In the Dead of Night (5 page)

Some buildings in this neighborhood are even older, dating from the mid to late 1800s, and NVP has investigated several of these locations. I passed the old Johnson place on the way to the converted Victorian that serves as home for Dickey Rollins Productions. Kind of creepy even in passing…I pictured the hideous half-man, half-something else apparition that followed us throughout both floors of the Johnson house as if it happened yesterday. It’s still very fresh, despite having happened a year ago. All five members in the group at the time had nightmares after the investigation, and Tony still brings it up every now and then.

Memories of how I almost didn’t make it out alive from Maude Johnson B&B’s attic sent an icy tingle down my spine, despite the ninety degree heat and oppressive humidity engulfing me as I maneuvered my bike around the slower moving traffic. Yeah, I tend to be somewhat reckless when it’s just me on the road, but I’ve yet to spill my Sportster. It’s killer. Such a beautiful machine, crystal blue in color with a fiery Asian demon in flight painted along both sides of the gas tank, courtesy of an aspiring artist buddy, Frank Kitchens.

When I reached Dickey’s office, Fiona had already parked the Camaro in the driveway. Its forest green tint almost blended with the painted gate that led to the building’s side entrance. She opened the driver side door to greet me, after I parked my bike nearby.

The coroner’s people were still on the property, but the forensic crew had left. The news folks from several TV stations and a number of tabloids, including USA Today, were there, too. Since it was obvious that we wouldn’t gain access inside the building to have a casual look around, I reminded myself it wasn’t the reason I came anyway.

It always gets my heart pumping whenever I see my wife dressed to the nines, which she must do every day for the bookstore she works for. Today that included a form-fitting skirt just above her knees and a blouse that revealed…well it left a little less to the imagination. Not trashy, but definitely something that left no mystery as to how buxom she is. And we’re not talking over-the-top stripper sized…she’s just ‘right’. At least that’s the general consensus among the dudes I roll with.

The males in attendance all took notice when she walked over to where I parked. It made me feel a strange mixture of pride and humility that I’m her guy. But then I saw Ed Silver exit the passenger side of the Camaro. My blood ran cold, despite already noticing his unmarked cruiser parked on the other side of our car. It’s not because of any mistrust of Fiona. Ardently faithful in nature, her fooling around on me ain’t even a consideration. But Mr. Ed? …Now there’s a player for sure, like many a dude wearing the deep blue and a badge for our protection. Only he’s usually dressed in a suit, being a high-ranking detective and all.

I could tell he was less than thrilled by my presence. The poor bastard is such an easy read, his eyes flashing a peculiar mix of anger, longing, and the irritation that seems to be a hallmark for most veteran cops. He’s probably hoping against hope to bone my woman, judging from the slight bulge in his trousers. What a frigging dreamer.

Granted, the dude’s attractive, I guess. No doubt many women admire his strong build on a six-foot frame, and a full head of dark hair along with a toothy smile underneath his pussy-tickler mustache. A sharp dressed man too…I sort of said that already. The dude’s straight out of a Z-Z Top video from yesteryear. That might be his biggest problem, since he was probably my age back in the nineteen-eighties when that band was last popular. Detective Ed’s definitely around the half-century mark by now.

“Hey, hon,” said Fiona, reaching out to hug me as I secured my helmet to my handlebars. “I can’t believe this is happening. We just saw Dickey last weekend at Terri’s place….”

She began to weep, her shoulders heaving.

“I’m here to take care of you, babe,” I assured her, holding her close. “I’m so sorry…so sorry.”

She cried harder. Meanwhile, Dick Tracy seemed to get more and more annoyed. Probably in a hurry to avoid the increasing crowd of news reporters and paparazzi, and surely just as anxious to curtail Mr. and Mrs. Alea’s tender embrace.

“You better get on in there,” I told Fiona, tipping my shades to Ed, who nodded gratefully to confirm my suggestion. “I’ll be here when you get out.”

She smiled after pulling away, wiping her tears before walking with Ed to the main entrance. Two uniformed police officers stepped aside to let them through, and I caught a glimpse of Ed’s arm moving to usher her in through the doorway from behind. Again, trust on my part, and I could picture her stiffening from the slight invasion of her personal space.

“Man, I believe everybody who’s ever spoken with Dickey is here today,” said a high-pitched male voice from behind me. I whirled around to see who it was.

“It figures the pony-tailed dudes wearing reflective sunglasses would end up in the same spot, huh?” I responded, tilting my shades low enough to reveal my raised eyebrows, ala ‘The Rock’, Dwayne Johnson.

“It’s good to see you, Jimmy!”

Fred Marlowe, a longtime fan of my band, Quagmire, who just happens to be the lead beat reporter for the music scene in Nashville. Fred began his Nashville career nearly a decade earlier with a small local publication,
The Nashville Scene
, and then graduated to the city’s syndicated newspaper,
The Tennessean
, three years ago. Small and wiry in stature, he sports a Fu Manchu moustache that my wife says detracts a little from his brown eyes. Maybe it’s a macho thing, like something to make his baby-face framed by long blonde hair look older. It works in a rock n’ roll sort of way, and that’s cool with me.

“Good to see you too, Freddie!” I told him, grasping his hand in the brother handshake. “It’s been awhile, man. Fiona and I were just talking the other night about having you and Trisha over for a cookout.”

“Sounds cool,” he said, turning his attention back to Dickey’s main entrance. “So, Ed Douche-wad needs Fiona’s assistance to get a lead on the killer, I take it?”

“Yep,” I replied, turning to look back toward the doorway where one of the uniformed officers remained. The other had left his post to keep a pair of photographers from sneaking around to the rear of the building. “That’s his stated need, anyway, from what she told me earlier. I’m sure he’d like her assistance with more than just a murder investigation, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

I chuckled, though I couldn’t hide my contempt.

“I’m sure you’re dead-on about that!” he snickered. “It’s got to be killing him that she’s all yours, Jimmy. He should get a frigging life, man! He’d better focus all of his attention on finding this psycho before someone else gets sliced and diced!”

“So, I guess everyone figures this is connected to what happened last night?”

I wasn’t stating the obvious to just pass the fifteen to twenty minutes I figured Fiona and Ed would be inside the building’s offices. I pictured the murder scene already cordoned off, with a chalk outline representing Dickey’s body where it was found. But I wondered if Freddie knew something more.

“Hell, yeah, man—it’s the top story on Yahoo, dude!” He enthusiastically nodded to confirm how heavy this scene was. “I mean Candi’s death is the big story, but this new chapter is sure to send it on up to become CNN’s biggest story as well. This town will be swarming with a ton of vultures soon!”

Other news folks had moved closer to us, as if sensing some exclusive nuggets were at hand. I didn’t recognize any of them from last night, so I doubted they realized the first-hand look I had of Ms. Starr’s glazed expression—her final pose for some camera, likely one belonging to a forensic aide fresh out of college.

“Yeah….It sort of makes sense, I guess,” I said.

I hoped he didn’t think I was an idiot, and I longed for a later opportunity to fill him in with what I knew—far removed from our current surroundings and audience. He leaned in closer to me and lowered his voice.

“This one’s a lot worse than the others last night,” he whispered. “I know the examiner who handled the initial forensic investigation of Dickey’s office. He told me the room is covered in blood and splattered tissue. The killer, or killers, since there may be more than one, cut Dickey into pieces after shooting him once in the lower back, severing his spine.”

“Really?”

That’s all I could muster. I waited for him to go on, while both of us kept watch on the main entrance.

“Yeah, man,” he said. “It’s sort of like they wanted to make sure he couldn’t escape. Based on the evidence, whoever did this waited a little before chopping him to pieces…slowly. The bullet injury appears to have severed only the nerves from the waist down. If that’s true, then he felt every skin puncture and tear from the blade used to hack him up.”

“That sucks…bad.”

“Yeah, to be him, anyway,” said Freddie, grimacing. “It probably wasn’t much fun for his assistant to find him this morning.”

That would be Lori Lee Jones, who has her own small claim to fame, in that she is George’s third cousin…or so the assertion goes.

“I imagine not.”

Suddenly, I thought about ghosts. New ones. Fresh souls recently acquired by the other side. Sort of a reunion tour between Candi and her boss, along with Johnny and Brenda…such fun for everyone. Completely inappropriate, it made me feel a tad guilty and stirred my longing for Fiona. I couldn’t begin to picture life without her. She and our boys.

I heard a click from behind us, and saw the boom from a microphone disappear behind a nearby media van. Before I could trace the equipment to its owner, Freddie nudged my arm to reclaim my attention.

“It looks like they’re done, man,” he said, pointing to Fiona and Ed, who had just emerged through the twin French doors that marked the building’s main entrance.

At first she didn’t see me, since the crowd had grown significantly after she and Ed disappeared inside. When she did detect my presence, she smiled and lightly waved—which told me I needed to come to her instead of waiting for her to wade through paparazzi camera flashes as they sought to capture this mysterious, beautiful woman leaving the scene of wanton bloodshed. Her large dark sunglasses made her look like some notable songstress…a country maven.

She moved down the main walkway while I worked my way through the media throng. Ed nodded to a nearby reporter before jogging over to his car.

“How was it in there?” I asked, thinking about the gruesome details from what Freddie told me. “That had to be tough, babe.”

“It was,” she agreed. She took a deep breath and shuddered, motioning for me to walk her to our car. “Whoever did this is carrying so much rage and anger inside them. They’ve got a mean streak I only caught a glimpse of last night.”

Her voice was so soft, hovering barely above a whisper.

“Hmmm,” I replied, thoughtfully. It didn’t seem like a good idea to prod her for more information, especially with so many open ears surrounding us. “What do you say we get the hell out of here? Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, a little,” she said, a wan smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

I wanted to ravish those lips, but not here. Rocker yes, exhibitionist no. Freddie reached us after wading through the media mosh pit.

“Hey, Fi,” he said, giving her a light peck on her cheek. “Sorry for the loss of a good friend. Dickey was always one of my favorites for getting the juiciest inside scoop around here.”

“Thanks,” she replied, and I could tell she felt touched by his comment.

His sincerity made me feel a tad guilty for not taking the same approach earlier when she called me at work with the news. It’s always been kind of hard to be there in the moment while dealing with the routine call center B.S. It takes me about an hour to become fully human again each night

“Not to be rude, bro, but I think we’re ready to shed this place, man,” I told him. I looked over at her…well at least I was ready to get the hell out of here. Fiona kept glancing back toward the office. Maybe she sensed something, some forlorn energy, perhaps?

“Yeah, I’m ready to blow this place, too,” Freddie agreed, snickering while he watched Ed Silver’s cruiser head down the least congested side of Division Street. “There goes your buddy.”

“I heard he’d rather suck you off,” I retorted.

A mirthful moment followed, though quickly tempered by Fiona’s pained expression. Ed’s advances might irritate her almost as much as me, but he’s her best friend on the Metro police force.

“I’ll give you a call once this calms down some,” I told Freddie, moving to guide Fiona over to the Camaro. “Maybe next weekend?”

“Sounds good, bro!” he called back to me, and then disappeared into the sea of onlookers pushing ever closer to the entrance of Dickey’s office.

I pulled Fiona close once we reached the driver’s side door, holding her tight before letting her climb inside. Satisfied she’d be all right—at least stable enough to keep it together until she reached the Elliston Place Soda Shop—I jumped on my bike and followed her out of there. Claustrophobic from all of the media vehicles and additional police cruisers, I felt grateful when I could finally accelerate my Harley back up to the city speed limit.

A slight chill coursed along my spine as wind seeped through the back of my leather jacket, embracing the light sweat on my skin from a moment ago under July’s merciless heat. Or, maybe it had more to do with my anticipation of what Fiona would soon tell me—what she gathered from her visit to Dickey’s office, both visual and from beyond the average person’s sensory perception.