Barnes said, “Jane- ”
Jane wagged a finger. “Hush, bad liar. Right now, nothing is sure to churn my stomach more than reassurance.”
Amanda said, “Good, because this is a business call, not psychotherapy.” Using a voice so cold Barnes had to fight not to stare.
Jane’s face went white.
Amanda stepped closer, took the glass from her hand and set it down hard on the table. “If you’re serious about growing up, losing the self-pity is a good place to start. Bottom line: you need to cooperate fully. If you don’t, you’ll be subpoenaed as a material witness and we’ll confiscate your passport. We need all your flight information as well as your addresses overseas, so start dictating.”
She whipped out her pad.
Jane said, “All I know so far is my flight number and my hotel in Florence.”
“Then we’ll start with that. You need to know that if the DA’s not satisfied with what we bring back, you won’t be getting on any planes.”
Jane tried to lock eyes with her but Amanda’s stone face made her turn away. “My, but you’re a tough one.”
“More like a busy one,” said Amanda. “Let’s stop screwing around and get some facts down on paper.”
Twenty minutes later, walking back to their car, Barnes said, “Aren’t we the stern, unrelenting authority figure.”
Amanda got behind the wheel.
As she fooled with her hair and started the engine, he said, “I’m sure there was a reason.”
Amanda pulled away from the curb, driving faster than usual. She covered half a block and stopped, keeping her eyes on the street.
“No big riddle,” she said. “I felt sorry for her. So I gave her what she needed.”
MusicCity Breakdown
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS FOR MUSIC CITY BREAKDOWN
Special thanks to Chief Ronal Serpas, Commander Andy Garrett, and Sergeant Pat Postiglione of the Metro Nashville Police Department, and to the inimitable George Gruhn.
1
A beautifully carved mandolin in a velvet-lined case was stashed in the bedroom closet of Baker Southerby’s house.
The instrument, a 1924 Gibson F-5 with just a little pick wear below the treble f-hole, was worth more than Baker’s house, a little frame bungalow on Indiana Avenue in the west Nashville neighborhood known as The Nations. The area was solid blue-collar with some rough edges, lots of residents living paycheck to paycheck. The house was the only one Baker Southerby had ever known, but that didn’t make it more than it was. The Gibson, rare because it had been a commercial failure, was now a serious six-figure collector’s item, a fact Baker’s partner liked to obsess on.
“One just sold at Christie’s for a hundred and seventy, Lost Boy.”
“You follow auctions?”
“I was curious.”
When Lamar Van Gundy got like that- usually when the two of them were grabbing a quick meal- Baker kept chewing his burger and pretended that he’d gone deaf. Mostly that worked, but if Lamar was in a mood and persisted, Baker’s next retort was as automatic as voice maiclass="underline" “And your point is?”
“I’m just saying it’s a gold mine.”
“Pass the ketchup, Stretch. Stop hoarding it in the first place.”
Lamar’s huge hands stretched across the table. “Here. Drown your grub in the stuff, El Bee. One seventy, what does it take to impress you?”
“I’m impressed.”
“When’s the last time you played the damn thing?”
“Something that pricey no sense risking damage.”
“What, you got epilepsy, gonna drop it?”
“You never know, Stretch.”
Lamar said, “You know and I know and everyone knows that they sound better when you play ’em. You open up the soundboard a bit, who knows, you could push it to one eighty.”
“And your point is?”
Lamar tugged a moustache end. “Someone didn’t take his Midol. Why do you hate the damn thing when it’s like the most important thing you own?”
Baker shrugged and smiled and tried not to think about a little boy’s voice cracking, honky-tonk smoke, loose laughter. Curled on the backseat as the old van bumped over country roads. The greasy way headlights could wash over rural asphalt.
Lamar saw Baker’s smile as consistent with his partner’s quiet manner and sometimes that would be End of Topic. Three years they’d been working together, but the big man had no clue Baker’s show of teeth was forced. For the most part, Lamar could read people real well, but he had his blind spots.
Times when Lamar wouldn’t let go, his next comment was so predictable it could be from a script. “You own a treasure and your alarm system sucks.”
“I’m well-armed, Stretch.”
“Like someone couldn’t break in when you’re on the job.” Deep sigh. “One seventy, oh Lord, that’s serious money.”
“Who knows I own it other than you, Stretch?”
“Don’t give me ideas. Hell, George Gruhn could probably unload it for you in like five seconds.”
“Is it dropping in value as we speak?”
This time, it was Lamar who was hard of hearing. “I consigned my ’62 Precision with George last year. Got twenty times what I paid for it, bought a three-year-old Hamer that sounds just as cool and I can take it to gigs without worrying about a scratch being tragic. George has the contacts. I had enough left over to buy Sue flowers plus a necklace for our anniversary. The rest we used to pay off a little of the condo.”
“Look at you,” said Baker, “a regular Warren Buffett.” Having enough, he rose to his feet before Lamar had time to reply, went to the men’s room and washed his hands and face and checked the lie of his buttondown collar. He ran a sandpaper tongue over the surface of his teeth. Returning to find all the food gone and Lamar tapping a rhythm on the table, he crooked a thumb at the door. “Unless you’re planning on eating the plate, Stretch, let’s go look at some blood.”
The two of them were a Mutt-and-Jeff Murder Squad detective team operating out of the spiffy brick Metro Police Headquarters on James Robertson Parkway. Lamar was six-five, thirty-two, skinny as a shoestring potato with wispy brown hair and a walrus moustache like an old-time gunslinger. Born in New Haven, but he learned southern ways quickly.