. Turn around.” He unbuckled the belt.
Freeman slumped to the floor with his back against the cabinet, the color returning to his face. “Augie came home last night around ten. We talked in the hallway.”
“What were you doing in the hall?”
Freeman blinked. “I live here. I own the damned building.” He gave Billy a superior look, letting the information sink in.
“What did you talk about?”
“The fight the two of you had in front of the ballpark. Augie’s face looked bad, like he’d been rammed into a concrete wall.”
“He ran into a lamppost.”
“I think you ran him into a lamppost.”
“We had a disagreement.”
“Your fat lip makes it a fight. He said you got angry, called him names. Why were you so pissed off?”
Good question. Why had he been angry with a man who’d been clearly out of his head? Why hadn’t he just dealt with it?
Sirens echoed off downtown buildings. Patrol cops and EMTs would come through the door any minute.
“What’s your relationship with Augie?” Billy asked.
Freeman began struggling to his feet. “That’s enough bullshit.”
Billy pushed down hard on his shoulder. Freeman’s ass thudded on the floor. “Answer the question.”
Freeman cocked his head to look up. “We’re neighbors, okay? Not buddies like the two of you. We didn’t drink a six-pack and go out back for a fistfight.” He thrust his chin toward the ransacked room. “Augie said you’d threatened him. I think you came here, killed him, then tore up the place to cover your tracks. Or were you looking for something?”
He sized up Freeman. If he took off the cuffs and Freeman tried to run, he’d have an excuse to beat the crap out of him. He’d get a lot of satisfaction out of that. The problem was, Freeman was close to being right. Billy had come here looking for something—the photograph. But he couldn’t tell Freeman that. Not yet.
“Tell me about the front door,” he said.
“I found it opened. Something is caught underneath. Or didn’t you notice?”
Billy went to inspect the door. The lock had not been forced. He’d missed seeing the computer cord snaking across the white marble tiles, its USB connector wedging the door open. He’d seen Augie use a laptop to click through players’ stats while he watched a game. Whoever took the laptop had jammed the door as he’d tried to close it.
The DeVoy’s security cameras covered the entrance, the lobby, the public elevators, and the service elevators. None was posted in the residential hallways. Access to Augie’s floor by elevator required a code. You could exit each floor onto the stairwell and walk down, but you couldn’t enter a floor from the stairwell without setting off an alarm. It was as tight as an apartment building could be without compromising the privacy of the residents.
Then there was Freeman to consider. If he owned the building, he had access to Augie’s apartment using the building’s master key. He could have killed Augie last night and locked the door behind him. This morning he jammed the door open with the cord, creating an excuse to discover the body.
Besides the chaos of the room being tossed, Billy noticed that more than just the laptop and watches were missing. Eight picture hangers hung empty on the wall among a group of twenty photos, and the two brass stands in the bookcase that had held World Series game balls stood empty.
Who did this?
After a few beers at Bardog, Augie had a habit of bragging about buying and selling valuable memorabilia. Billy had noticed barflies listening in. The murder could have started as a simple heist
by one of them or even by a casual acquaintance who used a bump key to unlock the door. If Augie had come home early, the guy would have felt trapped in the apartment and whacked Augie from behind. Then he tore up the place looking for loot, grabbed a few things, and ran.
This wasn’t about escaping. Too much emotion had fueled the attack. This had been personal.
He walked back in the kitchen. Freeman sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the cabinet, his head down.
“Did Augie have clients come here to buy?” Billy asked.
Freeman’s head snapped up, hostile. “How the hell would I know?”
“Have you touched anything, moved anything?”
“If you’re asking about prints, mine are everywhere. I came last Thursday to watch a Redbirds game. We looked through his latest buys.”
The elevator bell dinged. Billy heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall. He pulled his SIG and laid it on the floor.
“Lie facedown. Do whatever they say,” he told Freeman.
“Police!” yelled a male voice in the entry.
“In here,” Billy called.
Two patrol cops with concrete shoulders and shaved heads tromped through the living area, weapons drawn. Billy didn’t know either of them.
He stretched out on the floor beside Freeman, hands over his head. A responding cop’s job is to neutralize a scene and apologize later. Billy was in for some short-term humiliation.
He turned his head and found himself staring into Freeman’s smirking face.
Chapter 26
The first cop’s name tag read JAKES. He cuffed Billy where he lay, frisked him, and secured the SIG. The second cop, Ketty, frisked Freeman then knelt to check Augie for vital signs. He rose slowly, white faced, and shook his head at Jakes. They were young and gung ho. It was likely that neither of them had seen that level of violence taken out on a human being.
Ketty left to move through the apartment, securing the scene. Jakes paced the kitchen, his steel-toed boots clicking on the tiles. Protocol required their next step to be communication with their supervisor.