Cutting Loose, page 7
“Sir, was it just you and your wife who lived there? No family, live-in help or the like?”
“No, just us. We have no kids.”
“Okay, sir.”
“Look, what is this?”
“Sir, did you clear your garage before you sold?”
“Okay, enough already. Just to clear some space here, the law is my business, so let’s cut to the chase.”
“You bet, Mr. Gottfried. Sir, a barrel has been found on your property that was there when the Krugers moved in.”
“Barrel.” Gottfried said it flatly, without intonation.
“Right.”
“I cleared the . . . “
He went silent, and after a few moments, Emmett said, “You cleared most of your belongings but not all. There were some pieces left in the garage.”
“Really? Okay, Ranger, that’s it. No more questions until you give me some facts.”
“Okay, but one thing. Was there a barrel you left behind?”
“No. There was no damn barrel. Why?”
“Sir, inside that barrel, which was inside your garage, was a body. A murder victim, shot in the head.”
Emmett heard the intake of breath.
“Holy shit. Holy shit. Newspaper’s right here on my desk. I just glanced at the story. It was our place? In Masonville?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a pause, then Gottfried said, “Ranger, that’s the end of this conversation.”
The line went dead. Travis raised his eyebrows, and Emmett said, “The surprise sounded real.”
“It seemed to end abruptly. He’s lawyering up?”
“He is a lawyer. Maybe financial law, but still law.”
“Jesus. You can’t get away from them. Like gum on your shoe. If we go out there, we’ll get nothing.”
“We need a statement from him of some sort for the record, even if it’s no comment.”
“Get someone from the local office to go see him?”
“Yes.”
“So, Emmett, our guy just dumps the barrel there?”
“Got to put it somewhere. Maybe he saw removal vans, thought to himself, wait till they go, drop it. Locals know there’s a house move, some van coming and going won’t draw attention. Buy himself some time. I’m guessing he didn’t know he’d buy himself six years.”
“The new owners could have come while he was there. He wouldn’t know there was a three-day gap. It’s brazen.”
“Yeah, it is. A risk-taker. He was guessing the new owners would have too much on their plate to look at the barrel straight away.”
“And Kruger,” said Travis, “uses it to put his tool box on.”
“Yeah.”
“Guy could have dumped it in a derelict area. Plenty of those. A hundred and one ways to get rid of it.”
“Maybe he was in a hurry. Maybe the opportunity was there and he took it. No more than that.”
That morning, Emmett had groaned when he remembered he had to see Al Weiss as a favor to Buck Soto. It was an investigation that would go nowhere, but he had no choice. He knew Weiss sometimes lunched at an Italian restaurant on 2nd and Fremont, and at one o’clock, he asked a police cruiser on that circuit to check for Weiss’s vehicle in the lot. Twenty minutes later, Emmett walked in.
“What’s that cop line?” said Weiss, looking up from his carbonara. “There’s no such thing as coincidence?”
Emmett sat down opposite him.
“Please,” said Weiss. “Sit down.”
“Sure.”
Weiss called a waitress over and said, “Black coffee, hon.”
“Thanks,” said Emmett, as she poured. “So, Al, been getting your picture taken in the primulas again?”
“I liked that picture,” said the waitress. “I saw a side of him I’d never seen before.”
Weiss, used to comments, took it on the chin.
“That picture was the best thing that ever happened to me. The chicks coming onto me now you wouldn’t believe.”
“Right,” said Emmett.
“Emmett, so nice to have you interrupt this brief interval in my hard-working day.”
The waitress rolled her eyes as she walked away.
“But enjoy your coffee while you break my balls.”
“Al, trust me, this is me being nice.”
Emmett knew you could never be sure who was capable of murder; his own experience had shown him the meekest-looking person could take a life; but, for all that, his instincts told him Weiss was not a killer.
“All right, Emmett, you’ve got something on your mind.”
“Moving here from San Antonio, Al, you won’t leave your problems behind. We have telephones nowadays and Buck Soto used one to tell me you’re good for the Luke Collis killing.”
Weiss put his fork down. “Emmett, that is one hundred percent horseshit. And I’m here for business reasons, nothing else. Look, Jesus. . . . I’m hoping you’re wired.”
“I’m not.”
“Because this is me telling you I didn’t lay a finger on him. When Collis and me went into that restaurant thing, I thought it was all clear and easy, but Collis had a slew of guys on his ass I didn’t know about. That’s where you need to look.”
“So. Tell me a story. Give me some names.”
“I’ve got enough trouble on my plate without that. No way I’m going that route. All I can tell you is I have an alibi.”
“I hope it’s watertight.”
“Emmett, it’s kosher.”
“All right. I’m going to take a few notes, Al.”
“Sure. That Tuesday―and what I’m reading, it was a Tuesday―I was in Cedar Park. I checked into the Del Rey Motel on Whitestone Boulevard. That was 2 pm. I have a time-stamped gas check, I have the hotel check.”
“Bring me those.”
“I’ll give copies. No way I’m surrendering the originals.”
“All right, Al.”
“Impossible for me to be involved.”
That, Emmett hoped, would be that: the alibi would be confirmed, and Buck would have to look elsewhere. He left Weiss to finish his lunch, bought a sandwich and coffee, and returned to his office, where the phone was ringing.
“Emmett? Lou Sturgis here, SAPD. We met on the Bohlin case.”
“Right. How’s it going?”
“Great. Look, you sent out some prints, looking for a match. We’re not computerized, We do it the old-fashioned way.”
“I remember.”
“Yeah, I was forgetting you were a beat cop over here back in the day. So, guess what, we have a hit. First day of looking, there it is.”
“Lou, you’re kidding me.”
Sturgis chuckled. “No, Emmett. It’s real. It’s good news, with a major caveat. Eight years ago, there was a rape-homicide in a suburb near Nashville, upscale area where you don’t expect it. The Nashville PD got fingerprints off a window and a counter top. They did a sweep of the area, asking males under a certain age to submit their prints for elimination purposes, which was seen as a long shot. More likely to be a low-life from elsewhere. Only one guy declined to give his prints, a talent agent, Simeon Appelbaum, well-regarded, never in any trouble. The detective running the investigation, Jack Valdez, didn’t see him as a likely suspect, plus he was at the high end of the age range, but Valdez put a tail on this guy, and the tail got lucky. Followed Appelbaum into a restaurant and got a paper cup he’d used. Long story short, Valdez found the perp―and it wasn’t Appelbaum. He was clean.
“Okay. Rules say, Appelbaum’s prints should have been destroyed. But, what can I tell you? They weren’t. We got a copy of those prints when we were investigating a series of sex crimes over here.
“Emmett, he’s your guy. He matches the prints you sent. But, it’s fruit of a poisoned tree. You can’t use ‘em in court and, if you can’t make another link to Appelbaum, you’ve got a problem. There’s no logical way to pursue him that would stand up in court.”
“And Appelbaum?”
“Clean as a whistle. Never in any trouble.”
“Maybe he’s just flown under the radar all this time. Intelligent guy. There’s an awful lot of people like that, getting clean away with it.”
“Right. Emmett―you’ll have to finagle a way to get to him.”
“Lou, I owe you.”
“You ever come this way, I like Nutella cinnamon doughnuts.”
“Got it.”
Emmett’s boss, Gil Kramer, said, “So, the music angle.”
The District Attorney, Gerry Watts, wearing a lightweight tan suit and brown silk tie, sat in a leather chair, listening.
“There’s sheet music there in her effects,” said Emmett. “If she could read music and played bluegrass or middle of the road, the possibility is there she knew the Nashville scene. May have played in bars, toured the agents looking for session work. If Appelbaum’s our guy, they must have met somehow, and this is the only way we can make a link that would justify our looking at him. But we would have to cover ourselves by visiting other talent agents too. We could cut out agents who weren’t in business six years ago. Get prints from these agents where we can. Maybe―what d’you know―Appelbaum’s prints match what we’ve got.”
“Masonville to Nashville, not exactly next door,” said Watts. “Not like you can’t play bluegrass right here in Texas.”
“That’s where the action is, if you’re ambitious. We need to tie her to Appelbaum, and do it in a way that’ll slide past a judge and defense counsel,” said Emmett.
“I hear you,” said Watts.
“We’ll need to sweet-talk the Tennessee Rangers. Get them on board.”
“Leave that with me,” said Watts.
“The case would need to be ours, not Tennessee’s,” said Emmett. “So we’d need to be careful what we tell them.”
“Sure So, we slim down a list,” said Watts. “Twenty music agents, thirty, maybe. Just enough to look convincing.”
They sat there for a while, considering.
“I need Emmett here. We’ve got a full docket,” said Kramer.
“I’d be happier if Emmett handled it there in Nashville,” said Watts. “Working with their Rangers. With Mack Travis as well―”
“Oh, great,” said Kramer. “I’d be two down.”
“Gil,” said Emmett. “It’s a good case for us if we crack it. Mack and me could be in and out fast.”
Kramer breathed heavily and looked at both of them.
“Oh, man.”
He toyed with a pen on his desk, then said, “Gerry, you’re happy with this from your side?”
“Sure.”
Kramer put the pen down.
“Okay. Emmett, take Mack. Do it.”
TWO
“So, Mr. Appelbaum. I’ve run the tests.”
The lack of intonation in Dr. Matcham’s voice made Simeon Appelbaum go cold.
“Uh huh.”
His health had always been good, and he had never felt the need for a check-up until a recent loss of weight gave him cause for concern. This was his fifth meeting with Matcham, who had been recommended by friends, and whose manner was generally affable and smooth. Appelbaum himself tended to be laconic; he chose this moment to say nothing at all, and simply waited. Matcham seemed to sense Appelbaum’s acute response and moved some papers on his desk.
“Most of the tests are normal. You mentioned, initially, darkness in your urine, a sensation of fullness under the ribs on the right side, and a certain amount of swelling in the abdomen.”
“Right.”
“That led me in a certain direction. The swelling I confirmed by palpation. In itself, that might not, of course, be serious. But the results of the various tests and X rays, and of course the biopsy, have been checked independently by consultants. I won’t take the scenic route, Simeon―there is an irregularity of function in the liver.”
For some reason that Appelbaum could not quite specify, they had from the start addressed each other formally, so Matcham’s unaccustomed use of the given name meant to Appelbaum that he was a dead man walking.
“Let me spell it out. The liver is a very forgiving organ―it needs to be―but there is clear evidence, in your case, of cirrhosis. Now, I know you don’t drink to excess, but not all forms of cirrhosis are caused by drinking. You have Hepatitis C, which can, in turn, be caused by many things. Those who grew up in the sixties may, perhaps, have experimented with drugs. An unclean needle, say. Or perhaps sexual contact with an infected person. Or it may be other causes. The effects often only become evident many years later.” He lifted a hand. “Forgive me for being blunt. I know that you appreciate straightforwardness. In certain cases, the result of all this can be a hepatocellular carcinoma. That is your situation.”
Appelbaum sighed. “It’s what, metastasized?”
“Well, it hasn’t spread to the liver. It started there. It’s a primary cancer. As with all cancers, catching it early is paramount. Surgery or transplant can produce a cure. In your case, too much time has elapsed for either to be possible.”
Appelbaum leaned back in his chair, oddly calm. He had survived a lot, lived a lot, and was phlegmatic by nature. His intuition had told him from the beginning that this would not end well. He accepted the verdict immediately and knew that, before the day was out, he would start to make his arrangements. There were contracts to be amended, bank accounts to be reorganized, and a will to be prepared. That would take time. He knew there would be no one to mourn him deeply except his secretary, Marcia, and a friend from the past, and that fact did not bother him. The waters closed over everyone. Whole civilizations were forgotten, let alone an artist’s agent in Nashville.
“While there is no cure at this stage, there is much that can be done to both prolong life and to enable you to live it in comfort.”
Appelbaum nodded, looking out the window at a window-cleaner in a cradle on the far side of the street.
“Perhaps you might wish to take a day or two to absorb all this before we start a course of action.”
“Sure.”
He touched his chin as the man in the cradle moved it upward.
“So, what are we talking―six months, a year?”
“In fact, yes. That’s about right.”
“Will I be fixed up to some machine half the day?”
“Half the day? No. But treatment is bound to be invasive to some degree.”
“Sure.”
“We have excellent specialists in Nashville. Believe me, the treatment will be the best available.”
There was a photo on Matcham’s desk of his wife and three children. Appelbaum hoped they were as happy as they seemed to be in that frozen moment.
“Tell you what, Dr. Matcham, I’m going to step outside.”
“Of course. Some fresh air.”
“Right.” Appelbaum exhaled slowly. “I know there’s a lot to discuss, but . . .”
He pushed his chair back.
“Would you like someone to accompany you?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Will you be back in a few minutes? We can continue.”
“Uh, no. I’ll be back in touch, like you say, in a day or two.”
“Don’t leave it longer. There is much to arrange. It’s a lot to take on board, I know.”
They stood, and Matcham walked him to the door. They shook hands.
“Call anytime, Simeon. Really.”
“Thanks.”
Outside, he breathed deeply and looked around, conscious of the beating of his heart. The street seemed the same; the traffic noises were the same. How could that be? There must be some token around him of what he had learned; but there was nothing.
He hailed a cab.
“Uh, Sim,” said Marcia on the intercom. “That Texas Ranger who called Wednesday?”
“He’s not due till tomorrow.”
“He apologizes, says he’s got a tight schedule. Wonders if later today would work.”
“I’ve got a couple of contracts to prepare, and Jed at three.”
“I know. I can say you’re tied up.”
“No. . . . Suggest four o’clock.”
“You bet.”
Appelbaum spent the rest of the morning beginning to set his affairs in order. He called his lawyer, who said he would do all he could to ease the load. At lunchtime, he went to his usual deli and had a pastrami reuben and black coffee, then decided this was a good day to have a midday snoot. He had two shots of Jack Daniel’s, and watched the news on the set over the bar, then stared at the postcards that had been sent to the owner, with a strange sense of apartness from his being.
“Okay, sir?” said the bartender.
“Sure.” He lifted a hand, then let it fall.
Back at his office, he found Jed Mead already there, chatting with Marcia, and fell back into his usual easy manner.
“Sim, my man,” said Mead. “You’re slimmer. It looks good on you.”
“Thanks, Jed. Come on in.”
Mead eased himself into a chair as though he was fragile. His feelings seemed to precede him; Appelbaum wondered if he was telegraphing angst, and hoped not.
“So, the gig Wednesday, I’m hearing it went well.”
“Yeah, I got a buzz on. I owned that crowd.”
“Onwards and upwards, Jed. I’ve more spots lined up.”
Mead nodded, taking his time. “Willy Nelson, he’s headlining at the Opry. Believe it? Man, yesterday he was straight as Doris Day, now he’s got the bandanna and the stubble and he’s Mr. Outlaw.”
“Great marketing. What can I say? Jed, it’s a money game. We all know that.”
“Right. Cop an attitude, sell it.”
“You’re right. Art, artifice, junk,” said Appelbaum, seeking to head Jed off by agreeing with him. “So long as you have the pool and the blonde, who’s fretting? But that’s not the way we do it, Jed.”
“It has to mean something.”
“Exactly.”
Appelbaum could see that this would be a therapy session; half his job involved soothing his clients.
“Guy said to me, Jed, you should get a piece of that alternative shit. I said, man, I was born alternative. Don’t need to fake it.”
There was truth of a sort in that: Mead had grown up the way so many country songs describe―dirt poor, in a home with no electricity or running water. To his credit, he had not capitalized on that; perhaps the reality of it was too painful. An uncle gave him a guitar, and he would imitate licks he heard on the radio, playing till his fingers were sore. He got calluses, and kept on playing. In his teens, he could do a passable version of Merle Travis’s Cannonball Rag, one of the toughest pieces in the canon, and earned himself some kudos in school as a kid who could pick. By his early twenties, he had found occasional work as a session musician, then Chet Atkins, who recorded artists for RCA in Nashville, gave him work on a Roy Acuff album. That led to steady work, and by his late twenties, he was an established figure in the studios, playing dobro on three occasions with Earl Scruggs and Lester Flatt. He had money in his pocket, a small house in the suburbs, and a girlfriend, Jeanne, who worked as a backing singer. Life for the kid from nowhere had started to take shape. He had learned a relaxed manner from being in the company of major artists, and understood that being easy to get along with was part of the job. He had a facility for memorable licks and, one evening at home, picking on his Gibson Les Paul guitar, he realized that a few of those licks had formed themselves into a melody. To cut a record, he needed lyrics; instrumentals certainly had a market, but they did not bring the big money. The next day, he had an epiphany when looking out the window; a girl was riding a pinto in a neighboring field. That could be a theme: a girl riding away from whatever ailed her: a death perhaps, or a love affair. He used the provisional title, ‘She Rode Away’, and began to write lyrics. He had realized, listening to Chuck Berry songs, that the best lyrics seem to be stripped bare; they have a haunting simplicity. It took him two weeks to achieve that simplicity. It had never occurred to him that anyone else would sing it, and one evening, playing and singing the song, he heard Jeanne open the door.
