WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (39 page)

Rob said the environmentally hardy B anthracis spores are heat resistant, and can survive for decades in soil; and in some cases, water. Can you believe that?

“Amazing.” Mike took a swig of Jack and kept reading.

He dispatched two Haz-Mat teams in an attempt to trace the tainted water back to its origin. They followed the river into the mountain. The farther they moved northward, the higher the concentration of the toxin. They reached the point where they believe the water was leaving the mountain, and tested the water there. They found levels of Anthrax in excess of three-hundred parts per million.

Yesterday, one of the engineering teams on the northern slope radioed, stating they found spills of cement exposed near the base of what appeared to be a rock slide. When they pulled the rock away, they exposed a solid wall of rock and concrete.

The impact echo told them the wall is approximately twelve feet thick. Sometime in the next twenty-four hours they plan to drill a two inch hole, install a plug, and seal it until the atmospheric probe arrives from the United States. The probe will capture a gas sample from inside the wall, and tell them what dangers await them.

The Iraq Survey Group asked me to extend to you their thanks for your suspicions and your doggedness, but most especially for your continued service.

“Hooah!” Mike shouted.

I’ll send you an update in a day or two. Keep your fingers crossed. This could be huge.

- Tim

Mike’s pride swelled as he considered the possibility of the Iraq Survey Group uncovering weapons of mass destruction in the location he had been describing for years as Saddam’s closet. But he was more moved by the idea that he may have had a hand in saving hundreds, maybe thousands, of people from serious illness or death.

Davidson County Court House

Nashville, Tennessee

Thursday Early Evening

“Manuel Avila.”

The gang banger turned to see who had spoken his name. He had just met with his public defender and was out of his element around the courthouse. Having someone recognize him could mean trouble. Even though he rarely wore gang colors any more, his tattoos made him easily recognizable to numerous unfriendly people. He’d learned to wear long sleeves and remain conscious of his surroundings at all times.

“Como estas?”
the well-dressed man said as he stood up straight after leaning on the black Porsche Carrera. “I’m Trent Delaney, attorney with Miller, Ramirez and Hart,” the man said using excellent Spanish. Delaney extended a hand with his business card and took a step back so as not to create apprehension in Avila.

Avila accepted the card with his left hand and squinted at it. He remained in a defensive mode. He did not know any whites that he trusted. His right hand remained formed into a fist and poised behind his thigh.

“I won’t take but a few minutes of your time. I know you don’t know me, but I know about your case. Vehicular homicide is always a very serious matter. The fact that the deceased, Mrs. Julie Evans, had terminal breast cancer will play on the jury’s sympathies and weaken your case. But, I want to share with you something I’m certain can help you get through this without a long prison stay.

“About ten years ago, our law firm began a practice of extending legal services to members of the Hispanic community at no cost. That’s right,” Delaney nodded. “Free.”

The word free elevated Avila’s attention, but he had learned long ago that nothing in this life was ever free.

“In legal circles, it’s known as
pro bono
. We began this service after one of our senior partners, Luis Ramirez, brought to our attention the growing need for this service in the expanding Hispanic community here in Nashville. I understand that you have a public defender representing you. Is that right?”

“Si.”
Avila nodded, hesitant to say anything else and determined not to respond in English.

“I’m not sure if you realize it, but these public defenders are severely over-worked and grossly underpaid. On occasion, they are attempting to represent up to twenty or more clients at the same time. Have you had trouble trying to contact your attorney on the phone, or to set up meetings?”

Avila nodded again with a disgusted look.

“We all know no one can serve that many clients at once and give each one adequate, much less appropriate, representation. As a large successful law firm here in Nashville with ties to the Hispanic community and over twenty attorneys on staff, we can offer you a much improved level of accessibility and representation. You can see how this would improve your chances in court, right?”

Avila paused, shrugged then answered softly,
“Si.”

Delaney looked at his watch. “Hey, I’ve got a couple of hours before I need to be anywhere. What do you say we run over to Las Cervezas del Mundo, grab a couple of drinks and talk about your case? Have you ever had
Jose Cuervo Reserva De Familia?”

“No,” Avila lied.

“It is the best tequila ever.” Delaney smiled. “Let’s grab some shots and talk. What do you say? My car is right here.” Delaney extended his hand toward the Porsche.

Avila hesitated briefly, and then stepped toward the car.

The two men dropped into the low riding seats of the sleek sports car, and Delaney talked about his favorite tequilas for the five minutes it took to reach the restaurant.

Delaney ordered their tequila and Avila lit a cigarette.

For the next forty-five minutes, Delaney talked about pro bono services and what Avila could expect from Miller, Ramirez and Hart. The
Jose Cuervo
seemed to loosen Avila, and he became more talkative.

After four shots worth of Avila’s banter about his public defender, Delaney’s cell phone rang. He checked his watch and said to the caller, “I’m sorry. I forgot. I’ll be right there, honey.”

“Manuel, I forgot I promised my wife I would take her to dinner tonight. Are you married?”

Avila wrinkled his brow. He painfully recalled an agonizing chapter from what he referred to as his
former life
, and shook his head.

“If you were, you would understand.” Delaney laughed. “Where can I drop you?”

“Mi coche,”
Avila said, and then drained his beer.

“No problem,” Delaney said.

As the two men walked toward the Porche, Delaney stopped.

“Damn. I forgot to leave a tip. I know the owner here, and I have to leave one. He’s a client of our firm. I’ll be right back.” Delaney hurried toward the restaurant reaching for his wallet.

Avila turned and continued to walk across the parking lot. He pulled his cigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook one out and grasped it with his lips. He stopped, cupped his hands and spun the flint wheel on his Zippo. The lighter closed with a sharp metallic click as he pulled deep into his lungs a mouthful of smoke from the unfiltered cigarette. As he leaned his head back and enjoyed the rush from the nicotine, he recalled the day this
circus of legal bullshit
had all started—when he was following the gangster that had the balls to pull a gun on Manuel Avila.

Then, that bitch had to get in the way, and wreck my damn car. Maybe this smooth-talkin’ jerk can make it all go away, so I can stop worrying about everybody else and get back to my life.

The smoke was escaping his nose and open mouth when his head jerked sideways less than an inch. His eyes flared briefly. His body buckled, and he hit the pavement, hard.

When Delaney returned from the restaurant, he saw Avila stretched out on the parking lot near the Porsche and a small crowd standing over him. One man was attempting CPR.

Delaney knelt beside Avila. “What happened?”

A man said, “He just dropped to the pavement.”

“There’s blood.” A woman pointed to Avila’s head.

Delaney checked for a pulse. He saw the phony business card he had given Avila protruding part way from his shirt pocket. Acting as though he was checking his breathing, he palmed the card as he asked the crowd, “Has anyone called 911?”

“Yes,” Someone said.

“Thank you.”

The sirens grew louder. The Nashville Fire Department was first to arrive with a huge red truck. The crowd stepped back and gave room to the men who were trained to save lives. This one, however, would not be saved.

Delaney decided to sit in his car, watch the scene and wait for the detectives to arrive.

He spotted the black Crown Victoria as it rolled up close to the scene with its blue strobes flashing. Delaney decided not to wait for the detectives to find him. As a fellow detective, he wanted to appear interested and willing to assist with the investigation in any way he could.

He explained to the detective who had climbed from the driver’s seat that he was a private investigator, and that Avila had approached him at the courthouse after overhearing him talking with another Hispanic client. “He told me he was uncomfortable with his current representation and would feel better with someone who spoke his language and who could understand him. I explained to him I did investigative work for three local law firms who frequently worked in the Hispanic community.”

The detective scribbled on a small pad as he nodded his understanding.

“He wasn’t sure how pro bono worked, so I explained it. He asked how he could be considered for it. I told him about the procedures, and he was interested. After we talked a while, he suggested we come here to have a drink and discuss his case.”

Delaney told the detective he was not sure what happened, since he was not with Avila at the time. He told him that after talking with Avila here at the restaurant for quite a while, he had reason to believe the man was a member of a local gang and his death could have been related to his violent lifestyle.

“I was about to take Mr. Avila back to the courthouse to get his car when I found him like this. Did anyone say they heard anything, or saw anything?”

The detective had several more questions, but Delaney found him predictably unwilling to answer any of his. When asked for his business card, Delaney made sure the detective received the real one.

“It’s okay for you to go.” The detective handed Delaney his MNPD card. “But, stay close to your phone. There may be more questions.”

“No problem,” Delaney read the card, then looked up. “Detective Neal, I’d be glad to help any way I can.”

The Carrera’s four hundred plus horsepower whined as Delaney accelerated from the restaurant parking lot and moved through a halfdozen gears. He flipped open his cell phone to view the message that had vibrated his phone during his discussion with the detective. It read, Missed Call: Brad Evans.

He pushed the send button to return the call.

“Hello.”

“Nice shot. Thanks for missing my car.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you feel better?”

“No,” Brad paused, “I’m not sure that’s possible. But, at least I feel some damn justice has finally been done for my Julie.”

Las Cervezas del Mundo

Nashville, Tennessee

Thursday Evening

Mike was unsure about Delaney’s version of the facts. Most of his suspicions were driven by his past experience with private investigators that weren’t old enough to have come from the seasoned ranks of Nashville’s, or any other city’s, police department. Delaney looked to be a rich pretty boy who was stroking his ego by carrying a P.I. license and a gun, and relishing an inflated opinion of his novice investigative skills.

Following his discussions with some of the restaurant’s patrons, Mike snapped digital photos of the body, the crime scene and its surroundings. He assessed the buildings near the site which could provide cover for a person interested in killing Avila.

No one at the restaurant had admitted hearing or seeing anything helpful, other than Avila suddenly collapsing to the pavement. Witnesses remembered Delaney drinking and talking with Avila at one of the patio tables, but they all said that neither Delaney, nor anyone else, was near Avila when he collapsed.

Gang bangers were well-known for executions of competing gang members, but they were not known for sniping. On the contrary, they were famous for the in-your-face execution. They wanted their prey to know who was cancelling their ticket. Very little in the gangster world was meant to be covert, outside of their money-making ventures and any clandestine relations with the police.

Mike stepped toward the cars parked along a wall that provided the perimeter to the restaurant parking lot and the backdrop to the crime scene. He had just started to inspect the vehicles when Cris joined him from behind.

“Looking for this?” She pointed to a small hole in the plastic bumper on the rear of a black Honda Pilot.

Mike squatted for a closer look. “Good eye.” He rotated his body so he could look from the area of the bullet hole up through a calculated point where Avila’s head would have been at the time. He snapped a photo. “Assuming Avila was walking toward the spot where Delaney’s Porsche was parked, this gives us a broad-spectrum possibility of the bullet’s point of origin. We know the bullet passed through Avila’s head left to right and after who knows how much deflection, it hit the Honda. Your thoughts?”

“Sounds logical,” Cris said, “based upon the limited intuitive data we have at this point.”

Mike looked up at Cris. “Now that was about as politically correct an answer as I’ve heard in a long while. You should be promoted in no time.”

Cris folded her arms across her chest and faked a frown.

“Sergeant,” Mike shouted for the crime scene supervisor. “I’d like you to have your officers check the roof tops and any spaces with windows on this side, within these two blocks.” Mike gestured using both arms. “But have them work mostly in these three buildings here.” Mike pointed at the structures he thought offered the most likely chance of discovery.