by Les Edgerton
“What for? He hasn’t done anything we can pin on him. No. Let him go, see what he does. I want this guy cold. I don’t want him slipping through the cracks in the system. You got an address? I’ve been by Eddie Delahousie’s place, seen where he lives. I saw what you meant when you said it was drug central. I walked around, musta got offered every illegal substance there is, inside of two minutes by people coming out of apartments. That’s a zoo. Where’s the address you got on Kincaid? That’s a funny name, Reader.” He reached in his pocket for a pad and pen.
“That’s what he goes by. Does a lot of reading, I guess. Bad guys consider him an intellectual. Right. You know his real name’s Charles, but if you were to say Charles to him, he wouldn’t turn around. Last address we got on him is an old one, over in Algiers. I don’t think that’s where he lives. I’ll give it to you, but it’s two years old. These guys don’t stay in one place that long. I’ll do some checking though. Maybe I can turn up a current address.”
Grady didn’t write the Vallette street address down. It was the same one Marty had given him. He told her that and she said she was sorry. She’d try and see if she could get something more current.
“Where’s Sally? He there?”
“No. Son-of-a-bitch! You don’t know how to bartend, do you?” She laughed. “He called a while ago. He’s over to Bucktown, heard about a deal on some oysters over to Deannie’s. We serve free oysters on Thursdays. It’s our lagniappe. You like oysters, drop by. Sally’s got the best recipe for hot sauce you ever tasted. Better’n Commander’s Palace’s. He uses garlic butter, Tabasco, some other stuff. Burn the bark off your throat. Sally won’t be back until later. Try around seven. Keep me posted. You want any help, say it.” There was a brief silence. “And, hey. You want to stop by and try these oysters. You do, you’ll want to come down here to live. Listen, I got to go. This is getting ugly. You want to schlep some beer, play bartender for me, then stop on by. And, Grady?” She hesitated for a second. “Grady, I’m really sorry about your brother. Whatever we can do to help, just say the word.”
Grady thanked her and hung up. It was a great fraternity. Retired cops. Closest knit bunch in the world. He was beginning to see what Sally saw in his wife. She was a no-bullshit woman, the kind you liked on your side. He bet there was a whole bunch of criminals who used to cringe when they saw her heading their way.
Now. What to do. He could drive over to Algiers and ask around the neighborhoods to see if Kincaid was still in town, only he agreed with Veronica. Guys like this don’t stay in one place too long. No, a bird in the hand...he knew where Delahousie lived. Besides, with what he’d learned about Kincaid, it looked like Eddie Delahousie was only the hired hand, which meant he would be easier to keep track of. He was pretty sure that whatever Kincaid was up to, Delahousie was involved.
I’ll get this guy, Jack. I promise you.
He could see the two of them, working a case, Jack Fogarty the sharper of the two in some areas. Hell, to be honest, in a lot of areas.
“Don’t put yourself down,” he recalled Jack saying, right after the Boroni case, sitting in Friendly’s Tavern as they were hoisting a few celebratory brews. “You woulda got him sooner or later. I happened to remember our grandpap’s fishing technique and what sodium looked like. But he was done for, as soon’s theut you on the case. You’re a bulldog, Grady. A detail man. The best cops are detail men. Kind that pays attention to the little things. You would have made a good archeologist. You figure out how things are put together from practically nothing. It takes you a while longer, is all.”
Once in a while there was an argument, as if they were married or something. “Why don’t you go out, get a regular girlfriend, have a social life?”
“I got a social life, Jack.”
“Yeah, right. You pick up three different girls a week. Bar hoppers. You don’t even take ‘em out and buy ‘em dinner like they were regular girls. That’s your social life?”
“It’s none of your business, Jack. I don’t see your dance card filled. You and your goddamned electronics. If you were a woman I’d figure you for a remote controlled vibrator for your Friday nights! Besides, I’m a cop. You know what kind of women I meet? Not the kind you want to send flowers to or write poetry for. I’m lousy at poetry anyway.”
“Grady, my big, dumb, baby brother, I worry about you. Me, I’ve been married. Eighteen years. I’ve had my social life. I had a wonderful woman. I can’t top Sharon so I don’t try. But you. You’ve never been married. You need to meet a nice girl, settle down.”
An hour later, they were both drunk as losing pols on election day and laughing about the whole thing.
He smiled at the memory. Then, he thought of the last time he’d seen his brother alive, lying in a hospital bed, his brains scrambled, and the smile faded. And now he was gone.
He was still thinking about his brother when somebody knocked on his door.
“Whitney!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
She pushed by him, smiling.
“I had some sick days coming so I thought I’d stop by and see if you wanted to go grab some lunch. How are you doing?”
“Better,” he said, and he was. It still hurt like hell, but he had to go on. Sitting around mourning Jack wasn’t going to catch his killer.
She’d changed out of her work clothes into a simple yellow blouse and white slacks. Simple, but stunning. He closed the door and waved his hand at one of the motel room chairs.
“Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thanks. Actually, I just didn’t want to wait until tonight to see you again.” She blushed and looked away. “That’s pretty brazen, isn’t it.” Grady felt the heat in his own face and another kind of warmth in his body. She was saying, “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, he was,” he said, and she seemed to believe him.
“I need to make a few calls,” he said. “You know, the funeral...” She nodded.
“Is it okay if I wait here?”
“Sure,” he said. “Turn the TV on. It shouldn’t take long.”
When he was done, she asked him what he wanted to do.
“Well,” he said, “I was kinda on my way out. I’m glad you came by, though. I was...thinking of you.”
“Oh,” she said. “Is it someplace I can come or is it business?”
He thought for a second. Where he was headed wasn’t dangerous--all he planned to do was check out Eddie’s place--and maybe snoop around a little...and it’d certainly be a lot pleasanter to have her company on what promised to be a boring stakeout.
“I’m going to drive over to this guy’s place, look around. ItPll probably be boring.”
“This guy...” She paused. “Does this have anything to do with the dog that was killed? Or...with your brother?”
“Maybe,” he said. “A guy named Eddie Delahousie.” He was pretty sure it was the guy who’d bought the dog from Pelkerson.
She stood up. “Well, then, it’s settled. I’m definitely coming with you. Are you going to arrest him?”
“Can’t do that, Whitney. No, this isn’t the guy I’m really after, but I think he can lead me to the guy I want. I just want to see where he lives, see if I can get a line on the guy. Truth is, I’m hoping he can lead me to this Reader Kincaid. I’ve got a hunch he can.”
“Besides,” he said, opening the door for her. “I can’t arrest anybody down here anyway. I’m out of my jurisdiction.”
“You mean, even after he’s murdered your brother, you still can’t arrest him?” She was astonished. Typical layperson, he thought. They all thought it was like in the movies.
“I have to have proof, Whitney,” he said. “I could arrest him, yeah, but it’d be an illegal arrest and I sure as hell couldn’t extradite him officially. Even if I was to snatch the guy and get him back up to Ohio, he’d be out in an hour and I’d probably be looking at a lawsuit. That’s no big deal. The bad thing is that I’d probably never get him then. No, I h
ave to play this thing out, get enough evidence to convict his ass. Then, I’ll arrest him. You can watch, only I guarantee you that won’t be a Hallmark moment.”
When she was settled in the car, he warned her she was probably in for a boring afternoon.
“I don’t think so,” she said, smiling. “I’ll be with you, won’t I?”
He tried to be cool, nonchalant. Not show the feeling bubbling inside, the same kind of feeling he hadn’t felt about a woman in a long, long time.
“Same here,” he mumbled, backing up.
A few minutes later, they were gassed up and heading for Metairie and Eddie Delahousie’s apartment. His watch read two-thirty on the nose.
“This guy,” she said. “Reader. He’s kinda smart? Is there such a thing as a smart criminal?”
“Yeah,” Grady replied, “there is. Younger cops don’t always think so, but there are a few. This is one of those. The smart ones. I don’t only wish Jack was still alive, I wish he was here to help me on this thing. I’ve got a feeling I’m gonna need all the brainpower I’ve got to figure this one out.”
He told her some more about his brother. She listened, sympathy in her eyes. Her eyes opened wide in admiration when he told her about the Boroni case.
“Jeez, he was smart, wasn’t he! I wish I could have met him.”
He wondered what Jack would think about the woman sitting in his car. Hell, that was a no-brainer. He’d think the same thing he did. That Grady had maybe lucked into something--someone--who was way too good for him...
CHAPTER 23
ST. IVES TURNED OUT to be a simple-minded chump, at least as far as guarding the security of his apartment. Getting in was simple. Reader told him, through the door, he was there to collect for the Sunday paper, for his kid who was quitting the route. When the banker made the mistake of opening the door a tiny crack, to protest that he didn’t take the paper, that he must have the wrong apartment, all Reader did was shove the door back hard into thbanker and he was in, Eddie following behind.
“You broke my nose,” C.J. said, in a whiney, petulant voice, lying on the floor and looking up, his eyes shining with fear, blood trickling down his lip onto his chin.
“Check it out, see if the girl’s in one of the bedrooms,” Reader ordered Eddie who was standing like a pet dog behind him. “See if he’s got a gun anywhere around.”
“Your nose isn’t broken,” he said to C.J. “It’s not bleeding that much. You oughta be more hospitable when guests come around. Invite the paper boy in for milk and cookies.” He liked his joke.
He jerked him up and patted him down.
“Christ! You an Eskimo?” The apartment was freezing. He went over and flipped the air conditioner off. “Sit down, Mr. St. Ives.” He motioned toward the couch.
“Where’s your warrant?” C.J. said. He retrieved a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and held it to his nose, taking it away from time to time to see how much blood was on it. The bleeding had about stopped.
“Warrant?” Reader crossed over, pulled the easy chair directly in front of the couch and sat down facing the banker.
“Oh, you think we’re cops. That’s rich.”
Eddie walked in from the other room.
“She’s not here, huh? Probably out shopping. You give her her own charge card, St. Ives? Payday for your fucking?” Reader grinned.
“She’s here all right, Reader,” Eddie said, coming out of the bedroom. “In there. She was in the closet. I was you, I’d turn the air-conditioning back up.”
Reader stood up. “Well, get her in here. You crazy? Let her alone in there? What if she’s got a gun hidden someplace and comes out and wants to play O.K. Corral?”
“She don’t have no gun, Reader. Wouldn’t matter if she did.” He looked over at St. Ives and showed his teeth. “You want to tell him? Y’all have a lovers quarrel, St. Ives?”
C.J. put his head in his hands and moaned.
Eddie said again, with a knowing leer, “You might want to turn the air back up, Reader.”
***
The way it turned out, C.J. St. Ives was a pushover for a head slap or two. His nose seemed especially tender and was obviously connected directly to his vocal cords. Reader thought about that again and told himself to remember the joke, tell it sometime. He tried it out on Eddie.
“Here’s a biology lesson for you, Eddie. Notice how the tongue of the banker species is connected directly to the nose. You want to know something, tap the nose a little.” He demonstrated, enjoying the way the cartilage cracked.
C.J. moaned. He began rocking back and forth, his hands cupped protectively around his face.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said in a whining voice, after a minute. “I’ve told you everything.”
That was not quite true. One thing Reader was sure of was that either St. Ives was neglecting to fill in the whole picture or was misleading him on several important parts. He went through the papers that were lying on the dresser.
“So this is the deal, eh? Your old lady kicked you out, you and your girlfriend there had a little argument and you iced her. Little accident, is that it?”
“Yes.” C.J. put his hands down tentatively and peered at Reader. “That’s precisely what it was.”
“Okay,” said Reader. “I believe you, Mr. St. Ives. The problem is, Eddie’s a skeptic. And since he’s my partner I got to humor him. Eddie, look in that box you brought in and get me those pliers. The needle-nosed ones. And see if there’s a pair of scissors in there. Don’t worry, Eddie. I know Mr. St. Ives is the truthful sort. He wouldn’t mislead us intentionally, but to set your mind at ease, I’ll ask him again.”
Eddie was one big grin. He didn’t know what was on Reader’s mind, but whatever it was, it was going to be fun; he was sure of it.
C.J.’s eyes got about as wide as possible as Reader went over and foraged around in the box himself, coming out with two pairs of handcuffs and a roll of two-inch gray tape.
“What are you doing?”
Reader didn’t say anything, only cuffed St. Ives’ ankles together and then his wrists.
“Mr. St. Ives is the noisy type, I think,” he said to Eddie, who was watching over his shoulder as he tore a piece of tape from the roll and pressed it over C.J.’s mouth.
“Come here, Eddie,” he said. “I think you better hold Mr. St. Ives’ arms. He’s liable to get a little twitchy.”
“Nice manicure,” he said, holding up the banker’s hands.
The whole time he worked, C.J. screamed, only it sounded more like a turbine warming up, what with the tape over his mouth. When Reader was done, he held up the fingernail from C.J.’s right forefinger in front of the sweat-drenched man’s face. A single drop of blood hung suspended from it. There was a lot more on the finger itself.
“I’m sorry, Mr. St. Ives,” he said. “I do believe I’ve chipped a nail. It’s these pliers. I probably don’t have the right kind for a delicate job like this. I think I’ve got the hang of it, though. The next one’ll be perfect. You’ll see. You know, Eddie, I suspect you may be right. Mr. St. Ives might be holding out on us. I believe if he is, we’ll find out though. I mean, looky here. We’ve got nine more nails to get at the whole story. Oh. I almost forgot. There’s ten toenails, too. Unless he’s one of those odd ones and has more. How many did your mother count the day you were born, Mr. St. Ives?”
That’s when C.J. fainted, the first time.
***
Grady didn’t voice this to Whitney, but secretly he wondered if he was making the right move. Maybe he should have gone across the river instead and checked out the neighborhood at Kincaid’s last address some more to see if he still lived in the area.
No, Eddie was the one. Wait on him on Arnoldt by his apartment. He’ll show. He’d be easier to follow. Kincaid was the brains of this operation, whatever it was. He’d get farther faster sticking to Eddie. See where he went, what he did.
If he showed up, that is. Grady got one of those hunches
old cops get from an instinct born of years of dealing with punks and perverts, that the timetable for whatever the two were scheming was drawing close.
“That bastard!” Whitney was talking about Eddie. “Anyone who would hurt a dog deserves to be executed!”
From time to time he turned on the engine and ran the air conditioner. This place is too godawful hot for humans to live in, he thought. I’d have to stay inside all day and all night if I lived down in this place.
“Wait a minute,” he snapped. “I think it’s a shame, sure, to hurt some dumb animal, but this is a lot more serious than that. These guys kill people.”
Whitney looked at him, her eyes registering her blunder.
“I’m sorry,” she said, finally.
Grady immediately felt bad for jumping down her throat. Her head was lowered and she was staring at her lap.
“I am, too,” he said. “All I want to do is catch this creep. For all his crimes. Against people and animals.”
The traffic to and from Eddie’s apartment complex was amazing. Nobody stayed long, ten, fifteen minutes at the most. Fat City was drug central, Veronica’d told him, and she was right about that. There seemed to be a lot of hookers around, as well. He could see into the complex, which was centered around a pool, and every once in a while a guy would pull in and go up to one of the four or five girls around the pool and they’d disappear into an apartment. Watching all the action made him want a shower. A cesspool is the way he’d describe where Eddie lived. He must feel right at home, Grady thought.
“Is what’s going on what I think?” Whitney asked, at one point.
“Yeah,” he said. “Busy little place, isn’t it?”
He went over the little bit that he knew about the situation. Whatever they were planning looked like it was going to be done with a pipe bomb. Why did they blow up a dog? If they did, but it was pretty clear at least that this Eddie’d been the one to blow up the German shepherd across the lake. It didn’t make any sense. The dog wasn’t worth anything. Hell, they bought the damn thing so it wasn’t some dognapping from some rich animal lover, gone hinky. So what was it? He came to the conclusion it must have been a trial run.