Indian Country Noir (Akashic Noir) (15 page)

As it wasn't yet 3 o'clock, Carson easily found a spot near
the SEAUs apartment. He removed the Glock 17 from the
space between the seat and armrest. He tucked the gun into
the waistband of his Wranglers, where it was hidden beneath
the hip-length leather jacket, and exited his car. After scanning the area for residents or visitors, Carson removed the
gun when he reached the shared foyer.

His other hand reached for a reverse peephole viewer,
which revealed stairs directly behind the door, a dining area
to the left, and a hallway leading to the living room.

He pocketed the viewer and stepped to the side, ringing
the doorbell. When several seconds had elapsed, he rapped
firmly on the wooden door.

Nothing. The odds of a dog were slim to none.

Seconds later, Carson entered Hicks's home. The still, silent air confirmed that he was alone in the sparsely furnished
town home.

Clearly, the man continued to follow the military's strict
code for tidiness, at least downstairs. Not a scrap of paper was
lying about. All the dishes were neatly put away in the cabinets. The remote controls were arranged side by side next to
the cable box.

Upstairs reinforced Hicks's fastidious nature. Carson
could have bounced a quarter off the queen-sized bed, the
only piece of furniture in the room. After searching the closets and the bathroom, he moved on to the second bedroom,
which was an office.

Here Carson found the only personal item in the entire
apartment: a framed photo of a red-haired woman. He studied the picture. She was posing on a bench in New Orleans'
Jackson Square, the St. Louis Cathedral soaring in the background. He removed the photo from the frame and tucked it
into his breast pocket.

Driving downtown on Main Street, past the gentrified Mid
America Mall, Carson slowed as he approached the converted warehouse that housed Buddy Martin's office. Half a
dozen city vehicles, including four police cruisers, crowded
the street. Carson casually turned west onto Linden, but not before spotting the sedan marked Forensic Medical.

The meat wagon had already arrived, so police must have
been on scene for at least an hour or two. Given the looming
deadline, Carson hated the delay but adjusted his plans.

He drove north and then east, returning to the revitalized
section of downtown Memphis. He deposited the car in a public garage across from the commercial playground of Peabody
Place, where he blended in with the tourists who thronged the
shopping oasis in the still-bleak inner-city zone.

Carson joined the small crowd of gawkers who had assembled at the crime scene perimeter. Snatches of conversation confirmed that Buddy Martin had been found dead of
multiple gunshot wounds, most likely killed the previous day.
The receptionist had been out all week, visiting her mother
in New Jersey.

After twenty minutes, Carson concluded that he had
learned all he could. He headed north toward Charlie Vergos's
famed Rendezvous. He could think of no better temporary office, preferring a slab of ribs to overpriced coffee any day of
the week.

Carson had visited the Memphis institution on several occasions, but the surly waiter who seated him didn't recognize
him. Perhaps because he now had dark blond hair and green
eyes-a dramatic departure from his natural coal-black hair
and brown eyes so dark they, too, looked black.

A few keystrokes later, Carson discovered that Hicks's
black 2007 Land Rover was registered to a Jennifer McLaren
of 1375 Agnes Place. He also confirmed the twenty-fouryear-old Miss McLaren as the redhead from the photo in
New Orleans.

Carson's food arrived and he made short order of the tender, smoky meat. As he ate, he scanned the current edition of the Memphis Flyer, the local tabloid, which he had picked up
in the lobby. Carson turned to page seven, to an article on an
exhibit opening referenced on the cover. On the lower righthand corner of the page, his client's frosty blue gaze stared
back at him-this time from the face of a stunning brunette,
hair upswept to showcase a swanlike neck. He checked the
caption, tore out the photo, and placed it with the snapshot
of Jennifer McLaren.

"She's not here." Standing no more than five-foot-two, the
elderly woman in the doorway managed to look formidable
with her scrawny arms folded on top of an ample, but sagging bosom. The short, wide body and skinny appendages
made her look like a dwarf, but Carson suspected that Jennifer McLaren's grandmother had been a magnificent specimen
some forty years earlier.

"Can you tell me where she is, ma'am?" said Carson, returning his credentials to his back pocket.

Piercing green eyes peered out from the wizened face.
"Why would I do that?"

"Because it looks like one of Jennifer's friends might be
dangerous," said Carson. "One woman is already missing. For
all we know, Jennifer could be next."

One birdlike claw, sporting a fresh coat of pink nail polish
that clashed violently with the auburn hair dye, flew to her
throat. "Dear God," she whimpered. Her mouth tightened in
a crimson slash. "It's that Hicks boy, isn't it?" She studied Carson's face and then nodded to herself. "I told jenny that boy
was bad news. The damn fool kept handing over her hardearned money every time he smiled at her ... Well, come on
in," she said at last, returning her gimlet stare to Carson. "Can
I offer you some coffee?"

"That would be mighty kind of you."

He returned to the Charger, checking his watch. This time
tomorrow, his client's daughter would either be dead or alive,
depending on whether Carson completed his mission.

Jenny's grandmother had given him an address in New
Orleans, where the girl had moved the previous month. The
woman wasn't sure about the circumstances, but she thought
that jenny and Hicks had been having troubles.

Driving away, Carson considered his options. Leaving now
would put him in New Orleans around midnight. If he waited
to check out Buddy's office, it would be morning before he
reached the Big Easy.

Of course, the link to New Orleans was circumstantial.
He didn't have time for a dead end that would eat up more
than half his remaining time.

Carson resigned himself to several hours of cooling his
heels. He headed west on Union and returned to the garage
near Peabody Place.

He took out his cell phone and dialed. "Daddy!" squealed
a voice almost instantly.

"Were you waiting by the phone?"

"Yep," came the smug reply.

"How'd you know I was getting ready to call?"

"We women have our ways." The grown-up words coming
from her eight-year-old mouth reminded Carson of the fleeting nature of childhood.

After a few minutes of banter and a recap of her day, he
asked to speak with her mother.

"Hey, handsome." Tara's sultry voice never failed to warm
him. "And where in the world is my husband now?"

Carson let her know that he was in Memphis and quickly turned the conversation to her and their life in central Texas,
what he thought of as his "real life"-separate from the world
of his job.

Reluctantly, he ended the conversation. Carson snapped
his phone shut and sat for a few minutes, savoring the peace
that these conversations always produced.

He finally stirred himself and headed to Beale Street,
where he passed the evening hours listening to a performer
who sang like Johnny Cash and looked like Jerry Springer. At
a quarter to 11, he settled the tab for his nachos and club soda
and went back to work.

As Carson left the lights and activity of Beale Street and Peabody Place, he tossed his car keys in the air and caught them.
He whistled softly while he walked, casually scanning the
now-deserted section of Main Street.

By the time he arrived at the redbrick warehouse, Carson had confirmed that he was alone. He quickly dispatched
the lock on the street-level door and entered. He turned left
at the second-story landing. To his immediate left, yellow
crime scene tape sealed the glass door with black-and-gold
lettering that announced: Sherman "Buddy" Martin, Certified
Public Accountant.

He sliced through the tape with his horn-handled pocketknife and spent only a few seconds longer on the lock.

When he opened the door, the coppery scent assailed his
keen senses like a blow to the gut.

Carson walked through the empty reception area and
stood in the doorway of the main office. He surveyed the
scene before him, aided by the narrow but bright beam of his
mini Maglite. From the spatter of blood, brain, and bone on
the wall, window, and floor, he could see the killer had used hollow-point ammunition. The top of the desk was bare; the
police had confiscated everything.

He then turned his attention to the open closet door in
the far corner of the room, which revealed a large steel safe,
also open. And empty.

Carson methodically scanned the area, starting with the
ceiling and working his way down to the floor. The light glinted
off an object in the corner. He studied the space between him
and the safe. Convinced that his passage wouldn't disturb
anything, Carson crossed the room and kneeled in front of
the safe.

He played the beam over the floor next to the wall and
spotted the item that had caught his attention. Part of the
object had fallen into the crack between two of the pine floorboards, and part had slipped under the radiator. Carson used
the tip of his pocketknife to slide the article onto his gloved
hand. It was a sterling silver earring in the form of a delicate
three-inch chain that ended in a flat, pointed ellipse, similar
to a feather or leaf.

Carson smiled, thinking how the nature symbolism would
appeal to Tara, who insisted upon educating their daughter on
her Cherokee heritage.

A thin hook at the top threaded through the ear. Holding the item in his hand, he realized how easy it would be for
the wearer not to notice its loss; it weighed less than half an
ounce.

Click.

Damn. Someone was coming in through the street-level
door. He had maybe ten seconds before the newcomer arrived.

He chanced a glance out the window and saw a Crown
Vic, the stereotypical unmarked police car. Things were getting complicated. Not impossible, but definitely complicated.

Carson stepped to the shadows in the opposite corner, on
the same wall as the door. He heard the footsteps ascend the
stairs and stop outside the reception area. The hallway door
opened a few seconds later, just long enough for someone to
pull out a weapon in response to the door's broken seal.

Carson braced himself for the sudden glare of the overhead light. Instead, a flashlight beam sliced through the
darkness.

"Police! Step outside with your hands up." The words
came out thick and imprecise.

Carson stood in the darkness, waiting for the officer's next
move.

"This is your last warning." There was no mistaking the
slur. "Step out or I will shoot."

Several seconds elapsed, and Carson held his breath. Finally, heavy treads approached. Carson tensed, ready to spring.
The officer shone his flashlight into the interior space.

In his mind's eye, Carson saw himself reach forward and grab
the service pistol, snapping the mans finger before de-gloving
the digit and wrenching away the weapon. He quickly dismissed this option and pursued patience. No sense in stirring
up a hornet's nest by leaving one of Memphis' finest bound
and injured at a crime scene.

The man made a sloppy sweep of the room that failed to
reach the corner where Carson waited.

Carson had a clear view of the slim man in a dark blazer
and rumpled khakis. The sweet stench of Jack Daniel's turned
his stomach, instantly bringing to mind his Uncle Joe-a man
who embodied every negative stereotype of his people.

Forcing himself to the present, Carson watched the lawman weave his way toward the bookshelves on the wall opposite the safe. The man holstered his weapon and flashlight, kneeled down, and grabbed two large ledgers from the bottom
shelf. While the officer's back was turned, Carson crossed the
room in silence. When the man stood and turned to leave,
his eyes locked with Carson's. He recoiled in surprise, and the
heavy ledgers crashed to the floor. Carson secured the lawman's hands behind his back in an iron grip, forcing his face
into the wall.

"Relax," said Carson. "I don't want to hurt you. And I'm
guessing you don't want to advertise your presence here."

"What do you want?"

"I just want to find the person responsible for this mess,"
said Carson. "A more interesting question seems to be, what
are you doing here?"

"None of your business, that's what." The alcohol made
him sound like a petulant child.

Carson shrugged and increased the pressure on the man's
wrists. "Suit yourself. I can leave you tied up here and place an
anonymous call to the precinct. Or. . ."

"Or what?"

"Or we can try to work this out. So we both get what we
want. That sound reasonable?"

The man hesitated, but then he nodded. "Okay. Let's
talk."

"Good choice." Carson removed the firearm from the
man's hip holster. He searched for additional weapons and
pocketed the compact gun he found in an ankle holster. Finally, Carson took the flashlight before releasing the lawman
to turn around. He offered an apologetic look as he trained
the service pistol on its owner. "I'm sure you'd do the same."

The officer narrowed his gaze at Carson as he rubbed his
arms. Carson wasn't sure if he was trying to intimidate-or to
focus.

"You working this case?" asked Carson, slowly sweeping
the light over the cop. The man's hesitation gave him his answer. Carson took in the distinctive alligator pattern on the
man's shoes. Well-styled. Probably Italian. He caught a flash
of gold as he moved the beam upward. "Mind showing me
your watch?" The man pushed back his cuff. Diamond baguettes winked at Carson from a Rolex President. "Nice. Tell
me, Officer. . ."