by Lisa Turner
In the bathroom she heard Coral blow her nose and the sink water running. The door opened and closed. She sucked in a shaky breath, aware that the meds were already filtering into her bloodstream. She felt detached, a little fuzzy headed. She’d never taken two pills at one time. Stupid thing to do. Billy was waiting for her call.
She stumbled out of the stall to the sink to splash water on her face. The woman who stared back at her in the mirror looked glassy eyed and unreliable. And unbruised.
Overnight, the bruise on her cheek had almost disappeared.
Chapter 20
Billy’s mobile rang as the elevator doors opened onto the CJC’s mezzanine floor.
“Where do you want to meet?” he said to Frankie, as he walked along the mezzanine railing. Below him people crowded the atrium, waiting for their court cases to be called.
“Something’s come up,” she said.
She sounded off her feet. A ten-hour night shift takes it out of you.
“You hungry? How about if you do what you have to do, and we’ll meet at the Arcade. I have photos to show you.”
“I can’t. A friend had surgery and I may have to stay with her.”
A kid ran through the atrium, screeching his head off. The sound bounced off the ceiling and fed back over the phone.
“Can’t we—”
“It’ll have to wait,” she said, cutting him off.
A woman from below laughed and clapped her hands. He looked down as the echo amplified over the phone. Suddenly Frankie came into view, walking quickly away from the stairwell door and through the crowd, her phone to her ear.
“Where are you?” he asked, incredulous.
“At the Baptist East Hospital in the lobby. I’m about to take an elevator.”
The elevator in the atrium binged. The doors opened, and people maneuvered their way out. The last person was a heavyset woman, her arms wrapped around a cardboard box. She glanced about as if uncertain of which way to go. Frankie, almost to the bank of elevators, stopped dead, as if poleaxed by the sight of the woman with the box.
“Hold on,” she whispered and stepped behind a concrete pillar. The woman, casting about, got her bearings and made her way toward the main exit. She stopped briefly to speak to Dave Jansen, a detective Billy knew from the burglary squad.
Frankie peered from behind the column, tracking the woman’s progress. Not only was she lying to him, she was acting weird as hell.
“Sorry to leave you hanging,” she said in a husky voice.
“How about giving me a quick rundown on what you found on Davis and Lucy. We can get into the details later.”
“I’ll have to get back with you. Bye.” She ducked from behind the pillar and headed for the back exit.
Mystified, he took out a pad and made a note of Jansen’s name.
Chapter 21
The curved awning that shaded the Rock of Ages Funeral Home entrance rippled in the breeze as Billy pulled into the parking lot. Back in Memphis two days, he’d split with Mercy, Red and Little Man were dead, and Augie had dropped an unsolvable mystery in his lap concerning his mother’s death. It hadn’t been much of a vacation.
A couple of years ago he’d noticed a pair of high heels in a downtown crosswalk positioned as if the woman who’d been wearing them had stepped off the curb and was snatched away. He’d considered whether the Rapture had taken her, her shoes being the only parts of her that remained. He felt the same befuddlement now, as if cosmic forces were at work and he had not properly studied for the test.
Augie’s messages asked him to come to the casket room, where he’d be making arrangements for Davis and Lucy. The only funeral arrangements Billy had ever made were for his uncle Kane, the man who’d raised him after his mother’s car crash. Billy worked in his uncle’s Mississippi roadside diner after school until he’d left for Ole Miss, graduating with a degree in criminal justice. At his uncle’s urging, he’d entered law school.
After one semester, he’d known drafting briefs and representing creeps would not be his life’s passion. An early brush with injustice and racism in a case concerning the murder of two little black girls had compelled him to become a cop. He wanted a career hunting down the bad guys. The last conversation he had with his uncle Kane was on the day he’d left law school and signed up for police academy training. His uncle never forgave him for failing to raise the family’s standards by becoming a professional. Billy made a decision about what was right for his life that resulted in the last living member of his family cutting him off. He never had a chance to see his uncle again.
Walking down the hall, Augie’s high-octane voice jarred against the mortuary’s padded silence and guided Billy to the room full of backlit caskets. He found Augie talking with an angular young man in an ill-fitting suit and narrow glasses, who was scribbling on a clipboard. Augie flung his hand toward the heavy-gauge copper burial box that was showcased in the center of the room. Only the slight upcurve of the young man’s mouth betrayed his pleasure at having such a big fish on the line. The copper casket would easily run eight thousand.
“Write it down,” Augie said and jabbed the man’s pad with his finger. He knocked the pad to the floor, swept it up, and handed it back. “Go on, write it, write it. I want forty dozen red roses. Not the cheap kind—long-stem, first-class.” Augie’s lips drew back in an exaggerated grin, his eyes blinking. He wore a suit jacket and faded shorts that had a rip in the seat the size of a fist. His neon-orange flip-flops screamed against the room’s quiet setting.
Before leaving the barge that morning, Billy had read that the effectiveness of antipsychotics could decline over time and trigger a return of psychosis. At first he’d accepted that as a reason for Augie’s behavior, but then changed his mind. It was more likely that Augie had dropped his meds, ignoring the paranoia and manic swings, in order to have the energy to investigate his mother’s death. Yesterday he’d nearly trampled those kids. Today he looked like a madman. He was going to get hurt or hurt someone else if he didn’t straighten up.
Inspecting the casket was an older man Billy recognized—Sid Garrett, a longtime civil rights trial lawyer and social activist. Used to the limelight, Garrett commanded attention with his silvery hair, swept back from his face, and a profile like the painting of George Washington crossing the Delaware. He’d written a New York Times best seller about the civil rights struggle, detailing the underhanded tactics J. Edgar Hoover had used against the movement’s leaders. During his TV book tour, Garrett’s skillful manipulation of other guests had turned his flyby interviews into regular commentary slots on the political talk show circuit.
Billy had first come into contact with Sid Garrett as a patrol cop when he’d been dispatched to a downtown parking lot for shots fired. He found Garrett lying facedown on the sidewalk with a bullet in his back. The shooter, a suicidal client, was sitting in a nearby car, a gun in his hand and the back of his head blown off.
The bullet in Garrett’s spine left him with a pronounced limp and in constant pain. After recovering, he’d retired from his civil rights law practice and opened a refuge for homeless men with addiction issues. Garrett had dedicated Robert House to the memory of his older brother, Robert Garrett, who had been martyred during the civil rights upheaval.
Billy was aware of two muscular young men standing in the corner, watching Garrett with the intensity of Dobermans. After barely surviving the shooting, Garrett had recruited residents from the shelter’s roster and trained them to watch his back. Hiring bodyguards was extreme, but it was Garrett’s way of dealing with the trauma of being shot. He certainly had the bucks to pay for it.
Augie grabbed Billy’s hand and began pumping it at an alarming rate. “Good to see you. We’re going to miss those two guys, huh?” he said, overbright and grinning. “Did you see the caskets we’ve picked out? Pieces of art.”
Garrett, leaning heavily on a cane, angled himself between Billy and Augie as a way to prevent Billy’s hand from being wrung off.
“Detective Able,” Garrett said. “Pleasure to see you under better circumstances. The last time we met, I believe I was facedown on concrete.” The corners of his mouth lifted, his dry wit covering his pain.
“I’m glad to see you’ve recovered, sir.”
“Thank you, Detective. But this is a sadder story. Davis and Lacy lived at the shelter for a time. Fine men. Such a loss. I wanted to give Augie a hand with the arrangements.”
“I’m curious. Are you aware of any problems Red or Little Man might have had with your residents?” Billy asked.
Garrett frowned. “Why? Is there a question concerning their manner of death?”
Typical defense lawyer. Garrett didn’t like a cop asking questions about his residents.
He gave Garrett a disarming smile. “I just wondered why they would leave a clean bed and three squares a day at Robert House. Your shelter has a first-rate reputation.”
“Our sobriety rule may have played into their decision.” Garrett’s closed expression told Billy that if he wanted more answers, he’d have to get them himself.
The funeral director hovered nearby. “Mr. Poston, we have a fine selection of burial suits. Or are you bringing clothes for the deceased?”
“Tuxedoes,” Augie blurted out. “We’ll suit the guys up like Fred Astaire.”
Garrett stole a glance at Billy.
“I’m sure they would appreciate this amazing send-off,” Billy said, “but the New Orleans Musicians Relief Fund could sure use a hand. Have you considered picking less expensive caskets?”
Augie’s euphoria evaporated. “We could play canned music. Bury the guys in pine boxes. Shit, man. I can afford ten of those copper caskets and still cover the musicians fund for a year.”
Billy bit back a response and went for humor. “Okay, Augie, it’s your funeral. By the way, I have some information for you. Let’s find a quiet place to talk.”
“Sure. Great. I’m about finished here.”
“Go ahead,” Garrett said with a subtle nod. “I’ll take care of the suits.”
Chapter 22
They found a sitting room awash in the rose-colored lighting that funeral homes use to flatter the dearly departed. Augie dropped into a wingback chair. His fingers compulsively brushed the face of one of his favorite watches—a vintage Bulova with a bright green band, its inner workings visible through the crystal.
Augie had always been meticulous about hygiene. Today his hair hung in greasy strands from under his cap, and he smelled like onions and dirty socks. He was definitely deteriorating. This conversation needed to be quick and gentle.
“We’re dealing with two pertinent pieces of the physical evidence in your mom’s case,” Billy began. “There’s the wire inside the gas tank, and there’s the split fuel line. Either one could have caused the explosion.”
“I know that,” Augie said.
“Let’s start with the wire. Number one. A screwup on the assembly line could have put the wire in the tank, but that’s not likely. Number two. Someone dropped the wire in the tank and left part of it dangling outside to intimidate her. It’s an old trick. Gangs still use it to make their target believe a car is booby-trapped. Number three. Someone ran the wire from the brake lights to the tank. Hit the brakes, the lights spark, the tank blows. Detective Travis specifically searched for evidence of the wire running to the tank. He found none.”
“I don’t believe that,” Augie said.
“Let’s keep moving and talk about the ruptured gas line. Any part of that Pontiac’s fuel system could’ve been defective, caused the explosion, and split the line. Or the line could have split and blown the fuel system. Unfortunately, the fire destroyed the chassis, so we’ll never know. There’s no definitive proof that someone intentionally tried to kill your mother. I combed through that file. Let me repeat, there is no proof. If your journalist friend says there is, he’s playing you.”
“By that you mean he’s after money.” Augie’s tone had turned poisonous.
“Try cutting off the money, see what you get.”
“My guy has more evidence. I’ve seen it.”
“Is it evidence about the fire or is it about your mom’s politics?”
Augie puffed up. “Tell me this. If a white woman were barbecued on the front seat of her car, you think the cops would close the case after a week?”
That set him back a notch. If Red had been a white man, Dunsford would have handled the scene quite differently.
“Travis was a top investigator,” he said. “After King’s assassination, the brass might have tried to pressure him into fast-tracking the case, but the ME’s conclusion would have been the same. There was no other way to rule it—accident due to mechanical failure.”
He watched Augie shut down, disappear inside himself. No doubt he’d heard insults and racial slurs thrown at his mom when he was a kid. He’d been powerless to do anything at the time. But he wasn’t a kid now.
“You fucker,” Augie muttered, coming back to himself. He turned a mean eye on Billy. “You’re with them, aren’t you?”
“I’m not with anyone. All I can do is interpret the contents of the file. I can’t interview the principles in the case; they’re all dead.” His mobile rang. He checked the screen. It was Frankie.
“My guy says there’s more,” Augie barked, and thumped his fist on the chair’s upholstered arm.
Billy was getting annoyed, and he didn’t have the patience to watch Augie unravel again. “I need to take this,” he said and strode down the hall to the rear entrance.
When he stepped outside, the heat hit him like exhaust out of the backside of a bus. He answered the call. “How’s your sick friend?” He heard the slight intake of Frankie’s breath.
“She’s better. I’ve got information from New Orleans. When can we meet?” Her voice had a strange burr to it. He thought about the way she’d skulked behind the pillar, looking panicked.
“Come to the barge in a couple of hours. Call me when you get there.”
They hung up. He was still pissed about her lying, even if she had a reason. Maybe she wanted to come by to explain. Still, she’d lied.
A black limousine pulled to a stop under the awning. A young woman with cappuccino-colored skin slipped out of the rear door. She wore a cream-colored suit with a brimmed hat pulled low so all he caught was a glimpse of high cheekbones, a slant of almond-shaped eye, and the corner of a rich mouth.
The woman spoke with the driver then moved up the walk with the fluidity of youth, entering the mortuary, seeming to be oblivious to his presence. She brought to mind Mercy’s lean, graceful body.
Then it hit him. The question he hadn’t wanted to face. Was Mercy in love with another man? He squinted in the sun, the awning lifting in the breeze, the crape myrtles fanning themselves. Even the shadow of a possibility of another man irked him. He’d watched his mother walk out on him. His uncle Kane had cut him off. Lou committed suicide and left the job of discovering the body to him. Now Mercy. Had she betrayed him, too?
The last thing he wanted to do was deal with Augie, but there was no way around it. He followed the young woman inside and tracked down Augie, standing with Garrett among rows of folding chairs in a quietly formal viewing room. A tea table stood in the middle of the room with a caddie of china cups and a silver samovar for tea. Augie was waving a card about as he spoke to Garrett. Garrett was attempting to catch a glimpse of it, even reaching out to take the card as Augie slipped it into his pocket. Irritation flashed over Garrett’s face. It was probably a quote Augie had requested of the astronomical funeral costs. Garrett may have let himself get roped into splitting them, not knowing what he was in for. It’s always a risk to volunteer.
“Augie, I need to speak with you,” Billy said as he walked in.
Garrett’s expression neutralized the moment he realized they had an audience, but it was obvious he was still upset. His hand went to his silver hair, smoothing back the swoop from his forehead. “I
must leave you now. I’ve called in a favor to get a mention on the next CBS’s Sunday Morning’s hail and farewell list.” Giving Billy a nod on his way out, he left.
Augie stood among the rows of chairs, shifting his weight side to side, his pupils jittering like an electrical storm was crackling through his brain. Billy knew this was a bad time to approach Augie, but he had to say his piece.
“You’re off your meds. Don’t deny it, because I know you are. It’s a bad decision for you and everyone associated with you.”
Augie’s mouth jerked. “You’re wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.”
“Remember how you wrecked my truck? You almost went to jail. You promised me that you’d never drop off again.”
“You bastard,” Augie yelled. He kicked out, sending a chair flying into the wall. He kicked a second chair that closed on his foot and hopped until he flung it into the tea table, the samovar and teacups crashing to the floor.
“You searched my place! You stripped my bed, tore up my garbage,” Augie wailed. “You’re one of them.” He regained his balance and dropped into an aggressive stance, teeth bared as if ready to attack.
Billy raised his fists. “You crazy jerk. Come at me and I’ll knock your nutty ass into next week.”
“Gentlemen,” Sid Garrett barked from the doorway.
Augie wheeled to Garrett and pointed at Billy. “Throw this asshole out of the building. We can’t trust him.”
Garrett blinked with surprise, taking in the smashed table and teacups. He looked past Augie to Billy, expecting an explanation.
Billy threw up his hands and trudged by Garrett. “I’ve had it. Get a bucket of ice water and stick this lunatic’s head in it.”
As he passed the director’s office, he noticed the young woman in the cream-colored suit now seated at the director’s desk, her legs crossed and her head bowed beneath the hat.
The director was leaning forward, patting her hand.
