The Gone Dead Train (32 page)

“Tell me how it went with Garrett.”

“He was shaky, unkempt. His pupils are pinpoints. He's definitely addicted to pain meds.”

“Did he have anything to say about the Carter surveillance photo?”

“He admitted everything and nothing. He's a master at blowing smoke.”

“I don't know what happened between the you of two, but an hour ago, Garrett called Dunsford about my confrontation with Augie at the funeral home.”

He told her about going by Middlebrook's office, and Dunsford barging in with Garrett's incriminating evidence.

She was quiet for a long time. “They set you up. A detective doesn't push his way into the deputy chief's office with case information, right? He goes to the shift commander. Middlebrook used Dunsford to rattle your cage.”

Her insight surprised him. “I don't think Middlebrook is the one setting me up. The scuffle at the funeral home looks bad, but Dunsford made it sound worse than it was. He's trying to push Middlebrook into releasing my name as a suspect.”

“You trust Middlebrook,” she said.

“I do.”

“I'm just saying . . . maybe you shouldn't. Any more happy news?”

He told her about Pryce and the fire.

“Good God,” she said.

“I ran into Freeman at the CJC. He'd heard about the fire and decided he should confess to Dunsford that we'd broken into Augie's place. I talked him out of it. That's all Dunsford needs to lock me up.”

“You broke into a crime scene?”

“To find Pryce's number. Now they're looking at me for the fire. Dunsford even read me my rights, trying to bluff me into incriminating myself. But they can't charge me. They have no proof.”

“Billy, this shit's getting deep. You need to quit making it worse.”

“Great advice, sweetheart. You want to tell me how that's done?”

She paused, clearly taken aback. “You're right, you can't sit around and hope for the best.”

“Nope. Not an option.”

He watched a skinny teenager walk to the pasture gate and whistle. The horses ignored him until he rattled the chain on the gate and unlocked it. The two grays swung around and ambled toward him. The black horse turned its rump toward the boy and continued to eat hay.

Billy realized his teeth were clenched. He'd been undermined from every direction. He told Frankie about Theda Jones stepping off the trolley and her story about Red and the mystery package.

“That's crazy,” she exclaimed. “You think it's true?”

“The package may exist, but here's my problem. With this fire, I'm convinced Pryce didn't kill Augie. Dunsford is hell-bent on locking me up. I have to figure out who the killer is, and I mean
now
. The Davis/Lacy investigation will have to wait.”

“What if we prove the three cases are linked?” she said.

“With the photographs?”

“Not the photos. I met a woman in the kitchen at Robert House. She worked there when Red and Little Man were residents. She fits the description of the person who bought the curses—tall, wearing six necklaces, and she's into Santería.
And
she was wearing a watch with an emerald green-band.”

“A Bulova?”

“I couldn't tell. Her sleeve kept covering it. But it's definitely not a watch you'd pick up at Target. She said she inherited it from her grandmother along with other things she wants to sell. She's supposed to meet me at the bus station tonight at nine. I pitched a story about needing a death curse. She's bringing a conjure bag and the watches. Call me crazy, but she could be fencing Augie's stolen stuff.”

“What's her name?” he asked.

“Dominique Powell. She's Jamaican. Built like a shot-putter.”

“You've run a background?”

“She's got a history. A woman accused her of trying to steal an umbrella. Dominique got mad and hit her over the head with it. She was charged with battery, got community service that she served at Robert House. She stayed on to run the kitchen. From what I've seen, she runs most of the men there, too. What I can't figure out is how she could have ended up with Augie's stuff.”

“Give me a minute.” He turned on the engine, clicked the air-conditioning on high, and closed his eyes so he could concentrate. “Okay, I'm winging it here. Let's start at the beginning. Red borrows two thousand from Augie. According to Theda Jones, he needs a fast fifteen thousand or she'll be kicked out of school.”

“Two grand doesn't help much,” Frankie said.

“It's seed money to buy scripts. You don't need a dealer to do that. You find people who've been in car wrecks or have cancer—street people, addicts who doctor-shop, even old people with bad knees and bad backs. If they need cash, they'll get by on half their meds and sell the rest for ten bucks a pill. The profit margin is huge. Oxycodone goes for fifty bucks a pop in the downtown clubs.

“Red needs scripts fast, so he hires some guys from the shelter to round them up. He sells them in the clubs. The cash piles up. Greed sets in. His helpers decide they want a bigger slice, like a hundred percent. They assume he's keeping the money in the house where he and Little Man were squatting.”

“Where does Dominique come in?” she asked.

“She hears the men shooting the shit about Red and the cash. She knows that Red and Little Man believe in curses, so she says, ‘Give me a cut, and I'll hex that house so bad they won't go back in. In fact, I'll run them out of town.'”

“That sounds like Dominique. She's tough.”

“Let's suppose Red let it slip that Augie had given him money. After Red's gone, one of the men from the shelter breaks into Augie's place. Augie comes home, goes to the kitchen to make a sandwich. The guy sneaks up with Augie's bronzed bat and swings it.”

“That's quite a story,” she said.

He thought a moment. “It doesn't explain how the killer got onto Augie's floor without the code. Augie would have to have given it to him.”

“What if Dominique went in? You said Augie had problems with women. Maybe Dominique came on to him. He invited her up and gave her the code to keep things discreet. She went to his apartment looking for the money but ended up killing him. She's strong enough. She tossed the place looking for cash but didn't find any, so she stole his stuff.”

“Why steal the manuscript?” he asked.

“It's your story. I'm just helping out.”

“I don't know. This scenario is a big ‘what if.' I'm guessing Dominique doesn't have Augie's watch. She'll show up tonight with her granny's old Timex. The curse is different. I agree she's good for that.”

He shouldered the phone, put the car in gear, and turned toward the river. “You said she's meeting you at nine?”

“Yep.”

“We'll both be there,” he said.

“How about if I come to the barge around eight thirty?”

“Fine. By the way. Good job finding Dominique and spotting the watch.”

He could almost hear her grinning over the phone.

H
e went to the barge where it was cool and dark, he dug around in a drawer for a pen and a legal pad, and he dropped on the sofa. He hunted killers for a living. This time he had a personal incentive.

First, he recorded the story line he and Frankie had put together. Right off, he saw that the scenario had big damned holes in it. First, Red didn't have the stamina to sell scripts in the clubs. Second, the staff members at Robert House weren't fools. They would spot unusual activity among the residents and bust them. Third, no credible connection existed between Dominique and Augie, nothing that would put his stolen property in her hands. She may very well have caused Red's and Little Man's deaths, but he didn't believe she was involved in Augie's murder.

Why had Augie been murdered? What was the killer after?

He flipped the page and noted his original suspect list: Freeman, Pryce, Cool Willy, Augie's clientele, a drug dealer, Augie's former teammates, some bar rat who'd pegged Augie as an easy mark, and the least likely, a random intruder. Reluctantly, he crossed out his top choices. He circled Augie's clients, still a possibility, but he didn't have the information he needed to investigate. Cool Willy and Theda Jones were both from the world of prostitution and violence. Theda had met Augie at the funeral home the afternoon he was murdered. Maybe he invited her to his apartment, gave her the code, and Cool Willy had come along with her. Money would be their motive, but that didn't ring true for Billy.

Then there were people who become fixated on celebrities. Maybe Augie befriended a homicidal fan and never mentioned the person to Freeman or him. What about his neighbors? They could easily gain access to Augie's floor. Surely Dunsford had detectives canvass that entire building. As an investigative reporter, Pryce moved in dangerous circles. Had one of Pryce's contacts killed Augie and then tried to kill Pryce?

He tapped his pen on the paper and wrote his name at the bottom of the page. A high percentage of murder victims know their killer, maybe even care about that person—a business partner, a lover, a family member, a friend like Billy.

He rested his head on the back of the sofa. Nothing accomplished. While he followed blind leads, the killer was staying one jump ahead.

He must've slept. The next thing he heard was the beep of a horn and the sound of a truck engine revving into reverse. He went to the window as a FedEx delivery truck accelerated up the cobblestone landing into the evening light. Walking outside on the deck, he saw the driver had stacked the boxes, three large and one small, inside the gate at the foot of the ramp. The air had turned dank. Folds of gray clouds, still distant to the south, were moving in quickly. He brought the boxes up the ramp and piled the three large ones in the corner of the living room. The smaller box marked next-day delivery, the one Mercy had texted about the night before, he put on the coffee table. While searching for a pad, he'd seen an unopened pack of Camels in the drawer. He got the pack and sat on the sofa for a smoke, knocking ashes into a coffee cup while he thought about the package and what might be inside. He stubbed out the cigarette and opened the box.

It was a sweet potato pie. He knew from the aroma of the spices that it was the recipe they had created together. His throat tightened. He picked up the pie and took it to the kitchen. Then he walked into the bedroom to keep from losing it. Frankie would be showing up soon.

He dug out of the closet the loose gray shirt he used for undercover work. His black Stevie Ray Vaughan T-shirt and Redbirds ball cap, the one with the long bill, he kept in a drawer. He laid the two shirts and the cap on the bed, fighting to shift his focus from the hole in his heart to the job coming up. He stripped off his T-shirt and pulled on the black one. He slipped his SIG in his waistband at his back and pulled on the gray shirt.

Thunder rumbled.

Shortly before eight thirty
P.M.
he heard a car pull up at the foot of the ramp.

T
he rain began the moment Frankie pulled up to the barge. Fat drops slapped the windshield like mud daubs. Pecking sounds followed, hail bouncing off the hood.

Billy tromped down the ramp and through the gate, his shoulders hunched against the rain and the darkness. He jerked open the passenger door and slid in as the storm cut loose in earnest. He didn't look at her.

“You got your gear?” he asked.

“Gun, cuffs, badge, and a pack of fake money I made up out of printer paper.”

He flipped on the courtesy light and leaned forward, trying to get a look at her feet. “You're not wearing street shoes, are you? You could slip.”

“Back off, I'm good with the shoes.”

He settled in the seat, the pale courtesy light touching his forehead, the side of his nose, the down-turned corner of his mouth.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

He took a while responding. “I'm focused on what's coming up.” He glanced over at her. “What's up with you?”

Whether he was in the mood to hear it or not, she had something to say, like a confession, before they went out on this operation.

“The other day when we talked, you said trust between partners is everything in this business.” She swallowed hard. “I have something to say about that. An incident not long ago had an impact on me and not in a good way. I've tried to deal with it on my own, but like you said, I should have gotten professional help to get past the trauma.”

She looked over to gauge his reaction, but the light was too dim. “The thing is, I've been having anxiety attacks. I've been self-medicating. It's not working out.”

“What are you using?”

“Tranquilizers. I had a prescription from when my dad died. It's supposed to take the edge off, help me sleep. They worked at first, but this week things started getting out of hand.”

The rain began to pound the Jeep's roof. She stopped talking. She wanted him to respond, say something.

“Was the incident work related?”

Oh, God. His tone was so flat it made her nervous.

“I'd rather not go into—”

“Did it involve the woman who got off the elevator at the CJC?”

“Um. Yes, but that's beside the point. The day I called to cancel our meeting I was having my worst anxiety attack. I overreacted, took two pills. All I can say is, I'm working through this. I apologize for my behavior. It won't happen again.”

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but he looked like he was taking this personally. Something was happening.

“Are you still using?” he asked.

Still using?
“For God's sake. I don't have a habit. I threw the pills away. I'm solid tonight, don't worry. Look, Billy. I enjoy working with you. I hope we'll do more together in the future.” She brushed her hair off her face. “This was poor timing, but I couldn't go forward without being honest with you.”