Justice Betrayed

by Patricia Bradley

  She brushed the memory aside and continued, “It wasn’t all about the fun. There was the community service aspect. Feeding the homeless taught me about real poverty. As for your friend’s granddaughter, unless the whole thing makes the girl physically ill, it will be good for her.”

  “I still say it’s a silly, outdated practice.” Gran lifted an eyebrow at Rachel. “And why didn’t you pick us up? Instead of forcing poor Terri to cart us around. Are you taking over our shopping trip now?”

  “No, she’s not taking over,” Nana said. “She has a murder case to solve.”

  Her other grandmother narrowed her eyes at Rachel. “Is that true? Do you have a case?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Can you tell us who the victim is?” Terri asked.

  Rachel hesitated. It would be on the nightly news, so there really was no reason not to. Besides, Nana might remember Vic or Harrison Foxx. “It was an Elvis impersonator, Vic Vegas.”

  “Why is that name familiar?” Nana tapped her finger against her lips. “Oh, wait. He was at Blues & Such last night. An old guy.”

  Everyone at the table turned to look at Nana, and color rose in her face. “Not old-old—he was younger than me, but old for a performer.”

  “You actually saw him?” Rachel said, taking out her notepad.

  “You went to Blues & Such by yourself last night? Beale Street? Really, Rose!” Gran frowned at Nana.

  “I didn’t go by myself. Gerald accompanied me. Terri and Erin were there as well.”

  “That’s right. You were there.” Rachel turned to Terri. “Did you happen to talk with him?”

  “Briefly. He talked with several people in the crowd.” Terri smiled. “He was really sweet to Erin.”

  “Anyway,” Nana said, her voice rising, “this new crop of tribute artists is really good. One of them sang ‘Don’t Be Cruel,’ and if I shut my eyes, I could almost imagine Elvis singing it. I went to school with him, you know.”

  Gran snorted. “If we don’t, it’s not because you’ve haven’t told us often enough. And I don’t know why you took Gerald. He couldn’t fend off a feather and would have been no protection at all. You could have been mugged or even killed down there.”

  From the look in Nana’s eyes, she was searching for a snappy comeback, and before she could find it, Rachel said, “How about you, Nana. Did you happen to talk to Vic Vegas?”

  Nana’s perfect eyebrows lowered. “Why no. Why would I do that?”

  Rachel took the photo Vic had given her and showed it to Nana. Her grandmother had a phenomenal memory for people and dates. “He came to see me yesterday. Do you recognize the man I’m giving the trophy to in the photo?”

  Nana fished her glasses from her purse and slipped them on. After studying the photo, she tapped Foxx’s likeness. “I don’t recall his name, but he and your mother attended Humes High together for a couple of years—ninth and tenth grade, I believe. After your grandpa died, I transferred Gabby to Miss Hutchinson’s School for Girls.”

  The same finishing school Rachel had attended. “His name was Harrison Foxx.”

  “Why, of course,” Nana said. “Don’t know how I forgot it.”

  “Why did Vic Vegas come to see you?” Terri asked.

  “He wanted me to take a look at an old case.”

  Nana sucked in a breath. “I just remembered. Harrison Foxx was murdered the same week Gabby died. I always thought it was strange the way that happened.”

  Silence fell over the table and was finally broken when Terri cleared her throat. “Is that the case he wanted you to look at?”

  “If it is,” Gran said, “you need to let someone else take over.”

  Rachel took the photo from Nana. “I can’t do that. It’s my case. And if it happens to be connected to Mom’s death, don’t we want to know who was responsible?”

  “Of course,” Terri said. “But it’s been so long and the police said it was a burglary.”

  “Vic Vegas thought otherwise.” She’d almost said he’d had proof but caught herself. She’d probably said too much already.

  “If you remain on this Vegas’s case and you have to dig into the other man’s murder, just remember that Gabby was in his circle of friends,” Gran said. “You might stir up some painful memories.”

  That thought had occurred to Rachel. “Handing the case off isn’t an option.”

  Besides, it was possible Vic’s death had nothing to do with Foxx’s murder. She stared at the photo again. “Nana, you were there the night this was taken. Do you recognize anyone else in the photo? Or any of the names on the back?”

  Nana looked at the photo again and then examined the names Vic had written down.

  “I didn’t stay for the whole program, so I didn’t meet everyone . . . I knew him, of course,” she said, tapping Foxx. “And the name Randy Culver sounds familiar. I think that’s him there.”

  Nana pointed at the third man to Foxx’s right. “Of course he’d look different now. Look at how Vic Vegas changed—Oh! Hold on a minute.” She dug through her purse and pulled out a program and flipped through it. “Yes! I knew I’d seen that name somewhere. It says Randy Culver right here. He hasn’t changed as much as Vegas. Still a handsome devil.” She pointed to a photo at the bottom of the page.

  Rachel compared the two photos. In the one Vic had given her, Culver appeared to be about eighteen, which would put him in his midthirties now. And it definitely was the same person.

  “He’ll be at Blues & Such tonight for the second round of competition, but I think I heard something about a rehearsal this afternoon,” Nana said.

  Gran took the program and stared at the photos. “At least the Culver guy isn’t an old geezer,” she said, handing it on to Rachel.

  “Hardly. He’s the one who was so good,” Nana retorted.

  “Can I have this?” Rachel asked. If they were having a rehearsal this afternoon, she could get the interviews over with. Alone.

  “Sure, I’ll get another one tonight.”

  “You’re not coming to my party?” Gran asked.

  Everyone turned to stare at her.

  “Oh, come on. Do you think I’m getting senile? I know this shopping trip is just a ruse to get me out and then to the party Lucien has pulled together.” Gran checked her watch and stood. “Speaking of which, if Terri’s going to deliver those baskets and get to Lucien’s by party time, we better get moving. And don’t worry, I’ll act surprised.”

  “Gran, you’re a mess,” Rachel said and hugged her.

  “Will you be there?”

  “I may be a little late, but I’ll try.”

  12

  IT WAS TOO LATE after Rachel left Starbucks to interview the families she’d missed in Vic’s neighborhood or to drive to the discount store where the burner phone had been purchased. Not if she wanted to check out Blues & Such. So she phoned the store, and the clerk laughed when she asked if there were sales records for the phone. “How about an ID?” Rachel asked.

  “You’ll have to talk with the manager on Monday, but as far as I know, somebody pays cash, we don’t ask for ID. Least I never have.”

  Rachel asked for the manager’s name, then thanked the clerk before ending the call. Dead end, just like she figured, and she was glad she hadn’t wasted time driving there. Next, Rachel dialed the number on the program for Blues & Such and was told that a rehearsal was in progress. She drove downtown and showed her badge to the attendant at the parking garage across the street from the restaurant. He directed her to a space near the entrance.

  It crossed her mind to call Boone, but then she’d have to wait for him to arrive and that would take time she didn’t have. Of course, she could have called him on the drive in, but she didn’t see the need to involve him. If he had a problem with it, he just had a problem. A hot wind off the river did little to dispel the heat, and she welcomed the cool air when she stepped into Blues & Such.

  A hostess offered her a menu. “No, thank you,” she sa
id. “I’m Det. Rachel Sloan with the MPD. Can I speak to whoever is in charge of the Supreme Elvis rehearsal?”

  The hostess frowned. “Is something wrong, Detective?”

  “No. I’m working a case, and he may be able to help me.”

  “The rehearsal is over, but Ms. Carpenter hasn’t left yet. Wait right here. I’ll get her.”

  So the person in charge was a woman. While she waited, Rachel surveyed the almost empty tables. A few people were at the bar and a couple sat by the windows. She’d figured the place would be hopping, then remembered hearing on the radio earlier there was an event from five until six at Graceland. Muted footsteps on the carpeting drew her attention, and she turned as a woman in tight-fitting black pants and a white linen tunic approached.

  “I’m Monica Carpenter, event coordinator with the Supreme Elvis contest.”

  Rachel had been expecting someone much younger, not this rail-thin person with her brown hair slicked back in a bun.

  “How may I help you, Detective . . . ? I’m afraid the hostess didn’t catch your name.”

  “Rachel Sloan.” She took out her notepad to keep from focusing on the oversized rose-tinted glasses that magnified Ms. Carpenter’s brown eyes. The glasses would have looked ridiculous on most people but somehow they fit the fiftysomething coordinator. “I’m investigating Vic Vegas’s death.”

  “Vic Vegas?” She pursed her lips.

  Rachel took out the program and pointed out his photo. “Do you know him?”

  Ms. Carpenter tapped her chin with her fingers. “Oh yeah, Vegas. I do remember him. He was quieter than the others. What about him?”

  “He was murdered sometime after he returned home.”

  She paled. “Murdered?” Carpenter swallowed hard. “You don’t think anyone here is responsible, do you? That would be horrible publicity.”

  “This was the last place he was seen alive.”

  “Oh, dear.” She worried a diamond pendant on a chain around her neck. “You need to talk to Jerome.”

  “Jerome?”

  “He’s the emcee and works directly with the contestants of the Supreme Elvis contest.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “I coordinate everything else. The contest is huge. This week culminates months of preliminary contests held all over the country, and the finale is next Saturday night at the end of Elvis Week. It’s a big job.”

  “So you were here last night.”

  “Of course. It was the first round. There will be two more rounds, and then those winners will compete next Friday and Saturday night.”

  “Did you see Vegas talk with anyone last night? Or remember anything unusual about him?”

  “No.” Carpenter adjusted her glasses. “Wait a minute. I remember seeing him talk to Randy Culver. He’s one of this year’s finalists.”

  He was also in Vic’s photograph. “Is Culver here?”

  “No, everyone has gone.” She crossed her arms.

  Rachel looked up from her notes and waited.

  “He’ll be back later.”

  Carpenter radiated tension like a wound spring. “How long have you been in this business?” Rachel asked.

  She uncrossed her arms and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I’ve worked with the Supreme Elvis contest since its inception in 2006. As far as my company is concerned, this is the only official contest.”

  Rachel put her notebook away. “So what about all the other Elvis impersonator contests?”

  Carpenter’s lips formed a thin line. “These men are not impersonators, they’re tribute artists, and this contest is a tribute to Elvis. As for the other events, they do not have the endorsement of our company. The Supreme Elvis contest is just what it says. It is the best. Now, if you will excuse me . . .” She turned to leave.

  “Wait. Do you recall Harrison Foxx?”

  “Name’s familiar. Let me think about it.”

  Did she detect a quiver in her voice? Rachel would ask about Foxx again when she returned later tonight. “This Jerome you mentioned. Is he with your company?”

  “No, we hire him each year to serve as the master of ceremonies. And really, I have a lot to do to get ready for tonight. Can you come back later when there will be people here who can answer your questions better than I can?”

  “Is Jerome here?”

  “No,” she said over her shoulder. “But he’ll be—”

  “Back later tonight, I know. Thank you for your time.”

  Rachel paused outside. One thing for certain, her questions had made Ms. Carpenter nervous. Hard to tell if it was from fear of bad publicity or something else. At least she’d given Rachel a contact for tonight. Jerome. Should have gotten the last name. She turned to go back in, and movement from the corner window caught her eye.

  Someone had been watching her.

  Shirley pulled off the latex gloves and mask she’d used while she loaded the ricin, and using a pen she printed Detective Sloan’s first name in caps on the beautifully wrapped box. Shirley had decided that even if the detective dropped Vic’s case, she was still a cop and the odds of her learning about the necklace were too high.

  She probably wouldn’t heed the warning anyway. Just like Vic. She’d warned him to leave Harrison’s case alone . . . and Harrison, if he hadn’t threatened to go to the police . . . Why couldn’t they see that when they crossed her, she had to punish them?

  “You’re lying to me.”

  The leather belt stung her back.

  “No, Daddy, I didn’t eat the cookies. Please don’t hit me again . . .”

  The pen in her hands snapped, splintering the plastic. No. She would not think about that.

  Harrison. She didn’t want to think about him either. But shooting Vic had brought back memories of the night she killed Harrison. Memories that played over and over in her head like a video gone crazy.

  Harrison had been restless after Gabby’s funeral and suggested that they drive around. When dark came, they’d parked on a lonely road out in the country where he was more than ready to fall into her arms. But that was Harrison. Not loyal to anyone. That made it hard to understand why he got so upset when he’d been looking for a cigarette in her purse and found the necklace he’d given Gabby. She’d done it for them, so they could be together.

  But he’d laughed at her. Said she was the last person he’d ever marry. And then suddenly he accused her of killing Gabby. Didn’t believe it was an accident. Threatened to go to the police. White-hot rage ripped through her soul at his rejection. He was just like every other man she’d ever loved. But he’d paid for his betrayal.

  Shirley closed her eyes, reliving the moment she’d pulled the .22 from her purse. She’d never shot anyone before, and thought it would feel different. But no. It was like the time she put ricin in her husband’s soup. Twelve hours later, she took him to the hospital and calmly reported he had a stomach virus and she believed he was dehydrated. She felt nothing when he died of cardiac arrest. Somehow it should have been different with Harrison.

  After she’d wiped the car clean with a towel she’d found in the trunk, she had walked the dark road until she came to the city lights and a bus line. By the time she reached home, she’d put the whole ugly incident behind her.

  She shook the memories off. Focus on the problems here and now. Like how to get the present to Rachel . . .

  13

  RACHEL’S CELL RANG as she drove toward the Judge’s house. Boone. Probably checking up on her to see if she’d been back to question the neighbors again. “Sloan,” she answered.

  “Are you still planning to check out the performers at Blues & Such tonight?”

  “I am.”

  “How about if I tag along. With two it’ll take half the time.”

  Her double-crossing heart stuttered in her chest. “Why?”

  “I’m not micromanaging. Just offering my help.”

  She’d let him think he read her mind rather than admit how the thought of spending Saturday eveni
ng in his presence upended her emotions. If only she could say no, but it wouldn’t make sense that she’d want to work twice as long. “No need in taking two cars. Want me to pick you up?” She could explain on the way that she’d already been downtown and talked with the event coordinator.

  “Sure. What time?”

  She checked her watch. It was six forty-five. By now Gran had been “surprised” and the party was in full swing. “How about around seven thirty?”

  That would give her time to make an appearance at the party and give Gran the present in the passenger seat, a sweater she’d taken great pains to wrap.

  “See you then.”

  She didn’t understand why he was so interested in this case. She didn’t know any of the other officers well enough to ask if this was standard operating procedure. Except maybe Brad Hollister. She’d ask him Monday.

  Part of her believed Boone just wanted to make sure she didn’t mess up, and she didn’t understand why that bothered her. In Burglary she’d always appreciated her supervisor’s input. But her supervisor hadn’t constantly looked over her shoulder. He trusted her. So why didn’t Boone? An answer played around the edge of her mind.

  Maybe Boone didn’t trust anyone. But why? For that she had no answer.

  Fifteen minutes later, Rachel pulled into the long drive to the Judge’s house, the house where she’d grown up. Even from the street, the Federal style two-story brick home reminded her of the Judge. Cold. Imposing. She liked houses with lots of painted wood and wraparound porches.

  Rachel had begged him to move after her mother’s death, but he’d refused. “Winslows don’t run” had been her father’s stock reply. She’d spent most of her time either at Gran’s or Nana’s.

  Terri was coming out the door when Rachel parked and climbed out of her car. She couldn’t help comparing her to the event coordinator she’d met earlier. Her ballet teacher’s face was so much smoother than the other woman’s. One of these days Rachel was going to ask Terri if she’d had a few nips and tucks on her face.

  Terri had changed from the jeans and sweater she’d worn shopping to a slinky black outfit, confirming that Rachel’s decision to change from her street clothes into a pale blue sheath that skimmed her knees had been a good one. “You look great,” she said.