Moss frowned and started to pick at the brim of his hat. “Yes, sir, I knew that. Monty Lincoln. I also heard he was murdered two days ago.”
“He was,” Ava said. “And did you hear where?”
“The alleyway behind the club. I read about it in the paper.”
“Mr. Moss,” Frank said, “at any point in your dealings with the owner of the Candle’s Wick, did you ever cross paths with Mr. Lincoln?”
“No, sir, I didn’t.”
“Had you ever met Monty Lincoln before?” Ava asked.
“A few times. He’d come here to meet with some of his friends. I only ever met him in passing, and that was fine with me. Mr. Lincoln never made any attempts to hide how he felt about black people having jobs somewhere like Garver Financial Planning.”
“I’m curious,” Ava said. “How did you find out that Mr. Lincoln was interested in buying the club? We spoke with Tony, the owner, and he said he never told you.”
“Oh, he never did. I found out through someone else.”
“We need to know who, Mr. Moss.”
“Well, there was this band that was trying out, hoping to get some gigs at the club. I only even knew about the place because I know the singer. A woman named Merle, but everyone just calls her Ma. After I approached Tony, Ma told me that she’d heard some rumblings that there was another buyer. She didn’t even know the man’s whole name, just his last name. Lincoln. And I sort of put the rest together for myself.”
“How do you know Ma?” Ava asked.
He grinned widely and a little color rose up into his cheeks. “I met her at a jazz club a few months back. I tried to court her, but she wasn’t having it. She said I was too high and mighty. Said she couldn’t take a man like me seriously.”
“A man like you?” Ava asked.
“A man that thinks making money is the most important thing in the world.”
“Any idea how Ma learned about Mr. Lincoln’s interest?” Frank asked.
“I don’t know for sure. She just said she heard it from someone else down there at the club.”
Ava nodded, assuming that someone had been Leon. And if that was true, she doubted there was any malicious intent there. It was probably just idle chatter in bed or around the dinner table.
“Mr. Moss,” Frank said, “you mentioned how Monty Lincoln would come in and make no attempt to hide how he didn’t like people like you working here. Was anyone ever combative with him?”
“No, sir. But you know, there were times when it almost seemed that’s exactly what he was doing—trying to rile someone up to talk back to him. But when I got my job here—me and all these other black men—we were told never to interact with white clients or partners unless they interacted with us first. And we were never under any circumstances to speak negatively to them. Detectives…I consider myself a smart man. I know how blessed I am to have this job, especially now with all that’s going on. It’s very demeaning, but there’s not much I wouldn’t do to keep this job.”
“We’re trying to determine who killed Mr. Lincoln,” Ava said. “Currently, we have a suspect in custody but there are doubts about his guilt. You understand that given that you and Mr. Lincoln were more or less in a competition for the Candle’s Wick, we have to ask for your whereabouts on the day he was murdered.”
Moss nodded, but there was no objection to it. It was almost as if he’d expected this part to come. “Yes, ma’am, I understand that. The papers say he was killed sometime in the afternoon, is that right?”
“That’s right,” Frank said.
“Well, that’s easy. Every day of the week, I get here at eight in the morning and don’t leave until almost six. Lately, it’s been more like eight to eight. It’s been that way for the entire time I’ve worked here, almost a year and a half now. We get a lunch break, but we have to take it in here. People know there are black men working here at Garver, but the higher-ups don’t like to broadcast it. So we have to eat inside.”
“You have people that will back this up for you pertaining to your schedule two days ago?” Frank asked.
“Those men sitting out there,” Moss said. “And my supervisor, Mr. Stuart Cole. He’s upstairs in the big office on the third floor. There’s the lady that does the timecards, too. She’ll be able to back it all up.”
“Well, thank you so much for your time, Mr. Moss,” Frank said. Almost as an afterthought, he said: “If you do think of anything else that you might know about Mr. Lincoln—you or anyone else that works here—please call the local station and ask for me. Frank Wimbly. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir. And good luck on your case.” He walked them out of his office, his hat still in his hands. The other workers gave them a casual glance as they headed back for the stairway. Moss even gave them a courteous little wave.
As they made their way back through the central lobby and back out to their car, Ava felt torn. She was happy that they’d managed to clear another black man from the murder, but she also knew that a dead end now meant that they’d just wasted an hour of her day—a day that was already feeling like it was slipping through her fingers.