WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (16 page)

The officer pulled his cell phone from his duty belt. He held the bottle near the cruiser’s head lamp and punched in the pharmacy’s phone number.

Sajid looked from the officer back to Karim, whose lowered brow reflected his diminishing patience.

“Is this a valid prescription for Karim al-Waleed?” He looked at Karim as he listened. “Thank you,” the officer said, then closed his phone. “The pharmacy confirmed the prescription is his.” He crammed Karim’s belongings into the back pack and tossed it back into the seat.

Sajid laughed inside with relief. He looked over at Karim and shook his head.

The officer and the dog explored Sajid’s backpack and the rest of the car without incident.

“Looks like we’re good here,” the K-9 officer said.

“Okay, sign here, Mr. Aziz,” the other officer said holding out his citation pad.

“Yes, sir,” Sajid said.

“You’re okay to go, but watch your speed.” The officer handed him the citation.

Sajid and Karim returned to the car and left for Mustafa’s, now almost an hour late for work.

It took only minutes to complete the trip to the restaurant, but knowing Mustafa, they suspected the explanation for their tardiness would take the rest of the night.

Sajid knocked on the rear door of the restaurant and the two men were admitted by one of the cooks.

“Where have you two been?” Mustafa shouted from the kitchen as the men opened their lockers and removed their uniforms. “I am already short one worker. Your friend, Ahmed called to say he was sick and would not be here today.”

On the drive over, Sajid instructed Karim to let him do the talking with Mustafa. With no confidence in Karim’s ability to hold his tongue, Sajid told him to act as though he was shaken by the incident with the police and to keep to himself the balance of the night.

“We were stopped and harrassed by the police,” said Sajid.

“What? The police? Where? Why?”

“We were on Charlotte Avenue on the way here from the University. They stopped us because of our appearance, of course. We are all terrorists to them, you know.”

“Surely, they would not be so bold,” Mustafa said.

“Obviously, they have been instructed to detain all who appear Middle Eastern,” Sajid said. “Their paranoia since the planes flew into the towers has fueled their fears and caused them to act irresponsibly.”

“I have heard about racial profiling on the news, but I had no idea they would do such things here in Nashville,” Mustafa said.

“It was obvious. They were harassing us because of our appearance. They were rude and disrespectful. They called us rag-heads and shoved us up against the car. I was sure they were going to arrest us. They even called in dogs to search the car. It was terrifying, Mustafa—terrifying.”

“Dogs? What was their reason for detaining you to begin with?”

“They never told us why.”

“Why the dogs?” Mustafa asked.

“They said they were searching the car for weapons and explosives.”

“This is terrible. I cannot believe it has come to this. I am going to call my councilman now. He is a very good customer of ours.” Mustafa walked toward his office.

Karim looked at Sajid with wide eyes and a questioning stare. Sajid caught up with his boss. “Mustafa wait, please.”

“What?”

“I am not so sure this is a good idea,” Sajid said, trying to think of a way to stall Mustafa.

“What do you mean? These men need to be reprimanded for their racist behavior, or even terminated. I know my councilman. He is a good man, and he will not allow this to go unpunished.” Mustafa thumbed through his phone list.

“I understand and we are respectful of your concern, but I am afraid these policemen may not let this go. They seemed like men who would seek retaliation, and you know they are in a position to make our lives hell here in America. We want to be able to complete our education in peace. Surely you understand?”

Mustafa turned to Sajid. “If these rogue policemen are allowed to treat us this way and get away with it, they will only do it again,” Mustafa said.

“I know and I am sorry, but I would ask you to allow me this. I am concerned for Karim as well as myself.” Sajid glanced at Karim. “He did not handle this well. He is easily upset as you may know and is quite worried about our future. We need to be able to complete our education and return to our homeland without having to watch behind us wherever we go. Please consider this. Do not give them further reason to pursue us, or even worse. Please? Allow us this?”

Holding the telephone handset, Mustafa looked at Karim, then back at Sajid, contemplating his request.

Brad Evans’s Home

Hubbard County

Tuesday Evening

Brad checked the clock. He was ready earlier than he’d planned and had some time to kill before leaving for his meeting with Garrison. He picked up the bundle of mail from the kitchen counter and browsed through it, tossing the junk mail into the trash and considering the same for the bills.

He grabbed the remote and turned on the small television that sat on the kitchen counter. The local news was on and a graphic of a semiautomatic pistol was on the screen next to the headshot of the anchor.

“This morning, the body of a young white male was spotted near a retaining wall on the west side of Interstate 65. Metro Police stated the young man was shot through the back of the head with a single small caliber bullet.”

A video of a Metro police officer came on the screen showing him with his finger behind the small hole in the rear of the victim’s Pittsburgh Steelers cap.

No. That was one of those gangster caps.

“Detectives determined the nineteen year-old was a locally notorious graffiti artist known as Spart. A photo of the young man filled the TV screen. “His real name was Shawn Parsons,” the anchor said, “and he lived in the Melrose area off Franklin Road.”

“Shit,” Brad said. “You stupid son of a bitch. What were you doing there?”

A video started with a graphic at the bottom of the screen identifying the young woman speaking as Detective Cris Vega.

“Gang taggers normally paint in one color,” she said. “It’s the message or the marking of territory for them. The graffiti artists are focused on the colorful art itself and making their specialized artwork known to as many people as possible.”

The anchor spoke again. “No suspects have been identified, but Metro Police are working to determine the origin of the shot and detectives are reviewing video recordings with Tennessee Department of Transportation to determine if the state’s elevated traffic cameras may have picked up related activity in the area last night.”

“Surely not,” Brad said, “not from that distance and in the dark?”

“Metro Police have asked that anyone with information related to this incident contact Crimestoppers at 615-74-CRIME or 615-7427463.

“Damn it,” Brad said as he punched the power button on the remote. “That son of a bitch was still defacing public property and breaking the law,” he rationalized. “Damn varmint.” Brad snatched his keys off the counter and headed for the truck.

Brad drove to the lodge without a memory of the trip. His mind was dominated by last night’s blunder. At the entrance, he saw Prater, now working the gate alone.

“I’m here to see Carl Garrison.”

“I know. Step out of the truck.” Prater stared at Brad as he moved away from the truck and stood in the place where he had waited earlier in the day. “Do you have any weapons on board?”

“No. Well, there’s a forty cal in the glove box. I thought you meant long guns.”

Prater looked at Brad with a disgusted look.

Brad watched as his truck was searched once again. Prater pulled the seat back forward, but Brad had cleaned the long guns after the competition and left them at home.

Prater turned to face Brad without speaking and dropped his clipboard. Brad raised his arms, stared at his Sig-Sauer which was now shoved inside Prater’s belt.

“You know where to go?” Prater asked when he finished the pat down.

“Yeah.” Brad climbed back into the truck.

“You can pick the Sig up on your way out.”

Brad gave Prater a nod then drove toward the old house. He parked in one of the many empty spaces outside the entrance and found his way to the door of Garrison’s office.

“Come in. Come in, Brad.” Garrison came toward Brad from behind his massive desk and offered his hand.

“Thank you.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Do you have Jack Daniel’s?”

Garrison laughed. “I’d sooner run out of food.”

Brad laughed.

“On the rocks?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Garrison prepared their social lubricants and handed one to Brad.

“So, did you enjoy our community gathering today?”

“Yes. Thank you for having me.”

“It appears you left quite an impression on our marksmen today.”

“I tried not to ruin my welcome.”

“You’re quite a shot. You don’t have to apologize for your talents.”

“Thank you. I can use the prize money.”

“Arnie seems to think highly of you.”

“Arnie’s a stand up guy. We’ve known each other a long time, but we lost touch and this morning we were able to renew our friendship.”

“That’s great to hear. We love Arnie and Sheila. They play a large role on our team here.” Garrison paused a moment. “That’s something I wanted to speak to you about, Brad. I think there is a place for you on our team, and I’d like to think you might be interested.”

“What kind of place are we talking about?”

“Well, as you could see for yourself today. We believe strongly in our God-given rights as well as those promised us by our country’s founding fathers. The Second Amendment to our Constitution provides us with the right to protect ourselves and our families. With this many weapons in use by one group of folks, we’re always in need of the services of a quality gunsmith, sometimes on short notice. Arnie tells me you are one of the best.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I know my way around weapons. I’ve always been partial to guns, ever since my Dad started taking me hunting when I was three.”

“Three?”

“Yeah, I was carrying a slingshot then. I shot my first squirrel from his lap with a .22 caliber rifle when I was five.”

Garrison chuckled.

“He used to take me out to the walnut trees and tell me which hanging walnut to shoot with my .22 rifle.”

“Sounds tough for an adult, much less a child,” Garrison said.

“It was good target practice, but it got even harder as I got older. When I was ten he had me shooting squirrels, but only in the eye and
he
got to pick which eye. That’s with a scope, of course.”

Garrison laughed. “No wonder your skills are what they are. I wish all our dads showed that kind of interest in their youngsters.”

“He was quite a role model for me in a lot of ways.”

“It sounds like it. You were in the military?”

“Yes, Army. Sniper. Two tours in Vietnam.”

“Ahh, that’s where the talent comes from.”

“In reality no, my Dad should get the credit. I had the talent when I enlisted. It was just a logical assignment once they saw me on the range.”

“We are in such need of good father role models today. Do you have children?”

Brad explained his situation, Julie’s death and the Latino charged with vehicular homicide.

“I am so sorry, Brad. Is this alien paying for his crime?”

“No, not yet. His trial date hasn’t come up yet.”

“Do you feel confident he’ll be convicted?”

“That will depend upon his lawyer and our so-called legal system. And no, those two variables offer me little confidence.”

“And what about the fact he’s so obviously guilty?”

“There’s no guarantee he’ll even show up at the trial. All he’s got to do is go home.”

“You mean he’s running free?”

“Yeah, his public defender got him released since it was his first offense, supposedly.”

Garrison shook his head. “Brad, if I could assure you this murderer will receive his just reward, what would you say to that?”

“I’d like to be sure that could happen, but I don’t know how to do that.”

“That shooter of the graffiti artist on the Interstate last night knew how.”

Brad sat quietly. After a moment, he looked at Garrison. “Yeah, but he may have been impetuous,” Brad said, taking a drink.

“Oh?”

“The news reported tonight the tagger wasn’t a gang banger. He was only a young punk out to deface public property.”

“Well, when you start to break the laws of the land, you have to prepare yourself for the consequences.”

Brad shrugged and looked at his drink.

“Brad, I know how to make sure your wife’s killer meets his justice. If you want, I can help you see that this alien pays for his sins. Are you interested?”

Brad hesitated with his response. He stared at Garrison and thought about how much he loved Julie. He could feel his adrenaline rise.

“Maybe,” Brad said, unsure of Garrison’s motives.

“Okay,” Garrison said. “I’ll get back with you on that subject.”

Brad drained his glass. This much gunsmith business could set him up for life, but Brad knew that wasn’t all Garrison had in mind.

Garrison stood and took Brad’s glass to the bar for a refill. “Let’s talk about another subject. What do you know about C-4?”

Brad was taken aback by the question. He wondered where this topic was going to lead. “I used it a little in Vietnam. I know it’s safe as long as it’s in the right hands. I also know pound for pound it’s as potent an explosive as you can find—assuming you can find it.”

“Well, I
had
a source,” Garrison said. “But, it seems his supply has dried up. This has caused my plans to stall.”

“Plans?” Brad repeated, wondering why Garrison could possibly want C-4.

“I have a project.”

Brad listened, suspicious.

Garrison took a slow drink. “I have a family of beavers who have decided to dam up my creek. Nothing else has worked, and I’m ready to get serious.” He smiled.

“Sounds like it.” Brad was convinced this was a lie. “So, you’re looking for a new source?”