Their Special Agent

by Mel Gough

  She pulled out of the parking lot and followed the nasal voice of the GPS into central Austin.

  George looked haggard and exhausted. He met Carrie at reception just inside the City of Austin Police Department building. She shook his hand, frowning. “When did you last sleep?”

  He gave a snort. “I barely remember the concept. I’ve replaced shut-eye with intravenous caffeine. Bet Lorna doesn’t even remember what I look like.” He gestured down a corridor. Falling into step beside her, he murmured, “Thanks for staying on for this. I owe you one.”

  Rather than confirming that assessment, Carrie asked, “Any new developments?”

  “The final autopsy report came back overnight.” George didn’t sound thrilled. “Not much to it that wasn’t in the prelim, unfortunately. Toxicology was unremarkable. They rushed all but the most expensive tests, but Barry wasn’t on any drugs except prescription cholesterol meds. No poisons, either. But come in and read it for yourself.” He opened a door in the lime-green wall and led the way into a windowless meeting room. “Have a seat. You want coffee?”

  Carrie shook her head. “I just had breakfast.” Considering George’s exhausted state, she guessed that he hadn’t. Or dinner, either. “But you get one.” More caffeine was not the answer to his fatigue, but that was what they all did to get through times like these.

  George was back after a minute, cradling a chipped white mug. The coffee looked like tar. He took a sip, made a face and sat down in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. “Right.” He pushed a manila folder toward her. “Copy of the murder book. Yours to keep.”

  Carrie lined the folder up before her but didn’t open it. “I’ll catch up with the new reports later. First, walk me through everything in your own words.” She counted items of interest on her fingers. “What’s the band doing in Austin? When did they get here, what have they been up to? How long are they staying?”

  George rubbed his tired eyes, collected his thoughts. “They got here ten days ago. ‘They’ being the three band members that make up Thistle Hearts; our vic, Barry Cornell, who was their manager; and Phil Young, their personal assistant. He fetches things, makes reservations, that sort of stuff. The crew, who’re in charge of putting together the show, arrived with several trucks full of equipment a day before the murder.”

  “So there are three band members? I thought I read five names.”

  George rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, yes. I forgot. There are also two local kids.” He pulled out a notepad from his jacket pocket and flicked through the pages. “Spencer Mallory and Ant Carter. They’re fledgling musicians from Austin and San Antonio, respectively. It seems to be some kind of social consciousness thing. As they travel the country on the tour, they’ll invite young local talent to join them for a gig or two.”

  “All right. And there are three core members in the band?”

  George nodded. “Jay Davis, lead singer and plays bass guitar; Louis Zee, plays the guitar and writes most of the lyrics; and Corey Hart on the drums. The other two will play a couple different instruments, like keyboard and violins.”

  “They’ve all been interviewed? The guys on the crew, and those local musicians?”

  George nodded. “All done now. The transcripts are in your folder. We might want to ask some of them back for a second round, but I can’t see what good it’ll do. All the alibis check out.”

  “Nobody missed Cornell before the body was found?”

  George started to reply, then was cut off by a huge yawn. “God, Carrie, I’m sorry. I’m not usually like this.” He shook his head to clear it, then consulted his notes again. “There’s a transcript in the murder book for Jay Davis’s interview. He’s not the most cooperative, so I followed up on a couple of things on the phone this morning.”

  “He’s the band leader?”

  “Yeah.”

  “After I leaned on him a little, he admitted he had an argument with Mr. Cornell over dinner. Cornell stormed off before the entrees were served. When he didn’t show up for breakfast, they assumed he was still cooling his heels. They were just starting to worry when we called.”

  “The three guys in the band have an alibi?”

  George grimaced. “For what it’s worth, Davis and Louis Zee are each other’s.”

  Carrie’s mind needed a moment to connect the dots. “They’re lovers?”

  George nodded. “They spent the night together, in their shared suite. The third one, Hart, is more straightforward. He was seen drinking in the hotel bar until at least four a.m. Several adoring groupies and the bar staff confirmed it.” He rubbed his eyes. “We’ve gotten hold of the half a dozen who slipped him their numbers. He never left the bar for longer than it takes to use the gents.”

  Carrie leaned back in her chair, her eyes fixed on George. “What’s your gut feeling? Are they telling the truth?”

  George took his time in answering. “My gut says the three weren’t involved,” he finally said. “But my head says not to commit that to paper yet.”

  Carrie nodded. “Good. What about the rest of them? Do they all have alibies, too?”

  “The road crew checks out. Most of them went drinking together, and the staff at a nearby watering hole remembers them all. A couple took groupies back to their motel after that. They’re not staying at the Four Seasons. The tour manager, who is the road crew’s boss, went off on his own to meet his brother on the outskirts of town. Some dive called Cat’s Paws. The bartender there remembers him.”

  Carrie frowned. “Were they all out late enough to cover the time of death, though?”

  “According to the coroner, the vic’s last meal was less than two hours before his death. That would’ve been dinner with the band, where they argued.”

  Carrie let the information percolate. “Where did Mr. Cornell go from the dinner table?”

  George’s forehead creased. Remembering the details seemed more and more a struggle for his exhausted brain. “I’m sure that’s in one of the statements.” He reached for the file, but Carrie put a hand on it.

  “In a moment. Where did they have dinner?”

  “At the hotel restaurant.”

  “So he probably went back to his room.”

  George blanched. “Oh no.” He buried his face in his hands. “His room. I forgot to have his room searched.”

  Carrie bit back a scathing reply. This was bad news, but chewing his ass over it wouldn’t do much good. “Maybe someone else remembered.”

  George shook his head. “There’d be a report, and the CSI team has to go through me.”

  Carrie touched his elbow to get him to focus on her words. “Send someone right now to stand guard.” To make sure his exhausted brain was following, she added, “Call dispatch from your cell, have them send a patrol car.”

  George fumbled for his phone and did as told. His lips were bloodless and he sweated. But the voice that gave the instructions was steady. When he finished the call, Carrie got up. “Go and organize the forensics team. I’m meeting them at the hotel.”

  George got up too. “We can take my car.”

  Carrie shook her head. “No way. You’re beyond exhausted. Call the CSI guys, then go home and get some sleep.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

  George clenched his jaw, then nodded. His shoulders sagged. “God, I’m so sorry, Carrie.”

  “Forget about it.” There was no way he would, of course. Carrie gave him an encouraging smile. “Just get some rest. I’ll call you later.”

  3

  The drive from the police station to the Four Seasons took ten minutes. Last night, Carrie had booked a room there, at about three times per night as the shitty motel. Anticipation of a clean, mildew-free bed and a long soak in a proper tub kept intruding as she tried to focus on the instructions from the GPS.

  The streets of Austin were dismal in a persistent, freezing drizzle. Sixth Street, the hub of Austin nightlife, looked abandoned in the daylight. Carrie had been here once before, at the height of summer, and re
membered rows of bars and music lounges, the bright neon signs advertising pool halls and tattoo parlors. The streets had teemed with hip young locals and students who flocked to the San Francisco of the South, an oasis of openness and culture in reactionary Texas.

  Arriving at the hotel, Carrie availed herself of the valet parking service. Gibbs would have a coronary when he saw her expense account. Should the case drag on for more than a few days, she would look for less pricey accommodation.

  Her overnight case in hand, she went into the marble lobby and made for the check-in desk. While the receptionist went through the formalities of signing her in, Carrie let her gaze wander. It was what she’d expected from a four-star hotel—earthy tones and thick carpets. Luxurious and quiet. Doesn’t look hip enough for a rock star lifestyle. But what did she know? When money didn’t matter, tastes might change.

  Carrie accepted her key card from the receptionist. “Can you have my bag taken up to the room?”

  “Certainly, Special Agent McDonald.”

  Carrie smiled approvingly. She had a lot of time for people who were good at working out clues—like noticing the billing address on her company credit card. She checked the woman’s name badge. “Anna, would you be able to direct me to the room of Mr. Barry Cornell?”

  The receptionist gave no indication that she knew the significance of the name, but said without missing a beat, “If you speak to Mr. Ahmed, he can show you up.”

  She pressed a button, and a portly, middle-aged man appeared from a doorway to one side. “How can I be of assistance?”

  Carrie pulled out her badge. “Special Agent McDonald. Could you please give me access to the room of Mr. Barry Cornell?”

  Mr. Ahmed nodded. “Certainly. The CSI arrived a few minutes ago. Follow me.” He opened a hidden door in the wall behind reception, and they went into a less ornate corridor. “We’ll take a service elevator. It’s faster.”

  They waited for the elevator and Carrie asked, “Do you remember Mr. Cornell, sir?”

  Ahmed nodded. “We talked when he first arrived, to discuss the needs of his charges. I wasn’t at work the night he was killed, but I was at reception when Mr. Davis came the next morning to check if we knew where he’d gone.”

  “And the police arrived while you were still talking with Mr. Davis?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “How did Mr. Davis seem?” Carrie asked when the elevator arrived and they stepped inside.

  Ahmed shrugged. “He was puzzled that Mr. Cornell had vanished without letting anyone know where he was going. He seemed a little angry, perhaps. I told that to the detective, the one who interviewed the staff.”

  “Angry? How so?”

  “He kept muttering about why he had to pull this…this shit right now.” The concierge grimaced. “His word, not mine. Tension seemed to have been high. The band had been practicing at a local studio for a week or so. And those three, they’re not spring chickens. They’d slouch in here at night, exhausted and looking for a hot meal, a bath and their beds. These aren’t party animals, Agent McDonald.”

  “And that day was worse?” Carrie prompted. “Apparently they had a disagreement with Mr. Cornell over dinner.”

  “That I can’t tell you anything about. As I said, I was off that night. But they’d left very early the day Mr. Cornell died, and I didn’t see any of them until Mr. Davis came looking for the manager the next morning.”

  “Do you know why they left early?”

  Ahmed shrugged. “The first concert was getting closer, I guess they were feeling the pressure. I think they were going to the venue before heading to the studio, and they all looked tired.”

  The elevator shuddered to a halt on the sixth floor. “Could you please find out for me who was working on this floor yesterday morning?” Carrie followed the concierge down the hall. “And if you haven’t already, can you send the security footage from this floor, and the lobby, to Austin PD?”

  Ahmed nodded. “Of course.” He gave her a curious look. He was a smart guy, and had likely realized that the police had messed up by not securing the victim’s room sooner. Thank the heavens for discreet hotel employees. At least Carrie hoped he would be. She made a mental note to tip the Four Seasons’ staff well.

  She thanked the concierge, who gave a small bow. Carrie pulled out a business card. “When you have located the maid who worked this part of the hotel yesterday, please give me a call.

  “Certainly.” Mr. Ahmed withdrew.

  A young officer stood guard by the door to Cornell’s room. Carrie showed him her badge. “Special Agent McDonald. Sergeant, would you let the chief of the forensic team know that I’m here?”

  The officer’s eyes popped. He rapped on the door. Carrie pulled on nitrile gloves. She carried a pair in her pocket at all times.

  The door opened. A tall man with graying hair peered at her. He wore goggles and a paper coverall. Carrie lifted her badge a third time. “Special Agent McDonald. I believe Detective Lamar has told you to expect me?”

  The man’s expression cleared. “He has.” He pulled the door wide, holding out shoe covers. “Please, come in.” Carrie pulled on the covers while the man continued, “I’m Gil Smith, Crime Scene Section Supervisor with Austin PD.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality.” Carrie didn’t expect a handshake, and wasn’t offered one. Smith wore gloves, too.

  “We’re grateful for all the hands on deck we can get for this one, Agent McDonald.” The question of why they had only been called to the hotel now was apparent in his gaze, but he didn’t ask it. Carrie wasn’t going to offer up an explanation.

  As Smith closed the door behind them, Carrie looked around. A young woman in a white suit crouched near a sofa in the narrow living room. Through an open door a man came into view. He began to dust fingerprint powder onto a chest of drawers.

  “We only got here a few minutes ago.” Smith directed her into a corner of the room. Carrie was careful not to touch anything. “You’ll have my report as soon as possible, but I can tell you now…” He looked around. “The room was cleaned since the last time the vic left it.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Not much for us to find, I’d swear to it.”

  “But you think it was only routinely cleaned by the hotel maids?”

  Smith gave her an approving look. “It appears that way, yes. I’m afraid that if you’d hoped to find the murder scene here, you’ll be disappointed.”

  Carrie let that go. She hadn’t expected any such thing. “Did you find Cornell’s wallet, phone or laptop?”

  “None of those. There are few personal effects here, mainly clothes.” He pointed at the sideboard with the TV. “Sunglasses, gum, a lighter. Couple of paperback novels. That’s about it.”

  Carrie glanced at the desk by the window. “Any notepads, Post-its?”

  “Nothing.” Smith grinned, showing white but crooked teeth. “No hotel stationery with the top page ripped off, either.”

  Carrie ignored the wisecrack. She pulled out another business card. “I’ll get out of your hair now, Mr. Smith. If you could send me your findings once you’re finished here, I’d appreciate it.”

  Smith took the card between his fingertips and studied it. “Will do, ma’am.”

  She’d just stepped from the room when her cell rang. The number was unfamiliar, with an Austin area code. “McDonald.”

  “Agent McDonald, this is Mr. Ahmed. The maid who cleaned Mr. Cornell’s room this week is here today.”

  “Please send her up to the floor. Tell her I’ll meet her by the elevators.”

  Waiting for the maid to appear, Carrie studied the position of the security cameras. Three were lined up along the corridor that would capture anyone coming and going from the vic’s room. She held little hope for the footage to hold anything of interest. Cornell’s wallet, phone and key card were gone, and it was likely he’d left under his own steam. She wondered where the laptop was. Maybe at the studio? Or the concert venue?

 
; At last the elevator pinged open and a pretty African American woman in a white-and-pink uniform appeared. She approached Carrie without hesitation. “Mr. Ahmed said the FBI wanted to talk to me. Is that you?”

  “Special Agent McDonald.” Carrie held out her hand. “This won’t take long.” She motioned down the corridor, away from the uniformed officer who continued to stand impassively by Cornell’s room. “Ms…”

  “Blunt, ma’am.”

  “Ms. Blunt,” Carrie acknowledged. “Have you been questioned by the police yet?”

  “No, ma’am.” The maid shifted her weight, looking puzzled. “I was wondering about that. The poor man, he was murdered, right?”

  “He was. You worked up here the last couple of days?”

  “I did, yes.”

  “Was there anything unusual about Mr. Cornell’s room? Any disturbance, anything obvious missing?”

  Ms. Blunt shook her head. “None of that.”

  Carrie felt her hesitation. “But there was something?”

  The maid bit her lip. “Well, it was the bed yesterday. Nobody had slept in it. They’ve been here over a week, so I kinda knew what to expect.” She frowned. “He seemed a restless sleeper. The sheets would be a mess in the morning. Sometimes, everything had fallen on the floor. The moment I stepped into that room yesterday, I knew something had happened.” She gave Carrie an unhappy look. “I shoulda said something to Mr. Ahmed, shouldn’t I? I mean, we already knew he was dead by then.”

  4

  It was a fucking nightmare.

  Jay stopped his pacing and surveyed the room. Lou was curled up in an armchair, humming the latest tune they’d been working on. His dark hair was disheveled; Jay hadn’t had the energy to coax him into the shower before the others had descended upon their suite.

  On the sofa were Spider and Ant, the two local kids they’d hired for the Texas gigs. Corey, who had been in charge of finding the young additions to their tour, had laughed himself silly when he’d told the others their stage names. “Insects, it’s perfect!” Jay hadn’t bothered pointing out that spiders weren’t insects.