WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (11 page)

Brad rotated the MOA (minute of angle) turret four clicks on the Leupold VX-3 scope in order to achieve the elevation correction needed for the distance to target. The surface target area was the black and gold pattern on the rear of the gangster’s cap. The true target, the medulla oblongata, was now centered on the scope’s reticle. Brad controlled his breathing.

The gangster appeared unconcerned about detection. Focusing on his work, he stepped back from the wall.

Brad hugged the trigger with his index finger. He deepened his breath for a count of three, and then held it as he gradually brought the trigger toward him.
Pfft.
The rifle spat out the traveling end of the cartridge with almost no sound.

The gangster was shaking the stirring ball in his aerosol can when the 3.6 grams of lead entered the rear of his head at three thousand feet per second. On impact with the base of his skull, the lead began its tumble. Fragmenting as it raced through the man’s brain, pieces of jagged lead burst from his face. His head fell forward as he collapsed to the ground.

Brad checked his mirrors for headlights, and then sat up in the seat. He pulled the gun case from the floor and onto his lap. Removing the suppressor from the barrel, he placed it and the rifle back into their protective foam recesses.

As he lowered the gun case behind the seat, Brad glanced across the highway for a last look at his target. He cranked the engine, repositioned his mirrors and drove away.

Somewhat content, he knew he could never feel any satisfaction until the body belonged to Julie’s killer.

MNPD Gym

Nashville, Tennessee

Tuesday Morning

Mike was invigorated by his workout with free weights and the heavy bag. He was not a pretentious man, but he paid attention to his health. He maintained his conditioning with twice-weekly visits to the MNPD gym and nightly cardio sessions at home. The workouts were a priority, begun during his years in the military, and now they were even more crucial to ward off the life-eating stress monsters that came with his job. Near the end of each cardio session, while assaulting the suspended leather bag, Mike visualized the image of the monster that killed his sister. This always prolonged his workouts.

As he walked from the steamy showers back into the locker room he spotted Tom Sanders and a man he didn’t know. They were pulling on their gym clothes. Tom was one of the Narcotics Section’s senior detectives.

“Hello, Mike.”

“Tom,” Mike said, towel drying his hair. “How’s the drug biz?”

“We’re snowed,” Tom replied, laughing at his own pun. “Mike, have you met Chuck Kelsey?”

“I don’t think so.” Mike turned toward the stranger and offered his hand.

“Chuck—Mike Neal,” Tom said. “Mike’s with Homicide. Chuck just recently joined us.”

Mike dropped his towels on the bench and reached for his boxers.

Chuck winced as he spotted Mike’s assortment of scars up and down the right side of his body. He gave Tom a questioning look.

“Those are his souvenirs from Iraq,” Tom said. “Mike was with Army CID.”

“I didn’t mean to stare,” Chuck apologized, embarrassed by Tom’s statement.

“I’m used to it.” Mike half-smiled.

“CID, huh?” Chuck asked.

“Yeah, ’89 to ’94.”

“So, how did you get the scars?” Chuck asked.

“From a rocket-propelled grenade in April ’91. The Iraqis fired into a group of Kurdish Peshmergas while they were talking with us near Zakhu in the northern part of Duhok province.”

“Peshmergas?”

“Yeah, Kurdish fighters. We hooked up with them early that morning. We were investigating information we’d received about Iraqis who were slipping onto the base at night and planting explosives in an attempt to destroy our logistic supply facilities.”

“Sounds like the Iraqi army liked the Kurds about as much as they liked us,” Chuck said.

“That’s for sure. Most of the Kurds in northern Iraq have been pro-American for a number of years. They helped us out on several of our missions.”

“I didn’t realize CID got involved in that kind of assignment,” Chuck said.

“Well, the overall mission of CID is to investigate serious crime wherever the United States Army has an interest.”

“That’s a broad mission statement,” Tom said.

“I guess it is, but this particular task definitely fit. Based on the damage and the satellite images we reviewed in preparation for the mission, this one had to be done.”

“How bad were you hurt?” Chuck asked.

“I caught seven pieces of shrapnel that somehow found their way around twenty-five pounds of body armor. They burned like hell, and I lost a lot of blood, but fortunately they hit fleshy areas, and most importantly, missed my femoral artery.”

“Sorry to be so nosey, but this stuff is interesting. I was never in the military.”

“It’s okay,” Mike said. “It
was
exciting at the time.”

“How did you get away?” Chuck asked.

“With the four of us and the six Kurds, there was enough firepower to repel the assault and take out the attackers.”

“Were these Kurds seasoned military?” Chuck asked.

“Yes. They were all skilled and well-armed. They insisted on traveling back to our base with us after the attack, in case we were hit again. During the return trip, our guys were able to stabilize the two of us who were wounded.”

“That sounds pretty scary,” Chuck said.

“I assure you, it’s as close to death as I want to come,” Mike said as he continued to dress.

“Were the Kurds always so supportive?” Tom asked.

“I think so, and they still are. I’ve done considerable reading about the Kurdish people since that incident, and gained even more respect for them. They went through a helluva lot even before they suffered under Saddam Hussein.”

“Interesting,” Tom said. “We have a sizeable population of Kurds here in Nashville.”

“Yes, that’s true. Our patrol officers have told me that based upon their experiences with the Kurds here, most of them—at least the adults anyway—seem to appreciate being in America and they can’t wait to get their citizenship.”

“We know a few who are having some violence and drug issues with their teenagers,” Chuck said.

“None of the ethnic groups, or for that matter white kids,” Tom added, “are exempt from the influence of the gangs.”

“At least the adults can relate to their past and know they have it a lot better here than in Iraq,” Mike said, grabbing his bag. “Tom, I gotta run. It’s good to see you again.” Mike offered his hand. “Chuck, good luck cleaning up our streets.”

“We’ll need it, Mike.”

“Tell Norm hello for me?” Tom said.

“Will do.” Mike started toward the exit. His cell phone rang.

“Mike Neal.”

“Mike, it’s Cheryl.”

“Hey, good looking.” Mike glanced at his watch. “Are you up early or just now coming in to work?”

“I had to work a double last night. The ER was chaos.”

Norm and his wife Cheryl, a seasoned cardiac nurse, became Nashvillians when, in 1998, a cardiologist who had relocated to Nashville, came through on a promise. He offered to double Cheryl’s salary if she would leave Milwaukee and follow him to the premier cardiac facility in the South, Nashville’s Saint Thomas Hospital. Norm and Cheryl agreed on the lucrative change while gazing out their kitchen window at more than three feet of white winter.

“I’m heading home,” Cheryl said. “I figured you would be at the gym about now.”

“Good guess. I’m just leaving.”

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call, Mrs. Wallace?”

“I called to invite you to dinner tonight.”

“Really?”

“I’m preparing your favorite: my three-meat, three-cheese lasagna.”

“Wow, that’s good stuff, but isn’t that fattening?”

“Not so much the way I make it; whole wheat pasta, low fat cheeses and extra-lean meat.”

“Is the big guy so socially unskilled he couldn’t manage his own partner’s dinner invitation?”

“No. I told him I wanted to invite you myself.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did
you
need to invite me?”

“Michael, why do you have to make this so difficult?”

“I’m not making it difficult. It’s my job to ask questions and gather information. It’s what I do. I just don’t understand why Norm didn’t say anything about it.”

“I asked him not to say anything. Like I said, I wanted to invite you myself.”

“Okay, so who’s going to be there?”

“What makes you think someone’s going to be there?”

“Cheryl—I know you. You’ve been trying to set me up for the last two years.”

“I have not. Besides, what’s wrong with me being concerned about you? You’re my friend and I love you. I want you to be happy.”

“Thank you, but you don’t have to take it upon yourself to try and make me happy. I am happy enough.”

“Mike, you know what I mean.”

“Yes. I’m afraid I do.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay, I may accept your invitation, but under one condition.”

“What?”

“You tell me who is going to be there in addition to me, you and the big one.”

“Michael,” Cheryl hesitated. “It’s a surprise.”

“Cheryl, you know me. I do
not
like surprises. Who is it?”

“You are hopeless.”

“Thank you. Who?”

“A fan.”

“I have a fan?”

“She likes the way you look, and I told her what a great guy I think you are.”

“Two fans. Now, I have
two
fans. We could start a club.”

“Michael, give me a break. Are you coming to dinner or not?”

“Who?”

“Okay. Carol Spencer.”

“Carol?
Our
Carol?” Mike acted surprised. He knew that Norm suspected his connection with Carol, but he’d always been tactful enough not to bring it up. Obviously, Norm had also not divulged his suspicions to his wife.

“Yes, Carol.”

“She likes the way I look?” Mike asked.

“Yes. Mike, you need to open up to potential relationships.”

“Cheryl, are you forgetting about Captain Moretti’s Law? Carol is a co-worker.”

“Screw Moretti,” Cheryl said. “He doesn’t have to know everything.”

“He thinks he does.”

“We’ll make this our little secret. It’s only dinner. Okay?

“I—don’t know.”

“So, are you coming?”

“Let me think about it.”

“Michael?”

“Of course, I’ll come.”

“Well, why don’t you say so?”

“I just did.”

“Remind me to punch you out later.”

“Oooo. Sounds like fun. What time is dinner?”

“I’d like you to arrive about eight o’clock.”

“As long as our neighbors don’t interfere by killing each other, I’ll be there. I’ll bring a couple bottles of that Arrington Vineyards Cabernet you and Norm got me hooked on.”

“Great idea.”

“Cheryl.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Mike.”

“Me too. See ya later.”

Mike closed his cell and thanked God for his friends.

Quick Market, Hwy 64

Hubbard County, Tennessee

Tuesday Morning

Brad Evans stopped at the market to fill his truck with gasoline and pick up a few groceries. He was confident no one had witnessed the shooting of the gangster artist last night, but he was still a bit hypersensitive to his surroundings. It had been many years since he’d killed another man. It had been that long since Brad was motivated to take a life.

As he walked through the door, he heard his name and jerked his head to locate the source.

“Brad—Brad Evans?”

Brad saw a familiar, but older, face.

“Arnie Nicholson,” the fifty-something man said.

Brad’s former neighbor extended his hand and smiled.

“Arnie. How’ve you been?” Brad grabbed Arnie’s hand. “I haven’t seen you in ages. How long has it been?”

“Twelve, maybe fifteen years,” Arnie said.

“How’s your Mom and Dad?”

“Dad passed last summer,” Arnie said.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Mom was diagnosed last year with Alzheimer’s. I’ve got her living with me and Sheila, so we can keep an eye on her,” Arnie nodded. “I heard you bought the old Melton farm.”

“Yeah, I bought it almost ten years ago.”

“So, how’s your wife? Any kids?”

“I—lost Julie last December.”

“Oh, Brad. I’m sorry.” The excitement drained from Arnie’s face.

Brad nodded his appreciation.

“So, are you still on the farm?”

“Yeah, me and Rocky.”

Arnie tilted his head. “Your son?”

“No,” Brad smiled. “Rocky’s my Rottweiler.”

“Oh, cool. I’ve got a couple of Redbone Hounds I hunt coon with.”

“I’ll bet that’s fun.”

“It is,” Arnie said. “I love to hear ‘em howl when they’ve got the scent. Sheila hates it. She says it bothers the neighbors. Hell, nobody lives within half a mile. I think it bothers her.”

Brad smiled thinking how much he’d like it if Rocky’s barking could be bothering Julie again.

“Hey, man. Are you busy later today, around lunchtime and later on?”

“I don’t know,” Brad said. “Why do you ask?”

“We’re having a barbeque at the lodge today. I would love for you to come. You could see Sheila and meet a bunch of the guys at the lodge. You may know some of them. They’re a bunch of hunters from around here. What do you say? You wouldn’t have to stay all day unless you wanted to? Hell, you may have so much fun you’ll want to stay.”

“I don’t know, Arnie.” Brad wasn’t sure he was up to meeting a mob of new people.

“Hey, do you still shoot as good as you used to?”

“I hunt frequently, and I built a target range on my place. So, yeah. I stay in practice.”

“Listen, part of the festivities is a bunch of shooting contests. There’ll be rifle and shotgun competitions, and one for handguns. There’re prizes too,
cash
prizes. My guess is you’d win something if you’re half as good as you used to be. And I won’t say anything to the competition about your—uh, ‘training’.” Arnie laughed.