The Gone Dead Train

by Lisa Turner

  “Big Jerry is setting up in front of Eel-Etc. Hold on. I’ll walk down the street.” Seconds passed. The interference lessened. “You know those photos from Red’s jacket? They were shot on Beale Street, some taken through the window of what’s now James Freeman’s offices.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Freeman’s offices are across the street from the museum. I was on the sidewalk after talking to Garrett. The setting clicked with me.”

  She tried to overlay what she knew of Beale Street onto the photographs. “I’ve walked that beat. I can’t see it.”

  “Most of the buildings have been demolished. You pegged the movie marquee. It’s the New Daisy Theatre.”

  He drew in a breath. She heard his exhaustion.

  “A friend of mine is on duty at the CJC,” he said. “He’ll get a summary of Freeman’s statement for me, and call when they’ve cut him loose. Freeman will want to check in at his office. I’ll pick up the photographs to verify the location. Then I’ll drop in on Freeman and ask a few questions.”

  “You’ve been through a hell of a shock. You might consider keeping your distance from Freeman. You’re both witnesses in a murder investigation.”

  “I’ll handle this,” he said sharply. “You’re meeting with Ramos today, right?”

  He’d changed the subject so abruptly she backed off. “In about thirty minutes. I’ll go in and push him to make a death curse. If he agrees, I’ll confront him with the curse from Red’s scene. He could be directly involved or he could have sold the curse to someone.” She checked the time. “I have to go.”

  “Hold on. Don’t move past his willingness to make the curse. Get the information and get out.”

  “I can handle a blind witch doctor.”

  “You don’t know his game.”

  “He doesn’t know mine. Besides, I carry a .22 Magnum pug in my handbag.” She ran her hand over a warm patch of sunlight on the duvet. “Billy, I’m sorry you lost your friend.”

  Frankie settled into the comfy pillows of the large wicker chair that faced Sergio Ramos’s desk. His office walls emanated a cool transparent green, a color found in many Cuban homes. Shelves of books behind his desk included works of psychology, anthropology, world religions, and West African cultures. The collection was no intellectual prop. After reading his Internet biography, she was convinced he was legitimate. He could no longer read, but he may have kept the books with the hope of regaining his sight. Or maybe he just loved his books.

  Ramos sat across the desk from her, wearing his dark glasses, a crisp navy shirt, and gray wool slacks. Looking at him, it was hard to believe this serene human being had the ability to concoct a spell that would drop a Santerían believer in his tracks.

  She used her real name when she filled out his patient questionnaire. Under occupation she’d written the word “security.” He asked her to read aloud the answers to questions that had stars beside them, personal information that mattered most in a therapy session.

  He gestured toward the window. “Beautiful day. Memphis is a good city, but I do miss the sound of the ocean.”

  He knew she’d grown up in Key West. This simpatico opening was meant to establish a connection.

  “I could hear the surf from my childhood home. When I got my own apartment, I had to stand on the toilet to look out a window and see the ocean.”

  He laughed. “The ocean views in Havana almost make up for the shortages of everything else.”

  She had chosen a scoop-necked, terra-cotta–colored shell that complemented her olive complexion; a pencil skirt; and beaded leather sandals, going for attractive without being obviously sexy. Almost out the door, she realized it didn’t matter what she wore—he couldn’t see. She went back to add a spritz of citrus cologne, the only feminine card she could play.

  “You used the salve,” he said.

  “I’m amazed. The bruise is almost gone.”

  “And the ewe?”

  “Not as successful.”

  “Change takes time.” He folded his hands, one on top of the other. “When we met, you mentioned having some problems.”

  She cleared her throat. After talking with Mystica, he would believe the bruise came from an abusive relationship. It was true. Brad had been emotionally abusive. And he’d hit her. She didn’t want to go into that, but she could give Ramos an experience from her past that would make the lie that followed all the more convincing.

  “I’m having flashbacks from a childhood incident,” she said. “I can’t make it stop.”

  “Tell me, please.”

  “My mother left when I was four. I had a nanny named Amitee. She introduced me to Santería.”

  He nodded. This was a world he understood.

  “Amitee and I went to the market every morning. A man spoke to her one day then followed us home. He did this several times over the next few weeks. At first he would sit in his car across the street. Then he began coming to the kitchen window and tapping the glass with his keys. He would bother her when she hung out the laundry. In that culture, the man would be considered a persistent admirer. Here we call them stalkers.”

  “Did she tell your father?”

  “My father had just fired the cook because he thought she’d stolen a necklace. Amitee was afraid he would fire her, too.” Frankie looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. “She didn’t want to leave me, so she tried to handle the situation on her own.”

  Ramos sat very still. She sensed his displeasure. “Go on.”

  “One day we came back to find the man inside the house, sitting in my father’s chair. He started to pull Amitee toward the bedroom. I tried to block the doorway, which was ridiculous. He could have broken my neck.”

  “You were brave and foolish. And loyal.”

  “He let go of Amitee and broke a lamp. Then he left.”

  “Did the police catch him?” he asked.

  “Amitee couldn’t call them. He was a white man.”

  Ramos’s mouth twitched with anger. “I understand.”

  “Amitee went to her santero for help. He made an ebbo of sweet cakes and fruit to persuade her orisha to protect her. He also made a curse of eggshell, coal, rock salt, guinea pepper, and wasp nest to drive the man away.”

  Sergio blinked at her description.

  “You’re familiar with that curse?” she asked.

  “I am.”

  “It didn’t work. The santero sacrificed chickens, pigeons, and a lamb. That didn’t work, either.” Frankie let her gaze drift to the window. She hadn’t realized telling the story would bring up so much pain.

  “Amitee came to work one morning with a scarf wrapped around her neck. It was a hot day. When I asked about the scarf, she showed me bruises where the man had choked her.”

  “I’m surprised her santero wasn’t more effective.”

  “He was, in the end. He made a spell using a pumpkin leaf, ashes, a handkerchief the man had dropped, and a circle of paper with his name written on it. Amitee petitioned the patron saint Oshun to turn the man’s life to ashes. Then she buried the curse in the ground.”

  “That’s a powerful spell.”

  “The man ate roasted pork at a party. He got sick. No one else at the party got sick. He died a week later.”

  “Did you tell your father about this?”

  She shook her head. “I was afraid he would fire Amitee. She changed after that. She believed the dead man was going to come for her. She kept the doors locked. One day she caught me walking home from school with a boy. She slapped me and dragged me into the house. I was eight.” Frankie shifted in her chair. “A month later she had a heart attack and died.”

  “I’m sorry you lost your friend.”

  She’d just said those words to Billy. I’m sorry you lost your friend. For a moment she felt herself sinking once again into the vacuum of Amitee’s decline.

  After losing Amitee, she had avoided becoming close with anyone. Her father, a scientist, drummed into her the impor
tance of being precise. Being right was better than having friends, he’d say. Being right was better than winning. She preferred to be right and to win. Brad had somehow gotten under that shield. Sadly, no one had won.

  She cleared her throat. “History is repeating itself. A man I met at a party has been stalking me for months. I ignored him and then confronted him. He slashed my tires and kicked in my door. He says he can have me anytime he wants.”

  “You’ve reported this to the authorities?”

  “He’s a policeman. He’s well regarded on the force.”

  Ramos straightened, taken by surprise.

  “If I report him, he may kill me,” she said.

  “And you’ve come to me for help.”

  “Leaving town seemed to be my only option. Then Mystica told me about you. I remembered the santero’s spell. The death curse.”

  “You believe the spell killed Amitee’s stalker?”

  “Don’t you?”

  He glanced away. “What makes you think I would do this thing for you?”

  “Because you can stop this man from hurting me.”

  “You’re asking me to harm this person,” he said softly.

  “Before he harms me.”

  He regarded her through dark glasses. “I regret to say I don’t believe this story about the stalker. I hear little conviction in your voice and no fear. Yet I know you’re very upset. You can barely suppress your anxiety. Someone you cared about died recently in an accident. You blame yourself. I’m willing to help you with that.”

  Sunlight shifted in the window. The room seemed to fill with the scent of the bougainvillea that had draped her porch in Key West. She tried not to react.

  How did he know about the accident?

  “I’ve asked you to make a spell or a curse, whatever it takes, to stop this man.”

  He steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips. “Death curses have unintended consequences. You saw what happened to Amitee.”

  She stood, suddenly feeling out of her depth. What made her think she could fool a santero? “Is there anyone else in the city who will help me?”

  “No, there isn’t. And I’m sorry, but I won’t discuss the matter further. I’m afraid our time is at an end. If you wish to make another appointment, we’ll explore your anxiety about the accident.”

  She walked out, leaving the book tucked under a pillow in the wicker chair.

  Chapter 29

  The black architectural awnings gave Freeman’s ordinary building a contemporary edge. A shopkeeper’s bell rang as Billy walked in. James Freeman was standing among empty desks with his back to the door, speaking with a young man and woman who were listening with rapt attention. Freeman turned at the sound of the bell, his smile shutting down as he recognized Billy. Freeman’s staff frowned at him from around Freeman’s back, then marched to offices at the rear of the building. Their doors closed, then the guy’s door popped back open. Billy figured he must appear to be a threat.

  According to the County Register of Deeds, James Freeman Sr. had owned this building and had run a small neighborhood bar during the sixties. After his death, a drugstore with a lunch counter took over the property. Soon after, urban renewal rolled through and flattened most of the historic structures on Beale, creating a ghost town. The building stood empty until Freeman Jr. bought it and opened his real estate offices.

  Apparently, Freeman had gone home to shower and change into jeans and a starched shirt. Only the bags under his eyes betrayed the trauma of discovering Augie’s battered body and the exhaustion he must be feeling from hours at the CJC, reliving every detail of the scene.

  “How did you know I’d be here?” Freeman asked.

  The only way to handle Freeman was by being direct. “I’m a cop. I know shit. I’m going after Augie’s killer. I need your help.”

  “You should’ve thought of that before you hog-tied me to the oven door.”

  “There was a dead body in the room. That’s the drill. And Dunsford—”

  “I know. Dunsford is a sloppy cop.” Freeman looked off, looked back. “Why ask me for help when you think I killed Augie?”

  “Because the ladies in your apartment backed your story.”

  “You believe my lady friend and her sister? Just like that?”

  “They have credibility. Linda Orsburn is the widow of the former Tennessee attorney general. Both women flew in from London last night. The sister says she watched TV all night. She reeled off the plot of every show on late-night HBO. Apparently, you snore, so she’s willing to swear to your location. The department will run background checks on both ladies, but for now Middlebrook is taking their word.”

  Freeman folded his arms over his chest. “That’s right, I’m in the clear. What about you?”

  He didn’t like Freeman turning the tables. “The DeVoy security videos show I arrived at seven forty-five this morning.”

  “That may be true, but I can’t verify it. The cops confiscated the equipment. Where you were last night? All night.”

  “Home alone.”

  “Tell me again about the fight you had with Augie.”

  “He hit his head. I tried to help him. He busted me in the chops and took off. That was the last time I saw him until this morning.”

  “Augie told a different story. Now he’s dead. That’s suspicious as hell.”

  Down the street, Big Jerry’s voice rang over the cheap mike. The tourists loved it, but the tinny sound was giving Billy a headache. And he didn’t like to be pushed.

  “What happened between Augie and me was personal, so get off my ass. Let’s work together and find out who did this.”

  Freeman laughed. “So now you’re the good guy, someone I can count on. That’s bullshit. I’ve been screwed by cops before, just like my dad.”

  Augie pegged it. Freeman’s hatred of cops was tied to his father. A kid losing a parent makes him bitter. Billy understood that.

  “I’m sorry about your dad, but that doesn’t make me a murderer.”

  Freeman searched his face, shook his head. “I don’t know.” He walked to a vintage Coca-Cola machine next to the door, dropped in a dime, and pulled the lever. A petite bottle plopped behind the door. He snapped off the metal cap and took a swig. “Ice cold. Nothing better.” He dropped another dime into the machine and looked at Billy. “Buy you a Coke?”

  “No thanks.”

  Freeman pulled the lever, popped off the cap and offered it. “Go on. It’s been a rough day.”

  The Coke was a gesture, a peace offering. They drank their Cokes and watched through the storefront window as tourists filed in and out of the museum across the street.

  “As I was leaving Augie’s place, I saw two coffees and a bag of biscuits in the entry,” Freeman said. “You know about that?”

  “I brought the coffee and biscuits.”

  “I heard you calling out when I was in the back of the apartment. What were you saying?”

  Billy looked over. “Where’s this going?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  His mind flashed to the opened door and the painting knocked off-kilter on the wall. He’d drawn his weapon. The image of Augie’s corpse flared in his mind.

  “I yelled Augie’s name.”

  “You yelled it three times.”

  “I don’t recall.”

  Freeman glanced over, then looked down, taking his time weighing the answers. “A smart cop might bring a cup of take-out coffee to the man he’d murdered as a way to cover his ass. But he wouldn’t stand around yelling the victim’s name if he thought he was alone. You didn’t know I was in the apartment. You were so surprised when I walked into the kitchen, you almost shot me. But what I remember most was the way you examined the body. Nobody can fake that kind of grief and outrage.

  “Bottom line, take-out coffee doesn’t prove you’re not the killer. But it’s enough to make me step back for now.” He looked at his watch. “I have a meeting that starts in twenty-five minu
tes. If you came here to ask questions, you’d better get to it.”

  Billy knew if he tried to bully Freeman he’d never get the straight of it. This was Freeman’s game for now. Twenty-five minutes. He took out his memo book.

  “Did Dunsford question you about Augie’s eBay business?”

  “Funny thing. He knew all about Augie’s memorabilia collection. He’s a NASCAR fan and bought slides off Augie’s site a couple of months ago.”

  He made a note, surprised that Dunsford had an interest in collecting anything besides a paycheck.

  “He asked if buyers came to the apartment,” Freeman added.

  “Did they?”

  “Not that I’ve seen, but I’m gone all day.”

  “What else?”

  “He asked how you and I know each other. I told him we’d met at Bardog a few days ago.”

  Billy knew Dunsford was opening the door for questions later about a murder conspiracy, a good strategy on his part. He needed to remember that Dunsford might not be as dumb as he let on.

  “Anything else?” he asked, and kept writing.

  “The ME told Dunsford the goose egg on Augie’s forehead happened before the attack in his apartment. Dunsford wanted to know what I knew about it. That brought the fight between you and Augie into the conversation.”

  “And you said . . .”

  Freeman spread his hands in front of him. “Exactly what Augie told me. That you said, ‘This isn’t over.’”

  Oh, shit. He had said that. In this context, it sounded like a threat, which would be hard to explain without going into the missing photo.

  “I also told him Augie was planning to work on the manuscript this morning, and it’s now missing. He made notes, but he didn’t follow up.”

  “What did you say about the journalist?”

  Freeman shrugged. “Wasn’t much I could say.” A line rang on the desk. “That’s the client I’m meeting. I need to get it.” He picked up.

  The break gave Billy time to jot down some notes about possible suspects.

  I got business to handle. Augie had made that statement as his phone rang and he walked away. It was a critical point. The caller could have been a buyer, or it could’ve been the journalist or a drug dealer. Whoever it was, the caller’s number was recorded on Augie’s phone. If the caller was also the killer, he was organized enough to steal the phone in an attempt to conceal his identity. Same thing with the computer. But the manuscript had been stolen, too. A drug dealer wouldn’t give a damn about the manuscript, but a buyer might mistake it for a memoir and think it had market value. If the journalist was the killer, he would definitely have taken the manuscript.