The Perfect Crime (18 page)

He ran back to the car.

“I think he’s going to be here a while, Whitney. You stay in the car. Something weird about this. This might be somebody else’s place that’s in with him and Reader. I’m going to walk up and keep an eye on the house.”

She nodded and he walked off, back to the corner where he could see the house. Good soldier, he thought, thinking of way Whitney had just nodded. There were lots of women who would have pitched a bitch, wanted to come along, in a situation like that. It was a rare woman--or man, for that matter--who would have done just what he said. This woman had qualities very few people in his experience had possessed, he thought, and then got his mind on business.

There was a little bookstore on Carrollton directly across from where Eddie had gone. Little Professor, it said. That was funny. There was a Little Professor bookstore in Dayton, but the Dayton one was huge. This looked like a boutique. He wondered if it was the same chain. Before he went into the store he took note of the street the house was on. He was at the intersection of Burthe and Carrollton.

The bookstore gave him a good vantage point. He could see the house through the front window. Pretty soon, sure enough, along came Eddie and another man, a husky man with longish black hair who looked to be maybe fifty years old, but there was no gray in his hair.

It was Kincaid.

Grady could feel his heart beat faster as soon as he recognized the man from his photo. Settle down, he told himself. Take care of business.

Right away he could see Kincaid was the guy in charge by the way he walked and the way Eddie skipped along slightly behind him. Kincaid looked like he was chewing Eddie out, probably for parking so far away, and Eddie was jawing back, but Grady could see it was a losing battle. Kincaid was pretty much ignoring him. He came out of the bookstore in time to see both men jump into Eddie’s car.

Shit, he thought. Here I am, way the fuck down here and there they go. He debated whether to sprint for his own car, but decided against it. He’d have to pass right in front of them and he didn’t want either of the men to get a look at him. He could wave at Whitney and hope she knew what he wanted but doing so would draw attention to himself and he didn’t think he should risk that.

As it turned out, it was one of those moves it was fortunate he didn’t take. They were only driving the car over to the house. He shot back inside the bookstore, ignoring the clerk who glanced at him briefly and went back to stocking shelves. Grady picked up and thumbed through one of the books in the front window, watching the house.

Eddie didn’t appear to be any too bright. It looked as though if it were up to him, he’d make six trips to unload all his stuff, a block and a half each way. Kincaid was definitely the brains of this pair, he realized.

And this is it. Grady instinctively knew that whatever was going to go down was drawing near. He couldn’t figure out where this house fit in, unless this was where Kincaid was staying. If that was the situation, what was the other house, the one in Algiers? Whose house was this? Somebody else in on the job with them? Whatever the fuck the job was.

He made up his mind to go back to Algiers, see whose house that was.

He watched the two men unload Eddie’s car, and then Eddie came out alone and started up the car and pulled out on the street heading west. Grady left the bookstore, uncertain what to do, run for his car and tail Eddie or stay put, keep his eye on the house. He was in luck once more. He saw Eddie was going to park the car back in the shopping center parking lot.

Why the hell is he doing that, he wondered. There were plenty of parking spaces on the street by the house. He went back inside the bookstore for the third time and this time he was going to have to do something or the clerk was going to call the police.

“Police,” he said, flipping open his wallet and flashing his shield at the young man. He didn’t bother to explain that he was a retired cop from Ohio without any official authority in this town. “Surveillance. We got a tip there might be a drug transaction taking place up the street. Doesn’t look like it though.” The clerk nodded in a bored way, like so what? what’s different? and went back to reading the paperback he held out in front of him at a distance that suggested nearsightedness.

Grady was taking a risk he might be spotted, but he decided to chance it. It wasn’t that either man knew of his existence, but if he kept showing up in their life... He left the bookstore after nodding to the clerk, crossed the street and walked down Burthe. When he went past the house where Eddie and the other man were, he noted the street address. He continued past until he reached the corner, turned west and went around the block, coming out across from the shopping center by a high school. He walked quickly across, startling Whitney as he came up on her side without her seeing him. She was looking in the direction he’d originally gone.

“Grady! Damn! You just about gave me a heart attack.”

Quickly, he ran down what had gone down.

“C’mon,” he said, opening her door and helping her out. “Let’s go have a drink.”

They walked across the street and into the bar on the opposite corner.
Madigan’s
was the name on the outside, nice looking joint, wide open doors and with the cheery look some neighborhood bars can have. Grady picked a table in the front. A huge plate-glass window afforded a full view of the house down on Burthe. He ordered a beer for him and the vodka gimlet Whitney said was all she ever drank and got change for the phone. The bartender showed him where it was in the back, by some pinball machines. Whitney was more than eager to help out by keeping an eye on the house while he made a call.

“Sally,” he said, and the voice at the other end said, “You got ‘im.”

“Can you find out who owns a house if I give you an address? Maybe check out a Polk directory, you got one?”

Whitney was still on her first drink and he was on his second beer when the phone rang and the bartender asked if there was anybody named Fogarty there. It was Sally.

“Fogarty, that was easy. The owner is a Melvin Davis. It’s listed as a duplex. Is that right?”

“That’s what it looks like. Upstairs and down. Separate entrances, way it looks.” He waved at Whitney up at the front and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. He couldn’t believe the way he thrilled when she smiled and gave him a little wave back.

“Yeah, well, I got the info from a friend down at the station who looked it up for me, said it’s one of those investment properties, the owner doesn’t live there. He’s got a bunch of these things, rents ‘em out. Has a company called Breakwater Management.”

“You got a number for them? Never mind, they’re probably in the phone book.”

“I’m ahead of you, Fogarty. Already called them. The top unit’s vacant. The bottom one’s rented out. Interesting who it’s rented to.”

“Who?”

“Clifford St. Ives.”

“Should that mean something to me? The name doesn’t ring any bells or anything. One of Reader’s criminal friends?”

“I guess the name wouldn’t mean anything to you. Caught my attention, though. Mr. St. Ives, or C.J. as he’s known around town, is quite the big shot. Married, too, got a big place Uptown off Magazine near Flagon’s. Within walking distance of Commander’s Palace. Place is worth a cool million, at least. In his wife’s name. Actually, her grandfather’he real big shot. One of the biggest names in the state. He’s all hooked up with the governor and all the other big deals.”

“Big shot in what way, Sally?”

“He’s a banker, Grady. He’s the president of Derbigny State Bank. Kinda funny, isn’t it? I mean the president of a bank and all, married, and he’s got this little place over on Riverbend. That’s mostly students in that part of town. Tulane undergrads. Professors, long-time locals. It’s a nice neighborhood. What would a guy like
St. Ives be doing with a little crib like that, you suppose?” He laughed.

“A girlfriend.”

“Yep. You’re pretty sharp for a Yankee.” He laughed again. “Ol’ C.J.’s quite the guy, you know. Lot of talk about him around town. There was talk of him running for governor a few years back, but something about his background kept him from doing it. I think his grandfather-in-law put the kibosh to that. There’s lots of rumors, but nothing concrete. Something about he’s not who he pretends to be. I’ve heard talk ol’ C.J. comes from cracker stock, but nothing for sure. I know one thing. His wife is the hammer in that family. Her granddaddy is one powerful pistol, one of the old coonass Mafia, that’s all cleaned up these days, respectable. He’s one of a handful of people can decide who the governor’s gonna be. It’s his bank, one of them anyway. He gave it to her when she came out. Now that guy’s a guy to watch out for. Titus Derbigny. He’s the real thing. Not like this pissant who married his granddaughter.”

Grady paused from writing down the names Sally was giving him.

“Came out? I don’t understand...”

“Debutante. Guess they don’t have debutantes where you’re from. It’s a big deal with some folks. Not me. I came out in the back seat of a Plymouth. Anyway, it looks like this is C.J.’s love nest. Any of this help?”

Grady thought a minute. “Yeah. I think so. It’s interesting, him being a banker. Things are starting to make some sense. I’ll keep you posted. Thanks.”

“Hey!” Grady put the phone back to his ear. He’d almost hung up.

“Why’d you mention Reader?”

“Cause Reader’s in this house. The one you say belongs to this C.J.”

“Wow.” That was all Sally said.

“Yeah,” Grady said, after a silence. “Two and two are starting to make four.”

“I read you.”

He hung up and took his beer to the front. He couldn’t see all of the house itself from there, but he could see the street directly in front and part of the building. If any of them came out this way, he’d be able to see them.

He told Whitney what he’d learned.

“It’s a bank job!” she said. Grady looked at her in admiration. This was a pretty sharp gal. Looks
and
brains. He didn’t say that aloud. Hell, he was still learning what was considered chauvinistic and what wasn’t. He had a feeling if he gave her a compliment like that, she might take offense.

Whitney was dead on. It sure looked as though it was going to be an inside bank job. Probably this C.J. was in on it. But what did they need electronic gear for?

“What time you close?” he said, going up to the bar, laying a five on the bartop and sliding his empty bottle over.

“Close? You’re in New Orleans, mister.” The whole bar laughed, and Grady thought he heard the word “Yankee.” He looked over at Whitney and she grinned and shrugged her shoulders.

Grady shined ack grin at the bartender and the guys lining the bar, left a dollar on the bar, took his beer and went back to sit with Whitney.

***

An hour passed, and the bartender at Madigan’s and one or two patrons at the bar saw the one-eyed man sitting by the front window smack his forehead with the back of his hand, push back from his table and rush to the back room where the payphones were. The girl sitting with him looked as puzzled as they did.

“Tourist,” explained the bartender to one of his regulars sitting at the bar, as if that explained it all.

“Sally!” Grady’s voice was a bit breathless.

“Yeah, this Fogarty? What’s up?”

“That company that leases the duplex you got me the address on, you still got their number?”

He was in luck. The office was closed, but an eager beaver was still working late, and it didn’t take much convincing for her to agree to rent it to Grady. What did take some convincing was to rent it for a short period. He wanted it for a week. The woman on the phone said six months was the minimum, but he got her down to a month with an additional month’s rent as deposit. Telling her he was a cop helped. He said he was on vacation and he’d only need it maybe a week. Look, you can rent it out again soon as I’m gone, maybe sooner than a week, was the way he closed the deal. She agreed to come out and meet him at Madigan’s and give him the key. Show the place to him.

“Come on out,” he said, and when she got there, he introduced her to Whitney, thanked her for her trouble and offered her a drink, which she refused. “I don’t need to see it,” he said, writing her a check that made him wince. “I need a place to sleep more than anything, something near the streetcar. The location is all that’s important.” He made a point of letting her see his shield, when he laid his billfold out for her to check his identification. Whitney didn’t say a word, just watched and sipped on her drink.

The location was everything, he thought. Aloud, he said, “No, ma’am. I don’t want you to show it to me. It’s not necessary.”

After she left, Whitney said, “Another stakeout, eh?”

“Looks like.” He had one more phone call to make.

Half an hour after he hung up, Sally walked in. Grady stood up.

“Whitney, meet a friend of mine. Sal this is Whitney.”

Sally nodded. “This what you wanted?” he said, waving off the bartender who started to walk toward them. He pushed a duffel bag across to Grady.

“Thanks, Sally. I owe you. I don’t figure this was easy to get.”

“My pleasure. Veronica called in a favor. You found him, eh?”

“I found him.”

“Well, nail his butt, then. NOPD’l give you a medal, you do. This is a particularly bad piece of trash. You know, he killed his own father when he was a kid. You need to keep sharp with this guy. You need anything else, you give me a call. Nice meeting you, ma’am.”

Grady watched the ex-cop leave.

“Come on,” he said to Whitney. “You like chicken?”

He drove until he found a carryout chicken place. Popeye’s it said. “Chicken tastes good hot or cold,” he explained to Whitney. “Best thing to have on a stakeout other than breakfast rolls.” His next stop was at a convenience store where they picked up some other things, munchies, a liter of Pepsi, some toiletries. He didn’t want to chance taking Whitney home in case whatever it was Kincaid and Eddie were pning went off while he was gone.

“If you want, I’ll pay for your cab,” he said. “This might be even more boring.”