by Gary Gusick
Officer Elvis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Where real-life, public or historical figures or places appear or are referenced, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning or referencing those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Alibi eBook Original
Copyright © 2015 by Gary Gusick
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
eBook ISBN 9780553390285
Cover design: Scott Biel
Cover image: (sunglasses) Alan Keohane/Dorling Kindersley/Getty Images
www.readalibi.com
v4.0
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Fact:
There are more than eighty-five thousand Elvis Presley impersonators in the world.
Fiction:
Everything else in this book.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Chapter 1: The Chariot
Chapter 2: The Unwritten Law
Chapter 3: Knowing When to Fold ’em
Chapter 4: Officially in Mourning
Chapter 5: The Devil’s Disciple
Chapter 6: Mirror, Mirror
Chapter 7: The Sanctuary
Chapter 8: Bobble, Bobble
Chapter 9: The One Everybody Calls Brother
Chapter 10: Nooner
Chapter 11: Awaiting Confirmation
Chapter 12: A Shocker
Chapter 13: The Extractor
Chapter 14: Playing Tourist
Chapter 15: Road Trip
Chapter 16: Banana & Peanut Butter Surprise
Chapter 17: Nobody’s Cousin
Chapter 18: Liftoff
Chapter 19: Candlelight
Chapter 20: The Man With Big Hands
Chapter 21: The Beard
Chapter 22: The Search for the Tiptonville Kid
Chapter 23: We Got Your Back, Elvis
Chapter 24: Showtime
Chapter 25: The Unveiling
Chapter 26: An Explosive Situation
Chapter 27: Speak Into the Microphone
Chapter 28: The Mess You Leave Behind
Chapter 29: Convergence
Chapter 30: Darla Raises the Ante
Chapter 31: Top of the World
Chapter 32: A Three-Course Meal
About the Author
Chapter 1
The Chariot
The poster at the entrance of the multipurpose room at the Clarion Hills Senior Residence Center displayed a full-length photo of a portly man in his late thirties. His dark hair was slicked into a pompadour, with the sides combed back. The look was completed with four-inch razor-cut muttonchops that covered most of his round face. He was dressed in a white silk jumpsuit and cape, studded with red, blue, and yellow rhinestones in a wave pattern.
The words OFFICER ELVIS TONIGHT appeared above the photo, hand stenciled in gold letters.
Standing backstage, Tommy Reylander pulled the entertainment director, Otis Dupree, close to him and whispered in the man’s ear, using his tough-guy voice: “For the record, it ain’t Officer Elvis. Officer is what you call somebody who rides in a patrol car and wears a uniform, giving out traffic tickets, and pinching your drunk drivers; in other words, a low-level law enforcement type. That ain’t me. I’ve been a detective with the Hinds County Sheriff’s Department for four years now. I earned that designation by putting my life on the line for the state of Mississippi. I deserve to be recognized for my accomplishment.” It had taken Tommy Reylander ten long years to make the grade of detective. Okay, it was the slowest ascent in the history of the department. But why add that part? Tommy looked Otis in the eye. “From now on, it’s Detective Elvis. Understood?” Tommy palmed him an Abraham to seal the deal.
Otis looked down at the bill. “Whatever,” he said, seeing it was a fiver, then frowning like he had been expecting more.
Tommy took his place behind the curtain as Otis switched on the backstage mic. “And now,” Otis’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker, “the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Live on our stage, from the Hinds County Sheriff’s Department, Tommy ‘Detective Elvis’ Reylander!”
Tommy reached up and pulled a spit curl down over his forehead, adjusted the Spanx he wore under the jumpsuit for maximum slimming effect, and stepped from behind the curtain.
The audience, all sixty-five of them, cheered and hooted like it was the King of Rock and Roll himself. One silver-haired lady let loose a wolf whistle.
Tommy snarled his upper lip and said the line he knew they were waiting to hear. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
That set off a second round of applause. When it had swelled to a crescendo, Tommy launched into his opening number, “All Shook Up.” The accompanying music was fed from his iMac, operated by an orderly that Tommy had to pay ten dollars from his paltry take.
Feeling every inch of his Elvisness, Tommy bounced and gyrated the entire song, holding and caressing the mic like it was the woman of his dreams. He finished with a fist pump for punctuation.
The residents, the ones who weren’t wheelchair-bound, jumped to their feet and cheered like it was the midnight show at the MGM Grand.
Tommy looked around the room, making eye contact here and there, muttering thank you, winking and blowing kisses. An elderly woman in the back row had fainted. Or maybe she’d nodded off. In nursing homes it was kind of hard to tell.
Otis had told him to do just the one set—eight numbers, forty minutes. “That’s about as much excitement as the residents can handle in one night,” he said.
Tommy knew the drill. Almost all of his gigs were at senior places—retirement communities, senior centers, nursing homes. The plus-sixties were his fan base. Tommy always made a point of finishing up before eight thirty, out of respect for his audience’s need for an early lights-out.
He usually came dressed in a jumpsuit and cape, like the older Vegas-style Elvis. The musical selection, though, was mostly Elvis’s early hits—a mix of the hot and sexy stuff—“Hound Dog,” “Blue Suede Shoes,” and “Don’t Be Cruel,” with some of the big ballad hits, like “Love Me Tender” and “Are You Lonesome Tonight.” He threw in “God Bless America” next to last—donning an Elvis army cap and marching in place like a soldier. This was for the men in the audience, many of them vets themselves—’Nam, Korea, and now and then a World War II vet.
Just before the final number, Tommy had his girlfriend stand up. Her real name was Edwina, but Tommy called her Cill. She was seated down front, all dolled up in a 1962 yellow formal outfit Tommy had picked out for her at the Here Today vintage clothing shop on Sather Street in Jackson. To round out the look, he had Loraine’s Beauty Shop bouffant her dark hair—just like Priscilla wore it when she and Elvis were dating during Elvis’s army days in Germany.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Tommy said, using his deepest baritone speaking voice, “this here beautiful young woman standing down front is the queen of my heart—tell me, is she the spitting image of Priscilla?” Man, did that get the applause.
Cill remained standing, gazing up adoringly at Tommy through his closing ballad, “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You.” Just like always, at the end of the song, Tommy dropped to one knee and blew Cill a kiss. Looking around the room Tommy saw several of the old wome
n tearing up. Young love—or perhaps, younger love—always got to the old biddies.
After the show Tommy and Cill hung around in the lobby while he signed autographs. Like always, Cill joked with a couple of the old girls, saying, “You can look, sister, but you better not touch,” and “Don’t worry, honey, he’s already taken,” and “I hope that isn’t a room key you’re handing him, young lady.”
When the final autograph seeker had been satisfied, Tommy walked out the front door with Cill on his arm, making a show of it, like it was Elvis escorting Priscilla to her high school prom. They paused at the top of the steps, just the way Tommy had it worked out. Both of them turned back and waved their goodbyes to the residents. He could tell it would be a cherished moment for the old folks.
“Standing up there tonight, you looked just like him,” said Cill. “ ’Course you always do.”
Cill was a good one for saying nice things, the way a woman is supposed to about her man. Naturally Tommy knew that, try as he might, he didn’t look as much like Elvis as some of the other tribute artists, especially the younger ones. But in his heart, his soul, down deep where it counted—for those moments onstage, he was Elvis.
“Would the Queen care to accompany the King to his chariot?” Tommy asked.
Cill reached over and adjusted his collar, which was starting to drop from the weight of all the rhinestones. “Maybe the Queen should wait here and the King can come and fetch her,” said Cill. “That way everybody can see us ride off into the night in the Elvis-mobile.”
“Great idea,” said Tommy. “I’ll put the top down—give my fans a chance to appreciate the rolled and tucked.” Might as well. The white Naugahyde interior had set him back a cool three thousand dollars to install. It was the same type of rolled and tucked Naugahyde Elvis had on his pink Caddy. Or that’s what the guy who installed it had said.
Tommy walked across to the gravel parking lot a little unsteady in his white ostrich-skin high-tops, hoping he wouldn’t fall and make a fool out of himself, or worse, soil his costume. The damn thing cost a small fortune to dry-clean. It wasn’t easy being Elvis on a detective’s salary.
His thoughts turned to Cill. He’d finally found a woman who actually got him, who he was. He’d made his mind that he was going to propose to her as soon as he saved enough money for a ring. In the meantime, he’d set up everything else, put all the appropriate paperwork in place.
Reaching the Caddy, he unlocked the door on the driver’s side, opened it, leaned in, reached up, and unfastened the hinge that secured the black canvas top in place. He gave the top a little nudge to help it fold accordion-like into its compartment behind the backseat. He got in the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition but without starting the engine, and rolled down all four windows. Getting out, he opened the trunk, removed the pink leather cover, closed the trunk, and carefully buttoned the cover over the area that housed the retractable top.
He stood back and looked at her for a moment. Even in the dim light of the parking lot, the Elvis-mobile was a thing of beauty—a vehicle worthy for a king and his queen.
He opened the driver’s side door, stepped inside, eased into the seat, turned on the engine, and at the same instant gunned the motor, just to hear his baby roar.
Chapter 2
The Unwritten Law
AROUND 9 A.M. THE NEXT MORNING
MISSISSIPPI BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION, JACKSON OFFICE
Major Shelby Mitchell had his Tony Lama size-14 cowboy boots perched on his desk, toes pointing toward heaven. In his early sixties, bald and barrel-chested, he reminded some people of General Norman Schwarzkopf.
Detective Darla Cavannah, all five feet eleven of her, sat across from him, in her char-gray, chalk-striped pantsuit, slouching slightly in her chair, her long legs extending straight out, crossed at the ankle. Her black, lady-sized, holstered, six-shot .380 Taurus peeked out from her right pant leg.
Shelby was addicted to smokeless tobacco and had a half-hour chew going. He kept a Styrofoam cup on the edge of his desk for whenever he needed to expectorate. He lifted the cup, bent his elbow, turned the receptacle on its side, and shot a stream of tobacco juice into the center. Bull’s-eye. He grinned like a high school point guard who’d just hit a three-pointer.
“Is that really necessary?” asked Darla, making a face.
Shelby offered the usual tight smile he employed when she got on him. “Miss Darla,” he said, “I know you have in mind for us to catch the Reylander case. But, as you know, we’re a statewide agency. Tommy Reylander’s homicide is a local matter, and certainly not a hate crime, which is supposed to be your area of endeavor. Unless you think he was killed because of how badly he imitated the King of Rock and Roll. Which I suppose is possible, but unlikely.”
Darla gave Shelby one of her this-is-bullshit looks. “What’s really on your mind, Shelby?”
Shelby put his feet back down on the floor, folded his hands on the desk, and leaned forward for emphasis. “The bomb squad team the FBI sent over from Atlanta said the person or persons who blew him up knew what they were doing—probably out-of-town professionals. Which means they’re long gone from Mississippi. This case ain’t ever going to be solved. Just going to be a month’s worth of negative publicity. You know how much Cole is going to like that.” Cole was Cole Haverty, the executive director of the MBI, a political appointee of Wilson Burnett, Mississippi’s current governor. It was Cole who had appointed Shelby as regional director.
“So, it’s not the jurisdictional part that’s the problem,” said Darla.
“All right, since you require me to be blunt, the unsolved murder of a fellow police officer is not the kind of case a law enforcement official in my position wants hanging around his neck, not if he has in mind to keep his job. As you well know, I officially serve at the will and pleasure of the governor. Which means I can be sacked without so much as a never you mind.” He shifted the tobacco to the other side of his mouth. “Lookie here, Miss Darla, the media is going to have a feeding frenzy if Tommy’s killer ain’t caught. And I don’t favor them feeding on me. The way Tommy Reylander was always riding around in that damn vintage Cadillac with the Hinds County Sheriff’s Department logo on the side whenever he made an arrest…Damnation, woman, the case isn’t eight hours old and it already has its own Twitter account, hashtag Officer Elvis.” He paused for effect. “In summary, your well-meaning request is denied.”
“But Tommy was one of ours,” said Darla.
“In another incarnation maybe,” said Shelby.
“It was just two years ago,” said Darla.
Shelby had been the sheriff of Hinds County before his appointment to the state bureau of investigation. Tommy and Darla had both been detectives in Shelby’s department. Shelby brought Darla, the best detective in his department and a hate crimes specialist, with him, giving her a raise. Tommy, a second-rate officer who’d used family connections to get ahead, was left to fend for himself. The new sheriff, for good reason, took an immediate dislike to him.
“Tommy was my partner,” said Darla, sitting up in her chair.
“Begging your pardon,” said Shelby, “but y’all were only partners on the one case. As I recall, you and Tommy got along about as well as a hound and a coon sharing a honeymoon cottage.”
“It’s the unwritten law,” said Darla.
“Please, I have enough problem remembering the written law,” said Shelby.
“Remember the line at the end of the movie The Maltese Falcon?” said Darla. “What Sam Spade says to Miss Wonderly just before he turns her in for the murder of Miles Archer? ‘When somebody kills your partner, you’re supposed to do something about it.’ ”
“Detective, you are asking me to put an essentially unsolvable homicide on the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation books, and risk putting myself in unfavorable light, because of a line from a movie?” said Shelby. “Just so we’re clear.”
“We’re cops. It’s what we do,” said Darla.
The two of them sat in silence for a minute, waiting to see who would give. Finally, Shelby spit his wad into the cup and shook his head in disgust. “All right. Go ahead. Give it three days. If you don’t get somewhere, I expect you to dump this mess on one of the local county sheriffs. Truth is, much as Tommy disliked you and me, he’d be wanting MBI to catch this one, and you’re the person he’d want working it. It would make him feel like he was a big shot.”
“Who do you have to partner with me?” Darla asked.
“No one you’d be willing to work with, or vice versa,” said Shelby.
Darla was a Yankee—meaning she was from someplace other than Mississippi, the Carolinas, Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, Arkansas, the Florida panhandle, or East Texas. In fact, she was from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The only thing not Yankee about Darla was that she’d been married to Hugh Cavannah, an all-pro wide receiver from the great state of Mississippi and an Ole Miss football legend. Darla had followed Hugh to Jackson when his career ended. Then Hugh was killed in a car crash and Darla had elected not to leave Mississippi—making her not only a Yankee, but a damn Yankee. Damn Yankees were the ones who came to the South and stayed. Added to that, Darla had a directness and lack of gentility that most Mississippians—including most of the other detectives in the bureau—saw as offensive. Rude, Rude Yankee, or Rude Yankee Bitch were their favorite expressions for her—always behind her back, of course, since Mississippians, even Mississippi cops, were far too polite to say anything unpleasant to your face.
Then, just a year after Hugh’s death, Darla had remarried. Her new husband, Dr. Stephen Nicoletti, was the medical director of the controversial Jackson Women’s Health Clinic, the last health service in the ultraconservative state of Mississippi to perform abortions. Her choice of a second husband made her even more of an outsider.
