A Shred of Truth

  Ridiculous. He couldn’t be everywhere at once. Plus, the detective was working in plain clothes, limiting his chances of being ID’d.

  On the early end of the Sunday lunch crowd, we were sharing the airy dining room with two giggly women in sun hats and an elderly gentleman toting a trusty Nikon 35mm. The place had that casual yet refined charm that embodies the South.

  After sucking down a tea-flavored punch, I passed on the crawfish and ordered a fried-green-tomato salad with horseradish sauce—sure to clear the nasal passages while also meeting my brother’s approval. Meade stuck with his standard fare.

  “The chef here has never let me down,” he said.

  I straightened my napkin. Adjusted my silverware. Looked out the window.

  “Big guy like you, Aramis—you seem awfully nervous.”

  “No, not me. Nice place.”

  “Read all about it.” He pushed a brochure across the table.

  I scanned the words while thoughts raced. My mom was out there somewhere. And there was nothing I could do but wait for her abductor to contact me. Couldn’t even go looking for clues at the crime scene since cops were all over that and—

  Just read, you fool. Disassociate.

  Flipping through the brochure, I saw the words “Belle Meade, the Queen of Tennessee Plantations.” Once a mecca of thoroughbred racing, she’d encompassed more than five thousand acres. Her greatest sire, Bonnie Scotland, contributed directly to the lines of such horses as Seabiscuit, Seattle Slew, and Secretariat. Today a carriage house and stables stand on the remaining thirty acres, as well as John Harding’s 1853 Greek Revival plantation house, which endured Union occupation during the Civil War.

  The ghosts of that War Between the States still haunt the hills and hollows of Tennessee, and according to the pamphlet I’d read this morning in my shop, another specter had appeared: the Kraftsmen. Their brand of bigotry was rooted in the Ku Klux Klan’s postwar years of propaganda, when certain Southerners feared the loss of everything sacred to them and distilled those concerns into hate.

  The South will rise again.

  Was Chigger one of the Kraftsmen? Did he have a tat of an executioner’s ax?

  “Aramis, you look miles away.”

  “Got a lot on my mind.”

  I gazed over my glass at the detective’s dark brown face. Years ago I’d been shot at by an African American male—now there was a person I didn’t trust. But that had to do with lead thudding into the wall behind me, not his skin color.

  I could trust Meade. I knew I should just spill it, tell him everything.

  “I can only imagine,” he was saying. “Seems quite a bit unfolded yesterday in that hour and a half between your call from the hotel parking lot and your arrival back at your place.”

  “Ninety minutes. Is that all it was?”

  “Ninety-one, to be exact. From 9:21 to 10:52 p.m.”

  “Stickler for details.”

  “And in that short time you found and photographed the wig.”

  “Yeah. Seems Felicia was coerced into helping this guy, the same one who attacked my brother and tied him to the statue.”

  “She was the redhead mentioned in Johnny’s statement?”

  “You got it.”

  Meade’s forehead furrowed. “I also saw the license tags you photographed. In fact, I ran them this morning and found that they both belong to a rental-car agency out at the airport. The first was signed and paid for by one Felicia Daly. The second by a Mr. Drexel Hillcrest.”

  “Interesting.” But there was no feeling, no surprise in my response.

  “Back to the wig. Where did you find it?”

  “The hotel bathroom.”

  “In her room? Is there something you should tell me about your relationship?”

  “Completely platonic. I promise.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “When I confronted her about the wig, she confessed.”

  “Which made you upset, I’m sure.”

  This was potential quicksand, one of many leading statements that could drag me under. I glanced around Martha’s dining room. The Giggly Girls were still giggling, Nikon Man was fiddling with his camera, and more diners were filtering in. The waitress approached with our lunches. She set the plates before us, refilled our drinks, made sure everything was in order, then floated away.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about.” Detective Meade breathed in the aroma.

  The food was fantastic. For a few minutes, a truce was called.

  At last Meade set down his fork and wiped his hands. “There is a witness,” he told me, “who claims you forcibly dragged Miss Daly from room 212 to your car.”

  “Now wait a sec. I was trying to protect her.”

  “By dragging her away?”

  “Johnny showed you a copy of that e-mail I received, right? The one threatening my family if I contacted you? Well, I thought if I could get Felicia and Johnny safely tucked away, then I could get you involved without endangering them.”

  “A flawed but noble plan.”

  “What else could I do? I mean, I shouldn’t even be talking to you now.”

  His eyes lifted from his entrée. Two tables away a college kid took his seat.

  “Food’s good,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “Do you believe you’re still in danger?”

  “I just … I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  The tug of war continued. How much should I explain? Months ago, along with millions of viewers of The Best of Evil, the detective had watched details of my mother’s death. For me to say that she was now alive and being held hostage would sound lame—and more than a little too convenient.

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Miss Daly is dead, Aramis. The media will be all over this, scrutinizing Metro’s handling of the investigation, playing to the public’s fear and the local ratings. Within the department, certain people will be squabbling for political gain. All that to say, I have one goal and one only—to apprehend the guilty party. Would our shared past lead you to believe otherwise?”

  “No,” I said. “You’ve always been straight up.”

  “I appreciate that. It’s my job to suspend blame until all the facts have been gathered, and I have no intention of tricking you or pointing fingers.”

  I nodded. In my pocket my cell phone remained lifeless.

  Why hasn’t AX responded? I swear, if he’s hurt Mom …

  “So by taking Miss Daly to your car you were trying to protect her, correct? The witness saw the two of you get into the vehicle, then head west on Murfreesboro Pike, in the direction of downtown. What made you turn onto Oak Street?”

  “She told me to.”

  “Do you know why she chose that particular spot?”

  “No idea. I tried to warn her, told her it was a rough neighborhood. She got out anyway, and there was nothing I could do. I went home, crawled into bed, woke up this morning to the breaking news.”

  “Did you place a call to 911 last night?”

  “You said you weren’t trying to trip me up.”

  “No trickery. Just covering all the bases. You do realize, though, that minutes before my fellow officer noted your return home, an anonymous call led patrol cars to Miss Daly? They found her with multiple stabs to the abdomen, defense wounds on her forearms and palms, and slashes on her shoulder blade—matching your brother’s, I might add.”

  “There. Doesn’t that prove my innocence?”

  “Raises more questions actually.”

  “It’s the same guy. Don’t you get it? He killed Felicia.”

  “And you witnessed this firsthand.”

  “No. Remember, I went home.”

  “Of course.”

  I wrapped my hand around the back of my neck.

  “You do understand,” he explained, “that a warrant could subject your vehicle to an inspection by TBI technicians here at Nashville’s central lab. Tire impressions, fiber
and carpet analysis, serological and DNA samples—everything put under a microscope.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Have I implied otherwise?”

  The eyes in the dining room seemed to be turning our way. Was I being watched? Did AX have an informer in here? Paranoia curled its way up my spine.

  My phone vibrated. No e-mail icon. It was a call from my shop.

  “Hello, Diesel? What’s going on?”

  “Are we still on for tonight? Studying for our final over at Sara’s.”

  “Sara. Yeah. Sevier. Lives off Woodmont, right?”

  “You sound distracted. You ever get hold of that detective I told you about?”

  “I’m staring at him.”

  “No wonder you sound grouchy. You’re not going to bail on us, are you?”

  “No. It’s just … I’ve got some stuff up in the air.”

  “It’s a group score. We need you.”

  “I’ll be there.” For Meade’s sake, I tried to keep my voice light. “So who’s doing the oral presentation?”

  “Sara says she’s got it covered.”

  “That twangy voice of hers might hurt us.”

  “I think it’s cute.”

  “Tell that to Professor Newmann. The man seems immune to cute.”

  “Behind all the makeup, she’s a smart girl. Let her run it by us at least.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Don’t be late.”

  “I’ll be leaving soon. See ya.” This could be my excuse to evade Meade. I closed the phone, willed an e-mail to appear—to no avail—then looked over my glass at the detective. There was one thing I needed to know from him first to put to rest my own guilt. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “How did she …” I blinked. “Did Felicia bleed to death?”

  “Only the coroner’s report will give a definitive answer. I’ve viewed photos though,” Meade added in an even voice, “taken by the first officer on the scene. My guess is she suffered damage to her vitals. And the aerated blood in her mouth points to a punctured or collapsed lung as well.”

  I sipped at my punch.

  “Skin contracture around the wounds makes its difficult to determine the actual size of the knife, but even moderate pressure with a sharp blade can do extensive damage. We do know the stabs were delivered with force, since only the hilt of the weapon could produce that type of bruising at the entry points.”

  Blink. Sip.

  “Bruises,” he noted, “indicate that her death was not immediate.”

  I pushed back in my seat. Had he catalogued these things to watch my reaction? Did he care that I was trying to eat? Subtly he had applied pressure to extract answers—just doing his job, blah-de-blah—but maybe my decision to open up had been a mistake.

  In my pocket the phone buzzed again.

  An e-mail this time. Same sender as yesterday. The game was back on.

  “Gotta go,” I told Meade. “Business calls.”

  “Personal business, judging by your expression.”

  I swallowed. Wadded my napkin.

  He said, “I asked earlier if you were still in danger. You never answered.”

  “Thanks for the eats.” My hand dropped a ten on the table, while my eyes swept the dining room. “That should more than cover the tip.”

  “Aramis.” A whisper, nothing more.

  “What?”

  “Are you being followed, blackmailed, or coerced in any way?”

  My lips felt numb.

  “If the answer is yes, tap your finger once on the table.”

  Another quick sweep. Tug of war.

  “I’ll do my best to protect you,” he said. “Talk to me.”

  I shook my head. “Easy to say now that you have a corpse, huh?”

  24

  Meade had his murder victim, and I had my mother back from the grave. With only twenty-two minutes till the next rendezvous, there wasn’t time to retrieve my gun. Tires kicked up gravel in the plantation parking area as I followed the e-mail’s instructions and aimed my car downtown. My mirrors showed no signs of the detective in pursuit, but with one call he could slap a Metro tag team to my bumper.

  Which should be a good thing, right? Extra firepower.

  Except the police would spook my opponent, could even endanger Mom’s life. Plus I didn’t want them looking on when I wrapped my hands around this psycho’s throat. My Desert Eagle might be under a bush, but cops or no cops, I’d use anything in my arsenal to free my mother.

  In an effort to ditch potential tagalongs, I slipped into quiet lanes of swanky Tudor-style homes, French villas, and flourishing shade trees. Despite Music City’s entertainment reputation, healthcare is one of the local economy’s mainstays, and in this neighborhood, doctors drive Beemers, Vipers, and Hummers to reflect their different moods. Occasional landscaping trucks break the pattern, pulling flatbed trailers and playing Tejano music. My Honda Civic—built the same year Kurt Cobain first smelled teen spirit—was the glaring anomaly.

  So much for blending in.

  Puttering along Woodlawn Drive, I took a turn onto Natchez Trace and let it lead me back onto West End Avenue.

  Carrying tens of thousands to work each day, West End is a dividing line between the medical fortresses of Centennial, Baptist, and Metro General to the north and Vanderbilt and Veterans Affairs to the south. Set one block off this main road, my espresso shop crouches near a corner.

  Black’s was dedicated to Mom’s memory. She always loved her morning coffee …

  The hope that kept me going, the one I came back to more than any other, was that of seeing my mom take that first sip from a fresh mug of my trademark Back-in-Black roast and hearing her sigh with serene satisfaction.

  Bearing one letter each, flags rippled along the museum’s art-deco exterior and spelled its name in vibrant colors: FRIST. I parked in the monitored lot. Saw I had seven minutes to spare.

  Once more I read the message on my phone.

  Chop, chop, Aramis. “I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.” Go to the Frist Center gift shop, 12:45 p.m. Do as instructed, and you will see your mother again. Remember that “whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” Are you ready to find that which you’ve been looking for?

  How did he know what I was looking for? The presumption of this idiot!

  My wristwatch became my taskmaster, urging me up broad steps, past a landscaped courtyard, into the soaring halls of the Frist Center for the Visual Arts. Every time I enter, the facility renews my love for this city. I’ve seen the works of Van Gogh and Monet here, Picasso, El Greco, and Titian. Pulitzer Prize–winning photos. Last year a unique exhibit highlighted the ancient Egyptian quest for immortality.

  Where in this building would my foe be hiding?

  Or would he send someone else in his place, as he’d done at Cheekwood? Would he snicker as I jumped through more of his hoops?

  My shoes clicked on the marble floor. I ignored the uniformed guards. From a long atrium, glass panes peered into the gift shop, and I slowed for a glimpse of those inside—groups of teens, elderly ladies, and a young couple. Rows of books and art prints sat next to Egyptian jewelry and 3-D puzzles.

  Two steps through the entry, I spotted a sprightly girl to my left. She looked familiar—that profile and those eyes. I didn’t realize I was staring until she popped her head from behind a postcard rack and flashed a neon green grin. Literally neon. Those snazzy fashion braces.

  “Aramis.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Not exactly. But I know you.”

  “How?”

  “My name’s Alexia.”

  A and X. A coincidence? A sour laugh welled in my throat. I was now sighting letters and links in the most innocuous places.

  “I was there Friday night.” She stepped closer, flipping her hair from eyelashes caked with mascara. “At your brother’s party in the park, remember?”

  “It was kind
a dark out there.”

  “Johnny Ray Black. Omigosh, did he sound great or what?”

  “He did.”

  “I had him sign a T-shirt and my copy of his CD. I’m keeping my fingers crossed. Could be worth something down the road, you never know.” The lime green smile. “One of the advantages of catering on Music Row is that you get to rub shoulders with all the bigwigs and up-and-comers. Pretty cool.”

  “So you were one of the servers? Don’t you have to be twenty-one?”

  “Celebrated last month.”

  “Oh. Congratulations.”

  She winked. “Shh, don’t tell anyone that I got his autograph. It’s against company policy. Always supposed to keep it professional, you know.”

  “Which caterer was it? I forget.”

  “Athens of the South.”

  “Ahh. Playing on the Greek theme. Explains those leaf-wrapped thingies.”

  “Spiced figs. Weren’t those delicious? I even snuck a few.”

  “They were … different. Anyway, I doubt Johnny minded giving you his autograph.”

  “I doubt he remembers.” Another wink. A thumb tilted to her lips.

  Gossip columnists were scavengers for such morsels, and her impropriety was beginning to grate on me.

  “Are you here for a reason?” I asked.

  “Keeping my grandmother company.” She feigned a yawn. “She’s an art buff.”

  “So you didn’t come here to …”

  “What?”

  “To see me?”

  “If that’s a pickup line, I’ve gotta tell you it’s pretty weak.”

  “Yeah. Forget I asked.”

  “Thanks though. It’s nice to be noticed.”

  I scanned the length of the gift shop, wondering if my contact was already present. Should I wait to be approached? What should be my strategy?

  Her eyes flashed. “Now if your brother’s ever free, you let him know I’m available.” She pressed her catering card into my hand, then skipped away and linked arms with her grandmother.

  My watch told me it was 12:51. The adrenaline that’d pooled in my stomach was making me queasy. Was I being played here? Was this AX’s way to prove he had the upper hand? Fine. Point made.