“Groundskeeping. Not as much work in the winter as in the warmer months, so we run a smaller crew. I was s’posed to get out of here at noon. Goin’ home for Christmas a few days early. Now I’m stuck for Lord knows how long.”
“Have you heard anything about what’s going on?”
He stared at me for a long minute. “Not really. Somethin’ missin’, I think. People are whisperin’. Security haulin’ people in for questionin’.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, the coveralls pulling around his midsection.
“I see.” I stood up, smiling again. “I hope you get home soon. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.”
I walked laps around the fence outlining the meditation garden. “Something missing,” he’d said. I was increasingly sure someone had stolen a valuable piece of music history from that empty case. But an offhand comment from a gardener wasn’t confirmation enough. At home, I’d find a way to wheedle it out of someone at the PD. But I didn’t know anyone at the Memphis PD. Did I know anyone who might?
“Damn, Nichelle,” I muttered, fishing out my Blackberry. “Slow today, aren’t we?”
I opened my contacts and found Kyle Miller’s cell phone number. My long-ago ex was a federal agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. He was already at his parents’ house in Dallas, which I knew because they’d invited me over for caroling the following night. But he had law enforcement contacts all over the country, and the Christmas spirit might put him in the mood to share one with me.
“Ho, ho, ho,” he said when he picked up. “You on your way yet? How’s Elvis?”
“I am not,” I said. “I’m working on a story and I need a favor.” Beating around the bush with Kyle usually didn’t get me anywhere.
“Working? Come on, Nicey! It’s Christmas! I thought you were coming over tomorrow night. My mom is making white chocolate cookies and fondue, and she’s so excited to see you she hasn’t talked about much else since I got here. You know my folks love you.”
I smiled. “I love them, too. I intend to get there, but I have to finish this. I’ve found crime doesn’t respect the calendar, Mr. Federal Agent.”
“It does wait, though.”
“Not today. I’m locked in at Graceland. I’m pretty sure something’s been stolen from the trophy hall. There’s an empty showcase that used to house one of Elvis’s stage belts. Now, the people who saw what happened said a jewel fell off it and security whisked it away, but my money’s on the idea that the jewel coming loose tipped someone to the fact that it was fake, and they locked the gates to try to keep the real one here ‘til they can find the thief. Mostly because it’s the only scenario that makes sense, given what I’ve seen and heard. Of course, I can’t get confirmation of that. Security’s not talking and the Memphis PD isn’t here yet. That I’ve seen, anyway. I’m hoping you know someone who can help me out.”
“Locked in? Like, they sealed the grounds?” Kyle couldn’t keep the curiosity out of his voice.
“Hard to keep that vacation mindset when there’s an interesting case, isn’t it?” I teased.
I could practically see his ice-blue eyes roll skyward. “I just don’t want to disappoint my mom. We have an office in Memphis. Let me make a couple calls and see if I can come up with anything.”
I pumped a fist in the air. “Thanks, Kyle. I owe you.”
“Ten years worth of Christmas gifts, right?” He laughed, and something tingled in the pit of my stomach. I’d once thought Kyle Miller was the love of my life, and he’d walked back into it at the craziest time. I was looking forward to seeing him more than I wanted to admit, even to myself.
I thanked him again and clicked off the call, crossing my fingers and perching on another concrete bench, opening an email to Bob. I wanted to get the story ready to send if I could find someone to confirm my theory.
A priceless piece of music history was stolen from Graceland mansion in Memphis Friday, prompting a lockdown of the property while the investigation unfolded.
“Cop quote here,”
I typed the space-saver after the lead and paused. The only reason for the lockdown was if they thought the belt hadn’t left the grounds, right?
So either I was right and the one in the case was a fake, or someone had made off with it after they’d pulled it out of the case, while security was scrambling to seal exits and find witnesses.
“Security haulin’ people in for questionin’,” the gardener, whose name I hadn’t gotten, had said.
I’d seen Dale talking to a woman in a housekeeping uniform. And I’d heard someone shouting that morning, before everything went nuts. What had that woman said? Something about firing people if something didn’t stop.
I checked my watch. It had been 45 minutes, and I felt the clock ticking. I needed an inside source, and Kyle might not be able to find anyone. It was Christmas week, after all. And Bob had put my first story on the web almost an hour before. I might be the only reporter in here, but what if someone had a cousin on the staff or something? I wanted it first. Especially with my beat being babysat by the copy chief who spent her days gunning for my job— and her nights sleeping with anyone she thought could help her get it.
I saved the email draft and tucked the phone back into my pocket, wondering where I might find a chatty housekeeper.
FIVE
Into thin air
I wandered back to the smoking porch where I’d talked to the gardener, ducking inside the door he’d come out.
Fixing a confused-tourist expression on my face, I looked around. I was standing in a long, sterile hallway that looked like a work area. I walked slowly in the direction of the main area of the basement, keeping my eyes and ears out for anyone in a maid’s uniform.
I made it to the far end of the hall without seeing another soul. I sighed, ready to call strike one, when I heard a clatter on the other side of a closed door. I paused.
“You said this would work out,” a shrill voice wailed.
“Shhh! You want someone to hear you?” The second one was almost too quiet to pick up, but I’m pretty practiced at eavesdropping (occupational hazard). I got enough to piece the sentence together.
“I can’t spend Christmas in jail!” The first woman was only a little quieter that time.
“Will you calm down? What does anyone know? Nothing. And as long as we don’t tell them anything, that’s what they’ll keep knowing. Just hold it together until we get out of here.”
“And then what? You think they’ll just give up?”
“I think it was Christmas money and Christmas is pretty much over. They’ll give up eventually.”
The handle rattled and I scuttled through the thick door at the end of the hall, striding through the basement to the rec room before I stopped walking.
Holy Manolos.
I hadn’t seen them, and they hadn’t said their names, but that sounded pretty damning. I looked around, wondering where acting head of security Dale had gone. And if he might know who they were. Maybe policy said he couldn’t talk to me on the record, but he might be willing to swap information if I didn’t reveal my source.
A quick search didn’t find him lurking in the basement. I took the stairs back to the main floor two at a time, my thoughts racing. I’d just stepped into the hallway when my Blackberry started buzzing. I pulled it out and checked the screen. Kyle.
“This just keeps getting more interesting,” I said in place of hello.
“Sorry I’m missing all the fun.” He chuckled. “I did find you an in at the Memphis PD. Lionel Pierce. He’s a detective in their major crimes unit. No idea if this is his case or not, but he might be able to get you someone who will talk to you. Merry Christmas. You saved me a trip to the shoe store.”
“This could be better than shoes,” I said, scrib
bling the detective’s name down. “And I don’t say that about many things. You didn’t happen to get a cell number for me, did you?”
“Of course I did,” he said, his voice dropping to a sexy baritone. “What’s it worth to you?”
I laughed in spite of myself. “We can discuss that when I get there,” I said, memories of long-ago Christmases with Kyle tugging at my heart. But I could worry about my flummoxed love life after I got the story.
“All right. I trust you to keep your word.”
Butterflies flapped around in my belly before he reeled off the number.
“Thanks, Kyle. I’ll see you soon.”
I hung up and shoved thoughts of a fireside heart-to-heart (and fantasies about where that could lead) to the back of my brain as I retreated to a quiet corner to call Detective Pierce. I crossed my fingers as I hit “send,” hoping he wasn’t on vacation like the rest of the world.
I must’ve been on Santa’s “extra good” list, because he answered on the second ring and was surprisingly jovial for a guy working over the holidays.
“My man Jeff at the ATF office says you’re trustworthy,” Pierce said in a gravelly tenor. “That’s high praise for a reporter. What do you need to know about Memphis?”
“I’m locked in at Graceland,” I said. “I need to know what the hell’s going on here and why hundreds of people are being held on the grounds. It’s only been an hour, but folks are getting antsy. It’s going to get ugly if this goes on much longer. The guard I talked to said they’re waiting for the Memphis PD to show up. So anything you can tell me about any of the above would be fantastic.”
I heard keys tapping in the background.
“We don’t show a call from Graceland today,” he said. “Who told you the grounds were locked?”
Come again?
“The acting head of security,” I said. “There’s something funky going on with a belt in the trophy hall that started the whole thing. Maybe it’s just not in the system yet?” My voice went up at the end of that sentence, turning it into a question as I thought about Dale’s smooth demeanor and easy smile. Shit. Did security have access to display cases? What if it was him?
“Our systems update automatically,” Pierce said. “But there’s one more place I can look. Stand by, please.”
All I heard for several minutes was computer keys clicking.
“There,” he said finally. “There is an open file on Graceland, but it’s in property. Let me see when they should have a car out there.” More clicking. “Oh. No, that’s something else.”
“There’s another case file about Graceland? In the property crimes division?” My story radar went on high alert.
“It appears they’re working a switch scam involving limited edition Elvis coins at the gift shop there,” Pierce said. “But I can’t comment on it further. It’s not my case, and this file is password-protected.”
“Is that standard procedure there?” His tone told me it wasn’t, but I needed him to say it.
“No, ma’am.”
I scribbled, my brain racing. Stolen coins, passworded files at the PD, and people locked in the mansion when the police computer had no record of a call. What. The. Everloving. Hell?
“A switch-scam?” I asked.
“I can’t comment further,” he repeated.
“Detective Pierce, I really appreciate your time and help, and believe me, I understand the spot you’re in. You don’t know me from Ann-Margret. But this is a very unusual situation, and anything you can tell me, even off the record, would really be helpful.” I took a deep breath.
He was quiet for a second. “Off the record?”
“Absolutely.”
“I don’t like that I can’t find a call in the system about the lockdown. And I can’t speak to this coin case in particular, but things like that are usually counterfeiting operations. Either someone took the real coins and replaced them with fakes, or they were never there in the first place. I can’t even see where the report originated, so I don’t know if we got a call from the mansion or from a pissed-off collector.”
He paused and clicked more computer keys. I scribbled.
“Moreover, I can’t find a report on stolen ones being fenced,” Pierce continued. “Which is weird, because this first one was months ago. When people steal collector items, they sell them. Usually online.”
I noted that.
“That actually fits with the theory I’ve been able to piece together,” I said. “Best I can tell, security figured out that one of the big gold costume belts in the trophy room was a fake. They scooted it out of the case before I got a look at it. I’m guessing they think the real one is still here, though. Why else would they seal the exits?”
He was quiet for a minute.
“Detective?”
“Off the record, I’d say you’re probably onto something.”
Score one for the crime reporter. “Can I get the correct spelling of your name for my article?” I asked.
He gave it to me. “Just so we’re clear, you’re not printing anything except that we have an open investigation there, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. About this lockdown—I’m going to create a file, because we don’t seem to have one. You said you’ve been locked in for an hour?”
“Yes, sir.” I gave him my name and cell number for the report.
“We’re short-staffed because of the holiday, but this is more pressing than what I was doing when you called. I’ll stay with it. If I turn anything up, I’ll call you back.”
“I really appreciate that,” I said. “I have a feeling I’m going to end up owing my friend at the ATF a favor.”
“Good, then he can owe me one.” Pierce laughed. “Watch your back, Miss Clarke. And call if you see anything we need to know about. I’m betting it’ll be at least an hour before I can get someone there for a theft, but I’ll put it in.”
“I will. Thanks, detective. And Merry Christmas.”
I hung up, leaning my head back against the wall and closing my eyes. Well, shit. So much for finding Dale and asking about the mysterious women I’d overheard bickering downstairs. Whatever happened to normal crime stories where the players were who they seemed?
I reopened the email I’d started to Bob and stared at the lead.
I deleted “was stolen” and replaced it with “went missing,” because after talking to Pierce, I really wasn’t sure what I was dealing with. It seemed on the surface like they wouldn’t have locked the grounds unless the belt had been stolen, and unless they were pretty sure it was still there. But then why had Dale announced that the police had been called if they hadn’t been? Then again, why on Earth would he lock down the complex if he was the thief?
The best I had for that was that he’d get busted for not following procedure, which might raise suspicion. And sounded totally plausible. But that also meant I wasn’t asking him about anything else.
And the women downstairs—what the heck were they talking about if Dale was the culprit? Was it a crime ring situation?
Oy. I didn’t have any answers. I needed to send Bob an update, though, and from what Pierce had said I was running out of time. Once the police filed a report, my exclusive would disappear faster than last season’s Louboutins on Black Friday.
I clicked the phone screen back to life and started typing.
“[The property crimes division is] working a switch scam involving limited edition Elvis coins at the gift shop there,” Detective Lionel Pierce of the Memphis Police Department said. He had no comment on the lockdown or any other open investigations.
Graceland security was tight-lipped about the situation, too.
“No comment,” said Acting Head of Security Dale Leonard, citing a policy forbidding security contact with th
e media. Leonard said he wasn’t sure how long the lockdown would last.
Pierce said Memphis Police would be en route as soon as possible, but since the situation wasn’t an emergency, short staffing because of the holidays could mean a long response time.
I contemplated that for a few seconds, but left it that way. On the off chance anyone trapped in here with me saw the story on their smartphone, I didn’t want to start a riot by revealing that the cops hadn’t been told we were being kept here until I called. Since no other reporter would have reason to know that, I could save it for after everyone was safely on their way home.
I added the gardener’s comment about people being hauled in for questioning and cited him as an unnamed source, so I wouldn’t get him in hot water with Dale.
I hit send and gave it a second, then called Bob.
“I was just about to get worried,” he said.
“I’m starting to do a little of that, myself.” I gave him the rundown of my situation, picturing his bushy white eyebrows raising by degrees as I talked.
“Holy Blue Christmas, kiddo,” he said. “Only you. I’ve been on lots of vacations. I haven’t ever stumbled into a whopper of a headline on one, though. You have a knack.”
“I’d rather have a knack for cooking. Or gardening. Or sniffing out deals on shoes.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You love it. Stay with it. I’m here if you need me.”
“Thanks, chief.”
I stuffed the phone back into my pocket and considered my options. What did I need to know first?
What had happened to the belt that was in the display case.
How could I find out?
By wheedling it out of someone in security.
But who?
I thought back through my day, remembering the guard I’d seen interviewing Bonnie and Savannah right after the lockdown was announced. Calvin. His name was Calvin, according to Dale. I bet he knew what was going on. I didn’t have to tell him I was a reporter, either, because getting the information was more important than having an attributable quote.
Heartache Motel: Three Interconnected Mystery Novellas (Henery Press Mystery Novellas) Page 17
