WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (33 page)

“Sounds like you may be right,” Mike said.

“This is all we need,” Cris said, “a serial killer targeting Middle Easterners right before this high profile conference.”

“That’s why we have to end this now,” Burris said. “I’ve already called Mathis and Rains. They were assigned this case and they are at the scene now. I told them if you also feel the two homicides are related, then they are to relinquish the lead on this one to you and Cris. But they’re to remain on board to assist you in whatever way they can.”

“Thanks. We can use the help,” Mike said. “We’ll be in touch when we know something.”

The cruiser groaned into a lower gear as it climbed the inclined drive to the Hillcrest Apartments. The scene was already approaching chaos. The hilltop complex offered moderate parking space for the tenants. Spaces were limited to two per unit, and at this hour on a weeknight, most everyone was at home.

“I hate arriving late to a crime scene,” Mike said. “So much is at risk from so many people who don’t get it. Mathis and Rains are good. I hope they’ve been able to control access to the scene.”

Emergency equipment was parked in all directions near the entrance to apartment 10-D. Red and blue strobe lights illuminated the complex. The fire trucks, ambulance, and at least a half-dozen patrol cars filled the drive blocking all access to and from the apartments located behind the crime scene. If not for the excitement of the crime, the tenants’ temporary inability to come and go could have been a major problem, but at the moment, they were focused on the events on their front doorstep.

Mike pulled the cruiser as close to the apartment as he could. As soon as he stopped, a TV remote broadcast van pulled in behind him. He walked to the rear of the car, looked at the six or so inches between the bumper on the van and the car’s trunk. As he stared through the windshield at the van’s driver, Mike pushed his sports jacket back and put his hand in his pocket exposing his shield and Glock. The van rolled backward three feet. Mike opened the trunk, grabbed a few pairs of gloves and Tyvek shoe covers, and handed some to Cris. He took his notepad and started for the apartment.

The tape for the outer crime scene perimeter blocked the inquisitive tenants and the media from getting close to the apartment. Every time one of the emergency responders opened the apartment door, camera flashes went off like automatic weapons. So far, it was the closest thing to access the hungry reporters had to whatever was creating this spectacle.

Mike and Cris approached the tape and after signing in at the command table, they pulled on their gloves and shoe covers. They stepped up onto the stoop, and as Mike opened the apartment door he could tell the unit had long been deprived of fresh air. It reeked from the smell of rotting food and heavy cigarette smoke. A large ashtray sat on the dining room table partially filled with, and completely encircled by, what must have been pints of thick reddish-brown blood that hours ago had been pumped onto the table until the man’s brain notified his heart to stop. The victim’s face occupied the middle of the blood pool.

Cris grunted to herself when she saw the body. “Wow. He pissed off somebody.”

Mike pulled his digital camera from his jacket and began his personal attempt to document the scene. As he made his way toward the victim, Mike could see the bloody gash. It was so long that even though the victim’s head was face down on the table, the wound was visible on both sides of the man’s neck.

Mike was careful not to step in the blood that had dripped from several points around the table and pooled onto the short-pile carpeting. Through a doorway to what appeared to be a small bedroom, he spotted Detective Mathis making notes. He heard Rains talking to a crime scene tech in the kitchen.

With Cris in his wake, Mike stepped into the kitchen area.

“Learned anything yet?”

“Hey, Mike. Only that this unit was occupied by three men over the last few months who were believed to be of Middle Eastern decent. The victim is believed to be one of those three, and the whereabouts of the other two is still unknown. One of the manager’s crew told him he saw the other two and an additional man loading their belongings into a large dark SUV today.”

“What time was that?” Cris asked.

“The manager said about fourteen hundred.”

“Did you get a description on the men?” Mike asked.

“Mathis has it. Hey, what’s this I hear about Norm?”

“He had a heart attack this afternoon.”

“That’s what Mathis told me. Is he okay? Where is he?”

“He’s at St. Thomas with a couple of stents in him. They say he’s gonna to be okay.”

“Wow. That’s scary,” Rains said. “He’s younger than I am.”

“Yeah, and a hundred pounds heavier,” Mike said. “What’s the status on our techs?”

“The photographer is finished. He got here just after we did. The sketches are being completed and prints are being collected now. The lieutenant called a little while ago. He thinks this may be related to your Cumberland Plaza case, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “I think it may have too much in common not to be.”

“So, are you assuming lead investigator?” Rains asked.

“Yeah, but don’t let that numb your instincts. We’re still going to need all the skills we can summon if we’re going to solve these two by Friday.”

“Friday?”

“Yeah, that’s the task,” Mike said, “straight from the Chief and the Mayor.”

“Wow, no wonder he wants us all on this. Hmm. Okay. What do you want me to focus on?”

“Right now let’s make sure we get all the evidence that’s here. The place is a mess and that means sloppiness on the part of the suspects. So, there should be plenty of chances for prints, trace and DNA. Make sure we get some of those uncontaminated butts from the ashtray on the table. The brand looked familiar.”

“I thought they were all Arabic,” Rains said.

“They are. Remember, the more data we get from here, the better our chances to find a parallel with the Cumberland Plaza case. I’m going to find Mathis and see what he’s discovered from the manager. Cris, why don’t you check with the print tech and make sure we are getting
all
surfaces printed and not just the easy ones.”

“Got it,” Cris said.

Mike almost ran into Mathis as he was coming out of the bedroom. He was still scribbling; his mind on his notes.

“Hello, Mike. How’s Norm?”

“He’s okay. He’ll be back in a few days.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“What did you find out from the manager?”

“Mr. Alvarez said these three signed a one year lease about four months ago. He said they’re students at TSU. They drove a maroon four-door Nissan Sentra, early nineties model and they had another old car, but he didn’t recall the make or model. He didn’t know the plates. He said one of them, the tallest of the group, was the only one he ever spoke with. His name was Aziz. He always paid the rent on time, and he paid with cash.”

“What was his take on all this?” Mike nodded toward the body.

“He wasn’t much help. He said they were quiet. He never heard anything strange coming from the apartment. For the most part, at least until the abrupt move-out, they were model tenants.”

“What about this new guy the manager’s employee saw today?”

“He said his assistant told him the man was dressed well in a dark suit, not like the students,” Mathis said. “He said he was older, late thirties, early forties, but did not appear old enough to be their father.”

“Middle Eastern like them?”

“Yeah. He said he thought so,” Mathis said.

“What about the vehicle?”

“A dark SUV; maybe black,” Mathis said. “He wasn’t sure of the year or make.”

“That narrows it down; a nice looking well-dressed man in a dark SUV. Not too many of those in Nashville,” Mike said facetiously. “We gotta catch a break from somewhere.”

“Mike.”

“Yeah, Cris.”

“I talked with the manager outside, and I asked him if he’d ever noticed what time these three came and went. He said they usually left in the morning around o seven hundred, presumably for classes. Then, they came home in the afternoons and left again around sixteen hundred most days.”

“Did he know where they were going?” Mike asked.

“Not until he and Mrs. Alvarez were having dinner a few weeks ago and saw two of them working at Mustafa’s.”

“Interesting,” Mike said. “What else did he tell you?”

“He said—I was beautiful,” Cris said, proudly with a smile.

“You’re kidding?” Mathis said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cris asked, offended.

“Nothing,” Mathis said, wishing he’d thought twice before speaking. “I ...”

“You what? Cris asked.

“I didn’t mean anything,” Mathis said. “I thought it was a strange thing for him to say.”

“He said I reminded him of his daughter in Guatemala,” Cris said. “He hasn’t seen her in six years.”

“That’s sad,” Mike said.

“Truly,” Cris said.

Mike’s cell phone rang.

“Mike Neal.”

“Detective Neal, this is Hoshyar.”

“Hoshyar. How is your family?”

Cris turned to watch Mike, interested in what Daran Hamid’s cousin had to say.

“We are still hurting. Have you arrested anyone yet?”

“I’m sorry, no. We’re working on it.”

“You asked us to call you if we thought of anything that might be helpful to your investigation.”

“Yes. Do you have something?”

“I called to tell you Zena found something I think could be important for you. I am not sure.”

“Great. What is it?”

“It is a piece of paper, maybe—like a receipt.”

“Okay.”

“I think it is the receipt from Mustafa’s when Daran ordered the food for his party.”

“Where did you find it?”

“There was a bag in the refrigerator; a white bag. Zena opened it and saw that it was baklava; the baklava Daran told her Mustafa gave to him as a gift when he ordered his food. The paper was inside, stuck to the bottom of the plastic container.”

Mike immediately recalled Norm with his head stuck in the bag smelling the baklava. “Why do you think the receipt might be important?”

“There is writing on the back,” Hoshyar said. “It is Daran’s handwriting.”

Mustafa’s Restaurant

Nashville, Tennessee

Wednesday Late Evening

“Welcome to Mustafa’s,” the hostess said. “Oh. Hello, detective. Will you and the Mrs. be having dinner with us this evening?”

“No, thank you,” Mike said. “Detective Vega and I need to speak with Mr. Mustafa.”

Cris continued to hold up her shield.

“Sorry,” she said looking at Cris. “I will get him. Can I get you anything to drink while you wait?”

“No, thank you,” Mike said. “Just Mr. Mustafa.”

“I will be right back.”

Mike turned to Cris and smiled.

“I’m used to living in a man’s world.” She returned the smile. “This place sure smells good.”

“That’s the same thing Norm said when we were here this afternoon. It does smell nice. Maybe we’ll eat lunch here sometime.”

“Hello, my friend,” Mustafa announced as he waddled up to the lobby.

“Mr. Mustafa, this is Detective Vega.”

“I am honored to meet you, Detective. And where is my friend Detective Wallace?”

“Detective Wallace is—unavailable this evening.”

“I hope he enjoyed Mustafa’s cuisine.” The fat man smiled with pride.

“I’m sure he did,” Mike said. We are continuing to investigate the Hamid case and some new information has come to light. It has brought us back to you.”

“What information is that? Come with me please.” Mustafa led the detectives to the quiet of the private dining room.”

“We’ll get to it shortly,” Mike said as he opened his tablet. “But, I need you to tell me exactly what happened yesterday morning when Mr. Hamid was here to order his food. I need to know everything you can remember.”

“Let me see.” Mustafa challenged his memory then communicated everything he remembered in as much detail as he could. In conclusion he said, “I am not sure what else there is I can tell you.”

“What about Ahmed al-Zubaidy?” Cris asked. “Did you talk with him yesterday morning?”

“Yes. I asked Ahmed why he was late. He told me about the collision, and that he had to exchange information with the driver. I told you this already, did I not?”

“Yes,” Mike said. “We often have to cover information more than once. Please indulge us.”

“What else did he tell you about the wreck?” Cris asked.

“I remember he said it was his first auto accident. I asked him whose car it was he hit. He described Daran and asked me who he was. I told him that he was a customer who had been referred to us by Mr. Zaid Zebari. Ahmed asked me how he could get in touch with Daran in order to pay him for the damages to his car. I told him I knew Daran worked for Z.Z. Maintenance Company cleaning offices here in the city. He thanked me and I think that was all he said. I assumed he would take care of the damage with Daran.”

“When did you last hear from al-Zubaidy?”

“I—uh, have not spoken with him today. I guess it was yesterday when he called to say he was sick and would not be at work. He is scheduled to work tonight’s dinner.”

“I don’t think you’ll see him tonight,” Cris said as she looked at Mike.

Mike pulled his digital camera from his pocket and scanned through the images until he found one that showed al-Zubaidy’s face before the Medical Examiner’s team took him from the apartment. He zoomed into the image until the blood and the young man’s open throat were not visible.

“Would you be willing to look at a picture of him? We have no one else to confirm his identity.”

“I ... I guess so.”

Mike held out the camera’s display screen.

Mustafa covered his mouth and gasped. He looked up at Mike and nodded. “What happened?”

“He was murdered a short time ago in one of the units at the Hillcrest Apartments.” Mike returned the camera to his pocket and retrieved the receipt Hoshyar had given him.

“Is this from your register?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Turn it over,” Mike said. “According to his cousin, that is Daran Hamid’s handwriting.”