Casting Bones (20 page)

‘No.' Her voice was more of a gurgle than a word.

He stepped on her throat, pressing his heel into her larynx until she stopped breathing. Another murder, another purse snatching, another violent crime in the Big Easy. A Nawlins crime that happened on average at least once a day.

‘W
arden Jakes, thanks for seeing me.'

The big man examined him from heavily lidded eyes, his swarthy face creased with time, tobacco and alcohol abuse.

‘I'm doing you a major favor, here. What do you want, Detective …?' He left the sentence open.

‘Archer,' Q replied.

‘OK, Archer,' he missed the r's saying
Acha
like a true Southerner, and his gravelly, weathered voice came from deep in his chest. ‘You threatened Trystan, our Miss Washington. And you're inside my house and I don't ever invite strangers in. Make this relevant or get the hell off this property. I've got enough manpower to make that happen, as I'm sure you are aware.'

‘Warden, I'm simply here on a fact-finding mission. Your Trystan Washington played hardball with me, and I only returned the favor.' Archer wanted to get under his skin, irritate him a little. The idea was to catch someone off guard so they would say things they wouldn't in a civil conversation.

‘Play hardball? She can do that, that one,' Jakes said.

The two men were quiet. Finally, ‘Warden Jakes, we are trying to get to the bottom of Judge Lerner's death. We're all on the same page, right?'

‘Lerner was shot, right?'

‘He was.'

They were still standing, Archer and Jakes, face to face, and Archer could smell the stale odor of cigar on the man's breath.

‘I don't know who killed him, I don't know why. I was not a close friend of the judge and I have nothin' else to add. Good day, Detective.'

‘Warden Jakes, I have a photo taken of you and Judge Lerner, in front of his baby grand piano. Inside the judge's home. You look pretty friendly in that picture. In the background there's dozens of framed portraits of inmates from your prison.' He paused for effect. ‘I'm not sure that constitutes a camaraderie, but it's a bit peculiar. Wouldn't you agree?'

Jakes scowled at him, his eyebrows tightly knit.

‘Look, Warden Jakes, I'm just trying to get a handle on what kind of man Lerner was. If you would just—'

‘I have nothin' further to add to this.'

‘Lerner was dating Rodger Claim, am I correct?'

Jakes froze, his eyes wide open, his forehead creased like an accordion.

‘Who told you that preposterous story?'

‘Claim was head of the guard unit. He and Lerner were having an affair, and you obviously were friendly with the judge.' Staring at the warden, Archer added, ‘And you employed Claim. So if you were not aware of a relationship, pardon my comment, you must have been a damned fool. Am I right?'

Jakes squinted, his eyes adding to a nasty frown.

‘Detective, I resent that remark and I was not that damned friendly with your dead judge.'

‘Hey,' Archer shrugged, ‘I'm not suggesting anything, but the prison personnel seemed to be a big part of Lerner's life. I was hoping you could tell me more. Like where Claim is now.'

‘Look, Archer, I have a big responsibility here.' He tugged on the collar of his white shirt, pulling it away from his massive neck. ‘There are a number of people I deal with on a daily, weekly, monthly basis. Not to mention stockholders who are depending on – no, demanding a satisfactory report. One little pissant judge doesn't mean a hill of beans in the scope of things. As for Rodger Claim, he was running his own little shakedown here with the guards and inmates. I do not, sir, know his whereabouts, but I hope he's in hell.'

Jakes took a deep breath, studied Archer for a moment and nodded.

‘I've been to the judge's house, I even went out with him for a drink one time when I was in town, but I don't really know the man, I don't really care about him, and I'm not broken up about the fact that someone shot him.'

‘What do you care about?'

‘Truthfully?'

‘I'm always looking for the truth, Warden.'

Jakes gave him a subtle nod.

‘Detective Archer, I care about justice. I care about these kids in this prison understanding that if they fuck up again on the outside, there will be hell to pay the rest of their lives.'

Jakes looked down on him. Probably six three or four, the warden towered over Archer's five ten frame.

‘Warden Jakes, this may seem like an off the wall question, but do you remember a prisoner named Antoine Duvay?'

‘Of course. He was on my personal detail. Kept the grounds, the vehicles. Good kid. Sure I remember him. Why? Is he involved?'

‘That's debatable at this time,' Archer said. ‘One more question, sir. What kind of car do you drive?'

‘Car? What kind of a question is that?'

‘Warden? I can walk out of here, and probably see your vehicle in the drive or garage. What kind of a car?'

‘The cars are a perk.' He was obviously put off by the question. ‘Part of my compensation, OK?'

‘What kind of car do you drive?'

‘Believe me, Detective, it's not relevant to anything you are involved in. I actually have three vehicles.'

‘What am I going to see when I walk outside, Warden? You're right, it means nothing, but it's just something that intrigues me.'

Jakes shook his head in disgust.

‘You walked up here. Did you see one of my vehicles? You are a piece of shit. With someone as inept as you, how the hell will they ever figure out who killed Lerner?'

‘What kind of car do
you
primarily drive, Warden?'

‘Give it up, Archer.'

The big man walked toward him, crowding Archer out of the door.

‘Warden, this doesn't have to end on a sour note.' He turned, sensing the edge of the porch about two steps away.

‘It does, Detective. You may be some hotshot in Nawlins, but here you are nothing more than a fucking gnat on my eyelash. Got it?'

‘I got it.'

Archer stepped back onto the brick pavers that led up to the stately home. Jakes slammed the door and Quentin Archer turned and surveyed the driveway and three-car garage. Pretty fancy for a prison warden.

A young black man in prison garb stepped out from the garage, smiling ear to ear.

‘Sir, can I help you with something?'

‘You are?'

‘Nathan, sir. Nathan Peterson.'

About sixteen years old, probably in for theft, or assault.

‘What are you doing here, Nathan?'

‘Sir?'

‘You're obviously cleared for some kind of freedom and …'

‘I'm on probation here, sir. I've been given the chance to rehabilitate myself. The warden and his staff have given some of us a chance to work within the system and prove that we can survive in the world outside. I take care of the grounds, the vehicles and other things. What can I do for you, sir?'

‘Are you familiar with Antoine Duvay?'

He thought for a moment. ‘I may have heard his name mentioned. Worked here, like me.'

Archer nodded.

‘Can you tell me what cars are in the garage?'

‘Sir?'

‘Nathan. What cars does the warden own. It's a very simple question.'

‘Warden Jakes has a Ford F-150 pickup, a Chevy Malibu, and his most requested car.'

‘What is that, Nathan?'

‘A Jaguar XK-E.'

Archer glanced toward the garage, not surprised at the answer.

‘It's a looker, suh.'

‘Yeah?'

‘A beauty. Cream colored and all. You want to see?'

S
olange Cordray was in a hurry. Washing her face in the employees' locker facility, she glanced at her watch. Today she was off at three, with a three thirty appointment and a throwing of the bones. The client wanted information, not just a spell, and the young practitioner had some rather uncanny ability to find information, details about people's lives and what the future held in store when she tossed the bones. She wasn't happy at all about the job. This man was evil. She felt it, believed it. This was the man she'd gone to Quentin Archer about.

The problem always was that she had a hard time saying no. It wasn't the money although the cash always came in handy. It was the fact that she felt everyone deserved a chance. But this guy … He was bad news.

She concentrated on the bones, the only things that last in this physical world. Even when cremated, bone fragments remained. Every living soul, man or animal, leaves a trace of itself through its skeletal remains. Every one. And throwing bones went back to the ancient faith of the Yoruba. All that was needed was the four bones and the casting map, with three sections representing earth, plant and animal. With just those items, the voodoo lady could tell her clients things that would change their lives. But only if those clients knew how to interpret. The trouble with bones, they often told of unpleasantness that the client had no control over. It was a mixed blessing to have this information, possibly information that you wish you had never received.

She once threw the bones for a young white woman who was the picture of perfect health. The small bone, the
imbay
, pointed to the same plant segment on the casting mat as the
scita
, the broken bone. Solange had turned to the woman and told her she would be dead in three days and there was nothing she could do about it. The lady had laughed at her.

Three days later the woman suffered a stroke and died hours later. Ghende, the gatekeeper spirit, ushered her into the cemetery two days later.

The voodoo practitioner vowed never again to be so harsh with her predictions. There were some forecasts better left untold.

Picking up her small clutch purse she exited the locker room and stepped into the long hallway that led to the lobby and exit. She dreaded the meeting. She should tell the man her suspicions and suggest that he change his ways. This from a lowly practitioner to a wealthy business executive.

‘Hey, pretty baby.' Clarence the orderly blocked her way.

‘Please, I'm in a hurry.'

‘You avoid me like I'm the plague or somethin'.'

‘Clarence, I have an appointment.'

‘I'm thinkin' we need to hook up, sometime after hours. You catch my drift?'

Reaching out with his large hand he touched her arm and she recoiled.

‘You think you're better than me, is that it? You're too good for Clarence? I treat your momma special, little lady. You do good by me, you understand, and I watch out for momma.' He reached for her again.

Deep down, somewhere in the bottom of her soul she felt it roiling, an intense heat rising through her loins, her intestines, her heart and into her feverish head. White-flecked spittle formed on her lips, and her breath became hot and heavy. There was a fire in her eyes, and her nostrils flared like an angry mare.

The voice was a low, animal growl, like that from a mother bear protecting her cub. ‘Go away.'

He pulled his arm back.

‘Go away and don't ever come back.' A voice from the bowels of hell. ‘Leave this place and promise yourself that you will never again enter the doors of this establishment.'

The man's eyes were wide open in fear and amazement. He took one step back, then another and another.

As she stared at him, the heat of her eyes burning into his, the big man slowly sank to his knees, whimpering.

‘Understand that if you come back, the wrath of Damballa will be on you like the stink of the undead.'

He nodded, staring at the floor as tears streamed down his cheeks. He never looked up.

As if it never happened, the voodoo lady took a deep breath, gathered her composure, turned and walked in measured strides down the hallway and out the door into the afternoon sunshine. The river, the Mighty Miss, rolled by and she smiled at it, feeling some kinship to its awesome power.

A
rcher stopped at the office and saw the note on his desk. Other than Detective Davis's signature, it simply said, ‘See me. Immediately.' He'd been in charge of Judge Lerner's cell phone. Davis was working late, so it must be important.

‘You seen Davis?' Dan Sullivan walked up to him.

‘Just got in. I was down talking to the warden at—'

‘Go see Davis. Now.'

‘Let me clear a couple messages here and—'

‘Archer, come with me.' He tapped his watch. ‘When I say now, I mean now.'

The sergeant grabbed him by his elbow and propelled him down the hall to his small office where they found the black detective sitting on the edge of Sullivan's desk.

‘Didn't know if you were coming back today or not. Tried your cell a number of times, but—'

‘Turned it off at the prison.'

He'd turned it off and left it in the car, then forgotten to turn it on when he returned.

‘What have you got? Phone numbers?'

‘Oh, hell. We can beat phone numbers straight out of the gate.'

‘Then what?'

‘The lab dried it out. The man—'

Sergeant Sullivan interrupted. ‘Lerner recorded his own abduction and murder.'

‘He what?'

Davis held up a playback device. ‘It's all on here, Q. Guys are named Skeeter and James, and they picked the judge up at his house. They beat him up, stuffed him in a car, drove to a warehouse and they shot him. Some of the conversation is a little muffled and the guys are still trying to un-garble parts, but we got most of it.'

‘The judge. He recorded it?'

‘On his phone.'

‘Why didn't he just call 911?'

‘I don't think he knew they were going to kill him until it was too late. By the time they would have responded, he'd have been toast anyway. This all happened in about twenty minutes. We figured out who Skeeter is,' Davis said, holding up a photograph. ‘Guy named John Lewis, nicknamed Skeeter, a low-level punk who does contract work for some of the mob guys in town.'