The Gone Dead Train (33 page)

“You lied. The day it happened, I gave you an opportunity to clear it up and you didn't. Why should I trust you now?”

She started the engine. “You're going to have to trust me. We're in this too deep. Besides, you need me.” She reached into the backseat for the grocery store bouquet of carnations she'd bought and dropped them in his lap. “Here's your cover for the bus station. You're meeting your girlfriend coming in from Little Rock.”

He took the flowers. She turned off the light. She'd said her piece. The other conversation would have to wait.

They drove to the bus station with the rain coming down in sheets. She lucked out on a parking spot at the curb fifteen feet from the entrance. The Greyhound sign—blue and red neon—shone watery and indistinct through the windshield. A couple running down the sidewalk, holding plastic bags above their heads, ducked inside the station to take shelter from the storm.

“Dominique is supposed to call when she's on the way, but we should go in separately in case she's early. I'll take a position in the southeast corner beside the ticket counter to draw her in. When she arrives, you circle behind in case she tries to bolt.”

She was in this now, the hunt. She looked over. He seemed focused on a point far down the street instead of listening to her.

“You with me?”

He nodded.

“If she's got the goods, I'll run my hand through my hair. Be ready to use some muscle. This woman is six feet and built like Serena Williams.”

He pulled an envelope from inside his shirt. “Freeman e-mailed these examples of Augie's watches to make the identification easier.”

She took a penlight off the console and shone it on the photos.

He tapped the first photo. “That's the Bulova with the green band.”

“Swear to God, that's the watch. I told Dominique to bring it with her.”

“He also followed up on Pryce. They've moved him to a room. Maybe he'll wake up and remember who tried to kill him. Simplify things.”

She stole a glance at him. He had a lot riding on the next thirty minutes. If Dominique showed up with Augie's property and they could take her down, they would either have Augie's killer or be just one step away from him.

“You ready?” she asked.

He popped open his door and went in first. She followed a minute later, sloshing through puddles at the entrance. Someone had taped a handwritten sign on the inside of the glass door:
NO GUNS
.

The crowded terminal smelled like wet dog and popcorn. The big room felt worn-out and tired of struggling, waiting for the roof to collapse and end its misery. The single remnant left of its pride was the classic
GREYHOUND
insignia hanging above the ticket counter, five feet of sleek chrome greyhound stretched out in a full racing sprint.

Mothers with screaming kids on their laps took up most of the front-row seats. In the back rows, overweight seniors sat with their swollen legs stretched out, blocking the aisles. The people standing around were folks waiting to meet someone or to board a bus themselves. Others were less benign. Scattered throughout the terminal, loners leaned against the walls with their arms crossed over their chests and their heads hanging, eyes averted. These were the felons, the losers, the opportunists—the guys you don't want to be seated next to on the bus.

J.J. the street hustler brushed past her, looking like a tall Mr. Clean in his white jersey that read
JESUS IS COMING. LOOK
BUSY
. He glanced her way and nodded but kept moving toward the restroom. He was soaked to the skin and obviously irritated.

Three guys in their twenties wearing motorcycle boots and leather vests over bare chests clomped up and down the terminal's center aisle as if patrolling it. Their attention roved over a knot of four teenage black guys wearing NBA jerseys. The boys had staked out territory by the water fountain, milling around and cutting their eyes at the crowd. Both groups looked pissed off, as if the rain had driven them into the terminal against their will.

The arrivals/departures board hung high on a wall to her left. Incoming buses from St. Louis and Little Rock were overdue. Those scheduled to leave for Nashville and Louisville had been delayed. Frankie overheard a woman say the storm had skirted Memphis, but flash floods had shut down parts of Highway 40. The delays explained the overcrowding with passengers brushing against each other, trying to make room.

She watched Billy move along the far wall, slapping the flowers against his leg like they were a rolled-up newspaper. He was scanning the packed space the same way she was. He stopped, took out his phone, and tapped in a text:

Sure was, but Dominique already had one foot out the door for California.

She texted back:

Her phone rang while she still had it in her hand. It was Dominique.

“Angelfish, you at the station?”

“I'm here.” She glanced at Billy and nodded. He drifted midway down the side of the terminal into position.

“Lord, God, this rain. We outside the station.”

We?
Did that mean a cabby or a friend with a car? A second person would complicate the takedown.

“You brought the curse and the watch and your family things?” Frankie asked.

“I got that stuff, Angelfish. You buying my things tonight?”

She heard the need in Dominique's voice. “I'm still interested. Meet me in the back corner, past the ticket counter.”

She hung up. Her heart pounded as she scanned the terminal for any last-minute problems. And there was one. The teenagers were moving as a group from their position to the center aisle where the bikers were pacing. One of the kids pointed at the nearest biker. He must have made a wisecrack because the biker, a big guy with swastika tattoos on both forearms, lunged forward to pop the kid in the chest, knocking him into the other three.

Not now
, she thought as she moved into a group of people who were grabbing their luggage and bustling away from the fight. Billy caught her eye and shook his head as he strode toward the skirmish, meaning for her to stay in position. She stepped back, agreeing that she shouldn't intervene in a flare-up that would probably burn out fast.

The boys shoved their friend forward like he was a prizefighter they were pushing back into the ring. The biker flexed his neck and showed gapped teeth when he smiled. The kid raised his fists. The biker stepped in and dropped him with a left hook to the jaw. The teenagers shouted. Everyone in the terminal turned, their attention now taken by the fight.

Frankie looked around. Where the hell was the security guard?

Just then Dominique sailed through the door, carrying a box she'd wrapped in a garbage bag to protect it from the rain. She had on a black dress to her ankles and the same yellow, black, and green bandanna she'd worn in her kitchen. The noise and the press of the crowd didn't seem to faze her as she searched the faces for Frankie.

They made eye contact. Frankie waved for Dominique to come up the side aisle to keep her out of the ruckus. Dominique edged through the crowd then slowed, her attention drawn to the ring of people that had formed in the center aisle.

The kids were at the center, taunting the bikers and pulling their friend to his feet. A wiry biker elbowed aside the bigger guy. Frankie saw a shiv appear in his left hand. He pressed it against his thigh so the kids wouldn't see it coming.

But Billy saw it coming.

“How 'bout it,” he shouted and rammed the biker with his shoulder, the jolt knocking the weapon from his hand.

Both groups froze and watched as Billy scooped up the knife and pocketed it.

Dominique cocked her head toward the group and rolled her eyes. Frankie shrugged. Thank God she didn't have to step in. Billy was damned good at his job.

Dominique began to move again. She was twenty feet away when Frankie picked up in her peripheral vision the third biker easing up on Billy's right. Brass knuckles appeared in his right fist.

“Behind!” she yelled. Billy twisted left, but the biker's fist chopped down and caught him on the back, knocking him to his knees. The crowd closed in, hiding him from her sight.

She ripped out the SIG strapped to her ankle and raced toward the fight. The biker raised the brass knuckles above his head, prepared to slam down with lethal force. From out of nowhere, J.J. pushed through the ring of people, bellowing like a madman. He grabbed a fistful of the biker's hair and yanked him backward.

“Police!” Frankie shouted, coming in behind him. The other two bikers and the kids took off running. Billy scrambled to his feet, lunged at the biker who'd slugged him, and snagged his vest from the back. The biker wriggled free of the vest and sped toward the door.

Frankie was furious. The bastard could've killed Billy. She raised her gun, but held her fire. The sight of a gun set the crowd bumping and pushing for the exits. She whirled and locked eyes with Dominique, who had gotten the picture and was clearly outraged about being conned. She flipped Frankie the bird, and pushed through the crowd for the door, the box still in her grip.

“Go,” Billy shouted.

Frankie shoved her way through the crowd that had slowed Dominique long enough for her to leap from behind and make a grab at the dress. Her hand had closed over the black cloth when a huge woman in a Graceland T-shirt broadsided them both. Frankie's feet slid on the wet floor. She went down hard on her ass with the dress still clutched in her hand. Dominique stayed on her feet and twisted around to swat her dress free, which sent the box tumbling across the floor. Dominique screamed something unintelligible before bolting out the door.

Frankie knew if she didn't get to the box, quick hands would make it disappear. Billy blew past her and was out the door as she grabbed for the box. She got to her feet and followed him with it in her arms.

Outside, the rain hit her in the face like buckshot. Billy directed her left. He ran right. She dodged cars in the parking lot, careful to keep her feet under her and not fall on the box. She searched up and down the cross street for Dominique, then ran through the departure bays on the right side of the terminal. The Little Rock bus rolled in, its headlights revealing that Dominique was nowhere in sight. Frankie had retraced her steps to the covered entrance just as Billy got there.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I'm fine. How could a big woman like that disappear so fast?”

“She said someone dropped her at the station. They must have been waiting in the parking lot. She could be holed up anywhere.”

He slammed his fist into his palm. “Damn it!”

“At least we got the box.”

J.J. pushed through the door and stuck his head out. “You guys working with no backup? Cause you damn near got jacked up.”

“Good play, J.J. I owe you,” Billy said.

J.J. grinned. “Like I always say, Jesus saves.”

Frankie held the box out to Billy. “You want to go inside and open this?”

“Heads up,” J.J. said and gestured toward the street behind them. An MPD patrol car, blue lights rolling, was two blocks away and cruising in their direction.

W
e'
d
better open it at the barge,” Billy said, knowing they had already pushed their luck.

She handed him the keys. “You drive.”

He stowed the box in the back of the Jeep. Frankie used callback on Dominique's number and got the “not accepting calls at this time” message. Dominique had either turned off the phone or removed the battery so her phone couldn't be tracked. He suggested Frankie call cab company dispatchers and the ticket agent at the bus station, giving them Dominique's description. After she did that, she checked with the night manager at Robert House who said that Dominique had left there around eight thirty
P.M.,
carrying a suitcase and a box wrapped in plastic. She had not returned.

The rain stopped. The sidewalks became crowded again, making it unlikely they would spot Dominique. They considered calling in patrol officers for help, but that would require explanations they didn't want to make. Dominique didn't have money for a plane ticket, there was no passenger train until midmorning, and she wouldn't dare go back to the bus station. They'd done what they could to contain her within the city. Most likely, she'd found a place to stay for the night. The only thing left was to head to the barge and open the box.

When they got inside, he gathered gloves, scissors, tape, and his laptop. He made coffee while Frankie wiped down the stainless-steel counters, the best surface in the place to deal with evidence. If she noticed the pie sitting on the cutting board, she didn't mention it.

They snapped on gloves and cut away the green plastic, revealing a packing box with pictures of jumbo cans of tomatoes on the side. Dominique would have picked up the box in the shelter's kitchen. Frankie popped open the flaps. On top was a soft, gray conjure bag. Beneath that was a white pillowcase with red trim and the Cardinal's insignia.

Billy's heart jumped at the sight. They looked at each other and grinned. He'd felt the three deaths were connected. Here was the first evidence pointing in that direction.

Frankie unfolded the pillowcase and began lifting out watches zipped into plastic bags, their crystal faces showing through. She laid everything on the counter: eighteen watches, two worn baseballs covered with signatures, two blues harmonicas, and seven framed photographs of civil rights martyrs. The Bulova with the green band was missing. No phone, no laptop. At the bottom of the box lay a large mailing envelope bulging with pages. Frankie slipped the manuscript out. A USB flash drive tumbled out with it.

She picked it up. “I'll bet Pryce gave this to Augie so he could upload the manuscript.”