by Lisa Turner
“That’s quite a story,” she said.
He thought a moment. “It doesn’t explain how the killer got onto Augie’s floor without the code. Augie would have to have given it to him.”
“What if Dominique went in? You said Augie had problems with women. Maybe Dominique came on to him. He invited her up and gave her the code to keep things discreet. She went to his apartment looking for the money but ended up killing him. She’s strong enough. She tossed the place looking for cash but didn’t find any, so she stole his stuff.”
“Why steal the manuscript?” he asked.
“It’s your story. I’m just helping out.”
“I don’t know. This scenario is a big ‘what if.’ I’m guessing Dominique doesn’t have Augie’s watch. She’ll show up tonight with her granny’s old Timex. The curse is different. I agree she’s good for that.”
He shouldered the phone, put the car in gear, and turned toward the river. “You said she’s meeting you at nine?”
“Yep.”
“We’ll both be there,” he said.
“How about if I come to the barge around eight thirty?”
“Fine. By the way. Good job finding Dominique and spotting the watch.”
He could almost hear her grinning over the phone.
He went to the barge where it was cool and dark, he dug around in a drawer for a pen and a legal pad, and he dropped on the sofa. He hunted killers for a living. This time he had a personal incentive.
First, he recorded the story line he and Frankie had put together. Right off, he saw that the scenario had big damned holes in it. First, Red didn’t have the stamina to sell scripts in the clubs. Second, the staff members at Robert House weren’t fools. They would spot unusual activity among the residents and bust them. Third, no credible connection existed between Dominique and Augie, nothing that would put his stolen property in her hands. She may very well have caused Red’s and Little Man’s deaths, but he didn’t believe she was involved in Augie’s murder.
Why had Augie been murdered? What was the killer after?
He flipped the page and noted his original suspect list: Freeman, Pryce, Cool Willy, Augie’s clientele, a drug dealer, Augie’s former teammates, some bar rat who’d pegged Augie as an easy mark, and the least likely, a random intruder. Reluctantly, he crossed out his top choices. He circled Augie’s clients, still a possibility, but he didn’t have the information he needed to investigate. Cool Willy and Theda Jones were both from the world of prostitution and violence. Theda had met Augie at the funeral home the afternoon he was murdered. Maybe he invited her to his apartment, gave her the code, and Cool Willy had come along with her. Money would be their motive, but that didn’t ring true for Billy.
Then there were people who become fixated on celebrities. Maybe Augie befriended a homicidal fan and never mentioned the person to Freeman or him. What about his neighbors? They could easily gain access to Augie’s floor. Surely Dunsford had detectives canvass that entire building. As an investigative reporter, Pryce moved in dangerous circles. Had one of Pryce’s contacts killed Augie and then tried to kill Pryce?
He tapped his pen on the paper and wrote his name at the bottom of the page. A high percentage of murder victims know their killer, maybe even care about that person—a business partner, a lover, a family member, a friend like Billy.
He rested his head on the back of the sofa. Nothing accomplished. While he followed blind leads, the killer was staying one jump ahead.
He must’ve slept. The next thing he heard was the beep of a horn and the sound of a truck engine revving into reverse. He went to the window as a FedEx delivery truck accelerated up the cobblestone landing into the evening light. Walking outside on the deck, he saw the driver had stacked the boxes, three large and one small, inside the gate at the foot of the ramp. The air had turned dank. Folds of gray clouds, still distant to the south, were moving in quickly. He brought the boxes up the ramp and piled the three large ones in the corner of the living room. The smaller box marked next-day delivery, the one Mercy had texted about the night before, he put on the coffee table. While searching for a pad, he’d seen an unopened pack of Camels in the drawer. He got the pack and sat on the sofa for a smoke, knocking ashes into a coffee cup while he thought about the package and what might be inside. He stubbed out the cigarette and opened the box.
It was a sweet potato pie. He knew from the aroma of the spices that it was the recipe they had created together. His throat tightened. He picked up the pie and took it to the kitchen. Then he walked into the bedroom to keep from losing it. Frankie would be showing up soon.
He dug out of the closet the loose gray shirt he used for undercover work. His black Stevie Ray Vaughan T-shirt and Redbirds ball cap, the one with the long bill, he kept in a drawer. He laid the two shirts and the cap on the bed, fighting to shift his focus from the hole in his heart to the job coming up. He stripped off his T-shirt and pulled on the black one. He slipped his SIG in his waistband at his back and pulled on the gray shirt.
Thunder rumbled.
Shortly before eight thirty P.M. he heard a car pull up at the foot of the ramp.
Chapter 47
The rain began the moment Frankie pulled up to the barge. Fat drops slapped the windshield like mud daubs. Pecking sounds followed, hail bouncing off the hood.
Billy tromped down the ramp and through the gate, his shoulders hunched against the rain and the darkness. He jerked open the passenger door and slid in as the storm cut loose in earnest. He didn’t look at her.
“You got your gear?” he asked.
“Gun, cuffs, badge, and a pack of fake money I made up out of printer paper.”
He flipped on the courtesy light and leaned forward, trying to get a look at her feet. “You’re not wearing street shoes, are you? You could slip.”
“Back off, I’m good with the shoes.”
He settled in the seat, the pale courtesy light touching his forehead, the side of his nose, the down-turned corner of his mouth.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
He took a while responding. “I’m focused on what’s coming up.” He glanced over at her. “What’s up with you?”
Whether he was in the mood to hear it or not, she had something to say, like a confession, before they went out on this operation.
“The other day when we talked, you said trust between partners is everything in this business.” She swallowed hard. “I have something to say about that. An incident not long ago had an impact on me and not in a good way. I’ve tried to deal with it on my own, but like you said, I should have gotten professional help to get past the trauma.”
She looked over to gauge his reaction, but the light was too dim. “The thing is, I’ve been having anxiety attacks. I’ve been self-medicating. It’s not working out.”
“What are you using?”
“Tranquilizers. I had a prescription from when my dad died. It’s supposed to take the edge off, help me sleep. They worked at first, but this week things started getting out of hand.”
The rain began to pound the Jeep’s roof. She stopped talking. She wanted him to respond, say something.
“Was the incident work related?”
Oh, God. His tone was so flat it made her nervous.
“I’d rather not go into—”
“Did it involve the woman who got off the elevator at the CJC?”
“Um. Yes, but that’s beside the point. The day I called to cancel our meeting I was having my worst anxiety attack. I overreacted, took two pills. All I can say is, I’m working through this. I apologize for my behavior. It won’t happen again.”
Maybe it was a trick of the light, but he looked like he was taking this personally. Something was happening.
“Are you still using?” he asked.
Still using? “For God’s sake. I don’t have a habit. I threw the pills away. I’m solid tonight, don’t worry. Look, Billy. I enjoy working with you. I hope we’ll do more together in the future.” She brushed he
r hair off her face. “This was poor timing, but I couldn’t go forward without being honest with you.”
“You lied. The day it happened, I gave you an opportunity to clear it up and you didn’t. Why should I trust you now?”
She started the engine. “You’re going to have to trust me. We’re in this too deep. Besides, you need me.” She reached into the backseat for the grocery store bouquet of carnations she’d bought and dropped them in his lap. “Here’s your cover for the bus station. You’re meeting your girlfriend coming in from Little Rock.”
He took the flowers. She turned off the light. She’d said her piece. The other conversation would have to wait.
They drove to the bus station with the rain coming down in sheets. She lucked out on a parking spot at the curb fifteen feet from the entrance. The Greyhound sign—blue and red neon—shone watery and indistinct through the windshield. A couple running down the sidewalk, holding plastic bags above their heads, ducked inside the station to take shelter from the storm.
“Dominique is supposed to call when she’s on the way, but we should go in separately in case she’s early. I’ll take a position in the southeast corner beside the ticket counter to draw her in. When she arrives, you circle behind in case she tries to bolt.”
She was in this now, the hunt. She looked over. He seemed focused on a point far down the street instead of listening to her.
“You with me?”
He nodded.
“If she’s got the goods, I’ll run my hand through my hair. Be ready to use some muscle. This woman is six feet and built like Serena Williams.”
He pulled an envelope from inside his shirt. “Freeman e-mailed these examples of Augie’s watches to make the identification easier.”
She took a penlight off the console and shone it on the photos.
He tapped the first photo. “That’s the Bulova with the green band.”
“Swear to God, that’s the watch. I told Dominique to bring it with her.”
“He also followed up on Pryce. They’ve moved him to a room. Maybe he’ll wake up and remember who tried to kill him. Simplify things.”
She stole a glance at him. He had a lot riding on the next thirty minutes. If Dominique showed up with Augie’s property and they could take her down, they would either have Augie’s killer or be just one step away from him.
“You ready?” she asked.
He popped open his door and went in first. She followed a minute later, sloshing through puddles at the entrance. Someone had taped a handwritten sign on the inside of the glass door: NO GUNS.
The crowded terminal smelled like wet dog and popcorn. The big room felt worn-out and tired of struggling, waiting for the roof to collapse and end its misery. The single remnant left of its pride was the classic GREYHOUND insignia hanging above the ticket counter, five feet of sleek chrome greyhound stretched out in a full racing sprint.
Mothers with screaming kids on their laps took up most of the front-row seats. In the back rows, overweight seniors sat with their swollen legs stretched out, blocking the aisles. The people standing around were folks waiting to meet someone or to board a bus themselves. Others were less benign. Scattered throughout the terminal, loners leaned against the walls with their arms crossed over their chests and their heads hanging, eyes averted. These were the felons, the losers, the opportunists—the guys you don’t want to be seated next to on the bus.
J.J. the street hustler brushed past her, looking like a tall Mr. Clean in his white jersey that read JESUS IS COMING. LOOK BUSY. He glanced her way and nodded but kept moving toward the restroom. He was soaked to the skin and obviously irritated.
Three guys in their twenties wearing motorcycle boots and leather vests over bare chests clomped up and down the terminal’s center aisle as if patrolling it. Their attention roved over a knot of four teenage black guys wearing NBA jerseys. The boys had staked out territory by the water fountain, milling around and cutting their eyes at the crowd. Both groups looked pissed off, as if the rain had driven them into the terminal against their will.
The arrivals/departures board hung high on a wall to her left. Incoming buses from St. Louis and Little Rock were overdue. Those scheduled to leave for Nashville and Louisville had been delayed. Frankie overheard a woman say the storm had skirted Memphis, but flash floods had shut down parts of Highway 40. The delays explained the overcrowding with passengers brushing against each other, trying to make room.
She watched Billy move along the far wall, slapping the flowers against his leg like they were a rolled-up newspaper. He was scanning the packed space the same way she was. He stopped, took out his phone, and tapped in a text:
Tough place for a takedown.
Sure was, but Dominique already had one foot out the door for California.
She texted back:
Too risky?
Her phone rang while she still had it in her hand. It was Dominique.
“Angelfish, you at the station?”
“I’m here.” She glanced at Billy and nodded. He drifted midway down the side of the terminal into position.
“Lord, God, this rain. We outside the station.”
We? Did that mean a cabby or a friend with a car? A second person would complicate the takedown.
“You brought the curse and the watch and your family things?” Frankie asked.
“I got that stuff, Angelfish. You buying my things tonight?”
She heard the need in Dominique’s voice. “I’m still interested. Meet me in the back corner, past the ticket counter.”
She hung up. Her heart pounded as she scanned the terminal for any last-minute problems. And there was one. The teenagers were moving as a group from their position to the center aisle where the bikers were pacing. One of the kids pointed at the nearest biker. He must have made a wisecrack because the biker, a big guy with swastika tattoos on both forearms, lunged forward to pop the kid in the chest, knocking him into the other three.
Not now, she thought as she moved into a group of people who were grabbing their luggage and bustling away from the fight. Billy caught her eye and shook his head as he strode toward the skirmish, meaning for her to stay in position. She stepped back, agreeing that she shouldn’t intervene in a flare-up that would probably burn out fast.
The boys shoved their friend forward like he was a prizefighter they were pushing back into the ring. The biker flexed his neck and showed gapped teeth when he smiled. The kid raised his fists. The biker stepped in and dropped him with a left hook to the jaw. The teenagers shouted. Everyone in the terminal turned, their attention now taken by the fight.
Frankie looked around. Where the hell was the security guard?
Just then Dominique sailed through the door, carrying a box she’d wrapped in a garbage bag to protect it from the rain. She had on a black dress to her ankles and the same yellow, black, and green bandanna she’d worn in her kitchen. The noise and the press of the crowd didn’t seem to faze her as she searched the faces for Frankie.
They made eye contact. Frankie waved for Dominique to come up the side aisle to keep her out of the ruckus. Dominique edged through the crowd then slowed, her attention drawn to the ring of people that had formed in the center aisle.
The kids were at the center, taunting the bikers and pulling their friend to his feet. A wiry biker elbowed aside the bigger guy. Frankie saw a shiv appear in his left hand. He pressed it against his thigh so the kids wouldn’t see it coming.
But Billy saw it coming.
“How ’bout it,” he shouted and rammed the biker with his shoulder, the jolt knocking the weapon from his hand.
Both groups froze and watched as Billy scooped up the knife and pocketed it.
Dominique cocked her head toward the group and rolled her eyes. Frankie shrugged. Thank God she didn’t have to step in. Billy was damned good at his job.
Dominique began to move again. She was twenty feet away when Frankie picked up in her peripheral vision the third biker easing up o
n Billy’s right. Brass knuckles appeared in his right fist.
“Behind!” she yelled. Billy twisted left, but the biker’s fist chopped down and caught him on the back, knocking him to his knees. The crowd closed in, hiding him from her sight.
She ripped out the SIG strapped to her ankle and raced toward the fight. The biker raised the brass knuckles above his head, prepared to slam down with lethal force. From out of nowhere, J.J. pushed through the ring of people, bellowing like a madman. He grabbed a fistful of the biker’s hair and yanked him backward.
“Police!” Frankie shouted, coming in behind him. The other two bikers and the kids took off running. Billy scrambled to his feet, lunged at the biker who’d slugged him, and snagged his vest from the back. The biker wriggled free of the vest and sped toward the door.
Frankie was furious. The bastard could’ve killed Billy. She raised her gun, but held her fire. The sight of a gun set the crowd bumping and pushing for the exits. She whirled and locked eyes with Dominique, who had gotten the picture and was clearly outraged about being conned. She flipped Frankie the bird, and pushed through the crowd for the door, the box still in her grip.
“Go,” Billy shouted.
Frankie shoved her way through the crowd that had slowed Dominique long enough for her to leap from behind and make a grab at the dress. Her hand had closed over the black cloth when a huge woman in a Graceland T-shirt broadsided them both. Frankie’s feet slid on the wet floor. She went down hard on her ass with the dress still clutched in her hand. Dominique stayed on her feet and twisted around to swat her dress free, which sent the box tumbling across the floor. Dominique screamed something unintelligible before bolting out the door.
Frankie knew if she didn’t get to the box, quick hands would make it disappear. Billy blew past her and was out the door as she grabbed for the box. She got to her feet and followed him with it in her arms.
Outside, the rain hit her in the face like buckshot. Billy directed her left. He ran right. She dodged cars in the parking lot, careful to keep her feet under her and not fall on the box. She searched up and down the cross street for Dominique, then ran through the departure bays on the right side of the terminal. The Little Rock bus rolled in, its headlights revealing that Dominique was nowhere in sight. Frankie had retraced her steps to the covered entrance just as Billy got there.
