I’ve never been one for going with the flow. My experience has been that going with the flow usually results in a trip over the waterfall. And the rocks below aren’t much of a cushion.
But it occurred to me that in this case, going with the flow might not be such a bad idea. There are just about a million people in greater Nashville, and right now a good three-quarters of them think I killed R. J. Reed. A growing number no doubt figure I killed a sweet little old lady.
So be it. If it’s low-life scum they want, then it’s low-life scum they’ll get.
“You’re crazy,” Lonnie said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as I gave him the abridged version. “It’ll never work.”
“Look, Sykes must figure he’s gotten away with it now. If that picture changes, he’ll get desperate.”
“Yeah, desperate enough to shoot your ass.”
“That’s where you come in.”
He pulled up his jeans and zipped them, then leaned over to pull on a dirty pair of boots. “Why don’t you go to the cops with this? Make it easy on yourself.”
“You know how much credibility I have with the Williamson County Sheriff’s Department.”
He grunted as he yanked the boot over his foot, then fell back on the bed, breathing hard. “Christ, Harry, I was up all night and just woke up from a whopping four hours of sleep. Give me a chance here.”
“You get dressed and pull yourself together,” I ordered. “I’ll make a pot of coffee.”
He squinted through crusty eyelashes and lifted his upper lip to expose the right canine. “You don’t need any more coffee.”
I walked into the trailer’s tiny kitchen. There was barely enough room to turn around. I scrubbed out the coffeepot, dug around in cabinets until I found a can of Maxwell House, and set up the coffeemaker. I poured water into the machine, then stood there tapping my feet.
“C’mon, damn it,” I muttered. “Let’s go.”
Lonnie was right; I didn’t need any more coffee.
I heard water running in the bathroom and the sounds of spitting and gargling. I picked up the cordless phone and dialed Marsha’s number. It rang four times. The machine picked up. I let the outgoing message run its course.
“Hi,” I said, suddenly tongue-tied. “Uh, it’s me. I just wanted to see if you were okay. I mean, I heard the news this morning and I’m really sorry.”
The only thing I heard was a faint buzzing in the phone line. If she was there, she wasn’t picking up. I held the phone out, hit the button to disconnect.
“What news?”
I turned. Lonnie was standing in the door frame, dressed, combed, and washed. He still had the three-day stubble, though, but on him it didn’t look bad.
“They had a massacre down at the ME’s office. Krohlmeyer resigned. Everybody else was fired.”
“Doc Marsha fired?”
I nodded my head.
“Heavy-duty,” he said. “Guess this means the vultures can circle and pick the bones clean.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I wish we could privatize the politicians, then lay their asses off. You talk to her?”
“No, I’ve tried about a dozen times already. The line’s either busy or I get the machine.”
Lonnie poured a cup of coffee, raised it to his lips, and took a careful sip. “Think she’s screening her calls?”
I glared at him. “Can we talk about something else?”
He raised a palm. “Okay, backing off, effendi.… Now, how are you going to pull this little gem of a scam off?”
I poured a cup of coffee, adding sugar and a dollop of milk that was just short of lumpy as I spoke.
“I figure I’ll call Sykes, let him know what I’ve got. If he wants to buy it back, it’ll cost him. We’ll meet somewhere for the transfer. Can you wire me?”
“Sure, no problem. How much are you going to demand?”
I took a small sip of the coffee. It went down, hit my stomach with a whomp, and proceeded to go straight to my brain. Nothing like a caffeine rush on top of an exhaustion high to get the synapses firing.
“It’ll have to be high enough to convince him I’m serious, but low enough that he won’t decide it’s easier to take a chance and—”
I hesitated.
“Shoot you before I can blow the bugle and come riding over the hill?” Lonnie asked.
“Something like that.”
“What makes you think the guy’ll even take your call? The last time you guys talked, it didn’t exactly go too well.”
I studied that one for a few seconds, then it hit me. “I’ll use the files. I don’t know how yet. But there’s got to be a way to get his attention.”
Lonnie swirled the remains of his coffee around in the cup. “So,” he said, “when you going to do it?”
I started wondering if I could pull it off; all the coffee and Foster’s and the cardboard health-food cereal suddenly coagulated into one solid bowling ball right in the pit of my gut.
“Oh, hell,” I said after a moment. “No time like the present.”
Lonnie reached over, grabbed the cordless off the counter, and handed it to me.
“Okay, big guy,” he said. “Showtime.”
“Phone book?” I asked.
He opened a drawer under the counter and pulled out a greasy yellow pages. I looked up Spearhead Press, dialed the number.
“Hello,” the computerized voice said. “Welcome to Spearhead Press.…”
I rolled my eyes. “Voice mail,” I whispered.
He laughed. “You don’t have to whisper, dumbass. It can’t hear you.”
I listened to my menu options for what seemed like a day and a half, finally punched 0 for the operator. The switchboard rang about ten times before a human voice answered.
“Mr. Sykes’s office,” I said.
“Please hold.”
I cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. “I hate telephones,” I said.
“And Nashville drivers and politicians and idiots,” Lonnie said. “You’re becoming a curmudgeon in your old age.”
“Damn straight,” I said.
“Mr. Sykes’s office,” the young voice of Sykes’s pretty receptionist said.
“Hi, Mr. Sykes, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
I was afraid she’d ask that. “This is Harry Denton.”
“Oh,” she said. “Please hold.”
I shifted my weight, leaned my hips against the counter, and drummed my fingers on the countertop. Finally she came back on.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sykes is in a meeting.”
“It’s important,” I said. “Is there any way to interrupt him for just a moment?”
“No, I’m sorry, that’s quite impossible.” The bright, cheerful, courteous facade was fragmenting.
“Now, look, I have to get a message to—”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she interrupted, “but Mr. Sykes has said he will not speak to you under any circumstances and that it’s quite inappropriate for you even to be calling him.”
My face reddened. “You give him this message,” I warned. “Or you’re going to be in a lot of trouble. Not with me. With your boss. Understand?”
“Oh, all right,” she said, disgusted. “What’s the message?”
“Have him call me at this number immediately,” I said. I looked at Lonnie, mouthed the word “Okay?” He nodded. I rattled off the number.
“And here’s the message. Two words: Harvest Moon. You got that?”
“Yes,” she said. “But I don’t understand what it means.”
“He will. You just give him the message.”
“Yes, but I don’t think he’ll—”
I hit the disconnect button to cut her off. We’d see how good she was at following directions.
Lonnie was grinning when I turned to him. “You’re faster on your feet than I gave you credit for.”
I smiled back. That was high praise coming from him.
“I’m gonna take a crap,” he said.
I reached for the coffeepot. “Thanks for sharing that with me. It was an—authentic—moment.”
Thirty seconds later the phone rang.
“Yeah.”
There was silence on the line for a few seconds, then a voice that was lower and more intense than the last time I heard it.
“What do you want?”
“Think of this as a sales call.”
“So what are you selling?”
“I have some files you may be interested in. Some files you might not want other people to see.”
“What makes you think I give a damn about what files you’ve got?”
“Maybe you don’t give a damn,” I said. “But the Williamson County Sheriff’s Department might.”
The voice snorted, a guttural, mean sound of derision and scorn. “I care even less about them than I do about you.”
“Bad decision,” I said. “Because these files provide the one thing the cops need to figure out who killed Reed.”
“Yes, and what is that?”
“Motive.”
The phone was silent for what seemed a long time. Somebody told me once that in a sales call you make your presentation, then you shut the hell up. The next one to speak loses.
“What motive,” Sykes asked finally, “can be found in a bunch of paperwork?”
I smiled. “Well, let’s see. One file is labeled Sirius Corporation and another’s labeled Harvest Moon.”
“Meaningless names,” he said. “Just words.”
“Interesting comment from a man who makes his living publishing words.”
“The words I publish mean something. Yours mean nothing.”
“How about the file with the contract to Reed’s next book, outlining how you and Webber gave him a piece of the company to keep him. Oh, and don’t let me forget, there’s the other file that contains a lengthy agreement describing how Reed and Webber were going to transfer their shares to the Harvest Moon Corporation by way of the Sirius Corporation.”
“Why would anyone want to go to that much trouble?”
“To hide the fact that Reed and Webber were conspiring to take over the company and boot you out.”
More silence. Then Sykes again: “You have an active imagination, my friend. There are several ways to handle that kind of imagination.”
“Let me suggest the cheapest and easiest. The files are for sale. Thanks to the cops’ ineptitude in deciding I killed Reed, not to mention a couple of other unfortunate circumstances, my reputation in this town is shot. I couldn’t buy my way out of traffic court. I’m leaving Music City, leaving it for good, and I need a grubstake.”
“So tell me, how big a grubstake are you looking at?”
“I have eight files, but only five of them provide a motive for Reed’s murder. So let’s say ten grand apiece, in small, unmarked nonsequential bills. And I’ll throw in the other three as lagniappe.”
“You’re not only a murderer, you’re a blackmailer as well,” Sykes said.
“Ah, ah, ah—” I warned. “Sticks and stones …”
“Where can we”—he hesitated—“consummate this arrangement?”
Interesting turn of phrase, I thought. I wondered if he realized I didn’t have any intention of getting consummated on this one.
“They say the murderer always returns to the scene of the crime,” I said. “Why don’t we meet in Reed’s backyard, say at ten tonight? That way at least one of us will prove the adage true.”
“My wife and I have a dinner party,” he said. “But I guess I can arrange to leave early.”
“Black tie?” I asked.
“What difference does that make?” he demanded.
“Just wondering if I should wear my tux.”
“No, it will be quite casual.”
“Good, you know the code for the gate?”
“I’ve been to R.J.’s many times,” he said.
“Yeah, I’ll bet. See you then. And Karl?”
“Yes.”
“This is a solo gig. Make sure you come alone.”
“I should say the same to you.”
“Not to worry, babe,” I said brightly, as if arranging a lunch date. “Ciao.”
Sykes slammed the phone down so hard it hurt my ear. I turned. Lonnie stood in the doorway, yawning and scratching himself.
“We on?”
“Yeah,” I said. “We’re on.”