WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (20 page)

Sergeant Hill escorted the men to where Mike was standing. “Detective Neal, this is—uh. Your names again please.”

“Hoshyar Kaman. This is Tomar, my brother.”

“These men work for Z.Z. Maintenance with Mr. Hamid,” the sergeant explained, making sure to use the present tense until they were given the tragic news.

“He is our cousin,” Hoshyar spoke up. “Our mothers, they were sisters.”

“Mr. Kaman, I’m Detective Mike Neal. When did you last see Mr. Hamid?”

“An hour ago?” Hoshyar said looking at Tomar, who nodded in agreement. “He left us early to run some errands before his celebration tonight. He became a U.S. citizen this morning, and we are going to celebrate his good fortune later tonight. Why are you asking these questions?”

Mike paused for a moment. He needed to gather more information before informing them the reason for their celebration was gone.

“Were you with him earlier today? Mike asked.

“Yes,” Hoshyar said. “We went to his ceremony and reception this morning downtown at the state capitol building. Then we came home. Tomar and I had lunch, and then we met him here at five o’clock to begin cleaning the offices upstairs. About an hour later is when he left to do the errands. What is the matter? Where is Daran?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you,” Mike said softly, “but we believe your cousin has been killed.”

“No,” they both said, looking at each other and hoping they were right.

“This cannot be,” Hoshyar begged. “We just talked to him upstairs. You must be mistaken.”

“You are wrong,” Tomar said. “It must be someone else.”

Fear gathered in both their faces. Their eyes searched for a reason not to give in to the possibility.

“Does your cousin own a light brown Acura Legend?” Mike asked.

Hoshyar’s eyes squinted and began to tear. “Yes, he bought it a few months ago.”

“The victim’s car is registered to Daran Hamid,” Mike said.

“No, no. This is why we left Iraq.” Tomar cried, covering his mouth with his hand. “This cannot be happening. Not now. Not here.”

“Daran was so happy to finally become an American citizen after eight long years.” Hoshyar explained, tears forming in his eyes. “He studied hard and he learned to speak English. Then he taught us. Oh, Daran—Daran.”

“What happened?” Tomar asked.

“It appears he was attacked as he was entering his car,” Mike said, trying to make it sound less gruesome than it was.

“Why him? Why Daran? He did not have a lot of money.” Tomar cried.

“We aren’t sure yet. We hope to uncover evidence telling us more about what happened and why,” Mike said. “I know how difficult this is,” Mike assured the men, meaning every word. This case, like so many others, dredged up Mike’s own painful memories.

“Once the Medical Examiner collects the body, we will need someone to identify Mr. Hamid. Do you think one of you could do that for us?”

Hoshyar looked at his brother, and took a deep breath to settle himself. “I will do it.”

“Thank you,” Mike said. “It will be a big help. Now, gentlemen, if you would, wait here with Sergeant Hill for a moment. I want you to meet Detective Wallace. He will talk with you, and I will join you shortly. We need to ask you a few more questions, and then we’ll allow you to return to your family.”

Mike raised his hand and indicated for Norm to join them.

“Officer Curtis,” Mike shouted across the garage.

The young officer hurried toward Mike. “Yes, detective.”

“You did arrange for a meeting room for interviews?”

“Yes sir, the building superintendent has provided us a small conference room. It’s past the coffee shop in the rear of the lobby.”

“Gentlemen, Detective Wallace will escort you to the conference room. I’ll join you shortly.”

The World Spice Company

LaVergne, Tennessee

Tuesday Evening

After a two hundred and fifty-two mile journey across the western half of Tennessee, the drayage truck delivered ocean container SMNB052778 to World Spice Company’s receiving dock at 5:22 p.m..

Ali Patek, the supervisor in charge of receiving and the raw materials warehouse, acquired his instructions from Mahmoud Zahar long before the container’s arrival. He scheduled two of his best warehousemen to work overtime in order to see the monthly delivery was verified as accurate and put away in the warehouse. Once all barrels were confirmed against the World Spice Company purchase order, scanned into inventory, and transported to storage, the warehousemen were dismissed.

Patek noted the storage location of the specially tagged barrel when it was put away by his men. Now alone, he drove the clamp-lift to the marked location, pulled the barrel from the rack and transported it to the inbound inspection area. Again he confirmed the assigned markings and broke the seal.

Patek pulled on his respirator and his arm-length rubber gloves. Then he removed the metal ring closure from the barrel’s top and raised the lid. Even with the thick inner plastic bag still closed, the pungent aroma of coriander passed through the paper element of Patek’s respirator and triggered his sneeze reflex. He stepped away from the barrel, raised his mask, and sneezed three times.

Still sniffling, he repositioned the mask, and returned to his assignment. Patek was told by Mahmoud when the device was packed, the top of the plastic bag would be ten to fifteen inches below the surface of the coriander. Patek knew that rough seas could have caused settling to a lower point in the barrel, and it did. Patek dug through the seeds, removing double-handfuls until he felt the top of the thick plastic bag. After rocking the package back and forth, he was able to raise the bag to the top of the coriander.

He then lifted and placed the package onto a nearby work table. After spraying the bag with a cleaning solution, he wiped it down with towels until it was dry. He secured the device in layers of bubble-wrap, taping the edges of each layer as he went. He placed the padded device into a double corrugated carton and taped it securely, ready for transport to a delivery point, yet to be determined.

Patek removed his cell phone from his belt and dialed the number Mahmoud had given him.

“Yes?” A man’s voice answered.

“The package is ready. What is the delivery point?”

“Are you at the spice company?” Abdul asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you secured the package for travel?”

“Yes. It is secure; padded and boxed. To where do I bring the package?” Patek was getting frustrated with Abdul’s questions.

“To your dock door number five. I am outside.” Abdul hung up.

Surprised he would not have to make the delivery, Patek was grateful that the task would soon be over. He placed the package onto a two-wheeled hand truck. Before walking the package to dock number five, he removed his pistol from his pocket, pulled the slide to ready the semi-automatic, and tucked it into the front waistband of his trousers where it would be concealed by his loose-fitting shirt.

Keeping his hand near the pistol, Patek pushed the button to raise the electric overhead door half-way. As the door came up, he could see a black SUV parked near the dock with the rear door opened. A well-dressed man stood holding a briefcase.

“Your security is non-existent,” Abdul said in his usual threatening tone.

“There are no longer many pirates seeking to steal spices,” Patek said.

Abdul didn’t appreciate the man’s remark. He scanned the area around the rear of the building once more then placed the briefcase onto the metal dock ramp. He released the latches, raised the lid and rotated the case to face Patek.

“It is all there as agreed with Mahmoud. Give me the box.”

“Patience,” Patek said as he looked closer at the contents of the case. He fanned four of the stacks of one hundred dollar bills. He closed the case and pulled it back from the edge of the dock. He took the box and set it on the dock where Abdul could reach it.

Abdul wrapped his arms around the carton. He made a wrinkled face, released it and backed away, holding his hands out away from his body as if they were somehow contaminated.

“What is that smell?”

“It is the coriander that your item was packed in for transport from Indonesia.”

“This is unacceptable,” Abdul said. “I cannot use this if it can be smelled from twenty meters away.”

“Relax, the smell is affecting only the outer packaging, not the contents.”

“How do you know this?”

Patek sighed. “There are three separate layers of sealed four mil plastic surrounding the device. The smell cannot permeate even the outer layer. The package had to be hidden inside one of the spice barrels for the voyage. The coriander was chosen in case customs became interested and used their dogs to search the shipping container. We have done this before, you know.”

Abdul wondered how many times Jemaah Islamiyah had used the monthly spice shipment as their mule, transporting explosives, and who knew what else, into the United States.

At this point, Abdul had few options. Allah’s work was waiting. He picked up the pungent box and placed it in the rear of the SUV. He closed the doors and turned to see Patek holding the briefcase in one hand with the other hand tucked under his shirt. The dock door was closing.

Abdul was not in the habit of questioning Farid, but he hoped his mentor’s decision to use the engineer would turn out to be a wise one. He walked to the open driver’s door, stepped up into the SUV and left with his package.

Cumberland Plaza

Nashville, Tennessee

Tuesday Evening

Mike spotted the open door of the conference room. He could see Norm talking with the Kaman brothers inside. He entered and took a seat facing the two young men.

“Where are we?” Mike asked.

“The gentlemen were telling me about Daran’s activities earlier today. Mr. Kaman,” Norm nodded to Hoshyar, “suggested we also speak with Daran’s sister who lived with him in his apartment. You said Zena is her name?”

“Yes, Zena.” Hoshyar nodded.

“He said she may be able to add to what they know of Daran’s activities in the early part of the day, as well as previously this week.”

“Very good,” Mike said.

“And, Detectives,” Hoshyar interrupted, “if you would allow me to be the one to tell Zena, I would appreciate it and I am sure she would also. Her English is not good and I am afraid she may not handle this well.” Hoshyar looked at his brother who nodded his agreement.

“She has depended upon Daran for many things since she arrived here. He is—he was her older brother. Since the death of their parents in Kurdistan, he has taken care of her like a father. She was a child when they were killed, and he has been her parent as well as her brother. I will now have to become more for her.” Hoshyar looked at Tomar.
“We
will now be her brothers. It is my place to tell her.”

“We understand,” Mike said. “That won’t be a problem, but we’ll need to speak with her tonight as soon as you have told her, and she has had a brief time to grieve. You can go to her when we are finished here, and we’ll follow you to the apartment.”

“Thank you,” Hoshyar said.

“You do understand,” Mike said, “we will need to search Mr. Hamid’s apartment for evidence that could help us discover who did this?”

“Yes. I will explain to Zena so she understands.”

“Good,” Mike said. “Now, what can you tell us about Daran that could help us discover what may have happened here tonight and why?”

Hoshyar looked at Tomar and back to Mike. “Daran was a gentle man. He was peaceful, and he knew people like us need to keep our distance from others who may not be so ... welcoming. I do not think very many people recognize what we go through, especially the hate-filled expressions we received after the disasters of September 2001.”

“I understand,” Mike said.

“It is rare for us to be looked upon with respect by those outside our small community. Occasionally, we still receive the uncomfortable looks. Fortunately, in America there are the police. We have you to help us feel safe, but that does nothing to stop the hate.”

“I can’t begin to understand the prejudice you face,” Mike said. “There is still considerable fear within many Americans when they see people of Middle Eastern heritage. I’m sure this will continue for quite a while. Do you know of anyone who may have been motivated to take their prejudice to this level? Had Daran experienced any confrontations that might have escalated to this?”

“Daran and I spent much time together,” Hoshyar said, “especially before Tomar came to America. We have seen many people who were uncomfortable with us, but few who caused us to fear their actions.”

“Had Daran been acting strange in any way lately?” Norm asked.

“No, he was very happy,” Tomar said. “He was excited about becoming an American citizen.”

“Yes,” Hoshyar agreed. “He worked so hard to learn everything required of him. He was ready, and he was so proud.”

“Had he spoken about any confrontations he may have had with anyone?” Mike asked.

Hoshyar turned to his brother. “I do not know of anything. Do you?”

“No,” Tomar said.

“Did he drink alcohol?” Norm asked.

“No. We choose not to drink alcohol,” Hoshyar said. “It is actually forbidden for us.”

“What about gambling?” Mike asked.

“No. He did not have money to waste.”

“Did he owe anyone money?” Mike asked.

“No,” Hoshyar said, “he was a simple man with simple tastes. He did not borrow. He did not even have a credit card.”

“Who were his friends?” Mike was pretty sure of the answer. Most of the Kurds in Nashville kept to themselves and their families, but he needed to hear it from them.

“We were his friends and his family. There are a few people at Z.Z. Maintenance who are our friends also. Ahmad Ayala, Denise Byrd and Mr. Zaid Zebari.”

“Did Daran ever have a problem with any other of Mr. Zebari’s employees or maybe a customer?” Norm asked.

“No. Daran was liked by everyone,” Tomar said, “especially our customers. He was a good man. He was not a trouble maker.”