The Gone Dead Train (30 page)

She brightened. “Money to get me back to school. Four hundred dollars will buy my train ticket to Boston.”

“I can't give you money when I don't know what's in the box.”

“I understand. We'll open the box together before you give me the four hundred.”

She was proposing a classic Nigerian letter scam, but what if she had a legitimate letter and package from Red? Both could be important to the investigation. Or was this a con coming from an intelligent, beautiful call girl who killed the only two people who had ever cared for her?

“Before we go on, I have a question,” he said. “You played the Quarter, right? You must have run into a pimp named Cool Willy.”

Theda's lids fluttered. She grimaced, coughed. “He's a bad man. That's all I know.”

He paused, allowing her discomfort to soak through. “This guy attacked Red and Little Man in New Orleans. Put them in the hospital. Then he went to their house and destroyed their instruments. A lot of emotion went into that. Do you know why he did it?”

Her chin lifted. “No, I don't.”

“Neither do I. This pimp showed up at their funeral. You saw him there, isn't that right?”

Her features grew strained. Was she holding back a lie or holding back the truth?

“Cool Willy put them in the hospital for a week with multiple injuries.” This wasn't exactly true, but he wanted to push it.

She coughed again, covered her mouth. She gasped and glanced at his empty tea glass. Tears swam in her eyes.

“Are you choking?” He stood, alarmed.

She nodded, fanned her face with the flat of her hand, and struggled to draw in a breath.

He ran for the market's door and squeezed through the crowd at the counter. “Water,” he barked. Someone stuck a bottle in his hand. He flung bills at the counter and hit the door, twisting the cap as he ran.

The truth dawned on him at the sight of their empty table. He stopped, looked about. The sidewalk thronged with people. In front of him, the trolley was rolling south, ringing its bell. A city bus pulled off in the opposite direction. He could see the driver wiping his face with the end of a rose-patterned towel that he kept draped around his neck. Billy took a swig of the water.

There was no way to know which way Theda had gone. He'd been played for a second time that day.

“Lose something, Detective?” J.J. stood with his back pressed against the granite wall. He held up a twenty that flipped in the breeze. “The lady axed me to say she'd be in touch.” His face beamed with satisfaction. He tucked the money in his track pants. “By the way, you planning to tap that? She sho' is fine.”

“Clean it up, J.J. You got more class than that.”

J.J.'s lips bunched, and he drew air through his nostrils. “The other night at Bardog . . . you hit me in the feels, bro. You and me got history. You let me down.”

Billy's phone buzzed in his pocket. “Sorry about the feels, brother. I have to take this.”

“That's all right, man. Jesus Junior forgives.” J.J. walked off.

Billy figured it was Frankie reporting on her meeting with Garrett.

Chief Middlebrook came on the line. “I need to see you in my office. Now.”

C
rossing the crowded CJC atrium, Billy shouldered through clerks, cops, and defendants returning with their take-out burgers, boxed fried chicken, and turnip greens. Several uniformed cops gave him a nod. A couple of detectives shook his hand. That meant the news that he was a suspect in the Poston investigation had not leaked to the ranks. But it would. He felt bad about that, like he was letting down people who depended on him.

Across the atrium, the doors of the express elevator to the upper floors opened. He saw Middlebrook's assistant step inside and turn to press the button.

“Hey, Roxanne!” he called and picked up his pace toward the elevators. She searched the crowd with an expectant smile, but when she saw it was him, her eyes went cold. Still looking at him, the doors slid closed.

What the hell?
Roxanne had always been friendly, even a little flirty. Now she was giving him attitude. Maybe she knew something about his meeting coming up with Middlebrook. That worried him. The chief was a pro at protecting his men. He had counted on Middlebrook being in his corner through this.

He punched the button for another elevator and thought back to his phone conversation from Augie's apartment with Middlebrook. The chief had taken him at his word, but since then Middlebrook would have watched the interview tape and seen his consternation when Dunsford brought up the dummy cameras. He'd have to be ready to handle that and whatever else the chief threw at him.

He assumed Middlebrook called this meeting to decide which horse to back—Dunsford or him. Nothing personal. In the politics of the department, a murder charge filed against one of their own would smear the department's reputation, even if he were eventually cleared. If he was found guilty, it would be worse. But the real scandal would be if it came out later that the department had stepped in to cover for him.

He put his phone into silent mode as he left the elevator and rounded the corner to the chief's office. Roxanne was already seated at her desk. Her chin lifted at his approach and her eyes stayed on her computer screen. He was tempted to stop and speak with her, but the chief's door was open, and he could see Middlebrook sitting at his desk. One confrontation at a time. After the meeting, he would find out what was going on.

Middlebrook was reading a newspaper when Billy walked in, his face sagging with anxiety. When he saw Billy at the door, he came to his feet.

“Able. Close the door. Sit.” He gestured toward a small conference table in the corner and came around the desk. He laid a copy of
USA Today
on the table and positioned it so that Billy could read the headline below the fold: “Augie Poston: Murder Under Wraps.”

Middlebrook sat down and tapped his finger on the article. “A sports hero beaten to death in his own home. People want to know what the hell we're doing about it.”

The media wanted a person of interest or at least sordid details of the murder. Anything to keep the story hot. A homicide detective suspected of that murder would send the pack into a frenzy. Billy scanned the article, aware of Middlebrook watching him. He glanced up and caught the chief switching to a sympathetic expression.

“Poston was a friend of yours. Tough that you had to see him like that.”

Middlebrook was playing the role of the commiserating cop. Under different circumstances, he would have assumed the chief's comment was sincere, but this was no normal conversation.

He folded the paper. “You asked me to come in so you can decide if I murdered Augie Poston. I didn't do it. I want to help catch the bastard who did.”

Middlebrook's face stiffened. “Guess my interview techniques are a little rusty. But you're right. I read your statement and watched the interview. You fought with the victim. You have no alibi.”

“Let's establish a few facts. The footage from the stadium proves Augie was out of his mind. I didn't start the fight, he attacked me. And I didn't threaten him. He mistook my meaning and reported it to Freeman as a threat.”

“I saw the footage on the news. Damned shame Poston had to go out that way.” Middlebrook paused. “I want to set that investigation aside for a moment. Dunsford reported that you stuck your nose into the Davis case. You want to tell me about that?”

The switch took him by surprise. What was Middlebrook up to? “Don Dunsford is a racist, which is the reason Red Davis's case was getting a flyby examination. I wanted to take a look at the body myself.”

“Did you pick up on anything?”

“What I saw concerned me,” he said.

“The ME ruled the case natural causes.”

Billy looked away. Introducing death curses at this point would shut down his credibility.

“I know that, sir.”

“All right, Able. That leads to my next question. Have you been attempting to investigate the Poston case?”

With the door closed, the office was soundproof, which meant Billy could hear his own heart beating. He could tell Middlebrook had settled in to wait an his answer. This was dangerous territory.

“I'm a cop. I have a duty to find my friend's killer.”

“Ah, Jesus. I knew it.” Middlebrook rubbed his eyes. “Dunsford is digging like hell to prove you did this, and you're helping him.”

“What would you do, Chief? Sit on your ass?”

Middlebrook walked heavily to his desk and returned with a pad and pen. “Who did you talk to?”

“After you cleared Freeman, he and I discussed possible suspects.”

Middlebrook wrote, looked up. “And?”

“Sid Garrett. He worked with Augie on the funeral arrangements for Davis and Lacy the day before the murder. I contacted Garrett so he could pick up the slack at the service. Garrett made a comment about Augie's erratic behavior the day before.”

“Sid Garrett is a sharp guy. What did he have to say?”

“His opinion? Augie was hopped up on crack. His murder was a result of a drug buy gone south. I don't agree. Neither does Freeman.”

“Is that it?”

Oh, shit. A leading question. He had grounds for discussing the murder with Freeman and Garrett. Pryce was different. Pryce was a suspect. He hesitated.

The chief got to his feet and paced in front of his desk. “You've talked to someone else. Who was it?”

If he didn't answer, he risked charges of obstruction later on. “I located the journalist who's been working with Poston on a book. The manuscript is missing from the apartment.”

Middlebrook stopped pacing. “Has this journalist given Dunsford a statement?”

Billy shook his head.

“God as my witness, Able, this could take you down.”

“Yes, sir.”

Roxanne knocked and stuck her head in the door. “Chief, Detective Dunsford is here.”

Dunsford pushed past Roxanne, holding a sheaf of reports in front of him like a Labrador carrying a dead pigeon in its mouth. In his eagerness, he failed to notice Billy seated at the table off to the side.

“Sorry to barge in, Chief. Sid Garrett just called and said Able got in a fight with Poston at the funeral home on Monday. He saw the whole thing. A couple of hours later the son of a bitch went after Poston in front of the ballpark. The way I see it, Able followed Poston home and finished him off. Garrett said the next day he'd witnessed Able punching a man's lights out in front of the Carter museum. We need to drag Able's ass in here, get him off the street before he kills somebody else.”

Middlebrook looked over at Billy. Dunsford followed his gaze.

Billy stood. “Story of your career, Dunsford. Always a step behind.”

Dunsford's mouth clamped shut.

“I asked Able to come in,” the chief said evenly.

“You called my suspect in without telling me?”

“Don't question my judgment,” Middlebrook stated flatly.

Dunsford shot daggers at Billy. “Sorry, Chief.”

“Calm down, Don. Tell me what you've got.”

“In front of Able?”

“Tell it. Now.”

Dunsford huffed, shaking the papers in his hand. “Information on Poston came in last night. His eBay account and social media networks gave us nothing. Poston's done very little business over the last four months. Phone records show he's been in constant contact with one Walker Pryce over those same months, and with you, Able.” He gave Billy a long look.

“Augie left messages asking me to meet him at the funeral home,” he said.

“The record shows Poston called you umpteen times the day he died. We're also looking into this Walker Pryce's background, a former journalist out of Chicago, recently moved to Memphis. He's my next call.” Dunsford slapped the papers with the back of his hand. “Got his number right 'cheer.”

Billy risked a glance at the chief, who was giving nothing away.

“Call him,” Middlebrook said. “Use my phone.”

Dunsford sneered at no one in particular, tapped in the number, and waited.

“Yeah, this is Detective Don Dunsford, Memphis Police Department. Is this Walker Pryce?” He listened. “Can't hear you. Say again.” He frowned at Middlebrook. “Officer Tate, Chief Middlebrook is standing here with me. I'm about to repeat what you just said. You were on patrol. You saw fire trucks at the Waters Trace development. You stopped to investigate. There's one male victim, breathing but unconscious. You're talking to me on the victim's mobile phone because it rang and the EMT saw Memphis Police Department on the screen. He handed it to you.”

Holy God
, Billy thought.
It's Pryce
.

M
iddlebrook signaled Dunsford to put the phone on speaker.

“Okay, Tate, give us the details.”

Billy heard men shouting, the squawk of two-way radios, and the chugging sound of the diesel engine on the water-pump truck.

“There's a gash on the back of this guy's head,” the voice said over the speaker. “A lot of blood. And he's got a snootful of smoke.”

“Tate, this is Chief Middlebrook. Have you identified the victim?”

“A wallet was on him. Driver's license says Walker Pryce.”

“What caused the head injury?” Dunsford asked.

“Hold on.” They heard Tate call out then he came back on the line. “Sir, this is the fireman who went in the house after Pryce.”

A different voice came on. “Wilson here. I'd say somebody whacked him from behind. He wasn't beat up, but there weren't nothing around him coulda caused that kind of injury.”

“Where did the fire start?”

“The bedroom. Somebody wants a house to go up, he sets a smoldering fire on a mattress and opens two windows in opposite rooms. Then he skedaddles before the cross ventilation flares the fire and torches the house.”