Read Online Denton - 03 - Way Past Dead by Steven Womack - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steven Womack
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always been an easy one. Cops by nature are leery of and fascinated by reporters at the same time. Most will cuss out reporters given half the chance, but then scramble all over each other to get their names in the paper. Better yet, get an interview with one of the TV-station pretty boys who pass for journalists these days. That was a coup.
After leaving the newspaper business, I expected that, if anything, private investigators would be held in even less esteem than reporters. I soon learned, though, that if you earned a cop’s respect, he’d treat you accordingly. I’d tried over the past two years with Spellman, with mixed success.
Spellman’s phone rang about ten times before I gave up. You’d think that the Homicide Squad would keep their phones manned during business hours, but Spellman was the only one with a secretary. If she was out of the office and nobody else was around, then it just rang off the hook.
Glad I wasn’t trying to report a murder.
I had another two hours, maybe a little more, before I had to meet Phil Anderson over at the insurance company.
I figured a long walk might do me good. It’s quite a trek from my office down Broadway to the Riverfront, but there wouldn’t be anyplace to park down there, what with all the squad cars and news vans.
So I took a stroll, and within a few minutes found myself maneuvering past the Al Menah Shriners’ temple on my way down the long hill toward the Cumberland River. The day had really blossomed, with only a few thick gray-and-white clouds drifting lazily over the city. The lunch-hour pedestrian crowds hadn’t let up yet either; I could see how somebody would hate to get back to the office on a day like today.
It had been a long winter, one of dark days that ended early. Headlights on by four and all that. I was glad to see it over.
Down by Second Avenue, I had to cross Broadway to the south side of the street to avoid the construction traffic. Nashville’s been in a boom the last year or so, having itself come out of a long, dark economic wintertime. The company that owns Opryland had bought up a huge chunk of Second Avenue and was remaking it in its own image. At the foot of Second Avenue, right on Broadway, a Hard Rock Café had moved in last year.
Ah, I thought, we’ve arrived.
Only problem was that all the people who’d run restaurants and storefront operations that dated all the way back to the late nineteenth century were now being booted out. Some of the residents had to go as well. Too bad; progress in, people out. More tourists pumping their hard-earned dollars into the local economy. You know what they say: every Yankee tourist is worth a bale of cotton, and he’s a helluva lot easier to pick.
Down by the Acme Feed Store, which thankfully hadn’t been bought and gentrified, I rounded the corner and started toward General Hospital and the morgue. Up the sloping hill, a line of Metro squad cars, engines idling in the heat, blue strobes flashing, diverted traffic blocks before you could get anywhere near the action.
A few news vans, with their satellite towers cranked up, were parked half on the sidewalk. But the crowd of newspeople had thinned. Maybe the novelty was beginning to wear off.
It took less than five minutes to get up the line. A young uniformed officer, arms crossed, leaning against the front fender of his car, was the only one around. As cars approached he motioned them to turn right, away from the river, and head off in the other direction. There wasn’t much traffic, though. Word had gotten out.
“Hey, officer,” I called as I crossed the street and approached him. “How’s it going?”
He gave me that cool, professional dealing-with-civilians look, the one they teach you at the Academy.
“Quiet today,” he answered.
I came to within a couple of feet and leaned against the back quarter panel. I crossed my arms like he did and stared down the hill.
“Had a little free time after lunch,” I said.
After leaving the newspaper business, I expected that, if anything, private investigators would be held in even less esteem than reporters. I soon learned, though, that if you earned a cop’s respect, he’d treat you accordingly. I’d tried over the past two years with Spellman, with mixed success.
Spellman’s phone rang about ten times before I gave up. You’d think that the Homicide Squad would keep their phones manned during business hours, but Spellman was the only one with a secretary. If she was out of the office and nobody else was around, then it just rang off the hook.
Glad I wasn’t trying to report a murder.
I had another two hours, maybe a little more, before I had to meet Phil Anderson over at the insurance company.
I figured a long walk might do me good. It’s quite a trek from my office down Broadway to the Riverfront, but there wouldn’t be anyplace to park down there, what with all the squad cars and news vans.
So I took a stroll, and within a few minutes found myself maneuvering past the Al Menah Shriners’ temple on my way down the long hill toward the Cumberland River. The day had really blossomed, with only a few thick gray-and-white clouds drifting lazily over the city. The lunch-hour pedestrian crowds hadn’t let up yet either; I could see how somebody would hate to get back to the office on a day like today.
It had been a long winter, one of dark days that ended early. Headlights on by four and all that. I was glad to see it over.
Down by Second Avenue, I had to cross Broadway to the south side of the street to avoid the construction traffic. Nashville’s been in a boom the last year or so, having itself come out of a long, dark economic wintertime. The company that owns Opryland had bought up a huge chunk of Second Avenue and was remaking it in its own image. At the foot of Second Avenue, right on Broadway, a Hard Rock Café had moved in last year.
Ah, I thought, we’ve arrived.
Only problem was that all the people who’d run restaurants and storefront operations that dated all the way back to the late nineteenth century were now being booted out. Some of the residents had to go as well. Too bad; progress in, people out. More tourists pumping their hard-earned dollars into the local economy. You know what they say: every Yankee tourist is worth a bale of cotton, and he’s a helluva lot easier to pick.
Down by the Acme Feed Store, which thankfully hadn’t been bought and gentrified, I rounded the corner and started toward General Hospital and the morgue. Up the sloping hill, a line of Metro squad cars, engines idling in the heat, blue strobes flashing, diverted traffic blocks before you could get anywhere near the action.
A few news vans, with their satellite towers cranked up, were parked half on the sidewalk. But the crowd of newspeople had thinned. Maybe the novelty was beginning to wear off.
It took less than five minutes to get up the line. A young uniformed officer, arms crossed, leaning against the front fender of his car, was the only one around. As cars approached he motioned them to turn right, away from the river, and head off in the other direction. There wasn’t much traffic, though. Word had gotten out.
“Hey, officer,” I called as I crossed the street and approached him. “How’s it going?”
He gave me that cool, professional dealing-with-civilians look, the one they teach you at the Academy.
“Quiet today,” he answered.
I came to within a couple of feet and leaned against the back quarter panel. I crossed my arms like he did and stared down the hill.
“Had a little free time after lunch,” I said.
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