CHAPTER ELEVEN
Back at the station, Ava started to look through files from the past few months that had occurred over real estate transactions—intensely focusing on cases that had occurred following the crash of the stock market. There were more than she’d been expecting but she could only find one that had two men of different races involved. So that, as far as she was concerned, was a dead end.
While she’d been digging into those cases, Frank updated the report with the scant information they’d received from Samuel Lincoln. When he was done, he turned to Ava, who was also sitting at his desk. It was an odd feeling to be sharing his desk while there was a romantic relationship between them. While no one in the department was on to them yet, she felt that their every move was being scrutinized. She wished she had her own desk up here in the primary bullpen but also knew that if she were to ask Minard for one, he’d direct her right back downstairs to the Women’s Bureau where her original desk was waiting.
“Here’s a thought for you,” Frank said. “And hear me out…just give me a chance. Because in this theory, I’m going to assume Carter Epps did it just so we can keep a suspect at the forefront. So…we know that Monty Lincoln had his eyes on the Candle’s Wick and planned to eventually buy it. So I think the first question we need to answer is why someone like Carter Epps got into a heated discussion with Lincoln rather the owner of the place. You’d think if anyone had choice words for Lincoln, it would have been Tony.”
“Not necessarily,” Ava argued. “If Samuel was being honest, there was no beef between Monty and the business owners he’d been talking to.” She caught on to this particular train of thought, though, thinking that it might be headed somewhere promising. “It makes me wonder, though…maybe someone else overheard a conversation between Monty and Tony. Maybe that person took offense to the idea of a white man trying to slowly take over a few businesses in Harlem and didn’t take it well. Without the financial gain of a business owner who would be selling, such a business transaction might look like a thinly veiled takeover.”
“Well, if you go by that narrative, then it could have very well been Carter Epps.”
“Or anyone else in the vicinity,” Ava pointed out.
“Well, we already know it couldn’t have been that many people. Again, I think we really have to key in on the band. I know you feel a certain sense of kinship with musicians, Ava, but I think you also have to accept that the answer to this might be staring you directly in the face.”
She knew that as a detective, she had to accept that possibility. But Frank was also right in that she absolutely did feel a sense of kinship with the band. She thought back to her few years as a singer in jazz bands, trying to recall a time when she’d ever met a musician that she thought might be capable of murder. She’d seen a few fights, sure, but those had either been over women or pay.
She thought back to the band Carter played with. They’d interviewed them all and even Frank had admitted that none of them seemed to be the killer. The only reason Crater Epps was currently in a cell was because a passerby claimed to have seen him. She went back through her memories of the band members one by one, trying to bring to mind anything any of them had done that made her the least bit skeptical. They’d all been so timid, so…
“Frank…can I see what you wrote up about our interview with the band members?”
“Yeah,” he said, digging through a small pile of papers. “It’s not much, but you’re welcome to have at it.”
She took the sheet he offered her and looked it over. He was right; there wasn’t much to see but it was more than enough for her to confirm what she’d been thinking.
“Someone’s missing,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, this is a jazz band and it looks like someone is missing. We interviewed them all. We got a singer, a sax player, a pianist, a trumpet player, and the drummer. But there’s no bass player. How the hell did I not notice that?”
“I’m sorry,” Frank said. “But you know I’m an idiot when it comes to music. But is that unheard of?”
“Not all the time, especially if it’s a band that is heavily driven by keys. But with two horns and the sort of drum set-up they were working with, I can guarantee you this band has a bass player. And he apparently wasn’t there when we spoke to them.”
“You think he was just missing for the day or that he made a quick escape after the murder?”
“No clue. But I don’t recall a seeing a bass of any kind. I think we can talk to Carter and find out.” She got to her feet, not liking where it felt like this was heading. But then again, she recalled how distant the band had seemed—all tight knit and banding together as if there had been a secret fluttering between them.
“Hey, wait, hold on,” Frank said. “Let’s be real here. If there is a missing bass player and we need to question him, do you really think Carter is just going to come out and tell us?”
“No idea,” she said, though she thought it was a good point. Carter’s little group seemed like a unit who had each other’s backs no matter what. She may have to get a bit confrontational with him, but she thought she may be able to work it out. “I think I’d like to give it a try, though.”
Frank gestured toward the hallway that led back to the holding cells. “Lead the way, then.”
She did just that, walking to the holding cells for the second time. She saw that two more men had been added to the cells, one of whom had clearly managed to get his hands on some booze. He was huddled in the corner, groaning with his head lolling against the wall. They found Carter in the same cell and when he saw that they were back, a brief look of worry crossed his face.
“Hello, Mr. Epps,” Ava said. “How are you?”
“Fine, I suppose. Been better, that’s for sure.”
“I want to ask you a few more questions, Mr. Epps,” Ava said. “But before I ask you anything, I need you to understand something. I used to be a performer myself. A singer. I played with a few different groups, and never really settled in with a single band, but even then, I know how close bandmates can be—how you value one another and respect one another. And I know how you stand up and protect one another, too. But I need you to be smart when I ask you these questions. Anything you lie about, Detective Wimbly and I can find the truth on our own. The only difference is that it’s going to make this case go on longer and make us quite angry. On the other hand, if you’re truthful and we can indeed prove your innocence, it’s going to go a very long way for you if we can say that you helped us when we asked. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He looked worried now, but he also looked rather resigned in an odd way. It was almost as if he’d accepted his hand and whatever happened from here on out was basically out of his hands. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “I understand.”
“Good. Now…when we talked to the band, we interviewed everyone, and I truly do think they told us all they knew. But I felt they were holding something back and I couldn’t figure out what—until about ten minutes ago. See, like I said, I know how bands work. I know the set-ups and how to appeal to an audience. And I also know that given the sort of music you’re apparently playing, a bass guitar is going to be a very important part of it all. Probably a stand-up bass so you can get that gritty but huge feel. Is that right?”
She saw a slight bit of awe in his eyes. He was apparently impressed with her knowledge of how to run a jazz band. But she also saw some disappointment there, too. It was even more apparent in the fact that he didn’t seem to want to speak.