by David Achord
“Yeah, probably,” I said, thinking back to those shoeboxes full of money.
“He might sell drugs online, or something like that. I’ll work on it,” he said. I looked over. He was lost in his computer and I knew any further meaningful conversation was futile. I started my vehicle and drove us back to Nashville. When I exited the interstate, I got Ronald’s attention.
“Alright, what do you need from the store?”
He needed a lot; those three vagabonds had eaten everything he had, although it mostly consisted of soup, bread, snacks, and coke. After getting him stocked up, I found myself with a growling stomach. I should’ve ordered a Whopper combo like I wanted to in the first place, but decided to go to a steakhouse located only a few miles from my home. I liked it so much I dined there once or twice a week.
After parking, I bellied up to the bar and said hello to Jude, the bartender. He had a Sam Adams poured into a chilled glass before I’d even taken a seat.
“How’s it going this evening?” I asked him.
“This is my last night,” he replied. “I’m starting a new job at a bar on Music Row.”
Jude confided in me one night he dreamed of being the next country music superstar. He wasn’t the only one. This city was full of aspiring artists.
“Good for you, bad for me,” I said. “I hope they pay better.”
He grinned. “Yep.”
After placing my order, a filet mignon with a loaded sweet potato and broccoli, I sipped my beer and thought over the events of the day. Like Ronald guessed, Candy’s home was not my first black bag job. When I’d resigned from the Metropolitan Nashville Police Department, I was dead broke and had a lot of overdue bills.
An old friend, who at the time was a county sheriff, called me one day and said he had a special job for me. We met at a restaurant in Murfreesboro, and after buying me lunch, he asked me point blank if I wanted to do some off-the-record work for a friend of his. It turned out the friend in question suspected his wife was having an affair with his business partner. He wanted proof. Undeniable proof. He was willing to pay top dollar for that kind of proof.
I broke into the business partner’s house while he was at work and installed a couple of surveillance cameras, complete with audio. Highly illegal. I did it anyway. He got his proof and I got a sizeable cash payment. The videos were like sleazy porn movies with the actors being middle-aged and overweight. He could never use them in court, but that was not his intention. Instead, he used them to blackmail his partner, who was also married.
My thoughts then drifted to my date with Debbie. I had a good time with her, and the goodnight kisses consisted of her probing deeply with her tongue to see if I still had my tonsils. I had to admit I was aroused, and she no doubt felt it. She had smiled naughtily at me before going inside and leaving me on the front porch, alone with my turgidity.
Yeah, I enjoyed her company, but if I had to be honest with myself, I was not so sure my attraction to her extended beyond the physical level. I was intrigued by Al, though. She was beautiful, with a quiet yet intense demeanor.
I was still hurting over the death of Simone. She was the first woman since my wife’s death that I’d had feelings for. After her death, I was lost when it came to any kind of romantic feelings.
But, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I pulled my phone out, dialed the number from memory, and began typing.
Hi, it’s Thomas. Social decorum dictates I wait two days before calling, but I thought I’d text you and tell you it was nice running into you last night. So, please expect the follow-up phone call at the appropriate time.
I’d no sooner finished my beer when there was a response.
I’ll eagerly await the call - maybe :)
I smiled broadly at the thought, and then remembered I’d made a promise to Detective Brannigan. Reluctantly, I gave him a call. It went to voicemail, no surprise there, so I left him a message telling him I had identified Candy-Man and found where he lived. I omitted everything else.
When I was done, I ordered a fresh beer. It arrived at the same time as my meal. I held the waitress while I cut into the steak, ensuring it had been cooked properly. It had. I gave her a nod of approval before digging in.
Chapter 10
It was two days before Detective Brannigan called me back. I had almost given up on him and this morning I had made the decision to go have a talk with Candy-Man myself when Walter finally called.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner; my dumbass son was in a car wreck.”
“Oh, shit. Is he okay?” I asked.
“He will be, eventually. He was going too fast, went off of the road, and rolled the car. He’s got a fractured vertebra in his neck. It was touch and go for a little bit, but the doctors are confident he’ll make a full recovery.”
“That’s good news,” I said.
“Yeah, but my insurance is going to skyrocket, not to mention the things they won’t cover. My out-of-pocket expenses are going to be awful.” I thought I could hear him rubbing the stubble on his face. “Alright, enough talk about that, just thinking about it sends my blood pressure through the roof. So, tell me about Candy-Man.”
I told a story about how we’d found him on Facebook and put it together from there. It goes without saying I left out the part where I black-bagged his house and we were drawing information off of his laptop. Unfortunately, all he had been doing was socializing with women. I could only assume he conducted his drug deals through his cell phone.
“Damn, that’s good work. I must say, I’m impressed,” he said when I’d finished.
“I was going to have a chat with him, but I don’t want to interfere with your investigation,” I said.
“I’m definitely going to question him. I’m guessing you want to be there when I do it,” Walter said.
“I would and I’m hoping that won’t be a problem.”
Walter readily agreed and we worked out the details. An hour later, we met at a Waffle House located at the Waldron Road exit off of I-24. I was the first one there, so I sat at a booth and ordered coffee. Checking the clock on my phone, I decided it wasn’t too early and gave Al a call. After several rings, it went to voicemail. I wondered if I’d screwed up by waiting too long, but decided to leave a message anyway.
“Hi Al, this is Thomas. I was calling to see if perhaps you’d like to get together for dinner sometime, or we don’t have to do dinner. We can meet for a drink. Or even coffee. Your choice. Give me a call back. Take care.”
I hung up, wondering both how awkward I sounded and if she was going to even bother calling back.
“Oh, well,” I murmured and drank my coffee.
Detective Walter Brannigan drove into the parking lot while I was on my second cup. Another car followed him in. It was one of the TBI detectives from the other night. I gave them a wave through the plate glass windows.
“You remember Agent Meeks, right?” Walter asked.
“Yes, I do,” I said, shaking the two men’s hands. As soon as they sat, Agent Meeks piped up.
“My boss does not want you to participate in the interview,” he said.
“On account that I’m a civilian, I’m guessing,” I responded.
“Yes, but Walter intervened and told him you’re the one who found him and put us onto him.”
It was true. I didn’t say it, but I doubted they would have identified Candy-Man without my help. And, on the off chance they’d conduct the interview without me, I didn’t give them Candy’s real name and address. Hence, the agreement to meet me. I’m sure they knew this, but they played along.
“I informed them of your background as well, so it’s not like you’re a numb-nuts civilian,” Walter said with a small grin.
“I’ll be perfectly content to stay in the background and let you two do all of the talking, but all I ask is you prepare how you’re going to conduct the interview ahead of time instead of simply winging it. I worked with people who always did that and they were seld
om successful.”
The two men looked at each other. I gathered they did not care to be lectured by me. I took the hint. “Just saying,” I said, shut up, and drank my coffee. I didn’t tell them I was going to secretly record it.
I rode with Walter and directed him to Candy-Man’s townhouse. When we knocked, Candy himself opened the door. I got a much better look at him in the daylight. With the exception of a stupid-looking soul patch, he was not a bad-looking man. I guessed him to be in his early thirties, six feet tall, and a medium skin tone. Currently, he was wearing a brand name warm-up outfit. There was only a microsecond of surprise, and then he put on his best poker face.
“You gentlemen look like you’re trying to recruit me to join your church,” he said with a used car salesman’s smile, revealing a gold grill. I thought those things went out of style ten years ago. I guess he didn’t get the memo.
“My grand mama wouldn’t care too much for me doing that. I’ve been going to her church since I was a little baby,” he said.
When Agent Meeks produced his badge, Candy squinted and peered closely at it like it was something he’d never seen before.
“T-B-I? What’s that?”
“You know exactly what it is,” Agent Meeks replied and brushed by Candy. Walter followed him in. Candy watched them walk by in a mixture of annoyance and concern before focusing on me. I held out the extra Waffle House cup.
“I brought you coffee,” I said with a friendly grin.
Candy looked at it like it might have poison in it and slowly took it from my hand. He stepped back so I could walk in without bumping him. He stuck his head outside and looked around before shutting the door. I guess he was wondering if his yard was full of SWAT officers. I paused in the foyer and took a sip. Nothing was different from my recent visit, with the exception of a plastic bin of children’s toys sitting beside the coffee table.
“Nice place,” I said. “Very clean. Your wife must run a tight ship.”
“I’m not married,” Candy replied. “I live here by myself.”
He saw me glance over at the bin of toys.
“I have a daughter. Normally, I get her every other weekend, but today she’s sick and can’t go to school. Her mother is dropping her off and will be here any minute. So, you gentlemen go ahead and tell me what you want.”
I had to hand it to him, the man was calm, cool, and collected. Meeks sat on the couch. Walter joined him. Candy remained standing, as did I. Walter got the ball rolling.
“Raymondo Calendar, also known as Candy-Man, correct?”
“If you say so,” Candy said.
“Tell us about your underground fight and rave party promotions,” Agent Meeks said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied. “Should I have an attorney here with me?”
Both men were silent, but I would call it more of a pregnant pause before Walter gestured at a file folder he was holding.
“It’s totally up to you, Raymondo, but, let me show you this.” He produced a photograph of the late Jason Belew. It was a screenshot from a phone video. Walter had told me about it. Somehow, he’d obtained someone’s cell phone video of one of the fights, and when he had played it, he spotted Jason in the background.
“Our only purpose of this visit is to allow you the opportunity to help us with this murder.”
Candy frowned as he peered closer at the picture. “What is this?”
Walter produced another picture. This one was a screenshot of Jason cheering on the fight.
“His name is Jason LeClaire Belew. He was at the underground fight you organized down in Manchester on the night of February twenty-first. This photograph was the last time he was seen alive.
“And, this photograph…” Walter paused and pulled out a picture of the decomposing remains of Jason. “This is a photograph showing how he looked when we found him. By the way, he was found at the same location where the party was held.”
Candy stared at the photo a moment longer. He was on guard, but he was calm. Too calm. He knew he was in some kind of predicament, but he wasn’t sure how deep in the doo-doo he was. Candy was about to say something but Walter interrupted him.
“Now, don’t get us wrong, we don’t think you killed him, but we think you may have information about this young man’s murder and we would like your cooperation.”
“I don’t know anything about this dude,” he said. “And, I don’t know anything about this so-called, whatever you called it, underground fight. Now, I’ve been to a rave party or two, but I couldn’t tell you anything about them; they’re all a blur, if you know what I mean.”
Walter responded by pulling another still photo and laid it on the table with the others. It was a screenshot from the same phone video. It showed Candy, standing in the background. It looked to me like he was making a drug deal but I kept my opinion to myself. Candy glanced at it only momentarily.
“I admit, whoever that is looks a little bit like me, but I’m definitely more handsome than that guy,” Candy said with a slight grin.
Agent Meeks leaned forward and tapped the photo with his finger. “That’s you. You know it and we know it. We are in the process of having other people who were at the event picking you out of a photo lineup. Once they identify you, it will be the first in a long line of investigations in which you will be charged with racketeering.”
Walter jumped in. “So, you may be asking yourself, if we’re investigating you on racketeering charges, why are we even here? The answer is, we would rather solve this murder case. Simple as that.”
Candy’s eyes lingered on the photographs for several seconds before looking up at the two detectives. Then, he recalled I was there and looked over at me.
“You never said who you are,” he said.
“My name is Thomas Ironcutter. I’m a private investigator who has been hired by Jason’s brother.”
“You’re not po-lice?” he asked.
“No, I’m not,” I answered.
“There is one other thing,” Walter said. He reached into the file and retrieved an 8x10 photo of Telisha. It looked like her senior high school picture.
“She went missing the same night of the fight. We believe she was there.”
He stared at the picture a moment. For the first time, I saw a look of concern on his face. He started at it for a few more seconds before making pointed eye contact with Meeks and Brannigan.
“I never laid eyes on that man, I didn’t murder him, and I don’t know who murdered him. And, I’ve never seen that girl.”
The two detectives asked a few questions which didn’t lead anywhere and before they could get into the meat of it, they were interrupted by a car horn giving a rat-a-tat. Raymondo looked out of the front window.
“That would be my daughter and her mother. I’m going to stop answering all of these questions and speak with an attorney. Now, I’d rather spend the day with my little girl and not you men, so…” He held a hand out toward the front door.
We were done here. Walter gathered his photographs. The two detectives stood, whereupon Candy ushered us out.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Candy said as I walked past. I paused, reached into my pocket, and proffered a business card.
“Perhaps you can pay me back sometime,” I said.
He responded with a smirk, but at least he took my card.
Walter grumbled the entire way back to the Waffle House.
“Meeks and his people wanted to hold off on any follow-up interview with Mister Candy-Man.” He saw my questioning expression and explained. “They want to put him under surveillance and develop a racketeering case against him. I talked them into making the murder a priority. I’m afraid we might’ve blown it, and I’m the one who’ll be blamed for it.”
I nodded in understanding. I sympathized, but the truth was, I was going to talk to Candy with or without them and he would have been tipped off either way.
Walter dropped me off at my car and I started ba
ck toward Nashville. There were a lot of things going on in my mind, but honestly, I felt like I was stuck with the case. But then I had an idea, exited the interstate, and then hopped back on it going the opposite direction. Soon, with the help of my smartphone, I was parking at a set of apartments in Manchester. This was a cold call, but I was wearing one of my new suits and I looked resplendent, if I do say so myself.
After a polite knock, a twenty-something girl opened the door partially. She could have been attractive under normal circumstances, but today she looked like she’d been ridden hard and hung up wet. Her brown hair was in disarray and her matching brown eyes were bloodshot and puffy. She was wearing sweatpants and a wrinkled T-shirt that made her figure indistinguishable. I suppose the worst thing was her smell, a combination of cigarette smoke and stale sweat emanating off of her. I kept my expression friendly.
“Hi, are you LaDonna Pitts?” I asked.
“No, she’s in bed. Who are you?”
“Ah, you must be Carla. My name is Thomas Ironcutter. Could I talk to you a minute about the fighting match you two went to back in February?”
She looked at me in confusion. “That was like, months ago.”
“Yes, almost three months ago,” I said. “You two met a couple of guys at that match and I’d like to talk about it.”
She frowned and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. Obviously, I’d woken her up, even though it was after eleven. She finally turned and walked inside. Assuming this meant she was going to talk, I followed her in.
It was a small apartment. There was no fancy foyer; the entrance led directly into the den, which had some cheap furniture with an oversized TV on the far wall. Carla walked toward the kitchen, which was separated from the den by a bar counter. She looked around in confusion before plopping down and sitting on one of the stools.
“I’m hungry, but I don’t feel like fixing anything. Have you ever felt like that?”
“Many times,” I said and walked into the kitchen. There were dirty dishes everywhere, but I saw a coffeemaker and one of those red plastic Folger coffee containers. I gestured at the percolator.
