by Lisa Turner
“You’re not leaving me out of this,” she said.
He moved in and spoke quietly. “I think I know a way to find the journalist. I’m going to need Freeman’s help to pull it off. It’s illegal, but it has to be done.”
“I didn’t just hear that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
He led the way down the outside stairs onto the sidewalk. They stepped into a stream of people who were out for the evening, the air smelling of smoked ribs and beer-soaked concrete. Two bike cops sat in front of the barricade at the head of the street, their eyes searching for pickpockets and D & Ds, drunk and disorderlies.
A breeze lifted the edges of Frankie’s hair like down on a baby duck’s back. It would be fun to hit a few clubs with her, hear some Memphis music. Maybe later, when all this was over.
He checked his watch. “I’ll have to find Freeman and convince him to cooperate. I’ll text if we’re successful. Tomorrow you and I will line up our next move.”
Her mouth twisted in dissatisfaction. “Text me no matter what.”
Before he could answer, a thick male voice called out from behind them. “Hey! Hey you!”
They turned to see a powerfully built black man standing next to a row of parked cars farther down South Second. He had the bill of his cap pulled down to shadow his face under the streetlight.
He waved them over. “Come ’ere. I gotta talk to you.”
Billy’s jaw tightened. Damned hucksters want to be paid to go away.
“Beat it,” he yelled.
The guy pointed at Frankie. “You, lady. You were at the funeral.”
Frankie squinted at the man, then whispered, “Second car back. Escalade with Louisiana plates. The engine’s running.”
The man flung his arms wide, stumbled back, and caught himself. “Where’s my bitch?” he slurred.
“That’s Cool Willy,” Frankie murmured. “He’s stinko.”
Billy waved and ambled forward in a loose gait. Willy wasn’t fooled. His street smarts kicked in. He bolted for the Escalade, threw himself behind the wheel, and slammed the door. Billy ran behind, smashing his fist into the tailgate as the Escalade squealed away.
“You got the plates?” he yelled to Frankie.
She held up her iPhone.
He walked back, fist aching. “That’s the guy we saw outside the squatter’s house. He may have been the one who jumped me in the alley.”
“How did he find us?”
“He followed you home from the funeral then here.”
“That’s creepy.”
He gestured toward the bike cops. “Ask one of them to call in the plates. If we’re lucky, he’ll be hauled in for a DUI before he goes underground.”
She took off.
He walked to the corner just as a full moon broke through the clouds. The door to B. B. King’s downstairs club swung open. The house band’s brass section was pushing out a sound like the Memphis Horns. It blasted into the night’s warm air.
Across the street, an officer leaned his elbow on the counter of an outside bar. He was talking to a big-bosomed lady bartender wearing a low-cut tank top. The cop had a can of Coke in his hand. He leaned his head back and drained it, then looked at the bartender, who laughed.
Billy’s mobile pinged with a text.
Three boxes arriving tomorrow. I’ve sent another package overnight.
Mercy
Billy stared at the text, the music and the full moon working on him. He waited for the pain to hit. Frankie walked up. He pocketed the phone.
“I’m heading to Freeman’s office,” he said.
“You sure you don’t want me along?”
He gave her a stern look. She raised a hand. “Got it, I got it. I’ll expect to hear from you.”
Chapter 36
Light showed from beneath the window shades at Freeman Properties. Billy knocked and waited, being polite.
He got no response, so he pounded on the door. “Freeman. It’s Billy Able. Open up.”
The shade’s slats moved. Freeman jerked the door open. Soft jazz escaped as he stepped outside and pulled the door closed. It bounced open a crack. Billy saw a flash of bare arm and long hair.
“Did you pick up a piece of art at the fund-raiser tonight?” Billy asked.
“I’m getting a restraining order to get you off my back,” Freeman said as he tucked in his shirt.
“Got a question. Did you see Dunsford or the techs remove any business cards from Augie’s place?”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“It’s important.”
“I’ll give it some thought. Call you later.”
“I need this tonight,” he said.
“I’m catching a flight at six A.M. I’m back tomorrow evening. We’ll discuss it then. Good night.” Freeman turned to go.
He wanted to put Freeman in a hammerlock, but that would really piss him off.
“Listen. The journalist gave Augie a business card with his phone number. If we find the card tonight, I can get to this guy before Dunsford does. I guarantee once Dunsford gets hold of him, he’ll lawyer up and we’ll have nothing.”
Freeman looked back into the room. “Damn it, Able. You’ve got god-awful timing.”
“It’ll take an hour, tops.” He gestured toward the door. “She’ll wait.”
“You can’t go digging around Augie’s apartment; it’s a crime scene. And I’m sure as hell not letting you in there on your own.”
“Then come with me. It’ll take less time.”
The door opened. A leggy redhead holding a pair of heels in her right hand stepped out to stand beside Freeman.
“Let’s all go,” she said. Freeman glared at her. She smiled obligingly. “I’ll make myself comfortable at your place until you’re finished.” She looked at Billy. “Right?”
He stifled a grin. “The lady wants to get comfortable at your place.”
She extended her hand. “I’m Linda Orsburn. Based on what I just overheard, you probably shouldn’t introduce yourself, Detective.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He was shaking the hand of the widow of former state attorney general Chuck Orsburn. She appeared to know a great deal about the law.
“The cops are going to notice if the seal on Augie’s door has been breached,” Freeman said.
He shrugged. “Shit happens. We’ll find the card. You’ll call the main MPD number and tell them you thought you heard water running in the apartment. You had to break the seal to check because of potential damage to the apartments below. If we’re lucky, the message will get lost. Worst case, Dunsford will want an explanation.”
“You don’t ask for much,” Freeman said.
“This guy could skip town. You got a better idea?”
“Son of a bitch, I don’t know.” Freeman shook his head. “Every time I close my eyes, I see Augie’s body.” He fumed, glanced at Linda. “All right. My key works as a passkey to every lock in the building.”
“And while we’re there, we’ll look for the photo,” Billy said.
Linda bent to slip on her heels. “I just love a good detective story.”
The stadium lights still blazed through Augie’s window even though the game was over and the stands were empty. Billy had already been over the room twice, working a grid, checking every conceivable nook where Augie could have slipped a card. In the process he noticed what he’d missed before—the cracked glass on the table between the two lounge chairs, the edge of the desk deeply scarred, all signs the assailant had searched for something, his adrenaline out of control.
Freeman came from the back of the apartment and stepped over the sofa cushions still lying on the floor. “Augie’s bedroom and closets are clean. So are the second and third bedrooms. Not much furniture in those rooms. No one ever came to visit Augie.” He shook his head. “I hate to think about those vintage watches going for five bucks on some street corner. I tried to buy that Rolex Submariner. Augie turned down seven grand.”
“My f
avorite was the Bulova Accutron with the yellow dots and the gears showing underneath the crystal,” Billy said. “He wore it for good luck anytime the Cards played on TV.”
He opened a desk drawer with hanging files. “I’ve been through every hidey-hole in this room, even his coat pockets. No card, no photo. There’s almost no paperwork in the drawers. He must have scanned everything onto his computer. If he scanned the card, we’re out of luck.”
Freeman checked his watch. “What’s it been, forty minutes?”
“The lady will wait. She thinks this is exciting. You poured her a glass of wine?”
“And put on a movie.”
Billy nodded toward the kitchen. “Check the drawers by the phone, will you?”
They both worked in silence, ignoring the blood spatter on the wall by the refrigerator and Augie’s half-eaten sandwich by the sink. They were there to do a job. Regret would accomplish nothing.
Ten minutes later Freeman slammed a kitchen drawer shut. “There are a couple of store coupons and some take-out menus. No cards. The kitchen’s clean. Maybe Dunsford’s crew took the cards with them.”
Billy went to stand by the island. “The techs weren’t looking for an old business card. Odds are they wouldn’t pick it up.” He did a sweep of the room, looking for anyplace he might have missed. His focus went to the bookcases of hardbacks. “I saved the books for last. Did you notice the bottom two shelves are packed solid with books about civil rights in the sixties and seventies? A copy of Garrett’s book is there.”
“Research for the manuscript,” Freeman said. “Augie was really into it. We even discussed Garrett’s book a couple of times.”
“Did you see the technicians go through the books?” he asked.
“They pulled books down then checked the shelves.”
“Contraband search,” he said.
“They flipped through a few of them, but I didn’t see them remove anything.”
“All right. Let’s get to it,” he said.
Freeman frowned. “I hope Linda likes James Bond movies.”
They both took a shelf, working from opposite ends, fanning through pages, removing dust jackets, shaking the books and then replacing them. It seemed like a futile gesture, but they stayed with it.
After a while Billy glanced up. “By the way, thanks for—”
Freeman raised a hand, his face suddenly angry. “Let’s get something straight. I’ve bought into the premise that you’re looking for Augie’s killer. But I’m not your friend. I was Augie’s friend. So don’t thank me.”
Billy slammed a book shut. “If you believe I’m after Augie’s killer, why did you let me walk into Dunsford’s ambush over those dummy cameras?”
“That was for you and Dunsford to work out. We’re in the middle of a murder investigation. I’m not the one to judge how it’s handled.”
“I planned to sign back on with the department so I could get involved with the investigation. Between the fight and my screwed-up alibi, Dunsford’s got me down as a suspect. If I’d known about the cameras, I could have dealt with it. Now I’m working blind. And what’s with using dummy cameras in your building, anyway?”
“My security experts assured me even the pros can’t tell the difference.”
“And you took their word for it?”
“No one gets to the service elevators without going through the lobby,” Freeman said.
“What about the back entrance?”
“There’s a coded lock. A manager has to open up for the residents and deliveries.”
“Who has the code?”
“Only me, my two managers—”
“And Augie,” Billy said.
Freeman flushed. “He’s the only tenant with the code. He wasn’t always in the best shape to walk through the lobby. At the rent I charged him, Augie deserved a private entrance.”
“He could have taken the killer up the back way to his place unobserved. Or he could have given him the code. The guy could’ve gotten in and out of the building without ever being recorded.”
“I know. You think I don’t feel bad about that?” Freeman said. “Somebody beat my neighbor with a baseball bat while I was sleeping down the hall. That’s why I’m breaking the law to help you search for a damned business card that probably doesn’t exist. I’m putting my faith in you—a damned cop, because I don’t have any faith in Dunsford.”
“I understand why you hate cops. I know what happened to your dad.”
“You think you know. Two men used to come to my dad’s bar and try to push him around. They were FBI agents. Sometimes they brought the cops with them to run off customers at a time when my dad was barely making ends meet. They wanted him to eavesdrop on conversations, report on who was talking to whom. My dad refused.”
Freeman walked to the window, the glow from the stadium lights gone. “My mother worked afternoons and evenings at Goldsmith’s department store for a regular paycheck coming in. With her at work, I had to go to the bar at night. I washed glasses, wiped down tables. One of the agents must have noticed me.
“Grant was his name. He showed up one afternoon. Dad thought I was out back, but I had a hidden nook under the bar where I liked to read in the afternoons. I heard this guy say he’d seen me working in the bar, and he could use that to shut us down unless my dad cooperated. Dad threw him out. A week later a woman from the liquor board tacked a notice on the door that closed the bar.”
Freeman turned away from the window. “That’s what law enforcement has done for me and my family.”
He couldn’t change Freeman’s mind, and sympathy would only make him angrier. “Your family got a rotten deal. I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better for Augie.”
Freeman’s face went stiff. “Sure. Fair enough. Let’s keep looking.”
Chapter 37
Billy pulled another book, Hampton Sides’s Hellhound on His Trail, held it by the covers, and shook it. A card fell out. He picked it up, read it, and handed it to Freeman. Freeman ran his thumb over the raised symbol at the top of the card.
“That’s an embossed press corps emblem,” Billy said. “It’s not so obvious. A reporter can hand a card like that to a possible source without spooking them.”
“‘Walker Pryce,’” Freeman said, reading the name out loud. He flipped the card over and flipped it back. “That’s a Chicago area code on the front. There’s another number on the back.”
Using his mobile, Billy Googled Walker Pryce and Chicago then scrolled down. “Walker Pryce had a byline at the Tribune a few years ago. He wrote a book on politics, journalism, and corruption. This has to be the guy.”
“Call the number,” Freeman said.
“It’s too soon.” He did a reverse phone lookup and got a Memphis address.
“I want to get my hands on that leech,” Freeman said.
“You’re leaving town tomorrow, remember?”
Freeman’s expression flattened. “It took me six months to get that meeting.”
“I’ll handle this guy.” Billy locked in the address and glanced around. “We found Pryce, but the photo’s not here.”
“Augie told me he had it.”
“Did he show it to you?”
Freeman flexed his hands. “No.”
“What the hell are you saying?”
“I ran into Augie the other night at Bardog. He was telling me about the photos when you walked in. He got so excited, he went into the bathroom to calm down. He came out with a plan to convince you to let me see the pictures.”
Billy recalled Augie’s buddy-buddy exuberance and how he’d pushed to show them to Freeman. “You were such a jerk,” he said.
“I know. I was looking at a picture of the man who caused my father’s death. I signaled to Augie that Grant was in the pictures. I was angry all over again about my dad. I was ready to punch somebody. You were my first choice.”
“Did you point out a specific picture to Augie?”
“Not specific.”
; “Do you know which photo Augie took?”
“I never saw it. He offered to make a copy for me, but I didn’t want it. I think he took it to Pryce.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“It’s an assumption. Augie ran his tail all over town to help that guy. Those photos are gold to someone writing about civil rights. Maybe Pryce has the original.”
“I met with Garrett tonight. He gave me some historical context, but his real focus was on acquiring the photos for the museum. Pryce and Garrett have the same interest.”
“Where does that leave you?”
He didn’t answer. He sensed something underneath all this, an undersmell. So far he’d been the only one aware of it. If he opened up, told Freeman about Red and Little Man, there was no guarantee Freeman wouldn’t run to Dunsford with the information. But there wasn’t much choice.
“I’m thinking Augie’s murder is connected to Red’s and Little Man’s deaths.”
Freeman nodded. “How?”
“Red bought Grant’s jacket. Little Man died. Red blamed the jacket, but he was talking about the photographs. then Red died.”
“I thought Red died of a heart attack.”
“I’m sure he did. Somebody scared the shit out of him.”
“You’re saying Davis and Lacy were murdered?”
“Their deaths are somehow tied to the photos. Augie had a photograph. Now he’s dead too, and the photograph is missing.”
“Have you got the rest of the photos with you?” Freeman asked.
“Oh. So now you’re interested.”
“Shut up. Give me the pictures,” Freeman said.
Billy handed them over. Freeman started through them.
“What are you looking for?” Billy asked.
“I don’t know. I was so angry when we were at Bardog, I wasn’t paying close enough attention.” Freeman pulled out photos of two women. “Here’s something. Dad told me these ladies were feeding lies to the cops to make a little cash on the side.”