Casting Bones (28 page)

‘Two shootings just this morning over in Bayou Saint John,' she said. ‘Gangbangers.'

‘Hadn't heard that one.' Shaking his head, he took a couple of steps, moving away from the woman toward his exit.

‘It was good to see you, Detective Strand. I hope we can work together again.'

He gave her a weak smile, and finally, she moved on. Strand let out a sigh of relief. Another time he might be flattered but not today. Not with the possibility of a forty-thousand-dollar payday or a couple of years in prison playing around in his head.
Not today, lady. Sorry.

Smiling to himself, he glanced up at the ceiling, then the lockers and the walls of the large building. For whatever reason, there were no cameras anywhere. Like cops could be trusted, but the rest of the world … not so sure. He'd heard rumors that things were about to change. There was a move to put cameras in the room, but money was tight. Hell, if they just took the money that was locked up in the evidence room they could afford cameras. And considering what he was trying to accomplish right now, it was probably a good idea. Strand closed the box and inserted it back into the locker. Empty.

As he turned he saw a hulking black man, glaring at him from five inches away. The big guy reached out and grabbed Strand's shoulder.

‘Detective.'

Gripping the folder and tablet tight, he said, ‘I'm sorry, do I know you?'

The man was dressed in a blue blazer, gray slacks and a maroon solid tie. A square jaw and shaved head gave the impression he was a no-nonsense cop.

Strand's heart skipped a beat and his stomach rumbled.

‘I saw that.'

Strand took a deep breath. So far he hadn't transferred the sheets to Paul Trueblood. He hadn't actually left the building, so there was no real crime committed. Wilting under the man's gaze he asked the question, hesitantly at best.

‘What do you think you saw?'

The man paused, nodding his head at the departing woman.

Strand turned and watched the woman who was walking away.

‘The lady?'

‘Yeah, the lady.' He smiled, his pearl-white teeth shone against his dark skin.

‘I had the impression,' the man released his grip on Strand's shoulder, ‘that she was interested in you. Maybe hitting on you. But maybe I was wrong.'

What is this? High school?
Thank God, apparently no one had seen the transfer of the printouts to his black folder.

‘I don't know, but she was cozying up to you pretty good.'

‘We worked together on a case a couple of years ago. That's all.'
And what the hell business is it of yours?

Strand nodded as the other detective chuckled broadly at the missed opportunity, and walked back up the aisle until he arrived at the exit.

‘Quick trip, Detective.'

‘It was, Gwen. Had to double check on some information.'

She smiled.

‘You're working on the judge's murder, right?'

Strand's smile froze. Did he have a sign on his forehead?
Ask Me About Judge Lerner's Murder.
Shit, the last thing he needed was the lady reporting that he'd been in just before the evidence had come up missing.

‘I'm co-lead. But this visit was about something entirely different,' he was babbling. ‘Checking up on a suspect from a couple of years ago. A bank guard who was killed during a robbery. Different case altogether. No connection. Thanks, Gwen. Look forward to the next time we talk.'

The lady studied him for a second, finally nodding as if she understood what he was saying. She didn't.

Couldn't catch a break. Probably another bad decision.

Strand quickened the pace, wondering whether maybe they
had
installed some cameras. Possibly they had a way of tracking what he'd just done. He concentrated on the forty thousand dollars he was being paid for his theft. What would it buy? What security would forty grand give him?

It was a load of crap. He was putting his life, his career on the line for forty grand. The worst decision of his profession. He pushed open the door and, turning right, almost ran into a uniform.

‘Sorry,' he bowed his head. It was going to be a whole lot easier the fewer number of people who recognized him.

‘Aren't you Detective Strand?'

‘Jesus.' He said a silent prayer.

‘Hey, man, three judges. You guys getting anywhere with that case? Sounds complicated.'

The man in blue removed his cap, brushing his hand through his short hair.

‘You know,' Strand said, ‘Detective Quentin Archer is the top on that case. He's got the answers. You know how it is, man. I've got seven cases I'm working on. One of 'em I just researched. Carry-out clerk got killed back in February? Anyway, have a good day, Officer.' There was a carry-out clerk murder, wasn't there? There was always a carry-out clerk murder.

The man nodded. The patrolman got it. After all, he was a cop in New Orleans. Everyone in law enforcement was overworked, overstressed. Every cop on the force understood that.

Strand double-timed it to his car, his folder held tightly under his arm. Jesus, forty grand. That was all? What had he been thinking? Forty grand wouldn't post bail if he was caught. Wouldn't even pay that much to get out of the country and start over somewhere else. Wouldn't do much of anything. What the hell had he been thinking? And he wasn't even sure that Paul Trueblood was on the up and up. Something disingenuous about that man. What if he was gunning for Strand? Maybe his bad decisions had finally caught up with him.

The guy could be with the Independent Police Monitor group, someone who investigates the way the NOPD handles cases. Damn. If he was on that board, Strand was in for a world of hurt. And of course there was Internal Investigations and the mayor's Committee on Police Action. Hell, there were a whole lot of ways that he could be nailed. A number of organizations that wanted to monitor every action the department made. And every entity tried to justify its existence. They would all be vigilant, hoping to open a hole in the dam, hoping they could find some violation that they could take credit for. And then there were the Feds, sticking their nose into the NOPD. This guy, this Paul Trueblood, could be with anybody.

Strand opened his car door as another uniformed patrolman walked by. Perspiration dotted the detective's face, and he felt sweat running down his chest. Stripping his jacket off, he tossed it along with the folder into the back seat.

He had to get the hell out of this area. Everyone who saw him was a possible witness. A detective in a sport coat and tie stepped from his car and walked toward the building.

Strand buried his face, shaking and wondering who would turn him in. Forty grand? He felt like fucking Judas. It wasn't worth this torture, was it?

He raised his head, peered over the steering wheel and finally saw no one. Turning the key, he backed out as soon as the engine engaged. There were forty thousand dollars' worth of spreadsheets in the back seat, inside his black vinyl folder. Lord let him deliver those before he was caught.

Skeeter Lewis was tired. His eyes were puffy and he blinked incessantly at the bright light in the interrogation room. Archer sympathized. He'd had fresh coffee and a sandwich while Levy covered, but they hadn't gotten too far.

‘I want an attorney, man. Get me a lawyer.'

‘We'll do it, Lewis. But tell me who talked to you. Tell us who was your contact. My God, man. Right here, on this recording we've got a solid case. You are giving up any chance of a deal once you go lawyer. A name, Skeeter. Give us a name.'

‘I'm not sayin' that I talked to anyone.'

‘Who hired you?'

‘I'm not sayin' anyone did.'

‘What are you saying?'

‘If there was a name, if there was someone who was trying to hire people to maybe kill or consider killing a judge …'

‘If there was?' asked Levy.

‘There's a guy who I heard of.'

‘Please, Jesus. A name.'

‘Loup-garou.'

‘What the hell kind of name is that, Lewis?' Archer was ready to strangle the guy. Hours and hours and he comes up with some silly French word. There was no given name of Loup-garou. Archer knew better.

‘He's the Werewolf. If there was someone who was trying to hire people, it would be the Wolf.'

Archer looked at Levy and shook his head. Too much coffee, too little sleep, too many hours in the company of this crazy lunatic.

‘Look him up, Archer. I'm just sayin'. If there was a guy, it would be Loup-garou. But I never talked to him. I never worked for the man. He's a crazy motherfucker. I don't go near people like that. You understand?'

Archer nodded.

‘We pick up your partner, Jim Gideon, he'll tell us the same story?'

‘Shit,' Lewis said, ‘he's a crazy motherfucker too. Gideon is liable to say anything. Anything to save his neck. He may say we talked to the Wolf, and that would be a lie, man. Or maybe he talked to the Wolf. I would never talk to Loup-garou. Not me. I'm clean.'

‘We will hook up with Gideon. You know that.'

‘So?'

‘If he doesn't back your story, if he tells us something different …'

‘You find this Werewolf.'

‘And if we do?'

‘You find the man behind the Lerner murder. Maybe those other two judges too. You find him, Detective.'

‘Loup-garou.'

‘Loup-garou.'

Levy smiled, then started chuckling. Starting to shake, he finally let loose with a loud throaty laugh.

‘This is crazy, Q.'

Archer didn't crack a smile.

‘You lie to me, Lewis, and I promise you we'll bury you in the judicial system and you will never have a prayer, my friend.'

‘You find him, Detective Archer. Then you come and see me.'

‘Oh, I will. And I know exactly where you'll be. In that hellhole next door that we call our jail.'

‘A
nother murder, Archer. Guy named Jonathon Gandal. Strangled in his car down in the Quarter,' said Sergeant Sullivan as he passed Archer's desk on his way to the coffee machine.

‘Sergeant, you're not thinking about loading this on top of—'

‘No. But wondered if you had any thoughts about him.'

‘Gandal? I don't know the name. Look, Sergeant, I'm a little busy right now and I don't need to worry about—'

‘You brought up his employer's name the other day. Out of the blue.'

‘All right' – Archer threw his hands up – ‘enlighten me. Who did this Gandal work for?'

‘Richard Garrett. My friend's son. The oil tycoon, remember?'

Garrett. According to Solange Cordray, the head of Krewe Charbonerrie. Archer shook his tired head. If something would just come together.

‘I've got nothing, Sarge.'

‘Guy was a supervisor for Garrett. Don't know for sure of what, but I was hoping this might make some sense to you. He's sitting in his black Lincoln Navigator and someone strangles him from the back seat. It probably took a minute and a half and he was dead. No fingerprints in the car. Looks like it was wiped clean.'

‘We just spent four hours with Skeeter Lewis in interrogation, Sergeant. Nothing is making sense right now. I've got the French nickname of some guy who hires killers, a guy who calls himself the Werewolf. I've got Skeeter Lewis who has heard the recording of himself killing Judge Lerner and still tells me he had nothing to do with the murder. We've got a rumor that Krewe Charbonerrie may be involved in the murder, plus a prison warden and the head of prison security that might be involved.'

‘That's what we do, Archer. We put all that shit into a mixer and …'

‘Yeah. And sometimes it comes out exactly like that. Shit.'

‘You OK?'

‘I need to take a breather. Be back in a couple of hours.'

‘Stay focused, Archer.'

The detective nodded. ‘Before I go, any unusual tattoos on Gandal? Like a small coiled snake on his wrist?'

‘Didn't hear of one. Is it important?' Sullivan asked.

‘Everything at this stage is important, isn't it?'

‘Why the question?'

‘Why do some of the players have the same tattoo? That's the question, Sergeant Sullivan.'

Why?
Archer thought about it as he walked to the restaurant. He knew the answer. They were members of Krewe Charbonerrie.

A detective walks into a bar. The bartender says, ‘On the clock or not?' The detective looks up at the clock and says …

‘Hey, Q. What brings you in?'

‘Tough day, Mike. I've been working on the murdered judges and …'

‘Judges, plural?'

‘Yeah. Multiples. Doesn't seem to stop.'

The bartender from the French Market smiled.

‘Man. We've got to catch the dude at the top.'

‘
I
have to catch him, Mike. Bring me a Sazerac.

‘Strong medicine,
mon ami
.'

‘It's more than the judges' murders. It's a lot more. It's this city, it's Detroit, it's about family and it's about my wife and innocent people who shouldn't have died, Mike. But none of it is your concern. Thanks for showing some support.'

The man with the wild hair nodded, a faint smile on his face.

‘I've got some information, my friend: the murder involves Krewe Charbonerrie and a Richard Garrett.'

Archer's eyes widened, and he tilted his head, looking at the bartender in a whole new light.

‘Why am I not surprised that you suspected that all along,' Mike said. ‘You see, it is my concern. Q. Did you hear about a Quarter murder in the last couple of hours?'

Archer paused, watching the 'tender mixing his drink.

‘What murder?'

‘Jonathon Gandal?'

Archer closed his eyes. When he opened them, Mike was staring at him, his gaze burning into his brain. ‘What about it?'