WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (28 page)

“Excuse me one moment, Lieutenant.”

Moretti covered the phone with his hand and shouted, “Burris.”

The lieutenant came quickly. He was familiar with the tone.

“Lieutenant Samuels, you’re on the speaker with me and Lieutenant D.W. Burris.” Moretti was furious. His neck and head were as red as if he was being strangled. He stared at Burris with wide eyes while he asked the trooper questions that had already been answered. “Where precisely was our unmarked blue Interceptor when it was clocked doing ninety-three in a seventy?” He gave Lieutenant Burris a fierce look as he stated the speed.

After Vega’s call, Burris knew who the driver was, and he suspected Moretti did too.

“Interstate 40 West between mile marker 184 and 185.”

“I’m sure it was our vehicle, Lieutenant,” Moretti said. “It seems we have a detective on our team who has reached the end of his selfcontrol. He’s a little past due for a new vocation.”

“I understand,” Samuels said. “We’ve seen it happen.”

“Do you know the whereabouts of this vehicle now?” Moretti asked.

“Sorry, Lieutenant.”

“If any of your troopers spot this vehicle, let them know they have my expressed permission to detain the driver and treat him as they would anyone else who has compromised the public safety.”

“Will do, and Captain?” Samuels said.

“Yes?”

“Do us a favor?”

“Sure,” Moretti said.

“See to it his new career has him driving nothing larger than a lawn mower, and if possible, doing it in Kentucky?”

“I’ll recommend it. Thanks for the courtesy call,” Moretti said.

“Drive safely,” Samuels said.

Moretti slammed the phone into its cradle. “I am going to have that idiot’s shield.

Lieutenant, I don’t care how you do it, but get that dumb ass in here before he kills somebody.”

“Yes sir,” Burris said as he cleared the doorway of the Captain’s office.

Back in his office, Burris reached for his desk phone to call Hogue’s cell, but it rang before he could pick it up.

“Burris.”

“Lieutenant, it’s Mike.”

“Yeah, what is it?” Burris said, hoping Mike could detect his sense of urgency.

“We opened the steel reinforced door in Mullins’s basement. It concealed a large sophisticated gun vault with over two hundred square feet. It even has climate control and a dehumidifier.”

“Where in the hell did he get all that?”

“I’m not sure, but I can promise you; this knucklehead didn’t put it in. He has enough firepower in there to support the 101st Airborne Division, and doesn’t know anything about Class Three weapons laws.”

“Are the weapons legal?”

“Some are—most aren’t.”

“Get an inventory and call me back.”

“Lieutenant.”

“What?”

“That’s not all we found. He also has dozens of cases of color brochures, pamphlets, enrollment forms and assorted other propaganda for an organization called The Alliance for the Racial Purification of America.”

“I’ve heard of these subversives. A madman named Garrison is the heir to the leadership of this white supremacist cult.”

“His name and photos are prominent on all these documents,” Mike said.

“These hate addicts have been around for a long time, but they’ve been relatively quiet over the last few years. What does Mullins say about all this?”

“He’s been open with us for the entire time we’ve been here. Once we found all the promotional junk, he abruptly clammed up and called Harlan Norris again.”

“That figures. Get me an inventory. Keep the uniforms on site, and bring him in. I gotta go.”

Mustafa’s Restaurant

Nashville, Tennessee

Wednesday Afternoon

Mike and Norm entered the small lobby of Mustafa’s Restaurant. The pleasing aromas of seasoned roasted lamb and beef along with Middle Eastern music surrounded them the moment they arrived. The high pitched brass bell hanging from the top of the door frame summoned the hostess.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” she said as she reached for menus.

Mike and Norm both held up their IDs in unison. I’m Detective Neal. This is Detective Wallace. “May we speak to the owner or the manager please?”

The hostess, appearing unnerved by the badges, mumbled, “Uh, one moment. I will get Mr. Mustafa for you.”

Mike was scanning the interior of the restaurant and admiring the colorful décor, when he noticed Norm in his peripheral vision. His head was tilted back slightly, and he was inhaling slow and deliberate breaths; his eyes half-closed.

“What are you doing?”

“What?” Norm’s eyes popped open.

“You know what I’m talking about. You were acting like you were in a trance or something.”

“I was taking in the aromas,” Norm waved his hands as if he was attempting to force more of the fragrance to his nose. “You know, the Middle Eastern ambiance.”

“Oh, excuse me.” Mike rolled his eyes as he turned back toward the sound of approaching footsteps.

A short fat man followed the returning hostess. He was attempting to remove his dirty apron from his expanded middle before reaching the officers, but was having some difficulty with the knot. Once he succeeded, he rolled the apron into a ball and threw it behind the counter. He shoved out his hand.

“Welcome. I am Mustafa. I am honored to have you visit my restaurant. What is it that I can do for you gentlemen today? May I get you something to eat?”

“No, thank you,” Mike said, holding up his ID once again.

“Speak for yourself,” Norm said as he followed suit. “This place smells great.”

“Thank you.” Mustafa’s belly shook with laughter, grateful for Norm’s compliment.

Mike glanced at Norm and forced himself to refrain from comment. “Mr. Mustafa, I’m Detective Neal and this is Detective Wallace. We would like to speak with you for a few minutes about an incident we were told took place in your parking lot yesterday morning.”

“Sure. What incident is that?” Mustafa said, puzzled.

“I believe there was an auto accident involving one of your employees and a customer, Mr. Daran Hamid.” Mike acted as if he knew very little about the wreck.

“Oh, yes. One of my servers, he was late for work, and he struck Daran’s rear bumper. It was very unfortunate. I think Ahmed said a delivery truck stopped in front of Daran and he could not stop in time. Is that why you are here?”

“That’s part of why we are here.” Mike explained.

“Why was Mr. Hamid here so early? Were you open?” Mike asked.

“No, we had not yet opened. He came in to order food for his party last night. He was celebrating his American citizenship. But, he never came back last night to pick up his order.”

“Is Mr. Hamid a regular customer?” Norm asked.

“No. Another one of our regular customers, Mr. Zaid Zebari is Daran’s employer. He owns Z.Z. Maintenance and recommended us to Daran for his party.”

“I see. Mr. Mustafa, Daran Hamid was killed last night.”

“What? No,” Mustafa said. “What happened?”

“He was murdered as he left his work at Cumberland Plaza to come here,” Mike said.

“Oh, my. He was such a nice young man. This is so sad.” Mustafa looked from Mike to Norm.

“Can we speak with your employee, Mr. ...” Mike asked, waiting for Mustafa to fill in the name.

“Ahmed, Ahmed al-Zubaidy. I am sorry. It is Wednesday and he works our dinner on Wednesdays. He does not arrive until four o’clock. You are welcome to come back, but I would ask you to please speak to him before work or during his break. You see, we are very busy at dinner and my staff is limited.”

“Yes, I see. Do you have Mr. al-Zubaidy’s home address?”

“Yes, I will get it for you. The little man waddled off toward the kitchen.”

Mike turned to Norm, “Looks like he’s been sampling his own creations.”

“I’d like to try some myself,” Norm confessed. “It smells fantastic.”

When he returned, Mustafa was carrying a white paper bag. It contained samples for Mustafa’s newest fan. He handed the bag to Norm and smiled.

“Here you are detective. Enjoy, compliments of Mustafa’s.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mustafa.” Norm smiled. “You’re very kind.”

The manager had a grease-stained file folder under his arm. He began to thumb through it. “Let me see, his application is in here somewhere.”

“How long has he been with your restaurant?” Mike asked.

“Oh,” He stopped and touched his head with his thumb and forefinger as if this would conjure the information. “He came here about three, maybe four months ago, I think. A restaurant where he worked in New York City recommended him highly.”

“Which one?” Norm asked.

Mustafa turned over the application. “It was called Karim’s Baghdad in Manhattan. I remember, I called them, and they gave him an excellent reference.”

“Do you still have the number for the restaurant?” Mike asked.

“Yes, it is here.” Mustafa handed Mike the application and pointed to the number.

“Did he say why he was moving to Nashville?” Norm asked while making notes on his pad.

“Oh no, I do not question my people about their personal lives. I feel it is their business and not mine. As long as they come to work and do what I need, that is all I require.”

Mike stepped back into the lobby and called the New York phone number on his cell. After several rings, the voice that answered said, “Message Number 142: The wireless number you have reached is no longer in service.”

Mike closed his phone and immediately received a voicemail announcement left while he was on the phone. Mike called for the voicemail.

“Mike,” Burris said on the recording, “TBI called. Some of the prints from the Hamid scene came back from the state’s AFIS. They belong to a Marcus Dalton. He’s an ex-con, sent up for dealing coke here in the city. He was released a couple of months ago and is currently employed at a car wash on Charlotte Avenue called Details-Details. The shop is run by another ex-con, Henry Boudreaux who went straight several years ago. See what you can find out. They’re still working on the other prints.”

Mike knew there was a possibility that Hamid was killed for money by some drugged up freak. There were tens of thousands of them in the TBI’s Automated Fingerprint Identification System, but his gut was screaming at him that this killer knew his victim and he had a grudge.

He turned to Norm. “The New York number was a disconnected cell phone. I suppose al-Zubaidy’s Nashville address will also turn out to be bogus.”

“Who was that on the phone?” Norm asked.

“Burris. TBI has a match on some of the prints from the parking garage.”

Hillcrest Apartments

Nashville, Tennessee

Wednesday Afternoon

“Yes,” Ahmed said.

“I cannot talk long. Mustafa will hear me.”

“Jamil? What is it?”

“The police were here.”

“When?”

“They left, just now.”

“What did they want?”

“I could not hear well, but they were talking with Mustafa out front. He was playing the submissive Iraqi the entire time. He makes me sick.”

“Jamil, why were they there?”

“I saw Mustafa pointing to the parking lot. I heard him say your name. He told them what time you come to work today. Later, I saw him take a file folder and some food to them. One of the policemen made a phone call, and then they left. That was all I saw.”

“Who did the policeman call on the phone?”

“I could not hear him speak to anyone. After he finished his call, I heard him say to the other policeman, ‘I suppose his address here will also turn out to be bogus.’ What is bogus?”

“Never mind that. How long were they there?”

“Maybe twenty minutes.”

“Jamil, do not say a word to anyone.”

“I will not talk to anyone but you, Ahmed.”

“Good. Thank you, my brother. Allah shall reward you for your service.”

Ahmed closed his cell phone.

“Who was that?” asked Abdul.

“It was Jamil, one of the cooks at Mustafa’s.”

“What was he talking about?

“The police were there, asking questions; detectives asking about me.” He looked up at Abdul.

“When?” Abdul asked.

“He called as soon as they left the restaurant. The dog, Mustafa, must have his tongue removed.”

“What is happening here, Ahmed? I told all of you to keep to yourselves. What is this about?”

Ahmed shook his head. “I bumped a car in the parking lot at the restaurant.”

“What do you mean you bumped a car?”

“This man stopped suddenly in the parking lot. I could not stop. My car slipped in the gravel, and I hit the rear of his car.”

“Idiot.”

“It was an accident. It was hardly scratched.”

“An accident? You are putting the plan and all of us in jeopardy with your thoughtless ways. Do you not understand? Look at all this.” Abdul waved his arm. “This is a pig sty. You have all become a disappointment to Farid, to Allah, and to me.”

“It was an accident. It could not be helped.”

“It could have been helped if you were thinking about what is at stake and driving properly.”

“You weren’t there. You do not know.”

“I did not have to be there to know you are reckless,” Abdul shouted. “What happened with this other driver?”

“He got out of his car and looked at the bumper. He was upset. He kept saying ‘no, no, no, not today.’ He looked at his watch and said, ‘I do not have time for this.’ He acted like he had somewhere he had to be in a hurry. He asked me for my driver’s license and proof of insurance card. He gave me his license and another card. I did not know what it was. Then he wrote down the information from my driver license and the number from the license plate on the car.”

“You do not have an insurance card,” Abdul said. “Only Sajid has that card.”

“He did not know that. I told him I had lost my insurance card. He asked who my insurance was with. I did not know what to say, so I told him it was the same company as his.”

“That is when he handed me my license and asked me when I was working.”

“Why did you tell him you worked there?” Abdul asked.