A Shred of Truth Read online

  “You wanna talk about knockdowns?”

  With chests almost touching, we locked gazes. His left eye twitched.

  “Not that I meant nothin’ by it, Aramis.”

  “ ’Course not.”

  He backed into the railing. “You smoke?” He tapped his pack on his wrist, extended it my direction.

  “Been a year and a half. Things’ll kill you.”

  He put the pack back, tugged on his goatee. “You know, you’re bigger than your brother.”

  “Just looks that way.”

  “Johnny Ray’s in there and Sammie too. Get on in.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Door’s unlocked.”

  “Hey.” I ordered my fists to loosen. “No hard feelings?”

  He lit another cigarette and studied the glowing tip. “You talk to your brother for me.” Then he turned and propped both elbows on the railing, hiding his face from me.

  In the darkened hallway, the walls glistened with autographed photos and certified gold albums. I stood at the thick glass, watching my brother belt out the chorus to his new song. He stopped once to discuss vocal arrangements with the producer in the booth, then closed his eyes and faced the suspended mike again.

  Even through the hall speaker, his intensity reached my ears:

  It’s true you left me years ago, travelin’ long dark roads.

  But in my heart we’re not apart, I’ve been livin’ with your ghost.

  Your love, it’s always been here, faithful to the end.

  In these eyes there’s no surprise, because an angel’s what you’ve been.

  I’d never known him to use religious symbols in his lyrics before, and I wondered what this new direction indicated. As he repeated the chorus, the words seemed prescient, strangely fitting.

  But in my heart we’re not apart, I’ve been livin’ with your ghost …

  For most of my life, I’d pushed my mother’s absence to the back corners of my mind. There was no replacing the loss of a parent. Sure, the past year had reconnected me to her in ways I never imagined, yet the unveiling of her secrets also had led to hard truths about my biological father, the abuse I suffered as an adolescent, even the bond I shared with my brother.

  Johnny seemed to be processing similar things through his music.

  A hand on my shoulder snapped me back to the present. I turned to find Samantha Rosewood, slender and frail looking in the corridor’s shadows.

  “Sammie. Didn’t hear you come in.”

  Accentuated by honey-colored hair, her hazel eyes trailed up to mine.

  “You okay?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

  Her gaze slid off to my brother in the studio. “Doesn’t he sound good? Try as they might, they just can’t manufacture that kind of conviction.”

  “Where’ve you been? You haven’t answered my calls.”

  She faced the glass.

  “Hey,” I urged. “Did you get my messages? Is something wrong?”

  “It’s Miss Eloise,” she said.

  Miss Eloise: Sammie’s lone remaining grandparent, a gentle woman whose medical issues had been an increasing cause for concern.

  “Is she …” My breath caught in my throat.

  “She passed during the night.”

  “Sammie, I’m sorry. Have you told Johnny Ray?”

  Sammie moved her head up and down. “The funeral-home director left this afternoon, and I went over to the shop. Johnny was so sweet, even offering to sing at the memorial.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “He told me you were off on another of your escapades.”

  “Escapades? Actually I was …”

  “You were what?”

  “Never mind.”

  She scanned my face. “What is it?”

  I shook my head. I knew it was her nature to try to take on my burdens, and that was something she didn’t need at the moment.

  “Did she go in her sleep?” I inquired.

  “Peacefully, yes, thank the Lord.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t totally unexpected.”

  “Still.”

  Never one to wallow in emotion, Sammie laid a hand to her heart, and her eyes bored into me with a brief unguarded look. “Thank you.”

  She was alone, I realized. On her own. After she’d lost her parents to health problems a few years back, she used her trust fund to further her education—as stipulated by her father—and to volunteer regularly in the community. On a more personal level, she shared her parents’ sprawling Tyne Boulevard estate with Miss Eloise—bathing, feeding, and nursing her grandmother without complaint.

  That security was now stripped away. Aside from distant cousins and an uncle in Cades Cove of East Tennessee’s Smoky Mountains, her immediate family was gone.

  I opened my arms to draw her in, and she didn’t pull away. For a few moments, we stood there together, her pulse feathering against my chest. In increments, her stiffness melted.

  “What can I do to help?” I whispered.

  She shook her head.

  “Anything. You just say it.”

  “I appreciate that. I do. But no, there’s nothing at this point.”

  “Are you okay to drive? You need me to take you somewhere?”

  Though her lips turned up in a brave smile, her eyes were round and moist. She pretended to brush something from my shirt, then moved back a step. “I’m not the one who was ailing,” she reminded me. “I think I can operate a vehicle just fine.”

  From the hallway speaker, bits of Johnny’s vocals washed over our conversation:

  “an angel … oh yes, an angel … an angel’s what you’ve been.”

  Sammie’s chin shifted, then recentered itself. Seeking balance.

  I said, “If you need to … you know, talk—whatever—call me.”

  “I will.”

  “You’re not alone.”

  She rubbed a finger against her temple, looked off past my shoulder. Her face softened as high cheekbones caught the glow of studio lights. “I mean that,” I reiterated.

  “You’ve gone through your own loss, Aramis, so I know your sentiments are heartfelt. In all honesty, I’m just not sure I’m ready to hear it.”

  “Understandable. You want to skip our dinner tomorrow?”

  “Our Sunday supper? We still have business to discuss, don’t we?”

  “It’s your call.”

  “Let’s go ahead. There’s always comfort in routine.”

  “Is J. Alexander’s still okay?”

  She lifted her chin as though catching a breath. “If you’d reserve a corner booth, that’d be wonderful.”

  Her show of strength riveted me. How she does it, I have no idea. Occasionally I spot a carefree spark in those eyes, and I imagine under there, somewhere, a little girl who once dove into piles of leaves and ran through sprinklers with abandon. She may be hidden for now, but she’s still there. I have to believe it. “Six o’clock,” I said. “I’ll try to be on time.”

  “You’re usually pretty good about that.”

  In my pocket, the brass bullet casing pressed against my thigh, a reminder that I shouldn’t be making promises on a day like today. “Listen, if I’m held up for some reason, you go ahead and order without me.”

  “Now you have me worried.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s nothing.”

  “And I’m to believe that? You seem anxious. Does this have something to do with your escapade?”

  I mumbled an affirmative.

  “Something important?”

  “Could be.”

  “Well then, Aramis, I will be patiently waiting. You do what you have to do.”

  11

  On the streets, if you cave to intimidation, you’re as good as gone. That’s the law I grew up with. On my desk in Black’s office, my New Testament reminds me of a different law: the law of forgiveness. I often think about how, even when he was under arrest, Jesus refused to retaliate, and the apost
le Peter took matters into his own hands, drawing his sword and slashing off a soldier’s ear.

  Now there was a man I could relate to. Three cheers for San Pedro.

  Except Jesus wasn’t pleased.

  With one touch, he healed the wounded man and instructed Peter to put away his weapon. He told him, “Those who use the sword will die by the sword.”

  Yeah. I knew all about that. Even got the tattoos to prove it. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever escape the old patterns that seem etched into my being.

  Although I’d promised my brother and the detective that I would stay out of trouble, it was Sammie’s concern in DAD’s studio that caused me to reconsider. By putting aside her own grief, she released me to do what had to be done and unknowingly infused me with a sense of responsibility. I thought of Mom. I thought of Sammie. It was time to resolve this issue with AX, yes—but not the way I’d planned.

  Forget the Desert Eagle. No .40-caliber revenge this time.

  Once Johnny Ray and Felicia were tucked away under the cops’ watchful eyes, I’d turn over the evidence—the stained razor blade, the empty casing, and the note—and let Metro’s finest take over.

  I’d do it to honor my mother. And Sammie too.

  End of story.

  After Johnny’s recording session, I told him the bare bones of my Cheekwood encounter, and he agreed to go directly to the West Precinct, where Detective Meade would take a statement.

  One down. One to go.

  Armed with the yellow pages in DAD’s front lobby, I began my search for Felicia. She’d worn a dress provided by my foe, flown here on his tab, and it seemed feasible he could’ve put her up in a local hotel.

  A long shot, sure. But what else did I have?

  I flipped through pages of listings, punched in numbers on my cell. One hotel. And another. On my umpteenth attempt, a front-desk woman greeted me with rehearsed politeness as I made my request to speak to Felicia.

  “D-a-l-y,” I spelled the last name. “She may be a guest there.”

  Expecting yet another strikeout, I was skimming down to the next listing when she said, “Thank you, sir. I’ll connect you now.”

  There was no answer from Felicia’s room. The phone went to a message service, and I asked her to call my cell when she came in.

  Not that I had time to wait.

  With the hotel address jotted down on my palm, I grabbed my keys and headed for my car. I sped through a few turns until I was traveling east on Lafayette. Considering its location on the lower boundary of Nashville’s sprawling airport, the hotel was most likely a ramshackle joint. In recent months that area had played host to police raids targeting gang activity, drug transactions, and worse.

  Hardly the safest arrangements. If AX had paid for her room, he was not only a cheapskate, he was heartless too.

  Least he would be. Once I tore it from his chest.

  I braced my arms against the steering wheel and shoved my head back against the headrest. No. Couldn’t let my thoughts go running down that warpath. I had to resist, for Sammie’s sake.

  Lord, help me keep it in check here. Please.

  A slight easing of tension. Meet the new-and-improved Aramis Black.

  As Lafayette merged into Murfreesboro Pike, the evening sun broke in final judgment through the clouds behind me and speared the city with bronze shafts of light. Between buildings, through windows, colors merged and bled onto the streets. There was a terrible beauty to it, which pressed upon me again the unfathomable aspects of God’s nature. If he knows all, if he sees the calamity caused by his headstrong humans, why doesn’t he step in more often? What makes him hold back his wrath?

  Shoot first. Ask questions later. That would be the policy if he left it up to me.

  Which is why he didn’t, I suppose.

  Twelve minutes later I spotted the hotel’s flickering sign too late and had to make a U-turn. In a space far from the manager’s office, I idled the engine and weighed my options as the sunset washed my face.

  The desk clerk might not give me a room number, but I could try bluffing. Or knocking on doors until I got lucky. Or.

  What if Felicia had been forced to share a unit with the scumbag? What if he was in there now? My unexpected appearance might put her in even more danger.

  I killed the ignition. Something had to be done.

  I was grabbing at my door handle when the arrival of another vehicle stopped me. I lowered my head and waited for it to park. Then, just above the dash, I got a good look at the car.

  Same make, model, and color as the death hearse. Hyundai. Sedan. Dark green.

  AX had come to keep tabs on Felicia? Was she already bound and gagged in the room? Maybe that’s why she hadn’t answered the phone.

  Of course, the car could be just a coincidence.

  No. My gut and my brain told me this was a bit of crucial information. Professor Newmann’s words played through my head: thoughts and feelings don’t always coincide with reality.

  Guess I’d have to find out for myself.

  The Hyundai rolled closer. If I’d had my gun, I would’ve challenged the driver to a duel, much the same way Tennessee’s own Andrew Jackson, seventh president of the United States, did with opponents in his era. Nicknamed Old Hickory, he’d even killed a man in such a gunfight, with the location of the victim’s Nashville burial site remaining a mystery to this day.

  A duel? No. Remember, the path of peace.

  My gaze was fixed on the nearing vehicle, waiting for a telltale glimpse of the driver. In seconds my vigilance was rewarded as the last of the sunlight skipped sparks along the car’s hood and broke over the windshield, illuminating the face at the steering wheel.

  “No way,” I said. Not that it was a huge shocker.

  Brake lights flashed, and the car came to a stop.

  Felicia Daly climbed out.

  Holding a grocery bag and a Dean Koontz novel—she’d always had a fascination with dark and suspenseful tales—my ex-girlfriend made her way up metal stairs to a second-story unit. Number 212. She tucked the book under her chin, fiddled with the key, then, with a half spin in her knee-length dress, disappeared from view.

  12

  She’s in the room, you say?”

  “That’s right. Didn’t seem worried or nervous. Nothing.”

  Through the cell, Detective Meade had listened to an overview of my day, and now he met my alarm with a steady voice. “And she shows no indication of leaving?”

  My position in the parking lot provided easy observation of her room. The door had remained closed since her arrival, and the encroaching night would be unable to conceal her departure now that globe lights had flicked on above the second-level walkway. On the far end of the landing, an ice machine labored in the sticky air. On this end, a large woman filled a lawn chair, swigging beer from an oversize can while a diaper-clad toddler played at her feet.

  I tensed at the sight.

  “Aramis? Tell me what you’re seeing.”

  “I’d say she’s turned in for the night. A good book. Bottle of wine. That used to be her thing.”

  “When you were … cohabiting.”

  “Seems like a lifetime ago.”

  “So let me clarify. You believe she’s driving the same vehicle you spotted last evening on Demonbreun right after the assault on your brother.”

  “I never saw the plates. But, yeah, that’s what I think.”

  “And you want me to do what exactly?”

  “I don’t know. What can you do? Either she’s responsible for the attack on my brother or she’s an accomplice.”

  “We have no proof of that, no evidence. Do you know of any motive? As a protector of the law, I’m not given wholesale permission to do as I choose. Calling a judge for a warrant on a Saturday night requires probable cause.”

  He had me there. In fact, at Cheekwood, Felicia had denied any culpability. I raced through the day’s events, grasping for a clue, any lead I might have missed.

  “Mr
. Black?”

  I noted the switch from friendly to formal. “Yes sir?”

  “May I ask why you’re even at this woman’s hotel? I thought we had an agreement you wouldn’t take matters into your own hands.”

  “Still do.”

  “You think me a fool? Clearly, you’ve decided to—”

  “No, Detective. It’s not that way.”

  “Enlighten me then.”

  Shifting in the Honda’s cockpit, I sighed and stretched my legs. Bugs moved in hazy orbits around the landing’s globe lights. “Thing is, Felicia told me she’d been threatened. I wanted to bring her in and make sure she was okay. Only now I’m not sure what to think. Maybe she’s working with him, the attacker.”

  “At this point we really don’t know, do we?”

  “Hey. Why don’t you meet me over here? Then you could question her.”

  “On what grounds? To be honest with you, I’m off duty in a matter of minutes. My wife’s made plans for us tonight.”

  “A hot date. Ah, that’s a good thing.”

  “A play actually. At the Darkhorse Theatre.”

  “Never been there.”

  “It’d be a cultural experience for you, I’d think. Listen, your brother stopped by a short while ago. I took a statement from him and recorded his injuries. I appreciate your encouraging him in that. The number of this anonymous caller, it’s assigned to a phone booth in Atlanta. So not much help there. I did discover something you’ll no doubt find fascinating though. Are you familiar with the phrase Virescit Vulnere Virtus?”

  “Uh, not offhand.”

  “It means ‘Courage grows strong at a wound.’ Back in the sixteenth century, Mary Stuart—known to us as Mary, Queen of Scots—embroidered the phrase into a cloth, and it later became the motto of the Royal Stuart clan.”

  “And?”

  “Our perp could be a Stuart.”

  “Or just a Latin-spouting sadist.”

  Meade refused to be derailed. “In my cursory research, I found that the Stuarts were protectors of the Knights Templar. Considering your recent entanglements in history, you might see a connection.”

  “Not … really.”

  “Pretty nebulous, I admit.”