The Gone Dead Train (26 page)

“My financial arrangement with Augie is none of your business. Anything else?”

“You're aware that whoever murdered Augie stole his copy of your manuscript?”

Pryce returned to the bar stool next to the island. “I couldn't know the manuscript was stolen unless I was the murderer. But then you're not here to talk about money, are you?”

Billy noted his change in tone. The house suddenly felt isolated, surrounded by so much empty acreage. He wondered whether Pryce might try something. “I wanted to run a scenario by you, see if it has merit.”

“All right.” Pryce rested his chin on his fist. “Shoot.”

“Let's say Augie asked you to come by on Monday night. You showed up. He lowered the boom, said he was dropping you from the payroll. Things got heated. Augie turned aggressive. You were afraid for your life. You hit him. Then you panicked. You decided to grab stuff, make it look like a robbery. On the way out the door, you saw your manuscript. Couldn't leave that, now could you?”

Pryce didn't flinch. “I'll do you the favor of addressing you as Detective. However, my source at the CJC says you have no authority to question me, particularly now that you're the primary suspect in this investigation. I'll admit the scenario you posed is something Detective Dunsford might consider. Therefore, I'll be contacting my attorney before Dunsford contacts me.” Pryce gave him a look that conveyed,
Your move
.

Pryce was threatening to lawyer up, the exact mistake Billy predicted Dunsford would make.

Pryce straightened off the counter and continued. “I have a scenario for you. There's a furloughed cop who had a very public fight with the victim the night he was murdered. According to the cop's statement, the victim walked away. Let's say the cop followed the victim to his apartment. The victim died. To get out from under suspicion, the cop shows up at the house of the next-best suspect a couple of days later. The cop kills the poor bastard and plants evidence he took from the first victim's apartment. The cop claims self-defense was the reason for the homicide. Naturally, the cop's buddies at the station house will want to believe him.”

Billy barked a laugh. “You must not be too worried. You let me in the door.”

“I'm not the one carrying a weapon.”

The pretty-boy act was gone. Billy was now seeing the man who'd brought down four sheriff's deputies.

“Change of subject,” Pryce said. “I got a call from Augie on Monday. He was enthusiastic about a pack of photos a friend had found in a jacket. He wanted to come by and show me one of the photos.”

“Do you have it?”

“Augie kept the original. I have a copy.”

“It's evidence in another investigation. Go get it.”

Pryce threw back his head in a false laugh. “We both know copies aren't admissible in court.”

He felt the heat rise in his face. “It's evidence. Go . . . get . . . it.”

“You want a look at that photo? I need proof you're the person who has the rest.”

Now he understood. Pryce was so eager to see those photos he'd risked letting a possible killer in the door. Unless he
was
the killer and therefore knew Billy was no threat.

“Dunsford will fumble around and waste time, but eventually he'll clear me,” Pryce said. “We can make a deal now. I'll give you my alibi and turn over the copy of Augie's photo in exchange for copies of the other pictures.”

“I can't agree to anything based on an unverified alibi.”

“You're worried about my alibi? I know about the glitch in the DeVoy's security system. You don't
have
an alibi. Dunsford will get Augie's phone records today. I'll be his first call. After that, our deal's off.”

Good God
, he thought.
How did this guy know about the dummy cameras?
And he was right. Once Dunsford called, any contact between Pryce and him—discussing case details or swapping evidence like the photos—would be considered working at cross-purposes with the investigation. Pryce was in the clear for now, but with this interview, Billy was already skirting the line.

“Where were you Monday night?” he asked.

“A club. I was there until three in the morning. Plenty of witnesses will back me up.”

“The club's name?”

Pryce shook his head. “You said the photos are connected to an investigation. I need proof they're not locked up in the evidence room.”

“We'll get to that after I contact your witnesses.”

“Then we're dead out of the gate.” Pryce looked at his watch. “We have to wrap this up.”

The entire conversation had been about Pryce's obsession with the photographs. No sorrow, no grief over Augie. No questions. Pryce's avoidance was either guilt, or a measure of the man's narcissism. It turned Billy's stomach.

“Celebrities sell books,” he said. “Augie's murder will put your book at the top of the
New York Times
best seller list.”

Pryce's face hardened. “You believe I killed Augie. I know better than to ask questions about how or why he died. I'm proud of the work Augie and I did together. The book will honor him. Your work is turning you into a cynic, Detective.”

It was difficult to say which of them was angrier. Billy was surprised to realize that, up to this point, they'd been evenly matched. He decided to flip the spotlight back on Pryce.

“What's with the platform heels under the chair in your bedroom?”

Pryce brushed hair out of his eyes and looked off. “I had hoped to finesse that detail.” He exhaled. “You're familiar with the midtown club called the Devil's Sentiment?”

Sweet Jesus
. “Yeah, I know the place.”

Pryce went to the bookcase and returned with a binder of glossy publicity shots. The first was of a woman in theatrical makeup with long blond hair, wearing short shorts and stiletto heels. She posed in a three-quarter turn with an expression of pure, animal challenge.

After ten years on the force, nothing about human sexuality surprised Billy. But this one got to him. The profile. The smile. It was Pryce.

Pryce closed the binder. “On Monday nights I perform in drag. I sing the blues like Etta James, not lip-synching, I really can sing. I was performing the night Augie was murdered. I was either backstage, onstage, or talking to customers. I have witnesses.”

His mind ran through the information he'd read about Pryce. “Did the gubernatorial candidate use your sexual preference to get you fired?”

Pryce gave him a tired look. “I'm not gay. Actually, that would be easier. An out gay man working in media isn't a big deal anymore. But I'm straight. A straight investigative journalist who dresses up like a woman and performs on stage . . .” He shook his head.

“I only performed in clubs outside of Chicago. After my first article on the candidate went to print, someone from his staff followed me. He sent a video to my paper's corporate office demanding retraction of the article and an end to the series. Otherwise, they would expose me and the paper to ridicule. Corporate couldn't stomach the fight. They caved on the series. I wouldn't retract, so I had to hit the road.”

“You could have slipped out of the club at any time and killed Augie.”

“Get real, Detective.” Pryce smiled and pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket. “Here's a list of names and numbers. These three guys will swear I never left the club the night Augie was murdered. It's a solid alibi. End of story.”

Billy had dealt with a lot of players. Pryce didn't sound like he was bluffing. A strong alibi would take him off the suspects list. If the alibi fell through, he could always call Pryce's hand.

Pryce's phone rang. He checked the screen. “I'm counting on you to solve Augie's murder before I have to explain the drag queen thing to Dunsford. We don't have a lot of time.” He held up his phone. “This isn't Dunsford, but I have to take the call. You need to go.”

“I want that photo,” he said.

“Make those three calls first. I'll be here all day.” Pryce gestured for Billy to leave and headed for his desk.

Billy didn't budge. “Hey, Pryce.”

Pryce turned around, perturbed.

“Do you believe in coincidence?”

“Not at all.”

“Neither do I. It's no coincidence that your manuscript disappeared from Augie's apartment. There's a reason it's missing.”

H
e stood on the porch outside Pryce's house with his hands in his pockets. In most interviews you get a conversation going. Once that happens, people have a hard time shutting up, even if the subject turns threatening. But not this guy. Not Pryce. He'd made no attempt to impress Billy with his innocence. Guilty men have a hard time maintaining a level of confidence throughout an interview. It's one thing to lie. It's another to lie consistently.

Pryce had not behaved like a suspect.

He could hear Pryce on the phone, pacing the room, probably talking to his damned source at the CJC. Pryce stopped near the window. His words came through clearly.

“Yeah, my car's in the shop. Good. Drop by before noon. I'm looking forward to it.” He hung up.

F
rankie fought the rush-hour traffic to turn onto Ramos's shaded street. She wanted to catch him early—before he met with clients if possible. She'd stayed awake until two, forming questions meant to extract the answers she needed. No fooling around this time. Was Ramos involved in Red's death? If not, then did he know who was?

Halfway down the block a black Nissan sedan rolled past her. Ramos was in the passenger's seat, his dark glasses making him recognizable.

Was she too early or too late?

At the end of the block, she turned around and drove back slowly, trying to decide what to do. As she pulled even with the house, the front door opened and the grim-faced woman from the
botánica
stepped out with a broom in her hand.

Frankie stopped and slumped in her seat, watching the old woman sweep the porch like she was mad at it. Her moss-green dress swung in counterpoint, her skin the color of dust. A stub of a cigar protruded from her clamped teeth.

Now it made sense. The old woman was Ramos's housekeeper, maybe even a relative. At the salon, she'd jumped on Mystica because she was protective of Ramos and didn't want Frankie near him.

A VW bus with duct tape securing a side window turned into the driveway and sputtered to a halt. A young woman wearing skinny jeans and heels climbed out. Frankie recognized her as one of the hairdressers from the salon.

The housekeeper threw the cigar stub into the bushes and walked to the edge of the porch.

“Presura
,” she demanded, signaling for the young woman to hurry.

“I'm coming, I'm coming,” the woman called as she picked her way through the broken concrete of the driveway. They met at the corner of the house and disappeared around back, the broom left leaning against a column on the porch.

Frankie wrote down the VW's tag number and took money from her purse to fold in her pocket. She let three minutes pass before starting up the driveway for the back of the house.

This time she was prepared for Dante the dog to come galloping at her. Instead, the patio was silent. Live animal cages had been stacked in the shade of an elm tree on the far side of the patio, the cages holding two red roosters, four pairs of white doves, and five hamsters huddled into tight fur balls. A goat, in the largest cage on the bottom, was weaving from side to side with anxiety, only stopping to rub its forehead against the bars. None of the animals made a sound.

Smoke curled from under the cook pot sitting in the patio's fire pit. Memories flooded back to her—blood and feathers, hooves and horns, and the smell of rendered fat and boiled meat.

Santería had been part of her childhood, but she'd blocked the blood sacrifices from her mind. She couldn't imagine charming, educated Sergio Ramos slitting the throats of these struggling animals. The sacrifices were meant to absorb the problems and negative vibrations of troubled people. Most of the animals would be consumed as meat consecrated by the orishas. But she didn't like it. She'd begun to think of Ramos as a renowned psychologist, not a pagan priest. There was no contradiction in the bloodletting for him. She hated it.

A little rattled, she took the porch steps and peered through the door's window at the two women who were standing beside the kitchen counter. The hairdresser was counting out bills into the old woman's hand. A conjure bag lay on the counter between them, the same kind Frankie had discovered near Red's body.

This was no surprise. It had dawned on her that the old woman's cigar wasn't a bad habit; it was a clue that she was a practitioner of
palo mayombe
. Bad magic. Amitee used to shake her finger in Frankie's face and warn against the
paleros judios
. They cast spells by controlling the spirits of dead witches, criminals, and suicides who reside inside a special cauldron. The pot contains bones of the dead, crossroad dust, animal carcasses, and hot spices. During ceremonies, the
paleros judios
blow cigar smoke and spew rum at the cauldron to invoke the spirits and command them to obey. Their magic works faster than that of a
santero
because the spirits are compelled to obey. A
santero
works within the wishes of the orishas, who ultimately have the control.

Frankie had to make a move. She opened the door and breezed in. “Oh, hi. Sorry to interrupt. I left my book, um . . .
mi libro
, in the doctor's office.” The room stank of moldy leaves and dog excrement. She pointed to the bag on the counter. “Hey, cool. That's a great pouch, right?”

The hairdresser went wide eyed and snatched up the bag. “It's mine.”

Frankie reached for it. “Can I see?”

The young woman curled her nails around the bag. “Ovia will make whatever you need.” She nodded to the old woman and whipped out the door, heels clattering.