The Gone Dead Train (25 page)

Moments ago, she'd caught a stricken expression on his face while he was reading a text. He'd tried to blow it off, but she knew the look. Last year, she overheard cop gossip about him falling for a woman who lived in Atlanta, the reason for his long leave of absence. The woman was also the likely reason for his return. Frankie hoped that wounded look didn't mean he was carrying a torch.

Plenty of female officers had been disappointed when Billy Able left town. The same ladies would be glad to see him back, especially without a ring on his finger.

After her involvement with Brad, she was suspicious of love, going so far as to consider romance a near-death experience. Speaking for herself, one more bad relationship, and she was going to start keeping cats.

She searched the crowd. It had swallowed Billy whole. Whatever he was up to, she hoped she wouldn't have to bail out Freeman and him later tonight.

Driving home, the full moon threw light between the limbs of the giant hardwoods that lined the streets. She remembered another full moon on an evening when she'd ridden beside Brad McDaniel for what she thought was their first date, starry-eyed fool that she was. He'd taken her to a little restaurant out Highway 64 near Bolivar where she had the best fried catfish and hush puppies she'd ever eaten. It was a funky, out-of-the-way place. She'd been too smitten at the time to realize it was also a safe harbor for a married man to take his girlfriend. Driving back, the moon had set fire to the frozen fields, sparking off the blanket of late frost.

She never imagined Brad would end up dead because of their relationship or that she would need tranquilizers to make it through the day. There was no way she could rationalize falling for a married man. It didn't matter that he'd lied about being separated. She wasn't supposed to make that kind of mistake.

She pushed away sad thoughts as she turned into her driveway, realizing she hadn't eaten all day. A glass of chardonnay and some comfort food would take her mind off Brad while she waited to hear from Billy.

She went upstairs, undressed, and walked barefoot to the kitchen to crank the oven to 400. Earlier tonight at the bar, a server had passed by with a skillet of low-country shrimp and cheese grits. She remembered the Gulf shrimp in her freezer and some leftover grits soufflé in the fridge from the day before. She took out the grits, spooned them into a heavy iron skillet, and pushed it to the back of the hot oven.

Her thoughts turned to the way Garrett's face had collapsed as he leafed through the photographs. Billy explained away Garrett's reaction by saying he was having flashbacks of his brother's death. From her seat at the bar, the man looked more panicked than sad. What had he seen? She mentally flipped through the photos while pushing the shrimp around in a pan of melted butter. What did he know that they'd missed?

She opened the oven door to check on the grits. Her mind was on the photos when she reached in with a pot holder for the heavy skillet. As she lifted it out, her wrist seared against the red-hot heating element.

“Damn it,” she yelled, dropped the skillet, and ran to the sink to turn on the cold-water tap. A dry sob broke from her throat. Somehow the blistering pain got mixed up with the jolt of Brad's slap. She remembered the ugliness on his face as he screamed at her through his car window. Then he was chasing her. Then his car rolled.

She felt the steel bands tightening around her chest. She wanted a pill. Two pills. Three.

Slumped over the sink, her heart began racing.
Goddamn you, Brad, Coral's a widow. Your daughter has no father. And all I want is to feel numb. You bastard, you died because you couldn't have your way
.

Heart thudding, she turned off the tap and inspected the raw patch on her wrist. Her neighbor kept an aloe vera plant on the back porch, the best treatment for burns. She cut some gauze strips and crept downstairs to break off a leaf. The dripping goo cooled the sting of the burn, and she wrapped her wrist in a bandage.

In the back garden, a small fountain bubbled beside a concrete bench. Lights peeked from under the hydrangea bushes. She walked barefoot across the grass and sat on the bench to try and calm down. She'd been reading up on post-traumatic stress, but understanding the response wasn't the same as controlling it. That had been the worst. She had no control.

She unwrapped the gauze. Even in the low light of the garden, she could tell the burn was going to leave a scar. So would Brad's death if she let it. She could change that by talking to someone about the accident and these damned anxiety attacks, but first she had to come clean with Billy, at least about the anxiety. He already knew something was wrong. He had to trust her if there was any hope of their working together. She would talk to him and then find a therapist to work through what had happened to Brad.

Decision made, she went upstairs to check her mobile. Billy had texted with a request for an NCIC search on the name Walker Pryce. His quest had paid off. She scanned her e-mails and found the New Orleans PI report.

She printed the report and went to the kitchen to clean up the grits she'd spilled on the floor. With the work she had ahead of her, an apple with peanut butter would do fine for supper.

On her way back to her desk, she passed her handbag. She dug out the bottle of pills and poured the capsules into her palm. She'd thought the pills would be good for her. She'd thought the same about her relationship with Brad. She dumped the pills into the garbage and went to work.

T
he coming storm whipped trash across Billy's feet. He heard the snap of the ballpark flags. He smelled the packing clay of the pitcher's mound under his cleats. Augie stood a couple of feet away in a Redbirds' uniform and catcher's gear. He passed a ball back and forth between his hands, his eyes straying toward home plate where a batter stood. Billy looked down. He had a pitcher's glove on his hand
.

“How you want to handle this guy?” Augie asked, expectation on his young rookie's face. He wiped his brow with his sleeve. A red line opened above his brow bone. Blood spilled into his eyes
.

Lightning struck the field
.

Billy jerked awake. He pulled himself upright on the sofa and scrubbed his face with his hands. What if Augie had gone home the other night to meet with Pryce? What if the questions Billy raised about Pryce scamming Augie had gotten Augie killed?

It was morning. He stumbled into the kitchen. The sun through the porthole made a perfect circle of light on the counter. He opened the refrigerator door, not seeing food, only remembering Augie's face in his dream. He poured orange juice and made coffee to pull himself together. Frankie's check into the NCIC database had arrived last night. It produced no criminal record on Pryce, not even a parking ticket. He thought through his own research into Pryce's Chicago career: discovery of contaminated food served in school lunch programs, the exposure of two pharmacies that were cutting dosages on patients' meds to increase profits, four Cook County Sheriff's Department deputies who had successfully robbed banks while working the CSI unit. Pryce had caught a bullet in the shoulder for that one.

Billy showered and shaved, puzzling over what happened next to Pryce. He'd written a three-part series on a candidate running for the governorship of Illinois. A week after the first article came out, Pryce resigned, and the paper retracted the article. After that, Pryce was either shunned by the industry or got caught up in the mass downsizing of print media, because his byline never appeared in another major publication.

His self-published book blasted crony capitalism and corporations that owned print media while they were in bed with state politicians. Pryce didn't name his former employer or the elected governor, but Illinois readers would know.
Publishers Weekly
reviewed the book. It won critical acclaim.

Sales were nonexistent. Pryce had fallen off the payroll grid. No income equals desperation.

Billy read through the
Commercial Appeal
's online crime report to find out if media relations had managed to keep a lid on the details of Augie's case. First, he wanted to know what Pryce might have learned about the murder by reading the paper. Second, he wanted to know if he'd been named a suspect.

Notorious investigations leak like rotten hoses. If his name appeared on Dunsford's confidential suspects list, it would eventually get out to the press. The department would pay hell walking back his reputation, guilty or not. Articles that appear above the fold, accurate or not, break careers. He was surprised to realize he would do anything to stop that from happening. Whatever it took.

The only article covering the investigation gave few details. He was relieved.

He ate toast. Drank coffee. Just after eight, he called Pryce.

The voice that answered sounded abrupt. “Pryce.”

“Walker Pryce?” he asked.

“Who is this?”

“Billy Able. I was a friend of Augie Poston. I understand you were, too.”

“Your name is familiar.”

What had Augie told this guy? Give an investigative reporter your name, and he'll have your shoe size in ten minutes. “You know Augie died two days ago.”

“Yeah. He was murdered.”

“I want to come by and talk with you about the manuscript the two of you were putting together.”

Pryce paused. “How did you get this number?”

“Augie gave it to me.”

Silence.

“You there?” Billy asked.

“When do you want to come?”

“How about twenty minutes?”

T
he development looked even more desolate than it had last night. Billy cruised up to the house expecting to see the Porsche. Instead, the grille of a black tow truck faced out of the driveway. The name “Bob's Recovery and Towing Service” was written in curlicue script on the driver's door. A guy in his late twenties stood off to the side with a mug of coffee in his hand, watching the truck driver hook a cable to the Porsche's frame. Walker Pryce was tall and fit, with shaggy blond hair and the kind of boyish features everyone loves to give in to. He exuded entitlement, the kind that comes from a solid start with two parents who are willing to spring for the best of everything for their kids.

Billy pulled to the curb. He was familiar with Bob's Recovery and Towing. They did the majority of the repo work in town, not the tow work for the top-end Porsche dealership in the city. He walked up the drive.

Walker Pryce extended his hand. They shook and stepped back to watch the driver winch the Porsche onto the tilted flatbed.

“Beautiful car,” Billy said.

Pryce glanced over with a grin. “My dreams got bigger than my wallet.”

Billy nodded.
You mean your meal ticket died
.

They watched the truck pull out of the drive with the Porsche riding piggyback. Then they headed into the house.

He scanned Pryce from behind for a weapon although his jeans and shirt were cut too close to hide much. Even though Pryce looked more like an out-of-work actor than a guy who spent weekends on the firing range, if he was Augie's killer, another victim would be that much easier to take down.

They walked into a living room with a cluttered desk, a wall covered in sticky notes, and binders stacked from floor to ceiling. The house showed well with polished wood floors and stone countertops, but the general construction of the place felt slipshod.

“Great place,” Billy said. “How did you end up living in a model home?”

“The developer set me up. My presence keeps their insurance costs low.”

Every light in the place burned, and the air was running full blast. He suspected Pryce wasn't responsible for the utility bill.

“I'm thinking about buying a condo downtown,” he said. “I hadn't considered a house. Mind if I look around?”

“Go ahead.” Pryce settled on a bar stool next to the kitchen island. Billy wandered around but kept his eye on Pryce.

Freeman had provided a list of items stolen from the apartment: the watches; laptop and phone; rare photographs of blues musicians; candid shots of Dr. King, Medgar Evers, and Robert Garrett, all martyrs to the civil rights cause. Augie's two autographed World Series baseballs had been taken from the bookshelves, also two blues harmonicas, one belonging to Little Walter and the other to Sonny Boy Williamson.

Any of those items left in plain sight would be picked up with a warrant search. That would be incredibly easy. But after reading Pryce's background and having met him, he didn't think the journalist would make that kind of mistake.

He stopped at a partially opened doorway and glanced in Pryce's direction. “Bedroom?”

“Be my guest.”

The room was bare except for a bed and a chair in the corner with a standing lamp. He noticed a pair of platform heels tucked beneath the chair. Apparently, he had a girlfriend who sometimes stayed over.

He returned to the kitchen. Pryce sipped coffee, his voice casual. “Remind me of the purpose of your visit.”

“I want to talk about Augie. I can't get my mind around someone having reason to kill him.” He shook his head as if bewildered. It wasn't a question; it was an opened door. Whatever Pryce said, he could then respond, and they'd have a dialogue going.

“Augie had his demons. His mother's murder haunted him,” Pryce said.

“I thought it was an accident.”

“As a journalist, I'm allowed to speculate about a case. But we'll never know the truth, will we?” Pryce went to the sink to dump his coffee and rinse the cup. “You wanted to discuss the manuscript,” he said over his shoulder.

“Augie paid you to look into his mother's death. Your manuscript is all the better for the research and, from the looks of your car selection, you were thriving with Augie's support. His estate should be reimbursed from the royalties. I'm sure the two of you got something about that on paper.”