Devil Sent the Rain

by Lisa Turner

  “Jackson Able’s son. He used to work at that seedy diner we’d pass on the drive to Airlee. He was involved in Buck Overton’s case, and he exposed Sid Garrett.”

  Judge Buck Overton had been a dear friend of the family who visited Airlee many times to work the dogs with Saunders. Three years ago, he was convicted of beating a child into a coma.

  Sid Garrett had been her closest ally on the board of the Memphis Bar Association. He’d thrown himself under a train rather than face murder charges. Fortunately, their relationships with Buck and Sid had not come to light during the reporting of either case.

  “Detective Able is a Mississippi redneck in a cheap suit,” Martin continued. “He’s also the best investigator on the homicide squad.”

  “Then he’ll arrest Raj soon, and we’ll be done with this nightmare.”

  “Maybe. But until then the media will be all over this case and not just because of Caroline. Able and Malone are media darlings. After the Garrett case, the department made Malone the new face of Memphis law enforcement. Her photo was on the side of city buses for months. Both of them are media hogs. I warned Able I’d have the mayor step in if he doesn’t wrap this up quickly and quietly.”

  “Threatening the man who can give us what we want was a stupid move,” she said.

  “He’s not on our side. If Raj isn’t arrested, they’ll expand the investigation to your law firm and my bank.”

  She sat back. “You’re right. He asked for all the client files in Caroline’s office.”

  “You didn’t give them to him!”

  She gave him a cold look. “Of course not.”

  “We don’t want Economic Crime investigators going through our records.”

  Outside the windows a fifty-year-old oak stripped of leaves waved its skeletal branches in the wind. She recalled the determination on Able’s face when he’d asked about the files. Caroline’s death was personal for him. She knew the reason. Martin didn’t.

  “This could be real trouble if we don’t handle it the right way,” she said.

  Chapter 12

  It was midafternoon. The day had turned hazy and noncommittal. Billy drove back to Shelby Farms. The medical examiner had signed off on the scene. Caroline was being transported for autopsy at the Regional Forensic Center. It was a blessing he hadn’t seen her removed from the car, the train of her dress wrapped around her legs, and her body lifted onto the gurney.

  He’d seen countless bodies taken from the place where they had died—swimming pools, burned-out cars, bodies folded and stored in basement freezers. One had been stuffed into the pit under an outhouse and covered with lime, another hauled up in a tree and picked clean by birds. They found a ninety-year-old man who had been dead for weeks. His body liquefied in the blaze of summer heat and had soaked through the floor of his trailer.

  As he predicted, the bison had trampled the footprints around the car, making it almost impossible for CSU to cast impressions. Despite the rain the techs had lifted a few prints from the car’s exterior, and they’d searched the field with metal detectors for the murder weapon. They found only the blade of a broken hoe used by a prison worker years ago.

  Frankie told him she would stay with the house while CSU made their sweep and the neighborhood canvass wrapped up. The cat had either slipped out a door or knew a great hiding place where no one could find it. Frankie said she would put down plenty of water and dry food before Snackbar drove her to Shelby Farms for her car. There, she would take possession of Caroline’s purse and the overnight bag in the trunk.

  After the initial shock at the crime scene that morning, he’d done his best to move forward and push away his feelings. Now he felt a gathering in his gut, a dull ache.

  Hoping food would make it go away, he went to Patrick’s East and picked up a couple of vegetable plates—turnip greens, fried eggplant, potato salad, and black-eyed peas with extra cornbread and rolls. Driving through Midtown, he passed Wiles-Smith Drug Store, one of his favorites. After decades of helping thousands of people and years of hassling with insurance companies, old Charlie Smith had decided to close down for good at the end of the month.

  Thinking Frankie would enjoy one of Charlie’s chocolate malts made at the last authentic soda fountain in the city, he drove back to the drugstore and came out carrying two cold, waxy cups. Before starting the engine, he sucked up the rich chocolate malt through the straw.

  Maybe it was the stillness inside the car or the shock of the freezing malt hitting his brain, but something triggered the jolt he’d managed to hold off all day. The unthinkable had happened, and it had gotdamned happened to him. A woman he’d loved for a very long time had been murdered. The city around him seemed disgustingly normal, traffic lights blinking, people walking along the sidewalk behind his car. He felt ridiculous going about his day and enjoying a malt while Caroline lay dead in the morgue.

  Nothing could make him rest his head back and close his eyes while he was on the street, but he had to take a minute to pull himself together.

  As a rookie cop, he’d been a “blue flamer” racing around like he had a Roman candle up his ass. At the time he felt he had something to prove. A veteran cop had taken him aside and said, “Son, this is a tough job. If you want to survive it, slow down. Make chaos your friend.”

  He felt the chaos now, like a rat running an emotional maze. He shook his head, wanting to clear it. Time to man up and grab hold of his fortitude. He had a duty to perform.

  Back at his desk at the Criminal Justice Complex, he started the process by writing suspect names on a yellow pad in order of interest: Dr. Raj Sharma, Roscoe Hanson, and Martin Lee. Hanson was on hold until the residue swabs came back. He wanted to check Martin Lee’s alibi. On the next line down he added Zelda Taylor. Her fight with Caroline had taken place only hours before the murder. He wrote the words “second interview” beside her name.

  Dr. Raj Sharma, the name at the top of the list, was the one he circled. The doctor was about to have his gold-plated cage rattled.

  He called the charge nurse at the hospital’s surgical desk and learned that his friend was on Sharma’s team today. He sent a second text, asking for a half hour’s heads-up before Sharma came out.

  Next he checked the database for guns registered to the doctor. Bingo. Sharma bought five pistols over a three year period: a .45 Colt, a 9mm Glock, a Beretta 92F and two .32 revolvers. Owning guns didn’t make him a criminal, but that kind of firepower would give the case against the doctor instant traction.

  He dialed central booking to confirm that Hanson had been transported from the MED to lockup. Next he left a message for Hanson’s parole officer letting him know one of his parolees was behind bars.

  He ran a background on Zelda Taylor not expecting to find anything. Turned out she had a short sheet. First was a DUI while she was a freshman at Rhodes College. No one made her bond, so she had to spend two days in jail, a tough place for a young lady. A lot of bad crap goes on in lockup. A year and a half later she was arrested for disorderly conduct, obstruction of traffic, and refusal to obey an officer’s command, all misdemeanor charges. She could’ve been bonded out for $250, but this time she’d refused. He checked the date, recalling a protest involving Rhodes College students against the president of the NRA. The dates matched.

  The NRA president had flown in as keynote speaker at the Ducks Unlimited annual board of directors meeting. Students got wind of his arrival and decided to stage a “stop gun violence” protest by blocking his limo at the airport. They cuffed themselves together and lay down on Airways Boulevard to stop traffic. Kind of an extreme act, but Rhodes was a liberal arts college attended by freethinkers. TV news showed the NRA president standing outside his limo, looking mad as hell, while the cops peeled students off the asphalt. The president missed the meeting.

  When ten protesters had refused bail, local headlines read “Student Protesters Remain Incarcerated.” Apparently, kooky Zelda had been one of them. Sure didn’t sound like s
omeone who would shoot her cousin in the face. Still, her quarrel with Caroline and her lack of an alibi warranted a second look.

  He checked his e-mail. Middlebrook had copied him on the draft for a press release that included the type of crime, its location, and the victim’s name. The chief gave his own name as contact person in the release, placing himself between the investigation and the media, a move Billy appreciated.

  About the time he thought he couldn’t wait any longer to eat, Frankie showed up with the handbag and suitcase from the scene. They sat in the break room with their warmed-over plates, reading their memo books, and bringing each other up to date.

  “The ME’s preliminary report came in,” she said. “Estimated time of death is between 9:00 pm and 11:00 pm. The bullet recovered from the overhead headliner board was slightly disfigured. The second bullet should be recovered intact.”

  Frankie had phrased her last comment as delicately as she could. The second bullet would be removed from Caroline’s brain.

  “Her mobile is an iPhone with iOS 8 software,” she said. “We can’t get her texts or messages even from Apple. Her carrier has the call logs, but a response to a subpoena will take a few days. Apple has everything she’s backed up in the Cloud, but they’ll drag their feet giving it to us.”

  Frankie cut a slice of fried eggplant into exact quarters. “There’s a sapphire ring with diamonds set on either side zipped into a side pocket of the handbag.”

  “An engagement ring?”

  She took a bite of eggplant and thought about it. “Sharma seems more like the five karat diamond type.”

  He carried his food container to the trash and came back. “Caroline was about to file a protective order against Sharma.”

  “Whoa. That’s significant.”

  “I’ve requested the file. The attorney who was handling it is out of town.”

  “What’s our approach with Sharma?” she asked.

  “Best case, we catch him later tonight coming out of surgery. He’ll be tired and won’t have his story straight. I’m counting on a nurse at the hospital to text me when he’s about to wrap it up.”

  She took a last bite and closed her container. “Where are we on Hanson?”

  “The swabs came back clean. No prints on the money clip and no weapon at the scene. He’ll be released by noon.”

  “You’ve pegged him as a long shot from the beginning.” She tossed her food container and continued talking while she rinsed her hands. “What’s the status of the laptop?”

  “A tech at the computer lab said the law firm uses a VNC server to give their attorneys remote access,” he said. “It uses multi-factor authentication to keep out hackers, but he’ll be able to crack her personal password and search her banking and credit card records.”

  “What about a marriage license?” she asked.

  “Harrison Pete has taken that one. There’s no registered license in the database, so he’ll have to contact every county court clerk’s office within one hundred miles of Memphis to find out if there’s been an application. That includes Arkansas and Mississippi.”

  Billy’s mobile pinged. He looked at the Channel Five Breaking News app and held the mobile for Frankie to see the helicopter video. “Here we go,” he said.

  The voice-over gave a “sources say” account of a Good Samaritan who’d found a woman’s body in the car at the scene. The Samaritan was then attacked by a bison bull.

  “Damn it,” he said. “Either an EMT blabbed to the media or someone let Hanson leak it at the MED.”

  “I hope Sharma doesn’t see this footage before we get to him,” she said. “What time do you want to leave for the hospital?”

  “In four hours unless I hear from my contact at the hospital before then. There’s a chocolate malt from Wiles-Smith Drug Store in the freezer if you need a boost.” He expected to see her face light up.

  “Maybe later. I’m stuffed.”

  Billy went back to clear his desk. He slipped on gloves and set the suitcase on top of it. The negligee still lay on top. When he pushed it aside, the scent of perfume lifted from the lingerie beneath. Inside were slacks, a blouse, a jacket, and a pair of flats. Zelda said she thought Caroline would be gone a few days. This was not a honeymoon in Jamaica bag. It was for overnight.

  A cosmetics bag at the bottom held bottles of B-12, folic acid, and travel size tubes of shampoo and makeup. He unzipped a pocket on the left side of the case and dug out a prescription bottle labeled Xanax. A small glass vial with a metal stopper shaped like a dragon rattled inside. He popped off the bottle’s lid and slid out the vial. A tiny amount of white powder had clumped along its bottom edge. It looked like cocaine.

  Frankie was at her desk across the aisle staring at her monitor. She glanced at him. “The tech at the scene showed that to me. We’ll have it tested. Maybe it’s foot powder.”

  “Foot powder?”

  “Sorry. Trying to lighten things up. It’s coke. To be fair, the date of the prescription is four years old. She could’ve played around with coke in the past, zipped the bottle in the pocket, and forgot about it.”

  He thought about the statement given by the neighbor saying Caroline had been gardening in the middle of the night. Was it insomnia from wedding jitters or had she been too ripped on blow to sleep?

  Frankie turned her chair to face him. “I’ve run a background on Sharma. You want to hear?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She took pages from her printer and handed him the Commercial Appeal’s engagement announcements from the previous year. He studied the photo. Raj Sharma, considerably taller than Caroline, was standing behind her with his hand on her shoulder. He wore a suit. She wore a sleeveless dress with a string of pearls and her blond hair falling loose on her shoulders. She was smiling. Sharma was not. Compared to Caroline’s glowing presence, the doctor appeared foreign and intense. His personality dominated the photo as strongly as it apparently had the relationship.

  “Forty-one years old,” Frankie said. “Born in New Delhi. Sharma is the surname of most Rajput royalty. The doctor is from the Jodhpur line, descended from Maharajah Jaswant Sharma II, which means he merits the title Maharajah or ‘great ruler.’ I’m sure that can also be translated as ‘arrogant surgeon.’ He graduated Cambridge, Oxford medical school, and did his residency at Johns Hopkins. He’s the youngest ever chief of staff at the Bathe Neurology Clinic. He travels to India once a year to train surgeons in outlying areas.”

  “Impressive,” he said. “He may be a humanitarian, but he may also be a man who insists on having his way. We’ve seen the attitude before—if you’re not going to live with me, you’re not going to live at all.”

  “You think he has the stones to pull the trigger on the woman he loves?” she asked.

  “He cuts people open for a living, doesn’t he?”

  Frankie went back to typing. “Yep. Slash is our best statistical suspect.”

  He laughed. “You’ve nicknamed him Slash?”

  “Okay … Saint Slash. Let me know when it’s time to go.”

  Chapter 13

  “It’s the text from the nurse,” Billy said, holding up his mobile for Frankie to see. The screen lit up the darkness of her Dodge Charger. “Sharma should be out of surgery in fifteen minutes. He’ll be in the doctor’s lounge, or we’ll catch him in the parking lot at the south employee exit.”

  Frankie turned out of the CJC parking lot and hit the Charger’s LED lights. He noticed her fingers squeezing and releasing the steering wheel.

  “Stay loose. It’s our game,” he said.

  “I’m good.”

  She wasn’t good. Her voice sounded tight, which was strange, because she was usually so confident.

  At nine o’clock at night the traffic was light, so they made good time to the hospital. The emergency room’s red and blue sign appeared on their right. Frankie cruised through the hospital’s back lanes and slowed at the physician’s parking lot. Sharma’s black Escalade sat in the
middle of the lot under the blazing lights.

  “Got ’em,” she said, and grinned.

  They took an elevator down two floors beneath street level. The doors slid open to the chilled air and overly bright hallways of the surgical area. They went right and then left into a much longer hallway, passing several unmarked metal doors and a bay of vending machines for drinks and snacks. An orderly came around the corner pushing a rattling transport cart. Behind him were four women carrying handbags and wearing their jackets over their scrubs. The hallway ended in heavy-duty automated doors with a sign across the top that read Personnel Only. Behind the doors were the operating and recovery rooms, and the lounge where doctors made calls and cleaned up after surgery.

  Frankie forged ahead of him, her earlier nerves having turned to eagerness. She passed the group of off-duty nurses just as the ringtone on one of their phones began shrieking like a parrot. Get the phone! Get the phone! The nurses laughed.

  The automatic doors down the hall levered open, and Dr. Sharma walked out. He was easy to recognize from the wedding announcement—tall, with sharp features, deep-set eyes, and skin the color of smoked almonds. He had on dark running pants and a jacket with reflective strips, his arms swinging and his steps surprisingly vital after twelve hours on his feet. Beside him strode a shorter man in a suit, Jerry Vanderman, the highest-priced defense attorney in the city. Vanderman checked his watch and frowned.

  Someone must’ve seen the Camaro on TV and called in Vanderman to run interference with law enforcement. Frankie didn’t know Vanderman, but she sure as hell would recognize Sharma.

  “Hey Malone,” Billy called. She must not have heard him over the rattle of the transport cart and the nurses’ laughter. Vanderman saw her coming. He touched Sharma’s arm. The taller man stopped and bent to listen.

  “Malone!” Billy called again, but he could tell by her walk she was too fired up to listen.

  She waved her badge at Sharma, ignoring Vanderman. “Dr. Sharma, I’m Detective Malone. We need a word with you concerning Caroline Lee. Please come with me.”