We’d better open it at the barge,” Billy said, knowing they had already pushed their luck.
She handed him the keys. “You drive.”
He stowed the box in the back of the Jeep. Frankie used callback on Dominique’s number and got the “not accepting calls at this time” message. Dominique had either turned off the phone or removed the battery so her phone couldn’t be tracked. He suggested Frankie call cab company dispatchers and the ticket agent at the bus station, giving them Dominique’s description. After she did that, she checked with the night manager at Robert House who said that Dominique had left there around eight thirty P.M., carrying a suitcase and a box wrapped in plastic. She had not returned.
The rain stopped. The sidewalks became crowded again, making it unlikely they would spot Dominique. They considered calling in patrol officers for help, but that would require explanations they didn’t want to make. Dominique didn’t have money for a plane ticket, there was no passenger train until midmorning, and she wouldn’t dare go back to the bus station. They’d done what they could to contain her within the city. Most likely, she’d found a place to stay for the night. The only thing left was to head to the barge and open the box.
When they got inside, he gathered gloves, scissors, tape, and his laptop. He made coffee while Frankie wiped down the stainless-steel counters, the best surface in the place to deal with evidence. If she noticed the pie sitting on the cutting board, she didn’t mention it.
They snapped on gloves and cut away the green plastic, revealing a packing box with pictures of jumbo cans of tomatoes on the side. Dominique would have picked up the box in the shelter’s kitchen. Frankie popped open the flaps. On top was a soft, gray conjure bag. Beneath that was a white pillowcase with red trim and the Cardinal’s insignia.
Billy’s heart jumped at the sight. They looked at each other and grinned. He’d felt the three deaths were connected. Here was the first evidence pointing in that direction.
Frankie unfolded the pillowcase and began lifting out watches zipped into plastic bags, their crystal faces showing through. She laid everything on the counter: eighteen watches, two worn baseballs covered with signatures, two blues harmonicas, and seven framed photographs of civil rights martyrs. The Bulova with the green band was missing. No phone, no laptop. At the bottom of the box lay a large mailing envelope bulging with pages. Frankie slipped the manuscript out. A USB flash drive tumbled out with it.
She picked it up. “I’ll bet Pryce gave this to Augie so he could upload the manuscript.”
“Is the missing photo in there?”
She shook the envelope. No photo. He tried to not let his disappointment show.
“Let’s start with the conjure bag,” he said.
He handed Frankie a plate and a spoon. She poured some of the bag’s contents on the plate and used the spoon to spread the mixture.
“Dried herbs, sand, dust balls, peppercorns, and some bug legs,” she said. “The white thing in the middle is a tooth, probably bought out of the mouth of someone at the shelter.” She spooned the contents back into the bag. “It’s fake. Dominique thought I wouldn’t know the difference. Of course that doesn’t mean she’s in the clear. It would help if we could get Ovia to make an identification, but there’s no way in hell she’ll do that unless Ramos pushes her.”
“You’ve convinced me Dominique planted the curses in the rooms and triggered Red’s and Little Man’s deaths,” he said. “But why? What was her motive?”
“She’s hot-tempered and might hold a grudge, but I don’t think she’s the kind of person who could pull this off by herself.”
“Then someone threatened her or paid her,” he said. “Either way, someone else is involved.”
“Let’s start with the theory we talked out earlier.”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t hold up. Red was in no shape to wander around selling scripts to raise cash. And no one from the shelter, especially a six-foot Jamaican cook, could have gotten into the DeVoy and killed Augie.”
Frankie stared at the evidence on the counter. “Okay. We’ll start over.”
“How about if you catalog the evidence on my laptop while I scan through this manuscript?”
“I’ll do that, but why stop to read it now?” she asked.
“Because I’m stumped. When that happens, I look past the obvious.”
He sat in his reading chair in the living room with the stack of pages on his lap while Frankie worked on the evidence in the kitchen. He flipped through, looking for Pryce’s name. It didn’t appear anywhere on the manuscript. Then he read the introduction. Halfway down the page he read: There came a time when, for one brief moment, God turned his back on the people and the devil had his way. Dr. King was murdered right here in our city. Dedicated people paid with their lives. Others have worked since then to prove the devil hasn’t won . . .
It was a powerful statement, more passionate than he would have expected from Pryce. He scanned more pages until chapter five stopped him cold. He read every line. Twenty minutes later he went into the kitchen and laid the manuscript on the counter.
Frankie looked up from the computer. “I’m almost finished. Did you find anything?”
“According to this, Calvin Carter was on the FBI payroll for years.”
She blinked. “He was a paid informant?”
“Like Garrett said, all kinds of people were talking to the cops or FBI agents. This book claims Carter did more than that. He gave up information about civil rights leaders who were risking their lives, and regular folks, in the movement. Even a priest who ran an outreach ministry.”
He thumped the manuscript. “Carter attended meetings with top civil rights leaders. While they discussed strategic planning, he snapped photos and listened. Then he met with agents and turned over the names of the people present and the dates of marches and demonstrations with their locations. That gave agents plenty of notice to setup street fights that would turn peaceful demonstrations violent. They made it look like the organizers were behind it.”
He paused. “Carter gave the agents personal information to leak to the press. They contacted employers to get ordinary people fired for being involved in the movement.
“You remember what I told you about Grant putting pressure on Freeman’s dad? Pryce focuses on that kind of surveillance. Some say the NSA is doing that now.
“Pryce got his hands on Dahlia Poston’s FBI file. She was the type of activist who scared the pants off Hoover and the white establishment. She was educated, outspoken, and black. The FBI was keeping an eye on her. I’m sure Augie must have read this. He told me there was more to his mother’s case, but he never explained what he meant. Now I see why he was so obsessed with her death. Pryce must have given him a copy of her file and maybe even one on Carter. They’re probably on his laptop.”
“Speaking of that, I should upload whatever is on that flash drive,” she said, feeling around behind the computer for it.
“I have to hand it to Pryce,” he said. “He’s uncovered a blockbuster story. Carter was a hero in this city for forty years. Old warriors in the movement, especially the people who trusted him, will be heartbroken. Some will be outraged. Some will condemn him. Others will deny he did it.”
“Outing Carter as an informant will crush Sid Garrett,” she said. “The museum just won a big grant. Garrett’s in charge of fund-raising, and the board promised to dedicate a wall honoring his brother. The revelation about Carter will kill donations.”
They looked at each other. Frankie’s eyes narrowed.
“Garrett’s got a lot to lose,” he said.