The Gone Dead Train (31 page)

“Did you find opened windows?”

“Yes, sir. And the smoke-alarm system didn't ring into the station. I'll bet the inspector's going to find it was tampered with. A truck driver on the highway spotted smoke coming out the front window and called it in. Otherwise, this fellow would be cooked. Got to go, sir.”

Tate came back on. “Pryce is being transported to The MED. Anything else?”

“Lieutenant Markus and Detective Dunsford will be there shortly. Good job, Tate.” Dunsford hung up.

Middlebrook glanced over at Billy. The chief knew he'd talked to a journalist, but he hadn't given Pryce's name, the time, or the location. If the facts came out now, Middlebrook would doubt everything he'd said, including his declaration of innocence of Augie's murder.

This could get ugly.

“Roxanne, get in here,” Middlebrook called. She appeared at the door with a notepad. “There's a fire victim en route to The MED with a head injury and smoke inhalation. I want a status report from the ER. The name is Walker Pryce.”

“Walker?” Roxanne said.

“Walker Pryce. What's wrong, Roxy?”

Billy saw it, too. The blood had drained from her face, and her mouth worked without making a sound.

She ran to Middlebrook, waving her notepad in Billy's direction. “He was at Walker's house this morning. He hurt Walker, I know it.”

Middlebrook gripped her shoulders. “Calm down. How do you know Pryce?”

She started sobbing. “He's my boyfriend. He called this morning and asked questions about Detective Able and the Poston case. He said Able had insisted on coming over to talk. Walker seemed nervous about the meeting, said he needed to be prepared.”

She made a high sound in the back of her throat like a cat and rushed at Billy, her hands balled into fists. Before she reached him, Dunsford grabbed her around the waist and hauled her back.

“Roxanne! Get hold of yourself,” Middlebrook barked.

She jerked away from Dunsford and glared at Billy, breathing hard.

Now he understood why she'd been so rude at the elevator. Pryce had made her believe he was a threat and tricked her into giving restricted information without considering whether it would get her fired.

Her emotions were very real, very convincing, and more than enough to persuade Middlebrook.

The chief guided Roxanne toward the door, patting her shoulder and calling for another secretary. “Tina, help Roxanne pull herself together. Drive her to The MED. And Roxanne, keep me updated on Pryce's condition. I'm so sorry this happened.”

Middlebrook turned back. “Able, sit at the table. Dunsford, take the chair in front of my desk.” The chief sat behind his desk and squared the papers in front of him, organizing his thoughts.

“Able, tell me if you went to Pryce's house this morning. If so, tell me why and what happened.”

He was screwed. J.J. and the cashier could swear he was at City Market an hour ago, but if the fire started before then, their affidavits would be useless. Giving Middlebrook that information would be digging his own grave, especially with Roxanne crying outside the door and Dunsford ready to pounce. Surviving this meant he had to bluff the chief into backing off.

“You're asking if I set that house on fire. I resent the hell out of your question, Chief. You practically twisted my arm to sign back on, and now look at this mess.”

“Sign back on the force? The way I see, you're trying to kill everybody in reach,” Dunsford said.

Middlebrook shot Dunsford a look that shut him up, then he turned to Billy and in an ominous tone said, “If you don't convince me you're clean, I will personally end your career in law enforcement. And I will recommend that you be charged with attempted murder. Now. Do I need to repeat the question, Sergeant Able?”

“What do you want from me? Your assistant gave confidential information about a high-profile case to her boyfriend, a journalist no less. That's all you've got. Roxanne's opinion about anything else isn't proof, it's emotion. I say let's back off, wait to see what Pryce can tell us. He knows who tried to kill him.”

“You haven't answered my question,” Middlebrook said.

Billy stood. “Chief, I would like to comply, I really would. But I can't answer your question at this time.”

“Then Detective Dunsford will read you your rights.”

Dunsford hopped out of the chair. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you . . .”

Billy talked over Dunsford's head to Middlebrook. “You're fucking charging me?”

Middlebrook thrust his chin at Dunsford. “It's his case. I'm done.”

Dunsford completed the required warning, licking his lips at the end as if he were tasting blood. He eyed Billy. “We're going to the interview room now. Time we cleared up a few things.”

Unbelievable. Middlebrook was moving ahead when they didn't have a thing they could use to prosecute. And Dunsford was delusional enough to think he could trick another detective into incriminating himself. Time to shove the bullshit back at both of them.

He held up his hands. “Unless you charge me, I'm not going anywhere. Do what you need to. I'll be more than happy to respond.”

“Cool down, Able. It's just a conversation,” Dunsford said, backing off. He slicked his hand over his hair and glanced at the chief, nervous about what to do next.

“Forget it. I'm not going to help you investigate me.” Billy pointed a finger at Middlebrook. “A little while ago I looked you in the eye and told you I didn't kill Augie Poston. Now I'm telling you I didn't set Pryce's house on fire, either. Charge me or I'm out of here.”

He waited, looking from Dunsford to the chief and back again. “Yeah. I didn't think so.”

He strode out of the office, feeling angry and betrayed. Middlebrook let that rat terrier Dunsford try and push him around. At least Roxanne had left for The MED, and he didn't have to see her accusatory eyes.

He took the express elevator and walked into the atrium, half expecting a uniform to come around the corner and arrest him. Dunsford might try to trump up a minor charge to hold him, but Middlebrook would do the reverse—get more information, then make the decision whether to come after him or not.

Outside, he crossed Poplar and stood on the sidewalk in front of the parking lot. Before he got behind the wheel, he needed to calm down. Son of a bitch. He'd skated out this time, but he was in real trouble.

The motive for the fire had been murder. Professional arsonists know how to set that kind of fire. So did the Chicago cops that Pryce had taken down. Unfortunately, so did he. Two years ago he'd investigated a near perfect murder where a man used a similar method to kill his wife. The man set the fire but couldn't bear letting his expensive fishing rods burn, so he took them out of the house. It never occurred to him that the cops would notice that the two rod stands in his study were empty. The man went down for second-degree murder.

Dunsford and Middlebrook would remember that case.

To make it worse, Garrett had called Dunsford with a slanted version of the brawl at the funeral home, failing to mention that Augie had been over-the-top crazy. Garrett also knew Billy had handled the naked guy when he didn't have to. Looking back, he wished he'd invited the dude into the museum to swing his nuts at the board of directors.

What had prompted Garrett to make that call?

It was all breaking against him. He'd lost Middlebrook. Dunsford was gaining on him. None of it should be happening. He wasn't guilty of a damned thing.

A car slowed behind him and honked as it passed. He turned and saw James Freeman driving a red Corvette convertible. Freeman took a right at the light and turned into the west entrance of the lot. He got out and cut across the parking lot, coming straight for Billy, looking mad as hell.

He felt his own steam rise. His hand went up in Freeman's face. “Don't you say one damned word.”

Freeman stopped. “You bastard. You used me to get to Pryce. You burned down his house.”

The scene in Middlebrook's office left him feeling raw. He wasn't about to put up with more accusations. “Don't be an ass. I told you I intended to see Pryce this morning. I wouldn't broadcast that if I'd planned to kill him.”

“That's bullshit. Whether you planned it or not, that's what happened. I heard the call go out on the police scanner at my office. I figured you were involved. I'm here to tell Dunsford about our going into Augie's apartment last night to look for Pryce's number.”

“I already told Chief Middlebrook about Pryce.” He pulled out his phone and held it up to Freeman. “I'll dial the number. You can talk to him yourself.”

Freeman hesitated.

Billy pocketed his phone. “I didn't kill Augie. I sure as hell didn't try to kill Pryce. While I was at his house, he got a call. He arranged for someone to come over. I guarantee that's who set the fire.”

They stood toe to toe in the parking lot, sweating out a classic stare-down.

Freeman blinked first. “You got an alibi this time?”

“As soon as I round up my witnesses.”

Freeman chewed his lip, studying Billy. “I canceled my meeting. It felt wrong to leave town. I wanted to do something, so I checked eBay and Craigslist for Augie's stolen stuff. Nothing showed. Do you know anything about Pryce's condition?”

“He was hit from behind and took in some smoke. He's unconscious. There's evidence of arson.”

“Do you still consider him a primary suspect?”

“Not anymore. He gave me a list of people he claims will swear he was with them the night of the murder. I talked briefly to the owner of a club where Pryce performs, and got hold of one other guy.” He handed Freeman the list. “If their stories hold up under questioning, Pryce is off the hook.”

Freeman studied the list. “What's the name of the club?”

“The Devil's Sentiment.”

“That gay club in midtown?”

“Pryce performs there. He's a drag queen. The club owner says he really draws a crowd.”

Freeman handed back the list. “Maybe someone from the club got jealous and set the fire. Did Pryce have the photo Augie stole from you?”

“No. He claims to have a copy, but he wouldn't show it to me. We agreed that once I've confirmed his alibi, he'll turn it over. He wants copies of the rest of the shots. Of course, his copy of the photo has been destroyed.”

“And we still don't have the original,” Freeman said.

“Whoever killed Augie probably took that photo from the apartment.”

Freeman ran his hand over his mouth. “I want to be clear on this. Exactly where were you when the fire started?”

“Eating a tuna sandwich at City Market. Now get off my back about that.”

Freeman studied him, shook his head. “How did I get in the position of trusting a cop who's about to be charged with two counts of murder?” He took out his phone. “Give me your mobile number. I'll go to The MED and see what I can learn about Pryce's condition.”

B
illy drove through the downtown Pinch District, heading nowhere. He thought about the guys he knew in high school who'd matured early, made the football team, and dated the prettiest girls in the county. After graduation, they picked up good money during the casino construction boom in Tunica. They blew their paychecks on muscle cars, darts tournaments, and cheap women in the bars.

Then the boom died, and the football heroes were forced into minimum-wage jobs at Fred's and AutoZone. Their wives grew fat and dissatisfied. Their kids didn't have a chance in hell of doing any better than their folks.

He'd been the lucky one. The money his uncle had scraped together along with a string of jobs he worked put him through four years at the University of Mississippi and a year of law school. The course of his life changed when he'd walked away from the idea of practicing law after learning that two little girls he knew from church had been kidnapped. Despite credible leads, the sheriff never questioned an upstanding member of the community. A couple of months later the man died in his sleep. Family members discovered the girls' bodies in his basement the day after the funeral.

After hearing about the girls' murders, he'd quit school, attended the police academy, and worked his way up to sergeant detective in homicide. He loved the hunt. It was unthinkable that he could have his job jerked out from under him by the likes of Don Dunsford; however, that appeared to be what was happening.

He tuned the radio to WEVL 89.9 for the
Deep Blues Show
and rolled past a tiny brick building known as Effie's Lounge. The sign with its hand-painted martini glass had almost faded away. Foot-high weeds grew in front of the iron security door. A white pit bull trotted from behind the building and lifted his leg on the fire hydrant. The dog looked more resentful than mean.

Billy felt the same.

He pulled under the shade trees in Washington Park across the street from the carriage-horse stable where he could watch the draft horses turned out in the pasture. Two grays and a black munched on flakes of alfalfa while switching flies off their hocks with their tails. Their coats held a subtle gleam.

He checked his phone. A text from Frankie said she wanted to get together. After his meeting with Middlebrook he was radioactive, and he was angry with her. Garrett's call to Dunsford made him think her talk with Garrett had sparked his hostile attitude. What other reason was there?

He called. “Got your text,” he said.

“I'm at the CJC. Where can we meet?” She sounded excited.

Most of what he had to tell her was bad news, and, at this point, he wasn't sure he could control his reactions. “That's not a good idea. Let's do it over the phone.”

“Seriously?” Now she sounded resentful.