The Gone Dead Train

by Lisa Turner

  Ramos came through the door. His hair was damp-combed off his face, and the aroma of aftershave followed him into the room. Of course. He would need a barber’s help.

  “My driver recognized your car, Ms. Malone,” he said. “Have I forgotten an appointment?” He extended his hand then frowned and touched her bandaged wrist. “You’ve hurt yourself.”

  “She came for a book,” Ovia said. “I told her to go.”

  “The book is on my desk,” Ramos said. “To Kill a Mockingbird is a favorite of mine, an attorney who stands for justice when no one else will.”

  “I considered practicing law because of Atticus Finch, but I chose to be a police officer instead.”

  She laid her badge wallet in his hand. Presenting her badge in an unofficial investigation was a risk, but it put muscle behind the questions she wanted to ask.

  Ramos thumbed the shield, his eyes coming up, hidden by the glasses, but she could tell he was gazing at her. “Now I understand why you always carry a gun. I recognized the smell of the cleaning oil for your weapon.”

  “You and I attended a funeral for two men.” She pulled the plastic-wrapped conjure bag from her back pocket and pressed it into his hand. “Someone used their belief in Santería to scare them to death.”

  Ovia reached to snatch the bag away, but Ramos clamped his hand on her wrist. “Do not speak, Ovia. And do not leave the room.” He opened the conjure bag, dumped its contents, and ran his fingers over the dust. “Eggshell. Coal dust. Wasp nest. Guinea pepper. Rock salt,” he recited quietly.

  “I found the bag near Red Davis’s body,” Frankie said. “He suffered a heart attack on the spot. We believe someone chased Little Man. He broke his neck in a fall. Both men died in terror. I saw it on their faces.”

  Ovia spat at Frankie’s feet. “This one is bad. You’ve seen her spirit man. Está furioso.”

  Ramos spoke to Ovia in heated Spanish. They went back and forth for a while, Ovia gesturing at Frankie in an attempt to shift blame. Ramos pointed at a chair, his voice thick with emotion. “Siéntese y no hable con la señorita.”

  Ovia collapsed in the chair, defeated.

  Ramos turned back to Frankie, stiff with formality. His conversation with Ovia had unnerved him.

  “You were counseling both men,” Frankie said. “The conjure bag and unusual components that you keep in your home were found near the body. This looks bad for you.”

  Ramos tilted his head, impassive. “I was not involved in these deaths, but I am responsible for the members of my household. To that end, I may be culpable.”

  “Were you involved in the making of this curse?”

  “No.”

  “Did Ovia make it?”

  He looked over at the old woman. “She won’t say.”

  “She claims to have sold curses to a woman last week. I need that name. And I need anything Mr. Davis told you that might lead to his killer.”

  “I will speak to Ovia when you are gone. And I hold Mr. Davis’s privilege to confidentiality, so I can tell you nothing.”

  “Red and Little Man had their lives taken from them. As professionals, you and I have a duty to stand up for them. Tell me. What do you think Atticus Finch would do in this situation?”

  Ramos looked surprised. He thought a moment, then a smile played over his lips. “You would have been a gifted attorney, Ms. Malone. Please, join me in my office. We have things to discuss.”

  He took her hand. “But first we must treat this burn.”

  “What makes you think it’s a burn?”

  “I’m a witch doctor, am I not?”

  Chapter 41

  Talk to witnesses at the scene of an accident, and every one of them gives you a different version of events. There are as many sides to a story as there are people involved.

  Billy sat in his car near the stone entrance to the Waters Trace subdivision wanting to get out of the car and kick the shit out of one of those pillars. He smacked the dashboard instead. Everyone he talked to was working their own agenda. Take Pryce, a man Augie had helped in every way he could, but to hell with Augie Poston. Pryce didn’t give a damn about his murder. In the meantime, the killer was slipping away.

  He pulled himself together and started down the list of Pryce’s witnesses. He got voice mail on all three. He called Frankie. She answered on the first ring.

  “I met with Walker Pryce,” he said before she could speak. “If you’re driving, pull over.” He heard the click of her blinker.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “Pryce was performing open-heart surgery onstage at the Met. He has witnesses, and you’re angry about it.”

  “I just knew Pryce was our guy. And he’s mixed up in this somehow, but it’s possible he’s not the killer.”

  “What happened?”

  He watched a dump truck rumble along the highway beside the subdivison. He was gripping the steering wheel, needing to cool off.

  “I called and suggested I stop by. Before I got there, he had his hands on my work history and the detail of Augie’s investigation, including the fake cameras at the DeVoy. He was so far ahead of me I choked on his dust. We had our talk. I didn’t get much. On the way out, he gave me the numbers for three alibi witnesses and said not to get back in touch until I was satisfied he wasn’t Augie’s killer.”

  “Cocky son of a bitch.”

  He started to tell her about Pryce’s drag queen drama but decided to give out that information on a need-to-know basis. “The only reason he agreed to talk to me was to get his hands on the rest of the surveillance shots. He claims to have a copy of the one Augie stole from me but says Augie kept the original.”

  He heard Frankie breathing into the phone, thinking. “Is it time to pull Dunsford in on this?”

  Oh hell, he thought. The voice of reason is stepping in to save our careers. “We’re in the clear except for my interview with Pryce, which is borderline. Neither of us has broken the law.”

  “Let me think. What were you and Freeman doing last night that was so illegal you couldn’t tell me about it?”

  “That was different. If we find real evidence . . . material evidence, we’ll put it in Dunsford’s hands.”

  “The photographs are material evidence.”

  “Got damn it, Frankie. If we give Dunsford those pictures before we prove he’s mishandling these cases, we’ll lose our leverage and both of our jobs.” His tone was nasty, demeaning.

  “Watch it,” she said then stopped. “No, you’re right. Absolutely right. Where are you now?”

  “Near Pryce’s house. He’s expecting someone to come by. I’m hanging around to see who it is. Frankie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry about the bad attitude.”

  “Understood. We’re both under pressure. By the way, the PI report came in while I was doing that NCIC check on Pryce.”

  “Anything significant?” he asked.

  “Hold on.”

  He heard her unclip the seat belt and the sound of papers rustling.

  “He contacted Red’s music publisher. Red’s manager worked the early contracts, so the manager got the biggest cut. There’re still royalties coming in, but a couple of years ago the publisher lost track of Red. No forwarding address. He was probably afraid Cool Willy would find him.”

  “Is there a new recording contract in the works?”

  “They said fans want original recordings from the older artists, not new music.”

  That tanked his explanation for the business deal Red had bragged about. He heard more paper shuffling on Frankie’s end.

  “Here’s something. Cool Willy is rebranding himself with his legal name, ‘William Cooley.’ The limousine service is legit. He claims he’s walking away from drugs and hookers.”

  “Nice try. You can dress up street trash, but it’s still street trash.”

  “The PI thinks he’s setting up a money-laundering operation.”

  “That sounds right. What else?”

  “The girl seat
ed at the piano is Theda Jones, the daughter of one of Cool Willy’s chippies. Her mother is African-American, her father, a Japanese tourist. The girl’s a stunner, with real talent at the keyboard. At fourteen she won a partial scholarship to the Montague School, outside Baton Rouge, a prep school for musical prodigies. To make the program, she had to come up with ten grand of her own money. Instead of helping, Mom let Willy get his hooks into her. He set her up as a call girl for the johns who roll into the Quarter for medical and corporate conferences. Theda was his off-the-menu specialty, very high dollar. The girl realized he was making too much money to let her go back to school, so she tried to get away. She played piano in the cocktail lounge of the blues club where Red and Little Man headlined. The club owner said Cool Willy started pressuring him to fire her. When things got heated, she disappeared.”

  “Any idea where she went?” he asked.

  “I think I know. Ramos let me review Red’s file this morning.”

  “You went to Ramos’s today without telling me?”

  “You went to Pryce’s by yourself. I can handle myself, Billy.”

  She explained how the housekeeper had been selling black magic out the back door.

  “What’s Ramos’s part in this?” he asked.

  “The old woman acted guilty as hell. Ramos appeared to be shocked.”

  “What’s your gut say. Is he involved?”

  “You’re always bringing up my gut,” she said.

  “Instinct is a big part of this work.”

  “We’ve been over this. And quit being such a jerk.”

  He gritted his teeth. Pryce had taken a bite out of his ego, and he was unloading on her.

  “Ramos took responsibility for his housekeeper’s actions, but said he wasn’t involved. Even the housekeeper said he wouldn’t make a death curse. I saw no indication in Red’s file of a problem between them. Deductive reasoning says Ramos isn’t the killer. No guts involved in that thought process, I might add.”

  He grinned into the phone.

  “Red told Ramos he was supporting someone in Boston. He used the phrase ‘old fool love.’”

  “Now it’s coming together,” he said. “Red and Little Man sent the Jones girl to Boston. Cool Willy found out, beat the crap out of them, and broke up their instruments. They ran to Memphis and stayed under the radar by not playing on Beale Street so Cool Willy couldn’t track them down.”

  “You think Cool Willy and Jones are tied into their deaths?”

  “Willy is a contender. Jones, I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. Red spent every cent to keep her in piano strings. But I’d still like to question her.”

  The young woman he’d seen getting out of the car at the funeral home had to be Jones. The hat she wore blocked her profile. He could kick himself for not recognizing her. He might have made the connection if he hadn’t been so focused on Augie at the time.

  He realized Frankie was silent on the other end. “What’s up?”

  “I was thinking about something Garrett said during the eulogy. I’d like to talk with him about Ramos’s relationship with Davis and Lacy.”

  “That’s another thing. Garrett skirted the issue when I asked if he knew anyone in the surveillance shots. I showed the photos to Freeman last night. He recognized Carter as one of the informants.”

  “Calvin Carter?” she asked.

  “Freeman and I figure Garrett didn’t point him out because he’s shielding Carter’s reputation for the sake of the museum. It’s not a big point, but I’d like to follow up.”

  “I’ll talk to Garrett and cover both questions. He won’t feel as threatened by me.”

  “No, I’ll handle it,” he said in a gruff tone.

  “You owe me one after shutting me out with Freeman last night. I’ll report back when I’m done.” She hung up before he could protest.

  He started the car and headed downtown for City Market.

  “All right, Mz. Police Goddess,” he muttered. “You’d better not screw this up.”

  Chapter 42

  Frankie drove to Robert House, a three-story rectangular building straight out of the seventies urban renewal project. She parked in front of the entrance, remembering the concrete steps and Ramos’s group photo hanging in the hallway. She sat there, thinking and jotting notes about her conversations with Ovia and Ramos. She was certain Ovia had made the curses, but she didn’t get nearly enough information about who had bought them. Ramos had cooperated by opening Red’s file, but in her mind, he was still on the hook.

  Bringing her badge into the confrontation had been a mistake. If Ramos called the station house to follow up, there would be ramifications even though Red’s case was closed and she had the right to investigate on her own. Her approach with Garrett would have to be more subtle. Flashing a badge wouldn’t intimidate Garrett. It would end the conversation.

  She’d pushed Billy hard for this interview, partly because he had taken his frustration about Pryce out on her. If they were going to work together, they had to start up the way they could keep up. She was no girl Friday. She wanted to get this right. Garrett might have information that would tip the balance on whether Ramos remained on her suspects list. And there was Garrett’s evasion about identifying Carter’s photograph.

  She thought about the day she’d watched an MPD tracking dog work a field. He followed the scent through mud and wet grass, onto a playground, and across a busy highway. His handler couldn’t slow him down.

  She hoped these cases would boost her career, but they could also be the reason she might end up at the mall selling jeans. She was willing to take that risk. Like that tracking dog, she wasn’t about to quit.

  She fluffed her hair, got out, and locked her Jeep.

  The reception area had two digital screens flipping through shots of vegetable gardens, men sitting in classrooms, and men in chefs’ hats cooking on commercial-grade stoves. Glancing around, she was struck by the contrast of the fresh images on the screen with the two exhausted-looking men in the waiting area, necks bent forward, elbows resting on their knees. The incongruence made her a little uncomfortable.

  She caught up with Garrett on his way out of his office. His wet-combed hair looked a little greasy, and his pupils had shrunk to black pinpoints. As she approached, his tongue flicked out to lick his lips. His breath had a chemical smell to it.

  She introduced herself as Frankie Malone and explained that she was assisting Detective Able with an investigation. She didn’t say she was a cop, and he didn’t ask.

  “Could you spare a few minutes?” she asked.

  He leaned heavily on his cane, something elusive going on behind his eyes. “I remember you from Itta Bena last night. And from the funeral.” His voice retained a deep resonance even though he was in rough shape. “You should have called first. I gave Detective Able plenty of time for questions last night.”

  “These are different questions.” She gave him a broad smile. “We really need your help.”

  “We’re transplanting strawberries to the rooftop garden right now. I’m on my way to an appointment, but I should check their progress before I leave. Come with me.”

  They took an elevator to the roof where two men were using hooked knives to split open bags and dump topsoil on long, raised beds. Garrett moved among the rows with his broken gait, ending up at the railing at the roof’s edge. Below were at least two acres of gardens where men were wrapping the roots of strawberry plants in wet paper towels and placing them in cardboard boxes.

  “We’re moving those plants to the roof to preserve the first crop we put into our garden. They were the beginning of our culinary program. You can’t imagine the positive impact it has on a man to harvest and cook the vegetables he’s planted.”

  Garrett swept his hand over the garden, much like on aging monarch. “Tomorrow we break ground for a new building. We’ll add forty-five beds, six classrooms, and a state-of-the-art commercial kitchen. Fifteen of our culinary graduates currently work full-ti
me in restaurants. Our program receives a lot of donor support. I’m expecting a good turnout for the ceremony tomorrow, including media coverage.”

  “You’ve given a great deal of yourself to Robert House,” she said.

  Garrett lightened up on his cane, some of his fire coming back. “Last night we launched a fund-raising campaign for the Carter museum. We’re matching a two-hundred-thousand-dollar federal grant. Calvin’s photographs brought international attention to the civil rights struggle even before President Kennedy became involved. That’s how the world learned there were two Americas. One white and one black.

  “My brother was murdered because he was passionate about civil rights. He appeared in some of Calvin’s most compelling photographs. I’ve invested my time in the museum to be sure his life is properly memorialized. Last night at the fund-raiser, the board announced that a display will be dedicated to Robert’s story.”

  He smiled graciously. “Enough about the museum. You have questions.”

  She took a breath. “Detective Able has concerns about the circumstances surrounding Red Davis’s and Little Man Lacy’s deaths. I’ve spoken with Dr. Ramos about his counseling sessions with Red Davis. Both men were believers in Santería. I was surprised to learn that Dr. Ramos is a santero.”

  Garrett blinked. “Are you familiar with Santería?”

  “I grew up with it in Key West.”

  “Santería is common in the Gulf Coast area. After Katrina hit, the shelter had an influx of people from that region. Dr. Ramos has been very effective.”

  “He mentioned private sessions with Red Davis.”

  Garrett’s pupils flared then diminished. “I won’t confirm or deny that. All sessions are confidential.”

  “The doctor holds Red’s right to confidentiality, but he was willing to discuss the sessions with me because of Detective Able’s concerns.”

  “Little Man fell and broke his neck. Red had a heart attack. Both men were alcoholics. Why is Able pursuing this?”

  “We believe someone used their religious beliefs to terrorize them.”