A Shred of Truth (10 page)

After Johnny’s recording session, I told him the bare bones of my Cheekwood encounter, and he agreed to go directly to the West Precinct, where Detective Meade would take a statement.

One down. One to go.

Armed with the yellow pages in DAD’s front lobby, I began my search for Felicia. She’d worn a dress provided by my foe, flown here on his tab, and it seemed feasible he could’ve put her up in a local hotel.

A long shot, sure. But what else did I have?

I flipped through pages of listings, punched in numbers on my cell. One hotel. And another. On my umpteenth attempt, a front-desk woman greeted me with rehearsed politeness as I made my request to speak to Felicia.

“D-a-l-y,” I spelled the last name. “She may be a guest there.”

Expecting yet another strikeout, I was skimming down to the next listing when she said, “Thank you, sir. I’ll connect you now.”

There was no answer from Felicia’s room. The phone went to a message service, and I asked her to call my cell when she came in.

Not that I had time to wait.

With the hotel address jotted down on my palm, I grabbed my keys and headed for my car. I sped through a few turns until I was traveling east on Lafayette. Considering its location on the lower boundary of Nashville’s sprawling airport, the hotel was most likely a ramshackle joint. In recent
months that area had played host to police raids targeting gang activity, drug transactions, and worse.

Hardly the safest arrangements. If AX
had
paid for her room, he was not only a cheapskate, he was heartless too.

Least he would be. Once I tore it from his chest.

I braced my arms against the steering wheel and shoved my head back against the headrest. No. Couldn’t let my thoughts go running down that warpath. I had to resist, for Sammie’s sake.

Lord, help me keep it in check here. Please
.

A slight easing of tension. Meet the new-and-improved Aramis Black.

As Lafayette merged into Murfreesboro Pike, the evening sun broke in final judgment through the clouds behind me and speared the city with bronze shafts of light. Between buildings, through windows, colors merged and bled onto the streets. There was a terrible beauty to it, which pressed upon me again the unfathomable aspects of God’s nature. If he knows all, if he sees the calamity caused by his headstrong humans, why doesn’t he step in more often? What makes him hold back his wrath?

Shoot first. Ask questions later. That would be the policy if he left it up to me.

Which is why he didn’t, I suppose.

Twelve minutes later I spotted the hotel’s flickering sign too late and had to make a U-turn. In a space far from the manager’s office, I idled the engine and weighed my options as the sunset washed my face.

The desk clerk might not give me a room number, but I could try bluffing. Or knocking on doors until I got lucky. Or.

What if Felicia had been forced to share a unit with the scumbag? What if he was in there now? My unexpected appearance might put her in even more danger.

I killed the ignition. Something had to be done.

I was grabbing at my door handle when the arrival of another vehicle stopped me. I lowered my head and waited for it to park. Then, just above the dash, I got a good look at the car.

Same make, model, and color as the death hearse. Hyundai. Sedan. Dark green.

AX had come to keep tabs on Felicia? Was she already bound and gagged in the room? Maybe that’s why she hadn’t answered the phone.

Of course, the car could be just a coincidence.

No. My gut and my brain told me this was a bit of crucial information. Professor Newmann’s words played through my head:
thoughts and feelings don’t always coincide with reality
.

Guess I’d have to find out for myself.

The Hyundai rolled closer. If I’d had my gun, I would’ve challenged the driver to a duel, much the same way Tennessee’s own Andrew Jackson, seventh president of the United States, did with opponents in his era. Nicknamed Old Hickory, he’d even killed a man in such a gunfight, with the location of the victim’s Nashville burial site remaining a mystery to this day.

A duel? No. Remember, the path of peace.

My gaze was fixed on the nearing vehicle, waiting for a telltale glimpse of the driver. In seconds my vigilance was rewarded as the last of the sunlight skipped sparks along the car’s hood and broke over the windshield, illuminating the face at the steering wheel.

“No way,” I said. Not that it was a huge shocker.

Brake lights flashed, and the car came to a stop.

Felicia Daly climbed out.

Holding a grocery bag and a Dean Koontz novel—she’d always had a fascination
with dark and suspenseful tales—my ex-girlfriend made her way up metal stairs to a second-story unit. Number 212. She tucked the book under her chin, fiddled with the key, then, with a half spin in her knee-length dress, disappeared from view.

S
he’s in the room, you say?”

“That’s right. Didn’t seem worried or nervous. Nothing.”

Through the cell, Detective Meade had listened to an overview of my day, and now he met my alarm with a steady voice. “And she shows no indication of leaving?”

My position in the parking lot provided easy observation of her room. The door had remained closed since her arrival, and the encroaching night would be unable to conceal her departure now that globe lights had flicked on above the second-level walkway. On the far end of the landing, an ice machine labored in the sticky air. On this end, a large woman filled a lawn chair, swigging beer from an oversize can while a diaper-clad toddler played at her feet.

I tensed at the sight.

“Aramis? Tell me what you’re seeing.”

“I’d say she’s turned in for the night. A good book. Bottle of wine. That used to be her thing.”

“When you were … cohabiting.”

“Seems like a lifetime ago.”

“So let me clarify. You believe she’s driving the same vehicle you spotted last evening on Demonbreun right after the assault on your brother.”

“I never saw the plates. But, yeah, that’s what I think.”

“And you want me to do what exactly?”

“I don’t know. What can you do? Either she’s responsible for the attack on my brother or she’s an accomplice.”

“We have no proof of that, no evidence. Do you know of any motive? As a protector of the law, I’m not given wholesale permission to do as I choose. Calling a judge for a warrant on a Saturday night requires probable cause.”

He had me there. In fact, at Cheekwood, Felicia had denied any culpability. I raced through the day’s events, grasping for a clue, any lead I might have missed.

“Mr. Black?”

I noted the switch from friendly to formal. “Yes sir?”

“May I ask why you’re even at this woman’s hotel? I thought we had an agreement you wouldn’t take matters into your own hands.”

“Still do.”

“You think me a fool? Clearly, you’ve decided to—”

“No, Detective. It’s not that way.”

“Enlighten me then.”

Shifting in the Honda’s cockpit, I sighed and stretched my legs. Bugs moved in hazy orbits around the landing’s globe lights. “Thing is, Felicia told me she’d been threatened. I wanted to bring her in and make sure she was okay. Only now I’m not sure what to think. Maybe she’s working with him, the attacker.”

“At this point we really don’t know, do we?”

“Hey. Why don’t you meet me over here? Then you could question her.”

“On what grounds? To be honest with you, I’m off duty in a matter of minutes. My wife’s made plans for us tonight.”

“A hot date. Ah, that’s a good thing.”

“A play actually. At the Darkhorse Theatre.”

“Never been there.”

“It’d be a cultural experience for you, I’d think. Listen, your brother stopped by a short while ago. I took a statement from him and recorded his injuries. I appreciate your encouraging him in that. The number of this anonymous caller, it’s assigned to a phone booth in Atlanta. So not much help there. I did discover something you’ll no doubt find fascinating though. Are you familiar with the phrase
Virescit Vulnere Virtus
?”

“Uh, not offhand.”

“It means ‘Courage grows strong at a wound.’ Back in the sixteenth century, Mary Stuart—known to us as Mary, Queen of Scots—embroidered the phrase into a cloth, and it later became the motto of the Royal Stuart clan.”

“And?”

“Our perp could be a Stuart.”

“Or just a Latin-spouting sadist.”

Meade refused to be derailed. “In my cursory research, I found that the Stuarts were protectors of the Knights Templar. Considering your recent entanglements in history, you might see a connection.”

“Not … really.”

“Pretty nebulous, I admit.”

“My brother’s more the history buff anyway. Unless we’ve got a Stuart Axman wandering the streets of Nashville, I doubt there’s anything there.”

“I checked some variations of the name. Nothing seemed to match up.”

“Well, thanks for looking into it.” My gaze ran along the hotel’s second-floor landing. “You’d better get going. Your hot date.”

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Your brother’s gone home for the evening, and you’d be well advised to follow suit.”

“What about police protection? Did Johnny show you the e-mail I printed out?”

“He did.”

“And that qualifies as a threat, right? Especially after the attack at the statue.”

“It raises concerns, certainly, and I understand why you’d be upset, but please, try to relax. For a number of reasons, though, Metro can’t respond to every incriminating letter. There are financial factors, legal ones too. Domestic-violence victims can be referred to safe houses, but that’s generally the extent of it. Hate to contradict the movies, but that’s the facts.”

“So there’s nowhere Johnny can go for the night? He needs to be hidden until you find his attacker.”

“He could check himself into a hotel. Or stay with a friend or family member.”

“You’re telling me you won’t do anything for him.” At the hotel’s street entrance, a pair of headlights dipped, bounced, then flashed across my car window. I turned from the glare.

“On any given day there are a dozen threats of this sort.”

“In other words, your hands are tied until a crime’s been committed. Meanwhile, this AX person gets to roam around. What about the aggravated assault? Or Nadine Lott’s murder? Don’t those factor into this?”

“If it’s any comfort, I did request increased patrol on your block tonight.”

“Thanks.” The car was pulling in three spaces away, and I hunched down with the phone pressed to my ear.

He sighed. “You have to understand my position.”

“Yeah, I get it. You need a corpse before you can act.”

“Mr. Black, have you ever contemplated killing someone?”

“What?” Memories of my youth caromed through my head, years in which vengeance and survival had kept me tightly wound. My tattoos had been a strident warning to friend and foe: don’t mess with Aramis Black.

“It’s a straightforward question,” he prompted. “A simple yes or no.”

“You’re a cop. What do you expect me to say?”

“I’m off duty, remember? I’m not asking for a signed confession.”

“Okay. Sure. Who hasn’t?”

“Which explains why we can’t assign round-the-clock protection every time a citizen of Davidson County considers such things. It’d be a logistical nightmare.”

His words became garbled as I lifted my head and identified the newly arrived vehicle—the curve of the windows, the size of the chassis, the shape of the brake lights. Felicia’s car had raised all sorts of questions, but this recent arrival elevated them to neon paranoia. Was my own imagination getting the best of me?

“Did I lose you?”

“Still here,” I said, staring in surprise at the new car.

“Please assure me that you won’t disregard everything I’ve said.”

“Dude, not at all.” I tried to sound calm. “Sorry for bugging you.”

“Considering the day you’ve had, I suggest getting a good night’s sleep.”

Deep breath. “Yeah, and you have a nice date with your wife.”

“Mm-hmm.” He seemed wary of my sudden attitude change. “Take care of yourself.”

“Peace.” I closed the phone.

Three spaces away the latest arrival was another economy-sized Hyundai sedan, dark green. A duplicate of Felicia’s. Apparently, now that I had this specific car on my mental radar, I was spotting them everywhere. We’d discussed this phenomenon in social psych. Such heightened awareness was a well-documented trick of the human brain.

But two of them? In the same lot on the same night?

Don’t let down your guard. Not yet
.

From the cockpit, a middle-aged couple emerged. They lumbered toward their first-level room and disappeared inside with nary a hint of affection.
While I respect their generation’s desire to “keep things proper”—and I admit my age group has cheapened the whole business—I couldn’t help wondering if anything went on behind those closed doors.

Again I studied the matching cars. Gave a caustic chuckle.

Stickers in the left corner of the rear windows indicated that both Hyundais came from a rental agency at nearby Nashville International Airport.

Odd coincidence, yes. Earthshaking evidence, no.

Suddenly my accusatory thoughts seemed silly and circumstantial. I had to get a grip here. I was becoming a full-on head case.