The Gone Dead Train (19 page)

She nodded. “Okay. Let's talk about money. Augie loaned Red two thousand dollars. The night we saw Red, he couldn't rub two quarters together. He was scared, and he was running. Maybe he gambled and got in over his head. After Red died, whoever went after him might have gone after Augie.”

“Bookies don't kill their marks. They break knees. Augie had the hell beat out of him. This was personal.”

Frankie rolled her eyes. “I guess so, but Red should never have borrowed money. Personal loans always lead to trouble.”

Growing up in Mississippi, Billy knew where Red was coming from, what he had endured. Red knew more about loan trouble than Frankie ever would. But Red had fought his way out. Billy remembered a press photo from Red's 1998 European tour—Red dressed in a silk suit with diamond cuff links, his shiny black hair swept back. The set of his jaw told the story. Red knew who he was back then. He had a place in the world.

That slick promotional photo was very different from the pack of photos in Red's jacket. After talking with Freeman, he'd begun to wonder if those photos were somehow connected to Augie's death. He rubbed his face, too tired to think it through. At some point he would discuss it with Frankie; however, there was one thing she needed to know right now.

“Remember that missing photo?” he asked.

“Number fourteen.”

“Augie stole it. He took it the night I ran into him at Bardog. I was mad about it and went to his place this morning to get it back. The fight at the ballpark looks bad. Going there for the photo makes me look even worse.”

She blinked several times but said nothing.

“I was home alone when Augie was murdered, so my only alibi is the security camera at the DeVoy showing I didn't arrive at the building until well after he was killed. Are you comfortable with that?”

“I'm okay with it, but Dunsford won't be satisfied.” She stared at her shoes, frowning. “Are you going to tell him about the missing photo?”

“Only if he asks.”

“Why would Augie steal it? I thought he was your friend.”

“I don't know, but it has something to do with Freeman.”

“Why?”

“The way Augie pushed for Freeman to see the photos at Bardog.”

Frankie nodded. “When do you give your statement?”

“Tomorrow at ten, an hour before the funeral. At best, I'll get there at the end of the service.”

“I'm off rotation for four days,” she said. “I'll go to the funeral home early and check out the crowd. Maybe Cool Willy will put in an appearance. I have his mug shot. What else should I watch for?”

“Suspicious behavior. Trust your eyes, your gut.”

“I prefer to know what I'm looking for,” she said.

“Don't get too much in your head, you'll box yourself in.”

“Instincts aren't my strong point.”

“Don't fight me on this. You've got good instincts. Use them.”

They walked to the Jeep. Frankie circled to the driver's door and stopped. “I just want to say . . . if I were in trouble, I'd want you on my side. You're a good friend.”

He nodded, got in the Jeep. She started the engine. The sky was a pocket of blue, clean and normal. Traffic was distant even though this place was on the edge of downtown.

He appreciated her words more than she would ever know.

T
hey left Kentucky Street. Frankie dropped Billy at the DeVoy to pick up his car. Augie was dead. He was alive. Mercy was out of his life. The world changes just like that. His own existence chilled him, made him feel lost.

At the barge, he mopped the floors and wiped down the kitchen counters to stop himself from dwelling on the emptiness. After a hot shower, he collapsed in a chair on the deck with a plate of cheese and crackers. The sun bled orange into the river and slowly died. He went inside and poured a tall scotch from a bottle he kept in the back of the cabinet. He hated scotch. The liquor burned all the way down. He tossed back the last of it and went to bed. He was a long time falling asleep, listening to the night harmonics of the freight trains passing through the city.

T
he next morning he woke troubled and exhausted. He made coffee and pulled up news sites on the Internet that gave only the sketchiest details of the murder. The photo galleries showed Augie at his best, crouched behind the plate, his glove closing over a ball thrown low and away. Most of the articles focused on the loss of a superstar athlete. Only one delved into Augie's mental decline. Tomorrow they would come back with sensationalized accounts of Augie's mental illness and the brutality of his murder. It's what the public wants. You can't fight commerce.

He dressed for the funeral in a suit and a pressed shirt he found buried in the back of the closet. His statement with Dunsford was set for ten. Getting to the funeral afterward would be tight, but he wanted to make an appearance out of respect if at all possible.

He arrived at the CJC early, hoping to speak with the chief about moving up his reinstatement. If Middlebrook would let him sign on immediately, he'd be in a position to follow all three cases . . . after Dunsford cleared him, of course.

He stopped by Middlebrook's office. It was empty. His assistant, Roxanne, her bodacious curves muffled by a boxy tweed jacket, quit typing long enough to glance at his suit and buffed wingtips.

“You got dressed up to give Dunsford your statement?” she asked.

He shrugged. “When will the chief be back?”

“Around one. He'll be in the rest of the afternoon.”

“Tell him I'd like to stop by. I'll check back with you for a time.” He gestured at the exotic blooms packed into a crystal vase on her desk. “Nice flowers.”

“From my new boyfriend. I'm in love.” She gave him a wink. “Welcome back to the force, Sergeant. The ladies will be pleased.”

Looking back, he only wished it had been that easy.

D
unsford sat in one of the interview rooms, leafing through files. In his rumpled jacket and polyester slacks, he looked more like an out-of-work bookkeeper than a cop. He even smelled of another generation—Pop-Tarts, Tang, and Aqua Velva aftershave.

It was unwise to write Dunsford off as a hack. He'd been trained to be a competent detective whether he was one or not. This case would be the last hurrah of his career, and he'd be heavily invested in making an arrest.

Dunsford got to his feet when he saw Billy in the doorway, but didn't offer to shake hands. “You're early.”

Billy pulled the door closed. He knew better than to bring up the time pressure of the funeral. Dunsford would try to delay him out of spite. That was the thing that bothered him the most about Dunsford. He didn't care about anybody but himself.

Bright fluorescent tubes buzzed in the overhead fixture. The chairs, molded from thick vinyl, sported sturdy metal arms suitable for restraining agitated suspects with handcuffs. He was familiar with these chairs, almost like they were his first cousins. A sour odor perpetually wrapped itself around the room, the smell of guilt and sweat, an odor he typically ignored. Today the room smelled different. Maybe it was because he was the one who would sit on the other side of the table.

“I brought notes from the scene,” Billy said, taking a seat and pulling his memo book from his jacket pocket.

“So you can keep your story straight?” Dunsford cracked a nasty smile.

“I'm not engaging in a pissing match, Don.”

Irritation sparked across Dunsford's face. In this room, a good detective never lets a suspect get the upper hand, even if they're only joking around.

For the camera, Dunsford stated the date, time, and Billy's full name before shoving a legal pad and pen across the table. Billy wrote in chronological order every action he'd taken at the scene, every detail he could remember. He wrote four pages and read it over carefully. Once he signed the statement, he would be committed to facts that could be used against him in court. Everything in a statement has to be true, but not every truth has to be in that statement. Cops and lawyers know this. Regular citizens don't.

Cop 101: Everyone is a suspect until the lead investigator has good reason to rule them out. The burden would fall to Billy to provide Dunsford with a good reason to cut him loose. Before he left the barge, he'd decided to stuff his pride and work with Dunsford in every way to move the investigation forward. On the other hand, he'd be damned if he'd give up anything he didn't have to. This was no friendly chat.

He signed the statement and pushed the pad to the middle of the table. Dunsford sucked his teeth and read it through twice, jiggling his little finger in his ear and flicking away the earwax.

When he was done, he looked up with mock sympathy. “You seen the news footage of Poston shoving that hawker at the ballpark?”

“I was there when it happened.”

“Rough way for a man to exit the public eye. A real nutso.”

“Nutso” raised his hackles. Augie had been diagnosed with a mental illness, not a moral weakness. “He was a sick man.”

“Touchy subject for you, I guess.” Dunsford was enjoying himself.

The morning news had shown a clip of Augie's wild-eyed brawl, with stadium security hauling him off. The camera then switched to the entrance to the DeVoy and his corpse being wheeled out on a gurney. The footage was the final teardown of a sports hero's reputation. It made for great TV.

“I see you've opened your statement with the altercation between you and Poston on Monday night,” Dunsford said.

“We both got pretty banged up. I wanted the details in the record. The next morning I went to his apartment to patch things up.”

Guilt swamped him with the memory of the goose egg on Augie's forehead, but he didn't have the luxury of wallowing in it. The fight was the most damning evidence Dunsford had against him.

“You claim a taco vendor witnessed the fight,” Dunsford said.

“He works the cart at the ballpark entrance, a Hispanic, in his forties.”

Dunsford snorted. “That narrows it down. We'll try to locate him, but those guys switch jobs every other week. You have any business dealings with Poston?”

He knew where this was going. Soured business deals generated about 20 percent of the squad's homicide caseload. “Augie and I were friends. That's it.”

“Fair enough.” Dunsford flipped open his memo book and rubbed the side of his nose with his index finger. “You say Poston's door was open when you arrived. Was it cracked open, or did you turn the knob and find it unlocked?”

“I didn't touch the door. I made that clear on page one.”

“You didn't break the door's seal, so we won't have to throw burglary into the pot. What did you do after you entered the victim's residence?”

“That's at the bottom of page two.”

Dunsford laid down the statement and sighed as if he were dealing with a headstrong child. “You're here to give a statement and answer my questions.
All
my questions. If you don't cooperate, you know what will happen to your career.” He leaned in. “There won't be one.”

Jerk
. Repeating questions already answered was within bounds, but Dunsford was going overboard. This was being recorded. If Dunsford was a big enough fool to risk reprimand, Billy would help him out.

“Whatever you need, Sergeant.”

Dunsford's mouth twitched. “Cooperation. That's what I want. You say you went to Poston's apartment the morning after the fight to patch up your friendship. Tell me about that.”

“Augie was out of control. He attacked me. It's there in the statement. I attempted to take him to The MED, but he refused help and walked away. I went home and texted him twice. I was worried about concussion. Both times he responded ‘FU,' so I was less concerned. I went to bed. The next morning he didn't answer. I went to his apartment to check on him.”

“We'll verify your phone records and the stop at Denny's,” Dunsford said, and raised his gaze to make eye contact.

A smart detective's next question would be:
Did you have any other reason to go to Augie Poston's apartment yesterday morning?
To that question, Billy would be compelled to answer:
Augie stole a photograph from me. I went there to get it back
.

Once that line of questioning began, he would have to explain the photo from Red's jacket and give Dunsford the investigative work he and Frankie had done. That would tank both of their careers. On the other hand, if Dunsford asked the question and he flat-out lied, he could be charged criminally for giving false information to a law enforcement officer during an investigation.

As a distraction, he rapped his fingers on the edge of the table. “Something's bothering me. The last thing Augie said was that he had business to handle. His phone rang as he walked away.”