The Gone Dead Train (12 page)

Before leaving the barge that morning, Billy had read that the effectiveness of antipsychotics could decline over time and trigger a return of psychosis. At first he'd accepted that as a reason for Augie's behavior, but then changed his mind. It was more likely that Augie had dropped his meds, ignoring the paranoia and manic swings, in order to have the energy to investigate his mother's death. Yesterday he'd nearly trampled those kids. Today he looked like a madman. He was going to get hurt or hurt someone else if he didn't straighten up.

Inspecting the casket was an older man Billy recognized—Sid Garrett, a longtime civil rights trial lawyer and social activist. Used to the limelight, Garrett commanded attention with his silvery hair, swept back from his face, and a profile like the painting of George Washington crossing the Delaware. He'd written a
New York Times
best seller about the civil rights struggle, detailing the underhanded tactics J. Edgar Hoover had used against the movement's leaders. During his TV book tour, Garrett's skillful manipulation of other guests had turned his flyby interviews into regular commentary slots on the political talk show circuit.

Billy had first come into contact with Sid Garrett as a patrol cop when he'd been dispatched to a downtown parking lot for shots fired. He found Garrett lying facedown on the sidewalk with a bullet in his back. The shooter, a suicidal client, was sitting in a nearby car, a gun in his hand and the back of his head blown off.

The bullet in Garrett's spine left him with a pronounced limp and in constant pain. After recovering, he'd retired from his civil rights law practice and opened a refuge for homeless men with addiction issues. Garrett had dedicated Robert House to the memory of his older brother, Robert Garrett, who had been martyred during the civil rights upheaval.

Billy was aware of two muscular young men standing in the corner, watching Garrett with the intensity of Dobermans. After barely surviving the shooting, Garrett had recruited residents from the shelter's roster and trained them to watch his back. Hiring bodyguards was extreme, but it was Garrett's way of dealing with the trauma of being shot. He certainly had the bucks to pay for it.

Augie grabbed Billy's hand and began pumping it at an alarming rate. “Good to see you. We're going to miss those two guys, huh?” he said, overbright and grinning. “Did you see the caskets we've picked out? Pieces of art.”

Garrett, leaning heavily on a cane, angled himself between Billy and Augie as a way to prevent Billy's hand from being wrung off.

“Detective Able,” Garrett said. “Pleasure to see you under better circumstances. The last time we met, I believe I was facedown on concrete.” The corners of his mouth lifted, his dry wit covering his pain.

“I'm glad to see you've recovered, sir.”

“Thank you, Detective. But this is a sadder story. Davis and Lacy lived at the shelter for a time. Fine men. Such a loss. I wanted to give Augie a hand with the arrangements.”

“I'm curious. Are you aware of any problems Red or Little Man might have had with your residents?” Billy asked.

Garrett frowned. “Why? Is there a question concerning their manner of death?”

Typical defense lawyer. Garrett didn't like a cop asking questions about his residents.

He gave Garrett a disarming smile. “I just wondered why they would leave a clean bed and three squares a day at Robert House. Your shelter has a first-rate reputation.”

“Our sobriety rule may have played into their decision.” Garrett's closed expression told Billy that if he wanted more answers, he'd have to get them himself.

The funeral director hovered nearby. “Mr. Poston, we have a fine selection of burial suits. Or are you bringing clothes for the deceased?”

“Tuxedoes,” Augie blurted out. “We'll suit the guys up like Fred Astaire.”

Garrett stole a glance at Billy.

“I'm sure they would appreciate this amazing send-off,” Billy said, “but the New Orleans Musicians Relief Fund could sure use a hand. Have you considered picking less expensive caskets?”

Augie's euphoria evaporated. “We could play canned music. Bury the guys in pine boxes. Shit, man. I can afford ten of those copper caskets and still cover the musicians fund for a year.”

Billy bit back a response and went for humor. “Okay, Augie, it's your funeral. By the way, I have some information for you. Let's find a quiet place to talk.”

“Sure. Great. I'm about finished here.”

“Go ahead,” Garrett said with a subtle nod. “I'll take care of the suits.”

T
hey found a sitting room awash in the rose-colored lighting that funeral homes use to flatter the dearly departed. Augie dropped into a wingback chair. His fingers compulsively brushed the face of one of his favorite watches—a vintage Bulova with a bright green band, its inner workings visible through the crystal.

Augie had always been meticulous about hygiene. Today his hair hung in greasy strands from under his cap, and he smelled like onions and dirty socks. He was definitely deteriorating. This conversation needed to be quick and gentle.

“We're dealing with two pertinent pieces of the physical evidence in your mom's case,” Billy began. “There's the wire inside the gas tank, and there's the split fuel line. Either one could have caused the explosion.”

“I know that,” Augie said.

“Let's start with the wire. Number one. A screwup on the assembly line could have put the wire in the tank, but that's not likely. Number two. Someone dropped the wire in the tank and left part of it dangling outside to intimidate her. It's an old trick. Gangs still use it to make their target believe a car is booby-trapped. Number three. Someone ran the wire from the brake lights to the tank. Hit the brakes, the lights spark, the tank blows. Detective Travis specifically searched for evidence of the wire running to the tank. He found none.”

“I don't believe that,” Augie said.

“Let's keep moving and talk about the ruptured gas line. Any part of that Pontiac's fuel system could've been defective, caused the explosion, and split the line. Or the line could have split and blown the fuel system. Unfortunately, the fire destroyed the chassis, so we'll never know. There's no definitive proof that someone intentionally tried to kill your mother. I combed through that file. Let me repeat, there is no proof. If your journalist friend says there is, he's playing you.”

“By that you mean he's after money.” Augie's tone had turned poisonous.

“Try cutting off the money, see what you get.”

“My guy has more evidence. I've seen it.”

“Is it evidence about the fire or is it about your mom's politics?”

Augie puffed up. “Tell me this. If a white woman were barbecued on the front seat of her car, you think the cops would close the case after a week?”

That set him back a notch. If Red had been a white man, Dunsford would have handled the scene quite differently.

“Travis was a top investigator,” he said. “After King's assassination, the brass might have tried to pressure him into fast-tracking the case, but the ME's conclusion would have been the same. There was no other way to rule it—accident due to mechanical failure.”

He watched Augie shut down, disappear inside himself. No doubt he'd heard insults and racial slurs thrown at his mom when he was a kid. He'd been powerless to do anything at the time. But he wasn't a kid now.

“You fucker,” Augie muttered, coming back to himself. He turned a mean eye on Billy. “You're with them, aren't you?”

“I'm not with anyone. All I can do is interpret the contents of the file. I can't interview the principles in the case; they're all dead.” His mobile rang. He checked the screen. It was Frankie.

“My guy says there's more,” Augie barked, and thumped his fist on the chair's upholstered arm.

Billy was getting annoyed, and he didn't have the patience to watch Augie unravel again. “I need to take this,” he said and strode down the hall to the rear entrance.

When he stepped outside, the heat hit him like exhaust out of the backside of a bus. He answered the call. “How's your sick friend?” He heard the slight intake of Frankie's breath.

“She's better. I've got information from New Orleans. When can we meet?” Her voice had a strange burr to it. He thought about the way she'd skulked behind the pillar, looking panicked.

“Come to the barge in a couple of hours. Call me when you get there.”

They hung up. He was still pissed about her lying, even if she had a reason. Maybe she wanted to come by to explain. Still, she'd lied.

A black limousine pulled to a stop under the awning. A young woman with cappuccino-colored skin slipped out of the rear door. She wore a cream-colored suit with a brimmed hat pulled low so all he caught was a glimpse of high cheekbones, a slant of almond-shaped eye, and the corner of a rich mouth.

The woman spoke with the driver then moved up the walk with the fluidity of youth, entering the mortuary, seeming to be oblivious to his presence. She brought to mind Mercy's lean, graceful body.

Then it hit him. The question he hadn't wanted to face. Was Mercy in love with another man? He squinted in the sun, the awning lifting in the breeze, the crape myrtles fanning themselves. Even the shadow of a possibility of another man irked him. He'd watched his mother walk out on him. His uncle Kane had cut him off. Lou committed suicide and left the job of discovering the body to him. Now Mercy. Had she betrayed him, too?

The last thing he wanted to do was deal with Augie, but there was no way around it. He followed the young woman inside and tracked down Augie, standing with Garrett among rows of folding chairs in a quietly formal viewing room. A tea table stood in the middle of the room with a caddie of china cups and a silver samovar for tea. Augie was waving a card about as he spoke to Garrett. Garrett was attempting to catch a glimpse of it, even reaching out to take the card as Augie slipped it into his pocket. Irritation flashed over Garrett's face. It was probably a quote Augie had requested of the astronomical funeral costs. Garrett may have let himself get roped into splitting them, not knowing what he was in for. It's always a risk to volunteer.

“Augie, I need to speak with you,” Billy said as he walked in.

Garrett's expression neutralized the moment he realized they had an audience, but it was obvious he was still upset. His hand went to his silver hair, smoothing back the swoop from his forehead. “I must leave you now. I've called in a favor to get a mention on the next CBS's
Sunday Morning
's hail and farewell list.” Giving Billy a nod on his way out, he left.

Augie stood among the rows of chairs, shifting his weight side to side, his pupils jittering like an electrical storm was crackling through his brain. Billy knew this was a bad time to approach Augie, but he had to say his piece.

“You're off your meds. Don't deny it, because I know you are. It's a bad decision for you and everyone associated with you.”

Augie's mouth jerked. “You're wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.”

“Remember how you wrecked my truck? You almost went to jail. You promised me that you'd never drop off again.”

“You bastard,” Augie yelled. He kicked out, sending a chair flying into the wall. He kicked a second chair that closed on his foot and hopped until he flung it into the tea table, the samovar and teacups crashing to the floor.

“You searched my place! You stripped my bed, tore up my garbage,” Augie wailed. “You're one of them.” He regained his balance and dropped into an aggressive stance, teeth bared as if ready to attack.

Billy raised his fists. “You crazy jerk. Come at me and I'll knock your nutty ass into next week.”

“Gentlemen,” Sid Garrett barked from the doorway.

Augie wheeled to Garrett and pointed at Billy. “Throw this asshole out of the building. We can't trust him.”

Garrett blinked with surprise, taking in the smashed table and teacups. He looked past Augie to Billy, expecting an explanation.

Billy threw up his hands and trudged by Garrett. “I've had it. Get a bucket of ice water and stick this lunatic's head in it.”

As he passed the director's office, he noticed the young woman in the cream-colored suit now seated at the director's desk, her legs crossed and her head bowed beneath the hat.

The director was leaning forward, patting her hand.

F
rankie parked on the cobblestone landing as the eighty-foot stern-wheeler the
Memphis Queen II
passed behind Billy's barge. She pulled off her shades to watch the fifty or so people from kids to grannies, all wearing the same style of straw hat, as they lined up along the top deck's railing. They waved at no one in particular as the boat glided through the slack water with the Memphis skyline slipping by them. She turned off the engine and phoned Billy to let him know she was out front. A little disoriented, she gathered up her files, stepped onto the rocky cobblestones, and lost her balance. The pills. The damned pills had added a sheen to her vision. She'd taken a cold shower before driving over, drunk two espressos, and stuffed down turkey and cheese in an attempt to counteract the effects of the pills. Light-headed, disconnected, mortified, it was a ridiculous way to approach a meeting that could influence her entire career.

And she'd lied to Billy. She never lied. What was she going to do about that?

She shivered despite the heat.

When she was six, she'd stolen a necklace made of blue stones from her mother's jewelry box and hidden it under her pillow. She reasoned that the tooth fairy would bring her mother back in exchange for the blue necklace. When the necklace was still under her pillow the next morning, she'd carried it to the ocean and thrown it in. A week later, her father had asked about the missing necklace. She said she knew nothing about it. That afternoon he paid the cook for the week and told her to never come back. The cook had begged for her job, cried; she had five kids, no husband. Frankie witnessed the whole thing, but she'd kept her mouth shut. After seeing that, she knew what her father would do if she admitted she'd lied.