Crescent City Detective

by Vito Zuppardo

  “Well, that explains why the newspapers were spread all over the lawn,” Dave said.

  Zack added a little more cover-up to his story. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t remember carrying the newspapers until I started talking to the doctor at the hospital.”

  Emma Lou poured Zack some more coffee. “You didn’t know the man that drove you to the hospital?”

  “No, I’ve never seen him before,” Zack said.

  “Well, if you ever see the person again, I want to make him a cake. That was very sweet of him to help,” Emma Lou said. “And I’m going to make you an appointment with your cardiologist. You might have had a little stroke.”

  Mario looked Zack’s way and gave a nod of his head to break up the small talk. He had to talk to Zack one-on-one in private. Mario waved one of the pastries in his hand and nodded his head as a thank you to the dining room staff and headed for the door.

  Something was comforting to Zack in telling the story even if it was a pack of lies. In some way, it was better than telling the truth. Zack couldn’t imagine saying just how close he was to death. More alarming, he didn’t understand why he was still alive.

  Howard directed Mario and Zack to the limousine and joined them in the back seat. It was the closest thing to privacy. Hopefully, Dave wouldn’t come poking around. As a precaution, the doors were locked, and with the tinted glasses, you really couldn't tell anyone was in the back seats.

  “So early this morning you were kidnapped, blindfolded, and tied with your hands in front,” Mario said. “Doesn’t sound like a professional.”

  Zack agreed it was a first-timer. By securing his hands in front, he could have easily pulled the hood off and with his feet free kicked the crap out of the person. He had just been waiting for the right time to make his move, but the opportunity didn’t come.

  Mario shook his head. Zack didn’t know why, then Mario spoke. “It’s best you didn’t. An inexperienced wannabe thug would have gotten spooked, and if guns were involved, you would be dead.”

  Howard switched seats and sat in front of Zack. Puzzled, he wanted to know why Zack was captured and let go a few hundred miles away.

  Zack walked through it again as a detective. He knew he was taken to the New Orleans airport and there were seven steps into the plane—it had to be a small jet.

  “Small jet at the big airport,” Howard said, giving Mario a look. “I’ll make a call.”

  Mario gave a nod of his head and handed him the phone. Howard moved to the outside of the car to muffle his sound—the less Zack knew, the better they were. He talked briefly and returned to the car.

  “Did you call your guy at General Aviation?” Mario asked.

  “No, I went directly to the source. If we think our lady friend is involved, Ben Stein will know her every move in and out of the city. Now we wait for him to call back.”

  Ten minutes passed, and they all sat silently in the back seat gazing out the window, mulling over the details again. There was nothing more Mario and Howard cared to know without verification from Ben Stein. When the phone rang, Howard answered promptly.

  “Hello, yes sir,” Howard said, and listened.

  “Do you know why?” Howard’s eyes shifted from Zack to Mario. “I understand.”

  Howard listened intently, blinking his eyes more than necessary. “Any word on Walter?” He nodded his head as if the person could see him. “Okay, Ben. Thank you.”

  “Our friend’s jet arrived at seven this morning. Off the books, a flight plan was prepared, and the tower recorded a refueling stop. Ben’s contact said the plane scheduled a stop in Diamond Head and then nonstop to some small town in Mexico. Other than two pilots, Julie Wong is confirmed as being on the flight, as well as Dr. Walter Ross.”

  “The stop letting Zack off the airplane was planned from the beginning.” Mario did his usual frown. “Makes no sense.”

  “Yeah,” Howard said, and paused. “Julie Wong also told Ben not to bother to continue looking for Dr. Ross—his heart was pumping, but he would never return home.”

  A week passed, and Dr. Walter Ross’s disappearance went from the front-page news with pictures and articles of his life accomplishments to a few lines as a follow-up story, buried in the back section few people read. Soon his disappearance wouldn’t be newsworthy. The TV news already dropped the story.

  Dave wondered what would happen to Riverside Inn now that Walter was missing or dead. Zack thought it was run by the family trust and the board would appoint someone to step in, maybe another doctor. Hopefully, someone that had an interest in the well-being of the residents.

  Dave assumed the sick bastard was sitting in some casino in Las Vegas doing what he loved most—gambling. That’s what gamblers did—just disappear. Like they heard the cry of the gaming tables calling them. Then off they went, following their urge to gamble, and one day they just showed up back home, and life went on like nothing ever happened—except they were broke.

  Zack assured Dave without saying why that he thought something serious had happened to the doctor, and he didn’t think he’d return.

  Zack thought of telling his closest friend, Dave, and maybe Emma Lou what he believed actually happened to Dr. Ross. Then again, Mario’s advice stuck in his head. “What you heard or think you heard on that airplane regarding Dr. Ross is over—you take it to your grave.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Mario’s interview with the chief went well, and he reunited with his badge and gun as a New Orleans Police Detective. With some harsh exchange of words, she suggested Mario change his ways and take five classes in anger management the police academy offered. He didn’t believe in the course but accepted—anything to get back to work.

  Police Headquarters was swarming with people. Mario was greeted back to work by several of his fellow officers. He strolled the halls calm, relaxed, and ready to work. Much like back in his school days, you knew the surroundings, and you were comfortable but excited for another year of learning. Reality hit him when he walked in the room with police officers running around, guns strapped to their side, and he saw the wallboards with horrible murder scene pictures and the mugshots of suspects considered for crimes.

  The “how are you doing” and well-wishers finally came to a stop, and not too soon for Mario. He was only out two weeks, and it was a suspension, not something to be proud about. Truman, buried in paperwork, welcomed his partner back to work by handing him some mail that came to him.

  Mario flipped through the mail and saw one piece that caught his attention from Elijah Woodward’s father. He wanted to meet with Mario—something about Elijah was in danger. Wasn’t much more he could add. They knew Felipe Cruz ordered the hit on Cosmo in the laundry room. As usual, no one came forward as a witness to prove his involvement.

  “The letter says that Elijah attended one of my talks at Calabar for New Connection,” Mario paused and typed on his computer. “Elijah gets out of prison in nine months. He must have attended one of my discussions on job connections for parolees.”

  Truman showed interest, suggesting it might be worth a follow-up visit with Woodward, and put it on his and Mario’s to-do list for the next week.

  Disgusted that people actually sent junk mail to Police Headquarters, Mario tossed some letters in the trash unopened. Then he came across a postcard. It was a fold-over card with a picture of the Eiffel Tower on the front.

  “This has to be from Kate. There’s a Paris landmark on the front,” Mario said, lifting the sticky tab holding it closed. Mario sat motionless looking at the inside of the postcard.

  “Is it from Kate?”

  “No,” Mario said, handing the card to Truman.

  Truman flipped it over. “What the hell?”

  The inside showed a picture of Kate sitting on a bench with the Eiffel Tower in the background. Under the image, it read, “Kate is enjoying Paris, and so is the Cornerview crew.”

  Mario reached for the phone. Within a few seconds, Olivia was at his side. He
wanted the authenticity of the postmark checked—was it mailed from Paris? The snapshot of Kate on the bench looked like her, but he gave Olivia a picture off his desk to compare with.

  Mario flopped in his chair, his head spinning to think Felipe still had the power to reach out from prison and cause chaos in his and Kate’s life.

  CHAPTER 51

  It was a beautiful morning. Mario made coffee, something he rarely did, and placed the cup on a small table on the balcony. His condo overlooked the river and rooftops of homes down Magazine Street. With coolness in the air, it was a good day for a run, he thought. Only if he started running, he might not stop, just run until he was far away from his troubled life in New Orleans. Instead he sipped coffee and stared at the postcard that supposedly was mailed from Paris.

  Two weeks off work and he was mellowed out and was ready to get back to the job, then the Paris postcard arrived. His stress came back with a vengeance. As a professional police officer, anger management was in order, but he was beginning to believe he needed much more. He knew the root of his stress. Like the devil, when it showed its nasty face, you needed to cut it off.

  His phone rang, and for the best—it broke his horrible thoughts. He answered. “Hello.”

  “Good morning. I hope it’s not too early,” Olivia said.

  “Never for you. What do you have?”

  Olivia discovered the postcard had been processed at a French postal station outside of Paris five days ago. The person in the photo was definitely Kate and looked like it was scanned onto the card from a cheap office printer. Not quality at all, but for sure it was Kate.

  Mario sat silently looking out at the city, lending his ear to the sound of ship horns rounding the bend in the river. His mind took control of his body, giving him peace from the present issue.

  “Mario, did you hear me?” Olivia asked.

  “Yes,” he said softly.” Thanks for the research.”

  “No problem. Wish it could have been better news.”

  He pressed the off bottom on his phone and sat and enjoyed the view for a few more minutes. His decision was made. It was imperative to cut the stress from his life. There was no doubt the root of his anxiety and anger was Felipe and Dante. They were the devils that haunted him day and night, and it would never end until Felipe and Dante were dead or Mario was. That much he knew for sure.

  Crime had no boundaries, and there weren’t many parts of the city where Elijah Woodward, Sr. felt comfortable talking to a cop. Probably not in his neighborhood. A black man talking to a pasty white man with a sports coat stepping out of an unmarked police car—well, that would get you killed in time to be on the six o’clock news.

  Mario selected a quiet neighborhood coffee shop off Oak Street frequented by college students and professors—the patrons were very diverse. He opened the door of the main entrance and looked around. No one jumped out at him. He approached an older black man nicely dressed sitting in the corner alone.

  “Mr. Woodward?” Mario said, approaching the table.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, standing and shaking hands. “My friends call me Woody.”

  “Woody, it is. My name is Mario DeLuca.”

  “Nice to meet you, Detective.”

  “I’m not here on official police business, okay? Call me Mario.”

  Woody nodded his head and smiled. He appeared calm. Mario stepped to the counter and picked up two coffees prepared to taste, giving Woody time to relax.

  “So, Woody, what kind of work do you do?” Mario said, returning to the table and easing into a conversation without jumping right into the letter he’d received.

  Woody was the third generation of dock workers, called Long Shoremen. He’d soon celebrate twenty-nine years on the job, the only job he ever had.

  Mario pulled the letter from his pocket, opening the conversation for the purpose of the meeting.

  Woody thanked him for coming and wanted him to know his son wasn’t a bad person. While he was in jail for rape and served years, he always proclaimed he was innocent all the way to sentencing day. Based on DNA he was guilty. He admitted they had sex. His son was a high school senior, a promising student. The woman was his teacher. They had a two-week fling. He was young and stupid. The woman invited him to her house then claimed rape, and said there was no such romance, that he must have followed her home.

  Mario heard this story in court a few times. The man was seduced by the woman, and he was innocent—it was always the woman’s fault. Sorry, he’d agreed to meet. Mario tried to focus.

  Woody went on to explain the couple had a child—the dates were questionable. By this time the case was closed, and his son was in prison. Life for the couple went on for seven years, until the divorce. The woman wanted full custody, and the husband was fighting her for at least every other weekend visits. The man won.

  The woman was so outraged by the judge’s ruling she shouted out in the courtroom that the child wasn’t his. At first, the judge thought the woman was just trying to be hurtful. Then she said it was Elijah’s child—she was having an affair for weeks, and got pregnant. The judge ordered a DNA test of the child and Elijah.

  “I guess the rest is history,” Mario said. “So he is getting out?”

  “Yes, and the woman has been charged. Not sure how much time she will get, but it won’t give my son his eight years back. My wife will never be the same, and me, I just live one day at a time.”

  “I’m happy for you and your family,” Mario said. “What does this have to do with Cosmo when your son was his cellmate?”

  “My son works in the kitchen at Calabar—one of those trustworthy jobs. A few weeks ago he was told to make sure particular inmates got boxes of cereal with the black check mark on the bottom. His job was to place two individual boxes of cereal on each tray as it passed him. He had no clue why, but followed orders.”

  Mario took the last sip of his coffee and sat back on the chair. He knew where this was going, or so he thought.

  Woody stretched his hands across the table. “One morning at breakfast before Elijah could give out the box of cereal, a disturbance in the dining hall broke out. Alarms went off—everyone was rushed back to their cells. In the chaos, my son hid the box of cereal. He later opened it and found a little ziplock bag of cocaine mixed with cereal. About the size of a sweetener substitute package.”

  “So your son is in the middle of a drug deal in prison,” Mario said, grinding his teeth.

  “Yes, and if the drug ring is uncovered, Elijah will get ten years or a knife in his back during a shower.”

  “Anyone else knows?” Mario said, afraid of what the answer might be.

  Woody hesitated. “He told a trusted friend in prison. The friend said Elijah was picked because he was getting out of prison soon. The king pit uses inmates soon to be released knowing they won’t talk—they're not going to jeopardize their freedom.”

  Mario took a deep breath. “First of all, there is no such thing as a trusted friend in prison. Does he know who is behind the drugs?”

  “Not on the outside, but inside, his friend said Felipe Cruz.”

  Thousands of inmates in that prison and this scumbag’s name keeps coming up, Mario thought.

  “Can you help?” Woody asked, almost pleading.

  Mario explained he knew the warden, but if he got him pulled from the kitchen, it might create a further problem for Elijah.

  His job was to place a bowl, carton of milk, and two boxes of cereal on each tray as the prisoners walked through the breakfast line. Elijah got a signal from Felipe as he walked through the line to give the boxes with drugs to three people in front of Felipe and three people behind him. Felipe received a drug-free cereal box.

  It was Mario’s guess that Felipe got the drugs for protection, to recruits warriors, and to reward his soldiers. More than likely he helped support a few guards’ habits too. It was a way of life in prison.

  Mario promised he would give it some thought without compromising Elijah. The
y shook hands, and Mario waited for Woody to get in his car and pull off before leaving the coffee shop. Felipe putting a tail on Elijah’s father wasn’t unthinkable.

  On the drive back, Mario snapped out of a daze, looked around, and realized he had driven back to Police Headquarters without really noticing his surroundings, parked in the underground parking garage, and couldn’t remember going through the many traffic lights on Tulane Avenue or maybe they were all green and he didn’t need to stop. Either way, he did not recall the drive back. What he did remember was a plan he worked out in his head how he would take down Felipe and his brother Dante, once and for all.

  CHAPTER 52

  During the next few days, Mario assembled a team of trusted coworkers and friends. Explaining his plan to Truman and Olivia, they moved on researching police records and prison vendors. Then he went to Riverside and he met with Zack, Dave, and Howard for the questionable research that was borderline legal but necessary to make the taken down work.

  Olivia tapped into the state’s vendor list and found two companies that supplied food products to state-run hospitals, public schools, and prisons.

  “Bingo,” Olivia whispered to herself after running a spreadsheet on Luther Marks Foods and Supply, LLC, a food distributor with a warehouse in New Orleans. They supplied ninety percent of the food and paper products to Louisiana local jails and state prisons.

  After a full day of research by Truman and Mario, they came up with what they needed the most. Luther Marks company used a labor pool for warehouse workers from a company called Louisiana Workers, the very company that took in many of Mario’s trusted released parolees that went through the New Connection Program.

  One phone call to Louisiana Workers’ Office and Mario found Perry White, the human resources manager that came to most of his New Connection meetings to handpick the employees he might want to hire. He gave Mario two names of people that had since been released on parole and were living and working on their own. They were proof that Mario’s idea of rehabilitation for incarcerated people was possible—for some.