The coming storm whipped trash across Billy’s feet. He heard the snap of the ballpark flags. He smelled the packing clay of the pitcher’s mound under his cleats. Augie stood a couple of feet away in a Redbirds’ uniform and catcher’s gear. He passed a ball back and forth between his hands, his eyes straying toward home plate where a batter stood. Billy looked down. He had a pitcher’s glove on his hand.
“How you want to handle this guy?” Augie asked, expectation on his young rookie’s face. He wiped his brow with his sleeve. A red line opened above his brow bone. Blood spilled into his eyes.
Lightning struck the field.
Billy jerked awake. He pulled himself upright on the sofa and scrubbed his face with his hands. What if Augie had gone home the other night to meet with Pryce? What if the questions Billy raised about Pryce scamming Augie had gotten Augie killed?
It was morning. He stumbled into the kitchen. The sun through the porthole made a perfect circle of light on the counter. He opened the refrigerator door, not seeing food, only remembering Augie’s face in his dream. He poured orange juice and made coffee to pull himself together. Frankie’s check into the NCIC database had arrived last night. It produced no criminal record on Pryce, not even a parking ticket. He thought through his own research into Pryce’s Chicago career: discovery of contaminated food served in school lunch programs, the exposure of two pharmacies that were cutting dosages on patients’ meds to increase profits, four Cook County Sheriff’s Department deputies who had successfully robbed banks while working the CSI unit. Pryce had caught a bullet in the shoulder for that one.
Billy showered and shaved, puzzling over what happened next to Pryce. He’d written a three-part series on a candidate running for the governorship of Illinois. A week after the first article came out, Pryce resigned, and the paper retracted the article. After that, Pryce was either shunned by the industry or got caught up in the mass downsizing of print media, because his byline never appeared in another major publication.
His self-published book blasted crony capitalism and corporations that owned print media while they were in bed with state politicians. Pryce didn’t name his former employer or the elected governor, but Illinois readers would know. Publishers Weekly reviewed the book. It won critical acclaim.
Sales were nonexistent. Pryce had fallen off the payroll grid. No income equals desperation.
Billy read through the Commercial Appeal’s online crime report to find out if media relations had managed to keep a lid on the details of Augie’s case. First, he wanted to know what Pryce might have learned about the murder by reading the paper. Second, he wanted to know if he’d been named a suspect.
Notorious investigations leak like rotten hoses. If his name appeared on Dunsford’s confidential suspects list, it would eventually get out to the press. The department would pay hell walking back his reputation, guilty or not. Articles that appear above the fold, accurate or not, break careers. He was surprised to realize he would do anything to stop that from happening. Whatever it took.
The only article covering the investigation gave few details. He was relieved.
He ate toast. Drank coffee. Just after eight, he called Pryce.
The voice that answered sounded abrupt. “Pryce.”
“Walker Pryce?” he asked.
“Who is this?”
“Billy Able. I was a friend of Augie Poston. I understand you were, too.”
“Your name is familiar.”
What had Augie told this guy? Give an investigative reporter your name, and he’ll have your shoe size in ten minutes. “You know Augie died two days ago.”
“Yeah. He was murdered.”
“I want to come by and talk with you about the manuscript the two of you were putting together.”
Pryce paused. “How did you get this number?”
“Augie gave it to me.”
Silence.
“You there?” Billy asked.
“When do you want to come?”
“How about twenty minutes?”
The development looked even more desolate than it had last night. Billy cruised up to the house expecting to see the Porsche. Instead, the grille of a black tow truck faced out of the driveway. The name “Bob’s Recovery and Towing Service” was written in curlicue script on the driver’s door. A guy in his late twenties stood off to the side with a mug of coffee in his hand, watching the truck driver hook a cable to the Porsche’s frame. Walker Pryce was tall and fit, with shaggy blond hair and the kind of boyish features everyone loves to give in to. He exuded entitlement, the kind that comes from a solid start with two parents who are willing to spring for the best of everything for their kids.
Billy pulled to the curb. He was familiar with Bob’s Recovery and Towing. They did the majority of the repo work in town, not the tow work for the top-end Porsche dealership in the city. He walked up the drive.
Walker Pryce extended his hand. They shook and stepped back to watch the driver winch the Porsche onto the tilted flatbed.
“Beautiful car,” Billy said.
Pryce glanced over with a grin. “My dreams got bigger than my wallet.”
Billy nodded. You mean your meal ticket died.
They watched the truck pull out of the drive with the Porsche riding piggyback. Then they headed into the house.
He scanned Pryce from behind for a weapon although his jeans and shirt were cut too close to hide much. Even though Pryce looked more like an out-of-work actor than a guy who spent weekends on the firing range, if he was Augie’s killer, another victim would be that much easier to take down.
They walked into a living room with a cluttered desk, a wall covered in sticky notes, and binders stacked from floor to ceiling. The house showed well with polished wood floors and stone countertops, but the general construction of the place felt slipshod.
“Great place,” Billy said. “How did you end up living in a model home?”
“The developer set me up. My presence keeps their insurance costs low.”
Every light in the place burned, and the air was running full blast. He suspected Pryce wasn’t responsible for the utility bill.
“I’m thinking about buying a condo downtown,” he said. “I hadn’t considered a house. Mind if I look around?”
“Go ahead.” Pryce settled on a bar stool next to the kitchen island. Billy wandered around but kept his eye on Pryce.
Freeman had provided a list of items stolen from the apartment: the watches; laptop and phone; rare photographs of blues musicians; candid shots of Dr. King, Medgar Evers, and Robert Garrett, all martyrs to the civil rights cause. Augie’s two autographed World Series baseballs had been taken from the bookshelves, also two blues harmonicas, one belonging to Little Walter and the other to Sonny Boy Williamson.
Any of those items left in plain sight would be picked up with a warrant search. That would be incredibly easy. But after reading Pryce’s background and having met him, he didn’t think the journalist would make that kind of mistake.
He stopped at a partially opened doorway and glanced in Pryce’s direction. “Bedroom?”
“Be my guest.”
The room was bare except for a bed and a chair in the corner with a standing lamp. He noticed a pair of platform heels tucked beneath the chair. Apparently, he had a girlfriend who sometimes stayed over.
He returned to the kitchen. Pryce sipped coffee, his voice casual. “Remind me of the purpose of your visit.”
“I want to talk about Augie. I can’t get my mind around someone having reason to kill him.” He shook his head as if bewildered. It wasn’t a question; it was an opened door. Whatever Pryce said, he could then respond, and they’d have a dialogue going.
“Augie had his demons. His mother’s murder haunted him,” Pryce said.
“I thought it was an accident.”
“As a journalist, I’m allowed to speculate about a case. But we’ll never know the truth, will we?” Pryce went to the sink to dump his coffee and rinse the cup. “You wanted to discuss the manuscript,” he said over his shoulder.
“Augie paid you to look into his mother’s death. Your manuscript is all the better for the research and, from the looks of your car selection, you were thriving with Augie’s support. His estate should be reimbursed from the royalties. I’m sure the two of you got something about that on paper.”
“My financial arrangement with Augie is none of your business. Anything else?”
“You’re aware that whoever murdered Augie stole his copy of your manuscript?”
Pryce returned to the bar stool next to the island. “I couldn’t know the manuscript was stolen unless I was the murderer. But then you’re not here to talk about money, are you?”
Billy noted his change in tone. The house suddenly felt isolated, surrounded by so much empty acreage. He wondered whether Pryce might try something. “I wanted to run a scenario by you, see if it has merit.”
“All right.” Pryce rested his chin on his fist. “Shoot.”
“Let’s say Augie asked you to come by on Monday night. You showed up. He lowered the boom, said he was dropping you from the payroll. Things got heated. Augie turned aggressive. You were afraid for your life. You hit him. Then you panicked. You decided to grab stuff, make it look like a robbery. On the way out the door, you saw your manuscript. Couldn’t leave that, now could you?”
Pryce didn’t flinch. “I’ll do you the favor of addressing you as Detective. However, my source at the CJC says you have no authority to question me, particularly now that you’re the primary suspect in this investigation. I’ll admit the scenario you posed is something Detective Dunsford might consider. Therefore, I’ll be contacting my attorney before Dunsford contacts me.” Pryce gave him a look that conveyed, Your move.
Pryce was threatening to lawyer up, the exact mistake Billy predicted Dunsford would make.
Pryce straightened off the counter and continued. “I have a scenario for you. There’s a furloughed cop who had a very public fight with the victim the night he was murdered. According to the cop’s statement, the victim walked away. Let’s say the cop followed the victim to his apartment. The victim died. To get out from under suspicion, the cop shows up at the house of the next-best suspect a couple of days later. The cop kills the poor bastard and plants evidence he took from the first victim’s apartment. The cop claims self-defense was the reason for the homicide. Naturally, the cop’s buddies at the station house will want to believe him.”
Billy barked a laugh. “You must not be too worried. You let me in the door.”
“I’m not the one carrying a weapon.”
The pretty-boy act was gone. Billy was now seeing the man who’d brought down four sheriff’s deputies.
“Change of subject,” Pryce said. “I got a call from Augie on Monday. He was enthusiastic about a pack of photos a friend had found in a jacket. He wanted to come by and show me one of the photos.”
“Do you have it?”
“Augie kept the original. I have a copy.”
“It’s evidence in another investigation. Go get it.”
Pryce threw back his head in a false laugh. “We both know copies aren’t admissible in court.”
He felt the heat rise in his face. “It’s evidence. Go . . . get . . . it.”
“You want a look at that photo? I need proof you’re the person who has the rest.”
Now he understood. Pryce was so eager to see those photos he’d risked letting a possible killer in the door. Unless he was the killer and therefore knew Billy was no threat.
“Dunsford will fumble around and waste time, but eventually he’ll clear me,” Pryce said. “We can make a deal now. I’ll give you my alibi and turn over the copy of Augie’s photo in exchange for copies of the other pictures.”
“I can’t agree to anything based on an unverified alibi.”
“You’re worried about my alibi? I know about the glitch in the DeVoy’s security system. You don’t have an alibi. Dunsford will get Augie’s phone records today. I’ll be his first call. After that, our deal’s off.”
Good God, he thought. How did this guy know about the dummy cameras? And he was right. Once Dunsford called, any contact between Pryce and him—discussing case details or swapping evidence like the photos—would be considered working at cross-purposes with the investigation. Pryce was in the clear for now, but with this interview, Billy was already skirting the line.
“Where were you Monday night?” he asked.
“A club. I was there until three in the morning. Plenty of witnesses will back me up.”
“The club’s name?”
Pryce shook his head. “You said the photos are connected to an investigation. I need proof they’re not locked up in the evidence room.”
“We’ll get to that after I contact your witnesses.”
“Then we’re dead out of the gate.” Pryce looked at his watch. “We have to wrap this up.”
The entire conversation had been about Pryce’s obsession with the photographs. No sorrow, no grief over Augie. No questions. Pryce’s avoidance was either guilt, or a measure of the man’s narcissism. It turned Billy’s stomach.
“Celebrities sell books,” he said. “Augie’s murder will put your book at the top of the New York Times best seller list.”
Pryce’s face hardened. “You believe I killed Augie. I know better than to ask questions about how or why he died. I’m proud of the work Augie and I did together. The book will honor him. Your work is turning you into a cynic, Detective.”
It was difficult to say which of them was angrier. Billy was surprised to realize that, up to this point, they’d been evenly matched. He decided to flip the spotlight back on Pryce.
“What’s with the platform heels under the chair in your bedroom?”
Pryce brushed hair out of his eyes and looked off. “I had hoped to finesse that detail.” He exhaled. “You’re familiar with the midtown club called the Devil’s Sentiment?”
Sweet Jesus. “Yeah, I know the place.”
Pryce went to the bookcase and returned with a binder of glossy publicity shots. The first was of a woman in theatrical makeup with long blond hair, wearing short shorts and stiletto heels. She posed in a three-quarter turn with an expression of pure, animal challenge.
After ten years on the force, nothing about human sexuality surprised Billy. But this one got to him. The profile. The smile. It was Pryce.
Pryce closed the binder. “On Monday nights I perform in drag. I sing the blues like Etta James, not lip-synching, I really can sing. I was performing the night Augie was murdered. I was either backstage, onstage, or talking to customers. I have witnesses.”
His mind ran through the information he’d read about Pryce. “Did the gubernatorial candidate use your sexual preference to get you fired?”
Pryce gave him a tired look. “I’m not gay. Actually, that would be easier. An out gay man working in media isn’t a big deal anymore. But I’m straight. A straight investigative journalist who dresses up like a woman and performs on stage . . .” He shook his head.
“I only performed in clubs outside of Chicago. After my first article on the candidate went to print, someone from his staff followed me. He sent a video to my paper’s corporate office demanding retraction of the article and an end to the series. Otherwise, they would expose me and the paper to ridicule. Corporate couldn’t stomach the fight. They caved on the series. I wouldn’t retract, so I had to hit the road.”
“You could have slipped out of the club at any time and killed Augie.”
“Get real, Detective.” Pryce smiled and pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket. “Here’s a list of names and numbers. These three guys will swear I never left the club the night Augie was murdered. It’s a solid alibi. End of story.”
Billy had dealt with a lot of players. Pryce didn’t sound like he was bluffing. A strong alibi would take him off the suspects list. If the alibi fell through, he could always call Pryce’s hand.
Pryce’s phone rang. He checked the screen. “I’m counting on you to solve Augie’s murder before I have to explain the drag queen thing to Dunsford. We don’t have a lot of time.” He held up his phone. “This isn’t Dunsford, but I have to take the call. You need to go.”
“I want that photo,” he said.
“Make those three calls first. I’ll be here all day.” Pryce gestured for Billy to leave and headed for his desk.
Billy didn’t budge. “Hey, Pryce.”
Pryce turned around, perturbed.
“Do you believe in coincidence?”
“Not at all.”
“Neither do I. It’s no coincidence that your manuscript disappeared from Augie’s apartment. There’s a reason it’s missing.”
He stood on the porch outside Pryce’s house with his hands in his pockets. In most interviews you get a conversation going. Once that happens, people have a hard time shutting up, even if the subject turns threatening. But not this guy. Not Pryce. He’d made no attempt to impress Billy with his innocence. Guilty men have a hard time maintaining a level of confidence throughout an interview. It’s one thing to lie. It’s another to lie consistently.
Pryce had not behaved like a suspect.
He could hear Pryce on the phone, pacing the room, probably talking to his damned source at the CJC. Pryce stopped near the window. His words came through clearly.
“Yeah, my car’s in the shop. Good. Drop by before noon. I’m looking forward to it.” He hung up.