WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (35 page)

Garrison looked at his watch and then at McBride. “Five hours until the border starts closing?”

McBride nodded. “Five hours.”

“Call me at home when it’s done,” Garrison said as he stood. “I’m going to be working on my next letter to the good people of TARPA. This statement will be made even more compelling by today’s explosive message.”

The Rutherford Hotel

Nashville, Tennessee

Thursday Morning

“Good morning, sir. Welcome to The Rutherford. How may I help you?”

“Hello,” the middle aged man smiled. “I have a reservation; Dr. Arthur Springfield?”

“Let me check, sir.” The smartly dressed young woman tapped a few buttons on her keyboard. “Yes, I have it here. Will you still be staying with us through the weekend?”

“Yes. That’s my plan. I requested a special room.”

“Yes, sir?”

“My wife and I—we came to Nashville. We spent our honeymoon here, back in 1988. Elizabeth passed away last year and I ... I wanted to come on our anniversary and stay in the same room we shared back then. I asked the young lady when I called. She said she could get it for me; I don’t remember her name. She assured me.” He smiled a painful smile.

“I’m sorry to hear of your loss, Dr. Springfield. What was the room number?” The clerk appeared concerned about whether or not she was going to find the request honored in the hotel’s computer system.

“Room nineteen fifty-two. I remember, we laughed. The room number was her birth year. She decided it was a positive omen.”

The desk clerk smiled.

“We stood at the window, toasted our future and then watched the lights and the tourists downtown.” He dragged the back of his bent index finger across the corner of his eye.

“Here it is. I have a note. Yes sir, it is being held for you,” She confirmed.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, so much.”

“It’s my pleasure, sir.” She gestured to the bellman. “Okay, sir. I have room number nineteen fifty-two on the nineteenth floor. Here is your room key. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No. I think that will be it. Thank you for arranging the room. It means so much.”

“It’s our pleasure, sir. Please call the desk if there is anything else you need, and thank you for choosing The Rutherford.”

“Thank you,” he strained to look at her name tag and smiled, “Bonnie.”

“You are quite welcome. I hope you have a pleasant stay with us.”

Dr. Springfield turned to see the bellman placing his bags on a brass cart.

“Thank you. Please be careful with the golf clubs,” Springfield requested. He leaned closer to the bellman and whispered. “My game sucks enough already.”

The bellman smiled and patted the hard shell golf club case and said, “Yes sir. I’ll take good care of them.”

The two men shared pleasantries during the elevator ride. Once in his room, Dr. Springfield turned to the bellman and gave him a five dollar bill.

“Thank you, sir. Enjoy your stay.”

After tossing his jacket across the back of a club chair, Brad loosened his tie and laid the golf club case across the bed. He unlocked it and opened the latches. Pushing aside the partial set of clubs, he removed the long polymer case from amidst the graphite shafts. He opened the slim case and removed the telescope from the protective foam recess along side the rifle.

He pushed back the drape sheers enough to unlock the sliding window and pull it open the full four inches before it struck the steel bar. The bar was apparently in place to allow fresh air into the room, but prevent any distraught hotel customers from using the building as a launching pad for a nineteen-story Music City suicide.

He’d walked the south side of Broadway on Wednesday night in his cowboy hat, the western shirt that Julie gave him and his dancing boots, looking like any other curious tourist snapping photos of the downtown architecture. He was focusing on the view of the Rutherford Hotel from the entrances to the Kefauver Federal Building. The zoom lens on his digital SLR camera allowed him to select a group of rooms that would provide him the needed angle on all entrances the marshals might use to bring in Mullins for his deposition.

A late visit to the hotel along with a few hat-tips and ‘Howdys’ got Brad onto the elevator for a stroll down the upper level hallways confirming that even-numbered rooms offered windows facing the downtown action. Luck and a phone call last evening to a sentimental reservationist obtained him an acceptable room for his task.

He focused the eyepiece; certain now the distance to the target would be no more than three-hundred and sixty yards. It was less than half the accuracy range of Garrison’s generous gift.

“This should be simple,” he said to himself as he again lifted the telescope to his eye.

He was scanning the areas around the front and sides of the Federal Building when his cell phone vibrated on his belt. He pulled it from the holster and checked the display.

“Hmm. I wonder what
he
wants.”

“Hello.” Brad listened to the caller.

“What was he thinking?” Brad asked, rhetorically. He pulled the phone away from his ear to reduce the volume of the answer. “Okay. I understand. I’ll call you.”

Brad closed his cell phone and looked out the hotel window.

“Well, Jimmy Dan, I guess that was your reprieve. Whatever revenge you’d intended for TARPA—is now yours.” Brad grabbed his jacket and his bags and abandoned his original plan.

The Centurion Hotel

Nashville, Tennessee

Thursday Afternoon

The Centurion looked more like a hotel in Kurdistan than in Nashville. There were hundreds of visitors inside the building and milling about the grounds; the majority of which were of Middle Eastern heritage. Nashville was being honored as host of the Kurdish-American Conference and the Kurds’ celebration was on.

The growing Kurdish community in Nashville was a patriotic group; as proud of their new Tennessee home as they were of their homeland. Kurdish flags alternating with Old Glory and the Tri-Star Tennessee flag encircled the lobby and the hotel entrance. Outside, flags mounted every ten feet waved in the light breeze as they ran from the portico to the street welcoming the limousines and taxis arriving with their VIPs.

Many of the international visitors had arrived in advance so they might experience the Music City they had heard so much about. Local tourist venues were readied with their southern hospitality and pervasive country music.

The official registration and welcoming event for the two-day conference began in the hotel’s first floor Coliseum Room. Esteemed leaders from across the Middle East were mingling with heads of local and national groups, seeking common ground. It would not be long before the dignitaries would be invited into the seven thousand square foot ballroom for seating. Everything was ready.

The Centurion’s Event Manager, Teresa Maxwell, knew she had been a pain in the ass for the large kitchen and serving staff throughout the last few days. Juggling all the dining and social issues, while fending off irritated hotel employees and dodging police dogs, had served to heat up her blood pressure to just short of vaporizing.

All this seemed trivial at the moment compared to her current challenge: acting as the unofficial International Intercessor between the hotel’s audacious French chef and the quiet people from the odd little Middle Eastern restaurant chosen to prepare the traditional Kurdish meal for the conference.

Gerard De Lorme, the hotel’s head chef, was livid.

“Police dogs in my kitchen?” The Frenchman was about to blow a gasket. “I cannot endure this.”

“I understand, Gerard,” Teresa explained. “I feel the same way, but the police said they have to make a sweep of this floor once each hour and it’s almost time for the last one before the VIPs enter the ballroom.”

“Sweep my floor? My kitchen does not need to be swept.”

“No, Gerard,” Maxwell said. “They walk through looking for suspicious things like explosives or—or whatever else it is they sweep for.”

“Explosives?” Gerard’s eyes were the size of canapés. “The only thing about to explode in my kitchen is me.”

“Gerard, please. Try to understand. We have many very important people with us today. It is crucial they feel safe here, so they will want to return to Nashville and to The Centurion.”

With arms folded and a wrinkled brow, he looked down at the small woman. “Oh, all right,” Gerard let out a huge breath. “One more
sweep.”

He began to walk away, but turned back quickly to face her. “Isn’t it enough,” he said, “I have to tolerate these—these
—people
here in my kitchen?” He waved his arm like a king surveying his stainless-steel kingdom. “Was I not good enough to prepare the culinary fare for your VIPs?” He spat the letters.

“Gerard, we’ve been through this—”

He cut her off, throwing up his hand. “I have received over thirty awards for my creations. Is Gerard De Lorme no longer good enough for The Centurion?” He pointed his Gallic nose in the air and was still able to look down it at the mute event manager.

Maxwell knew it was pointless to elaborate further, and besides, she looked at her watch, she was supposed to be downstairs greeting the honored guests in five minutes. She wasn’t about to miss this.

“I have to go, Gerard. Everything will be okay. Trust me.” She turned, rolled her eyes and left before he had a chance to whine further.

She had not been gone ten minutes when one of the maintenance men, who was replacing light bulbs over the elevated speaker’s platform, swung his ladder and knocked over one of the large potted palms located near each end of the head table.

The maintenance man returned the plant to its position and attempted to clean up the mess, but with its fronds askew, it no longer matched the other palm. Another maintenance man joined him and they removed the plant from the ballroom, returning with another palm which appeared to match the one at the other end of the speaker’s table. Everything was back to normal.

“Where did you get that palm?” The head waiter asked as he approached the men.

“I saw it at the end of hallway outside. It matched that one,” the maintenance man said, shrugging his shoulders and pointing to the other palm.

The head waiter looked at both plants, and then back at the man. “Thank goodness Maxwell wasn’t here. We’d have to listen to another twenty-minute tirade on safety and why we should pay more attention to what’s going on around us.”

The maintenance men finished cleaning up the dirt, and were leaving the ballroom with their ladder as a young waiter, on his way to the beverage station, passed by them carrying a large tray of coffee cups and saucers.

The maintenance man clutching the back end of the ladder was distracted on his cell phone and almost collided with the waiter as he passed.

“Vernon. It’s me. Everything’s ready. Yeah. We’re out of here.” The maintenance man returned his phone to the pocket of his coveralls and shared a smile with his partner at the other end of the ladder.

Once the waiter arranged the clean cups at the beverage station, he retrieved a tray filled with dirty cups and silverware which had been used by the policemen and security teams. Balancing the tray on his shoulder, he started for the kitchen.

While working at the beverage station, the waiter caught the attention of Bart, one of the police dogs who silently sniffed the air stirred in the man’s wake. The K-9 tugged on his leash and attempted to follow the waiter. Officer Larry Parker responded to his partner and the two quietly closed on the waiter from the rear. As the dog came within a few feet of the man, he alerted Parker by sitting behind the waiter. The officer reached for the microphone attached to his epaulet, turned away from the waiter and quietly radioed for immediate backup.

Within seconds, six .40 caliber semi-automatic pistols were drawn and leveled at the waiter’s center mass.

“Freeze,” Parker shouted.

The waiter stopped. He slowly rotated his body with his tray still balanced in his left hand and steadied with his right. His eyes were enlarged, but he did not appear to be afraid.

“I said freeze!” Officer Parker’s voice boomed.

“Bart, guard.” Bart stood less than three feet from the waiter, flexed and ready.

Several other people within earshot stopped dead still upon hearing the officer’s command, not knowing for sure at whom it had been directed.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Parker said. “Do not move, and the dog won’t bite you.”

The waiter looked back and forth at the officers and the vigilant K-9. Acting as if he couldn’t understand Officer Parker’s command, he smiled and mumbled something in Arabic. Still balancing the tray with his left hand, he took his right hand from the edge of the tray and began to reach toward his left lapel nodding and saying, “Green card? Student visa?”

“Bart.”

In half an instant, the German Shepherd sprang from his guard position and locked onto the waiter’s wrist with vice-clamp jaws. One hundred and fifteen pounds of writhing aggression pulled the man’s arm down to the dog’s level and caused the tray and dishes to go airborne. Cups, saucers, and spoons bounced and broke as they crashed onto the floor and each other.

“Aaaah!” The waiter screamed as he tried to reach inside the same lapel with his other hand, but before he could do so, his left arm was hooked by the arm of Officer Gary Kirby. Both men and the dog slammed into the floor. Blood spurted from the man’s wrist as Bart’s large canine teeth ripped open his forearm.

“Twenty-one. I need Med-Com in the ballroom, now.” Lieutenant Brian Cole yelled into his mike and then again toward the entrance to the ballroom. Blood was squirting onto Bart, Officer Kirby and the floor. Back to his feet, Bart still had the waiter’s wrist in his teeth. Within a matter of seconds, eight hands secured the bleeding man and Bart was called off.

The waiter’s hands were pulled together, cuffed and held secure in front of him so pressure could be applied to the wounds and the blood flow controlled. Officer Wesley Stephens placed his knee in the waiter’s crotch and held the chain between the cuffs, so he could not move his hands from that position.