Capital Crimes (20 page)

6

A
t seven thirty, they returned to the kill-spot. In diminishing daylight, stripped of hubbub and artificial illumination, the site was even more depressing. Last night’s foot-indentations were almost gone, plumped by dew. But streaks of rusty brown remained on the weeds. Fresh dog dropping deposited inches from where the body had lain, the pooch disregarding the boundaries of the yellow crime scene tape.

Why should life stop?

At eight thirty they were starving and went back to Jack’s Bar-BQue, not just for the food, but also hoping someone might remember something.

Baker ordered smoked chicken.

Lamar asked for Tennessee pork shoulder and when the food arrived, said, “It’s like some primitive rite.”

Baker wiped his mouth with a Wash’n Dri. “What is?”

“I’m eating what Jack ate, like that could transfer his karma to us.”

“I don’t want his karma. You gonna eat all those onions?”

They wiped their chins and drove to The T House. The front door was open but from the street, the club looked empty.

The interior was a single dim, plywood-paneled room with a warped pine floor, mismatched chairs pulled up to small round, oilcloth-covered tables, a few pictures of bands and singers hanging askew.

Not quite empty; three patrons, all young, emaciated, sullen, drinking tea and eating some kind of anorexic biscuits.

Big and Rich on the too-loud soundtrack, asking women to ride them.

Behind a makeshift bar, a black-shirted, spiky-haired guy dried mismatched glasses. As the detectives stood in the doorway, he glanced their way briefly, then returned to his chore.

Not curious about their presence. Meaning Jeffries probably hadn’t been here.

They entered anyway, looked around. No hard liquor permit, just beer and wine and a skimpy selection of that. To the left of the bottles, a blackboard listed two dozen types of tea.

“Talk about selection,” said Lamar. “Oolong is one thing, Unfermented White sounds illegal.”

Baker said, “Look at this.” Cocking his head at the rear of the room where a stage should be. No platform, no drum kit, or any other evidence of live entertainment.

Another dude in all-black fiddled with a karaoke setup.

“They can’t hire someone live?” said Lamar. “The Large Pizza Blues just got sadder.”

Referencing the old strummer’s joke:
What’s the difference between a Nashville musician and a large pizza? A large pizza can feed a family of four.

This town, getting someone to play for cheap was as easy as blinking, but whoever owned this place opted for a computer. Someone turned the volume down on Big and Rich. A young woman wearing a waitress apron over a red tank top and jeans stepped out of a door in the back, checked with all three tea-drinkers, refilled a pot, then went over to the karaoke guy. He offered her a cordless microphone. She wiped her hands on her apron, untied it and placed it on the bar. Untying a blond ponytail, she fluffed her hair, flashed teeth at the nearly empty room, finally took the mike.

The room grew silent. The blond girl wiggled, more nerves than sexiness. She said, “Here we go,” and tapped the mike. Thump thump thump. “Testing…okay, folks, how’re y’all tonight?”

Nods from two of the tea-drinkers.

“Awesome, me, too.” Mile-wide smile. Pretty girl, twenty, twenty-one. Small and curvy—five-two or -three, square jaw, big eyes.

She cleared her throat again. “Well…yeah, it is an awesome night for some music. I’m Gret. That’s short for Greta. Then again,
I’m
kinda short.”

Pausing for laughter that never arrived.

The karaoke guy muttered something.

Gret laughed and said, “Bart says we’d best be moving along. Okay, here’s one of my favorites. ’Cause I’m from San Antone…though I love love love
Nashville.
”

Silence.

A third throat clear. Gret threw back her shoulders, tried to stand taller, planted her feet as if ready to fight someone. A musical intro issued from the karaoke box and soon Gret was putting heart and soul into “God Made Texas.”

Lamar thought she started out pretty good, belting out the song in a smooth, throaty voice, just above an alto. But she was a long ways from great.

Meaning another rider on the Dead Dream Express. Nashville chewed them up and spit them out the way Hollywood did with starlets. According to what he’d heard about Hollywood; the farthest west he’d been was Vegas, five days at a homicide investigation seminar. Sue had won twenty bucks playing dime slots and he’d lost all that and forty more at the blackjack tables.

He stood there as Gret wailed on, glanced at his partner. Baker had turned his back on the stage, was staring at a blank wall and Lamar caught a glimpse of his profile as Baker winced suddenly. As if seized by a cramp.

Lamar was wondering what was wrong when a nano-second later Gret from San Antone skidded off pitch, maybe an eighth note flat. A few measures later, she did it again and by the end of the verse she was
way
off.

Off the beat, too, hopping in too early on several verses.

Baker looked ready to spit.

How the heck had he heard the bad note
before
she sang it? Lamar wondered. Maybe he was so fine-tuned that the sound waves got there sooner. Maybe that was why, even though he could pick and grin up there with Adam Steffey and Ricky Skaggs—at least according to what people said—he let that F-5 just sit in the—

He stopped himself. Jack Jeffries’s throat had been cut and he was here to work.

The song ended. Finally. Gret from San Antone bowed as a pair of hands clapped lazily.

She said, “Thanks, y’all, now we’re going to do a little traveling, down to that awesome town so devastated by that evil woman known as Katrina. This is a real oldie, I wouldn’t know it but my mama’s a big doo-wop fan and back when she was littler than me, I’m talking a real bobby-soxer—y’all know what that is?”

No answer.

Gret made the wise choice of not continuing the digression. “Anyway, back then my mama just loved a boy from New Yawk named Freddy Cannon. Palisades Park?”

Silence.

“Anyway,” she repeated, “Freddy also recorded this one back in the dinosaur age.” Gret blinked and straightened up. “Okay, here we go, folks. ‘Way Down Yonder in New Awleans.’”

Baker walked out of the café and stood out on the sidewalk.

Lamar listened to a few sour beats, then joined him.

“Don’t you think we should at least ask if he was in here, El Bee?”

“Yup,” said Baker. “I’m just waiting for the static to die down.”

“Yeah,” said Lamar, “she stinks, poor thing.”

“Maybe she’s the lucky one.”

“Why’s that?”

“No one’ll give her any false hope and she’ll go find a real job.”

They watched from the doorway as Gret put the microphone down and resumed her waitress duties. None of the patrons needed her and she headed over to the bar. Sipping a beer, she peered over the foam, locked eyes with the detectives and smiled.

When they approached, she said, “Po-lice, right?”

Lamar smiled back. “Today we are.”

“I figured you’d be here,” she said. “’Cause Mr. Jeffries was here. I was gonna call you but I really didn’t know who to call and I figured you’d be here, soon enough.”

“Why’s that?”

That threw her. “I dunno…I guess I figured someone would know Mr. Jeffries was here and you’d be following up.”

Baker said, “Who would know?”

“His entourage maybe?” said Gret, as if answering a question on an oral exam. “I figured someone must have drove him from wherever fancy place he was staying, a celebrity like him doesn’t just show up by himself.”

“Was he with anyone?”

Gret chewed her lip. “Nope…he wasn’t. I guess I
shoulda
called. Sorry. If you didn’t come by tomorrow, I was
gonna
call. Not that I can tell you anything else except he was here last night.”

Baker turned to the bartender who’d ignored them when they entered. Pimply-faced kid, the spiked hair was dyed black. He had a long, gaunt, chin-dominated face, didn’t look old enough to drink. Shifty eyes—real shifty eyes. “Anything you want to say, son?”

“Like what?”

“Like were you on last night?”

“Nope.”

“Did you know Jack Jeffries was here last night?”

“Gret told me.”

“Man gets murdered and he was here last night. We show up and you don’t think to mention it?”

“Gret just told me. She said she’d be talking to you.”

Gret said, “I really did, Officers. Byron doesn’t know anything.”

Lamar said, “What’s your last name, Byron?”

“Banks,” said the barkeep.

“Sounds like you don’t enjoy talking to the police, son.”

No answer.

“You have experience talking to the police, son?”

Byron Banks gazed at the ceiling. “Not really.”

“Not really, but what?”

“I did nine months.”

“When?”

“Last year.”

“For what?”

“Grand theft auto.”

“You’re a car booster.”

“Just once, I was wasted. Never gonna happen again.”

“Uh-huh,” Baker said. “Do you have a substance-abuse problem?”

“I’m okay, now.”

“Tending bar?” Lamar stood up and stretched to his full height. He did that whenever he wanted to intimidate. “Don’t you think it’s a little risky for a guy like you?”

“It’s tea,” said Banks. “I don’t do nothing and I don’t know nothing. She’s the one who was here.”

Greta said, “That’s really true.”

Baker said, “Where were you last night, Byron?”

“Over on Second.”

“Doing what?”

“Walking around.”

“By yourself?”

“With friends. We went into a club.”

“Which one?”

“Fuse.”

“That’s Techno,” said Lamar. “How about the names of your friends?”

“Shawn Dailey, Kevin DiMasio, Paulette Gothain.”

“What time were you cruising Second?”

“Until about one or two. Then I went home.”

“Which is where?”

“My mother’s.”

“Where’s that?”

“New York Avenue,” said Banks.

“The Nations,” said Lamar with a quick glance to Baker. Later, if he was in a mood, he’d have some fun.
Neighbors like that and your alarm sucks…

“Yeah. I’m feeling antsy. Can I go have a smoke?”

They took his stats and let him go. The kid walked past the karaoke gear, disappeared through the rear door.

“He’s really a nice person,” said Gret. “I never knew he was in jail. How could you tell?”

Lamar turned his eyes on the waitress. “We got ways. What’s back there, through that door?”

“Just the bathroom and a little room where we put our stuff. I keep my guitar there.”

“You play?” said Lamar. “How come you used the machine?”

“House rules,” said Gret. “Some kind of union thing.”

“Who else was here last night?”

Gret said, “Our other bartender—Bobby Champlain—and me and Jose. Jose sweeps up after we close so he came in maybe ten to midnight.”

“Either of them have a criminal record?”

“I wouldn’t know for certain, sir, but I wouldn’t
think
so. Bobby’s around seventy, deaf in one ear, mostly deaf in the other, and a little…slow, you know? Jose’s real religious—Pentecostal. Bobby told me he’s got five kids and works two jobs. Neither of them would have recognized Mr. Jeffries, especially looking…well, different. I was the only person who did.”

“Mr. Jeffries looked older than you expected.”

Nod. “And a lot…you know, fatter. We might as well be honest.”

“But you recognized him.”

“My mama
loved
the trio…but her favorite was Jack. He was the star, you know. She has all the old LPs.” Sad smile. “We still got a record player.”

Baker said, “Who makes the house rules?”

“The owner. Dr. McAfee. He’s a cosmetic dentist, loves music. He worked on Byron’s mom’s teeth. That’s how Byron got the job.”

“Dr. McAfee around much?”

“Almost never,” said Greta. “Bobby Champlain told me he’s too busy doing teeth; Bobby started off working here when it opened, around a year ago. Dr. McAfee worked on his teeth, too. He lives in Brentwood. Dr. McAfee, I mean, not Bobby. Nowadays, he hardly ever makes it over. Last couple of weeks, I been opening and closing, and he’s been paying me a little extra for that.”

“What time did Mr. Jeffries show up?”

“I’d have to say around eleven fifteen, thirty. We close at midnight but the music stops at fifteen to. I was just about to start my second set.”

“Singing old favorites,” said Lamar.

The girl smiled. Those big eyes were brown and soft. “Singing’s in my blood. It’s my goal.”

“To get a record deal?”

“Well, sure, that would be great. But I just love singin’—sharing what I’ve got with other people. My goal is to one day be able to do that as my real job.” Her lips turned down. “Here I am talking about me and it’s so horrible about Jack Jeffries. When I found out, I was so shocked, I can’t tell you. He’s more from my mama’s time but she plays his records all the time and he had a
beautiful
voice. Just gorgeous. She always said it was a gift from God.” Small fists clenched. “How could anyone
do
that to him? When I found out this morning, I was
horrified.
And then I said ohmigod, I need to talk to them—meaning you—the police. I thought of 911 but they say if it’s not a real emergency, don’t use it ’cause it ties up the lines.”