CHAPTER 1
THE FIRST DAY I MET Sean Callahan he told me Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys invented Western swing music in 1935. They played it at Cain’s Ballroom in Tulsa, Oklahoma. One day ago, Sean Callahan was found dead in his bathroom. He was my only friend. I got on a bus.
I stepped off a Greyhound in the heart of downtown Tulsa twenty hours later at the corner of 3rd and Detroit. I wondered how far it was to Cain’s Ballroom. I’d need to check that place out. The detective’s division of the police station took priority, however, and that’s where I was headed.
An old black man, maybe seventy, with a leathery face and a charcoal fedora cocked sideways on his head panhandled for change against a wall.
I dropped fifty cents into his Styrofoam cup. “Detective’s division? Know where it is?”
“600 Civic Center.” He recited the address immediately like he’d said it a thousand times. “Right by the BOK Center. Not far.” He quirked an eyebrow up at me like he knew why I was going there. “You in trouble, son?”
“Not me.”
“Sure.” He exhaled a sigh. “Head south to 6th and make a right. Keep going a few blocks. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” I nodded and took off the direction his shaky finger pointed.
I glanced around while I walked. Tulsa was bigger than I’d expected. I passed a few skyscrapers and some older church buildings lined up in neat rows running east to west, or west to east, depending on how you looked at it. The sun beat down on me from above at high noon. One of the taller buildings caught my eye. It was a neo-gothic design. Definitely over thirty stories tall and it had an ornate trapezoidal prism on top with a pale green patina. The same color as the Statue of Liberty. Has to be copper. The color was the result of exposure to the elements. Same way iron turned to rust. Old pennies before 1982 would turn green if you left them on the street long enough. They were made of copper. They made them with Zinc after that. Same reason some rings would turn a finger green. The same thing made a man a man. What he’d been exposed to, I thought. Everyone had a patina. I liked the building.
I made a right onto 6th street. A few blocks west and I’d be where I needed to be.
The people were the same as most people in downtowns. Dressed in suits or skirts. The rest looked down on their luck. My kind of people. They didn’t bullshit and they were interesting. Like the man who gave me directions. I was sure he had a story. One I’d have liked to hear if I hadn’t been in a hurry. I liked to listen more than I liked to talk.
I had fifteen dollars in my wallet and a folded paperback of The Prince by Machiavelli in the other back pocket of my jeans. Didn’t need much to get by. Didn’t like lugging things around with me. It made life simple. I left the book on an empty bench in front of a building. It could be someone else’s treasure. I liked leaving books around. People needed to read more.
The building at 600 Civic Center was unremarkable. A big white block about twelve stories tall with golden frames around each window. It looked like it’d been dropped in the middle of the city with a crane. That probably wasn’t far from the truth only it’d been assembled with one. The BOK center was a large arena that sat just north and looked like a giant roll of Duct tape, but in the best possible way I’d supposed. It was sleek and modern juxtaposed against the older architecture of the city. Like any other arena it was probably used for concerts and big events. Bond money at work to step out of the shadow of Oklahoma City, I guessed.
I took off up some steps and into the foyer. They had one of those black boards with the white moveable letters for a directory inside. Definitely a government building. I confirmed the detective’s division was on the third floor. I took the stairs two steps at a time. Elevators left me feeling trapped. You’d never catch me inside one unless absolutely necessary.
I shoved through the stairwell door on the third floor and walked down the hallway. Office doors for each suite flanked me on both sides. A loud bang went off when the stairwell door slammed shut and it echoed down the hall. I made my way into the suite marked as the detective’s division. A lady sat at a mahogany desk in the entryway. It read TULSA DETECTIVE’S DIVISION in block letters on a temporary wall behind her. Offices formed the perimeter and a bullpen of cubicles made up the center. The place where the people actually did the work.
“Can I help you?” The lady smiled between phone calls.
“Sean Callahan.”
“Does he work here?”
I stared.
We locked eyes for about five seconds before she picked up her phone. “Sean Callahan?” She nodded to the sound of the voice coming from the receiver and then turned to me. She hung up the phone. “One moment, please.”
I gazed around the lobby. Nothing exciting. A few chairs. A magazine or two. Tulsa Police Department logo on the wall.
A man and a woman walked around the corner. Both had brown leather holsters strapped around their shoulders. The guy looked like a detective out of a movie. I almost laughed. All he needed was a moustache to match his wavy brown hair. The woman wore black slacks that said professional, but they hugged her hips just right. A crisp white button-down tucked into them. She was not unattractive at all. Sandy blonde hair tied up in a messy ponytail. Natural color. Emerald-green eyes.
“Hi, I’m Detective Shirley.” She reached out.
The man glared. I shook her hand. I needed information. He didn’t look pleased that she spoke before him. That wasn’t information that I cared about.
“This is Detective Harden.” She nodded to her partner (I assumed.) “We worked the Callahan case. How can we help you?”
“You got a name?” Harden folded his arms over his chest.
I stared back and forth at both of them for a few quick beats. “Worked?”
“Suicide.” No empathy in Harden’s voice. Almost sounded proud when he said it.
Detective Shirley glanced around. “We should go sit down to discuss this. Are you family? The one who called?”
I kept quiet and followed them back to the bullpen. We split the middle of two rows of cubicles and ended up at Shirley’s desk. I may have admired her ass in her tight black pants along the way. Her name plate on her cubicle read KRISTINE SHIRLEY, DETECTIVE. She was young. Looked about twenty-three which meant she was probably twenty-five or twenty-six. Had to be.
I sat down in a chair across from her desk. Starsky (that’s what I’d be calling Harden) posted up behind her when she sat down. Almost looked like he was trying to stake a claim. He was middle-aged and had a simple yellow-gold wedding band on his left ring finger. Maybe late-thirties.
Shirley started to speak, and he barreled right over her. “Suicide. Clear as day. No sign of foul play.”
“Bullshit.”
His eyes widened. Jaw clenched. “Excuse me?”
My eyes rolled up to his. “You heard me.”
“Do you have evidence?” Shirley leaned forward like I’d just piqued her curiosity and also like she was trying to defuse the tension that just filled the air. Her voice remained soft. Good cop, bad cop, I guessed. I wasn’t a suspect. Maybe Starsky was just a dick. Probably the case. Didn’t matter.
I leaned back and didn’t answer.
“Well?” Starsky’s hands balled into fists at his side.
I glanced to the copy of the Tulsa World newspaper on Shirley’s desk. “You have one of those from three days ago?”
She nodded. “Sure.”
Starsky rolled his eyes like I was wasting their time.
“Evidence is in there.” I stood up.
They both looked at each other and then back at me.
“Huh?” Starsky said.
I walked off. Had all the information I was going to get. He was convinced he was right. I didn’t have time to waste.
They both followed me back the same way we came in.
Starsky grabbed me by the forearm when we passed the receptionist’s desk. I stared down at his hand and then back up at him.
He released his grip. “You have a name?”
I didn’t answer.
Shirley came up from behind him. She stared at me like I was some kind of school project or puzzle. I liked her immediately. She was a problem solver. Some people you could just tell. No wonder she’d made detective at her age in a department full of testosterone.
Starsky glared. “Look, stay out of this, okay? I’m sure you’re some kind of family or friend looking to play investigator, but there’s nothing there. Let the professionals handle it.”
Shirley cleared her throat.
Starsky peeked back to her and then turned to me. “Sorry for your loss if you knew him. But we can’t have you interfering and getting in our way.”
I snickered.
“Something funny?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Well?”
“How can I interfere?”
“Huh?” He stared blankly.
I shook my head. “Case closed. No crime.”
Shirley grinned. Starsky’s face screwed up tight and turned bright red.
I did a one-eighty and disappeared through the entrance and back into the stairwell.
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