Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis (16 page)

“Slowly. I just have to hold the wheel with my knees and shift gears with my right hand. The bad thing is, I can’t drink Cokes while I drive right now. By the way, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

“Pick away. But if you’re going to bitch at me about calling Morgan, it won’t do you any good. You know you’re glad.” He leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips in that bitchy little way he had. It turned into a smile when she flipped him a one-fingered salute.

“But why him? You could have called Cami.”

“Please. You two together are just double trouble. I wanted someone to watch out for you who actually can watch out for you.”

“I don’t need a keeper.”

“Baby, as many bodies as you run across, you need a scorekeeper. Here.” He grabbed his car keys off the desk and held them out. “Take my car. It’s an automatic. You’re less dangerous on the streets that way. Just don’t spill any Coke on my leather seats.”

“Did I ever tell you that you’re my favorite person?” She took his keys. “I’ll leave you my keys in case you need to go somewhere.”

“That’s all right. You’ll be back before I leave. Won’t you?”

“Of course. But you know, I’m sure, that my best intentions somehow get screwed up on occasion, right?”

He held out his hand. “Right. Give me your keys. Just in case.”

Tootsie had a four year old Acura with leather seats and all the bells and whistles any hedonist would need. Harley sighed with pleasure as she snuggled into the buttery-soft seat. She had thought about buying a new car since she had that extra money in her savings account, but couldn’t justify it. She had her Toyota, after all. It ran just fine and never gave her any problems. Now that her Harley-Davidson Softail Deuce with over-under dual exhaust and a Twin 88 cam belonged to her and not the finance company, her only bills were her Visa card and the basics like rent, phone, utilities, and food. And of course, her monthly cell phone replacement. That ran pretty high lately. It’d be nice if they made a rubber one.

There were three errands on her list—cell phone replacement, a chat with Leroy Jenkins’s roommate, and a visit with Lydia Free, who also had a paid leave of absence. Being related to the ogre apparently had perks.

It took only a few minutes to replace her cell phone. The clerk recognized her in the parking lot, got out a new cell phone and had it ready by the time she reached the counter.

“See you next month, Ms. Davidson,” he called as Harley left, and she just barely kept from saying something really rude. If there hadn’t been children in there...

Leroy had lived off Frayser Boulevard, in a duplex that had seen much better days. Harley set the alarm on Tootsie’s car and managed to get up the sidewalk without tripping over chunks of broken concrete uprooted by a huge dead tree. It looked bleak, not like the other houses.

After knocking a few times, the door opened. A guy who looked to be in his late twenties to early thirties stood there. He had brown hair that looked like he cut it with an electric fan, hard eyes, and grease streaks on his face. Must be the roommate. He wore a greasy shirt with his name on the pocket. Darren. He leaned against the doorframe and gave her a gap-toothed grin.

“Well, hello, green eyes. Did it hurt?”

“What?”

He pointed at her arm. “When you fell from heaven.”

She barely kept from rolling her eyes. “As a matter of fact, yes. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Leroy?”

Darren’s grin disappeared. He narrowed his eyes at her. “You a cop?”

“No. I’m with Memphis Tour Tyme. Leroy was killed on our van. Here’s my card.” She held it out and after a moment, he took it. He had grease blackening his hands and nails, but an auto mechanic usually did.

“So, whatcha wanna ask me? I don’t know nuthin’ much about Leroy. He just crashed here when his old lady threw him out. Paid his rent on time, and that’s all I cared about.”

“Did you ever go with him to the Elvis events?”

“Hell, I didn’t even know he was a freak until a few weeks ago. Comes in with all that Elvis crap, looking like a dumbass and sounding like shit.”

“Uh huh. I’ll take that as a no. Did he ever say anything to you about a fight with other contestants, maybe a dislike of any of them?”

Darren shrugged. “We didn’t talk that much. Worked together, might watch a few ball games together, but not much else.”

“Did Leroy ever talk about his wife?”

“Talk? Hell, all he ever did was moan about how she kept him from his kids. Wouldn’t let him see ’em. Said he had to pay to play.” He frowned. “How does any of this have anything to do with a tour company? Sure you ain’t the cops?”

“Mrs. Jenkins has requested monetary damages, and there has to be an assessment of the amount lost by her husband’s ... demise.” A half-truth. She smiled. “I’m sure you understand.”

“That greedy bitch. Wouldn’t surprise me none if she had him killed. Did you talk to her yet?”

“Once, but I’m sure I’ll talk to her again.”

“Then give her this, will ya? I forgot to put it with the rest of Leroy’s stuff.” He left the duplex door open when he stepped inside to pick up a stack of envelopes from a table littered with empty beer cans, overflowing ashtrays, and half-eaten pizza. Along with unwashed body and probably decaying food, the sweet smell of marijuana drifted out the door. He held out the envelopes. “It’s Leroy’s mail. I don’ know what else to do with it, so she might as well have it.”

“I’ll see that she gets it.”

Darren smiled at her again, showing empty spaces where a couple of teeth had been. “I bet a hot number like you has lots of guys after her, huh.”

She took a step back. There was no good answer to that. “Thanks for your help,” she said, and walked away with him still in the doorway looking at her.

“Anytime you feel like goin’ for a beer, stop by,” Darren called after her, and she pretended she didn’t hear him.

Harley looked over the mail when she got in the car, wishing she was brave—or stupid—enough to open the envelopes. Most of it looked like bills or junk mail, but a postcard with Elvis on the front lay wedged under a Publisher’s Clearing House envelope. Shamelessly, she turned it over to read it.

Words that looked like they’d been printed by a computer Inkjet nearly jumped out at her:

“There’s to be a special interview with Channel 3 before the concert August 2. Dress as you would for the competition, and take the Memphis Tour Tyme van that will be at the Omni Hotel at 2:00. Do not tell the other contestants about the interview, please. There’s only room for a few of the best. Claude Williams will meet you in front of Graceland.”

The postmark was dated July 30th. So who was this Claude Williams? Maybe she should find out how Leroy had been chosen. And why he’d been told to board her van when he wasn’t on her passenger list. There had to be an explanation.

Harley decided to take Leroy’s mail to Patty Jenkins before she visited Lydia, with only one side trip. She didn’t need a Federal charge hanging over her head for tampering with the US mail, but making copies wasn’t really tampering.

When Patty came to the door with a cigarette hanging from one corner of her mouth, she narrowed her eyes at Harley. “Thought I told them cops to do something about you.”

“So you did. I just thought you might want your dead husband’s mail.”

Patty hesitated and then took it from Harley’s outstretched hand. “I don’t, but I’ll take it. Get out of here.”

“I’m on my way.” She stepped back, and then turned just before Patty shut the door. “By the way, did Leroy know about you and Darren?”

It was one of those shot in the dark things, just something to see what she’d say or do, but Harley didn’t expect her reaction. Patty went red, then white.

“Damn him! What’d that sonuvabitch say to you?”

“Enough. Do the police know?”

Patty stepped out of the house and shut the door. “Listen, it wasn’t like that. Only once or twice. No big thing. But if Leroy found out, he’d have used it against me. Taken the kids.”

Harley thought maybe they’d have been better off with him, but didn’t say it. She just shrugged, and then winced at the pain in her shoulder.

“So why’d Darren break up with you?”

“It wasn’t like that, no matter what that asshole says. He had to go and tell Leroy he could move in with him, and I wasn’t going to take any chances. I told him to leave me be after that.”

“Maybe Darren didn’t take it so well.”

“That ain’t my problem,” Patty said. “Dumbass. Guess he thought it’d be funny to sneak around on Leroy while he’s got him living with him.”

If that was true, Harley thought after she’d left, then it gave two more people motives for getting rid of Leroy. Which, of course, didn’t explain Derek Wade’s death. She mulled that over for a few minutes, and then decided to visit the Wades again. Maybe Derek had received a card.

Though a little perplexed, the Wades were gracious enough to look in their mail basket.

“I may have thrown away his mail that didn’t seem important,” Mrs. Wade said as she shuffled through papers in a wicker basket. “He didn’t get much anyway, just a few things—ah. Here it is. Yes, Derek did receive a card from the Elvis competition people. He was very good, you know.”

Scanning it, Harley looked up at her. “May I borrow this, Mrs. Wade? I’ll return it to you as soon as possible.”

“Yes, of course you may. You don’t have to return it.” Tears welled in the older woman’s eyes. “He doesn’t need it now.”

Harley didn’t know what to say so she just put her hand on Mrs. Wade’s arm and nodded. It felt awkward, yet at the same time as if a connection had been made. An image of Derek as he must have looked to his mother flashed through her mind. How sad.

Once in Tootsie’s car, she held the card next to the photo copy she’d made before taking Leroy’s card to Patty. Almost identical except for the dates. Derek was to meet Claude Williams the day after Leroy was killed. So who had sent them? And why? A lure? But to be so bold as to kill intended victims right in the middle of a crowd? It just didn’t seem logical. If it wasn’t logical, could it be true? Damn.

This was evidence the police needed. She’d turn it over to them. After she made a copy of Derek Wade’s postcard, of course. There was a limit to her cooperation, though the main thing was to catch the killer. It didn’t really matter now who managed it first. She just didn’t want Bobby to accuse her of obstruction when she was only trying to help.

Lydia Free rented a room near the Dixon Art Gallery off Park Avenue. Harley found the house easily enough since it was down the street from the very first house Elvis had bought for his mother on Audubon. She parked in a separate parking area in the back, next to Lydia’s car. It looked like the back door was the main entrance, so she rang the bell and waited. No one came. She rang the bell again. It was a pretty big house, so maybe it just took some time to get to the door. When no one answered after a few minutes, she opened the storm door to knock, figuring there might be trouble with the electricity since several MLG&W trucks were on the street. If someone had hit a light pole on Park, it’d put out lights for the entire neighborhood.

Her first rap on the wooden door swung it open. It’d been left ajar. Harley got an uneasy feeling. Other than hers, Lydia’s was the only car in the driveway, but that didn’t mean Lydia was here. She could have gone walking, or ridden with someone else. Still...

Maybe she should call the police and have them check out Lydia’s apartment. But what if she was just taking a nap, or jogging around the block? Or lying out in the sun? Harley walked over to the tall wooden fence, took a plastic bucket left in front of the garage, upended it and used it as a ladder to peek over the top. A tree had fallen over and just lay there with the leaves still green. Bushes were high and the grass needed cutting, but no Lydia.