The Gone Dead Train (35 page)

“You with me?” Frankie said.

She'd been speaking to him.

“You said, ‘If Garrett didn't do it, who do we have?'”

He rubbed the back of his neck. They stared at the screen, trying to come up with something.

“Look,” she said. “We have some compelling evidence, but we need more. There's a ground-breaking ceremony at Robert House tomorrow. You should take some of this stuff with you and wave it in Garrett's face. Maybe if you shake him up in public, he'll incriminate himself.”

“I can't use the actual evidence. I'll have to go to the Redbirds store tomorrow for a pillowcase and make up a dummy manuscript. Here's the dilemma. If I don't hand over this evidence immediately, Dunsford can charge me with obstruction of justice for withholding it. And if I
do
turn it over, he'll claim I had possession all along, which for Dunsford is proof I killed Augie.”

Frankie furrowed her brow. “Actually, I've got that covered. In case the loot turned out to be real, I took the precaution of dropping by the station house to pick up a copy of the squad's major offense summary with the list of stolen property. That gives me a legitimate reason for being familiar with Augie's list. I can truthfully say I met Dominique at Robert House and noticed the watch she was wearing. She offered to sell the watch to me along with several other items. I was skeptical that it was Augie's stolen property, but I agreed to meet her at the bus station to find out. In the course of the evening, I got my hands on the evidence, but the woman escaped. Once I verified it was stolen, I turned it into the evidence room . . . which I will do after I leave here.” She shrugged. “Nothing more than a rookie's dumb luck.”

He let out a low whistle. “Impressive.”

“Every word is true. I only left out the bits about you. I'm usually very honest.”

The barge shifted in the water. Frankie got a funny look on her face. “We didn't finish the conversation we were having in the car.”

And now's not the time
, he thought. But she was staring at the counter with a numb look he knew all too well. There was no getting around it.

“You did fine tonight,” he told her. “What I said about not trusting you . . . that wasn't fair. I was angry about something else.”

Her cheeks flushed. “There's more to it. You may not have heard what happened to Brad McDaniel.”

“I know. I read about the accident.”

“You don't know.”

“I know enough. The woman on the elevator, the one with the box you freaked out about? She's Brad's widow, Coral.”

Frankie stilled.

“I saw her speak to Dave Jansen after she got off the elevator. I called him, asked who she was. I didn't know Brad's wife, but I sure as hell knew about his history with women. He couldn't keep his mouth shut for bragging.”

Her eyebrows lifted, lips parted. He knew she considered herself to be a tough cookie, but the circumstances of Brad's death would be hard to get past.

“We can discuss this, but you have to promise there'll be no crying,” he said.

“No crying,” she said.

“You mentioned a trauma. I thought about your bruise, the way you flipped out when Coral McDaniel came off the elevator. I figured you'd been involved with Brad, got caught up in the accident. You weren't in the car, were you?”

“He was chasing me. He lost control.”

“Sounds like Brad.”

“I've never done anything . . .” Her mouth spasmed. “Anything like that in my life. He told me—”

“You don't have to explain. Like I said, I know about Brad. We can go into the details if you want, but whatever happened, you should let it go. And forget about those damned pills.”

“I screwed up,” she said.

“I've screwed up many times. Nobody in this world is perfect.”

She managed a strained smile. “You asked why you should trust me after I lied. I've been completely honest now. You know it all.”

She waited, wanting to be absolved. For some reason, he couldn't give her that. Might have been something to do with Mercy. Might have been the pie he could see on the cutting board over her shoulder.

He nodded toward the evidence on the counter. “Let's wind this up. We'll sort out the rest tomorrow.”

He copied ten pages of the manuscript and put it on top of a ream of blank paper. She packed the evidence in the box and taped it in the original plastic. The CJC evidence room was open 24/7.

At the foot of the ramp, she promised to call him if she ran into a problem. Otherwise, she would be in touch early. They almost shook on it, but she had the box in her arms and the moment turned clumsy. They nodded and she was gone.

He walked around to the aft deck to get some air. Somewhere on the bluff a dog barked. Downriver another dog responded. Then there was a different sound, a growl coming off the water, as primitive as anything living in the backwoods. He'd heard about sightings of bobcats not far from the bridge near where the Wolf River flowed into the Mississippi. And there were older stories about panthers that once slipped through the shadows of the ancient swamps of the Delta.

The growl died. The gentrified dogs fell silent.

He thought about tonight, Frankie's revelation about Brad and the confrontation with Garrett tomorrow.

Which pack did he belong to—the kept dogs or the wild ones?

He went inside to think about that. Over a piece of pie.

B
illy woke at first light. Walker Pryce was on his mind, so he called the ER nurses' station. He was friendly with the nurses at The MED, having spent endless hours there questioning gunshot and stab-wound victims. He asked if someone would get a status report on Pryce.

Vicky at the desk called back. During the night, Pryce's intracranial pressure had increased. They'd moved him to the neuro ICU. Bad news. The murder count could easily rise to four.

He hit the streets in search of Dominique. If he lucked out, he would turn her over to Dunsford and pray the man handled it right—sweat her with threats of a felony-theft charge then offer to reduce to misdemeanor possession of stolen goods if she would confirm where she got the stuff. If she brought Garrett into it, her statement would connect him to Augie's murder. That would blow the doors off the investigation.

For all that, even with Dominique's testimony, convincing Dunsford that Sid Garrett was a murderer wasn't going to be easy. Dunsford had spent his career fitting crimes into boxes. If they didn't fit, they weren't real crimes. Billy had compelling evidence, but the possibility that Garrett had killed Augie was still hard for him to accept.

Frankie had called to say she was on her way to Ramos's house to question Ovia about locating Dominique's hideout. It was a long shot but worth the try. She would call when the interview was over.

On his fifth run down Union Avenue, his mobile rang.

“The old bitch admitted she sold the curses to Dominique, but that's as far as she'd go. I pushed pretty hard. She was madder than a wet cat. She spit on me.”

He could hear that she was wired up after interrogating Ovia.

“And catch this,” she said. “Garrett called Ramos and banned him from Robert House because he'd given me access to Red's file. He went off about Red's privacy rights, then claimed his own privacy had been violated. Then he rambled on about his dead brother and the NSA taking over the world.”

“He's right about the NSA,” he said.

“No, listen, Billy. Ramos thinks Garrett is out of control. A week ago he confronted Garrett about his script addiction. Garrett's response was to have the lock changed on Ramos's office.”

“Sounds like you nailed Garrett's addiction.”

“I think he's losing it. Maybe we can wrap up this case by supper time.”

“When will you talk to Dunsford about the evidence?” he asked.

“I called the squad. He hasn't come in.”

“Lazy bastard.”

“Maybe he picked up another case,” she said.

“Bullshit. He's eating pancakes at Perkins.”

She laughed. “You really can't stand that guy.”

“I know Dunsford. He likes his pancakes. Extra butter and syrup.” He thought for a minute. “Go in, give your statement to anyone sitting around the squad. That puts you on record without giving Dunsford a chance to question you. And try to get an ATL issued on Dominique. We need to find her. Handle this right, and it could be a win for you.”

“I'll settle for not being fired,” she said.

“You'll be fine. I'm heading to Robert House for the ground-breaking ceremony. I bought the Cards' pillowcase and put the dummy manuscript in an envelope that makes it look like the original. Maybe I'll catch Garrett off guard, and he'll do something stupid like confess.”

“God. No telling what he'll do. This sounded like a good idea last night, but I forgot to mention there will be media present. Should we rethink this?”

“I'm going to show up. I want to look Garrett in the eye before we push this any further.”

He thought about Lou Nevers. He never got to look Lou in the eye and ask why he'd made his choices. Lou didn't even leave a note.

Frankie's engine cut off. “I'm at the CJC. Good luck.”

A
Channel 3 News van pulled up to the curb as he turned into the Robert House parking lot. Reporter Jasmine Cooper flashed some leg as she climbed out of the passenger side. She was young and hungry to move up to the anchor desk. She expected a boring assignment, a puff piece. Today might surprise Ms. Cooper, might even be her big break.

He thought about secrets, how cops catch people at their worst, even solid citizens like Garrett. War stories come in three tiers: funny stuff sanitized to entertain the general public; stories shared only with people who work in public safety—cops, firefighters, ER doctors and nurses. And then there's the untellable. Every cop has stories that he'll take to the grave. Some he's proud of. Some hurt too much to repeat.

He backed into a space at the corner of the lot, got out, and leaned against the fender. Shallow pools of rain from last night's storm spread in low spots on the asphalt. A crowd of about a hundred was milling around at the front of the building. He picked out city officials, clergymen, and several attorneys from top-tier firms. It was common knowledge that Garrett wasn't a favorite in the legal community, but people showed up because he was a celebrity and because they admired his dedication to civil liberties.

Billy had a clear view of Garrett standing halfway up the steps. A young woman was clipping a microphone to his jacket. Garrett patted the woman's arm as if he were a kindly old man. Unlike a few days ago, Garrett looked relaxed and moved as if pain free, although the circles under his eyes were spreading across his face like a mask.

Ten of the Robert House residents stood around on the steps behind Garrett, shirts pressed, hair combed. The scene looked staged at the expense of the men's dignity, but then he noticed the way they were joking with Garrett. They clearly liked him. Money alone doesn't build that kind of bond, especially with men who've had their pride kicked out from under them.

Billy glanced back at the pillowcase and manuscript lying on the passenger's seat. He wondered if Garrett had convinced himself his actions were justified because he was saving the museum. Even the decision to kill can be defended by a murderer as his highest and best choice.

A couple of steps up from Garrett his bodyguards stood with legs apart and hands clasped, looking like extras out of
Men in Black II
. Billy gave the guys a hard second look. He'd dismissed them as ass hats with the cushy job of following a man who was paranoid about being shot when there was no real threat. All they needed to keep their jobs was to put up a good front and to know when to keep their mouths shut.

However, these two were far more capable of swinging a bat than Garrett. Sneaking into the DeVoy would have been tricky, but Pryce's place had been an open opportunity. Garrett could have waited in the back of his Caddy while they ambushed Pryce and torched his house. Or they could have learned of their boss's problems and gone after Augie and Pryce on their own. That didn't seem likely, but still.

He pushed off the fender and walked through the crowd. If he was going after Garrett in public, he needed a sense of conviction to pull it off. He could count on one hand the number of men in his life he'd respected. Garrett had been one of those men up till now. He'd like to speak to Garrett before he made a final decision.

He stopped in front of the podium. “Excuse me, Mr. Garrett,” he said.

Garrett ignored him, pretending to study his notes. Finally, he spoke without looking up.

“What is it, Detective?”

“You've got a big problem. When you're done here, we need to talk.”

Garrett placed his hand over the mike on his lapel and nodded toward a group of five men working their way toward the podium. “See those people? They're my board members. Big contributors.”

“This is important. It's about the investigation.”

Garrett leaned down in Billy's face. “You and your bitch girlfriend have already wasted my time. Walk away or I'll have you escorted off the premises.” He straightened, waved at the approaching group, and gave Billy a genial smile. “Thank you. Glad you could stop by.” He spoke loudly enough to make the front row of people believe Billy had handed him the best news of the week.

In no mood to fight with Garrett's goons, he walked back to the car, took out the pillowcase and dummy manuscript, and resumed his position against the fender. He'd given the man his chance. Time to let the shit fly.

Garrett tapped his lapel mike and slipped his hands in his pockets, projecting folksy sincerity.

“I'm grateful to all of you who've made the expansion of Robert House and the Carter museum possible. My brother Robert believed it was the duty of every American to defend the freedom of those least able to do so for themselves. He stepped up during the darkest days of the civil rights struggle and fought to make his beliefs a reality. After my brother disappeared, I pledged I would carry his torch. In that tradition, our goal at Robert House has been to help and heal. In the same tradition, our goal at the Calvin Carter Museum is to remind and educate.