WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (38 page)

“No, I didn’t. He did make a comment on the trip back from Kentucky, and maybe I should have picked up on it then. He said he thought the formula for the agent must be worth millions. I thought, at the time, he was simply impressed by your ingenuity. I guess I missed his true intentions.”

“Forget it, Brad. It wasn’t
your
intention. Are you okay?”

“Sure.”

“Was he a friend of yours?” Roger asked.

“No. I met him a couple of days ago through a friend. Garrison had money. I wanted money. He had connections to help me find justice for Julie. It looked promising for a while. Garrison was a silver-tongued devil. That’s for sure. He had those folks at the lodge ready to go to war on his signal. It was sorta scary, now that I look back on it.”

“Well, I don’t think his cult is going to be able to escape the attention of law enforcement officials for a while.”

“Oh?”

“His army took a big first step today, but I’m guessing it’ll also be their last one.”

“What do you mean?” Brad asked.

“They blew the bomb at The Centurion less than an hour ago.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah. When I heard about the explosion, I called the Nashville Police and confessed to selling Garrison the Semtex.”

“You did what?” Brad said.

“I didn’t identify myself, and I didn’t place the call from here. I may have told a few lies, but only enough to get them interested in Garrison’s little club.”

“Payback can be painful,” Brad said.

“Very true, but I will say I’m grateful to Garrison for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Getting that bomb past the heightened level of security that was in place at The Centurion today provides me a better testimonial than I could possibly pay for. Garrison’s efforts today may very well make me the million dollars he predicted my formula is worth.”

“That’s ironic,” Brad said.

“Where is the body, anyway?” Roger asked.

“Still at his desk in his study, I guess. His house is just a few miles from the lodge.”

“How did you arrange that?”

“I didn’t have to,” Brad said. “After you called, I made a call to the lodge. They said he was at home. I’m just glad he liked to work with his windows open in the spring. It made it much easier to line him up. You remember how accurate the XM21 was in Nam?”

“Yeah, I remember all you shooters took care of those rifles like they were female.”

“Garrison gave me one yesterday as a gift,” Brad said.

“You are kidding?”

“No. He told me I earned it with my service to America, and I should consider it a thank you gift.”

“Now
that’s
ironic.”

Nashville International Airport

Thursday Afternoon

He found an isolated row of seats away from the other waiting passengers. Buried behind his newspaper and his natural do-not-talk-to-me scowl, he was biding his time until the call to board.

Abdul glanced at his wristwatch to see how long before he would be airborne and away from this soon-to-be city in turmoil.

Less than a half-hour until the flight and only a few more minutes for Allah’s glorious retribution. Karim will honor his father, complete this jihad and achieve his reward today in paradise.

By now, Sajid has left the city in the SUV, and is on his way north.

Suddenly, Abdul’s newspaper collapsed from his hands onto his lap. “What the ...?” He jumped from his seat, prepared to defend himself.

As he stood, a foam rubber football fell with his paper from his lap onto the carpet. The six-year-old boy, who missed the errant pass from his brother, fell in front of Abdul, but not before he stepped on Abdul’s Italian loafers.

Two small boys stood before the enraged man frozen by his angry face.

“You two need a beating,” he said aloud in Arabic before he realized he was speaking. He looked around to see if anyone witnessed his reaction. He kicked the football and jerked his paper up from the floor. Returning to his seat, Abdul straightened the paper and spread it in front of his face convincing himself he did not care who may have translated his rant.

These American dogs should teach their offspring more respect for other people.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a pleasant female voice came over the public address system. “Welcome to Nashville and American Airlines. It is now time for us to begin boarding our Flight #2976, service to New York City with a brief stop in Washington, DC.”

Abdul gathered his newspaper, stuffed it into his carry-on bag and walked to the boarding line that was forming from the gate. He could not leave this place fast enough.

He didn’t notice the attractive CNN anchor on the monitor hanging from the ceiling until she interrupted regular programming. “We have breaking news from The Centurion Hotel near downtown Nashville, Tennessee where hundreds have gathered for the Kurdish-American Conference.”

Abdul’s eyes widened and he turned toward the TV. The screen displayed a live aerial shot of the hotel with people fleeing through the exits like bees from a hive. He checked his wristwatch, then turned his attention back to the monitor suspended over the waiting area.

Assuming Karim had triggered the device, he mumbled to himself in Arabic, “No! Karim, you fool. It is too early.”

Criminal Justice Center

Nashville, Tennessee

Thursday Late Afternoon

“What do you think this is about?” Cris asked, as Mike parallel parked outside at the Criminal Justice Center.

“He didn’t say, but I’ve got an idea,” Mike said. “And, if I’m right— it’s gonna top off an already seriously shitty day.”

“What do you mean?” Cris asked.

Mike turned off the ignition and turned in his seat to face Cris.

“Okay. As guilty as Mullins looked initially, the video from the beer market confirmed his whereabouts and saved his red neck from a murder charge.

It appears al-Zubaidy must have killed Daran Hamid. His prints were on the Acura, too many for casual contact. I figure al-Zubaidy feared the potential for his exposure and decided to take Hamid out of the picture to protect the plan to attack the conference.”

“Okay,” Cris agreed.

“Burris told us this morning, the FBI’s AFIS kicked back partial prints suspected of belonging to a known international terrorist named Abdul Malik Kadir, who the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division says is aligned with Farid al-Rishari. This madman is linked to bin Laden and al Qaeda. Obviously, these discoveries tie both al-Zubaidy’s and Hamid’s murders to Kadir and therefore to al-Rishari.”

“The apartment manager at Hillcrest stated there were three young Arab-looking men living in the apartment where we found al-Zubaidy’s body,” Cris said, “and Mustafa admitted all three worked for him at the restaurant.”

“Yes,” Mike said, “and I believe the body of one of the other two young radicals is now splattered across the Centurion’s ballroom and his soul is searching for his divine reward. I would like to think Jason could tell us which martyr got the assignment when he pulls the prints from the severed hand he found, but prints of young terrorists are not normally found in anyone’s AFIS.”

“What about the other Arab, and Kadir?” Cris asked.

“I don’t know, but now that their attempt at jihad has failed, I’d say Kadir and whoever else was left from his cadre of young impressionable fools, has moved on to their next holy war. Kadir is obviously too high up the chain to stick around and endanger himself.”

“So, you think Burris is going to pull us?”

“Not by his choice. Burris won’t like this any more than we do, but he has a job to do which includes following orders. The jurisdiction on known terrorists, international or otherwise, always falls to the feds.”

Mike got out and stood at the front of the car, waiting for Cris to join him.

“My guess is, Burris will take us to Moretti, where there’ll be suits waiting there with him. They’ll all stare at us without saying much, confident we’re sharp enough to know why they’re here.”

They walked toward the entrance.

“Moretti will introduce them. We’ll get the bad news. Then, all our work from this week will be turned over to them and we’ll be back on the streets tomorrow with our vinyl binders, looking to make some sense of our fellow citizens’ attempts at mutual destruction in Music City.”

“What about Hadley and Stephens—and the EMT?” Cris asked.

“The feds will allow us to stay involved to investigate their deaths if only to appease the Chief and the Mayor. We’ll have limited access to the scene and the facts. The investigation will be cumbersome at best.”

“And that’s it?” Cris asked.

“Will it help any—if I
want
to be wrong?”

Cris shook her head.

Having their fill of stairs for the day, they entered the building and took the elevator to Homicide.

As Mike opened the door, he could see Burris waiting at his desk, with a funeral face.

“Moretti’s office?” Mike asked, before he reached Burris’s doorway.

“Burris nodded with an apologetic look. He stood and joined them for the short walk.”

The glass panel next to Moretti’s door was filled with charcoal gray. The two men stood as Mike and Cris walked in.

“Mike—Cris,” Captain Moretti said, “I’d like you to meet Special Agent in Charge, Burton Jarvis of the Nashville field office and Special Agent Hal Pennington with the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division Ops II.”

Mike looked at the two men, nodded and turned back to Cris, “Sometimes I hate being right.”

Mike Neal’s Home

Nashville, Tennessee

Thursday Early Evening

Mike tossed his keys on the counter, walked to the bar, and wrapped his fist tight around the neck of what was left of a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. He looked at the bottle, and wished he had been able to do the same to the necks of Carl Garrison and the damned Arab maniac who caused the deaths of two fellow officers and an EMT.

Mike jammed a highball glass into the refrigerator’s ice dispenser hoping his friend Jack Daniel could help him get his mind on something else.

He walked to his desk and punched the power button on his desktop PC. He was headed for the bedroom to change into his workout gear when his cell phone rang.

“Mike Neal.”

“Mike. You okay?”

“Oh, I’m just peachy. How about you, Cris?”

“I’ll get over it. I thought you might want to know the TBI lab was able to analyze the contents of the vest.”

“How’d you hear so fast? Wait, don’t tell me. You’re dating one of the lab techs.”

“No way,” Cris said. “You underestimate me.”

Mike chuckled.

“I’m dating the lab
manager.”

“I knew it,” Mike said.

“It was Ricin.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. If he had been able to release that junk,” Cris said, “we’d have a hotel full of dying Kurds and cops tonight.”

“And a locked-down city inundated with feds by morning.”

“We may have that yet. The Center for Disease Control already has The Centurion under quarantine to be sure none was released.”

“I’ll bet that’s great for business,” Mike said.

“It could have been a lot worse.”

“Burris called me on the way home,” Mike said. “He told me they’d relocated the conference to the Convention Center. Maybe they’ll be able to salvage their meeting after all.”

“I’m surprised the Convention Center was available. Hey, before I forget, my friend at the TBI lab told me about a job opening they have for an experienced crime scene photographer.”

“Are you thinking about taking up photography?”

“No, but I told him about Carol,” Cris said. “And, I told her about the job. Was that okay?”

“Oh—sure. Maybe she’s interested,” Mike said, looking for a way to change the subject. “Hey, Burris brought up the graffiti artist shooting on Interstate 65. That was yours, right?”

“Yeah, mine and the Hog’s. I guess you and I will inherit that one.”

“It’ll be one of the first challenges for our return to the real world.”

“I guess so,” Cris said. “See you at seven?”

“Yeah, if not before. Cris, you did a good job today.”

She hesitated for a moment. “
Gracias, socio.”

“Socio
means partner, right?” Mike asked, always unsure of his negligible Spanish skills.

“Si.”

“Buenos noches,”
Mike said with an insecure smile on his face.

Cris laughed at Mike’s mis-pronunciation as she closed her phone.

By the time Mike returned to his computer, the desktop was loaded. He fell back into his chair, pushed the mouse across the pad and clicked the ISP icon to bring up his email. As per normal, he scanned first for email from Iraq. He wasn’t disappointed.

Hey, Buddy. Hope all is well in Nashville and you’re kicking some serious criminal ass.

Well, my friend, I’m gonna make your day. As I told you earlier in the week, I forwarded your email about Sinjar Mountain to Lieutenant Colonel Rob Vaughn. Initially, he said he believed you may be enjoying a little too much sour mash back there in Tennessee.

Mike held up his glass, and swirled the ice around in a salute to Jack Daniel.

But, after Rob read it all the way through, he called me.

His investigative teams discovered villages south of Sinjar City along the Wadi Al-Tharthar River, with people who have exhibited some serious symptoms that eventually resulted in a number of deaths.

Rob sent in a medical team who began testing the blood from hundreds of the people living along the river. They also tested sources of their drinking water. They found Anthrax spores right there in their damn water.

This river is the main watercourse running from Sinjar Mountain southward for about two hundred kilometers to the Tharthar salt depression. The Army has already flown in an alternative water source for the people.