The Gone Dead Train

by Lisa Turner

  She made a high sound in the back of her throat like a cat and rushed at Billy, her hands balled into fists. Before she reached him, Dunsford grabbed her around the waist and hauled her back.

  “Roxanne! Get hold of yourself,” Middlebrook barked.

  She jerked away from Dunsford and glared at Billy, breathing hard.

  Now he understood why she’d been so rude at the elevator. Pryce had made her believe he was a threat and tricked her into giving restricted information without considering whether it would get her fired.

  Her emotions were very real, very convincing, and more than enough to persuade Middlebrook.

  The chief guided Roxanne toward the door, patting her shoulder and calling for another secretary. “Tina, help Roxanne pull herself together. Drive her to The MED. And Roxanne, keep me updated on Pryce’s condition. I’m so sorry this happened.”

  Middlebrook turned back. “Able, sit at the table. Dunsford, take the chair in front of my desk.” The chief sat behind his desk and squared the papers in front of him, organizing his thoughts.

  “Able, tell me if you went to Pryce’s house this morning. If so, tell me why and what happened.”

  He was screwed. J.J. and the cashier could swear he was at City Market an hour ago, but if the fire started before then, their affidavits would be useless. Giving Middlebrook that information would be digging his own grave, especially with Roxanne crying outside the door and Dunsford ready to pounce. Surviving this meant he had to bluff the chief into backing off.

  “You’re asking if I set that house on fire. I resent the hell out of your question, Chief. You practically twisted my arm to sign back on, and now look at this mess.”

  “Sign back on the force? The way I see, you’re trying to kill everybody in reach,” Dunsford said.

  Middlebrook shot Dunsford a look that shut him up, then he turned to Billy and in an ominous tone said, “If you don’t convince me you’re clean, I will personally end your career in law enforcement. And I will recommend that you be charged with attempted murder. Now. Do I need to repeat the question, Sergeant Able?”

  “What do you want from me? Your assistant gave confidential information about a high-profile case to her boyfriend, a journalist no less. That’s all you’ve got. Roxanne’s opinion about anything else isn’t proof, it’s emotion. I say let’s back off, wait to see what Pryce can tell us. He knows who tried to kill him.”

  “You haven’t answered my question,” Middlebrook said.

  Billy stood. “Chief, I would like to comply, I really would. But I can’t answer your question at this time.”

  “Then Detective Dunsford will read you your rights.”

  Dunsford hopped out of the chair. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you . . .”

  Billy talked over Dunsford’s head to Middlebrook. “You’re fucking charging me?”

  Middlebrook thrust his chin at Dunsford. “It’s his case. I’m done.”

  Dunsford completed the required warning, licking his lips at the end as if he were tasting blood. He eyed Billy. “We’re going to the interview room now. Time we cleared up a few things.”

  Unbelievable. Middlebrook was moving ahead when they didn’t have a thing they could use to prosecute. And Dunsford was delusional enough to think he could trick another detective into incriminating himself. Time to shove the bullshit back at both of them.

  He held up his hands. “Unless you charge me, I’m not going anywhere. Do what you need to. I’ll be more than happy to respond.”

  “Cool down, Able. It’s just a conversation,” Dunsford said, backing off. He slicked his hand over his hair and glanced at the chief, nervous about what to do next.

  “Forget it. I’m not going to help you investigate me.” Billy pointed a finger at Middlebrook. “A little while ago I looked you in the eye and told you I didn’t kill Augie Poston. Now I’m telling you I didn’t set Pryce’s house on fire, either. Charge me or I’m out of here.”

  He waited, looking from Dunsford to the chief and back again. “Yeah. I didn’t think so.”

  He strode out of the office, feeling angry and betrayed. Middlebrook let that rat terrier Dunsford try and push him around. At least Roxanne had left for The MED, and he didn’t have to see her accusatory eyes.

  He took the express elevator and walked into the atrium, half expecting a uniform to come around the corner and arrest him. Dunsford might try to trump up a minor charge to hold him, but Middlebrook would do the reverse—get more information, then make the decision whether to come after him or not.

  Outside, he crossed Poplar and stood on the sidewalk in front of the parking lot. Before he got behind the wheel, he needed to calm down. Son of a bitch. He’d skated out this time, but he was in real trouble.

  The motive for the fire had been murder. Professional arsonists know how to set that kind of fire. So did the Chicago cops that Pryce had taken down. Unfortunately, so did he. Two years ago he’d investigated a near perfect murder where a man used a similar method to kill his wife. The man set the fire but couldn’t bear letting his expensive fishing rods burn, so he took them out of the house. It never occurred to him that the cops would notice that the two rod stands in his study were empty. The man went down for second-degree murder.

  Dunsford and Middlebrook would remember that case.

  To make it worse, Garrett had called Dunsford with a slanted version of the brawl at the funeral home, failing to mention that Augie had been over-the-top crazy. Garrett also knew Billy had handled the naked guy when he didn’t have to. Looking back, he wished he’d invited the dude into the museum to swing his nuts at the board of directors.

  What had prompted Garrett to make that call?

  It was all breaking against him. He’d lost Middlebrook. Dunsford was gaining on him. None of it should be happening. He wasn’t guilty of a damned thing.

  A car slowed behind him and honked as it passed. He turned and saw James Freeman driving a red Corvette convertible. Freeman took a right at the light and turned into the west entrance of the lot. He got out and cut across the parking lot, coming straight for Billy, looking mad as hell.

  He felt his own steam rise. His hand went up in Freeman’s face. “Don’t you say one damned word.”

  Freeman stopped. “You bastard. You used me to get to Pryce. You burned down his house.”

  The scene in Middlebrook’s office left him feeling raw. He wasn’t about to put up with more accusations. “Don’t be an ass. I told you I intended to see Pryce this morning. I wouldn’t broadcast that if I’d planned to kill him.”

  “That’s bullshit. Whether you planned it or not, that’s what happened. I heard the call go out on the police scanner at my office. I figured you were involved. I’m here to tell Dunsford about our going into Augie’s apartment last night to look for Pryce’s number.”

  “I already told Chief Middlebrook about Pryce.” He pulled out his phone and held it up to Freeman. “I’ll dial the number. You can talk to him yourself.”

  Freeman hesitated.

  Billy pocketed his phone. “I didn’t kill Augie. I sure as hell didn’t try to kill Pryce. While I was at his house, he got a call. He arranged for someone to come over. I guarantee that’s who set the fire.”

  They stood toe to toe in the parking lot, sweating out a classic stare-down.

  Freeman blinked first. “You got an alibi this time?”

  “As soon as I round up my witnesses.”

  Freeman chewed his lip, studying Billy. “I canceled my meeting. It felt wrong to leave town. I wanted to do something, so I checked eBay and Craigslist for Augie’s stolen stuff. Nothing showed. Do you know anything about Pryce’s condition?”

  “He was hit from behind and took in some smoke. He’s unconscious. There’s evidence of arson.”

  “Do you still consider him a primary suspect?”

  “Not anymore. He gave me a list of people he claims will swear he was with them the night of th
e murder. I talked briefly to the owner of a club where Pryce performs, and got hold of one other guy.” He handed Freeman the list. “If their stories hold up under questioning, Pryce is off the hook.”

  Freeman studied the list. “What’s the name of the club?”

  “The Devil’s Sentiment.”

  “That gay club in midtown?”

  “Pryce performs there. He’s a drag queen. The club owner says he really draws a crowd.”

  Freeman handed back the list. “Maybe someone from the club got jealous and set the fire. Did Pryce have the photo Augie stole from you?”

  “No. He claims to have a copy, but he wouldn’t show it to me. We agreed that once I’ve confirmed his alibi, he’ll turn it over. He wants copies of the rest of the shots. Of course, his copy of the photo has been destroyed.”

  “And we still don’t have the original,” Freeman said.

  “Whoever killed Augie probably took that photo from the apartment.”

  Freeman ran his hand over his mouth. “I want to be clear on this. Exactly where were you when the fire started?”

  “Eating a tuna sandwich at City Market. Now get off my back about that.”

  Freeman studied him, shook his head. “How did I get in the position of trusting a cop who’s about to be charged with two counts of murder?” He took out his phone. “Give me your mobile number. I’ll go to The MED and see what I can learn about Pryce’s condition.”

  Chapter 46

  Billy drove through the downtown Pinch District, heading nowhere. He thought about the guys he knew in high school who’d matured early, made the football team, and dated the prettiest girls in the county. After graduation, they picked up good money during the casino construction boom in Tunica. They blew their paychecks on muscle cars, darts tournaments, and cheap women in the bars.

  Then the boom died, and the football heroes were forced into minimum-wage jobs at Fred’s and AutoZone. Their wives grew fat and dissatisfied. Their kids didn’t have a chance in hell of doing any better than their folks.

  He’d been the lucky one. The money his uncle had scraped together along with a string of jobs he worked put him through four years at the University of Mississippi and a year of law school. The course of his life changed when he’d walked away from the idea of practicing law after learning that two little girls he knew from church had been kidnapped. Despite credible leads, the sheriff never questioned an upstanding member of the community. A couple of months later the man died in his sleep. Family members discovered the girls’ bodies in his basement the day after the funeral.

  After hearing about the girls’ murders, he’d quit school, attended the police academy, and worked his way up to sergeant detective in homicide. He loved the hunt. It was unthinkable that he could have his job jerked out from under him by the likes of Don Dunsford; however, that appeared to be what was happening.

  He tuned the radio to WEVL 89.9 for the Deep Blues Show and rolled past a tiny brick building known as Effie’s Lounge. The sign with its hand-painted martini glass had almost faded away. Foot-high weeds grew in front of the iron security door. A white pit bull trotted from behind the building and lifted his leg on the fire hydrant. The dog looked more resentful than mean.

  Billy felt the same.

  He pulled under the shade trees in Washington Park across the street from the carriage-horse stable where he could watch the draft horses turned out in the pasture. Two grays and a black munched on flakes of alfalfa while switching flies off their hocks with their tails. Their coats held a subtle gleam.

  He checked his phone. A text from Frankie said she wanted to get together. After his meeting with Middlebrook he was radioactive, and he was angry with her. Garrett’s call to Dunsford made him think her talk with Garrett had sparked his hostile attitude. What other reason was there?

  He called. “Got your text,” he said.

  “I’m at the CJC. Where can we meet?” She sounded excited.

  Most of what he had to tell her was bad news, and, at this point, he wasn’t sure he could control his reactions. “That’s not a good idea. Let’s do it over the phone.”

  “Seriously?” Now she sounded resentful.

  “Tell me how it went with Garrett.”

  “He was shaky, unkempt. His pupils are pinpoints. He’s definitely addicted to pain meds.”

  “Did he have anything to say about the Carter surveillance photo?”

  “He admitted everything and nothing. He’s a master at blowing smoke.”

  “I don’t know what happened between the you of two, but an hour ago, Garrett called Dunsford about my confrontation with Augie at the funeral home.”

  He told her about going by Middlebrook’s office, and Dunsford barging in with Garrett’s incriminating evidence.

  She was quiet for a long time. “They set you up. A detective doesn’t push his way into the deputy chief’s office with case information, right? He goes to the shift commander. Middlebrook used Dunsford to rattle your cage.”

  Her insight surprised him. “I don’t think Middlebrook is the one setting me up. The scuffle at the funeral home looks bad, but Dunsford made it sound worse than it was. He’s trying to push Middlebrook into releasing my name as a suspect.”

  “You trust Middlebrook,” she said.

  “I do.”

  “I’m just saying . . . maybe you shouldn’t. Any more happy news?”

  He told her about Pryce and the fire.

  “Good God,” she said.

  “I ran into Freeman at the CJC. He’d heard about the fire and decided he should confess to Dunsford that we’d broken into Augie’s place. I talked him out of it. That’s all Dunsford needs to lock me up.”

  “You broke into a crime scene?”

  “To find Pryce’s number. Now they’re looking at me for the fire. Dunsford even read me my rights, trying to bluff me into incriminating myself. But they can’t charge me. They have no proof.”

  “Billy, this shit’s getting deep. You need to quit making it worse.”

  “Great advice, sweetheart. You want to tell me how that’s done?”

  She paused, clearly taken aback. “You’re right, you can’t sit around and hope for the best.”

  “Nope. Not an option.”

  He watched a skinny teenager walk to the pasture gate and whistle. The horses ignored him until he rattled the chain on the gate and unlocked it. The two grays swung around and ambled toward him. The black horse turned its rump toward the boy and continued to eat hay.

  Billy realized his teeth were clenched. He’d been undermined from every direction. He told Frankie about Theda Jones stepping off the trolley and her story about Red and the mystery package.

  “That’s crazy,” she exclaimed. “You think it’s true?”

  “The package may exist, but here’s my problem. With this fire, I’m convinced Pryce didn’t kill Augie. Dunsford is hell-bent on locking me up. I have to figure out who the killer is, and I mean now. The Davis/Lacy investigation will have to wait.”

  “What if we prove the three cases are linked?” she said.

  “With the photographs?”

  “Not the photos. I met a woman in the kitchen at Robert House. She worked there when Red and Little Man were residents. She fits the description of the person who bought the curses—tall, wearing six necklaces, and she’s into Santería. And she was wearing a watch with an emerald green-band.”

  “A Bulova?”

  “I couldn’t tell. Her sleeve kept covering it. But it’s definitely not a watch you’d pick up at Target. She said she inherited it from her grandmother along with other things she wants to sell. She’s supposed to meet me at the bus station tonight at nine. I pitched a story about needing a death curse. She’s bringing a conjure bag and the watches. Call me crazy, but she could be fencing Augie’s stolen stuff.”

  “What’s her name?” he asked.

  “Dominique Powell. She’s Jamaican. Built like a shot-putter.”

  “You’ve run a
background?”

  “She’s got a history. A woman accused her of trying to steal an umbrella. Dominique got mad and hit her over the head with it. She was charged with battery, got community service that she served at Robert House. She stayed on to run the kitchen. From what I’ve seen, she runs most of the men there, too. What I can’t figure out is how she could have ended up with Augie’s stuff.”

  “Give me a minute.” He turned on the engine, clicked the air-conditioning on high, and closed his eyes so he could concentrate. “Okay, I’m winging it here. Let’s start at the beginning. Red borrows two thousand from Augie. According to Theda Jones, he needs a fast fifteen thousand or she’ll be kicked out of school.”

  “Two grand doesn’t help much,” Frankie said.

  “It’s seed money to buy scripts. You don’t need a dealer to do that. You find people who’ve been in car wrecks or have cancer—street people, addicts who doctor-shop, even old people with bad knees and bad backs. If they need cash, they’ll get by on half their meds and sell the rest for ten bucks a pill. The profit margin is huge. Oxycodone goes for fifty bucks a pop in the downtown clubs.

  “Red needs scripts fast, so he hires some guys from the shelter to round them up. He sells them in the clubs. The cash piles up. Greed sets in. His helpers decide they want a bigger slice, like a hundred percent. They assume he’s keeping the money in the house where he and Little Man were squatting.”

  “Where does Dominique come in?” she asked.

  “She hears the men shooting the shit about Red and the cash. She knows that Red and Little Man believe in curses, so she says, ‘Give me a cut, and I’ll hex that house so bad they won’t go back in. In fact, I’ll run them out of town.’”

  “That sounds like Dominique. She’s tough.”

  “Let’s suppose Red let it slip that Augie had given him money. After Red’s gone, one of the men from the shelter breaks into Augie’s place. Augie comes home, goes to the kitchen to make a sandwich. The guy sneaks up with Augie’s bronzed bat and swings it.”