Murder in the Choir (The Jazz Phillips Mystery Series) (30 page)

“Well, maybe we can. We may turn up some DNA from that soda can in the blacksmith shop, and it may match what’s on these cigarette butts,” I tapped my pocket. “We could get lucky, and that would give us enough for a warrant.”

“Shouldn’t we be getting those to the lab in Little Rock? And the lottery ticket, too?” Kruger asked. He looked at his watch. “We could be there in less than an hour.” He pulled off to the side of the road.

“I want to be there for the funeral,” I told him. “I want to see who shows up and hear what Slide has to say.”

Kruger gave me an evil grin. “Well, you could catch a ride with him,” he said. “At least to Nashville to get your car. I can run the evidence to the lab.”

“We’ll never find him going back,” I said. “He’s probably left by now.” I looked at Kruger. “Besides, he’s a suspect.”

“What better way to keep track of him?” Kruger answered. He looked at his watch. “We’ll give him ten minutes. If he’s not along by then, I’ll take you to Nashville myself.”

I’ve done stranger things in the course of an investigation. Putting my life in the hands of a suspect was not one of them, but Kruger had a point. If I didn’t really think the man was our killer, then I had nothing to fear. “All right,” I said. “But don’t tell Nellie.” Kruger laughed.

Four minutes later, Slide pulled over and agreed to my request. I was very careful to make sure he understood it was a request, and he laughed. “I would be glad of the company,” he said. “However, I am curious why Agent Kruger isn’t able to take you himself.”

“He needs to get to Little Rock, and I want to go to the funeral,” I said. “I didn’t know Luther well, but...” I shrugged.

“Yes,” Slide said. “Luther often had that effect on people. He embodied goodness itself. Get in.”

I spent much of the next hour listening to Slide reminisce. A lot of what he had to say went into the eulogy and had nothing to do with the case, but I also learned some interesting things about the people he grew up with in Oak Grove. Among other things, I learned that Emma Jones, the pastor’s wife, never missed when it came to her throwing arm.

“That girl was the best baseball pitcher in the county,” Slide laughed. “She could throw left handed or right. When she and Albert came to visit the carnival, they wouldn’t let her throw balls at the milk bottles. She was too good. I’ve seen her pick up a rock and knock a squirrel out of a tree.”

I mentioned her reputation for going through dishes, and he laughed again. “The only reason Albert Jones is alive is because she never wanted to hit him. I would hate to be in his shoes if she ever got mad enough to do so.”

Even though I enjoyed his company, I felt relieved when Slide dropped me at my car in Nashville. He offered to take me on down to Oak Grove and drop me off later, but I declined. “I’ve enjoyed this,” he told me. “I hope we can talk again under happier circumstances.” I told him I would like that, and I was a bit surprised to discover I really meant it.

Even though I was there on business, the funeral of Luther Adams was an incredible experience. No fewer than four gospel choirs showed up, complete with their sound equipment, and the small church was packed. I got there early enough to get a seat but gave it up to an old man who looked so frail he might not make it through the service.

Albert Jones saw this and smiled, inviting me to take a seat beside him in the chancel pew. “I don’t have to preach, do I?” I asked, and he smiled again.

“I hope you used the outhouse before you came in,” he said. “This may be a while.”

While the place I sat gave me a good view of every face in the pews, I felt rather conspicuous. Yet, when the first choir fired its opening slavo, I was carried away with the singing. I hoped someone was recording this so I could get a copy to take to Nellie. As I said, I’m not a religious man. Yet, when I die I’ll know I’m at the Pearly Gates if I hear a choir like those singing that day.

Even so, there was a part of me watching the crowd. The habits of being a policeman don’t go away with retirement, and there were two people there that caught my attention.One was a tall black man in a conservative suit cut too well to be from anywhere in Arkansas. He stood quietly at the back, listening to the music with complete concentration. What startled me was that as soon as my eyes spotted him, he looked directly at me and nodded so slightly I doubt anyone else noticed. Then he looked back toward the choir, standing with an air of quiet authority that told me he was a cop. I guessed he was FBI, though that didn’t seem to fit that well. He looked more like Secret Service.

The other man I only saw once. He was standing in the foyer looking into the sanctuary, and my eyes moved by him before the image registered. When it did, I looked back, but someone else was standing there. What had caught my attention was how much the man looked like Slide Jones, but that was true of at least a dozen men there. Seen from one angle or another, each had caught my attention for a moment until they turned and I saw the differences.

I had to smile at myself. I really didn’t want Slide Jones to turn out to be the killer. I liked the man, and that was affecting my judgement. Since Edward Posey was the perfect suspect, I was seeing him everywhere, as if I could wish him alive so I could arrest him.

Then another thought struck me. I wondered if all the men I noticed were love children of Smiley Jones, too. It almost gave me a headache thinking how many suspects this would add to our list.

When the funeral was done, I found myself uplifted and also a bit sad it was over. I looked at my watch and was surprised to find two and a half hours had passed. Albert Jones saw my surprise and smiled. “How time flies, doesn’t it?”

I walked over to the community center where food was prepared for those who attended. I was halfway hoping to spot the man I glimpsed in the foyer just to make sure it was not Edward, but he wasn’t in the crowd. So I joined the line waiting for the outhouse. As Albert Jones predicted, it had been a good while.

I was on the way back to the community center when I heard someone call my name. I looked around, and it was the tall man from the back of the church. He walked toward me with the grace and assurance of a jaguar, and I had the thought this would not be a good man to have as an enemy.

“Dr. Phillips?” he asked, offering a hand. It wasn’t so much a question as a statement. “My name is Dill. Willie Dill. I think you’re expecting me.”

I shook his hand. His grip was firm but not the crushing grip of someone with something to prove. “Mr. Dill,” I answered. “Do you have some kind of identification?”

He looked amused. “Do you really want me to do the full federal flash?” he asked. “Right here in front of God and everybody?” I noticed a subtle bulge under his perfectly cut jacket that told me he was armed.

“Just a moment,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

I spotted James Mason and made my way over to him. He was talking to a stunning young lady who was obviously taken with him. I apologized for the intrusion and told him there was someone who admired his singing and would like to meet him. He glanced in the direction I nodded and excused himself. The young lady looked, too, and I could see she was impressed by Dill.

When we arrived where Dill was standing, I asked James if I needed to make introductions. He extended his hand to Dill. “Doctor Livingston, I presume.”

Dill laughed easily. “Hello, James. That was a marvelous solo you gave. I had no idea you sang so well.” He looked at me. “I appreciated what Dr. Phillips had to say, too.”

“I could have hit Pastor Jones for putting me on the spot like that,” I said. “I had no idea what he was going to do.”

“You did very well,” Mason assured me. “It’s the price of the seat.” We all laughed. “Now, if you don’t need me any longer, Jazz, there’s a young lady who needs my attention.”

“Looks like she has all the attention she needs,” Dill said, looking over at the striking young woman who was now surrounded by young men.

“That’s what I mean,” said James Mason, hurrying away.

“He’s a good man,” I said to Dill. “McKee said you’d be down this way. Are you just passing through or do you have a stake in this case?”

“We need to discuss that,” Dill said, looking around. “I’m not sure where we can talk with more privacy around here. Why don’t we take a drive? My car, not yours.” Seeing the look on my face, he explained. “I know mine’s not bugged, Dr….”

“That doesn’t do much to reassure me,” I said. As a matter of fact, the whole drift of our conversation bothered me considerably. Nor did the prospect of being alone with Dill please me. While we were both armed, I suspected I was no where near his class. Nor was I completely sure we were on the same side.

Even so, I nodded, but suggested we eat first. Dill agreed, and when we sat down, we were immediately joined by Slide Jones. “Thank you for your kind words about Luther, Jazz,” he said. “You may not have known him long, but you had a good sense of who he was.”

“I suspect that’s true of everyone Dr. Phillips meets,” Dill said. When Slide looked at him in surprise, he added, “We only met today, but I’m a student of his work. He’s a remarkable man.”

“Sounds like you’re reading my eulogy,” I growled. “And, please, call me Jazz. Dr. Phillips sounds like a brand of shoe powder.”

“He is, indeed,” Slide answered, ignoring me. “And I hope what you say is right. I’m the best suspect in their murder case here. I, like everyone in prison, am innocent. So I’m depending on him to prove it. Are you here on the case?”

Dill smiled at him and shrugged. He was saved from any further answer by Robert who popped up just then. “Who this?” he demanded of me, speaking with a pure Oak Grove accent.

I introduced them. “Dill?” Robert said. “You mean like pickle?”

“Yes, but I try not to be too sour,” Dill laughed. He turned to me. “Who is this? One of your Oak Grove irregulars?”

“I ain’t troubled by irregularity!” Robert exclaimed, and we all fell apart.

“Robert’s a friend of mine,” I said, still laughing. “He’s been showing me around and supervising. He’s a lot of help.”

“You a cop?” Robert asked Dill. Dill nodded, and Robert sat down by him. “Show me your gun!” he demanded.

“I can’t do that,” Dill told him solemnly. “I can’t take my gun out unless I intend to shoot somebody.”

Robert considered that. Then he spotted something on the other side of the room. “Ice cream!” he said and was gone as suddenly as he appeared.

“Who said good help is hard to find?” Slide murmured, and we chuckled.

Dill and I took our leave and drove south toward Hope. As he drove, he told me about the agency McKee headed up. While it had nothing to do with the case, I was intrigued. The Agency, which is what people who work there call it, got its start before World War II as a covert military group gathering intelligence and making preparations for what they saw as an inevitable war. How that special operations group avoided being incorporated into the OSS, or later the CIA, was due to the evolution of its particular mission and the fact it remained completely covert. It was also due to an initial strategy of gathering critical information and covertly turning this over to other agencies for action.

“What we’re up to these days is tracking connections between cartel drug money and multinational corporations,” Dill told me. “There’s a cooperative network between such diverse groups as certain white supremacist groups and Asian trading companies with close ties to the drug trade.”

“I didn’t realize the Klan was involved,” I said. “That brings the whole thing pretty close to home.”

Dill nodded. “To give the devil his due, most chapters of the Klan are not involved in this. Yet, enough of their key people are connected that we began to come across them in odd situations. So we began to look more closely.”

“With people like James Mason,” I said and Dill nodded. “The question that comes to mind is why you’re telling me all this.”

“We would like you to work with us. McKee was impressed with your grasp of the general situation and would like to talk with you.”

“All right, I’m interested, but I’m in the middle of a case at the moment. I’m not sure just when we will be done.”

“We’d be willing to offer any help we can,” Dill said. “What we have to offer is access to information.”

I thought about that for a moment. The offer was tempting.Yet, accepting help might mean giving McKee a personal marker in his mind. “All right,” I told him, “but only as a gesture of good will. There can’t be any strings attached. No markers.”

Dill laughed. “Fair enough. We’re not above using that kind of leverage, but not with our own people. What do you need to know?”