Billy pulled another book, Hampton Sides’s Hellhound on His Trail, held it by the covers, and shook it. A card fell out. He picked it up, read it, and handed it to Freeman. Freeman ran his thumb over the raised symbol at the top of the card.
“That’s an embossed press corps emblem,” Billy said. “It’s not so obvious. A reporter can hand a card like that to a possible source without spooking them.”
“‘Walker Pryce,’” Freeman said, reading the name out loud. He flipped the card over and flipped it back. “That’s a Chicago area code on the front. There’s another number on the back.”
Using his mobile, Billy Googled Walker Pryce and Chicago then scrolled down. “Walker Pryce had a byline at the Tribune a few years ago. He wrote a book on politics, journalism, and corruption. This has to be the guy.”
“Call the number,” Freeman said.
“It’s too soon.” He did a reverse phone lookup and got a Memphis address.
“I want to get my hands on that leech,” Freeman said.
“You’re leaving town tomorrow, remember?”
Freeman’s expression flattened. “It took me six months to get that meeting.”
“I’ll handle this guy.” Billy locked in the address and glanced around. “We found Pryce, but the photo’s not here.”
“Augie told me he had it.”
“Did he show it to you?”
Freeman flexed his hands. “No.”
“What the hell are you saying?”
“I ran into Augie the other night at Bardog. He was telling me about the photos when you walked in. He got so excited, he went into the bathroom to calm down. He came out with a plan to convince you to let me see the pictures.”
Billy recalled Augie’s buddy-buddy exuberance and how he’d pushed to show them to Freeman. “You were such a jerk,” he said.
“I know. I was looking at a picture of the man who caused my father’s death. I signaled to Augie that Grant was in the pictures. I was angry all over again about my dad. I was ready to punch somebody. You were my first choice.”
“Did you point out a specific picture to Augie?”
“Not specific.”
“Do you know which photo Augie took?”
“I never saw it. He offered to make a copy for me, but I didn’t want it. I think he took it to Pryce.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“It’s an assumption. Augie ran his tail all over town to help that guy. Those photos are gold to someone writing about civil rights. Maybe Pryce has the original.”
“I met with Garrett tonight. He gave me some historical context, but his real focus was on acquiring the photos for the museum. Pryce and Garrett have the same interest.”
“Where does that leave you?”
He didn’t answer. He sensed something underneath all this, an undersmell. So far he’d been the only one aware of it. If he opened up, told Freeman about Red and Little Man, there was no guarantee Freeman wouldn’t run to Dunsford with the information. But there wasn’t much choice.
“I’m thinking Augie’s murder is connected to Red’s and Little Man’s deaths.”
Freeman nodded. “How?”
“Red bought Grant’s jacket. Little Man died. Red blamed the jacket, but he was talking about the photographs. then Red died.”
“I thought Red died of a heart attack.”
“I’m sure he did. Somebody scared the shit out of him.”
“You’re saying Davis and Lacy were murdered?”
“Their deaths are somehow tied to the photos. Augie had a photograph. Now he’s dead too, and the photograph is missing.”
“Have you got the rest of the photos with you?” Freeman asked.
“Oh. So now you’re interested.”
“Shut up. Give me the pictures,” Freeman said.
Billy handed them over. Freeman started through them.
“What are you looking for?” Billy asked.
“I don’t know. I was so angry when we were at Bardog, I wasn’t paying close enough attention.” Freeman pulled out photos of two women. “Here’s something. Dad told me these ladies were feeding lies to the cops to make a little cash on the side.”
“Counterintelligence. No harm done.”
Freeman shuffled through more and stopped. “This can’t be right.” He turned the picture for Billy to see.
A young black man with a heavy jaw and wearing a wide-brimmed hat with a conical crown was deep in conversation with Grant. The young man was listening, head inclined, shoulders relaxed. Grant had one hand up, making a point.
“I saw that one,” Billy said. “An interior shot. No shadows from the sun.”
“It’s Calvin Carter. There’s one of him at the museum standing beside a woodie station wagon. I recognize the face and the hat. You’re telling me Garrett saw this picture and didn’t ID Carter?”
“I asked if he recognized anyone. He said everyone in the photos was probably dead. Then he jumped into the story about his brother.”
“That’s Garrett. Hell of a player. No way he wouldn’t recognize Carter.” He handed back the stack. “Maybe Carter was pulling the agent’s leg for a little cash the way the ladies were. He had eight kids. That’s a lot of mouths to feed.”
“But why didn’t Garrett point him out? He made a play for me donating the photos to the museum. He emphasized all the photos.”
Freeman laughed. “That son of a bitch is worried there might be more shots of Carter. Even a hint that Carter was an informant could dry up funding for the museum. Did Garrett know Augie had one of the photos?”
“I didn’t tell him, and I don’t think Augie would have brought it up.”
Freeman shook his head.
“This may be important, or it may be a distraction,” Billy said.
“What are you going to do?”
“Deal with it later. Right now I’m going after Pryce.”
Walker Pryce’s address took Billy south along the river toward an industrial section recently rezoned for residential use. A California developer bought the property, knocked down the old brick and tin warehouses that were once used to store cotton bales, and stripped the five-acre site of both plant life and history. After the developer went bust, the work had stopped, and the project went into receivership.
He drove past the stone posts at the subdivision’s entrance marked WATERS TRACE. The city had installed the required curbs, but the building lots were devoid of construction, nothing but raw dirt and weeds. Had Pryce falsified his address?
The only structure in the desolate space was at the center of the property. By moonlight, he read the sign in the front yard: MODEL HOME/SALES OFFICE. It was a white clapboard house with tall green shutters and a porch flanked by narrow columns. A light burned in a window to the left of the front door. In the driveway sat what looked like a brand-new red Porsche Boxster—sixty thousand on the hoof.
Billy pulled to the curb thirty yards short of the house, killed his lights, and sent a text to Frankie.
Success. Found journalist’s name. Walker Pryce, from
Chicago. Please run NCIC. Send results ASAP. THNX.
Pryce had enough money to drive a new Porsche. Could be he’d received a big advance on the book. Could be he was a trust-fund baby. The idea that the money for the car had come from Augie made Billy’s blood run hot.
He’d like to knock on the door and punch this guy Pryce in the mouth, but even a conversation with him would be a mistake. He had no authority to question Pryce. He’d have to lie to get his foot in the door. Pryce was no idiot, which made this a one-shot deal.
Frankie would check Pryce for a criminal history and outstanding warrants. He’d go home and do his own research. Tomorrow, he’d show up at Pryce’s house with some excuse to look around for evidence. Then he’d start with the questions. It wouldn’t take long for Pryce to figure out he was being looked at for Augie’s murder, but in the meantime, something interesting might come up.
The meeting had to happen in the morning. By tomorrow afternoon, Dunsford would have Augie’s phone records and Pryce’s number. If Pryce showed up for an interview with Dunsford, he’d most likely bring a lawyer who would shut things down five minutes into the conversation. Dunsford would then switch his focus back where he wanted it in the first place—on Billy.
He drove home along the banks of the Mississippi, the river running dark and unknown beside him. At the barge he threw his keys in the bowl on the counter, cracked a longneck Bud, and listened to the vibrations coming from the tracks across the road. The rails rattled under the weight of the freight cars, a grinding, booming sound.
He drank some beer and thought about the way he should handle Pryce. He was on leave, so the restraints of standard procedure didn’t apply. Nine months was a long time to be away. He wondered if the lack of oversight had changed him. The memory of Augie’s crime scene burned constantly in his mind. That had certainly changed him. So had Red Davis’s terrorized face. If anything else had changed, it was his disappointment in the people he’d cared for the most. Mercy had only been the most recent.
As he settled his computer on his lap and typed “Walker Pryce” into search, the deep, broad wail of the passing train took hold.