Nashville Noir (24 page)

“Not really. He called
you
. I only answered the phone because Mama said Emily wanted to talk to me and would call back. He asked for you, but when he knew it was me, he started asking all sorts of questions.”

“I hope you didn’t tell him anything, Cyndi.”

“I didn’t. I said I thought it was probably wrong for me to be saying anything to a newspaper reporter. I didn’t want to be rude and hang up on him, but I did.”

“Rude or not, it was the right thing to do,” I said, greatly relieved.

While I had asked the hotel to screen our calls and given them a list of those allowed to be put through, slipups were bound to occur. I was tempted to call the newspaper to insist that our privacy be respected, but that would have been an exercise in frustration. Whether I liked it or not, the media were always going to pursue a story. Besides, I didn’t want to keep Detective Biddle and Jamal waiting. I told Cyndi where I’d be in case anyone needed to reach me, and went to the Bridge, where Detective Biddle and Jamal Washburn had taken a table that afforded a clear view through huge windows of a portion of downtown Nashville. In the distance was the landmark AT&T building, affectionately known as the “Batman Building” because of its unusual architectural design. Biddle was dressed befitting a scheduled day of leisure—jeans, loafers, open white shirt, and blue cardigan sweater.

“Mr. Washburn was just telling me how he got the parking ticket logs from the Traffic Violation Bureau,” Biddle told me after I’d taken my seat. “What prompted you to suggest that?”

“A fellow I met at Marker & Whitson—his name is Buddy—told me that Mrs. Marker spent more in parking tickets than he made each month. It was a wild chance, but I thought it would be worth knowing whether she happened to have gotten one on the night her husband was murdered. And she had, for parking at the fire hydrant in front of his building.”

“Are you suggesting that
she
might have killed him?” Biddle asked.

“I don’t know
who
killed him, but I’m finding more and more people with possible motives. I do have a question for you, however.”

“Shoot.”

“When your officers picked up Cyndi a few days after the murder, did she have her cell phone with her?”

Biddle thought for a moment. “I don’t recall, but it’s easy enough to check. We did have her number. Marker’s secretary, Ms. Anderson, gave it to us.”

“I thought she’d gone home for the night.”

“She did, but the security guard had
her
home number. We asked her to return to the office but didn’t tell her why.”

“It must have been a terrible shock for her,” I said, feeling sorry for the woman despite her rudeness toward me.

“She handled it pretty well. She was the one told us about seeing Cyndi coming in as she was going out. She had a picture of your girl on file with her cell phone number, so we put out a BOLO on her.”

“A BOLO?”

“Stands for ‘be on the lookout’ for someone. All our patrol officers have MDTs in their vehicles—that’s mobile data terminals. We can get information out pretty fast. Anyway, we ran a check on her cell phone to see if she’d called anyone that day or night, figuring it would help us track her down. Nothing came up. Now I have a question for you.”

I smiled. “Shoot,” I said.

“Who’s this guy Wally Brolin?”

“He’s the fellow who—” Biddle’s hard stare caused me to pause. “I realize that you didn’t know about him, and that I should have told you the minute I got his name, but—”

“Mrs. Fletcher,” Biddle said, “I’ve been pretty easygoing with you since you arrived and started your own investigation. You agree?”

“Yes, and I’ve appreciated it.”

“I sat down with you and we agreed to exchange information that might be helpful to the attorney here and his client, and might also help the department solve this case. I’ve taken a lot of ribbing from my colleagues, and some criticism from the higher-ups. I don’t like being kept in the dark. It puts me in an awkward position, Mrs. Fletcher, and makes me think I made a mistake not keeping you far away from Metro Police in general, and from this investigation in particular.”

“I understand why you feel that way, Detective, and I assure you I haven’t deliberately withheld Wally Brolin’s name from you. Cyndi was hiding at Wally’s place when you were looking for her. I knew that she’d refused to tell your officers where she’d spent those few days. When we convinced her to confide in us, I made a point of contacting him, but I neglected to tell you about it. It was my error, and all I can say is I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, shaking his head and sipping the Coke he’d ordered. “All right. So now that you’ve ID’d this guy Brolin, tell me what you’ve learned from him.”

I took a deep breath. “Not very much,” I said, “except that I’m not sure he’s been totally honest with me. I get the feeling he knew Mr. Marker better than he let on at first. I also suspect he might be involved in some way with the song that Cyndi wrote and that Marker gave to Sally Prentice to record. Having someone else record that song was a great disappointment to Cyndi, but I think that giving Sally a cowriting credit was even more hurtful.”

“And a motive for murder.”

“Except that she didn’t kill him.”

He crossed his arms and stared at me.

“Are you going to follow up on Brolin?” I asked

“Already sent officers to his house to question him. The girlfriend was there, but he wasn’t. Know where he might be?”

“What girlfriend?”

Biddle shrugged. “Some girl who was there. Said he wasn’t home.”

“I have no idea where he might be,” I said. “Have you checked
his
cell phone records?”

“All in good time, Mrs. Fletcher.” He was silent for a moment. “Krupp at the
Tennessean
wrote that this guy Brolin led the band at the session last night.”

“That’s right. They were recording the music for an album with Sally Prentice.”

“We’ll check the union to see what other jobs he has scheduled.”

“Good idea.”

“Anything else you haven’t told me?” Biddle asked.

“Good heavens, I hope not.”

Biddle frowned.

“I mean, I don’t believe so. Oh, but Cyndi did tell me there was music playing in Marker’s office, which was why she couldn’t hear whether he was arguing with someone on the phone or in person. She said she’d forgotten that and only remembered it when I jogged her memory.”

Biddle sighed.

“I promise I’ll read through my notes to see if there’s anything else I haven’t discussed with you. If there is, I’ll call right away.”

Biddle turned to Jamal, who’d sat in silence throughout my conversation with the detective. “You have notes, too?”

He shrugged. “I don’t have anything,” he said. “Mrs. Fletcher has ended up my chief investigator. I’m just her sounding board.”

“And occasional accomplice,” Biddle added, tearing at the wrapper of a Goo Goo Cluster he’d taken from his pocket. He didn’t offer one to us.

“That reminds me,” I said, “what about the background check you said you were going to do on Edwina Anderson?”

“Waste of time,” Biddle said. “We did some checking. She’s one of these slaves to routine. Leaves the office every day at five, arrives home at five thirty, eats dinner, watches
Jeopardy
and
Wheel of Fortune
, in bed by nine thirty. She visits her great-aunt in a nursing home out in Franklin once a week and brings her a gluten-free brownie from the Bone-fish Grill. Not exactly a thrilling life. Satisfied?”

“I just thought that it made sense to look into everyone who had a close relationship with the victim,” I said, not pleased with my defensive tone. “There was nothing in the report about her life before she came to Nashville?” I said, thinking of Buddy and the gossip he passed along.

Biddle gave me an odd look. “You sure do get around,” he said, shaking his head. “She was cleared of manslaughter in a parking lot accident that took place thirty years ago in Arizona. You think that’s relevant?”

“Perhaps, but I don’t know the details. I do know that she has a key to the back door, even though she claims she never uses it.”

“That list of key holders we got from the building doesn’t shed any light on the case for me. Only the principals, Whitson and Marker, were issued keys, but they obviously made their own duplicates because Anderson wasn’t on the list.”

“Or she had the keys made for them,” I put in. “You could ask her. I don’t think she’d respond to me.”

“It’s nice to know I have some function in this investigation,” Biddle quipped with a wry smile. He downed what was left of his Coke and pushed back his chair. “I think I’ll go back home and try to salvage what’s left of my so-called day off. Sure there’s nothing else you’ve come up with that I should know?”

“I can’t think of anything at the moment,” I said. “You will let me know the results of your check on Wally Brolin’s phone records for the night of the murder?”

“Oh, sure, Mrs. Fletcher,” he replied. “I’d hate to leave you in the dark about anything. Good seeing you, Counselor. Maybe you ought to hire Mrs. Fletcher as your full-time investigator and get her to move down to Nashville.”

Washburn grinned and shook Biddle’s hand. “If I thought there was a chance that she’d accept the offer, I’d have made it days ago. Good seeing you again.”

Jamal and I lingered over what was left of our soft drinks after Biddle was gone.

“He’s a good guy,” Jamal said.

“I agree,” I said. “I just hope we can come up with Marker’s killer before he runs out of patience with me.”

“What’s next on your agenda, Jessica?”

“I’m not sure. I wish I had more facts to support these gut feelings I have about certain people. For instance, I’ve never really gotten a handle on Marker’s partner, Lewis Whitson. Maybe I should—”

The arrival of someone else at the table put a stop to my reflection. I looked up into a vaguely familiar face, although I couldn’t put my finger on why I knew him.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “Brian Krupp.” He pulled out a chair and sat down, dropping his cowboy hat on an empty table behind him.

Of course. His picture accompanied his columns in the
Tennessean
.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, “but I called your suite and Ms. Gabriel said you were here in the Bridge. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“As a matter of fact, you are,” I said. “I was just having a conversation with Mr. Washburn.”

“The attorney for Ms. Gabriel,” Krupp said. “How’s the case going?”

Washburn didn’t respond.

“Look,” Krupp said, “I know you don’t want to talk to me. It’s an ongoing case. Yadda. Yadda. I understand all that. But maybe talking to me would be beneficial to Ms. Gabriel and your case. That’s something to think about. Right?” He raised both hands. “See? No tricks up my sleeve.” He pulled open his jacket to reveal a plain white T-shirt. “No wires, no nothing. Just give me ten minutes. I won’t ask any questions, but I will share some information that I’ve dug up that might interest you. If it does, and you want more, I have a proposal for you. It’s no commitment on your part until you hear me out. Deal?”

I was poised to tell him no, but there was something about his directness that kept me from doing it. Maybe it was his youthful, almost boyish face that won me over despite my inherent caution when it comes to being open with a reporter when something sensitive is involved. I know they have their job to do, and it’s an important one in our society. But there have been a few instances in my career when they weren’t as forthright and, well, honest in their reporting as I would have hoped.

“I’m listening,” I said.

Washburn immediately stood. “I have someplace I have to be,” he said. “Nice seeing you, Mr. Krupp, and thanks for spelling my name right.” To me: “Give me a call later, Jessica. I’ll be in my office.”

“Looks like I scared him off,” Krupp said, pulling his hat from the other table and dropping it in the chair Jamal had vacated.

“It wouldn’t look right for him to be sitting with a reporter in a bar in the midst of the case,” I offered. “So, Mr. Krupp, I’ll take you at your word. Ten minutes without questions from you while I listen to what you have to say.”

“Then we talk deal,” he said pleasantly. “What do you know about Lewis Whitson, Roderick Marker’s partner?” he asked.

“You’ve already broken your promise,” I said. “You asked a question.”

He laughed. “Just my way of leading in to what I have to say. Won’t happen again—I think. Okay, I don’t know if your young friend Cyndi Gabriel, aka Cindy Blaskowitz, killed Marker or not. But if she didn’t, that means somebody else did.”

“A logical assumption.”

He ignored my sarcasm and said, “The thing is, this little girl from out of town stepped into a real pit of vipers at Marker & Whitson. There have been rumors floating around about that firm for years.”

I had a feeling I wasn’t the only person to whom Buddy had talked so freely.

“You know, Nashville may be a big city, but at heart it’s really a small town,” Krupp said, signaling to a waitress. “Got any local brew, Blackstone Ale?” he asked when she arrived at the table. “No? Okay. Let me have a Sam Adams.” He turned to me. “What about you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I’m fine as I am,” I said, marveling at how he was going to turn “ten minutes” into an extended conversation by ordering a beer.

“Where was I?” he said. “Oh yeah. Small town. In the music industry, everybody knows everybody. It’s hard to keep a secret here. We know who the good guys are and who the bad guys are, although sometimes they switch places. So the way I see it is if it wasn’t Cyndi, it had to have been someone closely involved with Marker, not some stranger. Also logical?”

I nodded.

“I did some checking around about Whitson. To put it simply, he and Marker weren’t bosom buddies. In fact, sources tell me that they were about to split up the partnership.”