The Good, The Bad and The Murderous (Sid Chance Myseries Book 2)

by Chester D. Campbell

  “Sure. No problem. There’s a big party Friday night over at Loews Vanderbilt—music people are about the biggest partygoers around—and everybody who’s anybody should be there. I’ll see what I can find.”

  Back in the car, Sid called Jaz’s cell phone.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “At the company office. I came by to check on a couple of things.”

  “Want to meet me for lunch at South Street?”

  “Ahh…we’re making amends.”

  “Just a normal business luncheon. We were going to compare notes, remember?”

  “Will I have to talk to Mike Rich and get him to release a little cash for you?”

  In addition to being Sid’s financial adviser, Mike had been a friend of Jaques LeMieux and also handled Jaz’s investments.

  Sid grinned, knowing she couldn’t see it. “I think my credit card can handle it.”

  “Okay. How does one o’clock sound?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Its official name was South Street Original Smokehouse, Crab Shack and Authentic Dive Bar. The rambling, triangular shaped building sat on Twentieth Avenue South near Vanderbilt University. Crowded by large trees, it featured a Tree House Oyster Bar on top. A marquee-like red signboard ran the length of the structure in front, emblazoned with such tasty delights as shellfish, ribs and PoBoys. Sid arrived a little before one, saw nothing of Jaz’s car, and strolled into the restaurant.

  A few people waited near the door. Sid checked with the hostess and headed back outside. With the sun hidden behind billowing clouds, the day had taken on a look as dull as pewter. A chill hung in the air. He walked to the pointed end of the building, adjacent to the parking lot, and soon spotted the red Lexus turning off Division Street. She paused while someone backed out of a nearby spot, then eased into it. As she walked toward him, Sid grinned at the confident stride, the sure step of a woman in her prime, in full control.

  “Right on time,” he said, ushering her toward the door.

  “Do I get extra points for punctuality?”

  ‘“I know no point to which she sticks; She begs the simplest questions.’”

  “Oh, brother. Who wrote that?”

  “Alfred Cochrane, English cricket player, sports writer, and creator of humorous verse.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Not a lot of people have. He was a contemporary of P.G. Wodehouse but hardly as prolific with the pen.”

  “If you say so.”

  As soon as they entered, the hostess walked up and smiled. “Your table is ready, Mr. Chance.”

  Jaz arched her brow. “I’m impressed.”

  They were seated next to a wall of windows divided into smaller panes. Afternoon traffic rumbled along the street below. Sid opened his menu and glanced at it, grinning as always at the location statement:

  “Conveniently located between Graceland and Gatlinburg”

  “Would you like something from the bar?” a cute blonde waitress asked.

  “I’ll have a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon,” Jaz said.

  Sid cut his eyes. “No South Street Rita or Red Snapper?”

  “You know I’m not a hard liquor girl. I’m a wino. What are you having?”

  He looked up at the waitress. “Do you have Sam Adams?”

  “I think we can find one for you,” the girl said with a smile.

  After she left, Sid related the details of his discussion with Art Yancey.

  “So we’re stuck on that score until after the Music Row party?” Jaz asked.

  “Looks that way. Did you talk with your Medical Examiner friend?”

  “I did. Her name is Reagan Abrams. She was reluctant to talk about it at first, but after I explained the situation, she loosened up a bit. She said they placed the time of death around three-thirty. As you suspected, the bullet ricocheted about the skull. It destroyed his brain, killing him immediately. She said the lead wound up considerably misshapen.”

  “Might prevent ballistics from getting a match.”

  “Maybe Bart can tell us tonight. Reagan said Elena Ortiz arranged for the body to be sent to Spring Valley Funeral Home.”

  “Did she say when they released the body?”

  “I understood it was just done today.”

  “Good. I’ll check with the funeral home and see what kind of contact info they have on Ortiz.”

  The waitress brought their drinks and took orders. Jaz chose the shrimp platter. Sid opted for a crabcake sandwich and a large salad, which he said would help maintain his girlish figure.

  “I haven’t seen too many six-foot-six girls around,” Jaz said.

  “Were you a basketball player?” the waitress asked.

  “I played football in high school.” He pointed to Jaz. “She’s the athlete. She not only played big league basketball, she was a champion boxer.”

  “Really?” Her eyes widened.

  “That was a long time ago,” Jaz said.

  “You don’t see me challenging her to a match,” Sid said. He had absorbed one of her non-lethal punches when she showed her displeasure over one of his stupid decisions.

  After the waitress left, Jaz took a sip of wine and looked across at Sid. “Why don’t you call the funeral home while we’re waiting?”

  He looked around. The crowd was thinning out, leaving a decent space between them and the nearest occupied table. He didn’t like having others privy to his conversations. “I’d have to check information for the number.”

  “Not if you used up-to-date technology,” she said, pulling out her smartphone. She slipped out the mini-keyboard and punched in the information. “Here’s the number for Spring Valley.”

  He entered the numbers on his phone as she read them out. When the funeral home answered, he asked for a funeral director he had met there on a previous case. A new voice soon came on the line.

  “This is Sid Chance,” he said. “We talked not long ago about the Gladstone burial.”

  “Sure, I remember you. You’re the big guy who’s a private eye.”

  Sid recalled the undertaker as a small man with a big mustache. He figured the contrast likely gave himself the appearance of giant proportions. “That’s me. I’m told by the Medical Examiner that you have the body of Omar Valdez, the murder victim from last Monday. Do you have funeral arrangements yet?”

  “There won’t be any funeral.”

  Sid frowned. “How so?”

  “His fiancée, Miz Ortiz, signed all the papers to have the body cremated. The remains will be transported to Texas.”

  Sid squinted his eyes in disbelief. Miz Ortiz was full of surprises. He thought of what they had learned about her background. “Shipped to San Antonio?”

  “Right. The Alamo Mortuary.”

  “Did she give a local contact address?”

  “No. I understood she was leaving town. She paid for everything in cash, said she had closed her bank account.”

  What did this mean, Sid wondered? Was the cremation intended to hide something, or was it designed to keep Ortiz from being in the spotlight, allow her to fade out of the picture?

  “You mentioned ashes.” Jaz said after he had ended the conversation. “What’s going on?”

  He told her what he had learned about Valdez’s fate and Elena Ortiz’s apparent plans to skip town.

  “As you predicted, it looks like she’s headed back to San Antonio,” Jaz said. “If we need to go down there and search for her, we could bum a ride on our company plane. It makes frequent trips to Houston for oil industry contacts. I can check and see if there’s one coming up.”

  “Let’s hold off on that for now. I’m not so sure she’s left Nashville. If this murder is related to the Medicare fraud, Ortiz might be as much at risk as Valdez. If she had been at that store Monday afternoon, she could have wound up dead, too.”

  The waitress stopped to inquire if they needed drink refills and said their food would be ready shortly.

  “I see what
you mean,” Jaz said. “She could be hiding from a potential murderer as much as from the cops.”

  “Right. And whoever was after her would probably know about her Texas connection. She might feel safer hiding out here.”

  Jaz appeared to contemplate this new turn of events as she toyed with her wine glass. “Your man Yancey may be our only hope.”

  Back in his office, Sid got a call from Special Agent Baron Eggers.

  “Just touching bases to see what you’ve come up with on the Prime Medical Equipment case,” the FBI agent said.

  “Did you hear they were cremating Omar Valdez’s body?” Sid asked.

  “Yeah, and Elena Ortiz has pulled a disappearing act. We have Metro keeping an eye out for her car.”

  “I hadn’t checked into what she drives,” Sid said.

  “It’s a two-thousand and nine white Toyota Carolla. She bought it before coming to Nashville, but it has Tennessee plates.”

  “Do you think she’s still in Nashville?”

  “Could be, but our people in Texas are looking for her, also. How’s your murder investigation going?”

  “We’re looking into the likelihood that someone left the store by the rear door about the time Djuan Burden came in the front entrance.”

  “Interesting. Got any suspects?”

  “No. I’m stymied at the moment. I was hoping to find someone who might have seen him in the alley, but nothing so far.”

  “Good luck with it. We’re still tracking down Omar Valdez’s background. Seems he came from Albuquerque, but he hasn’t used his Social Security number around here, so he’s obviously been camouflaging his movements.”

  “What about his driver’s license?” Sid asked.

  “It was a fake.”

  “Did Metro tell you that?”

  He laughed. “Grimm hadn’t checked it.”

  “Was it from Tennessee?”

  “No, Arkansas.”

  “His car was registered in Little Rock with a bogus address.”

  “Where did you find his car?” Eggers had a note of excitement in his voice.

  “It was parked in front of his apartment this morning.”

  “On Granny White Pike?”

  “Right.”

  “Thanks. Let’s keep in touch.” He sounded anxious to get moving.

  Chapter 10

  Thursday morning Sid sat at his desk, staring at the windowless wall at one side as if all the answers to his questions might suddenly appear there. He knew that wasn’t likely, though, as the montage of photos assembled on the wall represented his triple careers as a Green Beret in Vietnam, a National Park ranger for nineteen years, and as police chief in Lewisville for a decade. But he also knew all that experience should count for something.

  Considering what they knew about Omar Valdez, it just didn’t add up. Some element was missing from the equation. He ticked off all the facts they had gathered about the man, which amounted to a pitiful few. None of it triggered any flashes of insight.

  Sid turned his attention to the missing heir case, hoping the distraction might allow some insight to float up from his subconscious. He’d hardly opened the file when Quint Nevins, the tire store manager, called.

  “Sorry if I led you astray,” Nevins said. “I didn’t think about the fact that one of my guys was off Tuesday when you came by. He was talking to one of his buddies this morning and learned that I had asked if anybody saw anything across the alley that afternoon. Seems he did.”

  Sid felt a surge of excitement. “What did he see?”

  “He couldn’t remember what time it was, just along the middle of the afternoon.”

  Sid gripped the phone. “And?”

  “He said a man came out the back door and got in a car parked near the dumpster.”

  “Did the man appear to be in a hurry?”

  “He didn’t mention that. Just said the car started up and drove off down the alley.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “He wasn’t sure. Said it was shiny black. That’s all I know.”

  “Thanks. Give me your guy’s name. We may need to talk to him later.”

  Sid jotted the name on a pad, turned the phone off, then called Jaz. “Looks like we have a break, tenuous as it is.”

  “What happened?”

  He told her about the mechanic’s sighting.

  “Wish I knew one of these psychologist types who can hypnotize people and come up with details they didn’t know they’d seen.”

  “Yeah,” Sid said, “that would be nice, but I’m afraid that’s wishful thinking. We could go back out there and look around the area for possible clues.”

  “After three days, it would be highly unlikely we’d find anything. Particularly since we have no idea what to look for. I could stop by there on my way to your office this afternoon and check it out.”

  “Okay. Just don’t be late for the game.”

  After lunch, Sid got a call from Hardy Vandenberg at Bailey, Riddle and Smith. “Have you caught the murderer yet, Mr. Chance?” he asked.

  Sid didn’t like the way the lawyer put the question. “We aren’t ready to arrest anyone, but we have a report of a man exiting the rear of the building around the time of the murder.”

  “Any identification?”

  “He left in a black car, but that’s all we have.”

  “I hardly think that will be enough. The District Attorney is ready to go to the Grand Jury with this case. The forensics laboratory reports the gun found at Mrs. Ransom’s house had been fired recently.”

  It was the information he had dreaded getting. He was at a loss to explain it, considering what Burden’s grandmother had told them and what they had learned about the man leaving the medical supply store by the rear door. Regardless, he realized he needed to call his client and report what they had done so far. As soon as he identified himself, Rachel Ransom asked about her grandson.

  “Did you talk to Djuan? How’s he taking it?”

  “We saw him Tuesday afternoon,” Sid said. “He was depressed, but he’s a strong young man. I think he’ll hold up okay.”

  “Have you found anything that might prove he didn’t shoot that fellow?”

  “Nothing conclusive, but we have some leads to follow.”

  He told her what they had learned at the medical equipment store, about the man seen leaving through the rear door.”

  The elderly woman’s voice sounded more animated. “Do you think he’s the one who fired the shot?”

  “Yes, and we’re working to gather the evidence to prove it. Have you thought of anything else that might be of help?”

  She paused as if uncertain. “I don’t know if it means anything, but I was thinking this morning about something I heard those detectives talking about after they found George’s gun.”

  “What was it?”

  “They were in my bedroom and I had walked back that way to see what they were doing. I stopped just outside the door. I saw they’d been going through my cedar chest. It must have been right after they found the gun. The big man was talking in a low voice, but I could hear him all right.”

  “What did he say?” Sid asked, trying not to sound impatient.

  “He said something about it looking like an old gun, would it still work? And the other fella said sure, when we get away from here I’ll demonstrate. As soon as they saw me, they got real quiet and acted like they were embarrassed.”

  Sid wasn’t sure how to take that observation. Had Mrs. Ransom really just remembered it this morning, and realized it might be significant, or was she giving her grandson a way out if the gun proved to have been fired recently, which it had? He wanted to believe she hadn’t lied to them about any of this, but he just didn’t know. If it had happened the way she described, the implications were startling.

  When he mentioned the cremation plans for Omar Valdez and that the victim’s partner, Elena Ortiz, was missing, Mrs. Ransom posed a hopeful question.

  “Will that help Djuan
?”

  “I don’t know. It may indicate the murder had something to do with them being involved in a Medicare fraud scheme, but we have a lot more digging to do.”

  “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

  “Just keep giving him your support,” Sid said. “He’s afraid you’ll think he let you down.”

  “I’ll straighten him out about that when I go see him tomorrow. I’ve been praying for him. For you, too, Mr. Chance. I pray you’ll find who really did this.”

  Sid put the phone back on his desk with the hope that he’d prove worthy of her prayers.

  Late that afternoon, Sid scurried about preparing the reception area for the Miss Demeanor and Five Felons Poker Club session. He brought out a round folding table from the supply room and set it up after pushing the furniture against the wall. He was dragging out the beer cooler when the door opened and retired reporter Jack Post and former Criminal Court Judge Gabriel Thackston walked in. Post doffed his ever-present felt hat and looked around.

  “You mean we beat the Police Department?” His round, owlish face bore a slight smile. A short, stocky man in his seventies, he had covered police beats for both Nashville and Memphis newspapers.

  Sid glanced at his watch. “You’re a few minutes early. How’s it going with you, Judge?”

  “I can’t complain,” Thackston said. “Every day brings a new set of problems. The legal profession is as disordered as ever.”

  “Are you familiar with The Devil’s Dictionary?”

  Thackston nodded. “Written by Ambrose Bierce?”

  “Right. He defined litigation as a machine which you go into as a pig and come out a sausage.”

  Post bent over laughing.

  “Come on, Jack,” Sid said. “It wasn’t that funny.”

  “Not the joke. The Judge’s face.”

  Thackston did the rolling eye gesture, rubbed a hand over his prematurely white hair and took his seat in the usual place. Each player had a traditional seat which was considered bad luck to change. A few minutes later, Jaz arrived, followed by Bart Masterson and Wick Stanley. Everyone exchanged greetings while Sid passed out beers for the guys and a Coke for Jaz. She had never cultivated a taste for the brew.