Chapter 28
Pedro Rodriguez’ solemn face with its down-turned black mustache stared at me from the front page of Wednesday morning’s newspaper. According to Wes Knight’s story, Rodriguez saw the killer getting into a car in the employee parking lot. The hotel banquet setup worker was walking between two cars one row over from the man in black. Interviewed with the help of his English-speaking housemate, he said he got a good profile look at the man’s face from no more than ten feet away. In contrast to Larry Inman, whose nose was broad and flat, the man he saw had a long, narrower nose.
Rodriguez didn’t know much about cars, American or otherwise, but said the one the man entered was dark green and looked new. Knight wrote that he had notified Metro’s Homicide Division about the young Mexican’s sighting. After he had obtained everything he wanted, I’m sure.
“Here’s the story,” Jill said. I looked around where she stood beside the TV that rested on a wall bracket in the breakfast room.
A newsman was talking in front of the house next to Lakeesha Echol’s. The camera cut to a dark-skinned young man with a thin mustache.
“Pedro, he very tired,” said the Mexican. “Police question him all night. Get no sleep. He have to go work this morning, then police say they talk more. He no want be bothered, please.”
The reporter appeared back on camera. “The police have issued no statement regarding this development, but a police spokesman promised something later this morning. That’s all for now from Hillandale Street.”
The anchor went on to another story, and Jill turned down the volume. She looked across at me, lips pursed. “Obviously they haven’t said anything yet about releasing Larry.”
“No. I think I’ll call Phil and see what he can tell us.”
I thought I’d have to leave a message, but, surprisingly, he answered the phone.
“Phil, it’s Greg,” I said.
His voice sounded weary. “I’ve been going for most of the last twenty-four hours,” he said. “If you’re looking for any more help, buddy, I’m fresh out.”
“I won’t bother you for long. But my client wants to know when his man will be turned loose, considering what’s happened overnight.”
“That newspaper guy said he got an anonymous tip. You haven’t been making any anonymous phone calls, have you?”
I laughed. “Come on, Phil. You know I’d be happy to provide Detective Tremaine with any help I could.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it.”
“Actually, we were out in that neighborhood yesterday and talked with a girl who lived next door to Larry. We didn’t know about the Mexicans then. I just saw on TV that you interrogated the guy until this morning. Did you come up with any better description of the car?”
“Not much. We’re gathering pictures from dealers and plan to bring him back in later today. See if he can identify what he saw. I don’t like going through interpreters, but it’s the best we could do.”
I held out my cup for Jill to pour a little more coffee. “Well, I sure hope you can come up with enough to give you a decent lead.”
“Don’t we all. It’s a good thing you called now. I’m ready to get a little shut-eye and I plan to turn off this damned phone.”
“Don’t blame you. But you didn’t answer my question about Larry Inman. Is Tremaine causing a problem?”
Adamson grunted. “Tremaine is a problem. I told him we’d have to release the guy unless he could come up with something more conclusive. Everything he has is circumstantial. Let’s see what comes out of this Mexican hat dance.”
“Fair enough, Phil. Go get some sleep.”
Our car rental buddy Art Finley called me at the office around nine. I think he had begun to like this role of detective’s informant.
“In talking to one of my boys this morning,” Finley said, “I learned he’d been approached by this Tony Yarnell dude after the guy quizzed me.”
“One of your drivers?”
“Yeah. He’s another ex-military type. Served in Korea after the war but got the hell out of the Army before Vietnam.”
“That would make him around my age. What did Tony want?”
“Same questions he asked me, about where Damon might have gone.”
“I presume your driver didn’t know?”
“He didn’t. But he gave the guy an interesting tip. I thought it might be something you’d like to know.”
“What sort of tip?”
“Percy—that’s the driver’s name—rode with Saint a lot. I think maybe he was sort of a father figure to him. Don’t really know. Anyway, Percy seemed to get more out of that close-mouthed fella than anybody around. Seems they were jawing over a few beers not long ago about the need to get away from their wives now and then. Damon mentioned this out-of-the-way motel. Said it was one he found handy when he got tired of listening to his wife’s bitching.”
“What motel was it?”
“The Old Country Inn. Percy said it was just off I-24, not far into Rutherford County.”
That put the location a little south of Nashville on the way to Murfreesboro, home of Jill’s alma mater, Middle Tennessee State University. After I hung up, I looked around to find her busily filling out a bank deposit slip. A couple of clients who had hired us to do some pre-employment checking over a month ago had finally come through. Good thing. I was about ready to shift into my nasty-letter-writer persona.
“Guess what,” I said. “Damon Saint has been known to patronize a motel down in Rutherford County.”
“Oh?” She tilted her head at a quizzical angle. “Recently?”
“Right. According to one of Art’s drivers. At any rate, we’d be wise to check it out.”
“He wouldn’t be using his own name,” Jill said.
“Hardly. He’s not dumb.”
“And he won’t look like that photo from the wedding.”
“Right again. I’ll check back with Art and see if he might have a photo.”
When I got Finley on the line, he told me he had a copy of Damon’s driver’s license, complete with photo. In Tennessee, we seniors didn’t have to stand in line to get our pictures snapped, but the guy who called himself Saint wasn’t old enough. Art said the license had been issued about two years ago. The insurance company required him to get a copy whenever one of his drivers received a new one.
As soon as Jill had finished updating her accounting program, we headed to the bank to drop off the deposit. She promptly called my attention to the sky, which had decided to twist itself into a shadowy mass of gray to the northwest, the direction from which cooler air usually invaded the area.
“Looks like a cold front about to bump into this warm air,” she said. “We’ll probably get some thunderstorms out of it.”
I switched on the radio to see if I could locate a weather forecast. What I caught instead was the tail end of a news bulletin about a “breaking story.”
“…and the young man who made headlines today had only been in Nashville about six months. He lived with several other Mexican immigrants in the duplex on Hillandale Street. Neighbors report a small black pickup truck, a stretch model, was seen leaving the area at a high rate of speed just after the shot was fired. We’ll have more on this breaking story as soon as it becomes available.”
Jill looked around, a confused frown on her face. “A shot fired?”
“Hillandale,” I said. “A young Mexican who made headlines today? Makes it sound like Pedro Rodriguez has been shot. Let’s get over there and see what we can find out.”
I swung onto Old Hickory Boulevard and sped toward Madison. The location wasn’t too far away. With the help of a few shortcuts I had learned in driving about the area, we made it to the duplex subdivision in around ten minutes. Several marked police cars were parked in the street, and I saw at least two plain white Malibus. Crime scene tape had been stretched around the front yard and up to the house.
I parked as close as I could, and Jill and I walked toward the tape. I did
n’t know any of the uniforms, but I saw a homicide detective I knew. Unfortunately, he was talking to Murder Squad Detective Mark Tremaine.
The guy who had caused all my trouble was short and stocky with a glued-in-place sneer. I knew he had solved his share of crimes during twenty years on the force, but I suspected a sizeable number had come from lucky breaks, like witnesses who appeared out of the blue with pertinent information. His tendency to jump to conclusions on skimpy evidence and cling to them doggedly, to the exclusion of any other possible avenues of investigation, hadn’t helped.
Tremaine looked around as we walked up. “What the hell are you doing here, McKenzie?”
I forced a smile. “Doing my usual thing, detective. Looking for information.”
“And what makes you think we’d give you any?”
“I believe in sharing,” I said. “That’s why I told Phil Adamson about my suspicions regarding Larry Inman.”
He gave me his normal sneer. “A lot of help you were.”
“I wasn’t in a position to determine the truth. I knew that was your department.”
“Did you ever stop to think your screwing around could get somebody killed? Like this Rodriguez boy?”
That answered my question. The Opryworld Hotel employee was dead.
“And how did I become responsible for that?” I asked. “You aren’t implying Inman did this? He’s still in jail.”
“How do I know the shooter wasn’t working with him? Anyway, while you had us off chasing after this Inman character, somebody else was out here stalking our witness.”
This guy was too much. “I understood yesterday you were one hundred percent sure Inman was the killer.”
“Not the first time you got your damn facts all wrong, McKenzie.” His face was starting to flush. “You’d better stick to your divorces and insurance claims.”
I took a deep breath. “For your information, detective, we don’t do divorces.”
“Well, whatever you do, stay the hell out of my way.”
I turned away from him and spoke to the homicide guy, whose name was Hargreave. “Is Phil on his way over?”
He shook his head. “Phil must have his phone turned off. I’ve been trying but can’t get an answer. I haven’t been on duty long, but he was at it all night. I hate to have to tell him about this.”
“Know what you mean,” I said. “This was his most promising lead. Do you know what Rodriguez was shot with?”
“A seven-point-six-two round. We―”
“Don’t tell him shit,” Tremaine said, growling at Hargreave.
I took a step toward him, staring down at his twisted face. “Why don’t you get out your magnifying glass, Sherlock, and go look for some clues.”
Jill, who had remained silent until now, grabbed me by the arm and gave it a sharp yank. “Let’s get going, Greg. We have more important work to do.”
As I looked around at her, a black car screeched to a stop nearby and two somber young men came striding toward us. Before surrendering to Jill’s tug, I glanced back at the Murder Squad detective.
“Okay, Tremaine, here’s your chance to teach the FBI how to solve these tough cases.”
As we approached my Jeep, Jill spoke in a soft but determined voice. “I don’t believe you particularly helped our cause with that little diatribe, Greg.”
I let my shoulders slump. “Sorry, babe, but that bastard deserves all the abuse I can heap on him.”
“What happened to that promise to clean up your act?”
I had recently renewed my vow to cool the blue language, but people like Tremaine made it a real challenge. “I’m trying,” I said.
“Then try harder.”
While trying to think of a comeback to that, I saw a pickup truck move slowly down the street. Two women inside craned their necks to see what the cops were up to. The truck was small and green, but it reminded me of what the reporter had said earlier in that radio breaking news report. Neighbors had seen a small black stretch model pickup leaving the scene at a high rate of speed. As I thought about it, I realized the Ford Ranger I had seen driving down the same street yesterday when we left Lakeesha Echols had been an extended cab model. Could the neighbors have seen the same one this morning? Maybe, but yesterday no one knew about Pedro Rodriguez. Did they?
Chapter 29
We picked up where we left off and headed out Murfreesboro Road to Heritage Car Rentals, where I obtained a copy of Damon Saint’s driver’s license. Then we headed down I-24 toward Smyrna, location of the Nissan plant. I wondered if that was where Molly’s red Sentra had been built.
We had no trouble with the traffic, but the day had taken on a bleak, almost wintry look, especially with most trees barely starting to leaf out. Rain began to spatter on the windshield before we got past Hickory Hollow Mall, where a stream of shoppers cruised in for the spring sales. I grinned at the nostalgic look Jill gave them. Shopping was her favorite sport. But instead of bargains, she saw mostly industrial sites and warehouses dotting the area along the way to Smyrna. We had just passed Sam Ridley Parkway when I spotted the billboard advertising the Old Country Inn, “where a restful night awaits the discriminating traveler.” I noted the exit and directions to turn right.
A green wall of tall pines hid the motel from the road just off the interstate. Except for a large sign pointed toward it, we might have missed the place. I could see why Chad Rowe had found the location to his liking.
A blue roof topped the U-shaped white frame building. Early-blooming spring flowers painted splashes of red and yellow that outlined the office in front. Through a small gap in the structure, I saw a swimming pool in the open area behind the office. Room wings stretched back on both sides.
When I started circling the place, we saw Chad’s black Ram pickup backed against a low rail fence at the back. Beside it sat a small red Sentra.
Jill’s face darkened. I had thought she would be delighted to see Molly apparently here. That wasn’t her only worry.
“What are you going to do, Greg? You agreed Chad’s a dangerous man. Do you think it wise to go knocking on his door?”
“In the first place, we don’t know which room they’re in,” I said.
“So we check with the front desk?”
“Right. With his driver’s license in hand.”
The rain pelted the car now, creating nearly as much of a din as a waterfall. I pulled under the canopy near the Registration sign and we got out. Though we had seen a dozen or so vehicles parked around the room wings, this obviously was not a busy time of day. The office appeared empty except for the clerk. Walls and woodwork followed the blue-and-white theme. A counter stretched across one side of the room. On the other, a sign indicated the small area of tables and chairs accommodated the free continental breakfast. Behind the counter stood a smiling young woman, tall, thin and blonde.
“What can I help you with?” she asked.
I showed her the license. “Can you tell me what room this man is in?”
She glanced at the sheet, frowning. “Let me check. I don’t think we have a Damon Saint.”
“He’s probably not using his real name,” I said.
She looked back at me. “Are you a police officer?”
I gave her a business card. “We’re private investigators. We saw Damon’s truck and his wife’s car parked in back. See if you recognize the face.”
She stared at the photo for a moment. “That looks sort of like Mr. Casey. I haven’t seen much of him, but he’s been here a couple of days.”
“Have you seen his wife?” Jill asked.
“No. Just him. He hasn’t been in for breakfast that I know of.”
“What room is he in?” I asked.
“We’re not allowed to give out room numbers,” the woman said, sobering. She pointed to a phone on the counter. “I can ring the room for you. Take the call on that phone.”
I weighed my options for a moment. If I got Chad on the phone, he would not likely tell me anythin
g to indicate the room location. In fact, he would probably do nothing but make more threats. And though I wanted to know for certain Molly was with him, her car in the lot tended to indicate she was. A phone call would tell me if they were in the room, but I didn’t want to make it with the clerk listening.
“Thanks for your help,” I said, shoving the license back in my pocket.
I took Jill’s arm and we walked out.
“What’s next?” she asked.
I opened the car door for her. “Let’s drive around back, then I’ll make a phone call.”
As I put the Jeep in gear and started around the motel, Jill gave me her don’t-be-coy-with-me look. “And who will you be calling?”
“I saw you pick up a card in there,” I said. “Does it have the Old Country Inn’s phone number?”
She glanced at the card as I eased to a stop in sight of the rear of the building. I took out the cell phone and punched in the number as she read it out. When the clerk answered, I asked for Mr. Casey. I listened as the hollow ringing sound repeated itself over and over like an echo across a rock-walled canyon.
I finally closed the cover. “No answer.”
“So they’ve gone somewhere without their two vehicles?”
I stared at the pickup and the red Sentra. “Looks like it. Maybe he rented another one, thinking these are too hot.”
“Why would he think that? Who’s looking for him besides us?”
“Good point. You stay in here and keep dry while I have a look at Damon’s truck.”
“Gee, it’s nice to have a partner willing to do the dirty work.”
I gave her a look and pulled in beside the big Dodge Ram. Using the red and green Fuji Film umbrella we had bought one rainy day in Jerusalem on our Holy Land tour, I walked around to the back, where a heavy blue tarp covered the truck bed. A stranded steel cable looped through the grommets, threaded into rings on the sides of the truck. A large padlock secured it at one point. I tried to pry up the tarp enough to see inside but got only a glimpse of cardboard boxes. Locks also fastened the lid of a heavy metal chest anchored near the cab.
Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4 Page 61