by Lisa Turner
Edgar pushed through the door, palms up and wagging, his tight potbelly poking off his skinny frame like a tumor on a twig. “I never said a word to nobody about that Poston file. But I’ll tell you, that limp dick Dunsford will take you down if there’s a way he can make it happen.”
Billy wasn’t going to explain it was dumb luck that Freeman had mentioned the file to Dunsford. Having Edgar on the defensive was useful. “Let’s get past that. What I need now is a shortcut, and you’re the man who can help me.”
Edgar glanced at the door. “We only got a couple of minutes. What’s up?”
Billy pulled out the stack of photos and pointed at the man wearing the jacket. “Do you recognize this guy?”
Edgar ran his thumb down the edge of the print. “These are from the sixties. That’s a long time ago.”
“Don’t hedge, Edgar. You knew every blessed cop in the MPD back then.”
The little man pointed at the picture. “This one’s FBI.”
“His name?”
“Leland Grant. He worked with the MPD during all that civil rights crap. COINTELPRO was their dirty-tricks program. They used special tactics to foul up radical movements.”
“Can you identify the locations?”
Edgar fanned through the photos. “Mainly Beale Street. And that there is Grant’s partner. He must have been standing inside Freeman’s Bar to get the angle on that shot. The two of them were in charge of setting up listening posts in the colored neighborhoods. The FBI was keeping track of agitators and Communists coming down from up north—the ones registering the coloreds to vote.”
“Something happened between Grant and Freeman,” he said, hoping Edgar would bite.
Edgar hiked up his pants and rolled his tongue in his cheek. “Boy howdy. Freeman had this bar. It was a perfect setup to be one of Grant’s listening posts, but Freeman wouldn’t cooperate. The way I heard it, Grant warned Freeman he’d lose his liquor license if he didn’t straighten up. Freeman got vocal about it, set a bad example for the other business owners. Grant got the liquor board to pull his license on some bogus charge.”
“What happened to Freeman?”
“Lost the bar. Took it real personal. He hanged himself a year later.”
Chapter 33
Refrigerated air blasted Frankie as she walked into the Rock of Ages Funeral Home. The cold set her teeth on edge despite the last half hour she’d spent in a hot car recording license plate numbers and photographing mourners as they entered the chapel. Two black Escalades, parked in the lot when she’d arrived, had Louisiana tags. She called a friend at the station house and asked to have the plates run.
She had a three-year-old mug shot of Cool Willy, aka William Cooley—six feet five and heavyset, with a shaved head and wearing a mask of sullenness meant to conceal either stupidity or cunning. If she couldn’t pick him out during the service, she would go to the parking lot afterward and photograph the drivers as they stepped into their out-of-state cars.
The chapel, despite the fact that it was crowded with people, had walls draped in velvet that gave the room a cloistered atmosphere. Everyone wore shades, even some of the ladies in their church hats and pastel suits. Frankie slipped on hers so she could study the crowd without being too obvious. She was watching for anyone who was uncomfortable or hanging back from the crowd with a suppressed need to see how things played out. She had skipped Brad’s funeral, choosing instead to donate money to the fund established for the family. She wondered, had she been there, whether a detective could have picked up on her distress. Even now her guilt festered like a spider bite poisoning her from within.
Did grief and guilt look the same? She scanned the crowd again, analyzing it this time with a different eye.
Among them were several tall, muscular African-American men who were sporting fades rather than hard-line beards. They wore diamond studs in their ears and Hugo Boss suits tailored to fit their vigorous bodies. They looked like athletes—Memphis Grizzlies or New Orleans Saints. Or they could have been connected with the music or film industry. Memphis attracted movie companies for its location shots and musicians who wanted to soak up some authenticity after having lived too long in L.A. If Cool Willy was among that group, he’d lost the baby fat, muscled up, and dropped the street swagger for a classier look.
She went to stand against the side wall, pinned against it, actually, by the throng. Men formed groups and sang a cappella in harmony. Women in long dresses the colors of parrots swayed around the chapel singing to themselves. It was, after all, a funeral for two musicians. She glanced down at her navy suit, concerned that her appearance screamed plainclothes cop.
Death had been so much a part of her job she preferred to skip funerals, so before leaving home this morning she’d researched funeral customs. If Billy knew that, he would laugh his head off. Trusting her instincts wasn’t her style. She wanted facts. Everything else was drama.
She recognized street people, local musicians, a TV newscaster, and the residents from Robert House, who’d been bused in to fill two pews. The men wore jackets and ties, their hair shaved close at the backs of their necks. She picked up the acrid smell of alcohol and drugs emitted through their pores, vapors that followed addicts around, their kidneys and livers having worn out after years of abuse. She studied the men, aware that Red and Little Man had lived at the shelter and probably knew some of them.
At the far end of the pew sat an imposing woman, wearing a head wrap the colors of the Jamaican flag: black, yellow, and green. She held herself separate from the men, her posture as stiff as a headmistress in charge of a pew full of schoolboys. Some of the men appeared nervous, out of place. Frankie searched their features and took a few surreptitious shots with her phone.
An older man came down the aisle, wearing suspenders and carrying a beat-up acoustic guitar. He took the stage, filled with gorgeous red roses, and spoke in a deep, sad drawl with the authority of one who had seen too much.
“You all know that one of these days things are gonna change. Yes they will. And we will cry no more. This is for my friend, Red Davis.”
He played “Burning Tree Blues,” wearing it out on that old guitar, tearing the hearts right out of the mourners. Some of them raised their hands. Some cried and wailed. The emotion in the room rolled over Frankie, giving her chills through her jacket.
The man ended the song and left the stage. Then a trumpet sounded from the back of the chapel. A stately black man dressed in a white suit, a purple shirt, and a top hat with plumes sprouting out of the top stepped through the doorway. He blew the opening notes of “Nearer, My God, to Thee” and marched down the aisle followed by a trombone player, a brass tuba player, and another man with a snare drum. They proceeded to where pallbearers in straw boater hats were rolling the two caskets to the foot of the stage.
A preacher stepped to the podium to deliver an opening prayer. When he was done he gestured to a man with a cane limping down the aisle toward the stage. “Mr. Sid Garrett, a steadfast friend of our community, will now say a few words about the blessed departed.”
Earlier, she’d noticed Garrett clasping hands with and receiving hugs from people in the crowd. He took the stage with halting steps, two young men positioning themselves on either side of the podium. Bodyguards? Were they window dressing to bolster Garrett’s celebrity ego or did he actually need protection?
The audience stilled as he adjusted the mike and looked about, taking command of the room. “Late in the evening at Robert House, I often found Red Davis sitting alone in the lobby. He appeared to be watching the traffic, but I knew better. Red was pondering life. He was a poet and a philosopher, no stranger to the trials of the human spirit.
“I came to know Red Davis and Little Man Lacy during their stay at Robert House. Little Man was a gentle soul, mute from birth, but we knew him through every note he played.”
“Tell it,” someone called from the audience.
Garrett nodded. “Red told me once, ‘People lo
ve the blues, but they don’t want to remember why we sing it. Even the brothers despised us for coming out of the fields. Blues players remind them of everything they’ve tried hard to forget.’
“Red told the truth. He wrote what he loved and what he hated. He wrote about the adversity of life. No one ever held the door open for these two men. But even brave men can be brought low by nature. Katrina took their city. Broke their bodies and souls. We are saddened by their loss.”
“Amen!” the crowd thundered. Garrett lowered his chin, obviously overwhelmed, or he was doing a good job of appearing so.
“Red and I sometimes sat up late at night, two old lions recalling the struggles of the civil rights era. I fought in the courtroom. Red lived the fight during the hardest of times. All his life he was refused lodging, transportation. He was refused a decent education. His manhood was challenged every day.”
Garrett paused, seeming to reach back in his memory. “Red told me how they had performed on the night Dr. King was assassinated. He said that was the hardest blues they ever played in their lives. He talked about government agents harassing him and other citizens on Beale Street in the months before the assassination. After the loss of Dr. King, this city was afraid. The country was demoralized.
“The last time I spoke with Red he talked about making a change in one person’s life. That’s all he wanted, to make a difference. It was his final goal. I pray he was able to complete his task.”
Garrett gestured toward the caskets. “At the end of this service, Red and Little Man will ride The City of New Orleans one last time. Their bodies will be laid to rest at Lafayette Cemetery in the city they loved.”
Soft calls of “Hallelujah” came from the crowd.
“You may have heard on the news that Augie Poston has departed from us, too.”
Shouts of surprised protest made Frankie jump. Garrett pointed to a man in the audience. “That’s right, brother. Augie Poston left this world yesterday. All three men are home now, gone to their eternal rest.”
Garrett raised his hands. “Let’s bow our heads for a moment of silence in memory of these three fine men.”
As soon as the people in the chapel settled, Frankie searched the faces in the room. Her gaze fell on a Hispanic man in dark glasses seated in the last pew. Sergio Ramos turned and nodded in her direction. Then he turned back to the stage and bowed his head. She was floored. How had he known she was standing there?
After the silence, Garrett raised his head and leaned into the mike. “God bless you all for coming. We are grateful for your presence. Now you may escort our departed friends in the time-honored, New Orleans style known as second line.”
The trumpeter swung into an upbeat version of “I’ll Fly Away.” The mourners followed the caskets down the aisle, handkerchiefs waving.
Ramos made his way through the crowd to join Frankie as the chapel cleared. She should go to the parking lot to photograph the drivers of the Louisiana cars, but Ramos’s presence seemed just as pressing. She decided to stay with Ramos. He extended his hand to squeeze hers.
“How did you know I was here?” she asked.
“My sight has dimmed, not my vision.”
She noted the smaller man dressed in white and standing just behind Ramos. A driver. He could have pointed her out.
“I didn’t realize you knew Davis and Lacy.” She was lying, a cop’s lie.
“I run a counseling program at Robert House. Some of the men are Santerían believers. I don’t discuss my client list, of course. Did you know Mr. Davis and Mr. Lacy?”
She blinked, thinking fast. “I’m a blues fan.”
His attention drifted toward the stage. He bent in close and spoke softly. “Ms. Malone, both men told me they had no family, yet there was a young woman seated in the area behind the panels reserved for family members.”
She looked across the row of pews at the translucent panels. “How do you know someone was there?”
“I heard the door open. She was seated after the guitarist began to play. She’s thin. The metal chair barely creaked as she sat. She was crying. She left shortly before the caskets went down the aisle. That’s when I became aware of you standing against the wall.” He smiled. “You are now curious as to how I knew it was you. With your background in Santería, you will understand. I was given a gift by my orisha when my sight began to fade. I feel a person’s distinctive vibrations. It is as accurate as seeing them.”
He reached for her hand again. “I’d very much like to speak with this young woman. I’m certain she’s a relative. Could you find her?”
A dilemma. Should she chase the pimp or this woman? She had photos of the men and the tag numbers that she could follow up. The woman, if she existed, was an unknown.
“I’ll see what I can do.” She went to the paneled area and found a single folding chair that had been pulled forward for a better view of the podium. A door in the area opened onto a long hallway. She hurried down to the funeral director’s office where a man in his twenties sat at a desk, talking on the phone. Frankie flashed her badge.
“I need to call you back,” the man said and hung up. “May I help you, Officer?”
“A woman was seated in the family area during the Davis and Lacy funeral. Where is she?”
“She called a car service fifteen minutes ago.”
“Which company?”
“I don’t know.”
“I need her name and contact information.”
The man looked perplexed. “Our company policy won’t allow me to give out that information without significant legal reasons or the family’s written permission.”
“So the woman is family.”
“That’s all I can say.” He reached for the phone as an excuse to end their conversation. “Anything else?”
“Where would the car pick her up?”
She hurried down the back hall toward the sound of the brass band that had followed the caskets out of the building. She stepped out to see two hearses surrounded by people who were dancing and waving good-bye. The rest of the parking lot was empty.
She walked around the side of the building to the front parking lot. The Escalades with Louisiana tags were gone.
“Damn it,” she muttered to herself. She’d made the wrong choice.
“Ms. Malone,” Ramos called from the top of the front steps. “I assume you missed the young woman.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Possibly I can help,” he said. “I believe I overheard the director use the name Jones.”
Chapter 34
On the street, Billy shed his suit jacket and crossed over Poplar Avenue to the public parking lot. The smell of Dunsford’s aftershave stayed with him all the way to his car. He got in and rolled down the window.
His future in law enforcement was on the line, and now a man who wouldn’t make a decent dogcatcher had his fat fingers in it. Even if Billy was never charged with murder, the stigma of this case could damage his standing in the department. They might even refuse to reinstate him.
He loosened his tie, rubbed his eyes. To make this right he would have to work three homicides while knocking down the case Dunsford was so eagerly building against him. He’d taken the first step by talking with Kellogg. The Redbirds had a night game on the schedule, so this evening he would drive by to see if that taco vendor was on duty, the one witness who could testify that Augie had been the aggressor. He hated the sound of that, but it was true.
He flashed on Dunsford’s satisfaction when he’d dropped the bomb about the security cameras. Freeman knew yesterday that the tapes were his only alibi, but Freeman hadn’t mentioned that the rear entrance cameras were dummies. He had allowed Dunsford to spring his trap. Or Dunsford could be lying about the cameras. Only way to know was to check them, see if Freeman had been that big of an ass.
He phoned Roxanne at the chief’s office to say he wouldn’t be back in the afternoon. She sounded surprised, and then her voice had fallen off as if she’d p
ut it together that he was on Dunsford’s suspects list. No reinstatement papers for him until that status changed. He hoped Middlebrook would let it ride a day or two, give him time to turn Dunsford around before they had to drag in a union rep to discuss his rights.
Jesus, he had a lot of ground to cover.
Back at the barge, a light wind cooled the decks. He pulled on jeans and sat at the outside table with his laptop to make notes about the interview while it was fresh in his mind. There was no room for emotion in this. He was in a major jam, and needed a cool head.
The way Dunsford saw it, Billy had been hired by Augie to look into his mother’s death. Then Dunsford jumped to the conclusion that they’d had a disagreement over money, which led to the fight outside the stadium. He believed Billy went through the rear entrance, killed Augie, and showed up the next morning to discover the body. If Dunsford learned about the scuffle at the funeral home, he’d make Billy his sole suspect.
Honestly, he saw how Dunsford could go there. The scenario had a lot of merit.
As he typed, he felt Lou Nevers reading over his shoulder, goading him, laughing at him, getting angry. Lou would say, “Stop flapping around like a ruptured duck and get on with it.”
Right. Get on with it.
He called Garrett and caught him heading for the Carter museum to set up for the night’s fund-raiser. Garrett agreed to answer a few questions afterward, suggesting they meet at Itta Bena where he’d be giving an after-party for donors.
Next he called Frankie, asking her to join him at the bar before his meeting with Garrett.
He washed dishes and jumped on the Internet. His last call before leaving the barge was to the home of retired FBI agent Leland Grant.
The back entrance of Itta Bena off South Second was an awning-covered staircase leading to the third floor. The bar was low-key, with exposed beams, wooden floors, and blue-tinted windows. During Beale’s commercial heyday, the building housed black doctors and dentists. The space fell to disuse until B. B. King resurrected the entire building and turned the third floor into a blues club and restaurant with a speakeasy vibe. The club’s name came from B.B.’s hometown, Itta Bena, Mississippi.
