37

by David Achord

  “He does not need to be a part of this meeting,” Special Agent Stainback said. Her tone was snippy and not altogether friendly. I think pugnacious would be a good word to describe her attitude.

  I glanced over at Reuben. He met my stare but said nothing.

  “I’m having a feeling of déjà vu,” I said. Before he responded, I explained it to the other two.

  “Not too long ago, back last summer, I was enjoying a cup of coffee, much like I am right now, when Reuben and three of his agents showed up with a search warrant. Little did he know, one of the agents with him was dirty, and had even committed a couple of murders.”

  They pivoted their heads in unison and stared at Reuben. He set his cup down and cleared his throat.

  “That is unfortunately true.” He then focused on me. “I’d like to think we’ve resolved our differences in that matter, Thomas.”

  I took a slow sip of coffee before responding. “I’d like to think so as well. So, what’s on your mind, Reuben?”

  “Candy is Agent Stainback’s confidential informant,” Reuben revealed.

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “She and another agent have been working a case for several months now that is of a highly sensitive nature. In fact, it has international dimensions.”

  “International, huh?”

  “Yes, and Candy’s involvement is vital in the successful prosecution of the case,” Stainback declared.

  “What kind of case?” I asked.

  “That’s on a need-to-know basis,” Stainback said.

  “Interesting,” I said again. “The inference is, you believe your case supersedes a murder, would that be correct?”

  “You’d be correct,” she replied. She kept the same tone when speaking to me. I’m not sure I liked that.

  “We’re here as a professional courtesy and I’m here as a friend,” Reuben said. “Special Agent Stainback’s case has reached a critical stage and her team is extremely close to obtaining the necessary evidence to allow her to obtain indictments. It is imperative the investigation not be compromised.”

  “And you believe a murder investigation would compromise said investigation,” I stated.

  “If you’re referring to the young man found in the railroad boxcar, it has not yet been classified as a murder,” Special Agent Stainback said.

  “Incorrect,” I retorted. “The cause of death was a crushed throat due to blunt force trauma. He was murdered.”

  “How do you know that?” she asked in surprise.

  “That’s on a need-to-know,” I answered. In fact, all it took was a phone call to my friend, Doctor Holly Gross. She told me everything, but I wasn’t going to tell them that.

  The agent arched an eyebrow at me. Reuben looked sour. Agent Meeks looked uncomfortable. When he saw me staring at him, he shrugged his shoulders. He’d been ordered to ceded authority to the Feds, that’s what he was tacitly telling me.

  “I’ve already received my orders,” he said, confirming what I was thinking.

  Yep, submission. Kowtowing. Dropping your drawers and bending over. Any of those expressions would apply.

  “The investigation of the murder of Jason Belew has been terminated, would that be correct?”

  “It’s temporarily on hold,” Reuben said. “Once Agent Stainback’s investigation reaches a point where there is enough evidence to secure indictments, the murder investigation can be reactivated.”

  I made pointed eye contact with each of them. It was obvious the decision had been made and my input was neither needed nor desired. I was being told to stand down. I finished my coffee and stood.

  “I appreciate your meeting with me, Reuben. Detective Meeks. Special Agent Stainback, it was a pleasure to meet you, I guess.”

  I motioned them toward the door. I’m not sure they cared for me pushing them out, but they did not argue. Reuben waited until they were standing at their government car before speaking.

  “So, do we have an agreement?” he asked.

  “I didn’t say that,” I replied.

  Special Agent Stainback glowered and started to say something. I think she was going to give me the standard, don’t mess with the FBI threat, but Reuben cut her off with a look. She remained silent, but that did not stop her from giving me the stink-eye. I stared back pointedly.

  “I’ve no doubt you have an important investigation going on, but to me, nothing usurps the investigation of a murder. Often times, we, or should I say law enforcement, are the only voice for a murder victim. You three should think long and hard about that.”

  I had more to say, but my phone pinged, soon followed by a rollback coming down the drive. It was Bubba, and he had the old Cadillac tied down on the back. He grinned as he drove up.

  “Hoss, this is a good one!” he shouted over the noise of the wrecker’s loud exhaust. He gave a grin and a thumbs-up and drove around my house to the shop in back.

  “What was that, an old Cadillac?” Agent Meeks asked.

  “Yeah, a Coup LaSalle,” I answered.

  “It looks like a piece of junk,” Agent Stainback remarked.

  I glanced at her. She was still giving me the stink-eye and I was getting tired of her attitude.

  “Thomas restores old cars as a hobby,” Reuben said. “He has a beautiful Cadillac and Ford Mustang parked in back.”

  I got the impression Reuben thought if he made a few compliments, I’d concede to their request. Yeah, fat chance.

  “I would appreciate your professional courtesy on this one, Thomas,” he said.

  “You know, all of this reminds me of a time when I worked for Metro as a real detective. A man who worked on Music Row was shot to death as he was walking to his car one night. At first, we suspected it was a robbery attempt gone bad because this man had no enemies, no criminal record, didn’t do or sell drugs, none of that stuff.

  “It took a lot of investigative work, but we were able to determine it was a professional hit. You see, the victim was working with the FBI to expose payola in the record industry. In the ensuing investigation, we were able to identify a suspect.” I glanced over at Meeks. “It goes without saying, we were working closely with the FBI on this case. After all, the victim was a confidential informant for them.”

  Meeks nodded in understanding. I kept going with it.

  “One would think the Feds would go above and beyond in assisting with the case, but no. They offered nothing more than lip service. It took a little over a year before we found the suspect. He was working as a pit boss in a Vegas casino.”

  I waved a finger. “Now, here is where it got downright weird. The Fibs called for a sit-down and advised us the suspect was working as an informant and he was going to help them blow the lid off of a major organized crime outfit. To arrest him for a piddly murder would compromise the case and all they wanted was for us to delay the arrest until they gave the go-ahead. They were able to convince the chief of this nonsense and he agreed.

  “Five years went by. By then, the primary detective had retired and the case was handed off to my buddy. He attempted to contact the FBI and get a status update, but he was stonewalled. So, he obtained an indictment and the Vegas cops had the suspect in custody within two hours. One of the Fibs called Percy a few days after the arrest to express his outrage.”

  I did not bother telling them Percy invited the agent to a private meeting whereupon they could settle it one way or another. The not-so-special agent hung up on Percy, never to be seen or heard from again. I gestured at Reuben.

  “Tell me, what do you think my opinion is of professional courtesy when it concerns the FBI?”

  Reuben gave a contrite nod and after a few more meaningless things were said, they bid their goodbyes and left.

  After watching them disappear down the drive, I walked around to the back and watched Bubba unload the Cadi. We got it moved into the shop without much trouble and chitchatted about the car. Bubba expressed an interest in helping me restore it, but only if I supplie
d the beer.

  “Hey, I know I said it before, but thanks again for the help with my nephew,” he said.

  “Is he doing okay?”

  “Yep, them boys don’t even look at him anymore,” he said with a chuckle. “They first told everyone they’d gotten jumped by a gang, but when the other kids at the bus stop told the real story, they shut up and don’t talk about it.”

  I nodded. “Good.”

  A month ago, Bubba told me about his nephew, a special needs kid. It was the same old story, a couple of boys did not like him because of his disability and started bullying him.

  “Nobody wants to do anything,” Bubba had said. “I talked to the principal and she said since it wasn’t happening on school property, her hands were tied. The cops said without eyewitnesses, there wasn’t much they could do. Yesterday, the two boys took turns kicking him in the nut sack. I’d take care of them myself, but I’m still on parole.”

  Bubba asked if there was anything I could do. I thought about it and then called my old friend who ran a boxing club off Jefferson Street. He hooked me up with a sixteen-year-old who had won the golden gloves in the 135-pound division. I dropped the kid off a block down from the bus stop where all of the bullying was happening and watched in awe as that skinny kid walked up and beat the hell out of the two bullies. He then told him Bubba’s nephew was under his protection. The two punks got the message.

  After Bubba left, I fired up a fresh cigar and gave Ronald a call. When he answered, I told him of the visit by Reuben Chandler and company and the ensuing discussion.

  “It may be nothing but be sure to erase any digital footprint of your search of Candy-Man,” I instructed. Ronald responded with a scoff.

  “Already done,” he said. “The only thing left is on your phone. I showed you the app to shred the data. Do you think they’ll do something to you?”

  “I’m not sure, but anything’s possible,” I said.

  “Do you want me to do some snooping and see exactly what they’re investigating?” he asked.

  “I can do that.”

  “Tempting, but too risky right now,” I said.

  “Okay. If you change your mind, let me know.”

  “What’re you doing today?” I asked. “You want to come over and hang out? I just got that car I told you about. You can help me get started on it.”

  “Um, well, I got some things I’m doing on my computers and I need to keep a close eye on them.”

  “No worries, buddy. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I smiled to myself. Getting Ronald out of the house was like trying to win an ass-kicking contest and you only had one leg. I changed into some grungy clothes and began working on the Coup LaSalle.

  I started by putting it on jack stands and removing the tires. The rims had a little rust, but were still in good shape. I grabbed a notepad, jotted down the tire size, and then began a more thorough inspection, taking notes of everything that needed fixing. Eventually, I finished both my cigar and my notes. The car was old and needed a lot of work. I sat at my workbench and started figuring a rough estimation of how much it would cost. Not counting labor, it was going to be a little bit expensive. After all, finding parts for a car that was manufactured in the thirties were going to be hard to find and would not be cheap.

  It was time to make a decision. Did I want to do a full restore or simply get it running and put it up for sale? I kept weighing the pros and cons, but could not reach a decision. My thoughts wandered to other projects I had in mind for the place. I was up watching TV late one night and there was a program where the main character had himself a Japanese Zen garden. It gave me the idea to build one behind my house where there were two big old shag bark hickory trees. I also wanted to remodel my shop and I’d also toyed with the idea of expanding the back of my house and creating a proper office.

  I got a big glass of water and was slurping it down when my phone rang. It was Anna.

  “What’s happening, hot stuff?” I asked with a heavy accent.

  “Um, let me think… Sixteen Candles, right?”

  “Excellent,” I said. It was a game we frequently played. I’d quote a line from a movie and she’d try to guess the movie’s title.

  “Guess what I’m doing?” she asked, which was the other game she liked to play. She’d never simply be direct and tell me what she was doing. Instead, she’d always phrase it in a guess.

  “Let me think,” I said, mimicking her. “Someone has convinced you that essential oils will cure everything, so you bought a lifetime supply.”

  She laughed. “Nope, but that’s a good one. I’ve been at Ms. Braxton’s. We’ve been working on her ancestor tree.”

  I started to ask her if she was logging down the billable hours, but Anna was funny about Ms. Braxton, so I let it go.

  “She took me to Belle Meade Country Club for lunch.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” I said.

  “Yeah, and she introduced me to several people and told them what I did. She might have drummed up some business for us.”

  I nodded. Getting business from people who were members of the oldest, most prestigious country club in Nashville was a good thing.

  “Do we have anything going on tomorrow?” she asked.

  I told her about some people I wanted to question in regards to the Belew case and she wanted me to go with her to research some church records.

  I refilled my glass of water and went back to work on the old LaSalle.

  Chapter 15

  Anna rode with me to a part of town known as Woodbine and turned onto a side street off of Nolensville Pike into a commercial area. The Juggernaut was nestled between a garden supply company and a cabinet shop.

  “The Juggernaut?” Anna questioned. “Seems like an odd name for a gym.”

  “It’s a martial arts dojo,” I corrected. “The owner was known as The Juggernaut back when he fought professionally.”

  “Oh,” Anna said. “I guess that makes sense. What does it mean?”

  “A juggernaut is an overwhelming, unstoppable force. So, I’d say it’s an appropriate moniker for the martial arts world.”

  There was no reception room or lobby, the entry doors leading directly into the workout area. There was a boxing ring, no octagon, but lots of mats, punching bags of various sizes, and a decent assortment of free weights and kettlebells on the far end. A man about my age watched me walk in. He was showing some younger students the basics of the mount and guard positions. When he saw us, he partnered them up and walked over to us.

  “Hello, can I help you?” he asked.

  He was wearing a simple blue Gi, but there was no mistaking the well-worn black belt with a couple of narrow, horizontal red stripes on the end. I introduced myself.

  “I’m Dan Sousa, this is my dojo,” he replied in an affable tone. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m hoping I could talk to you about Jason Belew.”

  He eyed me curiously. “I’ve already spoken to a detective about him,” he said.

  “That would be Detective Walter Brannigan with the sheriff’s department down in Manchester,” I surmised.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I understand and you probably feel this is unnecessary, but allow me to explain. I’m a private investigator hired by Jason’s brother. I guess you could say I am conducting an independent investigation, so I hope I can ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yeah, sure, no problem,” he said. “What would you like to know?”

  “What was your opinion of him?” I asked.

  “He was a good kid. He’d been a student for four years. He worked here part-time and I think he was about to get a job delivering pizza.”

  “Were you two friends?”

  “I was his sensei, but yeah, I’d say we were friends too. We spent a lot of hours here together and he was a frequent guest at my home. My wife thought he was a great kid.”

  “Was there anything he confided in you about? Did
he have any kind of trouble with anyone?”

  He glanced down at the floor a moment before giving me a plain stare. “What has his brother said to you?”

  “He told me Jason recently came out and that he caught some flack about it from some of his friends who train here.”

  “Yes, that’s true. I had a couple of knuckleheads who were making a few snide remarks, but I squared them away. Jason had no problems after that. Besides, Jason would have wiped the mat with either of them.”

  “Yeah, how was his skill level?”

  “Are you familiar with Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu?” he asked.

  “A little. When I was younger, I did some training, but honestly, I’ve not kept up with it. Any skills I might’ve had are definitely rusty.”

  I had a flashback to the night I was attacked by Officer Ben Smith. I’d put up a decent fight, but my rusty skills and drunkenness almost got me killed.

  “He was a legitimate blue belt,” Dan said. “A blue belt is the second rank, which basically means he was a novice, but more skilled than a beginner. In order to be awarded a blue belt in my school, you have to be able to have at least two strong escapes from the top mount, side mount, and back mount, and your technique in passing the guard must be strong. Jason was proficient in all of these.” He paused and smiled slightly, as if recalling a pleasant memory of him.

  “Jason was athletic and had a good head on his shoulders. If he had continued with his training, he would have advanced well ahead of the curve.”

  “Did he compete?” I asked.

  “Only in some amateur stuff. His record was five and one. It would have been six wins but got disqualified for performing a heel hook. It was an illegal move in that particular tournament.”

  “Let me ask you, in your opinion, would any of his opponents held a grudge?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. Jason was honorable. All of his wins were by submissions. When his opponent tapped out, he would immediately release the hold. And he wasn’t a trash talker either. Like I said, he was a good kid.”

  “Did you know about this so-called underground fight he went to back in February?”