Indian Country Noir (Akashic Noir)

by Sarah Cortez;Liz Martinez

  "This is your last warning." There was no mistaking the slur. "Step out or I will shoot."

  Several seconds elapsed, and Carson held his breath. Finally, heavy treads approached. Carson tensed, ready to spring. The officer shone his flashlight into the interior space.

  In his mind's eye, Carson saw himself reach forward and grab the service pistol, snapping the mans finger before de-gloving the digit and wrenching away the weapon. He quickly dismissed this option and pursued patience. No sense in stirring up a hornet's nest by leaving one of Memphis' finest bound and injured at a crime scene.

  The man made a sloppy sweep of the room that failed to reach the corner where Carson waited.

  Carson had a clear view of the slim man in a dark blazer and rumpled khakis. The sweet stench of Jack Daniel's turned his stomach, instantly bringing to mind his Uncle Joe-a man who embodied every negative stereotype of his people.

  Forcing himself to the present, Carson watched the lawman weave his way toward the bookshelves on the wall opposite the safe. The man holstered his weapon and flashlight, kneeled down, and grabbed two large ledgers from the bottom shelf. While the officer's back was turned, Carson crossed the room in silence. When the man stood and turned to leave, his eyes locked with Carson's. He recoiled in surprise, and the heavy ledgers crashed to the floor. Carson secured the lawman's hands behind his back in an iron grip, forcing his face into the wall.

  "Relax," said Carson. "I don't want to hurt you. And I'm guessing you don't want to advertise your presence here."

  "What do you want?"

  "I just want to find the person responsible for this mess," said Carson. "A more interesting question seems to be, what are you doing here?"

  "None of your business, that's what." The alcohol made him sound like a petulant child.

  Carson shrugged and increased the pressure on the man's wrists. "Suit yourself. I can leave you tied up here and place an anonymous call to the precinct. Or. . ."

  "Or what?"

  "Or we can try to work this out. So we both get what we want. That sound reasonable?"

  The man hesitated, but then he nodded. "Okay. Let's talk."

  "Good choice." Carson removed the firearm from the man's hip holster. He searched for additional weapons and pocketed the compact gun he found in an ankle holster. Finally, Carson took the flashlight before releasing the lawman to turn around. He offered an apologetic look as he trained the service pistol on its owner. "I'm sure you'd do the same."

  The officer narrowed his gaze at Carson as he rubbed his arms. Carson wasn't sure if he was trying to intimidate-or to focus.

  "You working this case?" asked Carson, slowly sweeping the light over the cop. The man's hesitation gave him his answer. Carson took in the distinctive alligator pattern on the man's shoes. Well-styled. Probably Italian. He caught a flash of gold as he moved the beam upward. "Mind showing me your watch?" The man pushed back his cuff. Diamond baguettes winked at Carson from a Rolex President. "Nice. Tell me, Officer. . ."

  "It's Detective. Detective Aaron Lawry."

  "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, detective," he said, emphasizing the title. "You come from money? Or is the city of Memphis exceptionally generous with its hazardous duty pay?" When Lawry remained silent, he continued, "Or does this have something to do your being here after your buddies have gone home?" The man glanced down at the ledgers, and Carson nodded. "I figured it was something like that. Something big enough that you'd risk the complications of a broken crime scene seal. I don't care what your business was with Buddy Martin," Carson said at last. "But I'm a man on a deadline, and I always meet my deadlines."

  He told Lawry the tale of an unnamed damsel in distress, in the clutches of an ex-military mercenary who had brought Buddy's life to an untimely end.

  "I'm afraid I can't disclose my client's name," said Carson. "But I can assure you that he is a major player in this town. And very generous."

  "How generous?"

  "Generous enough that, once this is done, I can give you fifty large, in cash, for less than a day's work."

  "Sounds reasonable to me," Lawry said after a moment's consideration. "Can I have my guns back?"

  "Not yet," Carson replied, tucking the pistols beside his Glock. He made a sweeping gesture toward the office. "What do you know about the investigation?"

  Lawry gave Carson a look of resentment, quickly replaced by resignation. He sighed. "Buddy was tortured. Every bone in his right hand broken." No prints other than Buddy's and his receptionist's, which suggested the attacker had worn gloves. Lawry glanced over at the safe and back at Carson.

  "Yes?"

  "We assume he was tortured for the combination," Lawry said. "Once your guy made sure it worked, he finished Buddy off with a couple shots to the head."

  "Any idea where he went?"

  "Since your client didn't report any of this, it sounds like you know more than we do at this point. You care to share?"

  Carson told him about his research and his conversation with jenny's grandmother. "The connection is tenuous, but I don't have anything else at this point."

  "That's okay," said Lawry. "I think we might. Let me make a call. You mind?"

  "I'll be right here." Carson jerked his thumb toward the outer office. He stepped into the next room and heard Lawry make his call. Despite the detective's hushed tones, Carson's acute senses allowed him to hear most of the one-sided conversation.

  "It's me ... Yeah, I'm here ... Yeah, I got them, but we have a situation ... Some guy here seems to know what's going on. He promised me a fifty-grand payout if I help him out ... Give me some credit. If he's offering me fifty, he's got to be holding back at least that much for himself ... Yeah, yeah. It's perfect. You get the collar, we get the cash, and the business with Buddy gets buried with him. But we got to deliver too ..."

  Having heard enough, Carson crossed over to the far side of the room. So that's how it was. Not that he was surprised, but he'd need to plan ahead. At least Detective Lawry had simplified the situation for him. He heard Lawry end the conversation.

  "Hey, chief." Carson bristled and then turned to face his temporary partner, who now wore a look of confusion. "What's your name?"

  Carson slowly stretched his mouth into what he hoped was a relaxed grin. "Faubion. Charles Faubion."

  "You got some proof?"

  "Of course." Carson smiled for real. No honor among thieves, he thought as he handed over an Arizona driver's license and a card identifying Charles Faubion as a licensed investigator in that state.

  Lawry nodded, satisfied. "Okay, Charlie. Our crime scene boys found a note pad on Buddy's desk with the name jenny and a New Orleans telephone number. That enough of a connection for you?"

  A shave under six hours later, Carson pulled the Charger into the lot for the apartment complex at the address Dorothy McLaren had provided. They located jenny's apartment and saw that the place was dark.

  "Looks like she's either still asleep or she's already left," noted Lawry.

  "Or she's just now getting home," added Carson, hunkering down in his seat as he pushed Lawry down in his.

  The young woman in question drove past them in a red Corolla from the early '90s. They watched her walk up the ornate wrought-iron stairs and disappear into her apartment.

  "Let's go," said Carson.

  When she answered the door, jenny McLaren had scrubbed her face clean of the heavy makeup that revealed why she was returning home at dawn. She looked like a young co-ed, dressed in a Tulane sweatshirt and baggy jersey pants.

  "Hello, Jenny," Carson said in a soft voice. "Mind if we talk?"

  Fear flickered across her face, replaced by sullen suspicion, as jenny assessed her visitors.

  "Who are you and why would I talk to you?"

  "Because we've tied you to a dead guy and a suspected killer."

  Jenny stared at the men and then sneered. "I don't think you've got shit."

  Before she could react, Carson stepped forward and spun
Jenny around, pinning her arms behind her back. "Listen up. A woman's life is on the line, and I don't have time to waste. We're going inside, and you're going to talk."

  Carson ignored the muttered epithet and guided jenny into the tiny living room, where he released her. "Spill it," he snapped. "We've got James Hicks driving your SUV around, while you're in a tin can. We've also got your name and number in the office of the late Buddy Martin, who was supposed to be protecting my client's money."

  Jenny covered her mouth with both hands, and tears welled in her eyes.

  "Buddy's dead?" she whispered.

  "Stone cold," said Lawry. "What's your connection?"

  She took a deep breath. "We were lovers."

  Both men stared at her.

  "Maybe that's too strong a word," she admitted. "A few months back, James talked me into getting friendly with Buddy. He was a lonely old man." Jenny paused, as if remembering the accountant. "It wasn't hard for me to seduce him."

  "So you sweet-talked him into stealing the money," said Carson.

  She nodded, eyes downcast.

  "Were you and Hicks planning to live happily ever after? Or did you know he was picking up a new high-class girlfriend?"

  Her head snapped up. Surprised outrage sparked in her eyes.

  Lawry turned to Carson. "I guess not."

  Carson reached into his breast pocket and retrieved the newspaper clipping. He showed the photo to jenny, who flinched as if Carson had struck her.

  "You know this woman?"

  Jenny brushed tears away with an impatient swipe. "Of course I do," she snorted. "She never shied away from a camera in her life. That lying son of a bitch told me to head down here while he wrapped things up in Memphis."

  "Have you seen him?" asked Carson.

  She nodded. "Yeah, he came over here last night, just before my shift. He's staying at some cheap motel about twenty minutes out."

  Before they left, Carson asked jenny for a pad of paper and a pen. She frowned but retrieved the items.

  He jotted down a number and a short note. Then he folded the paper and handed it back to her with the pen.

  "Call this number," Carson said. "If you're interested in making a change, they can help you out. If not, that's your choice. Either way, you'd do well to forget we were here."

  Her face remained expressionless as she closed the door.

  When Carson and Lawry pulled into the parking lot of the Motel 6 in Slidell, northeast of the city, the Land Rover was parked in front of room 114, just as jenny had indicated it would be.

  "What's the plan?" asked Lawry after Carson killed the engine.

  "We go in, get the girl, and leave."

  "You don't think your man's going to have a problem with that?"

  "We won't give him a choice." Movement in the window confirmed that jenny had followed his instructions and made the call. "I'll stay here and keep an eye on the room. Go show the manager your badge, and get the master key. One of us will open the door; the other will provide cover."

  Lawry arched his brow with skepticism. "I'll provide cover. You open the door."

  "Get the key."

  The officer opened the car door and strode toward the office, oblivious as the entrance to room 114 cracked open. Carson opened his own door and crouched behind the vehicle, his silenced Glock ready. The report of a 9mm pistol shattered the morning air, and Lawry dropped to the pavement, the left side of his head missing. Any twinge of guilt Carson might have felt was neutralized by the knowledge that the dirty cop wasn't planning to let him walk away alive.

  Hicks turned to see Carson's muzzle aimed at him. It was the last thing he saw before the slug in his forehead propelled him backward into the motel room.

  Carson launched himself across the parking lot and into the narrow room, entering low with his gun in front. He nudged the body inside with his legs as he scoped out the room's interior.

  Just as his brain registered that the main room was empty, a petite figure emerged from the bathroom. Cold blue eyes stared at him from a doll-like face.

  "Your father sent me," he said.

  She took a step backward.

  "We have to go. The police will be here any minute. Grab your things."

  The woman took a shuddering breath and nodded. She cast one more wary glance at Carson and then turned to disappear into the bathroom. "It's not about the money, is it?" she asked.

  On the porcelain vanity, Carson saw the mate to the earring he had picked up at Buddy's office, the same one she had worn to the museum event. He considered the question. "No. I think it's a matter of security. Peace of mind." He envisioned this same diminutive woman raising a gun to kill a man who had watched her grow up. Lawry had known that the murder was a two-person job and probably suspected the second player.

  "Does the same go for you?"

  "No. For me, it's a matter of honor."

  In the mirror, he saw her reflection shoot him a withering glance. "Honor," she spat. "That's an interesting term for it."

  Carson shrugged. "I only pursue those who have proven themselves dishonorable."

  His bullet penetrated the back of her skull, and she crumpled to the floor.

  Twenty-five minutes later, he was heading north on 1-90, crossing the huge expanse of Lake Pontchartrain. He dialed his client from a disposable cell phone.

  "It's done."

  Silence. Just before Carson hung up, believing the conversation over, the man spoke.

  "Thank you. I trust you collected the stolen cash as the remainder of your fee?"

  "I haven't counted it, but I'm sure it's fine."

  "Excellent. Our business is concluded."

  The line went dead.

  Carson rolled down the passenger-side window and tossed the cell phone, along with the spent shell casings, into the water.

  He calculated the distance between New Orleans and Gatesville. Then he activated the Bluetooth device linked to his personal phone and dialed home.

  His angel answered on the third ring. Once more, Carson found himself wondering how a relationship between father and daughter could go so wrong as to justify his latest assignment.

  "Daddy?"

  "Yes, sweetheart. I'll be home to tuck you in tonight."

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  is all over the Channel 4 Eyewitness News at 10 p.m.- police officer killed in her home.

  Images of cops standing outside an apartment building fill my TV screen, flashing blue and red lights illuminating the powder-blue N.O.P.D. uniform shirts. I spot my former partner's yellow-blond hair as Detective Jodie Kintyre moves through the crowd and into the building. Jodie wears another of her skirt-suits, this one tan.

  The camera pans to several cops crying, turning their heads away from the camera as the television news anchor explains, "The body of Fifth District police officer Kimberly Champagne was found this evening in her Tchoupitoulas Street apartment after she failed to show up for roll call."

  Jesus Christ! I let out a long breath and, "Motha fuck!"

  "The tragic killing of the popular officer is particularly heart-wrenching to the rank and file. Officer Champagne, a recent graduate of the police academy, was a rookie with a promising career ahead of her." A police ID picture of a smiling brunette with wide eyes comes on the screen as the anchor goes on to explain how Kimberly Champagne went to Sacred Heart Academy before attending Tulane University where she majored in Sociology.

  I lift the bottle of Abita beer to my lips and finish it off. It's taking all my strength to keep from jumping out of the chair, grabbing my weapon, badge, and radio, and racing to the scene. I'm off duty and maybe it's my Lakota heritage (Sioux, as the white man calls us) that knows better than to go looking for trouble. It'll find me on its own. Or maybe it's the Cajun half of me that knows not to volunteer. Volunteers are from Tennessee, not south Louisiana.

  I get up slowly to grab another Abita and sit back in the easy chair and wait for the sports to come on. Waves lap against the side of
my houseboat and I hear the guttural noise of a big outboard as some boat slips away from Bucktown out into Lake Pontchartrain. Sad Lisa rises slightly then gently settles as the waves subside, and I close my eyes for a moment and hear it again, in my mind. "... cop killed ..."

  A summer breeze flows through an open porthole of my houseboat carrying in the familiar scent of salt water. I can't stop my heart from racing no matter how hard I try.

  Trouble is waiting for me the following morning as I walk into the detective bureau in the visage of my lieutenant's dark brown, scowling face. Dennis Merten, all six feet, 250 pounds, stands with his arms folded across his chest. He wears his usual black suit, narrow black tie loosened. He hasn't even had time to take off his jacket.

  "Detective John Raven Beau," Merten calls out. "Just the man I'm looking for."

  He growls as I approach. "I need you on Tchoupitoulas. Assist the evening watch with a canvass. A cop was killed last night."

  "I know. Mind if I look over the dailies?" I'd like to know more about the case than what was on the damn news.

  Merten walks away, snapping back at me, "Just don't take all fuckin' morning." Then he stops and says, "I'm surprised you didn't go barreling over there last night."

  "I'm on the day shift, remember?"

  "'Bout time you learned that." Always in a good mood, that man.

  Climbing from my unmarked Chevy Caprice, I leave my suit coat hanging in the backseat and reach in for my portable radio, note pad, and pen. I wear my black suit today, with a light gray tie. My hair is freshly cut and shorter than usual. It's still as dark brown as when I was a kid. My 5 o'clock shadow is in check with a close shave this morning.

  A better description of me would mention I'm six-two and lean. An ex-girlfriend says my eyes are the color of dark sand. She also says I have a hawk nose and look like a raptor at times, a bird of prey.

  I stare at the apartment house that was on TV last night. It's a redbrick building, old, a warehouse converted into condos. This entire area has been reclaimed-hulking buildings turned into apartment houses or small delis, coffee shops, a Kinko's at the corner of Julia Street.

  Two marked police cars are parked directly in front of the building. I spot two uniforms standing down the street and one outside the front door of the place with Jodie, in a light yellow blouse and black slacks this morning. Her blond hair, freshly blow-dried as always, is longer than usual, a page-boy cut.