by Lisa Turner
Billy started to say he knew the chief had graduated from the academy with Lou and that the loss was just as hard on him. But being at the CJC had made Lou’s death fresh all over again. All he could manage was a thank-you.
“I feel I should remind you that if your leave expires and you haven’t signed on, you won’t be able to rejoin the force in the future. It’s department policy. Don’t let that happen.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that policy.”
“And if you join Atlanta’s department, or any other for that matter, you’ll have to start over. You could be years working up to homicide.”
“I hear you, sir. And I’ve been considering my options. There are a couple of things I would need to make up my mind.”
“You know I can’t give you a raise,” Middlebrook said. He rubbed his chin. “What is it you need?”
“My old desk back. And I want it where it used to be.”
Relief broke on the chief’s face. “Good. Then I can count on—”
He cut in. “There’s one more thing.”
He spelled it out. Middlebrook started to argue, then reluctantly agreed. They shook on it.
“Glad you’re coming back, Able,” the chief said, and checked his watch. “Roxanne will get you started.”
“I’d like a few days to settle in before I take on assignments.”
“That won’t be a problem. You’ve been on leave longer than six months, so there’s more paperwork. Get a complete physical and an eye exam, and qualify on the range. No new health issues, right?”
“I’m in good shape.”
“Then walk with me to the elevators.”
A group of detectives from the economic crimes squad walked past them. Middlebrook waited until he and Billy were alone at the elevator to put his hand on Billy’s shoulder. “I hope your return means Mercy is moving to Memphis with you.”
“That’s not going to happen, sir.”
“I’m sorry. It’s been a rough year. You had your horse shot out from under you with Lou, but you’re back now. Time to move forward.”
The elevator doors opened. “One thing, Able. Don’t insert yourself in another detective’s investigation. If it’s not your case, stay out of it.”
Middlebrook stepped into the elevator. “I don’t want a second complaint to derail your reinstatement.” The doors closed.
Round to Dunsford.
Chapter 18
The next elevator took Billy to tenth-floor central records where Edgar Kellogg was manning the counter. Lou and Edgar had been good buddies. Trading on that relationship, Billy had called ahead and asked Edgar to locate the case file on Dahlia Poston and to pull criminal sheets on Red and Little Man.
“Got your files right ’cheer,” Edgar said as he walked in. Edgar was a wiry man, all Adam’s apple and nervous energy. Billy had heard that as a young patrol officer Edgar developed a reputation as a badass with a billy club, breaking heads during the racial upheaval in Memphis in the late sixties. After a heart attack ten years ago, he’d lost forty pounds and chosen desk duty over retirement. Like Lou, Edgar knew where the political bodies were buried, so none of the bosses insisted he stand down.
Edgar gave him a register to sign and handed over the original file plus a stack of copies he’d made for Billy to take with him.
“Someone else requested the Poston file recently,” Billy said. “Would you check for that name?”
Edgar disappeared into the stacks and came back, a disgusted look on his face. “You’re right. It’s been checked out, but there’s no name. The guy must have paid cash.”
“Did he sign the request register?”
Edgar cocked his head toward a round-hipped woman standing at a computer terminal. “I’m not the only person who works in this place, but I’m the only one who gets it right.”
Billy sat at a table and opened the file, wincing at the horrific eight-by-tens taken of Mrs. Poston’s charred corpse sitting behind the wheel. He studied each photo of the burned-out Pontiac, particularly the close-ups of the fuel line and gas tank.
Cause of death was clear—Dahlia Poston had burned alive. According to the interviews, her son witnessed it. That kind of trauma could start a grown man on the road to psychosis, much less a little kid.
Manner of death was less clear. There was a ruptured fuel line to consider and the three-inch piece of wire fused to the inside wall of the tank. The wire suggested that an assailant could have run an electrical charge from the brake lights to the gas tank. Hit the brakes and the tank blows the car to smithereens. Simple and effective.
According to the notes, a Detective Travis had been familiar with the wire trick and looked for additional wire running to the brakes. At that time, forensics was an evolving science with limited equipment, little testing, and no techs. The detectives did the work themselves. Judging by the devastation of the car, if there had been additional wires it could have easily been missed, or the extreme heat could have destroyed it beyond detection.
Travis had also looked into the ruptured fuel line. The fireball had been so intense it destroyed the entire fuel system, making it impossible to tell if a defect in the system had triggered the explosion. However, the ruptured line’s survival of the fire left room for reasonable doubt that it had been the cause.
Billy read through the file again. Even though Dahlia Poston had angered a lot of people, he saw no proof of criminal intent. Neither had Detective Travis nor the medical examiner. The legal system requires proof. There was none. The examiner had ruled the death accidental. Billy couldn’t argue with his conclusion.
If this journalist had any experience reading case files, he would know the facts as presented did not prove Dahlia Poston had been murdered. Therefore, he lied if he’d made that statement to Augie.
There was one possible weak point. Billy went back to Edgar, who was leafing through files at the counter.
“Did you know Travis, the detective in charge of this case?”
Edgar snorted. “Pain in the ass.”
“Meaning?”
“Should’ve been a priest, not a cop. Never bent a rule in his life, never cracked a smile.”
“But a good detective?”
“He was that all right.”
“What about the medical examiner, Dr. Paul?”
Edgar’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Dr. Thomas Paul. Another pain in the ass, just like Travis.”
“Is Travis dead?”
“Aneurysm. He collapsed on top of a corpse at a scene. Only time the guy ever fucked up.” Edgar chuckled. “Dr. Paul is gone too, if that’s your next question.”
Billy would check the archives to verify Kellogg’s opinion of Travis’s track record. If Travis was that good at his job, his name would be all over the commendation lists.
“Do you remember the Poston case?”
“I remember the time. King had been shot, and we were all pulling double shifts. We put trouble down where we found it.” He pantomimed whipping out a baton and whacking someone. “Bam, bam. Don’t nobody move.” He laughed and holstered his invisible baton. “The mayor, the director, the DA, the governor—all of them were trembling in their wingtips.”
Edgar had been an eyewitness to the times, a primary source. Billy thought about the stack of photos and the possibility that Edgar could identify the locations, maybe even the two guys in the shots. He would try to come by with the photos this afternoon.
He sat down to summarize his notes. Could the medical examiner have designated the case “undetermined” instead of “accidental”? Absolutely. The ruptured fuel line provided reasonable doubt, but only by the slimmest margin. Had Dr. Paul made his choice out of political expediency? Probably, but impossible to know. Would the DA have pushed to avoid sensationalizing the death of a controversial black woman? No doubt about it. But Billy wouldn’t go into all of that with Augie. It would only encourage him.
Billy turned his attention to Davis’s and Lacy’s sheets. They were clean
except for a few offenses of public drunkenness and vagrancy. What surprised him was finding reports that predated Katrina. The guys had put it out that they’d been forced to leave New Orleans because of the storm. Tacking on the word “Katrina” added sympathy to any hard-luck story, but that didn’t seem like Davis’s and Lacy’s style.
Frankie had texted that she planned to research the Davis and Lacy cases after signing off duty today. When she finished, she would call. That left him to contact a friend at the medical examiner’s office who could check on their autopsy reports. The medical examiner was back in town. The ME’s findings would dictate how involved he could be in either case. A closed case, which was what he expected Red’s to be, made it available to anyone. An open investigation would be off-limits, even to him, until his reinstatement, which was several days off.
As he walked out, he checked for Frankie’s call. What he found were thirteen texts and six voice mails from Augie. They added up to one message: “Meet me at Rock of Ages Funeral Home, midtown.”
Chapter 19
Frankie’s night shift dragged until dispatch notified her of shots fired during a home invasion. Turned out the burglar was the homeowner’s soon-to-be ex-wife. After a girls’ night out, the drunken woman had made the mistake of returning to her old address. When her key didn’t fit, she crawled through the dog door. Her husband was waiting with an unlicensed Ruger .357.
Paramedics said the husband had only winged her. However, possession of the Ruger and the possibility that the man had seized an opportunity to shortcut an unhappy divorce put him in the back of Frankie’s squad car. She transported the husband, still in his pajamas, to the Glamour Slammer, better known as the Criminal Justice Complex at 201 Poplar.
After processing him, she’d checked in as off duty with dispatch and took the elevator to the tenth-floor burglary squad room. Her friend, Detective Wayne Dixon, had offered to take a break so she could use his computer to do a search on Davis and Lacy and have her findings available for her meeting with Billy Able.
She yawned over the keyboard. Must be a buildup of the tranquilizers she’d taken over the last couple of weeks plus the effect of the ewe. Normally she would go home after a ten-hour night shift, but this was her best opportunity to demonstrate to Able that she was good partner material. There was one opening coming available on the homicide squad for a new hire. If she impressed Able, maybe he’d go to bat for her with Middlebrook.
In three clicks she found twenty links to articles written by blues enthusiasts along with YouTube videos of club performances from Red’s and Little Man’s five-year-old European tour. Wikipedia listed four albums under Red’s name. In the eighties, two of his songs made it into the top twenty of the R and B charts plus one crossover hit, “Burning Tree Blues.” A few other artists covered Red’s songs, so there had be royalties coming from publishing unless someone had managed to swindle him on his original contracts. She copied names to track the payments. If Red had family, the royalties would belong to them.
The archives for the New Orleans Times-Picayune carried a six-year-old profile on Davis and Lacy in the entertainment section. They had been mainstays in the Frenchmen Street entertainment district for years and were listed as regular players at the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival and the French Quarter Festival.
Searching further, she dug out an old crime-beat article that reported an aggravated assault charge naming Davis and Lacy as the victims. In addition to the assault, which had put both men in the hospital, there were charges of burglary and criminal damage to property that were brought against their assailant, William Cooley, aka Cool Willy. The notorious pimp had attacked Davis and Lacy in an alley outside a nightclub. He later entered their home, where he’d damaged property including their instruments.
Pulling up the name William Cooley on NCIC, the National Crime Information Center site, she found a history of arrests that began with shoplifting, assault, and solicitation of prostitution. Later he’d graduated to grand larceny and criminal assault. Yet Cooley’s activities had paid well enough to hire lawyers who’d limited his jail time.
Her bruised cheek tingled. She touched it. A few more keystrokes brought up an article dated a year after the original crime-beat report:
Orleans Parish prosecutors dismissed all charges against William Cooley, 27, accused of aggravated burglary and criminal damage to property in the beating case of Red Davis and Little Man Lacy. Instead of facing trial, Cooley, resident of Orleans Parish, was freed and the case closed at Orleans Parish Criminal District Court. District Attorney Armand “Bat” Bourque’s office issued a statement that charges had been dropped because Davis and Lacy, two well-regarded musicians from the New Orleans area, had not appeared for trial. “Victims must make themselves available to the court in order for us to prosecute an aggravated assault case,” Bourque said.
Davis and Lacy had left New Orleans, probably out of fear of reprisal from the pimp. Now they were dead.
Frankie clicked print and was standing to retrieve her reports just as she heard Wayne Dixon’s voice coming down the hall.
“It’s at my desk, Coral,” Wayne said. “There are a few things you might want—photos of Brad hamming it up in the squad room, articles he clipped about cases he’d handled, and several commendation plaques.”
Frankie froze. Coral McDaniel, Brad’s wife, was here.
Wayne turned the corner with a sweet-faced woman of medium height walking behind him. She was thick through the waist with cushy upper arms exposed by her sleeveless blouse. Her drab skirt cut her off below the knees. An unhealthy pink stained the bridge of her nose and spread across her cheeks. She looked nothing like the woman Frankie had imagined Brad would marry.
Frankie glanced down at a cardboard box full of plaques that had been shoved under Wayne’s desk. When she looked up, Coral was standing across from her, wearing the mildly shell-shocked expression every family member of a victim gets.
Frankie thought she might black out from the guilt.
“All done?” Wayne asked.
“All what?” Frankie asked numbly.
“Did you find what you needed?” He looked puzzled, then glanced from her to Coral. “Oh, sorry. You haven’t met Coral McDaniel. This is Officer Frankie Malone, a coworker of Brad’s.”
Frankie had heard the rumors about Brad taking his wife to league ball games where he would introduce her to his “women friends.” Coral must have known what he was up to and been humiliated by the snickers and sidelong looks.
“We were all stunned by Brad’s passing,” Frankie said, gathering her copies.
The sweetness had drained from Coral’s face. “Your name used to come up on Brad’s phone. He called you one night during dinner, said you were working together on a case.”
Detectives don’t call patrol cops about a case. Not from home. Not during dinner. Frankie was mortified. “I’ll be out of your way in a sec,” she said, projecting a calm she didn’t feel.
“I have a daughter.” Coral glared at her.
“A daughter!” Wayne’s gaze darted from Coral to her. “I didn’t realize. Did you know that, Frankie?”
“Not until recently.”
“That’s no excuse,” Coral snapped.
Frankie gulped.
Wayne, a perceptive man, instantly got the picture. “Sorry, ladies. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”
Frankie gathered her files and hustled toward the bathroom, the pressure in her chest blooming to the point of cutting off her air. She felt like she was dying. Or maybe she just wanted to die. She pushed through the door and ducked inside a stall.
Breathe, she ordered herself and pawed through her purse for the bottle of tranquilizers. Two pills rolled onto her palm. She downed both and took several deep breaths. Thank God she had the bathroom to herself. She needed time to pull it together before meeting with Billy.
The door whooshed open and thumped closed. Frankie heard a gasp then the tortured sound o
f air rasping into lungs. From under the door, she could see Coral McDaniel’s flat shoes standing beside the sink. The sobbing stretched out. No one came through the door to comfort Coral, and Frankie had no right to do so. She stood there, soaked in Coral’s pain, replaying Brad’s death in her mind as she had done every hour of every day for the last two and a half weeks.
She had escaped Brad and the hotel parking lot, her Jeep merging with the heavy I-40 traffic. Her face hurt like hell, her cheek swelling where Brad’s ring had cracked against the bone. Grimly she observed there was one small gain from Brad’s assault—their affair had ended before it really heated up.
She’d checked her rearview mirror and seen Brad’s black SUV booming up behind her. He passed her on the left then whipped in front of her, the sun sparking off his rear window as he tried to cut her off. She hit the brakes. He switched back to the left lane and dropped even with her window. She saw his mouth twisting with ugly words. Yelling, he waved his phone at her. He was furious that she’d turned hers off. Apparently, his ego couldn’t stand a woman being the first to walk away.
They were doing ninety as they approached the overpass. Frankie remembered because she’d glanced at the speedometer and let up on the gas. Brad floored the SUV and moved ahead of her into the shadow of the overpass. He pulled the same stunt, swerving into her lane, trying to make her stop, only this time he overcorrected. The SUV tilted right and went into a clockwise spin. The front bumper clipped the last support. They flashed from beneath the overpass, the SUV in a flip with its passenger-side door smashing onto the asphalt. It rolled and righted itself on the shoulder. She thought it was over until she looked in her side mirror and realized momentum had continued to roll the SUV. She saw back wheels spinning in the air as it disappeared down an embankment.
Frankie slammed to a stop, called 911, and gave the mile marker. Then she was out of her Jeep, running, running.
