The Gone Dead Train (24 page)

“Did you see the technicians go through the books?” he asked.

“They pulled books down then checked the shelves.”

“Contraband search,” he said.

“They flipped through a few of them, but I didn't see them remove anything.”

“All right. Let's get to it,” he said.

Freeman frowned. “I hope Linda likes James Bond movies.”

They both took a shelf, working from opposite ends, fanning through pages, removing dust jackets, shaking the books and then replacing them. It seemed like a futile gesture, but they stayed with it.

After a while Billy glanced up. “By the way, thanks for—”

Freeman raised a hand, his face suddenly angry. “Let's get something straight. I've bought into the premise that you're looking for Augie's killer. But I'm not your friend. I was Augie's friend. So don't thank me.”

Billy slammed a book shut. “If you believe I'm after Augie's killer, why did you let me walk into Dunsford's ambush over those dummy cameras?”

“That was for you and Dunsford to work out. We're in the middle of a murder investigation. I'm not the one to judge how it's handled.”

“I planned to sign back on with the department so I could get involved with the investigation. Between the fight and my screwed-up alibi, Dunsford's got me down as a suspect. If I'd known about the cameras, I could have dealt with it. Now I'm working blind. And what's with using dummy cameras in your building, anyway?”

“My security experts assured me even the pros can't tell the difference.”

“And you took their word for it?”

“No one gets to the service elevators without going through the lobby,” Freeman said.

“What about the back entrance?”

“There's a coded lock. A manager has to open up for the residents and deliveries.”

“Who has the code?”

“Only me, my two managers—”

“And Augie,” Billy said.

Freeman flushed. “He's the only tenant with the code. He wasn't always in the best shape to walk through the lobby. At the rent I charged him, Augie deserved a private entrance.”

“He could have taken the killer up the back way to his place unobserved. Or he could have given him the code. The guy could've gotten in and out of the building without ever being recorded.”

“I know. You think I don't feel bad about that?” Freeman said. “Somebody beat my neighbor with a baseball bat while I was sleeping down the hall. That's why I'm breaking the law to help you search for a damned business card that probably doesn't exist. I'm putting my faith in you—a damned cop, because I don't have
any
faith in Dunsford.”

“I understand why you hate cops. I know what happened to your dad.”

“You think you know. Two men used to come to my dad's bar and try to push him around. They were FBI agents. Sometimes they brought the cops with them to run off customers at a time when my dad was barely making ends meet. They wanted him to eavesdrop on conversations, report on who was talking to whom. My dad refused.”

Freeman walked to the window, the glow from the stadium lights gone. “My mother worked afternoons and evenings at Goldsmith's department store for a regular paycheck coming in. With her at work, I had to go to the bar at night. I washed glasses, wiped down tables. One of the agents must have noticed me.

“Grant was his name. He showed up one afternoon. Dad thought I was out back, but I had a hidden nook under the bar where I liked to read in the afternoons. I heard this guy say he'd seen me working in the bar, and he could use that to shut us down unless my dad cooperated. Dad threw him out. A week later a woman from the liquor board tacked a notice on the door that closed the bar.”

Freeman turned away from the window. “That's what law enforcement has done for me and my family.”

He couldn't change Freeman's mind, and sympathy would only make him angrier. “Your family got a rotten deal. I'm sorry. I'll try to do better for Augie.”

Freeman's face went stiff. “Sure. Fair enough. Let's keep looking.”

B
illy pulled another book, Hampton Sides's
Hellhound on His Trail
, held it by the covers, and shook it. A card fell out. He picked it up, read it, and handed it to Freeman. Freeman ran his thumb over the raised symbol at the top of the card.

“That's an embossed press corps emblem,” Billy said. “It's not so obvious. A reporter can hand a card like that to a possible source without spooking them.”

“‘Walker Pryce,'” Freeman said, reading the name out loud. He flipped the card over and flipped it back. “That's a Chicago area code on the front. There's another number on the back.”

Using his mobile, Billy Googled Walker Pryce and Chicago then scrolled down. “Walker Pryce had a byline at the
Tribune
a few years ago. He wrote a book on politics, journalism, and corruption. This has to be the guy.”

“Call the number,” Freeman said.

“It's too soon.” He did a reverse phone lookup and got a Memphis address.

“I want to get my hands on that leech,” Freeman said.

“You're leaving town tomorrow, remember?”

Freeman's expression flattened. “It took me six months to get that meeting.”

“I'll handle this guy.” Billy locked in the address and glanced around. “We found Pryce, but the photo's not here.”

“Augie told me he had it.”

“Did he show it to you?”

Freeman flexed his hands. “No.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“I ran into Augie the other night at Bardog. He was telling me about the photos when you walked in. He got so excited, he went into the bathroom to calm down. He came out with a plan to convince you to let me see the pictures.”

Billy recalled Augie's buddy-buddy exuberance and how he'd pushed to show them to Freeman. “You were such a jerk,” he said.

“I know. I was looking at a picture of the man who caused my father's death. I signaled to Augie that Grant was in the pictures. I was angry all over again about my dad. I was ready to punch somebody. You were my first choice.”

“Did you point out a specific picture to Augie?”

“Not specific.”

“Do you know which photo Augie took?”

“I never saw it. He offered to make a copy for me, but I didn't want it. I think he took it to Pryce.”

“But you're not sure.”

“It's an assumption. Augie ran his tail all over town to help that guy. Those photos are gold to someone writing about civil rights. Maybe Pryce has the original.”

“I met with Garrett tonight. He gave me some historical context, but his real focus was on acquiring the photos for the museum. Pryce and Garrett have the same interest.”

“Where does that leave you?”

He didn't answer. He sensed something underneath all this, an undersmell. So far he'd been the only one aware of it. If he opened up, told Freeman about Red and Little Man, there was no guarantee Freeman wouldn't run to Dunsford with the information. But there wasn't much choice.

“I'm thinking Augie's murder is connected to Red's and Little Man's deaths.”

Freeman nodded. “How?”

“Red bought Grant's jacket. Little Man died. Red blamed the jacket, but he was talking about the photographs. then Red died.”

“I thought Red died of a heart attack.”

“I'm sure he did. Somebody scared the shit out of him.”

“You're saying Davis and Lacy were murdered?”

“Their deaths are somehow tied to the photos. Augie had a photograph. Now he's dead too, and the photograph is missing.”

“Have you got the rest of the photos with you?” Freeman asked.

“Oh. So now you're interested.”

“Shut up. Give me the pictures,” Freeman said.

Billy handed them over. Freeman started through them.

“What are you looking for?” Billy asked.

“I don't know. I was so angry when we were at Bardog, I wasn't paying close enough attention.” Freeman pulled out photos of two women. “Here's something. Dad told me these ladies were feeding lies to the cops to make a little cash on the side.”

“Counterintelligence. No harm done.”

Freeman shuffled through more and stopped. “This can't be right.” He turned the picture for Billy to see.

A young black man with a heavy jaw and wearing a wide-brimmed hat with a conical crown was deep in conversation with Grant. The young man was listening, head inclined, shoulders relaxed. Grant had one hand up, making a point.

“I saw that one,” Billy said. “An interior shot. No shadows from the sun.”

“It's Calvin Carter. There's one of him at the museum standing beside a woodie station wagon. I recognize the face and the hat. You're telling me Garrett saw this picture and didn't ID Carter?”

“I asked if he recognized anyone. He said everyone in the photos was probably dead. Then he jumped into the story about his brother.”

“That's Garrett. Hell of a player. No way he wouldn't recognize Carter.” He handed back the stack. “Maybe Carter was pulling the agent's leg for a little cash the way the ladies were. He had eight kids. That's a lot of mouths to feed.”

“But why didn't Garrett point him out? He made a play for me donating the photos to the museum. He emphasized
all
the photos.”

Freeman laughed. “That son of a bitch is worried there might be more shots of Carter. Even a hint that Carter was an informant could dry up funding for the museum. Did Garrett know Augie had one of the photos?”

“I didn't tell him, and I don't think Augie would have brought it up.”

Freeman shook his head.

“This may be important, or it may be a distraction,” Billy said.

“What are you going to do?”

“Deal with it later. Right now I'm going after Pryce.”

W
alker Pryce's address took Billy south along the river toward an industrial section recently rezoned for residential use. A California developer bought the property, knocked down the old brick and tin warehouses that were once used to store cotton bales, and stripped the five-acre site of both plant life and history. After the developer went bust, the work had stopped, and the project went into receivership.

He drove past the stone posts at the subdivision's entrance marked
WATERS TRACE
. The city had installed the required curbs, but the building lots were devoid of construction, nothing but raw dirt and weeds. Had Pryce falsified his address?

The only structure in the desolate space was at the center of the property. By moonlight, he read the sign in the front yard:
MODEL HOME/SALES OFFICE
. It was a white clapboard house with tall green shutters and a porch flanked by narrow columns. A light burned in a window to the left of the front door. In the driveway sat what looked like a brand-new red Porsche Boxster—sixty thousand on the hoof.

Billy pulled to the curb thirty yards short of the house, killed his lights, and sent a text to Frankie.

Pryce had enough money to drive a new Porsche. Could be he'd received a big advance on the book. Could be he was a trust-fund baby. The idea that the money for the car had come from Augie made Billy's blood run hot.

He'd like to knock on the door and punch this guy Pryce in the mouth, but even a conversation with him would be a mistake. He had no authority to question Pryce. He'd have to lie to get his foot in the door. Pryce was no idiot, which made this a one-shot deal.

Frankie would check Pryce for a criminal history and outstanding warrants. He'd go home and do his own research. Tomorrow, he'd show up at Pryce's house with some excuse to look around for evidence. Then he'd start with the questions. It wouldn't take long for Pryce to figure out he was being looked at for Augie's murder, but in the meantime, something interesting might come up.

The meeting had to happen in the morning. By tomorrow afternoon, Dunsford would have Augie's phone records and Pryce's number. If Pryce showed up for an interview with Dunsford, he'd most likely bring a lawyer who would shut things down five minutes into the conversation. Dunsford would then switch his focus back where he wanted it in the first place—on Billy.

He drove home along the banks of the Mississippi, the river running dark and unknown beside him. At the barge he threw his keys in the bowl on the counter, cracked a longneck Bud, and listened to the vibrations coming from the tracks across the road. The rails rattled under the weight of the freight cars, a grinding, booming sound.

He drank some beer and thought about the way he should handle Pryce. He was on leave, so the restraints of standard procedure didn't apply. Nine months was a long time to be away. He wondered if the lack of oversight had changed him. The memory of Augie's crime scene burned constantly in his mind. That had certainly changed him. So had Red Davis's terrorized face. If anything else had changed, it was his disappointment in the people he'd cared for the most. Mercy had only been the most recent.

As he settled his computer on his lap and typed “Walker Pryce” into search, the deep, broad wail of the passing train took hold.

F
rankie found herself standing outside B. B. King's Blues Club just after ten
P.M.
Billy was on a quest, and he hadn't invited her along. Actually, that wasn't fair. He was about to do something illegal and wanted to shield her from culpability. But still, she felt like a kid left standing on the curb.

She watched him edge through the overheated crowd, the kind of cop who gambled it all in the pursuit of justice. He'd been lucky in his career, pushed it to the brink, had some close calls, but now he was a murder suspect, and she was the only one in his corner.