Garrett raised a hand as he came over, gesturing toward Frankie, who now sat on a stool half turned from the bar. She really did look fantastic in that dress.
“Your friend over there was at the funeral this morning. Would she like to join us?”
He’s fishing, Billy thought. Wants to know Frankie’s part in this. “You have guests. We’ll keep this simple.”
“Fine by me.” Garrett took a seat. “It just came to me that you were caught up in that mess last year with Buck Overton. You were partners with Lou Nevers. God, that was a shock. I never pegged Lou for . . .” He shook his head. “You left town, didn’t you? So you’re here in an unofficial capacity.”
He wondered why Garrett was working so hard to bust his balls. Could be a lawyer’s habit, or could be something else. “I’ve been on leave. I’ll be reinstated in a couple of days.” He placed the photos on the table between them. “I was curious what you might know about these.”
Garrett picked up the photos and shuffled through them. His hands slowed as he went along. After close consideration, he laid the stack on the table and settled into the depths of the booth.
“James Freeman thought you’d find the photographs interesting,” Billy said.
Garrett’s chin lifted. “I just left Freeman at the museum fund-raiser.”
“I wondered if you recognized anyone in these shots. Or if you have an opinion about why they were taken.”
Garrett regarded him, his features shadowed by the club’s blue lighting. “These were taken thirty feet from where you and I were standing yesterday.” He separated out two photos, laying them side by side at an angle so Billy could see them, shots of a woman and a man, both African Americans.
“The men behind the camera are law enforcement,” Garrett said. “I’d say FBI, but I’m sure you know that. The subjects are either informants or people who’ve been intimidated into giving information. Some of the people put in that position gave up trivial stuff to get the agents off their backs. Others were snitches, traitors to the cause, people who helped the FBI disrupt lives and destroy careers.” He waved a finger over one photo. “You can see the difference between those who were snitches and those who were coerced. This woman appears to be angry, but her body language says she’s frightened. The cops probably put her son in lockup as leverage. The man in this photo, you can see he’s checking the street for anyone who might be watching him. But he looks confident, almost chummy. He’s a paid informant.”
Garrett spread the stack over the table. “These were taken to blackmail informants in the event they ever tried to step out of line. Times were difficult back then, dangerous. The cops were nervous. Bad things happened to people who didn’t play along. The pictures were taken as insurance.”
“And do you recognize anyone?”
Garrett shrugged. “I was a kid. Most of these folks have passed. But my brother told me stories of FBI intimidation of the black community, how they tried to get people to spy on each other. Hoover created an atmosphere of paranoia. The agents felt they could lean on people to get whatever they wanted. They were good Americans, doing their job.”
“I heard what happened to Freeman’s Bar,” Billy said.
“My point exactly. The man killed himself.”
“You may know about Dahlia Poston. Augie believed his mother was caught up in the investigation after King’s assassination. She died under questionable circumstances. A fire.”
“I wasn’t aware of that.” Garrett grew still. “The Klan murdered my brother a year before Dr. King’s assassination. We never found his body.”
“I read your book. A compelling story.”
“Robert’s disappearance was front-page news in every major publication for two weeks. He gave a victim’s face to the atrocities in Mississippi.” Garrett’s eyes dimmed. “At least his death made a difference.” He touched the photos. “Are there more?”
“Why do you ask?” Billy wanted to avoid the subject of Augie stealing one of them.
Garrett nodded. “I have no interest in how you came by these photos, but I will ask that you donate them to the museum, all of them, if there are more. We have nothing like them in the collection. And please, if it works out, let me handle the transfer. An intern might not understand their importance.”
“I can’t promise, but I’ll try to make it happen.”
Laughter came from the private lounge, the voices of women in Garrett’s group cutting through the noise in the bar. Garrett glanced in that direction. “Well, my friend.” He braced both hands on the tabletop, preparing to stand.
“A manuscript was taken from Augie’s apartment the night he was murdered,” Billy said. “It concerns the civil rights era. I wondered if Augie told you about it or mentioned the author’s name.”
Garrett sat back down. “You think this person was involved in Augie’s murder?”
“Let’s say I’d like to have a conversation with him.”
“You’re well aware that Augie was in bad shape at the funeral home that day. We didn’t discuss books.”
Billy nodded, remembering Augie’s out-of-control behavior. “By the way, I wasn’t able to attend the funeral, but my friend said it was quite a send-off.”
Garrett rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately, I’m responsible for the costs until Augie’s estate is settled. He died intestate. His assets are frozen.”
They rose together and shook hands. “It’s been interesting, Detective. Here’s my card. My mobile number is on the back. When you’re ready to release those photos, please give me a call.”
Billy took the business card and stared down at it. A light clicked on in his brain. He kept his voice even. “You said Freeman was at the fund-raiser tonight. Did he mention having any plans afterward?”
“He was in the company of a beautiful woman. I’d say he has plans. When I left the museum I saw a light on in his office across the street.”
Billy glanced across the room at Frankie. She caught his eye and slipped off the bar stool. “Thanks for your time. I’ll get back to you about the photos for the museum.”
Frankie jostled through the crowd at the bar to meet Billy in the hallway entrance.
“From where I sat, Garrett was stunned by those photographs,” she said.
“They brought up memories of his brother’s disappearance. Otherwise, he didn’t add much to what we already know.” He pointed toward the door. “Right now I have to find James Freeman. I have a hunch to pursue.”
“Let’s go,” she said as they eased through people waiting to be seated. She had that scent-in-the-wind look cops get when they’re up for the chase.
“It’s better if you don’t come,” he said, moving ahead of her. “I’ll explain later.”
He walked to the door and realized she wasn’t behind him. He turned to see her glaring at him, not pouting—no way a cop like Frankie would pout—but her arms were crossed over her middle and her back was pressed against the wall. An older couple brushed past. The woman giggled, aware of a spat in progress. He walked back.
“You’re not leaving me out of this,” she said.
He moved in and spoke quietly. “I think I know a way to find the journalist. I’m going to need Freeman’s help to pull it off. It’s illegal, but it has to be done.”
“I didn’t just hear that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
He led the way down the outside stairs onto the sidewalk. They stepped into a stream of people who were out for the evening, the air smelling of smoked ribs and beer-soaked concrete. Two bike cops sat in front of the barricade at the head of the street, their eyes searching for pickpockets and D & Ds, drunk and disorderlies.
A breeze lifted the edges of Frankie’s hair like down on a baby duck’s back. It would be fun to hit a few clubs with her, hear some Memphis music. Maybe later, when all this was over.
He checked his watch. “I’ll have to find Freeman and convince him to cooperate. I’ll text if we’re successful. Tomorrow you and I will line up our next move.”
Her mouth twisted in dissatisfaction. “Text me no matter what.”
Before he could answer, a thick male voice called out from behind them. “Hey! Hey you!”
They turned to see a powerfully built black man standing next to a row of parked cars farther down South Second. He had the bill of his cap pulled down to shadow his face under the streetlight.
He waved them over. “Come ’ere. I gotta talk to you.”
Billy’s jaw tightened. Damned hucksters want to be paid to go away.
“Beat it,” he yelled.
The guy pointed at Frankie. “You, lady. You were at the funeral.”
Frankie squinted at the man, then whispered, “Second car back. Escalade with Louisiana plates. The engine’s running.”
The man flung his arms wide, stumbled back, and caught himself. “Where’s my bitch?” he slurred.
“That’s Cool Willy,” Frankie murmured. “He’s stinko.”
Billy waved and ambled forward in a loose gait. Willy wasn’t fooled. His street smarts kicked in. He bolted for the Escalade, threw himself behind the wheel, and slammed the door. Billy ran behind, smashing his fist into the tailgate as the Escalade squealed away.
“You got the plates?” he yelled to Frankie.
She held up her iPhone.
He walked back, fist aching. “That’s the guy we saw outside the squatter’s house. He may have been the one who jumped me in the alley.”
“How did he find us?”
“He followed you home from the funeral then here.”
“That’s creepy.”
He gestured toward the bike cops. “Ask one of them to call in the plates. If we’re lucky, he’ll be hauled in for a DUI before he goes underground.”
She took off.
He walked to the corner just as a full moon broke through the clouds. The door to B. B. King’s downstairs club swung open. The house band’s brass section was pushing out a sound like the Memphis Horns. It blasted into the night’s warm air.
Across the street, an officer leaned his elbow on the counter of an outside bar. He was talking to a big-bosomed lady bartender wearing a low-cut tank top. The cop had a can of Coke in his hand. He leaned his head back and drained it, then looked at the bartender, who laughed.
Billy’s mobile pinged with a text.
Three boxes arriving tomorrow. I’ve sent another package overnight.
Mercy
Billy stared at the text, the music and the full moon working on him. He waited for the pain to hit. Frankie walked up. He pocketed the phone.
“I’m heading to Freeman’s office,” he said.
“You sure you don’t want me along?”
He gave her a stern look. She raised a hand. “Got it, I got it. I’ll expect to hear from you.”