International was in Suite 1600. They were the only tenants on the sixteenth floor.
Suite 1600 turned out to be an impressive-sized reception room and an inner office. The walls looked freshly painted and the furniture smelled like they’d just taken off the plastic wrap. Three of the four walls of the reception room were adorned with photos of Elvis at various stages in his illustrious career. The fourth wall behind the receptionist desk contained a built-in display case filled with dozens of Elvis bobbleheads, many of which bore little resemblance to the King of Rock and Roll.
The
have a blessed day
lady was a plumpish woman with frosted hair who occupied the chair behind the reception desk. When Darla approached her desk, she seemed to be posting a comment on her Facebook page and didn’t look up.
“I’m Detective Cavannah, from the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation.”
The woman stopped in mid-post and her head shot up. Darla showed the woman her ID and badge. The woman got a sheepish expression on her face. “Honest,” she said, “I wasn’t doing personal posting. I was doing research. What can I do for you…” She paused. “…Detective?”
“Maybe you can clear something up for me,” said Darla. “Most of those bobbleheads in the display case, they don’t look that much like Elvis.”
“Those are our ETAs,” said the woman. “Every Elvis tribute artist we represent gets his likeness on a bobblehead. It generates extra income at concerts.”
“A facsimile of someone imitating Elvis,” said Darla. “Do a lot of people buy something like that?”
“We’re having a two-for-the-price-of-one special right now,” said the receptionist. “Let me know if there’s one you like.”
“What I’d like is to see whoever is behind that door.”
“That would be Mr. J. B. Caulder, our CEO,” the woman said. “I’ll tell him you’re here.” J.B. Another guy who uses initials, thought Darla. You’d think they’d just change their first names.
“May I say what this is in reference to?” the receptionist asked.
“I think he’ll know why I’m here.”
“It’s about Officer Elvis? The ETA that was killed?”
“Tell Mr. Caulder I’m on a tight schedule,” said Darla.
The woman got up from her chair and curtsied. She knocked softly on the interior room door like she was afraid of waking a sleeping ogre.
The seating area in the reception room had a small sofa and a club chair arranged around a glass coffee table. The coffee table had a bust of Elvis etched into the top. Classy.
Occupying the sofa was a ponytailed guy in an expensive T-shirt, from which bulged well-muscled arms covered with tats. His eyes were glued to his phone. He was texting.
Darla sat in the opposite club chair. She crossed her legs; the .380 Taurus strapped to her ankle, as usual, was visible.
“You Hugh the Glue’s wife?” Ponytail asked without looking up from his texting, like he’d made her when she first walked in the room.
“I was, yes,” she said. “Are you the bouncer in this place, Mr. …?”
“Marks,” he said, “Director of Transportation,” finally meeting her eyes and shrugging his shoulders. “The tribute artists, they all like to sit in the backseat and be chauffeured around like they’re big shots.”
Yeah, Marks was the muscle in the operation. “I’ve seen your photo somewhere before,” said Darla.
“Maybe it’s social media,” he said, getting back to his texting. “You got a lot of Facebook friends?”
“No,” said Darla. “But I look at a lot of mug shots.”
“Oh,” said the guy. Nothing more. Like most strong-arm guys, he knew when the time had come to keep his mouth shut.
The receptionist returned to her desk and ten minutes of quiet went by before a thick-necked bald-headed guy, with a brown and gray soul patch on his chin and a prizefighter’s scar above his left eye, poked his head out of the interior office. Dressed in a silk suit, he had the
Suite 1600 turned out to be an impressive-sized reception room and an inner office. The walls looked freshly painted and the furniture smelled like they’d just taken off the plastic wrap. Three of the four walls of the reception room were adorned with photos of Elvis at various stages in his illustrious career. The fourth wall behind the receptionist desk contained a built-in display case filled with dozens of Elvis bobbleheads, many of which bore little resemblance to the King of Rock and Roll.
The
have a blessed day
lady was a plumpish woman with frosted hair who occupied the chair behind the reception desk. When Darla approached her desk, she seemed to be posting a comment on her Facebook page and didn’t look up.
“I’m Detective Cavannah, from the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation.”
The woman stopped in mid-post and her head shot up. Darla showed the woman her ID and badge. The woman got a sheepish expression on her face. “Honest,” she said, “I wasn’t doing personal posting. I was doing research. What can I do for you…” She paused. “…Detective?”
“Maybe you can clear something up for me,” said Darla. “Most of those bobbleheads in the display case, they don’t look that much like Elvis.”
“Those are our ETAs,” said the woman. “Every Elvis tribute artist we represent gets his likeness on a bobblehead. It generates extra income at concerts.”
“A facsimile of someone imitating Elvis,” said Darla. “Do a lot of people buy something like that?”
“We’re having a two-for-the-price-of-one special right now,” said the receptionist. “Let me know if there’s one you like.”
“What I’d like is to see whoever is behind that door.”
“That would be Mr. J. B. Caulder, our CEO,” the woman said. “I’ll tell him you’re here.” J.B. Another guy who uses initials, thought Darla. You’d think they’d just change their first names.
“May I say what this is in reference to?” the receptionist asked.
“I think he’ll know why I’m here.”
“It’s about Officer Elvis? The ETA that was killed?”
“Tell Mr. Caulder I’m on a tight schedule,” said Darla.
The woman got up from her chair and curtsied. She knocked softly on the interior room door like she was afraid of waking a sleeping ogre.
The seating area in the reception room had a small sofa and a club chair arranged around a glass coffee table. The coffee table had a bust of Elvis etched into the top. Classy.
Occupying the sofa was a ponytailed guy in an expensive T-shirt, from which bulged well-muscled arms covered with tats. His eyes were glued to his phone. He was texting.
Darla sat in the opposite club chair. She crossed her legs; the .380 Taurus strapped to her ankle, as usual, was visible.
“You Hugh the Glue’s wife?” Ponytail asked without looking up from his texting, like he’d made her when she first walked in the room.
“I was, yes,” she said. “Are you the bouncer in this place, Mr. …?”
“Marks,” he said, “Director of Transportation,” finally meeting her eyes and shrugging his shoulders. “The tribute artists, they all like to sit in the backseat and be chauffeured around like they’re big shots.”
Yeah, Marks was the muscle in the operation. “I’ve seen your photo somewhere before,” said Darla.
“Maybe it’s social media,” he said, getting back to his texting. “You got a lot of Facebook friends?”
“No,” said Darla. “But I look at a lot of mug shots.”
“Oh,” said the guy. Nothing more. Like most strong-arm guys, he knew when the time had come to keep his mouth shut.
The receptionist returned to her desk and ten minutes of quiet went by before a thick-necked bald-headed guy, with a brown and gray soul patch on his chin and a prizefighter’s scar above his left eye, poked his head out of the interior office. Dressed in a silk suit, he had the
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