WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (5 page)

Hub’s Place was not one of the classiest spots in Music City, but it was the safest. When you left Hub’s Place, you knew you had been protected, and your stomach knew you had been served.

The sound of cooks yelling “Order up,” the register ringing, the loud talking and laughter all told the detectives their old friend’s restaurant was still a big hit.

Mike and Norm took seats at one of the high-backed hardwood booths and grabbed menus, though they knew well what they would order.

Still as sharp as ever, the old cop didn’t miss a trick. Hub had caught sight of Mike and Norm as they crossed in front of the bar. He threw together two Steak ’n’ Cheese Combos and was on his way to their booth with the platters in the air when he shouted, “Two Hub combos for two of Nashville’s finest.” His raspy voice, a product of too many years of cigarettes, could be heard over the restaurant’s noise.

“Hub. How’s it going, you old fart?” Norm said.

Laughing, Hub sat the platters on the table then took a boxing stance and punched Norm in his right arm.

“Damn,” Norm grabbed his arm.

“It’s all good.” Hub shook hands with the detectives and they all laughed. “Hell, if business was any better, I’m not sure we could handle it.” A waitress appeared from behind Hub with two extra-large sweet teas.

“That’s great,” Mike said. “How’s the family?”

“Working their butts off in the kitchen, like me. It’s good to see you boys. How’s your duty?”

“It’s getting worse,” Mike said. “I’m afraid the city’s growth is bringing with it more of the bad to go with all this good.”

“Too many damn foreigners, like I been sayin’ for years. Everybody’s got to get a taste of Nashville. One of these days we’re gonna explode from all these people movin’ in here.”

“Hub, all these people are making you successful,” Norm said.

“Bullshit. Most of the people I’m feedin’ are tourists. They’re eatin’, lookin’, listenin’, and leavin’. And, that’s a good thing.” Hub laughed. “It leaves some room for the rest of us.”

“Hey listen, it’s great to see you two. I’ve gotta get back in the kitchen before Marge comes out here and kicks my ass, and my old ass has seen enough damage for one lifetime. Don’t stay away so long next time.” Hub leaned over putting his hands on both men’s shoulders. “Don’t try to pay for these combos either or I’ll have your asses arrested.”

“You don’t have to do that, Hub. We can pay,” Mike said.

“Oh, no. This one’s on the house. But, I better see you both back in here next week, and payin’, or I’ll have you picked up. You got that?” Hub acted as though he was going to punch Norm again.

“We got it, Hub,” Norm said, laughing and throwing up both hands as a defense.

Hub waved as he waddled back toward the kitchen.

“Look,” Mike said, tossing his head, “standing at the door.”

The young man was alone. He shielded his eyes with his hand and scanned the restaurant. Convinced this was their Crimestoppers witness, Norm stood and waved the young man over.

Weaving his way between the crowded tables, he arrived at the detectives’ booth. His employer’s name tag introduced him, but he still said, “Hi, my name is Derek Snell.”

“I’m Detective Wallace. This is Detective Neal,” Norm said, as he reached for his sandwich.

Mike rose halfway from his seat to shake the young man’s hand and then moved his platter to the back of the booth so Snell could sit. Mike knew from experience that there was a flying elbow danger zone on Norm’s right side that few had survived.

A waitress arrived at the booth soon after Snell sat. He gave her his order and looked from Norm to Mike and back.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Mike removed his pad and pen from his jacket and laid it next to his plate.

“Okay.” Snell inhaled. “I was coming home from work around ten. I worked over a little because we were real busy. I work down the street here at one of the tourist shops.” Snell looked at Norm, then at Mike. “You already know that, right?”

“Yeah—go on,” Norm mumbled, through a mouthful of steak.

“I pulled into the complex. I live in building number eight, by the way. I was driving up the entrance lane toward the apartment sign when this car came around the corner on my side of the drive almost on two wheels. He had to swerve to get back on his side.”

“Did you see the driver?” Mike asked.

“Yeah, sorta. He was dark-skinned. I think black. I couldn’t be sure. The dash lights were on him, so he was a little easier to see than the passenger. He looked black too, though. It was hard to tell.”

“Was there anyone else in the car?” Mike asked.

The waitress arrived with Snell’s cheese-fries and cola. He thanked her and waited for her to leave.

“I’m not sure. I couldn’t see the back seat. It happened pretty fast.”

“Describe the car,” Mike said.

“That’s what I saw best. You see, I used to have a ‘77 Chevrolet Caprice Classic Landau, and this car was the spittin’ image of the one I owned. Same color, four-door, vinyl half-roof, everything. Mine was stolen in the summer of 2000. I was so pissed. I only had liability. I didn’t get anything for it.”

“What color was the car?” Mike asked.

“Oh, sorry. It was Midnight Blue Metallic. Well, mine was. I’m pretty sure this one was too.”

“What else can you tell us about what you saw?” Mike asked.

“I noticed when my lights hit the car as he made the curve, the windshield about halfway across had a nasty crack like somebody hit it with a brick or a baseball or something. You know, one of those spider web cracks where the breaks in the glass are circular?” He held his hands out forming a large circle with his index fingers and thumbs. “I wondered if the car was mine. It didn’t look like mine did when
I
owned it. My Caprice was in good shape.” Snell looked at Norm. Mike was writing, and Norm was inhaling fries.

“Why didn’t you call the police last night?” Norm asked, dunking a cluster of French fries into a large puddle of ketchup.

“I didn’t know anything happened at the apartments until this morning.”

“You didn’t associate the sirens last night with the car speeding out of the complex?” Mike asked.

“I live in the back of the apartments, and in South Nashville we’ve got sirens twenty-four seven. They all sound like they’re out on Nolensville Road to me.”

“Can we have your phone numbers, at home and work so we can get in touch if we have any more questions?” Mike asked.

“Sure.” Snell gave Mike his numbers and ate more of his cheese fries.

“You gonna eat that?” Norm asked Mike while grinding the final bite of his sandwich.

“Why? You want it?” Mike asked what he knew was a dumb question.

“Well, there’s no sense in letting it go to waste.”

“Geez, Norm,” Mike handed the plate across the table.

“Well, if there’s nothing else, I gotta get back to work,” Snell said.

“Derek, thanks for your help,” Mike said. “If we make any headway with your information, Crimestoppers will be in touch.”

Snell scooted out of the booth and stood. “Let’s hope so. I could use the funds, and I’d like to think it might help you catch that boy’s killer.”

“Me too,” Mike said. “Thanks.”

Norm tossed his head and grunted a goodbye.

As Snell walked toward the door, Mike watched Norm vacuum the remains of the second sandwich and fries.

“Man, you have got to rein in that appetite. You’re gonna have trouble hitting your numbers on the POPAT in September.” Mike knew how taxing the Police Officer Physical Abilities Test could be for an officer who was accustomed to the exertion. Someone who was essentially sedentary and carrying Norm’s load could easily fail to meet his minimum limits and end up on suspension.

“That’s five months away.” Norm wiped the melted cheese from the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” Mike said, “and about thirty pounds.”

White Tail Lodge

Hubbard County, Tennessee

Monday Afternoon

“Damn it, Richard. I don’t care what it takes. Listen, you’ve got to use this opportunity to ramp up our image and our exposure. With a vehicle like the Internet available to us, we have a unique means to market our organization, and our beliefs. We have to seize it,” Carl W. Garrison III explained to Richard Hopkins, Director of Public Relations for The Alliance for the Racial Purification of America.

“TARPA’s image is critical.” Garrison stood. He began to pace behind his desk as much as the coiled phone cord would allow. “If we are going to fight this war, we have to have soldiers—battalions of soldiers. As you and I have discussed before, too many of the members we’ve been attracting over the last few years aren’t arriving with the skills we need for the coming battle.”

“So true. But we do need numbers,” Hopkins said.

“I understand we need numbers.” Garrison waved his arm in the air. “But, first we need strong, impressive and committed recruiters we can send out to enlist others like themselves; others who believe our country is headed down the road to hell, and that somebody has to have the balls to step up and save it, before it’s too late. These engaging and intelligent people will then be able to clone themselves and grow our numbers with folks armed for the conflict.”

As the charismatic leader of TARPA, Garrison practiced the television evangelist brogue that captured and held the attention of so many supporters. Garrison, like his father before him, worked hard to maintain an impressive appearance. His hair received a conservative cut every two weeks, and American-made suits were the only clothes he purchased. You would never see Carl Garrison in an Italian suit, or one made anywhere outside his country.

He knew one of the main reasons his father’s philosophies on race and religion had been so difficult to promote was centered on the number of less-than-impressive individuals who had flocked to their cause over the early years. Garrison made strides in improving TARPA’s image in the years since his father’s passing, but there was much work still to be done before people of influence could ever bring themselves to go public with their support.

“The time is right,” Garrison said. “The good people of the USA are tired of these foreigners coming in here from all over Central and South America, and these camel drivers from the Middle East taking jobs away from our people. Our citizens are fed up with the federal government’s failure to close our borders. They’re ready to see somebody take charge and change things. That’s where we come in. I’ve got a few congressmen on a leash, and with some quality people on our front lines, we can start to garner some positive attention from the media, and make some of those changes.”

“Yes, sir,” Hopkins agreed.

“But Richard, you have to make this clear on our website, in our brochures and in all of our promotional materials. You’ve got to present TARPA as the attractive and practical solution that it is; the place for people to turn who are tired of seeing their hard-earned tax dollars spent to feed and care for all these illegals. It’s all in the wording, Richard. Use your marketing degree, son. Reel them in.”

“I understand, Carl. This is an overwhelming responsibility we have.”

“Absolutely, and you’re the front man. It’s your job to make sure they know we’re here for them, and that they see us as a viable option for dealing with this crisis. They must understand it is
indeed
a crisis, and they must believe we are worthy of their endorsement, and more especially their financial support.”

Garrison looked across his expansive office to see his two deacons at the doorway. He smiled, motioned for them to come in and then looked at his wristwatch. He waved his open hand toward the burgundy leather sofa and chairs.

“With the growing volume of these aliens pouring into Middle Tennessee,” Garrison said, “if we don’t act fast, we’ll all be speaking Spanish, or even worse, Arabic by the end of the year.”

The deacons chuckled quietly, not sure who Garrison was talking with.

“Now get those promotional materials edited and the website prototype finished, so we can get them in front of our prospective members. Are you with me?”

“I’m with you,” Hopkins assured him.

“Good. Send the new copy for my approval the moment you have it ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Talk with you soon.”

Garrison hung up the phone.

“Gentlemen.” He spread wide his arms, smiling. “Welcome.”

The men stood as Garrison approached. He shook hands with them like he hadn’t seen them in months; it had been only a week.

Howard Hall, rotund senior deacon and close ultra-conservative friend of Garrison’s for over twenty years said,
“Buenas dias, amigo.”
Hall maintained a sober gaze.

Rod Justin stared at Garrison who was solemn at first, then he burst out laughing along with his old friend, allowing the younger Justin the comfort to follow.

“That was Richard Hopkins, our young public relations guru,” Garrison said as the deacons removed their suit coats and took their seats at the conference table. “He’s having some trouble executing our plan to present TARPA as the solution for a confused and racially misdirected society.”

“Is he back on track?” Hall asked.

“He’d better be. I don’t have the time or the inclination to babysit his young ass while we construct this societal washing machine. We cannot afford to have the people of America continuing to perceive us as another Klan. They’ve got to see clearly, and be able to embrace the positive differences between us and that old gang. I’ve talked with a number of people about this during my recruiting efforts. They still see the Klan as a bunch of hardcore, right wingers living in the past. We must be recognized as the people’s champion; the preferred new alternative for today’s ethnically conscious Americans.”

“Absolutely,” Justin said. We could influence so many more people if we could get them to see past their paradigms and hear our message.”

“Too often,” Garrison said in his exaggerated drawl, “I think the public’s focus on what they know is God’s will, gets stolen away by the dramatic and sensational trash delivered to their living rooms by the media. We have to be prepared to thrust ourselves in front of that drama in order to intercept the spotlight.”