by Lisa Turner
The phone in his pocket vibrated. Probably Frankie. He’d let it go while the camera was trained on him. He got in the car and cranked the engine. Jasmine stood with the cameraman thirty feet away, waiting. She wanted a cutaway shot—guilty cop fleeing the showdown. Not this time, lady.
He rested his hands on the steering wheel then waved to her. Jasmine got the message. She made a beeline for the building to go after Garrett.
He took out his mobile and checked the call.
This is Teri Selby, ICU nurse at The MED. Vicky in ER gave me your number. Walker Pryce has asked that you come speak with him. Come as soon as you can. Give my name at the desk. I’ll take you back to see him.
He texted Frankie to meet him at The MED, then drove out of the parking lot.
I appreciate you coming so quickly, Detective,” Nurse Teri said. She was blond, pretty, dressed in blue scrubs, and had that pleasant but no-nonsense air he admired in the ICU nurses. They walked past several glass-wrapped rooms.
“The doctor inserted a catheter through his skull to monitor intracranial pressure,” she said. “Mr. Pryce is lucid, but he might go in and out while you’re talking.” She fixed him with a steady gaze. “He’s in serious condition. I realize you’re here on a police matter, but don’t press him.”
They entered the room. Walker Pryce looked rough—head shaved, face swollen, eyelids bruised, IV tubing draped over the bed rails and into both arms. Compression boots pumped away, forcing the blood in his legs to circulate. The blood pressure monitor and infusion pumps beeped. The catheter sticking out of Pryce’s head looked like a meat thermometer.
Billy knew about brain trauma—bodies thrown through windshields, heads cracked open on concrete. The brain swells and the skull cuts off blood and oxygen. If the pressure becomes too great, a surgeon has to remove a chunk of skull to let the brain expand. Some survive it, some don’t.
He felt bad for Pryce, but he hadn’t come to the ICU to hold the man’s hand. He would keep it simple, a couple of questions.
The nurse moved to the bedside to adjust the saline drip. Pryce stirred and looked around. It took a few moments for him to realize Billy was standing at the foot of the bed.
“Hey, Detective.”
“Hey, Pryce. You look like shit.”
Pryce tried to grin.
“Need some aspirin?” he asked.
“More like a martini.”
Billy took a breath to let his anger with Garrett recede and tried to look reassuring. “You’re going to beat this. In the meantime, I’m going to catch who did this and kick the crap out of them. Are you up for a couple of questions?”
“Sure.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
Pryce frowned, his eyes fixed on a spot near the window. “Is the house gone?”
The house had been gutted. A man this sick didn’t need to hear that news. “I’ll look into it and let you know.”
Pryce swallowed. “There’s a draft of my manuscript in the Cloud.”
“Great. Then it’s safe. Listen. Someone called you yesterday as I was leaving. Do you remember?”
Nurse Teri cleared her throat. Ease off.
“My book comes first,” Pryce said. “That’s why I called you here.”
“What about it?”
“You have to promise you’ll get my manuscript published if I don’t make it. Bird-dog the project until it’s in print.”
“You have Roxanne to handle that.”
Pryce was watching him. “You’re thinking I manipulate people. Roxanne, Augie. I admit it. But this book’s important. It’s my job to expose the bad guys whatever it takes. I won’t apologize for that.”
Pryce looked at the nurse. “Would you step out a moment?”
“Ten minutes,” she said. She gave Billy a dark look and left.
“Roxanne can’t handle it. Swear you’ll get the book out, or this conversation is over.” Pryce was slurring. One pupil was more dilated than the other and the whites of his eyes were blood-red.
Billy knew this might be his last chance to get information. If Pryce needed help with the book, he’d ask Freeman to step in. “All right, I swear. I’ll do it for Augie if for no other reason.”
“Deal. My password is . . .” Pryce looked puzzled. “Umm. My name with my birthday backward.”
Billy took out his memo book and recorded it. “Got it. Do you remember who did this?”
“I remember a knock at the door.”
“Have you talked to Dunsford?”
“Who?”
Billy reminded himself to keep it simple. “The detective in charge of Augie’s case is named Dunsford. He may have stopped by to talk to you.”
“Dunsford. Oh, got it. No, I’ll put him off. What I’m about to tell you isn’t recorded anywhere, so get this down.”
Nurse Teri stuck her head in the door. “Gentlemen, Mr. Pryce needs his rest.”
Pryce waved her off. “Most of the Department of Justice documents I’ve read were redacted. I had pieces, but not the whole story. Then Augie brought over that surveillance photo with the agent talking to the kid. The kid’s face was familiar. I pulled a file and went back through FBI reports related to an incident outside of Greenwood, Mississippi. The reports indicated an agent had screwed up badly. It didn’t say how.”
Pryce pointed to the water glass. Billy gave him a sip through a straw.
“Thanks. You getting this down? I said that already, right?” He swallowed. “This involved an FBI agent named Grant, the guy in the picture, one of his informants, and an agent in Mississippi who had infiltrated the KKK. Grant’s informant had information on a voter-registration drive about to take place in Greenwood. He had the names of workers, meeting places, and how funds were to be distributed. In exchange, this informant wanted extra protection for one person. Grant was eager to get his hands on specifics, so he agreed.”
Billy stopped writing. God almighty. He had an idea of where this was going but didn’t want to interrupt.
“The informant told Grant that a civil rights worker from Memphis was to meet with Oswell Carley, a black leader in Mississippi, a very militant dude. The FBI and the KKK had been trying to track Carley, but he’d managed to stay out of sight most of the time.
“The meeting was to take place at night at an abandoned cotton barn off Highway 82. The Memphis guy was delivering nine hundred dollars to fund the ground game for the registration. You know what I mean. They paid people to knock on doors, for transportation and the occasional bottle of whiskey.”
“Hold on,” Billy said, writing.
“Would you read some of that back?” Pryce asked. “I lost my place.” He listened as Billy read, and nodded. “Right, so Grant told the Mississippi agent about the meeting and that he should watch for trouble. Grant didn’t know the Klan had become suspicious of the agent. This guy was looking for a way to prop up his cover. You know, maintain his credibility.
“The Klan wanted to get their hands on Carley, so the agent blabbed about the meeting at the cotton barn. He thought they would beat Carley up, scare him out of the state. He assumed it would be over and done with before the Memphis guy arrived. The agent asked to be posted as lookout on the highway so he could wave the Memphis guy off if he showed up early. But it all went to hell. The Memphis guy was already at the barn with Carley when the Klan got there.”
Billy stopped writing. He knew what was coming next. “The Mississippi agent was standing on the highway while the Klan was at the barn killing Robert Garrett.”
Pryce gave him a lopsided smile. “I figured you’d get it. The Klan hated Garrett even more than Carley, because they saw him as a traitor to the white race. When they found Robert with Carley, they shot him. The agent never learned what happened to the body. They hauled Carley a couple of miles away and lynched him. No one was prosecuted for the lynching, and the two murders were never connected.”
Pryce closed his eyes. “Hang on,” he slurred.
Billy
was acutely aware the nurse would throw him out at any minute. He waited for Pryce to open his eyes before he spoke.
“When Augie showed you the photo, he had no idea the kid was significant,” Billy said. “But you knew it was a young Sid Garrett talking with an FBI agent.”
“That’s right. I kept a file on the Garrett disappearance. The papers ran several photos of Robert posing with his kid brother, Sid. The face didn’t click with me right away, but when it did, I realized it had been Sid who demanded special protection for someone. He was exchanging information because he was afraid for Robert’s safety. Poor kid, the whole thing backfired.”
Pryce continued. “I called Garrett a couple of days after Augie died and told him I had a photo of him as a teenager talking with his FBI handler. I wanted an interview. Pure arrogance on my part. He called when you were there to say he was coming over. I don’t remember what happened, only the knock at the door.”
“I saw Augie and Garrett talking at the mortuary,” Billy said. “Augie had a piece of paper in his hand. Garrett looked upset. I assumed they were discussing the estimate for Red and Little Man’s funeral. Augie must have shown Garrett the photo. Later that night, Garrett must have gone to Augie’s apartment and killed him. He tore the place up looking for the photo.”
Pryce nodded. He made a grunting noise, trying to clear his throat to speak. The blood pressure monitor sounded an alarm. He sighed, closed his eyes.
Shaken, Billy stepped back as Nurse Teri came through the door and brushed past him.
In the hallway, he quickly reviewed his notes to make sure he’d gotten it all down. From the look of things, he might not get another chance to speak to Pryce. He checked for a text. Frankie was waiting for him in the lobby. He took the elevator down.
She was leaning against the wall across from the bank of elevators, arms crossed over her chest. She straightened when she saw him. “Dominique called. She wants us to pick her up.”
“Where is she?”
“The library.”
“The library?”
“Come on. I’m parked out front.” She talked as they wove through the crowded hallway. “Dominique forgot to pack her good knives last night. She called this young Jamaican guy she trusts and asked him to bring them to the library after the ceremony.”
“Why call you?”
“She got wind that Garrett knows she stole Augie’s stuff. She’s frightened. She wants immunity for trying to fence the watches, and she wants protection from Garrett. In exchange she’ll testify about Garrett asking her to scare Red and Little Man with the curses, and that Augie’s stolen property came from his house.”
“That works,” he said. “How did she know Garrett was on to her?”
They walked past an on-duty cop. Frankie lowered her voice. “Dunsford came in and read my statement about the evidence. I gather he phoned Garrett and questioned him about Dominique and the evidence box. The guy manning the shelter’s reception desk must have told Garrett that Dominique had run off last night.
“It looks like Garrett put two and two together, because he sent his goons to rough up the kitchen help. They wanted to know where Dominique was hiding. When they didn’t get an answer, they went into a rage and swore Dominique would get what she deserves.”
“How could she know this?” he asked.
“The Jamaican guy called her back and told her.”
“But the bodyguards could’ve beaten the crap out of him and found out about the meeting at the library.”
Frankie pushed open the front entrance door. “I told Dominique that, but she wouldn’t listen. That’s why we’re in a hurry.”
Chapter 52
They took off in the Jeep, weaving in and out of heavy traffic. “Tell me what happened at the ground-breaking,” Frankie said.
He described the confrontation, then ran through a short version of Pryce’s story.
“We had it right except for the most important thing—the kid in the photograph,” he concluded. “I’m convinced Red approached Garrett and demanded money for the photo of Carter. Garrett sent Dominique to scare them out of town. When they died, Garrett must have felt safe.
“Now here’s a piece of the puzzle I witnessed without realizing it. At the funeral home, Augie must have told Garrett about the manuscript. I walked in as he was showing Garrett the photo of himself as a kid talking to Grant. Garrett had kept the secret buried all this time, but now he knew a journalist was digging into the story and that he’d be exposed as an informant right along with Carter. The world would know he played a part in his brother’s murder. He’d be held in contempt or, even worse, pitied, something his ego couldn’t tolerate.”
Frankie shook her head. “The guilt must have eaten him up. Damn it,” she shouted. She slammed on the brakes, and hit the horn.
The old pickup in front of them had skidded to a stop to avoid running a yellow light. Tires behind them screeched. Billy looked back to see a Mazda inches from their bumper.
Frankie smacked the steering wheel. “We’re stuck. This is a long light.”
He pointed at the library’s large parking lot on the right. “Take it easy, we’re almost there.”
Half a block up stood the ultramodern, glass-and-steel library. Fronting the library was a plaza with five monolithic pillars, twelve feet tall, each with words and symbols etched in their sides, meant to represent printing rollers. Two laid on the ground. Three stood on end.
Frankie blew out a breath. “Dominique said she’d be waiting in the ladies’ room just inside the door. I’ll go in after her. You switch to the backseat. When we come out, I’ll put her in the back where you can keep an eye on her while I drive. She’s so nervous, she might try to jump out at a light.”
“Yeah, well . . .” He nodded at the library. “Look at that third pillar. There’s a woman standing near it—black dress, same colored bandanna as the one she had on in the bus station. That’s Dominique.”
Frankie craned her neck. “And the short guy walking across the plaza with the box—that’s her friend. She’s lost her mind. Why go outside when she’s terrified Garrett will find her?”
“I guarantee the bodyguards scared her friend into flushing her out in the open. Look at that.”
He pointed at a black Cadillac coming from the opposite direction. It slowed and turned into the long driveway that fronted the library. “That’s Garrett. Get us out of here,” he shouted.
Frankie racked the transmission into reverse. The Jeep’s rear bumper slammed into the Mazda so hard it made enough room to clear the pickup in front. She stomped on the gas and powered into the outer lane, right into the path of a lumbering UPS truck. The truck crumpled Billy’s door inward, the impact shoving the Jeep into the side of the pickup. The Mazda driver began honking furiously.
Frankie looked at him, wide eyed. “What now?”
“Leave it. We’re outta here.”
She flung open the door and hit the pavement running. With his door crushed, he had to scramble behind her over the center console. They dodged traffic, both running flat out across the library parking lot packed with cars.
He could see the black Cadillac rolling up the drive, but SUVs and vans in the parking lot blocked his view of Dominique. Running hard, he passed Frankie and drew away, catching a glimpse of Dominique standing in front of one of the pillars. The short guy was handing a box to her, but her attention was on the Cadillac. It turned for her, and accelerated.
“Run,” Billy shouted at Dominique. “Get inside!”
The guy took off for the parking lot. Dominique froze. She started across the driveway, but then saw that the Caddy was coming too fast. She reversed and stumbled, the box clutched to her chest making her clumsy. She ran back across the plaza full of people toward the library.
“No, no, no,” Frankie screamed from behind Billy.
The Caddy driver jerked the wheel to change course. Parents grabbed their kids and scrambled out of the way. The car jumped the curb and head
ed for Dominique, the engine roaring as it struck her. The force threw her onto the hood, carrying her along, the knives flying out of the box like pickup sticks. Directly ahead of the Caddy stood the third stone pillar. The driver braked, tires squealed. A second before the Caddy struck the pillar, Dominique slid down the hood toward the front. The massive bumper smashed the stone with a sickening thud, Dominique in between.
The plaza went still as if it were drawing a breath, then the screams began. People picked up their kids and ran. One man ran toward the car and Dominique, phone already in hand, but Billy knew there was no hope in that.
The Caddy’s back door sprang open. Garrett emerged. He fell to his knees, struggled up, and limped toward the library entrance, picking up speed until he disappeared through the automatic door. Billy swerved to follow Garrett just as the front passenger door opened. One of the bodyguards tumbled out, covered in air-bag dust, to lie facedown on the concrete.
“Get Garrett,” Frankie shouted, coming up fast behind him.
Now the driver’s door opened. The second bodyguard lurched toward the back of the car, his hand to a nose that had been bloodied by the air bag. Billy wanted to go after Garrett, but he couldn’t leave Frankie to handle both men.
“Police,” he yelled. They split, and he took the driver, who was still on his feet.
“Hands on your head,” he yelled. “On the ground, on the ground.”
The man collapsed to his knees beside the rear wheel, blood dripping from his chin, his eyes unfocused. Billy holstered his gun, pushed him on his belly and cuffed him, watching Frankie as she approached the second bodyguard. The guy had come to and was pushing himself off the ground. Billy saw a flash of metal in his right hand. Frankie saw it too and stepped in fast, clubbing him on the neck with the butt of her gun. He hit the concrete, dead weight. She kicked his gun, sent it skittering across the concrete, and cuffed his limp arms. When she backed away, her eyes were glittering, her teeth gritted.
They turned to stare at Dominique, pinned between the hood and the pillar. She was upended, her legs splayed, the trunk of her body trapped between the Caddy and stone. One arm could be seen dangling below the bumper. A stream of blood pooled beneath the Caddy’s front tire. The green watchband circled her wrist.
