Agent Barnes rolled his eyes and continued. “The two agents in the front seat have zip ties on their hands—one tied to the steering wheel and the other to the inside door handle.”
Howard played Barnes and asked questions as if concerned. “How many men were there to overcome two armed agents?”
Barnes looked down, then shuffled his feet. “The agents said it happened so fast they didn’t have time to react.”
“Really?” Howard remarked, which drew a glare from Mario.
“The driver said the person moved around like a damn Ninja, dressed in a black mask, gloves, and sunglasses. Broke the passenger window with a steel baton, and before they could blink, a gun was planted at the temple of one agent. Zip locked the fool to the door handle. Crossed over him and pulled the driver’s hand and locked one to the wheel. He attempted to grab the person’s hand.”
“That was a mistake,” came out of Howard’s mouth before he could catch himself.
“That I agree on,” Barnes said. “A gun to your face? He got two hits to the side of his head with an elbow, and a handgun smashed to his nose.”
“Ouch,” Mario added. “Any leads?”
“Yeah, who else would want Jin Wong more than us?” Barnes, nose flared. “Julie Wong’s behind this—I’m sure.”
“In front of the FBI building?” Mario shook his head. “Why here?”
“A safe place,” Howard said. “The agent’s guard was down—you attack when the target feels secure. Right in front of cops and agents in front of a federal building. It’s perfect!”
Agent Barnes’s eyes widened. “For some reason, Detective Blitz, I feel you’re enjoying this assault on federal agents.”
“No sir, not at all,” Howard said. “Just my professional opinion.”
The banter was interrupted when Agent Barnes’s cell phone rang. He answered. “Call airport security,” he shouted into the phone. “That plane doesn’t take off—understand!”
“Looks like they found Julie,” Mario said.
“I’ll bet dinner at the Crystal Palace she’s gone.” A nasty grin came over Howard’s face.
“What’s up?” Mario directed his question to Agent Barnes.
“Two people fitting the description of Julie and Jin boarded a jet at General Aviation,” he replied, pumping his chest like the victor. “They’ll be behind bars within the hour.” Agent Barnes took off in a Government SUV with a lead car in front and one behind. The excessive speed got them down Poydras Street to the Interstate.
Mario quickly followed. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” Howard asked, lifting one leg on the fender to tie his shoe.
“The airport. I want my name on the report when the arrest goes down,” he said with a wrinkled face. “It’s time we separate ourselves from Julie—for our career and Chief Parks.”
Howard barely got in the car when it pulled off. Full lights and sirens blasted as the vehicle hit the on-ramp of I-10 heading West.
Howard sat speechlessly as his mind roamed. How he would have handled intercepting a suspect from the backseat of a government vehicle? So far, Julie had done everything perfectly—just like she was trained to do.
Mario’s car pulled into the General Aviation gates, stopping behind a barricade of airport police and federal vehicles. A crew of FBI agents covered Ralph Barnes’s back as he stood with his arms folded and eyes locked on the rescue at the end of the runway.
The detectives rested at the front of their car and watched two airport vehicles wedge the front wheels of a sleek Gulf Stream jet from taxing for takeoff.
“That’s Julie’s jet, right?” Mario asked.
“Oh, it’s her plane—for sure,” Howard said—his nasty grin came through again.
Seconds later, airport security cars with flashing overhead lights pulled to the area, and a team of police escorted two people to Agent Barnes. Out of one vehicle stepped a woman dressed in black and a man with the clothes Jin wore in the backseat of the FBI cruiser.
Howard focused on the woman and then the man. With a slight cock of his head, he smiled at Mario. “Well, they are both Asian, just not Julie and Jin.”
Chapter 21
Mario and Howard spent the next morning tracking down Julie. They started by making their rounds checking with street rats and snitches. Those were a few of the better names the detectives referred to them as. None had seen anyone by the description he gave them. They landed back at the Eighth District Police Station to regroup. Howard called the Carousel Bar at the Monteleone Hotel and spoke with his bartender snitch who had a pulse on everything happening in the French Quarter. It was a long shot, but he was desperate to find Julie before the Feds did.
Both detectives made calls to their snitches at the hotel front desk, hotel bars, and spas. If Julie was going to hide, it was definitely going to be in luxury.
Avery sat in and gave a verbal report of some of her investigation findings of the Rockford building and the operation of auction house.
Avery slipped phone messages to Mario. “A priest from Saint Michael’s called the station, and the front desk transferred the call to me. A teenager has taken refuge in the church, and Father Simms wants to speak to you.”
Mario flipped through his messages while listening to Avery’s story. He stopped when Avery said the name Father Simms.
“Monsignor Simms?” Mario asked.
Avery did a head turn. “I guess—I didn’t catch the monsignor part.”
The priest had reported a female teenager hiding in the church that morning. He fed and gave her a blanket and a pillow. Either she didn’t speak English or wouldn’t talk to him.
“Monsignor Simms asked if you would meet with the girl.
Mario pulled one message from the stack. “Monsignor Simms, I know him. He’s been at that church for years. Howard, follow up with Roxy Blum. I don’t have time for her,” Mario said, handing him the phone message. “I’m going to run over to see Simms.”
“We don’t have enough going on?” Howard shot back. “The girl is probably some runaway. Let Child Services handle her.”
“I’ve survived many years with the prayers of Monsignor Simms. When I went to him for guidance he always answered his door. It’s the first time he’s ever called me for a favor.” Mario reached for his coat. “Go talk to Roxy.”
“Yeah, hand off the crossdresser to me,” Howard said. “You know how I hate indecisive people. He’s a man—why would he think he looks good in a dress?”
“It’s not about looking good,” Mario shot back.
Avery’s head was on a swivel as the two detectives raised their voices.
“Do I say ‘hello, Ms. Roxy or Mr. Roxy?’” Howard added fuel to the fire. He knew Roxy and had been to his house a few times. A well-educated man with an excellent eye for expensive antiques, Howard remembered from his last visit. He didn’t dislike Roxy just preferred not to go alone. He wanted Mario as a buffer.
“Can you just say ‘hello, Roxy?’” Mario shook his head. “No Ms. or Mr. Okay?”
“Can I go with Howard?” Avery asked. “I’d love to meet Roxy.”
A loud “NO!” rang in her ear when both Mario and Howard shouted at the same time.
The detectives argued down the flight of stairs to the ground floor, getting side glances from uniformed officers walking up. They broke off at the street—Mario to his car, and Howard on foot. It was more comfortable to walk to the club than go through the guy that answered the phone during the day.
One block down from the precinct was Bourbon Street, the one area of the French Quarter that never sleeps. The bars got deliveries in the early hours, the performers had auditions and practice during the day, and come dark it was showtime until the wee hours of the following day.
Roxy was the owner of the nightclub where he performed. His boyfriend Glen owned a publishing company, the Big Easy Voice, an underground newspaper. Roxy and Glenn would go to the ends of the earth for Mario and Howard. The detectives kept
Roxy’s secret and didn’t gossip. Mario asked the night cops to keep an eye on the nightclub because there was always someone trying to start trouble. Too much liquor by gay and straight men don’t mix. Glenn’s Big Easy Voice subscriptions went through the roof when Mario slipped him some exclusive stories. The major newspapers didn’t have an inside connection. Glenn owed his success all to Mario.
Roxy Blum, a drag queen nightclub singer on Bourbon Street, met Glenn Macy in the club one night. They fell in love, and, as the saying goes, it was history from that point forward. The only obstacle was Roxy’s wife. They had never divorced and remained friends.
Howard arrived at the club and opened the front door to a dark room. He bypassed the smell of stale beer and food from the night before and went to the stage curtain, coming face-to-face with Pixie, the day manager. Howard didn’t know where the name came from, but it fit him. Ears like one of Santa’s elves and a pixie style wig were a good start. He was tall and thin with white pants painted on and a colorful Tommy Bahama shirt tied mid-level.
Howard had met Pixie once before with Mario during an investigation, and he was the exact reason he wanted Mario as a buffer.
“Hey handsome, what brings you around so early?” Pixie asked.
Howard shot him a look, regretting he didn’t make the phone call.
“If you’re looking for Roxy—she’s not here,” he said, fixing the collar on Howard’s shirt. “You know he can’t get himself together before noon. He has fans and an image to uphold.”
Howard didn’t bother to reply and turned to walk away. Without asking or even wanting Pixie to call Roxy, he had him on the phone before Howard could get out the door.
“Now, Mr. Policeman,” Pixie said with a boyish smile. “This is not me talking, but Roxy said,” a pause came, and he stepped back, then he gave a dreamy smile at Howard. “He said, get your fine self over to the house. He’s got some information he’s dying to tell somebody.”
Howard managed to get out of the club without further engagement with Pixie, then strolled to his car, shaking his head, mumbling, “I’m going to kill Mario.”
It would have been easier to call Roxy and force the information from him than to drive to the house, but Howard did it the way Mario would—face-to-face with the drag queen.
He made it to Roxy’s house on Esplanade Avenue, an old established neighborhood, with big front porches, white rockers, and a swing hanging from the top beam. A black iron fence surrounded the larger home, which was the largest on the block. He opened the fancy gate with gold gilded spearheads painted on top and stepped onto the porch.
A husky male voice penetrated through the opened door. “There’s my second favorite cop,” Roxy said. “You know Mario will always be number one.”
Howard made a wrinkled face. “He can be number one—it’s not a contest, Roxy.”
Roxy stood as tall as Howard, dressed in a silk robe, slippers with fuzzy feathers at the toe and a slight heel, a wig, and full makeup.
Mario and Howard agreed from day one Roxy wasn’t a good-looking man and even worse as a woman. Somehow, Mario took a liking to him and they had been friends for years.
Howard asked if he’d been to bed yet or was up early. Roxy flipped his eyelashes much like a woman and gave a smile, but he didn’t answer.
“There’s my man.” Roxy reached for Glenn’s hand when he entered the room dressed in black silk pajamas. Howard was outside their circle of friends but was considered dear to the drag queen and his man.
It was usual for Roxy when wanting something or giving information to want to share it around the dining room table with a lot of food. Howard didn’t even fight him this time, just took a seat, poured coffee, and let Roxy serve him.
Glenn, who was never shy, outright asked, “I need a good scoop for the next edition. Something juicy, an exclusive.”
Howard shook his head. “I’ll check with Mario. Maybe he has something.”
Roxy reached for some more grits and eggs and plopped a lump on his plate. “So, Howard, have any idea why someone would ask for a makeup artist?”
Howard gave a “what the hell look,” and Roxy quickly retracted.
“Someone offered my bartender five hundred to direct them to a makeup artist. A good one that could make someone look dead.”
Howard finished his grits and shot a look. “You know the freaks on Bourbon Street better than me. Why would they ask such a question?” Howard took a sip of coffee. “It’s not Halloween. Are they filming a movie in the area?”
“Not that I know of, besides with movies, people have their own makeup artist. What puzzles me is the description my bartender gave of this person is not your typical streetwalker.”
“How so?” Howard asked.
“Clean, hair was washed, she had all her teeth.”
Howard all but spit the coffee up when Roxy described the customer base that walked through the club door. He quickly cleared up their client base was the upper crust—money people, gay with no children, and a lot of cash to spend. This woman wasn’t a working girl.
“Why would someone want to make a person look dead?” Roxy repeated. “It’s been bugging me since I heard it yesterday.”
Howard finished off his coffee and let out an exhale. “Please, tell me I didn’t come over here for some bullshit gossip your bartender had with a drunk in the middle of the night.”
It was one of the few times Howard saw Roxy sincere. Usually, there was a joke or off-color comment. He was serious-minded, trying to understand the request from the patron. It wasn’t uncommon for someone to wander in and ask who they could hire to kill someone. That was an every-night occurrence. Some gay lover pissed off because his sugar daddy found a younger guy. The bartender would call a cab and send them home.
“Yes, Howard, it’s why I asked you to come over,” Roxy said.
Howard saw he was upset and calmed his attitude. “I’m sure there is nothing to this. If the person comes in again, call me. I’ll get to the bottom of the mystery.”
Glenn patted Roxy’s hand. “It’s okay, honey.”
“She’s not coming back, but she left this phone number,” Roxy said, flipping a handwritten note to him. “Whoever finds an artist should call the number. It’s worth five hundred to her.”
“Describe the person?” Howard said.
Roxy didn’t think to ask when hearing the story and reached for his cell phone. It took six rings for Tony, the bartender who worked till early morning, to answer. He asked Roxy if he found someone to do the makeup. Tony said he could taste that five hundred coming his way.
Roxy hung up the call and finished off the coffee in the pot. “Tony said around 2 a.m. this morning a medium height woman with jet black hair made the pitch.”
Glenn’s head shifted side to side from Roxy to Howard.
“This is a throwaway phone number,” Howard said, flipping the paper around.
“Give it to me in English, Howard.”
He gave Roxy a strange look. “It’s a phone you buy at a drug store. When you use up the time you throw it away.” Howard stood, rubbing his face with one hand. “Did this Tony guy say if she was Asian?”
“Korean, Japanese, he wasn’t sure.”
Howard sat back down. “This is what you do. Call the number and say you have a makeup artist—a good one to handle the job. Have her meet you at the bar at 5 P.M. today.”
“Does this meant I get an exclusive?” Glenn asked.
Howard stood and handed the phone number back to Roxy. “5 P.M.” Then, with glaring eyes, he faced Glenn. “This pans out, you’ll have a story the major newspapers will envy.”
Howard pulled away from the house with mixed feelings. It was a good chance Julie was the one looking for the makeup artist. But why? He ran ideas through his mind, but none seemed logical even for someone in the field of killing like Julie. She killed people—didn’t care what they looked like after she did her part. Dead was dead. Why the makeup? He headed back to the E
ighth Precinct.
Chapter 22
Across town, Mario met with Monsignor Simms at the rectory, a brownstone next to the church. A glance at the property brought back memories for Mario. Simms, a priest who assisted at the church before he was assigned a permanent location, helped with city-wide Catholic Conformations for the schools in the area. Mario was twelve years old when he first met Father Simms, and now he’d made a full circle as a Monsignor at the same church.
Mario pushed the button on the front door frame. The doorbell rang much like a bicycle bell, a sign it was dated. The house lady of the day, one of the church volunteers, answered the door. She and a few other women took turns looking after the priest as the story was told to him by his grandmother years earlier. They cleaned, cooked, washed, and ironed.
His grandmother said it was an honor for the opportunity to serve in the priest’s house. Mario’s smile came over him just thinking of the look he got from the family at Sunday morning breakfast when he first heard of the privilege to serve in the priest’s house.
“Sounds like the priest found some suckers to take care of them—and free.” That statement got him sent to his room for the rest of the day.
The woman escorted Mario to the Monsignor’s office. His eyes shifted around the room when Simms welcomed him. He had heard the inside of the rectory was creepy, and his visit confirmed all the childhood rumors. Too many statues—their eyes followed you.
Mario got through the small talk and asked for the monsignor to take him to the girl. They went down a flight of steps just off from the office, through the basement hallway for twenty yards, and they were in the back of the church.
“Like a bat cave, huh, Monsignor,” Mario joked.
Simms didn’t have much of a sense of humor but did say he watched the TV program back in the late 1960s. Mario remembered it from the reruns twenty years later.
The church had a main altar in the center and two smaller ones on each side. They stepped in front of one of the smaller alters, and Monsignor Simms pointed to a corner. There, curled in the corner, was a young girl that appeared about sixteen to eighteen years old, from Mario’s estimation. However, he couldn’t get a good look at her face in an area only lit by candles and the little sunshine coming from the stained glassed windows.
The Auction House Page 11