When Taylor made the left onto Love Circle and wound her way up the hill, she was shocked. Last night, in the dark, it still held that romantic feel. In the harsh light of day, she could see how run-down the Hill had actually become. Trash littered the grassy banks of the park, some graffiti on the electric transformer box had been inexpertly painted over. A ragged chain-link fence was sagging in spots, bearing the kick marks of some drunken youth. It wasn’t the Hill she remembered, and she remarked on that to Bangor.
“Yes, it’s been hard to keep the vagrants out of the park at night. It’s so quiet, and there aren’t a lot of patrols through here. We force them out, they reappear. The kids who come up here aren’t the nicest element. Between them and the break-in, I’m glad for my security system.”
“We didn’t get any alarms from your system last night. Is it possible that you left it off when you left town?”
“No. I’m religious about setting the alarm. But it’s entirely possible that Miss Carol failed to turn it back on. She was taking care of Sebastian for me, and sometimes she forgets. It’s happened before.”
Taylor glanced at McKenzie. That matched the neighbor’s statement, at least. Convenient that the alarm was turned off. She wondered if the killer knew there would be a good chance of that, or if he’d come prepared to disengage the system. That would speak to an even higher level of intelligence than she’d previously thought. And a more personal connection to Hugh Bangor.
In the daylight, Bangor’s home was a sharp contrast to the surrounding grime. The lawn was neat and well- cared for, though trampled a bit by the multitudes of law enforcement who’d been tromping through it all night.
The crime-scene tape fluttered around the porch. Taylor unwound it from the support columns and let Bangor and McKenzie pass. Once inside, Bangor immediately tensed. Taylor watched his reaction with interest, wondered briefly whether they were going to have an issue. But Bangor merely shook his head, and turned to her with his eyebrow raised.
“I’m missing something rather dramatic, aren’t I? What happened to my post?”
Taylor looked at McKenzie. “Go ahead,” she said.
“The victim was pinned to the post with a knife. We had to take it with us to preserve the integrity of the wound tract.”
“My God. Who could do such a thing? You’ll replace it, won’t you?” Bangor asked.
Taylor nodded. “I’m sure we’ll be able to figure something out. Destruction of private property isn’t in our purview. We didn’t have a choice last night.”
“Fair enough.”
They moved to the back door, where Taylor showed him the cutout piece of glass.
Bangor tsked. “This is just so violating.”
Taylor touched his arm. “I know it’s hard. Just bear with us a little longer.”
They drifted toward the kitchen as they talked.
“Are you a fan of Dvorak?” she asked.
He cocked his head to the side. “Actually, not so much. I’m more of an Outlaws type-good old country music. Did you know that John Rich built that house down the street? He’s a very nice man. I’m not a big fan of his music, there’s a bit too much ego in it, but he’s been a good neighbor. Raised the property values, at least.”
“That always helps. Do you have any Dvorak CDs?”
“No.” Bangor sat heavily at his kitchen table. “Why?”
“There was a Dvorak CD in your wall system here, playing on a loop last night.”
“Now that’s one I know I had nothing to do with. I left it on Lightning 100. Sebastian likes alternative rock, I usually leave it on for him while I’m away. Maybe it’s his?”
“The cat?” McKenzie looked serious all of a sudden, but Taylor laughed.
“Now there’s a scenario I haven’t encountered in a murder investigation. The cat did it.”
McKenzie got the joke and joined the laughter, a little too strongly.
“Maybe the cat will solve it. Do you know where Sebastian is?” Bangor asked.
“Your neighbor took him to her house last night.”
“Too bad I’m not a cat whisperer. That would make life easy. He could tell me what he saw.” Bangor grew serious. “I’m sorry for that girl, whoever she is. Do you know her name?”
Taylor nodded at McKenzie, who replied, “It’s Allegra Johnson.”
Bangor shook his head. “I don’t know anyone of that name, though it’s beautiful. Maybe I’ll put her in a piece one of these days, as a memorial. My God. Did she die right here?”
He was staring at the invisible column as if he could imagine the scene from the previous night. Taylor was glad that he couldn’t; it wasn’t one she’d soon forget.
“No, sir. I don’t believe she did. Do me a favor and take a quick look around. If you don’t see anything else out of place, we’re going to get out of your hair.”
Bangor searched the house for five minutes, then returned to the kitchen shaking his head. “Nothing. It’s all here except for the book from my coffee table. Do you think I’m in any danger?”
Taylor shook her head. “We took the Picasso monograph for examination. I don’t think you’re in danger, but I can’t say one way or another. I’m reluctant to jump to the conclusion that someone was sending you a message, but that may be the case. I’d appreciate it if you did some sleuthing of your own, look into your e-mails and correspondence for the past few days, see if anyone made threatening gestures. Maybe someone involved in your screenwriting didn’t like what you had to say about their work?”
Bangor smiled. “I’m actually to the point where young screenwriters fight to have me play with their words. They are usually more sycophantic rather than threatened. But I’ll give it some thought.”
“Okay, then. I appreciate your cooperation. And I’d appreciate you keeping the information I gave you to yourself.”
“Can I go back to the coast?”
“Stick around for another day or so, while we check some things. We’ll be in touch.”
Bangor walked them out. “I’m going to go get Sebastian, bring him home. Thank you for being so cautious. I appreciate how difficult this must be.”
They shook hands. Taylor and McKenzie got into the vehicle. She watched Bangor knock on Carol Parker’s door and go inside, heard the loud meowing of the cat in the background. A happy homecoming for one member of the family, at least.
“He didn’t have anything to do with it, did he? He seems like a really nice guy.” McKenzie was fiddling with the crease in his slacks, running his thumb obsessively over the edge.
“Probably not, but that doesn’t mean someone wasn’t sending him a very clear message.”
“Made him an offer he couldn’t refuse?”
“Why McKenzie, I never pegged you for a Godfather fan.”
She put the car in gear and drove. Someone was sending Hugh Bangor a message. And she needed to find out who it was before he tried again.
Twelve
T he J. C. Napier Homes were one of Nashville’s nastiest projects. Many of the city’s homicides happened there; Napier and its fellow, the Tony Sedekum Homes, accounted for half of the arrests in all the housing projects in Davidson County. Poverty begat deeper levels of poverty. Guns were rampant. Some murders and assaults were fueled by drugs, most others by desperation. Whatever the cause, the effect was that the Napier projects saw nearly thirty percent of all the murders in Nashville in a given year.
The patrols in these projects were on bikes-the streets were few and far apart, running lengthways. There was little to no access between the buildings and courtyards. On bikes, they had a chance. But it was dangerous work. The residents didn’t have much hope, anyway. Taking potshots at cops was a favorite pastime.
Taylor’s window was down; she heard the usual catcalls. She smelled burning garbage: another boredom- killer on warm summer days, setting fire to the Dumpsters. In these projects, men, women and children roamed the streets aimlessly at all hours of the day and night, talking, watching, being. The typical crowd gathered around her
