The Gone Dead Train (28 page)

He realized Frankie was silent on the other end. “What's up?”

“I was thinking about something Garrett said during the eulogy. I'd like to talk with him about Ramos's relationship with Davis and Lacy.”

“That's another thing. Garrett skirted the issue when I asked if he knew anyone in the surveillance shots. I showed the photos to Freeman last night. He recognized Carter as one of the informants.”

“Calvin Carter?” she asked.

“Freeman and I figure Garrett didn't point him out because he's shielding Carter's reputation for the sake of the museum. It's not a big point, but I'd like to follow up.”

“I'll talk to Garrett and cover both questions. He won't feel as threatened by me.”

“No, I'll handle it,” he said in a gruff tone.

“You owe me one after shutting me out with Freeman last night. I'll report back when I'm done.” She hung up before he could protest.

He started the car and headed downtown for City Market.

“All right, Mz. Police Goddess,” he muttered. “You'd better not screw this up.”

F
rankie drove to Robert House, a three-story rectangular building straight out of the seventies urban renewal project. She parked in front of the entrance, remembering the concrete steps and Ramos's group photo hanging in the hallway. She sat there, thinking and jotting notes about her conversations with Ovia and Ramos. She was certain Ovia had made the curses, but she didn't get nearly enough information about who had bought them. Ramos had cooperated by opening Red's file, but in her mind, he was still on the hook.

Bringing her badge into the confrontation had been a mistake. If Ramos called the station house to follow up, there would be ramifications even though Red's case was closed and she had the right to investigate on her own. Her approach with Garrett would have to be more subtle. Flashing a badge wouldn't intimidate Garrett. It would end the conversation.

She'd pushed Billy hard for this interview, partly because he had taken his frustration about Pryce out on her. If they were going to work together, they had to start up the way they could keep up. She was no girl Friday. She wanted to get this right. Garrett might have information that would tip the balance on whether Ramos remained on her suspects list. And there was Garrett's evasion about identifying Carter's photograph.

She thought about the day she'd watched an MPD tracking dog work a field. He followed the scent through mud and wet grass, onto a playground, and across a busy highway. His handler couldn't slow him down.

She hoped these cases would boost her career, but they could also be the reason she might end up at the mall selling jeans. She was willing to take that risk. Like that tracking dog, she wasn't about to quit.

She fluffed her hair, got out, and locked her Jeep.

The reception area had two digital screens flipping through shots of vegetable gardens, men sitting in classrooms, and men in chefs' hats cooking on commercial-grade stoves. Glancing around, she was struck by the contrast of the fresh images on the screen with the two exhausted-looking men in the waiting area, necks bent forward, elbows resting on their knees. The incongruence made her a little uncomfortable.

She caught up with Garrett on his way out of his office. His wet-combed hair looked a little greasy, and his pupils had shrunk to black pinpoints. As she approached, his tongue flicked out to lick his lips. His breath had a chemical smell to it.

She introduced herself as Frankie Malone and explained that she was assisting Detective Able with an investigation. She didn't say she was a cop, and he didn't ask.

“Could you spare a few minutes?” she asked.

He leaned heavily on his cane, something elusive going on behind his eyes. “I remember you from Itta Bena last night. And from the funeral.” His voice retained a deep resonance even though he was in rough shape. “You should have called first. I gave Detective Able plenty of time for questions last night.”

“These are different questions.” She gave him a broad smile. “We really need your help.”

“We're transplanting strawberries to the rooftop garden right now. I'm on my way to an appointment, but I should check their progress before I leave. Come with me.”

They took an elevator to the roof where two men were using hooked knives to split open bags and dump topsoil on long, raised beds. Garrett moved among the rows with his broken gait, ending up at the railing at the roof's edge. Below were at least two acres of gardens where men were wrapping the roots of strawberry plants in wet paper towels and placing them in cardboard boxes.

“We're moving those plants to the roof to preserve the first crop we put into our garden. They were the beginning of our culinary program. You can't imagine the positive impact it has on a man to harvest and cook the vegetables he's planted.”

Garrett swept his hand over the garden, much like on aging monarch. “Tomorrow we break ground for a new building. We'll add forty-five beds, six classrooms, and a state-of-the-art commercial kitchen. Fifteen of our culinary graduates currently work full-time in restaurants. Our program receives a lot of donor support. I'm expecting a good turnout for the ceremony tomorrow, including media coverage.”

“You've given a great deal of yourself to Robert House,” she said.

Garrett lightened up on his cane, some of his fire coming back. “Last night we launched a fund-raising campaign for the Carter museum. We're matching a two-hundred-thousand-dollar federal grant. Calvin's photographs brought international attention to the civil rights struggle even before President Kennedy became involved. That's how the world learned there were two Americas. One white and one black.

“My brother was murdered because he was passionate about civil rights. He appeared in some of Calvin's most compelling photographs. I've invested my time in the museum to be sure his life is properly memorialized. Last night at the fund-raiser, the board announced that a display will be dedicated to Robert's story.”

He smiled graciously. “Enough about the museum. You have questions.”

She took a breath. “Detective Able has concerns about the circumstances surrounding Red Davis's and Little Man Lacy's deaths. I've spoken with Dr. Ramos about his counseling sessions with Red Davis. Both men were believers in Santería. I was surprised to learn that Dr. Ramos is a
santero
.”

Garrett blinked. “Are you familiar with Santería?”

“I grew up with it in Key West.”

“Santería is common in the Gulf Coast area. After Katrina hit, the shelter had an influx of people from that region. Dr. Ramos has been very effective.”

“He mentioned private sessions with Red Davis.”

Garrett's pupils flared then diminished. “I won't confirm or deny that. All sessions are confidential.”

“The doctor holds Red's right to confidentiality, but he was willing to discuss the sessions with me because of Detective Able's concerns.”

“Little Man fell and broke his neck. Red had a heart attack. Both men were alcoholics. Why is Able pursuing this?”

“We believe someone used their religious beliefs to terrorize them.”

Garrett's lips compressed. “You're suggesting that Dr. Ramos was involved?”

“I didn't say that. But I want to know if there were problems between Ramos and the two men.”

Garrett smoothed his palm over his hair. “I did hear shouting during some of their sessions.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I don't recall the details. Emotional outbursts are common during therapy.”

His statement puzzled her. Neither Ramos nor Davis seemed like shouters. “Do you recall either man having disagreements with other residents?”

Garrett's nostrils flared. “We don't spy on our residents. In fact, I barely knew Davis and Lacy.”

“Forgive me, but your eulogy gave the impression that you'd spent a great deal of time talking with Davis.”

“We had a few conversations, but let's go back to your questions about the doctor. The safety and privacy of our residents is my responsibility. If you believe Ramos was involved in the deaths of these men, you need to tell me now.”

He glared at her. They weren't sitting in an interview room, but the same rules applied. She was asking the questions, not Garrett. She ignored his demand and went on.

“Dr. Ramos confirmed something you mentioned in the eulogy, that Davis was interested in making a change in a particular person's life. Davis told Ramos he was sending money to someone living in Boston. Shortly before he died, Davis borrowed two thousand dollars from Augie Poston. He claimed to have a locked-in business deal that would enable him to pay Poston back. Can you tell me anything about that?”

Spots of color appeared on Garrett's cheeks. “Red Davis was a drunk. He was in no shape to make any kind of deal.” He stopped. “Did Red get the two grand?”

“Yes.”

“I doubt you'll find out where the money went.” Garrett raised his hand in farewell. “With that, I must leave you. Feel free to look around the property. There's a donation box at the door.”

She noticed the raised hand was trembling. Perspiration had broken out on Garrett's brow. “A final question before you go. Last night when you looked through the photographs with Detective Able, you failed to point out Calvin Carter among the informants. Able specifically asked if you could identify anyone. Carter was a young man at the time, but certainly you must have recognized him.”

Garrett fixed her with the stare she'd seen him use to intimidate guests on talk shows. “Possibly my eyes were tired. Or the lighting was poor. Maybe I was distracted by the full moon. Or maybe it's none of your goddamned business.

“You come here with bullshit questions, wasting my time. The last thing my brother said before he walked out the door of our house was, ‘Know what's important. Protect it.'”

Frankie blinked.
Protect what's important?
What did that mean? Billy had said this wasn't a big point, but obviously it was to Garrett. She decided to push a little harder.

“If those photographs prove that Carter was an FBI informant, the museum's future will be damaged. Isn't that right?”

Garrett focused on the men in the garden below. Something strange moved across his face, then his professional mask slipped back into place. “Believe what you wish. I'm late for an appointment.”

“We're not finished, sir.”

He swatted the air. “Go to hell, Miss Malone.”

She watched Garrett go. His claim that Davis and Ramos were shouting at each other wasn't credible. He'd recognized Carter in the photograph, but his speech about poor lighting and being distracted by the moon was ridiculous. Then he'd brought up his brother's last words.
Protect what's important
. Maybe it was the drugs, but the end of their conversation had bordered on madness.

She started to leave, aware that the two men who'd been prepping the beds were watching Garrett hobble to the elevator. They looked back at her, knocking loam from their gloves, their gazes vaguely aggressive as they positioned themselves between her and the elevator.

Don't screw with me, guys
, she thought.
I'm the one with the gun
.

To avoid a confrontation, she chose the metal staircase that ran down the side of the building and would put her into the back parking lot. At the bottom, she walked along the building, past a row of windows at the ground level that let onto the basement kitchen. Through an open window, she heard a woman singing a Jamaican folk song that she recognized. She stopped and squatted on her heels to look through the half window. A woman, probably the one who'd been singing, had her back turned and was wielding a cleaver, breaking down a whole chicken on a butcher block. She used her thumb to deftly split the chicken's keel bone from either side of the breasts.

A bandanna in black, green, and gold, the colors of the Jamaican flag, covered her hair. Hoop earrings swung in rhythm with the cleaver. From beneath her shirtsleeve, Frankie saw flashes of a green watchband on her left wrist.

The woman was tall, with broad shoulders underneath her chef's apron. Her muscular arms moved as gracefully as snakes, glistening in the kitchen's heat as she swept the chicken parts onto a tray and reached for a new carcass.

On the shelf above her head stood two statues representing orishas—Ochosi, the divine hunter with his bow, and Ogun, the protector with his shield and sword. A red candle, symbolizing strength and domination, burned between the statues.

Frankie recognized the woman as the stern mistress who'd been seated with the men from the shelter at the funeral. She didn't trust hunches, but she was having one now. Ovia had described the woman who bought the curses as a Santerían worshipper who was unusually tall. This woman stood six feet in her sneakers.

Frankie gathered her courage and took the steps down to the kitchen. The woman looked up as she came through the door.

“We take no visitors in the kitchen, miss. Thank you very much.” She waved her cleaver in dismissal and continued working.

“I heard you singing ‘Linstead Market.'”

The woman stopped. “You know Jamaican folk songs?”

“I've spent time in the islands.” Frankie approached the butcher block for a closer look, aware of the cleaver in the woman's hand. The name “Dominique” had been scrawled across the top of her apron with a laundry marker. Five signature necklaces of the Santería necklace initiation hung at her throat along with a sixth necklace for Ogun, just as Ovia had described.

“Sid Garrett suggested I look around the kitchen,” she said.

“Ahh. You must be an angelfish then. The bossman calls people angelfish when they give money to the shelter.”

The image of a delicate fish wriggling on Garrett's hook flashed through Frankie's mind. “He might consider me an angelfish of sorts.”