bearing of a New Jersey hood, but smiled big-time, the way Southerners do whether or not they are glad to see you. He signaled in Darla’s direction like she was next in line and then turned and walked back into his office. The Director of Transportation didn’t bother looking up.
The suit squeezed behind a desk that took up most of the room. J. B. Caulder let his tree stump of a body sink into an imitation leather swivel chair, and took a pull from a coffee cup that had a photo of Elvis with Richard Nixon on the front. Nixon had his arm around Elvis.
Darla found a seat opposite him in one of the two folding chairs.
“J. B. Caulder,” he said, with an accent that sounded like it had been dipped in the murkiest part of the delta swamps.
“I’m here about the death of Detective Tommy Reylander.”
Caulder put on his confused face, the kind you give the traffic cop when you’re caught speeding and are about to play dumb. “I’m sorry, Detective,” he said, “but is it a donation you’re looking for? Or perhaps you’d like to book one of our Elvises for the funeral? A tribute to the tribute artist?” That good ole boy smile again.
Darla took out her recorder and placed it on the desk. “I’m a lousy note taker,” she said. “It’s easier if I record everything.”
Caulder studied the device for a second, and then looked down at the back of his right hand, appreciating what looked to be a fresh manicure. “Pray, proceed, Detective.”
“Someone from this office made ten calls to Detective Reylander’s cellphone in the week before he was killed, nine of them on the day he was killed. Would that be you?”
“I’d have to check,” he said. “I don’t keep track of all my calls. Much of my business is over the phone. What if it was me?”
“How many Elvis tribute artists does your company represent, Mr. Caulder?”
He diddled with his computer until the right page came up. “One hundred twenty-three nationally,” he said. “Here in Mississippi, eight. We handle only the premier ETAs.”
“So why all the calls to Tommy Reylander?”
“ETA International is always on the lookout for outstanding talent to expand our Elvis Empire,” said Caulder.
“You ever hear Tommy sing?”
“I have to admit, it was sometime back.”
“Then you know he could barely hold a tune.”
“That, of course, is merely one opinion,” said Caulder.
“I’d be comfortable putting it to a vote.”
Caulder shifted in his chair, and made a point of looking at his computer, acting like there was urgent business that needed his attention. “I’m sorry, but what is it exactly that you’d like to know, Detective? I’m sure you didn’t come by merely to express your musical opinion.”
“Like I said, why all the calls to Tommy, Mr. Caulder?”
“You expect me to divulge the nature of private conversations?” asked Caulder.
“According to our records, there were a lot of calls but only
one
conversation,” said Darla. “You called Tommy nine times the day he was killed. All your calls went into his voice mail. He never returned one of them.”
Inhaling deeply, Caulder let his breath out slowly. He cleared his throat, and spoke with more feigned sincerity than before. “I wanted to buy Mr. Reylander’s Cadillac for our various tribute artists to use. He rejected my first offer. We were in the process of negotiating.”
“How could you be negotiating if Tommy never called back?”
“What difference does that make at this point?” said Caulder, sounding a tad exasperated. “From what I saw on YouTube, the vehicle is damaged beyond repair.”
“You watched the explosion on YouTube?”
“Along with a half a million other viewers, the last time I checked. I try to stay abreast of the ETA industry. My livelihood depends on it.”
“How well did you know Tommy?”
“How well can one know anyone who doesn’t return his calls?” said Caulder. Darla took it to mean that Caulder and Tommy had a
The suit squeezed behind a desk that took up most of the room. J. B. Caulder let his tree stump of a body sink into an imitation leather swivel chair, and took a pull from a coffee cup that had a photo of Elvis with Richard Nixon on the front. Nixon had his arm around Elvis.
Darla found a seat opposite him in one of the two folding chairs.
“J. B. Caulder,” he said, with an accent that sounded like it had been dipped in the murkiest part of the delta swamps.
“I’m here about the death of Detective Tommy Reylander.”
Caulder put on his confused face, the kind you give the traffic cop when you’re caught speeding and are about to play dumb. “I’m sorry, Detective,” he said, “but is it a donation you’re looking for? Or perhaps you’d like to book one of our Elvises for the funeral? A tribute to the tribute artist?” That good ole boy smile again.
Darla took out her recorder and placed it on the desk. “I’m a lousy note taker,” she said. “It’s easier if I record everything.”
Caulder studied the device for a second, and then looked down at the back of his right hand, appreciating what looked to be a fresh manicure. “Pray, proceed, Detective.”
“Someone from this office made ten calls to Detective Reylander’s cellphone in the week before he was killed, nine of them on the day he was killed. Would that be you?”
“I’d have to check,” he said. “I don’t keep track of all my calls. Much of my business is over the phone. What if it was me?”
“How many Elvis tribute artists does your company represent, Mr. Caulder?”
He diddled with his computer until the right page came up. “One hundred twenty-three nationally,” he said. “Here in Mississippi, eight. We handle only the premier ETAs.”
“So why all the calls to Tommy Reylander?”
“ETA International is always on the lookout for outstanding talent to expand our Elvis Empire,” said Caulder.
“You ever hear Tommy sing?”
“I have to admit, it was sometime back.”
“Then you know he could barely hold a tune.”
“That, of course, is merely one opinion,” said Caulder.
“I’d be comfortable putting it to a vote.”
Caulder shifted in his chair, and made a point of looking at his computer, acting like there was urgent business that needed his attention. “I’m sorry, but what is it exactly that you’d like to know, Detective? I’m sure you didn’t come by merely to express your musical opinion.”
“Like I said, why all the calls to Tommy, Mr. Caulder?”
“You expect me to divulge the nature of private conversations?” asked Caulder.
“According to our records, there were a lot of calls but only
one
conversation,” said Darla. “You called Tommy nine times the day he was killed. All your calls went into his voice mail. He never returned one of them.”
Inhaling deeply, Caulder let his breath out slowly. He cleared his throat, and spoke with more feigned sincerity than before. “I wanted to buy Mr. Reylander’s Cadillac for our various tribute artists to use. He rejected my first offer. We were in the process of negotiating.”
“How could you be negotiating if Tommy never called back?”
“What difference does that make at this point?” said Caulder, sounding a tad exasperated. “From what I saw on YouTube, the vehicle is damaged beyond repair.”
“You watched the explosion on YouTube?”
“Along with a half a million other viewers, the last time I checked. I try to stay abreast of the ETA industry. My livelihood depends on it.”
“How well did you know Tommy?”
“How well can one know anyone who doesn’t return his calls?” said Caulder. Darla took it to mean that Caulder and Tommy had a
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