Sue was insightful, but still, there had to be more to it than longtime grief.
She said, “Let me make you some eggs.”
“No, thanks, baby. I just need to sleep.”
“Then I’ll tuck you in.”
Baker went home, stripped naked, fell into bed, was asleep before his face hit the sheet.
Much of the afternoon was spent with the two of them sitting at the center table in the pale purple Murder Squad detectives’ room, working the phone and sifting through the slew of tips that had poured in after Jack Jeffries’s murder hit the news.
TV, broadcast, radio, the final edition of The Tennessean. By evening, it would be the national entertainment shows.
Fondebernardi and Lieutenant Jones stopped in to see how everything was going. Both of them too experienced and smart to push because that would accomplish nothing other than make their detectives nervous. But they were edgy, all that media attention.
Baker and Lamar had a data flood on their hands from the blitz of phone tips. Sometimes too much information was worse than none at all. Like a room with fifty different fingerprint patterns. Every call they fielded was from a nut, a psychic or just a well-meaning citizen imagining or exaggerating. Two dozen people claiming to have seen Jeffries in two dozen unfeasible places at impossible times.
A few informants were certain he’d been accompanied by a dangerous-looking person. Half of those described a woman, the other half a man. Details as to height, weight, clothing and demeanor were cloudy to the point of uselessness, but everyone agreed on one thing: a dangerous-looking black person. And that included black informants.
The detectives had seen that before, called it The Color Kneejerk, but given a 911 caller who sounded African-American, it couldn’t be dismissed.
Then the 911 caller showed up at headquarters, a former merchant marine, now homeless, named Horace Watson, who lived in an eastside shelter and liked to take long walks by the river. The man was seventy-three, wizened and toothless. He was also as white as Al Gore; his southern Louisiana accent misconstrued as black patois.
Lamar and Baker took him into a room and started in on developing a relationship by giving him a Danish and coffee. Watson was already tipsy but outgoing, a nice drunk and eager to help. Volunteering about how he always walked by that area—that particular piece of land because sometimes you could find aluminum cans for the Redemption Center and one time he’d found a watch. Too bad it didn’t work.
This time, he’d found more than he was looking for. Freaking out when he saw the dead man, he’d hurried back to the shelter to tell someone. Found a pay phone along the way and made the call.
Now he was wondering…ahem…about maybe a ree-ward?
“Sorry, sir,” said Lamar, “no rewards for finding bodies, only murderers.”
“Oh,” said Watson. Flashing a sunken grin. “Cain’t blame a guy for trahn.”
They questioned him awhile longer, ran him through the system and got a hit with a few misdemeanors. When Baker suggested a polygraph, Watson loved the idea. “Long as it don’t hoit.”
“Painless, Mr. Watson.”
“Let’s do it, den. Always wanna try new t’ings.”
Lamar and Baker traded looks.
Stretch cleared his throat. “Uh, sorry, sir, no polygraphers on the premises. We’ll call you.”
“Oka-ay,” said Watson. “I got nuttin a do.”
Calls to Jack Jeffries’s credit card company, follow-up chats with a supervisor at Marquis Jet and the limo driver who’d taken Jeffries and Delaware to the hotel, and a brief sit-down with the staff at Jack’s Bar-B-Que confirmed every detail of Dr. Delaware’s story.
No one at the restaurant had noticed where Jeffries had gone.
Baker and Lamar spent the next two hours canvassing neighboring merchants east of the barbecue joint, talking to passersby, anyone who hung out regularly on the numbered streets between Fifth and First.
Nothing.
With little else to go on, the two detectives started making phone calls, splitting the list of the performers for the upcoming “Evening at the Songbird Café for the Benefit and Protection of the First Amendment.”
Among the names were some of Lamar’s idols: Stretch did his police duty with gusto. Baker made the calls with reticence bordering on hostility. The sum total of twenty-two phone calls yielded the same results, which were no results. Everyone was stunned by the news, but no one had seen hide nor hair of Jack Jeffries. Some didn’t even know he had been scheduled to perform. Checking Jeffries’s outgoing cell calls verified the stories. If Jack had attempted to reach former buddies, he’d done so on a landline that the detectives were unaware of.
A seven PM call to Lieutenant Milo Sturgis in LA verified Dr. Alexander Delaware’s longtime association with the department. Sturgis termed Delaware as brilliant.
“If you can use him,” the lieutenant said, “do it.”
Baker asked him if he knew Delaware had been treating Jack Jeffries.
Sturgis said, “No, he never talks about his cases. Guy’s ethical.”
“Sounds like you like him.”
“He’s a friend,” said Sturgis. “That’s an effect of his being a good guy, not a cause.”
The AFIS report on the scrap of song lyrics from Jack Jeffries’s room came back negative for any match with an individual in the system. The crime scene people were still working at the scene and the results would start to trickle in tomorrow.
Baker called the coroner’s office and spoke to Dr. Inda Srinivasan. She said, “Obviously tox won’t be back for a few days but this was one unhealthy guy. His heart was enlarged, his coronary arteries were seriously occluded, his liver was cirrhotic and one of his kidneys was atrophied, with a cyst on the other not that long from bursting. Top of that, he’s got noticeable cerebral atrophy, more like what you’d see in an eighty-year-old than a sixty-five-year-old.”
“He was also fat and had dandruff,” said Baker. “Now tell me what killed him.”
“Severed carotid laceration, exsanguination and subsequent shock,” said the pathologist. “My point is, Baker, he probably didn’t have long, either way.”
6
At seven thirty, they returned to the kill-spot. In diminishing daylight, stripped of hubbub and artificial illumination, the site was even more depressing. Last night’s foot-indentations were almost gone, plumped by dew. But streaks of rusty brown remained on the weeds. Fresh dog dropping deposited inches from where the body had lain, the pooch disregarding the boundaries of the yellow crime scene tape.
Why should life stop?
At eight thirty they were starving and went back to Jack’s Bar-BQue, not just for the food, but also hoping someone might remember something.
Baker ordered smoked chicken.
Lamar asked for Tennessee pork shoulder and when the food arrived, said, “It’s like some primitive rite.”
Baker wiped his mouth with a Wash’n Dri. “What is?”
“I’m eating what Jack ate, like that could transfer his karma to us.”
“I don’t want his karma. You gonna eat all those onions?”
They wiped their chins and drove to The T House. The front door was open but from the street, the club looked empty.
The interior was a single dim, plywood-paneled room with a warped pine floor, mismatched chairs pulled up to small round, oilcloth-covered tables, a few pictures of bands and singers hanging askew.
Not quite empty; three patrons, all young, emaciated, sullen, drinking tea and eating some kind of anorexic biscuits.
Big and Rich on the too-loud soundtrack, asking women to ride them.
Behind a makeshift bar, a black-shirted, spiky-haired guy dried mismatched glasses. As the detectives stood in the doorway, he glanced their way briefly, then returned to his chore.
Not curious about their presence. Meaning Jeffries probably hadn’t been here.
They entered anyway, looked around. No hard liquor permit, just beer an
d wine and a skimpy selection of that. To the left of the bottles, a blackboard listed two dozen types of tea.
“Talk about selection,” said Lamar. “Oolong is one thing, Unfermented White sounds illegal.”
Baker said, “Look at this.” Cocking his head at the rear of the room where a stage should be. No platform, no drum kit, or any other evidence of live entertainment.
Another dude in all-black fiddled with a karaoke setup.
“They can’t hire someone live?” said Lamar. “The Large Pizza Blues just got sadder.”
Referencing the old strummer’s joke: What’s the difference between a Nashville musician and a large pizza? A large pizza can feed a family of four.
This town, getting someone to play for cheap was as easy as blinking, but whoever owned this place opted for a computer. Someone turned the volume down on Big and Rich. A young woman wearing a waitress apron over a red tank top and jeans stepped out of a door in the back, checked with all three tea-drinkers, refilled a pot, then went over to the karaoke guy. He offered her a cordless microphone. She wiped her hands on her apron, untied it and placed it on the bar. Untying a blond ponytail, she fluffed her hair, flashed teeth at the nearly empty room, finally took the mike.
The room grew silent. The blond girl wiggled, more nerves than sexiness. She said, “Here we go,” and tapped the mike. Thump thump thump. “Testing…okay, folks, how’re y’all tonight?”
Nods from two of the tea-drinkers.
“Awesome, me, too.” Mile-wide smile. Pretty girl, twenty, twenty-one. Small and curvy—five-two or -three, square jaw, big eyes.
She cleared her throat again. “Well…yeah, it is an awesome night for some music. I’m Gret. That’s short for Greta. Then again, I’m kinda short.”
Pausing for laughter that never arrived.
The karaoke guy muttered something.
Gret laughed and said, “Bart says we’d best be moving along. Okay, here’s one of my favorites. ’Cause I’m from San Antone…though I love love love Nashville.”
Silence.
A third throat clear. Gret threw back her shoulders, tried to stand taller, planted her feet as if ready to fight someone. A musical intro issued from the karaoke box and soon Gret was putting heart and soul into “God Made Texas.”
Lamar thought she started out pretty good, belting out the song in a smooth, throaty voice, just above an alto. But she was a long ways from great.
Meaning another rider on the Dead Dream Express. Nashville chewed them up and spit them out the way Hollywood did with starlets. According to what he’d heard about Hollywood; the farthest west he’d been was Vegas, five days at a homicide investigation seminar. Sue had won twenty bucks playing dime slots and he’d lost all that and forty more at the blackjack tables.
He stood there as Gret wailed on, glanced at his partner. Baker had turned his back on the stage, was staring at a blank wall and Lamar caught a glimpse of his profile as Baker winced suddenly. As if seized by a cramp.
Lamar was wondering what was wrong when a nano-second later Gret from San Antone skidded off pitch, maybe an eighth note flat. A few measures later, she did it again and by the end of the verse she was way off.
Off the beat, too, hopping in too early on several verses.
Baker looked ready to spit.
How the heck had he heard the bad note before she sang it? Lamar wondered. Maybe he was so fine-tuned that the sound waves got there sooner. Maybe that was why, even though he could pick and grin up there with Adam Steffey and Ricky Skaggs—at least according to what people said—he let that F-5 just sit in the—
He stopped himself. Jack Jeffries’s throat had been cut and he was here to work.
The song ended. Finally. Gret from San Antone bowed as a pair of hands clapped lazily.
She said, “Thanks, y’all, now we’re going to do a little traveling, down to that awesome town so devastated by that evil woman known as Katrina. This is a real oldie, I wouldn’t know it but my mama’s a big doo-wop fan and back when she was littler than me, I’m talking a real bobby-soxer—y’all know what that is?”
No answer.
Gret made the wise choice of not continuing the digression. “Anyway, back then my mama just loved a boy from New Yawk named Freddy Cannon. Palisades Park?”
Silence.
“Anyway,” she repeated, “Freddy also recorded this one back in the dinosaur age.” Gret blinked and straightened up. “Okay, here we go, folks. ‘Way Down Yonder in New Awleans.’”
Baker walked out of the café and stood out on the sidewalk.
Lamar listened to a few sour beats, then joined him.
“Don’t you think we should at least ask if he was in here, El Bee?”
“Yup,” said Baker. “I’m just waiting for the static to die down.”
“Yeah,” said Lamar, “she stinks, poor thing.”
“Maybe she’s the lucky one.”
“Why’s that?”
“No one’ll give her any false hope and she’ll go find a real job.”
They watched from the doorway as Gret put the microphone down and resumed her waitress duties. None of the patrons needed her and she headed over to the bar. Sipping a beer, she peered over the foam, locked eyes with the detectives and smiled.
When they approached, she said, “Po-lice, right?”
Lamar smiled back. “Today we are.”
“I figured you’d be here,” she said. “’Cause Mr. Jeffries was here. I was gonna call you but I really didn’t know who to call and I figured you’d be here, soon enough.”
“Why’s that?”
That threw her. “I dunno…I guess I figured someone would know Mr. Jeffries was here and you’d be following up.”
Baker said, “Who would know?”
“His entourage maybe?” said Gret, as if answering a question on an oral exam. “I figured someone must have drove him from wherever fancy place he was staying, a celebrity like him doesn’t just show up by himself.”
“Was he with anyone?”
Gret chewed her lip. “Nope…he wasn’t. I guess I shoulda called. Sorry. If you didn’t come by tomorrow, I was gonna call. Not that I can tell you anything else except he was here last night.”
Baker turned to the bartender who’d ignored them when they entered. Pimply-faced kid, the spiked hair was dyed black. He had a long, gaunt, chin-dominated face, didn’t look old enough to drink. Shifty eyes—real shifty eyes. “Anything you want to say, son?”
“Like what?”
“Like were you on last night?”
“Nope.”
“Did you know Jack Jeffries was here last night?”
“Gret told me.”
“Man gets murdered and he was here last night. We show up and you don’t think to mention it?”
“Gret just told me. She said she’d be talking to you.”
Gret said, “I really did, Officers. Byron doesn’t know anything.”
Lamar said, “What’s your last name, Byron?”
“Banks,” said the barkeep.
“Sounds like you don’t enjoy talking to the police, son.”
No answer.
“You have experience talking to the police, son?”
Byron Banks gazed at the ceiling. “Not really.”
“Not really, but what?”
“I did nine months.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
“For what?”
“Grand theft auto.”
“You’re a car booster.”
“Just once, I was wasted. Never gonna happen again.”
“Uh-huh,” Baker said. “Do you have a substance-abuse problem?”
“I’m okay, now.”
“Tending bar?” Lamar stood up and stretched to his full height. He did that whenever he wanted to intimidate. “Don’t you think it’s a little risky for a guy like you?”
“It’s tea,” said Banks. “I don’t do nothing and I don’t know nothing. She’s the one who was
here.”
Greta said, “That’s really true.”
Baker said, “Where were you last night, Byron?”
“Over on Second.”
“Doing what?”
“Walking around.”
“By yourself?”
“With friends. We went into a club.”
“Which one?”
“Fuse.”
“That’s Techno,” said Lamar. “How about the names of your friends?”
“Shawn Dailey, Kevin DiMasio, Paulette Gothain.”
“What time were you cruising Second?”
“Until about one or two. Then I went home.”
“Which is where?”
“My mother’s.”
“Where’s that?”
“New York Avenue,” said Banks.
“The Nations,” said Lamar with a quick glance to Baker. Later, if he was in a mood, he’d have some fun. Neighbors like that and your alarm sucks…
“Yeah. I’m feeling antsy. Can I go have a smoke?”
They took his stats and let him go. The kid walked past the karaoke gear, disappeared through the rear door.
“He’s really a nice person,” said Gret. “I never knew he was in jail. How could you tell?”
Lamar turned his eyes on the waitress. “We got ways. What’s back there, through that door?”
“Just the bathroom and a little room where we put our stuff. I keep my guitar there.”
“You play?” said Lamar. “How come you used the machine?”
“House rules,” said Gret. “Some kind of union thing.”
“Who else was here last night?”
Gret said, “Our other bartender—Bobby Champlain—and me and Jose. Jose sweeps up after we close so he came in maybe ten to midnight.”
“Either of them have a criminal record?”
“I wouldn’t know for certain, sir, but I wouldn’t think so. Bobby’s around seventy, deaf in one ear, mostly deaf in the other, and a little…slow, you know? Jose’s real religious—Pentecostal. Bobby told me he’s got five kids and works two jobs. Neither of them would have recognized Mr. Jeffries, especially looking…well, different. I was the only person who did.”
Capital Crimes Page 21