WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (17 page)

“Yes, a quick and discreet one. I don’t want to stir up any trouble with the law.”

“I have a friend. He’s good at acquiring—things, but he isn’t cheap.”

“Where is he?”

“Kentucky,” Brad said.

“Can we trust him?”

“I do. He’s a good man. I was in Vietnam with him. How much are we talking about?”

“Not much,” Garrison said. “Maybe a pound?”

“A pound?”

“I’d like to get enough in case their brethren rebuild and I have to evict them again.”

“Oh. I’ll ask him.”

Garrison handed Brad his refill.

“I appreciate your help with this, Brad.”

“No problem, Carl. Can I call you Carl?”

“Absolutely,” Garrison said. “To friends.” Garrison clinked Brad’s glass. “Now—let’s talk about that Mexican resolution.”

Cumberland Plaza

Nashville, Tennessee

Tuesday Evening

Moved by the image, he stood erect and motionless. Like a soldier at attention, he stared at the American flag in the photograph. The color guard representing all branches of military service was presenting America’s red, white, and blue.

The colorful photos lined the hallways of the Nashville offices of Empire State Commercial Properties. The photos captured the April 17, 2001 dedication ceremony for The Ellis Island Immigration Museum and The Wall of Honor. Overlooking the Statue of Liberty and the New York skyline, The Wall was a unique exhibit paying tribute to America’s rich cultural heritage, and celebrating American immigration from its earliest beginnings.

The framed photograph that had Daran’s attention not only captured the spectacle of the day, but beyond the colorful celebration in the foreground, standing erect in the distant haze of the New York City skyline, was the haunting grey image of the World Trade Center towers that, in five months, would be no more.

Momentarily ignoring his janitorial duties, he held his chin high and his hand over his heart. Daran again recited his new affirmation aloud: “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

His smile, and more so his tears, relayed his newfound patriotic pride. “Liberty and justice for all,” Daran repeated. “Now, it includes me too.”

He swelled with pride at this morning’s joyful ceremony as he was sworn in; one of America’s newest citizens. The only way he could have been more proud was if his father and mother had lived to see it. Unfortunately, that wasn’t meant to be. Saddam Hussein and his maniacal sons saw to that in March of 1988 when they annihilated thousands of Kurds with mustard gas in the northern Iraqi village of Halabjah. Eighteen at the time, Daran and his younger sister Zena were visiting his mother’s family in Mosul.

“Daran,” Tomar shouted, but Daran had already turned the volume back up on his iPod. “Daran.”

“Sorry, what?” He jerked the ear bud from his ear.

“Are you going to finish with the trash?” Tomar asked, as he dusted desktops.

Daran’s cousins were happy for him and even a bit jealous of his American citizenship, but not so anxious to carry his workload while he daydreamed. “If we are going to keep our jobs and celebrate later tonight, we will have to finish cleaning these offices. Okay?”

“Sure. Sorry. I saw the flag there and—well,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I remembered this morning,” Daran said, apologizing.

“We know you are excited.” Hoshyar smiled. “Your mind is not on our work. Why not go ahead and run your errands. Tomar and I can finish here.”

“I could not leave you two to do all the work,” Daran said.

“It is not a problem. We can take care of it. You stop at the market and pick up the items on the list, then go by the restaurant and pick up the food. You did order the food this morning?”

“Yes, cousin. I stopped at Mustafa’s and ordered the food before I left for the ceremony. I was running late, but it was done. I told him I would get the food later this evening.”

“Good.” Hoshyar said, as he removed his latex gloves and reached for his wallet. “Here is thirty dollars to help pay for the food. We will meet you at your apartment at eight o’clock, okay? Now, be on your way.”

“Are you sure you do not mind?” Daran asked.

Hoshyar smiled and nodded. “We are sure.”

Daran began to walk away and then turned back. “Thank you, cousins.”

“Go,” Hoshyar and Tomar shouted in unison and then smiled.

Daran laughed and waved as he left. He knew he was fortunate to have his family here in Nashville now. Over the last eight years, he helped nine members of his family to leave Kurdistan and come to Tennessee. Daran was the first to become an American citizen.

Known for its enterprising people and their southern hospitality, Nashville opened its arms and welcomed the Kurds much like it had the industrious Hispanic community. The Kurds, like the Hispanics, were determined to earn their way, working hard and contributing to the thriving Middle Tennessee economy. Many of them, like Daran and his cousins, worked more than one job and had already set their sights on starting their own business someday.

As Daran waited for the garage elevator to arrive at level six, he reached over to his iPod armband and rotated the selector to his favorite tune: James Brown singing “Living in America.” He loved to listen with the volume loud. When the elevator doors opened, Daran stepped out singing a duet with the
hardest working man in show business
.

As he exited the artificial freshness of the recently cleaned elevator, the cool evening breeze took Daran’s concentration from the music. The gentle mist of rain dampened his face as it drifted through the open-air garage. Daran paused and smiled to himself as he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath of Nashville springtime. The pesto focaccia from the bakery across the street stirred his hunger and made him even more anxious for the evening’s celebration to begin. He was thrilled to be an American enjoying America.

As he strolled the ashen concrete structure to his car, Daran recalled the caves he and his cousins explored as children. Carefree days of the late 1970s in the mountains of Kurdistan soon gave way to the angst brought about by the tyrannical Baathist regime. Killing many of his countrymen and driving thousands more away, they ravaged his homeland. So many good people lost so much, or died trying to save it.

Daran’s attention returned to the present and he smiled as he spotted his joy: his 1995 Desert Mist Acura Legend. It was four months since he made the largest purchase of his life. He worked all the overtime he could until he had saved enough for the down payment. The car had 98,000 miles, but Daran crowed, “For an Acura, it is only broken-in.”

Daran’s smile was dissolved by the scratch on the car’s rear bumper and his memory of this morning’s collision outside Mustafa’s. But, he was not about to let that ruin his celebration.

Daran sidestepped between his car and the Yukon Denali parked along side. He unlocked and opened his door, watchful not to let it touch the shining SUV.

His head was bobbing to the blaring music when the long razor-sharp blade connected with his lower back and passed through his right kidney into his liver. Daran’s wide-eyed gasp was followed immediately by an attempt to scream away the intense pain. Nothing came out; his shriek muffled by his attacker’s hand.

As he was shoved from behind into the tight space, his car’s open door slammed into the SUV. Daran’s body recoiled from the searing torment, but his response did nothing to alleviate his suffering. Pushing against the roof of his car, Daran fought to resist, face his attacker and defend himself, but his efforts were futile. He felt his body weakening from the unbearable burning inside him.

The throbbing pain in Daran’s lower back pulsed in time with his heartbeat and redoubled as his attacker withdrew the blade, multiplying the internal damage. Again he cried out, but the muted sound from his effort was little more than a muffled groan.

There was hardly enough time for him to form the thoughts in his mind.
Why? Somebody, help me!
An abrupt force jerked his head backward, compelling him to gape upward. Daran’s pleading eyes bulged, in search of a savior, but saw only the dull expanse of the garage’s cement ceiling illuminated by its harsh florescent light.

As the attacker’s blade opened his throat, blood erupted from his neck and promptly beaded as it spurted across the freshly waxed roof of his car. The slash caused Daran more pain than any language could describe, but description was pointless. This anguish was to be fleeting.

Daran grabbed at his throat with both hands. It was no use. Awareness was leaving him; life ending.

Daran’s attacker pushed down his head and shoved him across the front seat of his car. His blood painted the taupe leather interior as the attacker wrestled Daran’s wallet from the rear pants pocket of his uniform. Daran battled without success to capture one more useless gasp and refuse death.

Beneath his head in the passenger seat laid his family’s congratulatory gift, soaking in the life that was leaving him. It was the tri-folded Stars and Stripes—now his death pillow.

Mike Neal’s Home

Nashville, Tennessee

Tuesday Evening

The soothing sound of Jack Daniel’s Whiskey cascading over ice, and the plans for a peaceful Italian dinner at Norm’s house, were both shattered by the irritating tones from his cell phone. He looked at the phone’s display and recognized the incoming number.

“Mike Neal.”

“Mike,” Sergeant McKnight said, “you've got a customer.”

“Where?”

“Cumberland Plaza, in the parking garage, level six.”

“What happened?”

“Not sure. The killer used a knife. They said it’s a bloody mess. No suspects spotted on site. The first officer has the area secured, and they’re waiting on you guys.”

“Have you contacted Norm?”

“Not yet.”

“I'll call him myself en route.” Mike glanced at his watch: 18:38. “ETA for me is gonna be about ten minutes.”

“I’ll tell them you’re on your way.”

“Thanks.”

Mike flipped his cell phone closed, glanced at the sweating glass holding tonight’s refreshing Tennessee tranquilizer and said, “Later, Jack.”

He tightened his tie without buttoning his collar, re-belted his .40 caliber Glock and his detective’s shield. He grabbed his tweed blazer and swatted at the light switch as he pulled the door closed behind him.

The less than two-mile jaunt from Mike’s Green Hills duplex to downtown at this hour was a fast trip. The sixteen pulsating lights and blaring siren on his black Crown Vic Interceptor provided him an even quicker path over the wet pavement of 21st Avenue.

Mike pushed the number two on his cell phone and held it down.

“Detective Wallace.”

“Norm.”

“Hey, Mike.”

“I hope you weren’t planning on a fun-filled dinner with your wife and your partner.”

“What now?” Norm could hear the siren over the phone.

“We have a deceased citizen.”

“You’re kidding?”

“I wish,” Mike mumbled. “I was so looking forward to Cheryl’s lasagna.”

Norm looked at the bathroom clock. “It’s almost 18:45. What’s the twenty?”

“The parking garage, Cumberland Plaza, level six.”

“Six? Isn’t that the roof?”

“Not quite. I think it may be the last level before the roof.”

“Okay—No, honey. It’s Mike. Okay. Cheryl says Hi. You got any details yet?”

“Not much. The desk sergeant said it was a 10-51.”

“Mike, listen. I just stepped out of the shower. There’s no way around it; I’m gonna be a few minutes.”

“No problem, buddy. You have a lot of real estate to dry off. I’m almost on the scene now. Kiss her for me and try to make it a quickie, okay?”

“Mike.”

“Tell Cheryl I’m sorry about dinner and the blind date. See you in a few ... Honey.” Mike made a kissing sound, smiled and snapped his cell phone closed before Norm could respond.

Mike’s first years with Homicide had been made much more bearable, thanks to his partner. Norm and Mike got along well, and their performance was proof that they made a superior investigative team.

As he came up behind Cumberland Plaza, Mike turned off his lights and siren. He yielded to his habit of checking the building’s outer perimeter so he could feel confident the first officer had secured the crime scene. Fortunately, he found no access point which wasn’t marked with a police tape, sawhorse barrier or an officer and his patrol car.

Mike showed his shield to the officer at the ground level entrance, and drove into the parking garage. He wound his way up the concrete spiral, and as he reached the fifth level and the crime scene tape, he could see the EMS team had already arrived. He hoped valuable evidence had not been compromised in their attempt to assist the victim, who according to the first officer’s communication was already deceased.

After parking his car, Mike opened the trunk and removed his clipboard with the graph paper pad. He snatched a couple of nitrile gloves and Tyvek shoe covers from the box and shut the trunk. His personal recorder and digital camera were his crime scene weapons of choice and were always in his sport jacket pockets.

Mike walked the ramp the rest of the way to Level Six. There, he found a young patrol officer, no doubt recent ex-military, whose uniform was so sharp it looked like he had just put it on. He was standing with an EMT near the elevators, waiting to brief the investigator in charge.

“Mike Neal, Homicide. Are you the first officer?”

“Yes, sir. Greg Curtis.”

Mike glanced beyond the young officer as he spoke and spotted Steve Hill who Mike knew well, and who he guessed was the crime scene supervisor. Sergeant Hill smiled and nodded at him. Mike took this to mean he was allowing the young officer to gain some crime scene experience. Mike was willing to allow this as long as all procedures were followed to the letter. Training was necessary, but not at the expense of Mike’s crime scene or the victim’s justice.