Polly Iyer - Diana Racine 03 - Backlash (6 page)

L
ucier
got to the sandwich shop a few minutes early and pushed his way through the crowd, nodding to a few cops he knew. Most liked the place because the hotdogs were big, juicy, and all beef, with chili and hefty servings of fries and onion rings, and it was cheap.

Chenault already stood in the order line. No one would ever peg him for a cop. More a New Orleans mover and shaker with his double-breasted suit and silk tie.

“I’m starved,” Chenault said. “I’ve been on a stakeout all morning.”

Both men ordered a double-double special and iced tea, then found an empty table in back. They’d just unwrapped their silverware when the waitress appeared with their tray. “Fastest service in New Orleans, which is another reason this place is always packed.” Lucier spread the chili more evenly on his bun, took a bite.

“So what did you want to see me about?” Chenault asked.

Lucier wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Keys Moran.”

Chenault’s chewing stopped for a long moment, his eyes riveted on Lucier. He took his time swallowing. “What about him?”

“You were friends?”

“So.”

“How well did you know him?” Lucier asked.

Chenault swigged his tea, then put it down on the table. “Why don’t you just come out and say what you want to say,
Lieutenant
.”

Lucier had hoped this would be a friendly conversation, but the edge in Chenault’s voice put that hope to rest. “I did.”

Chenault snorted. “We knew each other. I liked his music and went to hear him play whenever I could. I’m sick someone killed him.”

“Where were you the night he was killed?”

“Ah, that’s what this is about.” Chenault’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the readout and slipped it back in his pocket. “I should have known. The great lieutenant is trying to pin a murder on a cop.”

“You know me better than that. You’re not the only friend of Moran’s I’m asking, Denny. Would you rather I called you into interrogation, made it official?”

Taking his time, Chenault said, “I was playing cards.”

“Until five in the morning?”

“No, till about three, after which I went home to grab a few hours’ sleep. I had an early shift. I can give you everyone who was there.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

“I’ll email them to you.”

Lucier pulled out a notebook and pen from his jacket’s inner pocket. “I’ll write them down now. Save you an email.”

Chenault’s jaw worked overtime, grinding his back teeth. “Rudy Hodge, Marty Feldman, and Anton Alba. We get together every few weeks. Sometimes Chris Michel and Dave Rickett join us. Keys sat in with us once or twice too.”

Lucier jotted down the names. “Saw Hodge this morning.” Out of the corner of his eye, Lucier noticed Chenault stiffen. “Were any of them friends with Moran?”

“Couldn’t tell you. They all knew him. Like I said, we played cards occasionally, but what they did together outside of that, I couldn’t tell you. You can ask them when you check up on me. Which reminds me, how did you zero in on me, of all the friends Keys had?”

“People placed you two together recently. I’m checking the others too.”

“What people?”

“Does it matter?”

“Depends on what else they said.”

“Just that you knew each other.”

“I know a lot of people in town, Lucier. I’m an outgoing guy. Must’ve been someone at Kitty’s Kabaret. That’s where I met Keys. I liked to listen to him play. I dabble a little in the piano myself, but I’m a lightweight compared to him. I’ll miss him. He was a great entertainer.”

“They said you went there occasionally with a lady. Mind telling me her name?”

The sounds of restaurant noises and orders yelled to the kitchen filled the room. Chenault took his time answering.

“This is more than a friendly lunch, isn’t it? Now you’re digging into my personal life. You think I had something to do with Keys’s death, say so.”

“Doing my job, Denny. People at Miss Kitty’s said you sometimes picked up Keys after work. One said on the night he died. He got off at two. That’s awfully late to be picking up a friend, and you were playing cards until three, right?”

“Right. We went out some nights, had a few drinks. I need to wind down after a long shift. You know how it is. But whoever said I picked him up on the night he died was mistaken.”

Lucier gave him that point, but he forged ahead with his questions anyway. “Ever been to his place?”

“Yeah, a couple of times. Friends hang out sometimes. Keys had been to my place too. You have many friends, Ernie?”

“Some longtime pals. Don’t have much time for them anymore.”

“Yeah, I guess your girlfriend fills up your days, and nights.”

“Only my off-duty time.” Lucier had all he could do to restrain his anger. Chenault was baiting him. “Which reminds me, you didn’t answer my question. Who’s the lady you took to Kitty’s Kabaret?”

“I’m surprised no one at Kitty’s knew her. Her name’s Jaycee Diamond. She’s a stripper a couple of blocks from Kitty’s, and she gives good head. Want her number?” Chenault stared at Lucier with a crooked smile.

“Sure.” He wrote down the number. “I’ll check her out.”

“Professionally, I’m sure. I doubt Ms. Racine would like it if you checked out Jaycee’s, um, expertise.”

“I doubt she would.” The old friction between the two sparked. Lucier was getting pissed.

“Keys work for her way back? He mentioned he did during the incident with the serial killer, before she moved here permanently for a certain police lieutenant.”

“Yeah. She’s distraught about his murder.”

“Read where she went to the crime scene. Did she get one of her ― what do you call them ― revelations?”

Lucier ground his teeth to keep from saying something nasty. “Nope, nothing. We hoped she’d see his killer. She’s always said she’s not infallible. I can attest to that.”

Chenault laughed, then stopped when Lucier stared at him. “Sorry, but I keep thinking how spooky it must be to have a girlfriend like her.”

“She’s never given me a reading. No need. She knows me all too well.”

“Not once?”

“If she has, she didn’t tell me.”

“She have any vibes about Moran’s killer?”

“No.”

“Then why’s she going to Moran’s house if not to help the police?”

“We were giving it a shot. We’re trying Henry Winstead’s car next. You’ve heard about that one, haven’t you?”

“The drunk in Bayou St. John? Sounds more like guilt catching up with the guy for killing a whole family. Why, you think his death and Moran’s are connected?”

“Probably not. We’re thinking someone in Winstead’s victims’ family paid him back.”

“You mean out of revenge? I’d understand if they did.” Chenault polished off the last of his lunch and pushed his empty plate aside. His phone beeped again, and again he ignored the message. “Gotta go. Hope your lady gets lucky.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it.”

“Guess not. It’s still creepy.” He got up. “We should do lunch again sometime, Ernie.”

“Yeah, sure.”
Don’t bet on it
.

Chenault waved to a couple of people across the room and strutted out the door. What about the guy set Lucier’s antennae on high alert? He wondered whether old feelings for him were getting in the way of his objectivity. Chenault’s cocky strut, smug attitude, and perfectly groomed hair irritated the hell out of him.

He threw a tip on the table, which Chenault failed to do, and left. If Chenault was involved in Moran’s murder, Winstead’s, or both, he was a cold bastard.

Lucier pictured Mathieu Soulé with the hole in his forehead. Then he pictured Chenault behind bars.

Better leave the visions to Diana
.

H
odge
finally got through to Chenault. “Call me back on the other phone.”

“I couldn’t talk,” Chenault said when he called Hodge back. “I was at lunch with Ernie Lucier.”

“Lucier? What the hell did he want?”

Chenault repeated the lunch conversation. “Someone at Kitty’s saw me pick up Moran after work. I couldn’t deny we were friends.”

Shit
. “Moran’s email account is protected like the Pentagon’s, but I bet he sent the email to someone else because he knew he was doomed.”

“Lucier also mentioned Winstead.”

Hodge paused a long time, wiped the sweat off his forehead. “He’s fishing, but we’re still in deep shit. I’ll keep working on Moran’s email when I get home today.”

Hodge hung up. Lucier was onto Chenault. Tying Chenault to Moran and mentioning Winstead was a bad sign.

Hodge punched in one number, waited for an answer, and explained what had happened. “He wanted to keep his relationship with Moran secret.”

“I make it my business to know everything about the men I work with. Lucier won’t quit. That’s not his style.”

“If he has something concrete,” Hodge said, “Chenault will give us all up to save his ass. That’s
his
style. Don’t even mention Alba. I don’t think either one of us feels like spending the rest of our lives on death row, waiting for the needle.”

“The way I see it, we have no choice.”

Hodge’s stomach turned over. “Christ.”

A long silence preceded “The problem will end there.”

Hodge agreed. He didn’t see any other way. It came down to Chenault and Alba against the rest of them and the good of the mission.

“We need to discuss this, the sooner the better. Are you free tonight?”

“I can be,” Hodge said.

“Good. Contact the others. We can kill two birds with one stone.”

An adage couldn’t be more perfectly stated
. “You’re the boss.”

“Don’t forget it.”

L
ucier
returned to an empty office. Halloran was checking out the family members of Winstead’s and Soulé’s victims. Beecher and Cash were searching the Lower Ninth Ward for an abandoned house with a blue door, probably hanging on its hinges or kicked to the ground.

Lucier wanted to question Chenault’s alibis, Hodge, Feldman, and Alba, without involving an outsider. He’d wait for his team to return. In the meantime, work had piled up on his desk demanding his attention.

Two hours later, Beecher called. “Abandoned house, blue door, black tarp. Called it in.”

Yes
. Lucier’s adrenaline took over. “Address?”

Beecher told him.

“On my way.”

* * * * *

W
hen
Lucier arrived on the scene, Beecher and Cash were about to canvass what remained of the neighborhood.

“Seeing what’s around, I doubt we’ll get anywhere,” Beecher said. “But we’d be remiss if we didn’t try.”

Lucier had moved to New Orleans in his early teens from Cambridge, Massachusetts. He loved his adopted city, but every time he saw neglected areas like this, he struggled to hold back the anger. Greed, politics, and apathy were the great curses in modern-day America, and the victims were those without a voice, mainly the poor. The Lower Ninth Ward proved a good example.

“You never know,” he said.

“Didn’t I just see you?” Charlie Cothran said, arriving on the scene shortly after Lucier.

“This is your lucky day, Charlie,” Lucier said.

“I was about to go home, but when I heard this might be the guy you mentioned, I said I’d take the call to see for myself.”

“They unwrapped the tarp enough to make sure,” Lucier said. “It’s him all right.”

“Let’s take a closer look.”

With no electricity, the CSU set up lights inside the shuttered house. Lucier and Cothran walked into the back corner where the body lay covered except for the head. The foul smell turned Lucier’s stomach; so did the visual.

Cothran bent down and, with the help of one of the techs, unwrapped the tarp, shaking his head when he observed Mathieu Soulé’s deteriorated body. “Guess he won’t be raping any more eleven-year-old innocents, will he?”

“Other than the fact he’s dead, the penis jammed in his mouth makes that a no-brainer, which I’m sure was the point.”

“Don’t know who’s sicker, the murderer or the victim,” Cothran said. “Better get on with my job.”

“I’m going to check with Barlow.” Lucier considered Boots Barlow the best crime scene tech in all of New Orleans. He found her outside studying the ground wearing booties over her ever-present boots, hence the nickname. “What do you think, Boots?”

“Oh, hi, Lieutenant. Don’t think. Know. Two people. They parked on dirt. Nothing unusual about the tire treads, but the footprints are another story.”

“Why?”

“The ground is hard because we’ve had almost no rain, but it’s soft enough to show they were wearing booties to cover shoe treads.”

“You mean like cops wear at a crime scene?” He put out his foot. “Like these?”

“And these.” She put out her foot too.

“What about the tarp?”

“I didn’t want to mess with it until Doc did his thing. I’ll go over it at the lab, but two guys wearing booties are going to be wearing gloves. I doubt I’ll find anything. These guys were careful. I may find something on the victim though.”

“Lieutenant,” Cothran called from the door of the house. “Could you come here, please?”

“Catch you later, Boots. Let me know what you find.”

“Sure thing.”

Lucier walked back to the house.

“Take a gander.”

Cothran had turned the body. A beer bottle protruded from Soulé’s rectum. “As if they had to make their point again.”

* * * * *

L
ater
, when Lucier and his team returned to the district, he asked, “Okay, anyone know Alba or Feldman?”

“I was at the academy with Alba,” Cash said. “Nice guy but a little on the light side.”

“What do you mean?” Lucier asked.

“A dimwit,” Beecher said.

Cash shook his head. “Not exactly. He was fine with the physical stuff, but some things took him longer to absorb. Frankly, I was surprised he passed the tests.”

“What’d I tell you? A dimwit.”

Lucier shook his head. “Sam, it’s better if you don’t use words like that.”

“Oh, I forgot,” Beecher said. “I’m supposed to be politically correct. Okay, how’s this? He’s stupid.”

“Closer,” Cash said.

“Jeez.” Lucier pinched the bridge of his nose. “We need to get statements from these three to corroborate they were with Chenault the night Moran was murdered.”

“You gotta know by now that Chenault covered his ass with these three,” Beecher said. “If he lied to you, they’re all in on this.”

“In on what?” Cash asked. “You think Chenault killed Moran, Lieutenant? He’s a cop.”

“I don’t think anything, but Emile at Miss Kitty’s fudged about Chenault picking up Moran the night he was killed. Miss Kitty didn’t want to get involved, and said Emile was mistaken. So did Chenault. He gave these three guys as alibis. Cash, since you know Alba, get his statement.”

“We go to the same gym.”

“I don’t want to wait until you run into him. Track him down. If the others are at their districts, get them alone. Tell them if they won’t answer your questions unofficially, you’ll make it official.”

“Okay.”

“What’s up?” Halloran said, sauntering into Lucier’s office. “What am I missing?”

“How’d your interviews go with the ―” Lucier checked his notebook ―” Donat family?”

“No one in that family hit Winstead,” Halloran said. “I’ve never seen a more timid group of churchgoers. They weren’t sorry Winstead was dead, but if I’m wrong about them, I’d better give up police work.”

“And the girl’s family?”

“Her father was thrilled Soulé took a bullet. Said he wished he’d taken him out himself, but he didn’t. No tears shed in either case, but their reactions seemed honest.”

Lucier drew a line across his notebook. “I knew it was a long shot. A cop’s life isn’t that easy. Sam, interview Feldman tomorrow morning. Halloran, you take Hodge.”

“What are you going to do?” Beecher said.

“I’m going to check out a woman by the name of Jaycee Diamond. She’s a ―”

“Stripper,” Cash said.

All three men zeroed in on the youngest member of their team.

“Hey, I’m single, okay? She’s got the biggest ―” He cupped his hands to demonstrate.

“Never mind,” Lucier said. “Go.”

“On my way.”

Beecher watched Cash leave. “Oh, to be young again.”

“I won’t mention that to your wife,” Halloran said.

“Much appreciated,” Beecher said as the two older cops left Lucier’s office.