A Song to Die For (37 page)

“Your niece's softball team?”

“Not bad. We're three and oh.”

“Do you coach?”

“I do. I was a pitcher in high school.”

“You are full of surprises, Sunshine. I'm on my way to Sports Nation.”

“The manager's name is Barry Kincaid,” she sang out after him. “He'll be waiting for you.”

*   *   *

Barry Kincaid proved enthusiastically helpful. A former college linebacker turned retailer, he still carried himself with athletic vigor, and looked as if he still worked out with weights and on the track. Greeting Hooley at the storefront, he first pointed out where the surveillance camera was hidden above the checkout lane, its lens barely visible, peeking out through a hole in the ceiling tile.

“I saw you on TV the other day. Is this about what I think it's about?” Kincaid showed Hooley to the offices located adjacent to the store's large warehouse of sporting goods.

“Just trying to wrap up a case,” Hooley claimed, avoiding the question.

“Well, I hope we can help,” Kincaid said, stopping in front of a television monitor on a rack, connected by cables to a metal box on the shelf below it. “The surveillance videos are stored on these tapes. Your secretary said you'd probably be looking at these four.” He handed four cassettes to Hooley. “A couple of Saturdays back?”

“My secretary is always right.” Hooley turned the plastic cassettes and held them uncertainly, not sure what to do with them next. He had seen these things in use, but had no experience with them. For a man who started his ranger career reading hoofprints in the sand, this technological stuff came painfully slow to him.

“That's the day that girl was killed down the street, isn't it?” Kincaid prodded. “And the day her friend was found dead on the lake?”

“Crime investigation is ninety percent eliminating false leads,” Hooley claimed. “Just do me a favor and keep this quiet. I can do without the public hysteria, you know what I mean?”

“Oh, sure,” Kincaid agreed. “I won't speak a word of it.”

“Now, how the hell do you look at the pictures on this contraption?”

Kincaid smiled and took the cassette tapes back from the ranger. He turned on the monitor and the tape player, slipped the tape into a slot. “You're lucky your secretary called today. A couple more days, and these tapes would have been recycled. We record over them after a couple of weeks. Here it goes. It starts at nine o'clock, when the store opens. The time and date are shown here.” He pointed to some digits at the bottom right-hand corner of the monitor screen. “Each tape covers two hours. That's a total of eight hours until closing time.”

“I guess I better get comfortable, then.” Hooley took off his hat and pulled up a chair under the fluorescent lights in the windowless office.

“You can view it in fast forward,” Kincaid said, showing Hooley the appropriate button. “That'll save you some time. Then, if you see something, you can push play. Rewind … Watch it again … Whatever. Just don't push record, or you'll tape over it.”

“I think I got it.” Hooley was impressed by the clarity of the video. It wasn't quite movie-quality, but close.

“Give me a shout if you need something,” Kincaid said. “I've got to get back out front. Oh! One more thing. You can tell about how tall each customer is. That shelf behind the customer is six feet high. See what I mean?”

“Yeah, thanks. I appreciate it.” Hooley settled in and began viewing the day in question in fast-forward, slowing the tape to real time whenever he saw something the least bit suspicious. He was near the end of the first two-hour tape when the rapid-motion image of a burly bald man leapt out at him. He hit play to slow the tape down as the man turned and left the cash register with his purchase.

Leery of that record button, Hooley carefully pushed rewind and watched the figure reappear in reverse high speed. He let the machine run backward until the customer backed away, waited a few seconds more, then hit the play button again. He noted the time: 10:20 a.m.

The customer stepped up to the counter with a number of items, including a hooded warm-up outfit. Franco! It had to be him. He was five-foot-nine or so. Bald. Muscular. Damn it, though, he was wearing sunglasses. Wait … Franco took the shades off to look at his wallet and pull out the cash. Damn it. Cash. No credit card numbers to trace.

“Come on, look up, Franco,” Hooley mumbled, his stomach gathering butterflies, his heartbeat racing.

As if on cue, Franco looked up and smiled at the girl at the cash register. The son-of-a-bitch smiled! He had, in all likelihood, just killed a girl about that age, or was getting ready to. He looked right at the camera lens, though he couldn't know it was there. It chilled Hooley. The guy's eyes were vacant—a ghostly light gray on this black-and-white video. He made his purchase, replaced his shades, and left with his bagged items.

Hooley watched it three more times, then ejected the tape. He took the cassette back to the front of the store. “Hey, Sport,” he said to Barry Kincaid. “I'll need to take this tape with me as evidence.”

“Sure,” Kincaid said. He stepped close to Hooley and whispered. “Is the murderer on there? Was he here, in my store?”

“Too soon to tell. Like I said…”

“Yeah, yeah … ninety percent eliminating false leads.” Kincaid gave Hooley a knowing smile and handed him a business card. “Call me if I can help you with anything else.”

*   *   *

Back at D.P.S. headquarters, Hooley handed the cassette to Lucille. “Ten-twenty a.m. We got about forty-five seconds of a guy that fits the description of Franco Martini.”

“Really!” Lucille said, wide-eyed, and smiling all at once.

“I wouldn't kid you about this, darlin'. I need a still photo of the best shot of him with his sunglasses off, looking up. Fax it to Mel. See if we can get a positive ID.”

“Yes, sir!” Lucille said, excited about the developments. “What are you going to do next?”

“It's time to tighten the cinch on this pony. I'm gonna drive to Conroe and catch Charles Biggerstaff someplace where I can look him in the eye.”

“Hooley! You're exhausted! You should go home and go to sleep!”

“Can't. I can feel this thing trying to wrap itself up. I should have gone to Conroe in the first place, instead of Mel. He's a good young cop, but he don't know how to talk Texan to an oilman. I'm goin' down there.”

“Promise me you'll pull over and take a nap if you get too tired to drive.”

“Yeah, sure…”

“Hooley! Look at me!” she scolded.

“Okay, I promise! Good God, we might as well get married if you're gonna use that tone of voice.”

Lucille beamed her widest smile. “Hooley! Are you proposing?”

He laughed from his gut. “Now, wouldn't that harelip the governor?”

“In this day and age?”

“Maybe you're right,” he flirted. “Hell, it probably won't be long until we have a colored … excuse me,
African-American
governor.”

“You'd vote for Barbara Jordan?”

“I'm talkin' about
you
. You'd get my vote any day, sugar.”

“Hooley, you had better get on out of here right now, before I start to listen to your nonsense.”

He grinned and winked at her. “Right, as usual, good-lookin'. If you hear from Mel, leave a message on my home machine, will you?”

“Mel who?” she said, her false eyelashes all aflutter. “Just kidding. Of course I will.”

Two hours later, near College Station, Hooley remembered his promise to pull over for a siesta if he got too tired. He parked under the shade of an oak tree. He dozed off, chuckling about the crazy idea of flirting with Lucille in broad daylight at the office.

*   *   *

Franco answered the phone on the first ring. “Hello?” He sucked his teeth, having just finished his lunch. Chicken cordon bleu. Room service. Not bad.

“It's Sling.”

“What do you want?”

“Got some information for you.”

“Cough it up. I got better things to do than shoot the shit with you.”

“The band—the old guy, Luster Burnett…”

“Yeah?”

“They're part of a big country music concert in Houston tonight. At Jefferson Stadium.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive. I found their booking agency. They're opening the concert. About seven.”

“Seven o'clock?” Franco looked at his watch. He knew Houston had to be an hour or two away. Still, he could possibly make it.

“Yeah. You want me to go with you?”

“Hell, no. Stay by your phone. I'll call you when I need more details. So tell me, you asked the booking agent which guy in the band is our guy?”

“I did, but they didn't know.”

“How the hell could they not know? Did they book the act, or not?”

“They said they just signed the act up a couple days ago, and they don't have the bios yet.”

“Damn. All right, wait by the phone. If I call, you better be there.” He hung up the phone and jumped out of his chair, grabbing the keys to his rental car.

 

38

CHAPTER

The old Silver Eagle had arrived belching black smoke. Creed had intentionally parked it a safe distance from Dixie's band's three shining Prevost tour buses to avoid the obvious comparison with The Pounders' clunker.

He had met with the soundman for the concert, Hutch, whom he knew and liked from his days with Dixie Creed. Hutch agreed to let Nigel Buttery of Bee Cave Studios patch into the mixing console to record Luster's set. A detail-oriented technological genius, Hutch had taught Creed volumes on how to wring every last morsel of sweet music from a sound system. Even so, Creed was well aware that he had learned only a fraction of what Hutch knew about sound, speakers, mics, amps, effects, phase, feedback, mixes, reverbs, slapback, echo, EQ …

Nigel and Hutch had spent half an hour hooking up cables to patch in the twenty-four-track tape machine Nigel had hauled from Bee Cave. It was about the size of a typical kitchen stove. They worked as if reading each other's minds, as both were well-trained soundmen. Otherwise, they didn't have much to talk about, Nigel being an urban British cat, and Hutch a country boy from Arkansas. Luckily Creed was there to translate when they hit a language barrier.

“Let's just not let Dixie know we're doin' this,” Hutch had suggested, as he and Nigel finished the process.

“Forgiveness is easier to get than permission,” Nigel agreed in his singsong British accent. “Still, let's hope no one gets made redundant over this taping.”

Hutch looked at Creed.

“Wouldn't want to get anybody fired over this,” Creed explained.

“That's what I just said,” Nigel snapped, irritably.

“Seriously, Hutch, I hope it won't cause you any trouble.”

“Trouble? Creed, this whole tour has been nothing but trouble. Dixie has turned into the prima donna from hell. You got out of this band just in time.”

“Yeah, looks like y'all are sufferin' through it with your three buses and four semis full of stage gear.”

“Hey, I'd gladly ditch it all to go on tour with you and Luster Burnett right now. I mean, Luster Burnett, man! I envy you, dude.”

“Right!” Nigel blurted. “So … let's wrap some foil on this turkey!”

Hutch angled his puzzled eyes toward Creed.

“Time for sound check,” Creed translated.

“I didn't know you spoke British,” Hutch muttered.

“I'll get the band.”

*   *   *

The sound check had gone flawlessly, with Hutch on the side of Luster and The Pounders. The band had retired to the bus to relax and get mentally ready for the gig. Knowing they were recording the set for the live album, the band members remained on good behavior, sipping coffee, tea, soft drinks, or water. Creed sat sideways in the driver's seat, answering Kathy Music's endless questions about distribution, radio, booking, routing … Tump and Metro stood outside the open door to the bus, smoking cigarettes and trading dirty jokes. Lindsay sat at the dinette, staring into a lighted makeup mirror she had brought with her, expertly painting on her eyeliner. Luster was napping in his private bunk in the rear of the bus.

To Creed, they all seemed confident and prepared, with the expected exception of Trusty Joe, who was a nervous wreck, wringing his hands and biting his lip on the edge of his bunk, swirling ever deeper into his private hell of insecurity. His face looked almost green.

Finally, Luster came out of his tiny suite at the back of the bus, a beer in his hand, and a Navaho blanket thrown conspicuously over his shoulder. “Everybody dressed and ready? Good,” he said, not waiting for the answer. “All aboard. Quick meeting.”

Creed called Tump and Metro onto the bus.

“I brought this blanket with me to show y'all,” he began. “It was given to me by a tribal elder on the Navaho rez in New Mexico, years ago. I played a fund-raiser for them so they could build a new school, and the elder took a liking to me. He told me something about the Navahos, and their blankets.” Luster held the blanket up by one end—zigzags of reds, yellows, and blues painting striking patterns.

“Look at this thing. The colors, the patterns. Look at the weave, the craftsmanship.”

Lindsay looked up from her mirror. “That
is
a thing of beauty, LusSTAIR.”

“But, look here, Miss LockETTE…” Luster pointed out a twist of wool protruding from one edge of the blanket. “The old Navaho told me that this imperfection in the design and making of his blanket is intentional. Perfection, he said, is unnaturally extreme. It's like a cold, closed box. He told me a thing that's perfect is unable to breathe. It can't live. After all, there is no perfection in nature. Not even a drop of rain is perfectly round. It moves. It lives. It breathes. In perfection there is no reality, and definitely no room for creativity. So the Navahos, when they make their blankets, always build in some little flaw.”