“Tell me again what it is you’re expert at?”
“I see my tourists getting off the van. You totally suck, by the way.”
When she hung up he was still laughing.
Clive Harris, a tall, handsome guy with black hair and wide shoulders, helped his mother off the van. He was attentive without being annoying and had kept all of them laughing on the ride from The Peabody. His wife was with him, too, a petite blonde with a lovely face and smile.
“How was your Elvis experience, Mr. Harris?” Harley asked.
“Brilliant. And call me Clive. Elvis was a right clever bloke, wasn’t he? All those gold and platinum records. Amazing talent.”
“Yes, he certainly was talented. I’m glad you enjoyed your Graceland tour. Your itinerary takes us to Tupelo next so you can see where it all began for Elvis. You all may want to freshen up here before we go, and there are restaurants and souvenir shops to visit as well.”
It was over an hour before the mini-bus rolled out of the Graceland area and north on Elvis Presley Boulevard. Harley caught the loop at I-55 and 240 and went east to 78 Highway, heading south for the hour and a half drive to Tupelo. By her calculations, they should be back in Memphis right after dark. Daylight-saving time hadn’t ended yet and the extra hour helped. Three hours’ drive time and three hours at the Tupelo birthplace and museum was the usual length of time it took for tourists.
ON THE DRIVE back, most of the tourists were happily exhausted. Clive Harris and his wife sat in the seats right behind her, and they kept up a running commentary on all things Elvis, with his “mum” chiming in whenever she felt like it. Harley loved their soft accents. And Clive’s mum was a pip. She reminded her of Nana McMullen.
By the time they reached The Peabody, the tourists were all ready to call it a day. So was Harley. Her back hurt, and her muscles were cramped from all the sitting she’d done. The last couple weeks had been harder than usual on her. Sitting in a cold, wet hole overnight hadn’t helped, either. Maybe it was time she gave in and took Diva’s advice about yoga. It helped more than she wanted to admit. She almost groaned as she got out of the mini-bus, pocketing the key and stretching to relieve muscles.
She’d parked just outside the luxurious main lobby. Doormen opened doors for guests, and bellmen carried luggage and loaded trolleys with bags. Her group got off one by one, and she checked names on her clipboard passenger list.
“Let me just tick your name off the list,” Harley said cheerfully, and Clive Harris laughed at her use of the British expression.
“We’ll have you speaking right proper English soon enough,” he said and winked at her.
“Well, aren’t you cheeky,” she teased, and his grin widened.
“That’s what my wife says. You need to come to Croydon. You’d fit right in!”
Harley started to respond, but a voice from her nightmares caught her attention, and she froze. A chill ran down her spine as she recognized the voice of the man who had held her out over fourteen floors of nothing but air and pigeon feathers.
Whirling around, she didn’t see him at first. It was dark under the portico, and shadows hugged the walls away from the lights. Doormen opened doors and held them, a limo pulled up and let out passengers, and somewhere in all that chaos she spotted him. It had to be him. He had his back to her, but his voice was the same, low and gravelly, and he looked familiar. It was the way he walked or held himself, maybe, that convinced her this was the man who had threatened her and probably killed Johnny Pomona. Where had she seen him before? After all, she hadn’t seen his face the evening he’d threatened her, just heard his voice. Why did he look vaguely familiar?
When the man walked away toward the parking lot she tossed her clipboard into the mini-bus and followed him, grabbing at her cell phone. Heart pounding, she dialed Morgan’s number. It rang several times, but no answer. Damn! Of all times not to answer his phone, did it have to be now? She could call Bobby, but that might be certain suicide. That left only Tootsie.
He answered on the third ring, sounding a little impatient. “This better be pretty important,” he began, and she cut him off.
“He’s here. The guy who tried to kill me and probably did kill Johnny Pomona.”
“What? Which time are you talking about? There has been more than one man who tried to kill you, you know, and—”
“Look, I’m following him, but I can’t get hold of Mike. See if you can. Do you still have his number?”
“On speed dial. Harley, listen to me: Do not follow anyone. Do you understand? Stop, turn around, go back to wherever you were when you first saw this man. I’ll call Morgan, but you have to stay where you are. Where are you?”
“The Peabody. I just dropped off my tourists.”
“Stay there. Do you hear me?”
“He’s getting away! I’m just going to follow him until someone gets here. He’s the missing piece to the puzzle. He’s involved and once—wait, he’s leaving the parking lot. Where is he going?”
“Harley, I beg of you—don’t follow him! Just get a cop.”
“Right. Like that’s going to work. By the time I explain to some random cop why I want him stopped and arrested, he could be in Canada. Call Steve. Get him to get a cop down here. Keep trying to call Morgan.”
“I’m calling Bobby Baroni.”
“That may be a good idea. I’m hanging up now. I can’t be in stealth mode if I’m talking on the phone.”
Before he could argue some more, she punched End and clipped her phone back to her belt loop. The man was with two other men she didn’t recognize, and they walked along Second Street toward Beale. She followed at a safe distance, close enough to see them and far enough away not to be noticed. She hoped. Where had she seen him before?
When they crossed the intersection at Peabody Place she lagged behind. No point in letting them know they were being followed. She waited until they were halfway down the block before crossing. Tootsie may be right. This was madness if they spotted her. It could get ugly quickly. But she had to be sure . . . if this was the guy who’d threatened her, he was also the guy who’d killed Johnny Pomona and maybe even Felicia Cleveland.
As she expected, the men turned left when they got to Beale Street. Music shot into the streets every time a Beale Street establishment opened a door, and as the dying light slipped into night, all the street lamps blinked on. A couple of street musicians played on the sidewalk near the corner of Beale and Second. Farther down the hill toward the river, cars lined up in a ruby necklace of taillights, waiting to turn onto Front Street. People jostled past her, laughter filled the air, and with the setting of the sun, a definite chill settled in a frosty breath over downtown Memphis.
Harley didn’t know if her shivering was from cold or nerves. As the trio passed through a pool of light from a storefront sign she decided the man she recognized must have once been a tourist on one of her tours. But when? There could be another place she’d met him, she supposed, but it just didn’t seem likely. Damn, the memory was there, elusive and teasing. He was someone she’d seen or heard before the rooftop horror. If she’d had a clearer head she may have recognized him, but it was pretty hard to focus on anything when held over a hundred and fifty foot drop.
A group of people passed her going in the same direction, and she took advantage of that by staying on the fringe, unnoticed in a larger group. The three men stayed just ahead of her, and when they ducked into B.B. King’s she lingered outside. There was a police substation on Beale, just in case things went horribly awry before Morgan could get someone there. That would be her emergency option.
It seemed to take forever, and Harley wavered indecisively between going inside and risk being seen, or waiting outside and hoping they came out soon. It got even cooler, and she hopped from one foot to the other, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Not easy to do when cold and nervous. Every time the door to Blues City Café across the street opened, she smelled frying catfish and hushpuppies, and h
er stomach growled. She should have eaten earlier. She didn’t even like catfish, and it smelled delicious.
Just when she thought she’d have to risk going inside, the three men came out of B. B. King’s. Two other men were with them. Harley’s heart went into triple-time when she recognized Harvey Fine and Jordan Cleveland. She got lightheaded.
Maybe that was from not eating, but she melted back against the brick wall and hoped they didn’t see her. Her hands shook, and her teeth chattered. Morgan was right. She must be crazy. Why else would she be doing this? But the police substation was within shouting distance, so if things went south she could always scream loud enough to draw attention. And she had her phone. There was always 911 if she had to call for help.
Where were they going now? They walked to the intersection of Beale and Second Street and waited for the light to change. She stayed fifty feet behind them. It would help to have backup. She wished Morgan were here, or even Bobby. Someone with a gun and more nerve than she had right now.
When they’d crossed Second she waited for the next light, watching when they paused in front of Elvis Presley Plaza. The statue of Elvis was lit up at night, shining on the bronze figure of a young singer at the height of his career. Iron railings and an alarm system encircled the statue to keep out vandals and fans that had broken off pieces of the last statue.
She crossed the street on the Walk light and paused behind a couple trees in the plaza. Bushes provided plenty of cover, so she could watch them without being seen. The light played over their faces, and even from where she stood it was easy to see the scared expression on Jordan’s face. Uh oh. This may not be a friendly outing. Maybe Jordan had crossed one too many lines with these guys. They didn’t play around, either. Two bodies testified to that. What had he been thinking to steal from these thugs?
Still using the thick shrubbery as cover, she bent low and eased through the leaves and branches to get closer. Her mouth was dry and heart pounding when she crouched in the deep shadows of the bushes behind the Elvis statue. Their low voices carried on the chill wind blowing up from the river.
“I’m telling you we want it now. Not next week or next month. Now.”
That was the guy who’d threatened her talking. He sounded rough and mean and quite capable of doing bodily harm. Harley had a flash of brilliance and fumbled at her belt loop to unhook her phone. If she could record this, it’d be great evidence to use in court. She hunched over to hide the light from the phone, shielding it with her hand and body as best she could. Dammit, she wasn’t familiar enough with the settings to do it from memory. She’d have to do this in the dark.
Jordan’s voice cracked as he said, “I promised you I’d get it back to you, and I will. I just have to collect on Filly’s life insurance policy. It’s a million dollars, man. More than enough to pay you back.”
Damn. So he had killed Felicia for the insurance money. Even though she’d had her suspicions, she still felt queasy at the thought.
One of the other guys stepped into the light, and with a start Harley recognized him. Rick Streeter! The tourist who’d gone to Graceland with Harvey Fine and a few other men. Of course . . . Marty McCormack was the other man, and she tried to think of the names of the others who had been in her van that day. One of them was the bully who had threatened her. That’s where she’d seen him and why he looked familiar. He’d been quiet and hadn’t said three words the entire day.
As she tried to wrap her mind around the fact that somehow these men were all in collaboration and must have known the big gorilla threatened her, the big gorilla grabbed Jordan by the arm and half-dragged him behind the Elvis statue. They were less than four feet from where she crouched in the bushes. Harvey Fine followed.
It was amazing they couldn’t hear her heartbeat. It thundered so loud in her ears she could barely hear what they were saying. She angled the phone away from her to pick up what they were saying and doing.
The gorilla snarled in his raspy voice, “You’ve been stalling too damn long. We shoulda taken care of you two months ago.”
“Well, you tried,” said Jordan in a thin, quavering voice. His hands shook, and his eyes were big as the headlights on a Mack truck. “I’ve been nearly crushed by concrete, run down with a car, pushed in front of a bus—”
“Shit. Those were just reminders. If we’d wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead. Now here’s what you’re gonna do . . . you’re gonna get that insurance money and pay back what you stole along with interest.”
“How much interest?” Jordan squeaked.
“Three hundred thousand.”
Jordan gasped. “But . . . but that’ll take all the money! I won’t have any left after I pay you back.”
“Not our problem,” said the gorilla. He punched Jordan in the chest with a finger. “And to make sure you don’t forget, I’m gonna leave you with a reminder of what can happen to guys who steal from us.”
Gorilla grabbed him so quickly his movements were a blur. For such a large man he moved very fast.
“Dammit, Zane,” said Harvey Fine as the gorilla bent Jordan›s left arm up in a motion guaranteed to snap it in two. “Not here. Anybody can see us.”
The gorilla named Zane said, “It was your damn idea to meet out in the open. Go to Graceland, the Rendezvous, and Beale Street to meet where it’s not suspicious. It’s stupid.”
“I told you why. We know Johnny Pomona was an informant. We don’t need to be anywhere we can be bugged. It’s a lot harder for cops to hear what’s going on in the middle of a big crowd.”
“Yeah, well we ain’t in no crowd now. And maybe I don’t feel like letting this asshole get away with stealing from us.”
“It’s my money too. Wait until after we get it.” He flicked a glance at Jordan. “Then you can do what you want with him.”
Fine sounded so nonchalant, like murder meant nothing to him. Harley stayed as still as she could. If they saw her, she was going to be in the same situation as Jordan. And he didn’t look too comfortable. Finally the gorilla named Zane released Jordan’s arm without breaking it, but he let him know he was lucky to still be alive and in one piece.
All this time Rick Streeter and Marty McCormack just stood on the sidewalk and smoked cigarettes. They didn’t seem too concerned with what was going on a few feet away from them.
Jordan’s teeth were clacking together, he was so scared, and his complexion had gone to a pasty gray that wasn’t at all flattering. Even in his suit he was shivering like he was standing in three feet of snow. Harley sympathized. She was almost as terrified, and no one was threatening her.
Then the unthinkable happened: Sylvester the cat said in his lisping voice, “Oh, I just can’t bear to watch!” as her phone signalled an incoming call. Harley froze. Oh. Shit.
Chapter 16
FUMBLING, SHE tried to turn the phone volume down again, but it was too late. She had been spotted. Zane the gorilla took two steps to the bushes, reached in, and grabbed her by the hair. He nearly pulled a chunk out by the roots when he hauled her from the bushes onto concrete.
“Well, look what we got here,” he said and slid a hand behind her neck to grip her in a vise. “Miss Tour Guide is lost. Ain’t that right, sister?”
His rough voice sounded almost friendly. She wasn’t fooled. His grip conveyed an entirely different message.
“Yes,” she said in a croaking voice. “I’m lost. But now that I see the statue I know where I am and can get back home by myself. Thanks awfully for the help.”
“Yeah, sister, you ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said with a grunt of satisfaction. “What is that in your hand? Give it to me.”
He snatched her phone from her when she attempted to throw it behind her and eyed it for a moment. Then he looked up at her with the coldest blue eyes she’d ever in her life seen. “So you’re recording us? Looka here, Fine. We ain’t so safe out in crowds after all.”
Harvey Fine looked so furious Harley thought she just might faint. She
wasn’t one to faint, but if ever there was a time she wished she wasn’t awake, it was now. If she was lucky, the person who’d called her was still on the line and would call for help. Luck hadn’t been much of a friend lately, so she wasn’t counting on it.
Rick Streeter and Marty McCormack joined them, and Streeter was shaking his head. “Girl, you’re dumb as a box of rocks. And luckier than you ought to be. How’d you get out of that hole?”
Harley stared at him. “You’re the guy who tried to bury me?”
“Yeah, but not deep enough, I see. What’s it take to make you stop getting in our way? We don’t need a lot of attention. But that’s all we’ve gotten since our accountant here dragged you into our business.” The look he gave Jordan was pretty pissed. “If it was up to me, you’d both be in metal drums at the bottom of the river.”
Harvey Fine sounded impatient. “Murder draws a hell of a lot more attention than a rattle-brained snoop. You can’t seem to get that through your thick head, Streeter. Killing Shamsky was stupid.”
Rattle-brained snoop? Harley was indignant. Then she wondered who Shamsky was and why he was killed. She’d never heard of him. Apparently Jordan had.
He gaped at Streeter. “You killed Shamsky? But why? He didn’t know anything about what was going on! He was just the front man, the shill.”
Streeter shrugged. “He got too nosy. Like blondie here. You would have done a lot better if you hadn’t involved her.”
“You guys were trying to kill me! What was I supposed to do? I thought if I had her involved you’d back off. It’s not like you were in any danger of her figuring out what was going on. Tootsie said she only solves investigations by accident.”
Harley’s growing indignation spurred her to say, “Not this time. I figured out what you were all up to a week ago. I just couldn’t prove it.”
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