The Gone Dead Train (23 page)

“And do you recognize anyone?”

Garrett shrugged. “I was a kid. Most of these folks have passed. But my brother told me stories of FBI intimidation of the black community, how they tried to get people to spy on each other. Hoover created an atmosphere of paranoia. The agents felt they could lean on people to get whatever they wanted. They were good Americans, doing their job.”

“I heard what happened to Freeman's Bar,” Billy said.

“My point exactly. The man killed himself.”

“You may know about Dahlia Poston. Augie believed his mother was caught up in the investigation after King's assassination. She died under questionable circumstances. A fire.”

“I wasn't aware of that.” Garrett grew still. “The Klan murdered my brother a year before Dr. King's assassination. We never found his body.”

“I read your book. A compelling story.”

“Robert's disappearance was front-page news in every major publication for two weeks. He gave a victim's face to the atrocities in Mississippi.” Garrett's eyes dimmed. “At least his death made a difference.” He touched the photos. “Are there more?”

“Why do you ask?” Billy wanted to avoid the subject of Augie stealing one of them.

Garrett nodded. “I have no interest in how you came by these photos, but I will ask that you donate them to the museum, all of them, if there are more. We have nothing like them in the collection. And please, if it works out, let me handle the transfer. An intern might not understand their importance.”

“I can't promise, but I'll try to make it happen.”

Laughter came from the private lounge, the voices of women in Garrett's group cutting through the noise in the bar. Garrett glanced in that direction. “Well, my friend.” He braced both hands on the tabletop, preparing to stand.

“A manuscript was taken from Augie's apartment the night he was murdered,” Billy said. “It concerns the civil rights era. I wondered if Augie told you about it or mentioned the author's name.”

Garrett sat back down. “You think this person was involved in Augie's murder?”

“Let's say I'd like to have a conversation with him.”

“You're well aware that Augie was in bad shape at the funeral home that day. We didn't discuss books.”

Billy nodded, remembering Augie's out-of-control behavior. “By the way, I wasn't able to attend the funeral, but my friend said it was quite a send-off.”

Garrett rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately, I'm responsible for the costs until Augie's estate is settled. He died intestate. His assets are frozen.”

They rose together and shook hands. “It's been interesting, Detective. Here's my card. My mobile number is on the back. When you're ready to release those photos, please give me a call.”

Billy took the business card and stared down at it. A light clicked on in his brain. He kept his voice even. “You said Freeman was at the fund-raiser tonight. Did he mention having any plans afterward?”

“He was in the company of a beautiful woman. I'd say he has plans. When I left the museum I saw a light on in his office across the street.”

Billy glanced across the room at Frankie. She caught his eye and slipped off the bar stool. “Thanks for your time. I'll get back to you about the photos for the museum.”

Frankie jostled through the crowd at the bar to meet Billy in the hallway entrance.

“From where I sat, Garrett was stunned by those photographs,” she said.

“They brought up memories of his brother's disappearance. Otherwise, he didn't add much to what we already know.” He pointed toward the door. “Right now I have to find James Freeman. I have a hunch to pursue.”

“Let's go,” she said as they eased through people waiting to be seated. She had that scent-in-the-wind look cops get when they're up for the chase.

“It's better if you don't come,” he said, moving ahead of her. “I'll explain later.”

He walked to the door and realized she wasn't behind him. He turned to see her glaring at him, not pouting—no way a cop like Frankie would pout—but her arms were crossed over her middle and her back was pressed against the wall. An older couple brushed past. The woman giggled, aware of a spat in progress. He walked back.

“You're not leaving me out of this,” she said.

He moved in and spoke quietly. “I think I know a way to find the journalist. I'm going to need Freeman's help to pull it off. It's illegal, but it has to be done.”

“I didn't just hear that.”

“No, you didn't.”

He led the way down the outside stairs onto the sidewalk. They stepped into a stream of people who were out for the evening, the air smelling of smoked ribs and beer-soaked concrete. Two bike cops sat in front of the barricade at the head of the street, their eyes searching for pickpockets and D & Ds, drunk and disorderlies.

A breeze lifted the edges of Frankie's hair like down on a baby duck's back. It would be fun to hit a few clubs with her, hear some Memphis music. Maybe later, when all this was over.

He checked his watch. “I'll have to find Freeman and convince him to cooperate. I'll text if we're successful. Tomorrow you and I will line up our next move.”

Her mouth twisted in dissatisfaction. “Text me no matter what.”

Before he could answer, a thick male voice called out from behind them. “Hey! Hey you!”

They turned to see a powerfully built black man standing next to a row of parked cars farther down South Second. He had the bill of his cap pulled down to shadow his face under the streetlight.

He waved them over. “Come 'ere. I gotta talk to you.”

Billy's jaw tightened. Damned hucksters want to be paid to go away.

“Beat it,” he yelled.

The guy pointed at Frankie. “You, lady. You were at the funeral.”

Frankie squinted at the man, then whispered, “Second car back. Escalade with Louisiana plates. The engine's running.”

The man flung his arms wide, stumbled back, and caught himself. “Where's my bitch?” he slurred.

“That's Cool Willy,” Frankie murmured. “He's stinko.”

Billy waved and ambled forward in a loose gait. Willy wasn't fooled. His street smarts kicked in. He bolted for the Escalade, threw himself behind the wheel, and slammed the door. Billy ran behind, smashing his fist into the tailgate as the Escalade squealed away.

“You got the plates?” he yelled to Frankie.

She held up her iPhone.

He walked back, fist aching. “That's the guy we saw outside the squatter's house. He may have been the one who jumped me in the alley.”

“How did he find us?”

“He followed you home from the funeral then here.”

“That's creepy.”

He gestured toward the bike cops. “Ask one of them to call in the plates. If we're lucky, he'll be hauled in for a DUI before he goes underground.”

She took off.

He walked to the corner just as a full moon broke through the clouds. The door to B. B. King's downstairs club swung open. The house band's brass section was pushing out a sound like the Memphis Horns. It blasted into the night's warm air.

Across the street, an officer leaned his elbow on the counter of an outside bar. He was talking to a big-bosomed lady bartender wearing a low-cut tank top. The cop had a can of Coke in his hand. He leaned his head back and drained it, then looked at the bartender, who laughed.

Billy's mobile pinged with a text.

Billy stared at the text, the music and the full moon working on him. He waited for the pain to hit. Frankie walked up. He pocketed the phone.

“I'm heading to Freeman's office,” he said.

“You sure you don't want me along?”

He gave her a stern look. She raised a hand. “Got it, I got it. I'll expect to hear from you.”

L
ight showed from beneath the window shades at Freeman Properties. Billy knocked and waited, being polite.

He got no response, so he pounded on the door. “Freeman. It's Billy Able. Open up.”

The shade's slats moved. Freeman jerked the door open. Soft jazz escaped as he stepped outside and pulled the door closed. It bounced open a crack. Billy saw a flash of bare arm and long hair.

“Did you pick up a piece of art at the fund-raiser tonight?” Billy asked.

“I'm getting a restraining order to get you off my back,” Freeman said as he tucked in his shirt.

“Got a question. Did you see Dunsford or the techs remove any business cards from Augie's place?”

“You're shittin' me.”

“It's important.”

“I'll give it some thought. Call you later.”

“I need this tonight,” he said.

“I'm catching a flight at six
A.M.
I'm back tomorrow evening. We'll discuss it then. Good night.” Freeman turned to go.

He wanted to put Freeman in a hammerlock, but that would really piss him off.

“Listen. The journalist gave Augie a business card with his phone number. If we find the card tonight, I can get to this guy before Dunsford does. I guarantee once Dunsford gets hold of him, he'll lawyer up and we'll have nothing.”

Freeman looked back into the room. “Damn it, Able. You've got god-awful timing.”

“It'll take an hour, tops.” He gestured toward the door. “She'll wait.”

“You can't go digging around Augie's apartment; it's a crime scene. And I'm sure as hell not letting you in there on your own.”

“Then come with me. It'll take less time.”

The door opened. A leggy redhead holding a pair of heels in her right hand stepped out to stand beside Freeman.

“Let's
all
go,” she said. Freeman glared at her. She smiled obligingly. “I'll make myself comfortable at your place until you're finished.” She looked at Billy. “Right?”

He stifled a grin. “The lady wants to get comfortable at your place.”

She extended her hand. “I'm Linda Orsburn. Based on what I just overheard, you probably shouldn't introduce yourself, Detective.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He was shaking the hand of the widow of former state attorney general Chuck Orsburn. She appeared to know a great deal about the law.

“The cops are going to notice if the seal on Augie's door has been breached,” Freeman said.

He shrugged. “Shit happens. We'll find the card. You'll call the main MPD number and tell them you thought you heard water running in the apartment. You had to break the seal to check because of potential damage to the apartments below. If we're lucky, the message will get lost. Worst case, Dunsford will want an explanation.”

“You don't ask for much,” Freeman said.

“This guy could skip town. You got a better idea?”

“Son of a bitch, I don't know.” Freeman shook his head. “Every time I close my eyes, I see Augie's body.” He fumed, glanced at Linda. “All right. My key works as a passkey to every lock in the building.”

“And while we're there, we'll look for the photo,” Billy said.

Linda bent to slip on her heels. “I just love a good detective story.”

T
he stadium lights still blazed through Augie's window even though the game was over and the stands were empty. Billy had already been over the room twice, working a grid, checking every conceivable nook where Augie could have slipped a card. In the process he noticed what he'd missed before—the cracked glass on the table between the two lounge chairs, the edge of the desk deeply scarred, all signs the assailant had searched for something, his adrenaline out of control.

Freeman came from the back of the apartment and stepped over the sofa cushions still lying on the floor. “Augie's bedroom and closets are clean. So are the second and third bedrooms. Not much furniture in those rooms. No one ever came to visit Augie.” He shook his head. “I hate to think about those vintage watches going for five bucks on some street corner. I tried to buy that Rolex Submariner. Augie turned down seven grand.”

“My favorite was the Bulova Accutron with the yellow dots and the gears showing underneath the crystal,” Billy said. “He wore it for good luck anytime the Cards played on TV.”

He opened a desk drawer with hanging files. “I've been through every hidey-hole in this room, even his coat pockets. No card, no photo. There's almost no paperwork in the drawers. He must have scanned everything onto his computer. If he scanned the card, we're out of luck.”

Freeman checked his watch. “What's it been, forty minutes?”

“The lady will wait. She thinks this is exciting. You poured her a glass of wine?”

“And put on a movie.”

Billy nodded toward the kitchen. “Check the drawers by the phone, will you?”

They both worked in silence, ignoring the blood spatter on the wall by the refrigerator and Augie's half-eaten sandwich by the sink. They were there to do a job. Regret would accomplish nothing.

Ten minutes later Freeman slammed a kitchen drawer shut. “There are a couple of store coupons and some take-out menus. No cards. The kitchen's clean. Maybe Dunsford's crew took the cards with them.”

Billy went to stand by the island. “The techs weren't looking for an old business card. Odds are they wouldn't pick it up.” He did a sweep of the room, looking for anyplace he might have missed. His focus went to the bookcases of hardbacks. “I saved the books for last. Did you notice the bottom two shelves are packed solid with books about civil rights in the sixties and seventies? A copy of Garrett's book is there.”

“Research for the manuscript,” Freeman said. “Augie was really into it. We even discussed Garrett's book a couple of times.”