WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (4 page)

“Cannabis,” Burris shook his head.

“That was all we had, until Lou Nelson called us while we were wrapping up the fiasco with Gabriel Sanchez this morning. It looks like out of all of the bullshit calls to Crimestoppers since last night, there was one caller who wanted to meet with detectives to discuss what he saw.”

“Really?” Burris said.

“He asked if he could meet with us during his break. He works downtown. He said he’s the assistant manager for one of the tourist shops on lower Broadway.”

“I’ll expect an update from you two afterward.”

“You’ll have it,” Mike said.

The detectives stood and headed for their desks.

“Good morning,” Carol Spencer said, as she saw the partners.

“Hi, Carol,” Norm said, searching for a bare spot on his paper-covered desk.

“Hello, there.” Mike stopped to face Carol.

The thirty year-old MNPD crime scene photographer was delivering copies of photographs to the detectives’ desks. Her shoes had a military shine and her perfectly pressed criminalist uniform was dark navy blue like the patrol officers. According to Detective Neal, few of the female officers filled out theirs in quite the same manner as Carol. Mike often thought Carol’s ex-husband must have been blind and stupid.

“Do y’all have any of the photos back yet from the Sandstone Apartments shooting last night?” Mike asked.

“I don’t know,” Carol said. “That one wasn’t mine.”

“Yeah, I know. I didn’t see you there.”

“I’m headed back to the lab now. I’ll check and call you. Okay?” Carol smiled.

“Works for me.” Mike returned her smile and added a wink, then watched her walk away.

Carol was an aerobics nut, and the three classes she attended each week kept her body firm, flexible, and flab-free. She wore her thick brunette hair in a tight braid that dropped halfway down her back. Carol wore little make-up since she never knew what crime scene environment she would be thrust into next. She carried no more girly tools than necessary.

As she reached the door, she pushed it, then turned, glanced back at Mike and smiled. These two had been covertly nurturing their mutual attraction for several months. Captain Moretti’s Law kept the liaisons infrequent and undercover.

“There will be no intra-departmental fraternization allowed,” Moretti said. “Find your
amore
outside this department—
capisce?”

Mike dropped his eyes from Carol and turned away, trying not to be seen scrutinizing her ... exit. He opened and laid his folder on Detective Vega’s desk. He was about to sit when Norm spoke up.

“Uh, did you decide to change desks?”

“Huh? Oh,” Mike said. He scanned the desktop and picked up the folder. “I was uh, going for coffee. You want some?”

“Yeah—sure.” Norm chuckled and nodded his head. “Two creams and lots of,” he made a kissing sound, “sugar.”

New York City

Monday Mid Day

He paced the hardwood, and from the thirty-sixth floor of the rented New York City flat, Abdul Malik Kadir contemplated the movement of the minuscule masses below. As always, the infidels walked the streets comfortably oblivious to what was taking place around them.

Abdul maintained the small apartment as a base of operations in the United States. Even after the devastation of the towers, the presence of Arabs in this huge melting pot caused less alarm than in any other city. This was true, most especially with those Arabs who, like Abdul, spoke excellent English and were seldom seen out of a tailored Italian suit and crocodile shoes. Abdul’s gold Rolex offered an affluent touch that helped to sell his deception.

A well-heeled business professional in appearance, Abdul’s true nature was brutal and malicious. Trained in the terror camps of Afghanistan, the thirty-five-year-old Syrian was a lieutenant with pretentious aspirations. Farid al-Rishari was his sovereign; the ultimate fearless jihadist. Few had failed him, but only once.

The ashtray on the end table was filling with unfiltered attempts to calm Abdul’s anger. Enraged that his deadline was in jeopardy, Abdul could wait no longer. He was about to break one of his own security rules by placing a satellite phone call to Indonesia. He felt he had no choice.

Mahmoud Zahar was jeopardizing Farid’s plans as well as Allah’s will, and that was intolerable. If this mechanical engineer caused all the work that went into this operation to fail, Farid would be furious, and Mahmoud would be the one to pay the final price.

Abdul attached the encryption device to the satellite phone and placed the call. He listened as numerous tones established his connection and finally produced a ring. Abdul identified himself, and Mahmoud was called to the phone.

“Yes? This is Mahmoud.”

“What is wrong? Why has the device not arrived as I specified?” Abdul said, containing his rage.

Recognizing Abdul’s rant, Mahmoud answered, “We had difficulty. Completion of the unit was delayed.”

“Difficulty? I am not interested in your problems. I made it clear to you what was required. Do you not understand the significance of this plan?”

“I understand the plan. It took longer than we expected to perfect the mechanism.”

“You were given ten weeks to complete the project. You said you could—”

“I told you,” Mahmoud interrupted, raising his voice, “I could make you no promises. The apparatus took longer to develop than I expected. The metering valve seals failed to prevent release of the test material numerous times. I had to seek another solution.”

“You were chosen because of your advanced training and creativity as an engineer. Why do you insist on explaining failures?”

“We have developed our skills and found our voice with explosives,” Mahmoud said. “Who do you think wrote the manual used to prepare the October attacks in the Philippines, the consulate in Denpasar, and Bali?”

“It is true. The accomplishments of Jemaah Islamiyah are well-known,” Abdul acknowledged.

“Yet, we have never constructed a device such as this.”

“And, our people have never faced this mounting attempt at the destruction of Islam,” Abdul said. “As I stand here in the midst of our enemies,” he stopped at the oversized window, “I can hardly breathe. The Americans have begun to recruit our own and turn them against us. The Iraqis have grown weak under Hussein and now many are following the American invaders like underfed dogs.

“The American Senator Callahan is speaking at this conference. He is determined to guide the Kurds to sovereignty. Before Callahan and his advocates can use this conference to work the Kurds into fervor, they must be stopped. Our benefactors insist that we eliminate this attempt to form an American-driven satellite republic aimed at seizing control of northern Iraq’s oil resources. We cannot fail. Killing a room full of Kurds in the process will only underscore our commitment.”

“I know the battle well,” Mahmoud assured him. “Let us get back to the device. When you came to us, you demanded this apparatus contain no metallic components.”

“Yes,” Abdul said. “There will be much security and many metal detectors at this gathering.”

“The non-metal parts that were available to us in Asia were inadequate. Other solutions had to be explored. If my construction of this apparatus had been rushed and thrown together like other of your past plans, you and your group would be the first ones to die as the result. My delay was saving your ungrateful life.”

“Hold your tongue while you still have one, engineer.” Abdul was sensing a side of Mahmoud not yet revealed. He appeared less intimidated than before. Possibly, the ten thousand miles between them was feeding the engineer’s courage.

“We depleted all of our available options,” Mahmoud explained. “We had to order the new valves and seals from the United States. It took almost a week to locate them and get them to Indonesia. We completed the re-tests. The seals held. We shipped the package to the United States, March eighteenth on a cargo ship.”

“You did what?” Abdul exploded again. “Why did you not ship it via air freight so I would have it now?”

“The completed package cannot move via air due to its contents being under pressure. It is not able to withstand the temperature and pressure changes in the cargo hold of an airplane. Did you want it to explode over the Java Sea?”

There was only silence in response to Mahmoud’s rhetorical question.

“Your package will arrive at World Spice Company, outside Nashville in LaVergne, Tennessee.”

“Where? Why was it sent to this place?”

“Relax. Your lack of faith is disheartening.”

“Do not challenge my loyalty to Allah, EVER!” Abdul shouted.

“Like
your
cadre, we have people in place where we need them throughout the United States. We have a man at Long Beach harbor who has already verified the cargo ship’s arrival. We have an experienced man at World Spice Company who has confirmed the container is in transit, and he is awaiting your package. He will remove it from its secure storage within the container and contact you for delivery instructions.”

“What about customs? Are you sure it was not detected?”

There was silence on the phone line. Mahmoud decided not to criticize further Abdul’s incessant challenges.

“World Spice receives a container shipment of bulk spices from Asian Herbal Export on the fifteenth day of each month. They are one of the largest bulk spice shippers here in Jakarta. This monthly shipment has taken place for so long the customs inspectors in both Indonesia and Long Beach no longer give it a second look.”

“How do you know this?”

“I know this. That is all you have to know.” Mahmoud’s words were growing bolder. “You demanded delivery by the third week in April. Yes?”

“Yes,” admitted Abdul after an irritated pause.

“And you will have it on the night of the fifteenth, which meets your requirement. Now—my money?”

“After I receive the package,” Abdul said.

“No,” Mamoud said. “You will exchange the payment with the courier at the time the package is delivered to you.

“I do not have the payment with me.”

“Then I suggest you get it by tomorrow night if you expect delivery of your package.”

“Do not threaten me.”

“No threats. I am explaining to you the simple logistics involved in you obtaining what you want. Exchange the payment for the package at the time of delivery—or there will be no delivery. This is clear, is it not?”

Abdul was silent; his blood pressure was building. He was not accustomed to relinquishing control.

“I am sure,” Mahmoud said, “that a package as valuable as this would be useful to others with similar aims. Or, maybe I should contact Farid directly, to determine
his
desires for the package.”

Mahmoud waited. “I am sorry. You will have to speak up. I did not hear you.”

“So be it!” Abdul shouted. He killed the connection and threw the phone across the room.

10-7 Bar & Grill

Nashville, Tennessee

Monday Mid Day

The 10-7 Bar & Grill was a favorite spot for many of Music City’s men and women in blue. The tavern was owned and operated by Hubert “Hub” Teer, a retired twenty-two year veteran from the Patrol Division. Hub was shot in the ass, or lower back as he preferred to call it, in 1988 during a domestic call. He was forced by his injury to take disability retirement. Hub still walked with an exaggerated side-to-side limp that, along with his low-riding pot belly, made him resemble an Emperor penguin.

Known by the officers simply as Hub’s Place, the restaurant was located down the street from the Central Precinct on Broadway, less than two blocks from three of the city’s busiest entertainment and convention venues. This remodeled adult book store stayed busy feeding the masses year round. If it wasn’t packed with tourists, it was full of off-duty officers enjoying a well-deserved break.

Mike and Norm arrived early for their meeting, hoping to get a chance to visit a few minutes with Hub. Their work had kept them so busy; they hadn’t been in the place in months. Mike wondered how the jovial old cop was holding up. He missed hearing Hub’s embellished stories about the old days, back before Nashville “got screwed up by all these damn Yankees and aliens from all over creation,” as Hub claimed.

Mike parked in a space that was a block east of the restaurant. He knew both he and Norm could use the exercise; especially after one of Hub’s giant Steak ’n’ Cheese sandwiches.

“Smell it?” Norm asked as soon as he opened the cruiser door. “Man, now I’m about to starve.”

“You’re always about to starve,” Mike said. From the looks of you, it wouldn’t hurt you to fast for a few months.”

“Gimme a break,” Norm said as he drew in more of the aroma. “You can smell those onions and peppers all the way to the Titans stadium. How can anyone resist that?”

“Yeah, Hub was a genius putting in the little exhaust fan that pipes the kitchen aromas out onto Broadway.”

“Hey, buddy,” A tattered old man said, as he stumbled up to Norm. “You got any change?”

“Beat it, dude,” Norm said. “I’m working this side of the street.”

Mike laughed and shook his head. “Oh, that Milwaukee charm.”

Norm grinned and jerked open one of the ten-foot tall mahogany doors which welcomed patrons to the 10-7 Bar & Grill. The detectives moved from the bright sunshine into the shadowy tavern.

Once inside, they had to pause for their eyes to adjust to the cavernous atmosphere. The restaurant’s fifteen-foot ceiling was painted matte black to camouflage it along with the pipe and ductwork from a more recent time. The burgundy brick walls sported almost a century’s patina of experience.

Mounted on the brick at the rear of each booth, were a half-dozen thin black frames displaying glass covered photos of Nashville’s police force over the years. The city’s officers from years past were memorialized in photographs throughout the eatery. Most of the photos from the last three decades were in color. Some, like Hub and his tavern, reflecting their advanced age.