The black architectural awnings gave Freeman’s ordinary building a contemporary edge. A shopkeeper’s bell rang as Billy walked in. James Freeman was standing among empty desks with his back to the door, speaking with a young man and woman who were listening with rapt attention. Freeman turned at the sound of the bell, his smile shutting down as he recognized Billy. Freeman’s staff frowned at him from around Freeman’s back, then marched to offices at the rear of the building. Their doors closed, then the guy’s door popped back open. Billy figured he must appear to be a threat.
According to the County Register of Deeds, James Freeman Sr. had owned this building and had run a small neighborhood bar during the sixties. After his death, a drugstore with a lunch counter took over the property. Soon after, urban renewal rolled through and flattened most of the historic structures on Beale, creating a ghost town. The building stood empty until Freeman Jr. bought it and opened his real estate offices.
Apparently, Freeman had gone home to shower and change into jeans and a starched shirt. Only the bags under his eyes betrayed the trauma of discovering Augie’s battered body and the exhaustion he must be feeling from hours at the CJC, reliving every detail of the scene.
“How did you know I’d be here?” Freeman asked.
The only way to handle Freeman was by being direct. “I’m a cop. I know shit. I’m going after Augie’s killer. I need your help.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you hog-tied me to the oven door.”
“There was a dead body in the room. That’s the drill. And Dunsford—”
“I know. Dunsford is a sloppy cop.” Freeman looked off, looked back. “Why ask me for help when you think I killed Augie?”
“Because the ladies in your apartment backed your story.”
“You believe my lady friend and her sister? Just like that?”
“They have credibility. Linda Orsburn is the widow of the former Tennessee attorney general. Both women flew in from London last night. The sister says she watched TV all night. She reeled off the plot of every show on late-night HBO. Apparently, you snore, so she’s willing to swear to your location. The department will run background checks on both ladies, but for now Middlebrook is taking their word.”
Freeman folded his arms over his chest. “That’s right, I’m in the clear. What about you?”
He didn’t like Freeman turning the tables. “The DeVoy security videos show I arrived at seven forty-five this morning.”
“That may be true, but I can’t verify it. The cops confiscated the equipment. Where you were last night? All night.”
“Home alone.”
“Tell me again about the fight you had with Augie.”
“He hit his head. I tried to help him. He busted me in the chops and took off. That was the last time I saw him until this morning.”
“Augie told a different story. Now he’s dead. That’s suspicious as hell.”
Down the street, Big Jerry’s voice rang over the cheap mike. The tourists loved it, but the tinny sound was giving Billy a headache. And he didn’t like to be pushed.
“What happened between Augie and me was personal, so get off my ass. Let’s work together and find out who did this.”
Freeman laughed. “So now you’re the good guy, someone I can count on. That’s bullshit. I’ve been screwed by cops before, just like my dad.”
Augie pegged it. Freeman’s hatred of cops was tied to his father. A kid losing a parent makes him bitter. Billy understood that.
“I’m sorry about your dad, but that doesn’t make me a murderer.”
Freeman searched his face, shook his head. “I don’t know.” He walked to a vintage Coca-Cola machine next to the door, dropped in a dime, and pulled the lever. A petite bottle plopped behind the door. He snapped off the metal cap and took a swig. “Ice cold. Nothing better.” He dropped another dime into the machine and looked at Billy. “Buy you a Coke?”
“No thanks.”
Freeman pulled the lever, popped off the cap and offered it. “Go on. It’s been a rough day.”
The Coke was a gesture, a peace offering. They drank their Cokes and watched through the storefront window as tourists filed in and out of the museum across the street.
“As I was leaving Augie’s place, I saw two coffees and a bag of biscuits in the entry,” Freeman said. “You know about that?”
“I brought the coffee and biscuits.”
“I heard you calling out when I was in the back of the apartment. What were you saying?”
Billy looked over. “Where’s this going?”
“Just answer the question.”
His mind flashed to the opened door and the painting knocked off-kilter on the wall. He’d drawn his weapon. The image of Augie’s corpse flared in his mind.
“I yelled Augie’s name.”
“You yelled it three times.”
“I don’t recall.”
Freeman glanced over, then looked down, taking his time weighing the answers. “A smart cop might bring a cup of take-out coffee to the man he’d murdered as a way to cover his ass. But he wouldn’t stand around yelling the victim’s name if he thought he was alone. You didn’t know I was in the apartment. You were so surprised when I walked into the kitchen, you almost shot me. But what I remember most was the way you examined the body. Nobody can fake that kind of grief and outrage.
“Bottom line, take-out coffee doesn’t prove you’re not the killer. But it’s enough to make me step back for now.” He looked at his watch. “I have a meeting that starts in twenty-five minutes. If you came here to ask questions, you’d better get to it.”
Billy knew if he tried to bully Freeman he’d never get the straight of it. This was Freeman’s game for now. Twenty-five minutes. He took out his memo book.
“Did Dunsford question you about Augie’s eBay business?”
“Funny thing. He knew all about Augie’s memorabilia collection. He’s a NASCAR fan and bought slides off Augie’s site a couple of months ago.”
He made a note, surprised that Dunsford had an interest in collecting anything besides a paycheck.
“He asked if buyers came to the apartment,” Freeman added.
“Did they?”
“Not that I’ve seen, but I’m gone all day.”
“What else?”
“He asked how you and I know each other. I told him we’d met at Bardog a few days ago.”
Billy knew Dunsford was opening the door for questions later about a murder conspiracy, a good strategy on his part. He needed to remember that Dunsford might not be as dumb as he let on.
“Anything else?” he asked, and kept writing.
“The ME told Dunsford the goose egg on Augie’s forehead happened before the attack in his apartment. Dunsford wanted to know what I knew about it. That brought the fight between you and Augie into the conversation.”
“And you said . . .”
Freeman spread his hands in front of him. “Exactly what Augie told me. That you said, ‘This isn’t over.’”
Oh, shit. He had said that. In this context, it sounded like a threat, which would be hard to explain without going into the missing photo.
“I also told him Augie was planning to work on the manuscript this morning, and it’s now missing. He made notes, but he didn’t follow up.”
“What did you say about the journalist?”
Freeman shrugged. “Wasn’t much I could say.” A line rang on the desk. “That’s the client I’m meeting. I need to get it.” He picked up.
The break gave Billy time to jot down some notes about possible suspects.
I got business to handle. Augie had made that statement as his phone rang and he walked away. It was a critical point. The caller could have been a buyer, or it could’ve been the journalist or a drug dealer. Whoever it was, the caller’s number was recorded on Augie’s phone. If the caller was also the killer, he was organized enough to steal the phone in an attempt to conceal his identity. Same thing with the computer. But the manuscript had been stolen, too. A drug dealer wouldn’t give a damn about the manuscript, but a buyer might mistake it for a memoir and think it had market value. If the journalist was the killer, he would definitely have taken the manuscript.
He wrote “journalist” at the top of the list and circled it.
Any one of the three could’ve grabbed the watches and other things around the apartment, either to sell or to make the murder look like a burglary.
Next, he focused on Garrett’s drug theory. If the techs had found evidence of street drugs around Augie’s place, Dunsford would have questioned Freeman about it.
Freeman hung up. “We done here?”
“Not quite. Augie’s been really manic. I assumed he’d dropped off his meds. He’s done it before. Garrett had a different take. He brought up street drugs.”
“Where did that come from?”
“Garrett sees a lot of drug-related behavior at Robert House, so his opinion has some merit. Did Dunsford ask you if Augie was doing drugs?”
Freeman rubbed his jaw. “They had me look through mug shots for anyone who’d been hanging around the building. Maybe they were looking for dealers.” Freeman stared at the floor. “It doesn’t make sense. Augie hated drugs.”
“I didn’t buy it either until I thought about his obsession with his mother’s death. The antipsychotics made him foggy-headed. He might have added some combination of speed or meth for a boost. Augie was so wired last night, if a dealer showed up, they could have gotten crosswise.”
“I assume the medical examiner will test for drugs,” Freeman said. “That should put the question to rest.”
“A tox screen takes three to four weeks. Think hard. Did you notice evidence of drug use in Augie’s place? I’d like to rule the possibility in or out.”
“No drugs,” Freeman said and checked his watch. “We’re down to five minutes.”
Billy pulled out the stack of surveillance photos. “When you looked at these the other night, you knew they were taken on Beale Street.”
Freeman raised a hand. “Now you’re talking about Red and Little Man. I’m not getting into that. Garrett knows more about those times. His brother was a civil rights worker.”
“Augie stole one of the photos.”
“Can’t help you there,” Freeman said, stone-faced.
“Did he show it to you?”
“Tell you what. I’ll answer that question when you tell me the real reason you had a fight with Augie.”
“That’s not up for discussion.”
Freeman called over his shoulder to the back office. “Diana, pack up the topo and spread sheets on the Moser property.” He turned a professional smile on Billy. “You’re right, Detective. Time to move on.”
Billy shrugged. All right, you son of a bitch. I’ll give you the story.
He told Freeman about Augie making an ass of himself at the ballpark and taking a swing at the kid in the street. He gave every detail of the fight. It sounded so pool hall parking lot—the name-calling, broken bottles, a friend busting up a friend over nothing. He felt ashamed just talking about it.
“I told Augie he’d be banned from the ballpark. I called him a waste of skin.”
Freeman’s eyebrows went up. “That’s cold.”
“It’s the reason I went to his place this morning. I wanted to check on him and apologize.”
“And get the photo.”
“Right. Where is it?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“Damn it, Freeman.”
“What can I say? Augie told me about the photo. He knew you’d figure out he’d taken it.” He looked at Billy full on. “Did you go to Augie’s place last night?”
“No. And the security tapes will prove that.”
Freeman grunted, stared at the ceiling, thinking. “Which entrance did you come in this morning?”
“The lobby. Why?”
“What about the back entrance?”
“What’s the difference? You have cameras on both.”
Freeman nodded as if he’d made a decision. “We both know Dunsford isn’t smart enough to catch this bastard.”
“Not unless the guy walks into the station house and confesses.”
“I’ll work with you, but I won’t trust you.”
“Not very flattering, but I’ll go with it.”
“Diana,” Freeman yelled. “Cancel that appointment.” He waved at a chair beside the desk. “Have a seat, Detective. I’m going to give you something. It may be true, or it may not. But I don’t think you’ll hear it anywhere else.”