by Lisa Turner
“And the package?”
“It’s at the concierge’s desk in your name. I didn’t want Willy . . . William to see me pass it to you. He’s bad about sticking his nose in my business.”
She stood and gave Cool Willy a wave. He threw some bills on the bar and stood. “Good luck, Detective. Thanks for doing the right thing by Red and Little Man. I plan to do the same.”
After Theda left, he went to the concierge desk and collected a box with a Boston address written on the side. He returned to the table. Inside the box were a stack of photos and a yellowed envelope that held a letter written on a piece of stationery with a FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION letterhead.
To Whomever Opens This Envelope:
I don’t know Calvin Carter’s reasons for becoming a paid FBI informant. I do know he was angry when he discovered that covert surveillance photos had been taken of him. He knew they could be used as coercion if he ever tried to stop being useful to the Bureau.
Carter turned the tables. He followed our agents and took his own covert photos. In mid-April of 1968, he gave me copies of the photos saying, “If your guys threaten me, I’ll expose your agents and everyone they’re talking to.”
Among the photos was one of an agent I knew out of Washington. He was talking with a man I didn’t recognize at the time. When I looked through the photos five years later, I recognized the man as James Earl Ray.
It’s been documented that Ray stayed at the New Rebel Motel in the days leading up to Martin Luther King’s assassination. This photo was taken at the Rebel Restaurant. Carter must have locked up his copies of the photos and never looked at them again. Or maybe he recognized Ray and decided to destroy his copy for his own reasons.
I can’t reconcile the reason one of our agents was meeting with Ray prior to the assassination. After what had been said about Director Hoover’s hatred of Dr. King and the multitude of conspiracy theories, I couldn’t make the photo public without irrevocably tarnishing the reputation of the agency. But neither could I bring myself to destroy evidence.
That’s why I’ve put the decision in the hands of fate. Like a note in a bottle, I’ve sewn photos into the pockets of my favorite jacket. When I’m gone, someone may find them. Whoever reads this letter will have to make their own decision.
May God guide you.
Agent Leland Grant, FBI
The photo Grant referred to was on the top. Two men sitting in a booth, staring at menus with the name “Rebel Restaurant” printed on the front. One of the men was James Earl Ray. No doubt.
Billy read the letter a second time. A server stopped by his table and asked if she could bring him anything. He ordered a double shot of Jack. Then he called her back and made it coffee.
He remembered the two inner pockets in Red’s Goodwill jacket. Both pockets had clipped threads that curled against the silk lining. One pocket had held the stack of photos with Carter and Garrett talking to Grant. The other pocket must have held this letter and the second set of photos, taken by Carter, with this picture of an FBI agent talking to James Earl Ray.
Red Davis must have sat for a very long time after he’d found the photos, trying to decide what to do with them. He’d been right about the jacket. It was cursed. The photos of Sid Garrett and Carter got Red and a lot of other people killed. The photo of James Earl Ray was potentially even more dangerous.
Billy understood Agent Grant’s dilemma. He’d wanted to be loyal to the Bureau, but as a good agent he couldn’t destroy evidence of what was potentially the biggest cover-up in U.S. history. So he’d left the decision to chance.
Now it was his responsibility. Should he deliver the letter and photo to the Memphis FBI field office and hope they bumped it up to D.C. for investigation? Should he make an appointment with the state attorney general, or confide in a congressman or senator?
Whatever he decided, he couldn’t make a move before he was cleared of allegations that he’d murdered Augie. There would be a lot of questions asked. Events of the past week had knocked the hell out of his credibility.
One thing was for sure, the decision Leland Grant had ducked was now the blue monkey sitting squarely on Billy’s back.
Chapter 55
James Freeman had hired B. B. King’s Blues Club for the night, the whole damned place, to throw a Celebration of Life for Red Davis, Little Man Lacy, and Augie Poston.
Billy sat beside Freeman at a balcony table with a great view of the stage, watching a house packed with friends drinking and telling stories about the dearly beloved and recently departed. Freeman had brought in the best: Dr. Feelgood Potts, and Mr. Sipp, “the Mississippi Blues Child.” Red and blue spots lit the stage. The crowd was clapping and cheering, swaying and moaning, dancing and shouting to the music.
Billy felt good. He was back on track. He knew who he was again. He thought about his job and the people in this city, the blues and the lawless river he lived beside with its power and its secrets. He’d come home and found what he needed. One thing he’d learned, the ability to spot your own happiness takes talent.
Freeman nodded toward Mr. Sipp, smoking up the stage with his electric guitar. “You ever want to play like that?”
“Nope. You come into this world fully loaded like these guys, or it’s best to sit home and play albums. How about you?”
“Harmonica’s my thing.”
“You any good?”
Freeman laughed. “Hell no. I got no soul.”
The crowd on the dance floor hooted as Dr. Feelgood joined Mr. Sipp in trading licks on “Dust My Broom.”
The band had it cranked. Freeman leaned in so Billy could hear him. “You asked me to find a literary agent to sell Pryce’s book. Turns out, because of all the hype around Garrett, execution by train, the manuscript is hot. HarperCollins made a fat offer. I took it to Pryce this morning. By the way, he’ll be out of rehab in a couple of days.”
“That’s good. Pryce deserves a break. And he needs operating capital for his next project.”
“Pryce and I talked about the way you dogged those cases until you nabbed Garrett. You’re a force of gravity, man. You showed up in Memphis and bodies started dropping through the ceiling. It’s ironic. A kid bargains with the FBI to protect his brother then the FBI screws up and the guy gets killed.”
Billy shook his head. “No sympathy for the devil from me. Garrett killed four people, almost five, to cover what he’d done fifty years ago.”
Freeman raised his beer mug. “You know the saying, ‘Up north their stories begin with Once upon a time. Down south it’s You ain’t gonna believe this shit.’”
They clinked glasses.
“What’s the fallout going to be at Robert House?” Billy asked.
“Minimal. The shelter has a lot of community support. The museum is a different story. Media coverage about Garrett and Carter is going to make it tough, so I’ve agreed to take over the fund-raising.”
Freeman cocked his head toward the club’s main entrance. “Look who just walked in wearing red.”
Billy saw Frankie at the door, looking dynamite in heels and a strapless dress. Ramos was at her side in a charcoal suit and dark glasses, his hand on her arm. Billy hadn’t met him, only seen Frankie’s photos from the funeral. In person, Ramos looked like Antonio Banderas. They had agreed that she would bring Ramos to the party, but it gave him a jolt to see her with him.
He watched them weave through the crowd to join a table of people she seemed to know. When Ramos was seated, she spoke with him, then began looking around.
“Who’s the stud with Mz. Police Goddess?” Freeman asked.
“Her priest.”
“That’s funny,” Freeman said, leaning in, shouting over the music. “I thought you said he was her priest.”
“You got it.” Billy stood and got Frankie’s attention. She smiled at him and crossed the dance floor.
“You’re a lucky bastard,” Freeman said, standing, too.
As Frankie started up the balcony stairs, Mr. Sipp
took the mike and quieted the crowd. “We have someone here tonight who meant a lot to Red and Little Man. Miss Theda Jones is going to perform the last song Red Davis wrote. It’s called ‘Old Fool Love.’”
The spotlight hit Theda, her long hair swinging, her short, sequined dress shimmering over the tops of her thighs as she crossed the stage. She looked up at the balcony and gave Billy and Freeman a warm smile and a wave. They waved back as the keyboardist turned the piano over to Theda.
“Good idea to bring her in from Boston,” Freeman said. “Red would’ve loved seeing her here.”
Frankie joined them at the rail as Theda began to sing.
“Love at the door feeling bad,
’Cause love can’t have what it needs to have.
Old fool love.
That old fool . . . love.”
When she was finished, the crowd stomped and cheered.
Freeman shook hands with Frankie. “I’m James Freeman.”
“Frankie Malone. Thanks for throwing the celebration. I’m sure the guys would love being remembered this way. Billy said you stepped up during the investigation, really went out on a limb. Thanks for that.”
Freeman grinned. “May I get you a shooter? A jelly roll? Wang dang doodle? A voodoo child?”
“Club soda for now. Thanks.”
As soon as Freeman headed for the bar, Frankie turned to Billy. “Theda Jones seemed happy to see you.”
“Yeah, and it looks like you and Ramos are pretty tight.”
“Sergio’s a nice man. He’s helping me work through those anxiety issues I told you about a couple of weeks ago.”
Her hips moved to the music. She looked relaxed for the first time since that night at Central Station.
“Great. Has he sacrificed any chickens lately?”
She looked startled. Then that knowing look came over her, the one that says, Oh, buddy. Have I ever got your number.
He felt like a dolt. Maybe it was the red dress. She was definitely showing some cleavage.
“You sure seem interested in what I’m doing with Sergio,” she said.
“That’s how it is with partners.”
She squinted at him as applause drowned out his words. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“I remember thinking when we first met that plainclothes duty would suit you better than uniform.”
She shook her head, still perplexed.
“I’ve been cleared by the board. I’ll be back with the squad in a couple of days. And there’s something else. Before Augie died and things got screwed up, I talked with the chief about my reinstatement. I agreed to sign on only if I had the right to choose my partner.”
“The chief would never go for that. It’s not policy,” she said.
He spoke up this time to be certain she could hear him. “The chief asked me to tell you to come by his office tomorrow, Detective Malone.”
“Oh, my God. That’s great.” She hugged him.
“You free tomorrow afternoon, partner?” he asked.
“Absolutely, partner. You want to celebrate?”
“You know the photo and letter from the jacket I’ve been holding on to?”
“Of course. Have you decided what to do?”
“Tomorrow you and I are going to visit Walker Pryce. We’ll hand over his next investigative project.”
Outside, a train whistle blew. Theda and Mr. Sipp stepped up to share the mike for a duet: “Old Fool Love.”
Acknowledgments
My special thanks to:
Linda Kichline: publisher, author, and mentor; and Lieutenant James B. Flatter, (Ret.) Monroe County Sheriff’s Office, Key West, Florida. Their brilliant minds and gracious hearts helped to make this book possible.
Rob Sangster, fellow author, for sharing his creativity, his unflagging attention to detail, and his love for me and the written word.
Tessa Woodward, for her support and superb editor’s eye.
Robert Gottlieb, for his belief in my writing.
I also thank the following law enforcement professionals, attorneys, and others for their knowledge and amazing stories. Debra Dixon; Debra Heaton; Will Heaton, Esq.; Linda Orsburn, Marc Perrusquia, investigative journalist; Police Officer Jeanette Roycraft, (Ret.); Irvin Salky, Esq.; Bill Selby; Teri Selby BSN, RN; Deborah Smith.
About the Author
Author photograph © by Phillip Parker
Born in Memphis, LISA TURNER travels between her ancestral home in the Deep South and her writing getaway on the wildly beautiful coast of Nova Scotia.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Credits
Cover design by Faceoutdesign
Cover photograph © by Bruce Rolff/Shutterstock
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
THE GONE DEAD TRAIN. Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Turner. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data.
Turner, Lisa (Lisa Celeste)
The gone dead train: a mystery / Lisa Turner.
pages cm
Summary: “After a time away to recover from the aftermath of a horrible case that left his partner dead, Billy’s back in Memphis, drawn into an ever-widening murder mystery that focuses on flawed heroes: a disgraced major league baseball player, two legendary blues musicians on the lam, a straight-arrow lady cop tortured by a guilty conscience, and two iconic civil rights warriors with secrets so dark they’ll shock the nation. Detective Billy Able is at a crossroads. His previous case left him questioning everything he believed about his abilities as a cop and as a friend. Even though he’s considering leaving police work behind—he’s unable to turn off the instincts he’s honed after a decade on the force. But when he stops a crime he sees from being committed, he finds himself embroiled in a much bigger scandal. A murder that has just taken place has connections to a series of much older crimes and dates back to the civil rights movement. As he investigates, Billy uncovers so many layers of secrets he can barely keep the truth from the lies. And he knows the straight-laced cop assigned to the case is hiding something big. But is it connected to the case? And this time he’s determined to make sure he finds out the truth before anything else can happen. But as the search for truth with the help of a Santeria Priest leads him deeper into the underbelly of Memphis, will Billy make it out alive?”—Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-0-06-213619-0 (paperback)
1. Police—Tennessee—Memphis—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—
Fiction. I. Title.
PS3620.U76558G66 2014
813'.6—dc23
2014008302
* * *
EPub Edition June 2014 ISBN 9780062136206
ISBN 978-0-06-213619-0
14 15 16 17 18 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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