“More to work with, huh?”
“You got it,” he said. “You get a look at whoever bashed you?”
“If I had, I’d have told the cops. But no, not a glance.”
“Don’t worry. You’re off the hook. Let it go.”
I fumbled with a row of black switches on my armrest and lowered the window. A big whiff of the rendering plant filled the car. It was like sticking your head in a freshly opened bag of dry dog food. This is the only city I know that locates incinerators, rendering plants, thermal plants, anything that stinks, right downtown.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Don’t know what?”
“Whether or not I’m off the hook.”
“Oh, no,” he sighed. “I’ve seen that glint in your eye before. You’re going to stay on this son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
I turned to him. “Yeah. Think I will.”
“Listen, bunghole, what makes you think Fletcher’s killer won’t do it again?”
“Maybe-”
“Harry, as your attorney, I advise you to go home, drink a quart of tequila, and get one of those cheap weekend deals to the Bahamas.”
“I hate tequila.”
“Whatever.”
“Walter, this may not make any sense, but I’m staring middle age right in the face. I feel like a failure.”
“Oh, c’mon,” he said. “Give it a rest. You’ve been reading too many of those male sensitivity books.”
“No, I mean it. You and I went to college together. Look at you: you drive a BMW; you’re a successful lawyer. Even if you didn’t make partner, you’ve got a future. I live in somebody’s attic in East Nashville, drive a six-year-old Ford, and have an ex-wife who spreads dirt about me to anybody who’ll listen.”
“Harry, you’ve been feeling sorry for yourself ever since the paper canned you.”
“It’s not that, Walt. This is different.” I stared out the window as we drove over the Church Street Viaduct. Below us, street people sleeping in the Gulch were stirring to life.
“I want to know I can do something well, even if it’s just be a cheap, sleazy private investigator.”
Walter laughed. “The sleazy part’ll be easy. The rest, I don’t know. One thing you need to keep in mind: the cops are going to assume right off that Rachel killed Conrad. You get involved, they’ll figure you’re in on it.”
“Jesus, Walter,” I sighed. “Not you, too.”
“Are you sure you aren’t just thinking with your pecker?”
I looked over at Walter. Sometimes he could be a real jerk.
7
Walter’s two-bit psychoanalysis pissed me off at first, but the truth was I’d already considered it. Rachel Fletcher comes to me with this story about her husband being in trouble with bookies and can I help him out and all that good stuff. The next thing you know, he’s dead. C’mon, give me a break. Something’s stinko.
If I were a real detective, I’d have gone home, chugged a couple of shots of cheap bourbon, smoked a pack of unfiltered cigarettes, and grabbed a few hours’ shut-eye. But bourbon gives me heartburn like the devil, and the one time I smoked a cigarette was when I was twelve-out behind my grandparents’ garage. My father was going to spank me, until he decided that twenty minutes of projectile vomiting was punishment enough.
And I sure as hell needed more than a few hours of shut-eye. I hate to confess it, but if I don’t get an unbroken eight hours of sleep every night, I’m not worth killing the next day. Just a wuss, I guess.
By the time I got back to East Nashville, it was nearly four in the morning. I decided to hide out for a while and regroup. I closed all the blinds, made myself a cup of hot chocolate, turned the ringer off on the phone, and crawled into bed. I drifted off to sleep as an all-night news program played out some hostage drama in the Mideast.
When I woke up, the soaps were on. Something about somebody being unfaithful to somebody else, or some such melodramatic twaddle. I was too dazed to know or care what they were talking about. I fumbled for the remote control. The room sank back into blessed silence.
Only I couldn’t sink back into sleep. I lay there awhile, but it just wasn’t going to happen.
The answering machine light was blinking a fast red. I pushed the button; the synthesized voice on a chip said: “Hello, you have … two … messages.”
Rachel’s voice came next: “Harry, are you there? Harry? The police were here. They told me.… Oh, God, Harry-” There was a long silence, followed by a phlegmatic wet sob. “Call me.”
Lonnie Smith, my repo buddy, was next: “Got one in Shelbyville, man, you interested? Trans Am, T-tops, should be a fun ride. I’ll bring the truck back. You can drive the Pontiac. Call me, dude.”
Great, I’m in the middle of a murder, and now Lonnie wants me to swipe a car as well.
There was a box on the front page of the morning paper, a short bulletin about Conrad’s death. Apparently it all happened too late to get full treatment. I suspected the story would be all over the afternoon paper, though. I also figured my answering machine at work would be overloaded with reporter calls as well, which is why I decided to stay away from my office for a while.
I decided to take a chance and go see Dr. Marsha. I met Marsha Helms about five years ago, when I was covering a murder for the paper. I’d just been moved off the Lifestyles section onto Cityside, and it was my first real chance to get involved with the law enforcement bureaucracy in this town. Marsha helped me appreciably- gave me a lot of inside information, details I probably wasn’t supposed to know.
Marsha’s tall, maybe an inch or two taller than me, and striking. Jet-black hair, red-frame glasses, a nose as sharp and well defined as a wasp’s sting. But not what you’d call classically beautiful. Attractive, though, and with a personality that could best-and diplomatically-be described as off the wall.
What else would you expect from a lady who cuts open dead bodies for a living?
I crossed over the river on the Memorial Bridge, through the dense lunchtime traffic, past the police station, then maneuvered my way around to First Avenue. The partly cobblestone street runs down behind all the old buildings on Second Avenue, the ones that were feed stores and blacksmith shops a hundred years ago, beautifully renovated restaurants, bars, and dance clubs now. Cities get gentrified all the time, but seldom with the class of this town. People flowed freely, happily. Tourists mixed in with suited business people, street singers, and city workers in a buzz saw of activity. I drove past the replica of Fort Nashborough, past Riverfront Park, on out First Avenue until it changes into Hermitage Avenue. One of the things that make this city so wonderful is that you can get lost forever if you don’t grasp the concept of street names changing mid-block-and that Old Hickory Boulevard has no beginning and no end. It’s just kind of everywhere.
Around the bend, just past the building that’s a different Oriental restaurant, with a different owner every six weeks, is Metro General Hospital. It’s a nineteenth-century facility overloaded with twenty-first century stresses: eleven-year-old girls pregnant by their fathers, their younger brothers, or cousins; junkies; alcoholics; AIDS patients who never heard of health insurance, even if they could afford it. The knifings, stabbings, car wrecks, plane crashes-they all go to General.
I made a left turn just past the main entrance of the hospital into an unidentified parking lot. Up a short hill, behind a rise that blocks the building from the road, sits the Forensic Science Center.
Strange place, the Nashville morgue. I don’t know if morgues are like this all over, but this city’s is more of a bunker than anything else. The doors are heavy, armor-plated, and the few windows in the place are bulletproof. Inside, the staff’s got the makings of a pretty good arsenal, and they all know where the bullets go.
Go figure. I mean, who’d want to blast their way into a morgue? God help anybody who tries, though.
Kay Delacorte sat at her desk, eyeing me through the thick glass. She made a face kind of like a kid biting into a sour ball and pushed a button on a wall next to her desk.
“What do
I looked at her through the glass, gave her my best lost boy look. “C’mon, Kay. Can I come in?”
