Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis (19 page)

She smiled. Sometimes there were perks in the most unlikely of circumstances.

Chapter Nine

Harley
rolled her eyes at her brother. “It’s not like I’m not a little tired of going to Elvis concerts myself. The least you can do is shut up about it. Let me concentrate on my driving, all right?”

“But, chick—Elvis? You know that ain’t my thing. Couldn’t you have gotten someone else to go with you? Diva could have come along instead of me.”

“She has to help Yogi with his costume. You know that.”

“Why not Cami? Or that Bruno guy?”

“Cami’s at work and Mike is, too.”

“I’ve been hijacked by an Elvis terrorist,” he muttered.

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll sign you up to sing Hound Dog.”

“Wouldn’t do you any good,” Eric grumbled, but he finally stopped complaining. He put on his earphones and turned up his CD player. Thank God. He’d whined all the way from the house, and she was about ready to put him out on the corner. Any corner. But in this neighborhood, he’d get mugged. Especially wearing black baggy pants with a dozen zippers and shiny chains, a black Slayer tee shirt, and green hair standing straight up on his scalp that looked like a Bermuda lawn that needed mowing.

“I need to practice saying ‘I love my family’ several times a day,” she said, but Eric didn’t hear her with his music turned up. She could hear his music though, guitar riffs, drums, and bass all mangled together. It sounded like a train wreck.

When they pulled into the hotel parking lot, Eric stopped using her dashboard as a drum set and gave a pained look at all the cars crowded together. “Are there this many weirdoes?”

“Have you looked in a mirror lately, dude?”

Eric flipped her off and she returned the salute with a grin. Some things never changed. After several round trips through the lot she found a parking slot at the very back again. Why did that seem to be the only place she could ever find? She debated not taking it, but the vapor lights had been replaced and it was fairly bright. Besides, it seemed to be the only one left.

“We’re looking for Claude Williams,” she said when they were inside the concert, this one apparently a family night as a few dozen kids ran around screaming and the lights were up.

Eric looked around in dismay. “I’m not a kid person.”

“Really. And you have so much in common. You start asking a few people if he’s here tonight, and get them to point him out. Say you want him to promote your band or something.”

Eric gave her a horrified look. “Chick! You gotta be kidding.”

“So lie. I know you can do it. Remember the gig you’re supposed to have the last night of the Elvis competition? I happen to know your lead singer’s going to be out of town that night. I’ll keep your secret, but you have to cooperate.”

“Chick, you’re not playing fair.”

“Get over it. Take that side of the room. I’ll start here.”

Harley found Williams after only two questions. A middle-aged man with a balding head and thick glasses, he was very cooperative. She showed him her copies of the postcards received by both men, and he shook his head.

“I never sent those, as I told the police just a little while ago. Must be some kind of error on the part of the concert organizers. Any interview would be conducted openly, not secretly. We aren’t affiliated in any way with the actual competition. These concerts are just for the performers to refine their acts, give them a little more stage experience and entertain others who revere Elvis and his music.”

“Would you know anyone who might have sent them by mistake?”

“No, we have a small staff for these concerts. Just me and my wife, actually. I can’t imagine who else would send these.”

Well, she’d expected as much. Someone was using his name as a lure to get the victims to take the vans he specified. And it had to be someone who knew about Claude Williams.

“How long have you been doing these concerts, Mr. Williams?”

“Oh my ... let me see. About five years. Just a part-time occupation, of course, but once a year I throw myself into it.” He smiled genially.

“Do you ever perform? I notice you’ve got the Elvis sideburns.”

Williams chuckled. “On occasion I’ve been known to get on stage, though most of the time I’m better at taking photographs and promoting.”

“What’s your favorite Elvis costume?”

“Um, I’d have to say my favorite is the black leather of his sixty-eight tour, but it’s not the most flattering for me, so I usually wear the white jumpsuit. I even have the eagle one. A reproduction, of course.”

Williams wasn’t quite six feet, but close. He looked a little under a hundred seventy-five pounds, but in an Elvis outfit, that might easily be misjudged. Harley put him on her short list of possibles.

Just as she opened her mouth to thank him for his time, Eric grabbed her elbow. “Chick! You’re not gonna believe this—Bruno’s here in an Elvis outfit! Can you believe it?”

Harley tried to cut him off, but Eric paid no attention. He just kept talking.

“Man, that beats everything I’ve seen, an undercover cop playing Elvis. Did you know he did this kind of stuff?”

Gritting her teeth, Harley got out, “No, I’m sure you’re mistaken. You probably just saw someone who looks like him.”

“Oh no, I’d know that dude anywhere. It’s him. His pants are too tight to stash a gun, though. You gotta come see this.”

Williams looked shocked, and Harley wondered if that was a flicker of anger she saw in his eyes. Or fear? Damn. She’d known better than to let Yogi talk her into bringing her brother.

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Williams,” she said calmly.

She waited until she was several yards away before she grabbed Eric by the arm. “You idiot! Why’d you have to say that out loud?”

Eric looked surprised. “Say what?”

“That there’s an undercover cop here, you moron!”

“I didn’t say that, I said Bruno—oh. Guess I did. Sorry, chick. I was just so surprised to see him decked out in black leather and Elvis hair I didn’t think that he might be ... uh ... working.”

Harley sighed. “I understand. I had the same reaction. It’s just that it was a bad time to say that when I was talking to a possible suspect.”

“That bald guy? He doesn’t look like he could kill a can of Coke.”

“It’s guys who look like that who’re the worst. Let’s go. I got the information I came for, so I don’t have to torture you any longer.”

Eric shrugged. ‘That’s okay. I’ll wait until Yogi does his bit onstage. It’d make him happy for me to stay.”

“You know, sometimes you act human.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

While Eric joined their mother, who was fussing over Yogi’s costume and hair to get it just right, she went out into the hall and pulled out her cell phone. Three kids came screaming by as she dialed, and she cupped her hand over the phone. She got Morgan’s answering service, as she’d expected.

“Hey. Sorry about this, but your cover’s been blown. Claude Williams knows you’re an undercover cop. Just wanted to let you know.”

She hung up and stared at the ugly wallpaper for a moment. He’d be mad about it, and so would Bobby, but at least they’d been warned. And at least it hadn’t been all her fault.

After the concert ended, Eric walked her to her car. The vapor light was burning brightly over it, and he said, “If you’re okay, I’ll ride home with Yogi and Diva.”

“I’m fine. It saves me a trip.”

Once out of the parking lot, she breathed a sigh of relief. Stupid to get so nervous, but the last week hadn’t exactly been the most reassuring time of her life. Her shoulder still ached, and she wondered what it would have been like if the cut hadn’t been so shallow, if it had been deeper than just a slice across her upper arm and shoulder.

When her cell phone rang, she knew who it was before answering. She let Dixie play a moment before giving in to the inevitable and pulling over into an empty parking lot to answer.

Morgan sounded calm. “Would you mind telling me who blew my cover?”

“Is it that important? I’d rather not be a tattletale.”

“Probably not, but humor me.”

“Eric came with me tonight. He recognized you.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Morgan said, “I should have known. Diva and I agreed that we wouldn’t tell Yogi, but we never thought about your brother.”

“Diva knows? Wait. That was a stupid question. Of course she’d know. She always does. She’s very observant, not to mention her special talents. So I take it Yogi doesn’t know?”

“Apparently, he’s not very observant.”

Harley sighed. “True. I don’t fall far from his genetic tree.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to say it. I recognize my limitations. I just can’t do much about them.”

“Work a little harder at it. So who did Eric tell?”

“Claude Williams, who promotes these concerts leading up to the big competition next week. Williams is on my short list of possible suspects, by the way, since he had opportunity and his name was on the postcards sent to the first two victims.” She paused. “But you probably know all this.”

As usual, he didn’t confirm or deny. “I take it you’re still poking around in this despite your promise to Baroni.”

“I didn’t promise him I’d stop. I just promised I’d be careful, and anything I found out I’d share with the police. I’m doing that.”

“Do you have a death wish? You’ve already been stabbed. Whoever is doing this isn’t playing around, Harley.”

“I know that. Why do you think I’m taking precautions? But I’m already involved in this whether I want to be or not. I’m an eyewitness, remember? Lydia and I are the only ones left who might be able to identify this guy, and he’s already tried to get rid of me. I hope you’re keeping a close watch on Lydia. I’m worried about her.”

“Unlike you, she doesn’t leave her house these days. Why don’t you try that?”

“Maybe I should, but I don’t like the thought of just sitting and waiting for some killer to show up at my front door. I’d rather be unpredictable.”

After a moment of silence, Morgan laughed softly. “Well, I can’t say you aren’t that. I’ve never met anyone as unpredictable as you.”

“I’d say thank you, but I’m not at all sure that was a compliment.”

“Neither am I. Look—be careful, Harley. If anything happened to you, I couldn’t stand it. Okay? Just ... be careful.”

Mike hung up before she could respond, and for a moment she just sat there. It almost sounded like he cared. Really cared. Damn him. Why’d he have to go and be confusing like this? She didn’t want to think about him. She had to think about these murders, and not let herself get distracted.

And then she thought about him saying almost the same thing and got really irritated. She didn’t want him being right. She preferred righteous indignation. Being wrong was the pits.

* * * *

When
she got home she pulled out a yellow legal pad and drew a line down the middle of the paper. She headed one column Williams and the other one Hughes. Then she listed beneath each one the opportunities and possible motives. It was a very short list.