by Lisa Turner
He wrote “journalist” at the top of the list and circled it.
Any one of the three could’ve grabbed the watches and other things around the apartment, either to sell or to make the murder look like a burglary.
Next, he focused on Garrett’s drug theory. If the techs had found evidence of street drugs around Augie’s place, Dunsford would have questioned Freeman about it.
Freeman hung up. “We done here?”
“Not quite. Augie’s been really manic. I assumed he’d dropped off his meds. He’s done it before. Garrett had a different take. He brought up street drugs.”
“Where did that come from?”
“Garrett sees a lot of drug-related behavior at Robert House, so his opinion has some merit. Did Dunsford ask you if Augie was doing drugs?”
Freeman rubbed his jaw. “They had me look through mug shots for anyone who’d been hanging around the building. Maybe they were looking for dealers.” Freeman stared at the floor. “It doesn’t make sense. Augie hated drugs.”
“I didn’t buy it either until I thought about his obsession with his mother’s death. The antipsychotics made him foggy-headed. He might have added some combination of speed or meth for a boost. Augie was so wired last night, if a dealer showed up, they could have gotten crosswise.”
“I assume the medical examiner will test for drugs,” Freeman said. “That should put the question to rest.”
“A tox screen takes three to four weeks. Think hard. Did you notice evidence of drug use in Augie’s place? I’d like to rule the possibility in or out.”
“No drugs,” Freeman said and checked his watch. “We’re down to five minutes.”
Billy pulled out the stack of surveillance photos. “When you looked at these the other night, you knew they were taken on Beale Street.”
Freeman raised a hand. “Now you’re talking about Red and Little Man. I’m not getting into that. Garrett knows more about those times. His brother was a civil rights worker.”
“Augie stole one of the photos.”
“Can’t help you there,” Freeman said, stone-faced.
“Did he show it to you?”
“Tell you what. I’ll answer that question when you tell me the real reason you had a fight with Augie.”
“That’s not up for discussion.”
Freeman called over his shoulder to the back office. “Diana, pack up the topo and spread sheets on the Moser property.” He turned a professional smile on Billy. “You’re right, Detective. Time to move on.”
Billy shrugged. All right, you son of a bitch. I’ll give you the story.
He told Freeman about Augie making an ass of himself at the ballpark and taking a swing at the kid in the street. He gave every detail of the fight. It sounded so pool hall parking lot—the name-calling, broken bottles, a friend busting up a friend over nothing. He felt ashamed just talking about it.
“I told Augie he’d be banned from the ballpark. I called him a waste of skin.”
Freeman’s eyebrows went up. “That’s cold.”
“It’s the reason I went to his place this morning. I wanted to check on him and apologize.”
“And get the photo.”
“Right. Where is it?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“Damn it, Freeman.”
“What can I say? Augie told me about the photo. He knew you’d figure out he’d taken it.” He looked at Billy full on. “Did you go to Augie’s place last night?”
“No. And the security tapes will prove that.”
Freeman grunted, stared at the ceiling, thinking. “Which entrance did you come in this morning?”
“The lobby. Why?”
“What about the back entrance?”
“What’s the difference? You have cameras on both.”
Freeman nodded as if he’d made a decision. “We both know Dunsford isn’t smart enough to catch this bastard.”
“Not unless the guy walks into the station house and confesses.”
“I’ll work with you, but I won’t trust you.”
“Not very flattering, but I’ll go with it.”
“Diana,” Freeman yelled. “Cancel that appointment.” He waved at a chair beside the desk. “Have a seat, Detective. I’m going to give you something. It may be true, or it may not. But I don’t think you’ll hear it anywhere else.”
Chapter 30
Billy left Freeman’s office and walked over to 757 Kentucky Street, his uncle Kane’s favorite train-watching spot. In the seventies, you could see the Rock Island, Frisco, Illinois Central, Cotton Belt, Southern, Louisville & Nashville, and Missouri Pacific roll by, all in this one location. Now it was empty tracks and a ROAD CLOSED sign attached to the crossing bars.
Trains had romanced his uncle. Tracks cut through the cotton fields four hundred feet behind Kane’s Kanteen, his uncle’s roadside diner on a barren stretch of highway in Mississippi. His uncle would stand on the back stoop between the breakfast and lunch shifts, smoke curling from the cigarette tucked between his fingers, his eyes following the trains like they were beautiful women swaying down the tracks. He’d talk about the day he would book sleeper service on Amtrak’s The City of New Orleans. He wanted to ride in the observation car, drink good scotch, and eat a New York strip steak at a table covered with a starched white cloth. He wanted to ride to Chicago, turn around, and ride back. That was his dream.
It never happened. A kid with a shaky hand who’d never meant to shoot nobody killed his uncle while he’d been making change behind the cash register.
Billy had a cop’s view of trains, very different from his uncle’s sentiment. Trains take out dogs, cows, and witless drivers. Drunks stumble onto the tracks in the middle of the night and get mangled. Suicides lie down and wait for the engine to cut their bodies in half. There’s nothing romantic about trains for a cop. Trains take people away.
He questioned how he’d handled himself today. A cop works a bad scene, he waits until the shift is over and goes someplace to lose his shit. He’s no good to anyone if he can’t control his emotions. Billy knew that from experience. When the flashbacks come, you think of something else.
Today was different. Augie’s death was going to shadow him for a long, long time.
The sound of tires popping on gravel pulled him out of his thoughts. Frankie got out of her Jeep, wearing a skirt and sandals. She walked over to stand beside him.
“Thanks for picking me up,” he said. “It’s a long, hot walk back to my car.” He turned his head so she could see his swollen lip. He thought his banged-up face would be the start of her questions, but she made no comment.
“I was coming from my appointment with Ramos when you called.”
“How did it go?”
“I asked him to make a death curse to scare off a stalker who was going to kill me. He didn’t buy it. But he confirmed that he was the only person in the city who could make that kind of curse. The session ended before I could get more.”
“Sounds like it’s time for me to have a talk with Dr. Voodoo.”
She shook her head. “No, sir. This is my source. He’ll call into the precinct if you show up and try to push him. That’s the last thing we need. I’ve planted an excuse to stop by so I can get another look around.”
He felt her gaze on the side of his face. She nodded at his lip. “You want to talk about that?”
A hatch of sparrows circled above the tracks then dropped into the switch grass beside the gravel. Hell no, he didn’t want to talk about it. But she deserved to hear it. She was hanging out with a possible murder suspect. He’d be cleared of that tomorrow, but if somehow the shit got deep, it would get deep for her, too.
He told her all of it, starting with the fight at the ballpark. Disappointment was the biggest part of it, in himself and in Augie. He couldn’t get past the fact that Augie had taken a swing at a kid.
Frankie listened until he was finished, her gaze fixed on the red-and-white railroad crossing bars in fron
t of them. “You were trying to help a friend.”
“Not really. I was angry. I provoked him. Augie deserved better.”
Her expression clouded. “Cops are trained to deal with people at their worst. When it’s a person we care about, training goes out the window. We make mistakes.”
He glanced over. She’d gone pale. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He didn’t prod. Taking the bruise into account, he assumed she’d had a rough time with somebody recently. Proof of damage. He couldn’t let her see how well he understood.
“What’s your next move?” she asked.
“I have to figure that out. Want to help?”
She dipped her head in agreement.
They covered Freeman’s interview with Dunsford. Billy talked about Dahlia Poston and how Augie had witnessed the fire.
“Crap,” she said. “No wonder he went off his rocker.”
“Augie believed she was murdered. He tried to tell me there was more information, but I wasn’t listening. Freeman filled in the blanks today.
“Augie told him that this journalist has obtained documents from the Justice Department through the Freedom of Information Act. It reveals FBI activity in Memphis during the garbage strike and after King’s assassination. Augie’s mother’s name appeared in those documents.”
“Jesus,” she said.
“Dr. King was leading a protest march down Beale Street in support of the garbage workers when it turned violent—rock throwing, looting. Someone flagged down a woman who was driving by and commandeered her car to take Dr. King to the Lorraine Motel. Because of the riot, they couldn’t get to the Lorraine, so a motorcycle cop directed them to the Rivermont, a posh hotel that used to be on the crest of the south bluff. You won’t remember the Rivermont. It’s condos now.
“The woman driving the car was Dahlia Poston. The motorcycle cop took down her license plate number and gave it to an agent. The FBI made the assumption that she worked for King or was his girlfriend. Dahlia Poston had never met Dr. King. Her involvement that day was a coincidence.
“Nothing came of it until King was assassinated. Soon after, the FBI showed up at the Postons’ house with questions about Dahlia’s relationship with Dr. King. Her car blew up not long after that.”
“Why would the FBI bother the Postons?”
“King was a married man, but he liked the ladies. The agents were looking at jealous husbands as the possible shooter. They spoke with every woman who had even the slightest connection to Dr. King. Dahlia Poston was on that list.
“The bureau had a black eye over the assassination. It was no secret that Hoover despised Dr. King and thought he was stirring up militants. A segment of the population believed the bureau was involved. Three thousand agents worked overtime to solve his murder. They wanted to get it behind them. Augie believed his parents were swept up in the manhunt.”
“Can you verify this?”
“It takes time. A FOIA request takes a minimum of a month. A warrant might speed things up, but I have no standing. This information could be solid or a con created by the journalist to keep Augie on the hook for money.”
The heat of the day had coalesced around them, stealing the air. He took a breath. “A couple of weeks after King’s assassination, Time magazine called Memphis a southern backwater. As one reporter put it, ‘Blacks and women got their say. White men in suits got their way.’ Not much has changed.”
“What’s this journalist’s name?” Frankie asked.
“Augie refused to tell Freeman or me. Without his phone or computer, we’re hamstrung until Dunsford subpoenas the records. When I go in tomorrow to give my statement, I’ll ask Middlebrook if he can fast-track my reinstatement. Working from the inside, I’ll be able to speed things up.”
She thought for several seconds. “I’d like to start with some basic questions about Augie.” She went to the Jeep and returned with a memo book. “A very smart cop once said that murder is about sex, money, or revenge. If you can’t see one of those, you aren’t looking hard enough, because it’s there. Did Augie have a jealous girlfriend? Was he sleeping with someone’s wife?”
“No women,” he said.
“How about revenge, like a teammate holding a grudge.”
“Augie hasn’t seen those guys in years. I smell a dead end.”
She nodded. “Okay. Let’s talk about money. Augie loaned Red two thousand dollars. The night we saw Red, he couldn’t rub two quarters together. He was scared, and he was running. Maybe he gambled and got in over his head. After Red died, whoever went after him might have gone after Augie.”
“Bookies don’t kill their marks. They break knees. Augie had the hell beat out of him. This was personal.”
Frankie rolled her eyes. “I guess so, but Red should never have borrowed money. Personal loans always lead to trouble.”
Growing up in Mississippi, Billy knew where Red was coming from, what he had endured. Red knew more about loan trouble than Frankie ever would. But Red had fought his way out. Billy remembered a press photo from Red’s 1998 European tour—Red dressed in a silk suit with diamond cuff links, his shiny black hair swept back. The set of his jaw told the story. Red knew who he was back then. He had a place in the world.
That slick promotional photo was very different from the pack of photos in Red’s jacket. After talking with Freeman, he’d begun to wonder if those photos were somehow connected to Augie’s death. He rubbed his face, too tired to think it through. At some point he would discuss it with Frankie; however, there was one thing she needed to know right now.
“Remember that missing photo?” he asked.
“Number fourteen.”
“Augie stole it. He took it the night I ran into him at Bardog. I was mad about it and went to his place this morning to get it back. The fight at the ballpark looks bad. Going there for the photo makes me look even worse.”
She blinked several times but said nothing.
“I was home alone when Augie was murdered, so my only alibi is the security camera at the DeVoy showing I didn’t arrive at the building until well after he was killed. Are you comfortable with that?”
“I’m okay with it, but Dunsford won’t be satisfied.” She stared at her shoes, frowning. “Are you going to tell him about the missing photo?”
“Only if he asks.”
“Why would Augie steal it? I thought he was your friend.”
“I don’t know, but it has something to do with Freeman.”
“Why?”
“The way Augie pushed for Freeman to see the photos at Bardog.”
Frankie nodded. “When do you give your statement?”
“Tomorrow at ten, an hour before the funeral. At best, I’ll get there at the end of the service.”
“I’m off rotation for four days,” she said. “I’ll go to the funeral home early and check out the crowd. Maybe Cool Willy will put in an appearance. I have his mug shot. What else should I watch for?”
“Suspicious behavior. Trust your eyes, your gut.”
“I prefer to know what I’m looking for,” she said.
“Don’t get too much in your head, you’ll box yourself in.”
“Instincts aren’t my strong point.”
“Don’t fight me on this. You’ve got good instincts. Use them.”
They walked to the Jeep. Frankie circled to the driver’s door and stopped. “I just want to say . . . if I were in trouble, I’d want you on my side. You’re a good friend.”
He nodded, got in the Jeep. She started the engine. The sky was a pocket of blue, clean and normal. Traffic was distant even though this place was on the edge of downtown.
He appreciated her words more than she would ever know.
Chapter 31
They left Kentucky Street. Frankie dropped Billy at the DeVoy to pick up his car. Augie was dead. He was alive. Mercy was out of his life. The world changes just like that. His own existence chilled him, made him feel lost.
; At the barge, he mopped the floors and wiped down the kitchen counters to stop himself from dwelling on the emptiness. After a hot shower, he collapsed in a chair on the deck with a plate of cheese and crackers. The sun bled orange into the river and slowly died. He went inside and poured a tall scotch from a bottle he kept in the back of the cabinet. He hated scotch. The liquor burned all the way down. He tossed back the last of it and went to bed. He was a long time falling asleep, listening to the night harmonics of the freight trains passing through the city.
He found himself riding a train that lunged through the moonless night. The cracked leather seat under his hand felt familiar. He smelled the accumulated odor of bodies that had ridden this train a hundred times, a thousand times. On the floor at his feet sat Red’s guitar case. He lifted the case, felt the weight of the instrument inside.
Was Red riding this train?
The whistle blew, a sound like a blues harp, insistent and needy. The sound would leave its stamp on him, like Lou’s sin, powdered glass working its way through his muscle and bone.
The dead leave their footprints on the living.
The windows filled with copper light. He realized a man was standing in the aisle beside him, dressed in a uniform with brass buttons. It was Lou.
“You can’t ride this train,” Lou said. “It’s the gone dead train. Go on now, son.”
Then he found himself standing outside on the tracks with the cold light of a locomotive coming at him, the whistle blowing deep in its throat.
He was alone. Nothing but the light bearing down.
The next morning he woke troubled and exhausted. He made coffee and pulled up news sites on the Internet that gave only the sketchiest details of the murder. The photo galleries showed Augie at his best, crouched behind the plate, his glove closing over a ball thrown low and away. Most of the articles focused on the loss of a superstar athlete. Only one delved into Augie’s mental decline. Tomorrow they would come back with sensationalized accounts of Augie’s mental illness and the brutality of his murder. It’s what the public wants. You can’t fight commerce.
