A Shred of Truth (3 page)

“Look. We’re home.”

“Promise me.”

We pulled into our parking lot, and the dipped entryway made Johnny grimace as his back bounced against the seat. I eased into a space. My thoughts turned to Meade, my unlikely friend, the unflappable detective who’d lent his capable assistance in the past.

“Deal,” I said.

“Which means you’ll keep your nose clean while I’m gone?” He waited for me to nod. “And you’ll also stay outta the cops’ way?”

“Yes, already. I’ll be a good boy, I promise.”

We headed up the brick steps and locked and deadbolted the door behind us. Johnny moved into the kitchen to put on a pot of herbal tea. I popped open a can of Dr Pepper, ignoring his look of dietary concern, and chugged it.

“Ahhh.” I crumpled the can in my fist. “Good stuff.”

“Sugar water’s all that is.”

“Better than killing a million brain cells.” I dropped the can into the waste bin under the sink and grabbed the first-aid kit. At the dining table, my brother laid his head on his arms while I dribbled hydrogen peroxide on the cuts. “Sting?”

“Not too bad.”

“Be worse if they’d used a dull blade.” I finished with the A, then dabbed at the X where his tanning-booth brown gave way to raw layers of tissue. I did my best to draw together the severed skin with bandages. The smell of antiseptics clouded the room. “Just be careful,” I said. “Try not to brush against anything.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Nurse. Where’s your little white outfit anyway?”

“Sicko.” I shoved at his chair. “Go get some sleep.”

Stretched across my bed, I blew out a minty breath of toothpaste and hoped my rest would be undisturbed. The A/C kicked on, the cool air sweeping the swampy warmth from the room. My eyes began to lock up for the night.

Instantly the cuts on my brother’s back snapped into view.

“Please, God.” I stared up at the ceiling.

Since childhood I’ve been plagued by nightmares and dreams. Sometimes I see my mother at the riverbank—crying out, falling. Other times I’m racing through tall grass, pulse pounding. Recently I’ve had a recurring vision
of my last girlfriend, half-hidden behind a handkerchief as she raises the polished barrel of an automatic.

Brianne … Seems like only a few weeks ago.

I closed my eyes again. Pushed away images of Johnny’s incisions. An old Radiohead song played through my head, leading me into a dream …

I’m walking across a bridge. Fog surrounds me, muffles my steps as I cross. I see a shape rising ahead, a circle around three stars, emblazoned over a double-edged sword—the emblem of the Tennessee Titans.

This is good. I love my Titans.

A loud crack tears through the air. What now?

The sword is falling, plunging, sharpening into substance. As I turn, I see it swoop along the earth and head my way. I run back toward the bridge, the blade singing through the air behind me. My feet slap at the soft ground. I’m getting nowhere fast. Gasping.

Where’s the bridge? It’s gotta be close.

“You’re no good, Aramis,” a voice hisses. “We’re giving you the ax.”

I stagger and sprawl headlong across the pavement. The sword zips overhead.

“Who are you?” I cry out. “Leave me alone.”

Rolling onto my side, I try to spot the speaker. That voice. Do I know it? Nothing but a slim, fading shape. And a strong sense of déjà vu.

D
etective Meade stepped into my espresso shop the next morning, set a hand on the bar, and turned to scan Black’s dining area. His skin was darker than my mahogany counter, his eyes black as coal, revealing little. A member of the old school, Meade’s never been the warm, fuzzy type. We met last year during the investigation of a murder that happened in my shop, and he proved to be a man of dignity, of restraint—a person I could learn from.

“The usual, please.”

“It’s been awhile, Detective.”

“Work and more work.”

“Know how that goes. One Hair Curler coming right up.”

I pulled two shots of espresso, poured them into a cup of dark roast, topped it off with a squeeze of lime. It’s my own concoction, loosely based on a
cafe romano
served in Rome but unknown to most in the US of A. Not for the faint of heart. Which, I’m sure, is why Meade likes it.

He said, “You free for a moment?”

“You bet.”

I removed my apron and passed off counter duties to my morning crew. I used to run the place with one other person, but all that changed a few months back when a brief stint on a reality TV show,
The Best of Evil
, turned me into a reluctant star. Channel Five News did a follow-up segment; the
Tennessean
did a write-up; I was even billed as a local celebrity at a charity auction in nearby Franklin.

Though I still pull shots behind the bar, I’ve become more of a true owner of Black’s, managing my employees and tending to administrative duties. Some days I miss the customer contact. Other days not so much.

I joined the detective in a window booth.

He set down his cup. “I received your message this morning. You say someone attacked Johnny Ray with a knife?”

“Tied him up and cut into his shoulder.” I provided details in a voice low enough not to upset customers at neighboring booths and tables.

“You should’ve called from the park when it happened.”

“It was late. I thought it was a prank or some crazy initiation.”

“Until you saw his injuries.”

“Exactly.”

“A code thirty-seven.”

“Which means?”

“Aggravated assault.”

“Johnny said he had an ominous call a few days back, some stranger speaking in riddles, talking about courage and wounds. Think it rattled him.”

“No caller ID?”

“Unidentified. We could probably go back through the calls. He’d recognize it.”

“Could be helpful. We can subpoena phone records too. What about this party?”

Detective Meade took notes on a pad while I told him about the Hyundai at the
Musica
roundabout, the names of the attendees, the music execs, and the catering outfit. I handed over the severed ropes in a garbage bag.

“You took these?” He frowned.

“Hey, don’t criticize my methods. That stuff could’ve been long gone by this morning.”

“Which is why you should’ve called it in.” Meade leaned back and smoothed long, large-knuckled fingers down his ruby-colored tie. His gaze shifted toward the shop’s front door as though willing a suspect to enter and confess.

Along Elliston Place, cars and pedestrians streamed by from nearby clinics, Baptist Hospital, eateries, and Vanderbilt University. A set of slender female legs jogged past, and I looked away. Beauty’s made a fool of me one too many times.

“I wonder about you,” he said. “You seem to be developing a pattern of stumbling into trouble, and—”

“Dude, tell me about it.”

“And then calling my office.”

“Uh. You told me to call if I ever needed anything.”

He waved off my defensiveness. “Anytime.”

“Growing up, I wasn’t a big fan of the cops. It’s a positive step for me.”

He sipped from his mug, watching me.

“Are you superstitious?”

He set down the drink. “Why?”

“In your line of work, I’m sure you’ve seen people with bad luck. Always stepping into stuff they can’t wipe off.”

“Think that’s you?”

I looked out the window. “I’ve stepped in my share of it.”

“I’ve seen some. That Michaels kid last year—he didn’t have much of a chance. Way I read it, that kind of bad luck is the consequence of people’s choices.”

“Cause and effect. My brother calls it karma.”

“Reap what you sow, sure. Most religions have something like it, and it’s the foundation of any good legal system. A price must be paid for wrongs committed.”

“Trust me,” I said. “If I find out who did that to my brother—”

“You’ll report it to me.”

I pressed my lips together and wrapped a hand around the back of my neck. I remembered my vow to Johnny Ray.

“You don’t need any more bad luck.”

I nodded. Smiled.

What I wanted to say, what I suspected in my gut, was that bad luck had latched onto me back in Portland during my years of less-than-admirable behavior. My brother thinks people use the idea of a Supreme Being as an excuse, a crutch. Others say God is all about love and forgiveness, wanting to help, just waiting to be asked.

Deep down I believe the latter. It’s like a knowledge that blew in on a soft wind and took root in my chest.

There is also this weed called doubt that tries to choke it out.

“I see those wheels turning, Aramis. Please listen to me, and refrain from any vigilante fantasies. I’ll speak with your brother, interview those who attended the party, and follow up on any leads. We’ll stay in contact, and—I hope you’re listening here—you let me do my job.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I know you will. Thanks for coming by.” I extended my hand and rose from the booth, but he held me in place with an iron grip and a coal black stare.

“One more thing. Does your brother know a woman named Nadine Lott?”

“I … He’s never mentioned …”

He released my hand. “You remember the homicide victim in the news last year, the one burned beneath a pile of trash on the north end of town?”

“The homeless lady? Yeah. She came into the shop a time or two.”

“It’s a nice thing you do, giving coffee to the less fortunate. As for Miss Lott, her cause of death remains undetermined, despite toxicology and tissue testing. She had an extensive arrest history—theft, prostitution, and criminal impersonation. Detectives from North Precinct believe the fire was set to destroy evidence, though they did find some drug paraphernalia in her sweatshirt.”

“And—”

“It could be related.”

“To the attack on my brother?”

Meade leaned forward, delivering data in his smooth baritone. “Tests show that Ms. Lott had consensual sex in the hour before her death. The coroner found massive cranial hemorrhaging caused by a blunt object—”

“No! Johnny Ray had nothing to do with her. It’d go against his whole concept of karma.”

Meade help up a hand. “If I can finish.”

I crossed my arms.

“He found something else, which we kept out of the newspapers. Abdominal wounds. Initials carved by a knife and nearly burned away.”

“AX?”

The detective’s grim expression confirmed my guess.

“So Johnny’s not a suspect.”

“Should’ve made that clear up front.”

“And you never caught her attacker?”

“We had few leads, but this makes it look like the perp’s still in the area.”

“And local records—”

“Were searched, yes. For anything related to AX.”

“Nothing, huh?”

“Without substantial evidence, you can link two letters to pretty much anything.”

“And you’re sure the American Xylophonists weren’t involved? Those boys can be dangerous.”

Meade’s expression remained flat.

“Bad joke. Sorry. You still haven’t learned to relax, have you?”

“These days, Aramis, relaxing’s not an option.”

“Must get to you after a while.” I recalled sitting in the Charlotte Pike station months ago, spotting photos of his wife and a daughter dressed in pink. “I’m sure it gets to your family at times.”

He leaned back in the booth. “They’re the reason I do what I do, Mr. Black.” I saw his eyes narrow as a vintage Corvette convertible zipped by.

“Sweet car,” I said.

“Moving too fast. Just another cage of death.”

“Dude. You
seriously
need time off.”

“Please tell me you don’t drive at excessive speeds.”

“In my beater Honda? I wish.”

Jaw muscles clenching, he stood and smoothed his shirt. “I’d like to take a statement from your brother. Does he have a reliable contact number?”

“Here.” I speed-dialed and handed over my cell. “If he doesn’t answer, my guess is he’s headed to DAD’s studio.”

“Your dad’s a producer?”

“No. Desperado Artist Development. It’s over on Music Row.”

“I see.”

“It’s been Sammie’s brainchild from the start.”

“Samantha Rosewood?”

“The one and only. Manages my brother’s career and of course helped finance this place. Pretty amazing lady.”

“Hmm. And, as I recall, quite attractive.”

“Wuh—um, right.”

“Answering machine.” Meade closed the phone and handed it back.

I dropped it into my pants pocket. “He’s trying to finish up a new single before hitting the road. Drop by the studio over on Sixteenth. Can’t miss the black and silver sign.”

“I may do that.”

“So tell me. Straight up. You think my brother’s still in danger?”

“In light of the way you found him and the wounds you’ve described, it’s a possibility. Miss Lott’s abdominal wounds never went public, so it’s unlikely we have a copycat. It’s possible this murderer has come out of hibernation, and he may have intended your brother as his next victim.”

T
he detective headed out, while I stood and watched traffic move along Elliston. Was there really a connection between Nadine Lott and Johnny Ray? Why would someone kill a transient woman, then follow it a year later with an attack on a rising country star? Had my search at the park halted a more lethal plan?