Nude in Red

by O'Neil De Noux

  Féroce hangs up and looks at Beau who nods to Juanita and introduces her. Féroce gets up and so does Juanita and they meet around the side of the desk, Beau stands slowly and is relived to see the chief’s skirt is blue.

  “How is the victim?” Féroce goes back to her captain’s chair and sits.

  “She’s OK. We showed her pictures of the other girls, including the Secretary’s daughter but she says she never saw either. Juanita has information on the man who tried to kill her.”

  “The body in Arkansas, shot by Consuela Suarez.” Juanita gives the information on George Galadrescu of Saint Paul, Minnesota, then looks to Beau.

  “Galadrescu was a member of a Romanian Organized Crime Operation called The Bucuresti. Our Intelligence Division and LSP Intelligence has nothing on Romanian OC here in the city. So, we need your help …”

  Féroce finishes his sentence. “ … to contact the Feds.”

  “With your state department background, we thought …”

  The chief nods, raises her cell and says, “I have a better idea.” She scrolls through her contact list, taps her iPhone and raises it to her ear.

  “Janet Féroce calling for Secretary Brookings. Is this Ms. Mavers?” A few seconds later the superintendent says, “You have my cell number. Ask her to call when she can. Thank you.” She hangs up, looks at Beau and shrugs. “Cabinet meeting.” She nods at Juanita. “Can you leave that information with me?”

  Juanita stands and slides a sheet of paper across the desk.

  Féroce looks at the paper. “I’m confident the Secretary of the Interior will have the FBI get a hold of you quickly.”

  Beau stands, thanks the superintendent, nods to Edwards and starts to leave. He doesn’t get far before Féroce calls out, “Do you always dress alike?”

  Beau cringes, looks at Juanita who turns and says, “No ma’am.”

  “Good.”

  • New Orleans Marina, 10:40 p.m.

  “So, where’s your new office gonna be?” Beau moves his cell to his left ear as Stella decides it’s time to butt her head against his jaw.

  He hears Jessie sigh. “It used to be the U.S. Bank of Louisiana building. Saint Charles corner Phillip Street. Three stories. Ante-bellum. Red brick Greek Revival with marble columns out front, hardwood floors, tall windows and twenty foot ceilings. The entrance downstairs opens to a long hall with marble counters and teller’s windows but there aren’t any tellers anymore. It’s like a bank museum. The safes are open so you can peek in as you pass.

  Beau snickers.

  “Second floor is all staff, women mostly. Admins, accountants and computer specialists. I’m up on the third floor, like a penthouse with three other offices for the real directors, including the CFO, Mr. Jefferson M. Monroe. Can you guess his middle name?”

  “Motengator?”

  “What? No. Madison. His mother must have been an American history buff naming him for three presidents. What was that word you said?”

  “Motengator. According to DeLAWDeer’s Town Marshal Wardell Percy, Jr., it’s someone who’s a couple hundred mother-fuckers rolled into one.”

  Jessie sighs. “Sometimes you sound just like Dino. Make no sense.”

  “So you were talking about a man named Madison.”

  “Mr. Jefferson Madison Monroe. He’s about a hundred years old. Always wears a black suit and black and white oxford shoes, horned rimmed glasses. Lizette’s father thinks he went up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt.”

  Beau chuckles. “If he’s the CFO, what are you?”

  “You’re ready for this? I’m the new President of Louvier Holdings, LLC.”

  “You’re president of the bank?”

  “No, the holding company. Each bank has its president, board of directors. I’m supposed to oversee it all.”

  “Gee. That sounds pretty imposing.”

  “Thanks. That’s a load off my mind.”

  He hears her yawning now, fights off a yawn as Stella pulls back. Watches. He tells Jessie, “Did you know the guy who wrote the Ka-zon books did go up that hill with Teddy Roosevelt?”

  “Jeremy Pike?”

  “He was part Apache. Big Native American hero.”

  Stella catches Beau’s jaw with a paw starts to pull it around to her. He resists until he feels the points of her claws. She rubs her nose against his nose and purrs loudly.

  “She nuzzled me last night,” Jessie says.

  “When?”

  “After you had your way with me and fell asleep.”

  Beau laughs. “My way with you? Who grabbed who first?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “She nuzzled you? That’s a first.”

  He hears Jessie yawn again and they sit quietly for a while. Stella heads upstairs.

  “Looking forward to Saturday, Babe.” Jessie sounds sleepy so they tell each other goodnight and hang up. When the phone rings a minute later, he scoops it, figuring it’s her but doesn’t recognize the number, answers anyway.

  “This is Special Agent Joseph P. Esposito, FBI. Am I speaking with Chief Inspector Beau?”

  “You are.”

  “I just got off the phone with your superintendent. Can we have coffee in the morning?”

  “Nine a.m. CC’s. Magazine and Jefferson Avenue?”

  “I know the place,” Esposito says. “I’ll see you at nine.” The man hangs up. Sounds like an older man. Esposito. That’s an Italian name.

  Wednesday

  • Magazine Street, 8:55 a.m.

  “Can’t believe you lied to me,” Juanita says as they sit at the same table Beau had sat that Saturday morning when he first saw Jessie. Juanita is in another white dress shirt and navy blue tactical skirt. Beau wear a black polo shirt and pale green RipStop pants.

  He smiles as they sit with their coffees. “Quit asking what I’m going to wear.”

  “I just thought it’d look nice if we dressed alike on occasion.” She sticks her tongue at him. A red Honda guns it as it passes along Magazine. It’s cool this morning but the sun is bright and they both wear sunglasses.

  Beau glances at the bank at the corner. “How’s Guevara?”

  “How would I know?” She juts her jaw at him. “I told you he’s not my type. Why are you so concerned about my social life?”

  “I’m writing a book. A autobiography. You’re a character in it.”

  She takes a hit of coffee, focusing those dark eyes at him. “You have a title yet?”

  “Make Sure They’re Dead.”

  She nods. “Got a nice ring to it.”

  “Has more than one meaning.” He keeps his face serious. “Could mean victims. Could mean my victims.”

  “You got a chapter about me?”

  “I’m working on it.” He still looks serious.

  A man in a black suit with a coffee in hand steps out the side door of PJs, sees them, comes their way. Beau stands and the man introduces himself as Esposito, Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the New Orleans Field Office. The ASAC. He nods to Juanita and sits in the third chair at the small table. A big-boned man with a wide face, thick eye-brows and soft brown eyes, Joseph P. Esposito’s gotta be sixty and paunchy, looks a lot like Vince Lombardi.

  “Like the Mafia,” says Esposito, “the Bucuresti started as banditi or bandits. Brigands. Thieves roaming areas where there was little or no police. Unlike the Mafia, who came to the US in the Nineteenth Century, we have no reports of Bucuresti here in the states until after World War II.”

  Beau and Juanita each take notes as Esposito says, “They’ve concentrated in the Mid-West. Chicago. Detroit. Minneapolis-Saint Paul. Came in from Canada and the only information we have about them here in New Orleans is a rumor some of them were trying to muscle in after Katrina, like other criminals.”

  Sounds familiar. Beau says, “Nothing concrete?”

  “Nothing. We don’t even know of any Romanian hangouts or enclaves at all in the city.”

  “I’m sure Superintendent Féroce ment
ioned one of the girls we’re looking at was run by the Cataldo family. Any chance some La Cosa Nostra rivals are using Romanian hit-men?”

  “Doesn’t sound like either party’s M.O. They only interaction between Bucuresti and Cosa Nostra happened three years ago in Chicago and it wasn’t pleasant for either side, especially the Romanians.

  “The Bucuresti are ruthless, scorched-earth murderers, kill-everyone-in-the-house maniacs only when it comes to gang warfare nobody can go toe-to-toe with Sicilians. La Cosa Nostra is too organized. Final count was two Sicilians dead and three wounded versus eighteen dead Romanians, including their leaders.”

  “We know Italians use garrotes,” Beau says. “What about these Bucuresti?”

  The ASAC shrugs.

  A golden retriever runs up and bumps Beau’s knee.

  “Sally. Sally. Stop that.” The voice is feminine and when Beau turns a petite redheaded woman who looks to be maybe twenty and in a black sports bra and red jogging shorts hustles up and picks up the dog’s leash.

  “Sorry,” she tells Beau with a warm smile. “She pulled away from me.”

  The dog’s tail wags wildly as it yanks forward and tries to put his paws in Beau’s lap.

  The woman manages to get the dog under control and pulls away, apologizing again.

  “Is that a sports bra?” Juanita says.

  “It is. Very comfortable.” The redhead is still looking at Beau.

  Juanita shakes her head. “I suppose it is.”

  The redhead backs away with her dog and smiles again at Beau. “See you later, handsome.”

  The dog leads her away and Beau resists looking at her ass. Esposito has no reservations and cranes his head to get a better view.

  “Does this happen often to you?” He asks Beau.

  “All the fuckin’ time.” Beau’s face is deadpan.

  Esposito chuckles, looks at Juanita who nods. “I have to pull them off of him sometimes. It’s annoying.”

  They each sip their coffees and Esposito continues. “We have sources here in town and will see if any Romanians surface. But at the moment. We have nothing.”

  Esposito reaching into his coat and pulls out two business cards, passes them, on the backs he’d penciled in his a number with the word “cell” next to it.

  “What we don’t want is a blood-bath between Cosa Nostra and Bucuresti, if they are here.” He leans forward. “Who knows about the man in Arkansas?”

  “Our chief, her assistant,” Juanita answers, “and our Crime Lab and Intelligence Division commanders.”

  “Don’t forget Town Marshal Wardell Percy, Jr., of DeLAWdeer, Arkansas and the Arkansas State Police.”

  “Of where?”

  “Daladier. They pronounce it DeLAWdeer.”

  “What we don’t want is Cataldo or his henchmen finding out whose killing his girls.”

  Esposito looks from Beau to Juanita and back to Beau again.

  “I don’t see any nods from you guys.”

  “You really think they aren’t going to find out?”

  The ASAC shakes his head. “Let’s don’t help them, OK?”

  Beau leans back in his chair. “The big question is how did this Bucuresti ass-hole located the girl who shot him? If he went through Butera or one of his cronies, then Signore Cataldo’s gonna figure it out sooner or later.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. This new generation isn’t as smart as Luciano, Gambino and Genovese.”

  Sally comes barreling around the corner, heading straight for the table. Beau pushes his chair back in time for the dog to nearly jump in his lap. The table shakes but nothing’s spilled. Miss Redhead runs up.

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why she keeps wanting to lick you.” There’s a wickedly sexy tone to her voice as her dog tries to lick Beau’s face. He has to hold its shoulders to keep it away.

  Miss Redhead yanks the leash and Sally backs off.

  “I’m sorry. Did she put that dirt on your shirt?” She points to Beau’s shoulder and there’s a streak of brown dirt there now. He brushes it off. He tries not to stare at the sports bra as the woman’s high-beams are on. Nice pointed nipples.

  “I can wash that for you,” she tells Beau.

  “Hey,” Juanita calls out. “Cutie Pie. It ain’t gonna work. His girlfriend makes you look like a skinny boy.”

  Miss Redhead retreats a step, pulling Sally closer. She gives Juanita a long look, shrugs and walks off with her dog.

  Beau pulls his chair back up, picks up his coffee.

  Esposito catches Juanita’s eye. “He really have a pretty girlfriend?”

  “Miss Italian-American Gorgeous. Seriously. And I don’t find women attractive.”

  Beau finishes his coffee, says, “All right. Back to business. We know this Galadrescu character tried to kill our last victim. But did he kill the other two? We compared his prints to the twenty-two unidentified latents lifted from the DeSaix. No match.”

  Esposito finishes his coffee, stands and brushes down his coat. “We’ll see what intelligence we can come up with. Good luck with your murders.”

  On their way to the SUV, Juanita says, “Oh, for your chapter about me. I have a date Saturday night with a man who is my type, met him when I took Consuela to the banks. She saw him hawking me out. Assistant manager of the Orleans Bank on Carondelet Street.”

  Another banker?

  “So what now?”

  Beau shrugs. “Let’s hit the internet. See if there’s anything Romanian in town. Social club. Restaurant. Bar room.”

  Juanita says, “It’s been what almost a month since we started working together?”

  He waits for it.

  “And no action. We haven’t shot anyone.”

  A silver Lexus in a big hurry almost plows into their fender when Beau inches the SUV away from the curb. Horn blares and the car zooms off.

  “That was supposed to be funny,” Juanita says.

  Beau nods slowly. “The case isn’t over, is it?”

  He can see she can’t tell if he’s joking or not. Good.

  • Gaienne Street, 12:18 p.m.

  Beau parks the SUV on Tchoupitoulas Street around the corner from the café. A big woman sweeping the banquette stops as they move past. She nods at them but doesn’t look up. Two boys on bicycles race across the street. The notes of a violin echoes along the narrow street that smells of cooked meat.

  It comes from Constantin Café, which lies along the first floor of a two-story wooden building painted sea-foam green with orange shutters on the windows facing Gaienne Street. The paint on the outside walls is shiny from the bright sun and looks thick and rubbery as if someone just slapped on a couple coats over old paint. The place looks smaller inside from tables crowded together. Only one table is empty and Beau moves that way, trying to ignore the fact that everyone in the place seems to have stopped eating when the coppers came in. He goes around the table to have his back to the wall and Juanita sits next to him so she can face the windows along the street.

  With their holstered Glocks on their hips, carbon-graphite handcuff cases and extra magazine holders on their canvas belts, along with their star-and-crescent badges, its obvious to the people who they are. Most of the customers are dark-haired, mostly thick-bodied men, but a few women. No children. This is a working class lunch hour. Three black men are at the next table, each eating now.

  A tall woman, her full figure covered in a long-sleeved white peasant blouse and full dark green skirt that goes all the way to the floor, comes over with two menus. She smiles and says, “If you’ve come to dine, you are in for a delight. If you come to question our customers, you will find most will tell you they don’t speak English.” She puts a menu in front of both, looks around and says, “That is a lie. We all speak English.

  “I am Marta.” Her long black hair looks windblown and her lips full, her eyes dark brown. For some reason Beau thinks she looks like a gypsy. Damn Hollywood stereotyping. She’s pretty, looks around forty.

  Jua
nita shakes her head at the menu.

  “Try the chiftele,” says the nearest black man who smiles, raises a fork and eats a portion of something deep fried.

  “And the pepper salad,” another man says.

  The third man grins at them. “Food here is unbelievable.”

  “Like spicy Greek food.”

  Juanita asks Marta, “What do you recommend?”

  She nods to the men at the other table. “I shall bring you sweet pepper salad and chiftele – a deep fried Romanian meatball made with pork and mixed vegetables and spices served with a delicate lemon garlic rice pilaf. If you do not like, you do not pay.”

  The salad is light – red peppers, cubes of feta cheese, black olives, oil and vinegar and all sprinkled with black pepper, paprika and sugar. The oversized deep fried meatball called chiftele is crisp on the outside and steamy inside, the pork highly seasoned, tasting garlicy. The rice pilaf is delicate and very tasty. Marta brings hot Romanian round bread called lipie and butter, iced tea.

  The black guys leave, telling them, “We told it was good.”

  Marta refills their teas and Beau asks if there are any Romanian social clubs in the city.

  “What social clubs?”

  “Where Romanians gather. Socialize.”

  Marta smiles. “We go the malls in Metairie, movies like regular Americans.”

  “No dance halls? Festivals?”

  Marta picks up Juanita’s plate. “I attend Apostol Andrei Orthodox Church on Constance Street, just down from St. Alphonsus Catholic Church in what you call the Irish Channel. Who are you looking for?”

  “Know any bad Romanians?”

  Juanita almost spits up her last swallow of tea. Marta snickers and leaves.

  Beau leaves a nice tip, along with one of this new business cards and they go back out into a neighborhood of plenty of people on the street, including a few of the men who’d been in Constantin who watch them walk to the SUV and drive off.

  Thursday

  • Tulane Avenue and Broad, 8:55 a.m.

  “Please state your full name and rank.”

  Damn. Right out of the box. Routine but Beau has to announce his new rank to a standing-room-only courtroom.