“Thought you’d be there,” Sgt. Wick Stanley said. “You still have cop work habits.”
“Just on my way out the door. Got to restock my beer cooler before the poker game.”
“Good. I’ll probably be thirsty.”
“I just finished a Sam Adams. I’ll have the usual variety. So what’s the hot news in the West Precinct?”
Wick paused a beat. “That’s really why I called.”
“Oh?”
“Bart told me you were shaking the bushes on this Djuan Burden murder.”
“I guess you could call it that. Jaz and I’ve been digging around for leads all day.”
“Just thought I’d give you a word of warning.”
Sid leaned back against his desk. “What have I done to deserve this?”
“Do you know a detective named Ramsey Kozlov? Sometimes known as Ram, though cops usually refer to each other by their last name.”
“No.”
“He’s paired with Grimm on this case.”
“Short fellow, young guy with a Clark Gable mustache?” It must have been the one he had seen on TV.
“You’ve met him.”
“No, but Burden’s grandmother mentioned he was with Grimm when they came to arrest the boy. What about him?”
“He’s the son of Deputy Chief Kozlov. In my opinion he’s a troublemaker. Maybe worse.”
“Meaning?”
“I’d rather not get too specific. This comes under the heading of rumor. But informed rumor. The important thing, old dad is very protective.”
“Okay, got it.”
“If you ask me, Ram Kozlov is a predator. He likes to manipulate people. He’s a watcher and a listener, always on the lookout for a deal. Just remember your training, Sid. Watch your ass and expect the worst.”
Chapter 8
Jaz thought about the case as she went through her exercise routine in the rec room Wednesday morning. She had always been athletic, battling to play boy games when she was a little girl. She took up basketball in high school, frowned upon by her mother but encouraged by her dad. It resulted in a college scholarship where she played on a championship team. After a new coach’s incompetence and favoritism left the team in disarray, she quit in disgust and joined the Air Force, infuriating her elitist mother. An assignment with the Security Police sparked her interest in law enforcement.
After showering and dressing in a casual white shirt and tan slacks, she checked with John Wallace about a fallen tree on the back lawn. John had been in charge of maintenance and landscaping around the estate since Jaques LeMieux hired the couple more than thirty years ago. John told her the tree would soon be turned into logs for the large stone fireplace in the living room. With everything under control at home, she pointed her Lexus down the winding driveway toward Franklin Road and headed for Granny White Pike, the location of Ortiz and Valdez’s apartment.
The street hardly resembled the old buffalo trail that ran south out of Nashville two centuries ago. It was named for a white-haired woman known as Granny White who, in her sixties, ran a popular inn along the trail until her death in 1815. Now mostly residential except around David Lipscomb University, the street gradually changed from large, expensive homes out toward the county line to more modest houses the farther into town you drove. Jaz found Ortiz’s address at a nondescript rectangular brick structure that hardly resembled the groups of modern buildings that comprised Nashville’s newer rental communities. It had entrances on either end and a corridor down the middle, with apartments on both sides. Jaz thought it looked more like a motel than an apartment building. She found number 208 and moved on to number 210 before knocking.
An elderly woman with short white hair, wearing a yellow wool cardigan over her plain white dress, opened the door and gave her a curious look. She had a one word greeting. “Yes?”
Jaz held out her ID and gave the woman a friendly smile. “I’m Jasmine LeMieux, a private detective with Sid Chance Investigations. Are you acquainted with your neighbors in two-oh-eight?”
“He’s dead and she’s gone,” the woman said.
Jaz was tempted to grin at the succinct reply but maintained her composure. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about them?”
She shrugged. “I guess not.”
“Did you know them very well?”
“They weren’t too neighborly. I don’t think he ever talked to anybody. Missus Ortiz would speak to you now and then.”
“How long had they lived here?”
“Six or eight months, I think.”
“Did they say where they came from?”
“She mentioned something about Texas.”
“What else did she talk about?”
The woman gave an open-handed gesture. “Everyday stuff. The weather, the price of grapes. Last time I talked to her, she was telling about some country singer she’d made friends with recently.”
“Did she mention the singer’s name?”
“It was a girl with some Mexican-sounding name. I’d never heard of her before. I don’t care for country music.” The woman cocked her head and squinted her eyes. “You know you ought to talk to the police. They were here a couple of days ago asking the same sorts of questions.”
Jaz smiled. “You’d think that would be the simplest thing to do, but the police aren’t too eager to share their information. We work for a law firm involved in the case. We have to conduct our own investigation.”
“They say that boy murderer did it. Those people just can’t be trusted.”
Jaz decided it was advisable to take a different tack. “How did you know Elena Ortiz had left?”
“Saw her go out of here with her bag packed. Her car is gone, but his is still parked down there in the lot. Don’t know if she’s coming back or not.”
“Which car belonged to Omar Valdez?”
“The gray SUV with the Arkansas license plate.”
“Was there any talk about his coming from Arkansas?”
“Not that I heard.”
“Did they have many friends drop by?”
“Nope. Like I said, they weren’t very neighborly.”
After getting a few more terse negative replies, Jaz decided she was unlikely to learn anything further. She thanked the woman for her help and went around knocking on a few other doors, getting no answer. She headed out to the parking area and searched for the gray SUV. It sat by itself off to one side. Though it appeared to be in good shape, it was not a recent model. She jotted down the license number and returned to her Lexus.
Sid answered as soon as she punched in his number. “Got a license tag to check out,” she said.
“You find Ortiz?”
“No. I found Valdez’s car, and I got a lead on where to look for Ortiz.” She told him about her conversation with the neighbor.
“So we need to look for a Mexican-sounding country singer,” Sid said.
“Sounds like the best way to go.”
“I’ll see what I can chase down on that. Why don’t you ask Bart or Wick to run the tag number?”
“Will do.”
“One other thing you need to know. Wick called me last night to warn about Detective Grimm’s partner.”
He told her about the rumors involving Detective Ramsey Kozlov.
“Oh, crap,” she said. “I remember that one well. He came on the force before I left. He was one shifty cop, your best buddy one minute and your worst enemy the next. Thank God I never got tangled up with him. A friend on my shift did, though, and wound up transferred to a desk job. Ram’s dad was a lieutenant back then, but he knew where all the bodies were buried and how to pull all the strings.”
“That’s what I suspected,” Sid said. “Just keep your eyes open if we encounter him.”
“Don’t worry. I will.”
Before starting her car, she called Bart Masterson.
“Hey, there, lady,” he said in his usual breezy manner. “You ready for tomorrow tonight?”
“
I’m always ready for the next good hand. I trust you plan to deal off the top of the deck this time?”
“Oooo…that cuts to the quick. You know I’m honest as the day is long.”
She laughed. “I may do like your namesake and draw a six-shooter if you get out of line.”
“Old Bat may have been a bit reckless as a lawman, but he damned sure knew how to handle the cards.”
“How about putting on your lawman’s hat for a moment and checking a tag number for us. It’s from Arkansas.” She read off the number for him.
“You guys are starting to work me harder than Metro.”
“Just want to get our tax dollar’s worth.”
“Ha…with that big house you probably wouldn’t get close. Let me run this and I’ll get back to you.”
Jaz was about to back out of the parking spot when a car pulled across behind her, blocking her path. As she looked around, she saw a short man with a small mustache separated in the middle walking toward her door. Although she hadn’t seen him in years, she had no trouble recognizing Ramsey Kozlov. She lowered her window as he approached.
“Have I done something wrong, Detective?” she asked.
His cold black eyes made a stark contrast to the smile on his face, though she thought of it more as an evil grin. “Well, if it isn’t my old police colleague, LeMieux.”
“Detective Kozlov,” she said, showing no emotion. “You’ve come up in the ranks.”
“Not as much as you. But I can brag I knew her back when she was just a plain old patrolman. Which makes me wonder why you decided to start playing cop again?”
“You should know the answer to that. It gets in your blood. That’s why you’re still around, isn’t it?”
He laughed. “Don’t know about the blood, but it keeps money in my pocket.”
Was that a Freudian slip? “What brings you here?”
“Same as you.” He looked up at the apartment building. “Omar Valdez and his girlfriend lived here.”
“And you know that Sid Chance and I are investigating the Valdez murder.”
“That’s right. I understand my partner got a little upset that you all were tinkering around in the case. I’m not concerned, though. I’m sure you haven’t found anything of importance we didn’t already know about. In fact, I can’t imagine why you’re even bothering with it, it’s such a clear-cut case of murder.”
She stared at him with the hint of a smile. “You really don’t know why we’re doing this?”
“Nope.”
“Then let me enlighten you. The way you and Detective Grimm have manipulated the facts in this case is a clear invitation for someone to step in and set the record straight.”
His mood shifted from sociable to antagonistic. “Your record seems pretty straight, LeMieux. I’ve read all about the way you treated that black woman at your truck stop.”
“That’s another example of manipulation.”
“Yeah. You manipulated the hell out of her, didn’t you?”
Jaz drew in a deep breath. She didn’t have time to count to ten. “We’re sure she was paid to do that. It was a setup, just like what you’re doing to Djuan Burden.”
“You’re full of shit, lady. You'd better wise up to the fact that things are different now than when you were on the force.”
"You get away with whatever you want, huh?"
His eyes narrowed to slits. "I'd hate to see those pretty teeth slammed back into your mouth. It could happen if you don't stay out of the way."
He stalked back toward his car, climbed in, and sped off.
Bart Masterson called about the time she arrived home to report the car in the parking lot was registered to Omar Valdez in Little Rock ten months ago using a fictitious address. Though it made her wonder, Jaz was not surprised at that bit of detail. A veteran homicide detective, Bart taught a basic criminology class at the local community college.
“How did you find out the address was fictitious?” she asked
“I called a buddy in the Little Rock PD and asked him to run the tag for me and see if they had anything on Valdez. He said he didn’t find any record on the guy, but he noticed the address listed for his registration was nonexistent. I’d pass that along to Grimm, but I doubt he’d give a big fat rats’ ass.”
“Not if it might throw a cloud on his case.”
“Yeah. Y’know, it’s a real shame how the job has messed him up. When Grimm first came to Homicide, he wasn’t a bad guy. Had a tendency to be bossy, but he took an interest in people, delivered groceries we’d collect at Thanksgiving and Christmas. After a few years of working homicides, he seemed to harden like a block of ice. All he cared about was getting convictions, whatever it took.”
“I just had an encounter with his partner, Ram Kozlov,” Jaz said. “He made some nasty threats if I don't stay out of his way. I’m determined they’re not going to get a conviction on this one. Have you heard anything from your TBI contact?”
“I’ll try to have something for you tomorrow night. But I’d steer clear of Kozlov. He’s bad news.”
Chapter 9
Back in January, Sid had located a long lost cousin for Art Yancey, a producer on Music Row. Yancey sounded like his best bet for finding information about a country singer with a Mexican-sounding name. A call to the music executive’s office brought word that he was in a recording session and wouldn’t be out until around lunchtime.
Sid used the morning to work on his new missing heir assignment. It involved a woman in her thirties whose last known address was in Kansas City. That had been nearly twenty years ago. He saw it as a challenge and an opportunity to hone his search skills. The satisfaction of uniting people concerned over each other’s whereabouts for years made the job extra rewarding. He began by surfing the databases, utility and courthouse records, both online and by telephone.
Jaz called around eleven to report her conversation with Bart.
Sid thought about it for a moment. “If Valdez used a fictitious address in Little Rock, I wonder how much else about him is fake?”
“Good question.”
“Didn’t you mention having a friend who recently went to work for the Medical Examiner?”
“An old college basketball teammate.”
“Is she an M.D.?”
“A forensic pathologist. Her husband is also a doctor. They moved here when he got a position with the Vanderbilt School of Medicine.”
“How about giving her a call and see what the autopsy showed, where they sent the body?”
Jaz paused. “If she’ll agree to talk. We haven’t been all that close in years. I did take them out to dinner when they first came to Nashville. Wanted to introduce them to the town as I know it.”
“Can’t hurt to try.”
“I’ll check with her and see what happens.”
“Good. I hope to catch my music producer client, Art Yancey, at lunchtime and see if he can steer me to the Mexican singer Elena Ortiz’s neighbor mentioned. Let’s compare notes this afternoon.”
Sid drove along Music Row West, known to most Nashvillians as Seventeenth Avenue, past record companies, music publishers, licensing firms, recording studios, and dozens of other music-related businesses. Some occupied vintage residences, others were located in fancy new office buildings. He pulled into the parking lot where Art Yancey worked and found a vacant slot. He entered the reception area and asked for the producer.
“He was just through here a few minutes ago,” a pert redhead said. “Let me find him. What was your name?” Sid handed her a business card. She spent a few moments on the phone, then smiled at him. “He’ll be right out.”
A modest-sized man with unruly brown hair and a restless manner of moving about strode into the room. He grinned when he saw Sid.
“I was thinking about you last night,” he said. “I had another long chat with my cousin. We’re planning a trip to Cozumel, on the Yucatan Peninsula, this summer. I sure appreciate your finding him for me. We were really cl
ose as kids.”
“Glad I could do it,” Sid said.
Yancey’s expression sobered. “Is anything wrong? You got my check, didn’t you?”
Sid grinned. “Sure did. Thanks. The reason I dropped by is I’ve got a little project you might be able to help me with.”
The producer looked relieved. “Hey, anything you need. Come on back to the office.”
He led the way to a small room with a desk, a few chairs, an electronic keyboard and all sorts of audio equipment, plus a large flat screen TV monitor. He slipped behind the desk and Sid took one of the chairs.
“Whatcha got?” Yancey asked.
“I’m trying to find a woman for an investigation we’re involved in. The only clue I have is she told a neighbor she had a friend who’s a country singer with a Mexican-sounding name.”
“Was the singer male or female?”
“Female.”
Yancey tapped his fingers for a moment. The slim, articulate fingers of a musician. “Nothing comes to mind in that category. Of course, we have no shortage of Mexicans around Nashville.”
The recent census had showed Nashville with more Hispanics than any other city in Tennessee, the state with the highest percentage increase during the past decade.
“Lots of them in Madison where I live,” Sid said.
“She’s most likely an aspiring singer. Wannabe’s appear along Music Row like cicadas popping out of the ground.” Nashville would be deluged in a couple of months with the thirteen-year variety of the insects and their incessant buzzing. Yancey chuckled. “I’ll have to say the singers have a lot more pleasant sound.”
“You have to listen to a lot of them?”
“I only get the ones recommended by somebody in the industry. Band leaders, studios, backup musicians.”
“I guess if you’re lucky you find one who turns into a hit maker.”
“And if you don’t, you turn into another guy with a guitar pounding the pavement along Sixteenth and Seventeenth Avenues.”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Sid said, “but could you ask around, see if anybody has run across a singer recently with a Hispanic name?”
The Good, The Bad and The Murderous (Sid Chance Myseries Book 2) Page 5
