“You OK?”
“Yeah.”
Juanita steps up and Beau asks two NOPD officers to remain with the feds and heads back to the white SUV.
“Is that the streetcar bell?”
“Sure the fuck is.” Beau waves Juanita to continue to the SUV as he moves past for the streetcar.
The door’s open, the driver sitting behind the wheel, his right hand yanking on the bell cord. The man turns to Beau, sticks out his chin. Pock-marked white face looks like craters on the moon. The man looks to be in his sixties with deep set eyes glaring back at Beau.
“I don’t give a damn what you got here. I got passengers.”
Beau looks up at the bell dangling from the ceiling. The fire smoldering in his chest almost makes him snap. Rip out the bell, maybe knock the old fucker into next week. Instead he stares. A Sioux does not rise to bait. He looks back at the driver with dead-pan eyes. It is like killing a buffalo. There is no emotion. Just precision. Do it quickly with minimum action.
Wait. It’s just a fuckin’ bell.
Beau takes a step back, says, “You know any songs?”
“Huh?”
“Can you play any songs with that? Maybe something by The Beatles.”
Beau heads back to the white SUV. The wounded marshals are gone and SA Biondolillo has a bandage on her cheek.
“Is that glass?” She reaches up to brush Beau’s shoulder and he steps back, starts unbuttoning his shirt.
“She just told me about Maria,” Juanita says as she comes over to help him shake the glass from his shirt.
A loud voice turns them to a group of NOPD officers and what looks like US Marshals, men with M-4s. One man has a white cowboy hat and it’s his voice rising.
“Sounds pissed.” Juanita says as Beau buttons his shirt on the way to the group.
Officer Chase stands closest to the man with the cowboy hat, his cell phone in hand.
“ … just turn your cell phones over to ma’ deputy marshals,” says cowboy hat man. He’s in his fifties, heavy set with a wide, reddish face which he turns to Beau as he steps up.
“What for?”
“What?”
“Why are you asking for cell phones?”
The man looks Beau up and down, his gaze lingering a moment on the gold star-and-crescent badge clipped to his belt.
“S.O.P. Standard Operating Procedure in Federal Cases. We seize all cell phones of local law enforcement. Y’all won’t be selling pictures on eBay. No videos on You Tube.”
Beau tells Chase to put his phone away, then tells cowboy hat, “You’re not getting any cell phones from NOPD officers.”
The man turns his wide body to Beau.
“I’m Leroy Johnson. US Marshal of the Eastern District of Louisiana. Who the hell are you?”
“Chief Inspector John Raven Beau and you have no authority to seize anything from our officers.”
“I have superseding authority here.” The man steps closer, trying to get Beau to back away and has to stop as Beau doesn’t move.
“Well, Leroy. Your superseding authority just got butt fucked on our street. You want our assistance, we keep our phones. Or we leave and the neighborhood’s all yours.”
Someone at the rear of the NOPD officers laughs.
A couple deputy US Marshals make growling noises.
Marshal Johnson steps back, taps his hand on the butt of his weapon. Looks like an old Colt .45 six shooter in a black holster.
“I’m pretty hot under the collar, here, Mister Chief Inspector. We’ve had enough gunfire here, don’t you think?”
Is this fuck threatening me?
“Who said anything about gunfire?” Beau pulls out his obsidian knife, holds it up, not pointing it at the fucker. He moves it to his left hand so he can snatch out his Glock if needed. “I haven’t scalped a paleface in long time.”
Johnson tries out-staring Beau but there’s no way that’s going to happen.
Shuffling noises indicate others arriving, a man with a thick mane of wavy, silver hair and wearing a blue suit comes into Beau’s peripheral vision.
“I am FBI Supervisor Thomas Aiden and this is an FBI crime scene. If NOPD officers can cordon off the area, that would be appreciated. Hello, Leroy. I’ll need your marshals that fired weapons to report to SA Basil over at the front of the Food Mart. He will walk them through their movements. Everyone, watch out for shell casings as you move away.”
US Marshal Johnson pulls Aiden aside and they talk in low voices.
Beau instructs the NOPD officers to set up a cordon and waits for them to step away before he and Juanita head for their SUV.
“Chief Inspector,” Aiden calls out. Biondolillo’s with him now and Beau spots Ocheski heading across the street to what has to be their shoot-investigative team.
Supervisor Aiden says, “It may be more productive if we handle this scene and SA Biondolillo go with you to search for our missing witness.”
“Good idea.” Beau looks at Biondolillo. “What’s Maria wearing?”
“Black jumpsuit.”
Beau asks Juanita if she can take the SUV back to the office, get some copies of Maria’s picture while he starts beating the bushes here.
She hurries off and Biondolillo says, “What the hell is that guy doing with the bell? Is he trying to play Yesterday?”
Beau calls Jessie’s cell. No answer. He starts to leave a voice mail when she calls back.
“Hey, Babe. What’s for supper?”
“Work.” He says, moving away as two men step up to Biondolillo. They carry H&K MP5 submachine guns with FBI in yellow print across their bullet proof vests.
“Remember the movie HEAT? The shootout?”
“Yeah.” Jessie’s voice gets deep.
“Two FBI agents just stepped up with MP5s.”
“What’s going on.”
He tells her about the dead guys, the marshals and FBI. She cuts in with, “Oh, Babe. You better be careful.”
“We’re not looking for any more shooters. We’re looking for Maria.”
“Maria?”
“Yeah. The FBI lost her.”
“Dammit. Stefi just walked into the foyer of my new office. How’d she get the address?”
“She’s good, ain’t she?”
Tuesday
• Canal Street and Broad, 1:35 a.m.
Inspector Juanita Cruz puts a hand up on Beau’s shoulder, reaches down to rub her left ankle, the one she twisted about eight hours earlier running to that wrought iron fence next to the Family Dollar Store. The big searchlights go off one by one as FBI Supervisor Aiden sends his agents back to FBI Headquarters, or wherever they hibernate. Three hours ago, he’d sent SA Biondolillo home.
Aiden shakes Beau’s hand, nods to Juanita. “Thanks for the assistance.”
“Do we know who the shooters were?”
“No IDs. We’ll print them at the postmortem.”
“Their vehicles?”
“Both stolen. One from Gretna. One from Kenner.”
Juanita realizes there are no US Marshals around. The white SUV, both gray SUVs, the blue Van, even the black Chevy on the Broad neutral ground are gone.
As they head for their SUV, Juanita says it again. “Do you think they took her?”
“I fuckin’ hope not.”
“No call from Cherry yet?”
“She’ll get the message?”
Beau doesn’t realize how stiff his legs are until he climbs into the SUV.
“What message? You didn’t leave one.”
“Her neighbors will tell her we came by.”
“What neighbors?”
“The ones who were checking us out.” He tries a wane smile. “The ones we couldn’t see but they see everything.”
• Tulane and Broad, 6:19 a.m.
“Weren’t we just here?” Juanita says as they step into the autopsy room at the Coroner’s Office.
Yeah. Uncle Eugen.
“This doesn’t look good,” Beau says. T
he pathologist is already dissecting a white female and the body of a black male lies on the other table. No FBI. No dead guys from Canal and Broad. He waits for the pathologist to look over and asks about the bodies.
“What bodies?”
They go back to the main office and find Coroner’s Investigator Ray Adamson behind his cluttered desk. Ray’s pushing sixty, sorta hunched over, but his clear blue eyes show he’s still sharp.
“What bodies?” Ray says, “Oh, yeah. Heard it on WWL on the way in. No clue what the feds did with them. Hell, we didn’t even pick up the bodies.”
“They don’t bring them here?”
“We’re supposed to handle all bodies in Orleans Parish.” Ray shrugs.
On their way out, Beau asks, “Did you shave your legs for this?”
“What?”
“I shaved this morning.”
She slaps his arm.
“Showered. Got up early to pet Stella. Didn’t get breakfast. Let’s get something to eat.”
He tosses her the keys to the SUV so he can call the ASAC as they drive. Esposito’s phone doesn’t answer so he leaves a voicemail and sends a text. He sends a text to Biondolillo – ‘Call when you can.’
Later – Skipping supper leads Beau and Juanita back to the Clover Grill. As they search to find a parking place, Alizée starts singing and it’s Donna Biondolillo.
“What happened to the bodies?”
“They’re being posted right now.” Her voice is low, tired.
“Where?”
“Fort Polk.”
“What?”
“Army pathologists are conducting the autopsies. I’ll get all the information to you.”
“How many bodies, exactly?”
“Four. Two from the blue van. Two from the Chevrolet. Any luck with Maria?”
“Nope.”
“You still out looking for her?”
“We’re about to eat. You hungry?”
“Ravenous.”
“We can pick you up. Where do you live?”
Hesitation. Must be a state secret.
“I’m not dressed.”
“I like dining with undressed women.”
Juanita pokes his shoulder.
“Where are you?”
“Pulling up at the Clover Grill. You’ve eaten here, I’m sure.”
“No.”
“Then we’ll pick you up. You can’t miss this.”
She gives them her address.
When he tells Juanita, she doesn’t recognize it until he says, “Saint Charles and Peniston.”
Her head snaps around.
“That’s right. The Wolf’s Lair.”
Beau’s mind goes back to a case he and a rookie Juanita Cruz worked when her friend was murdered by a man named Ahern Keith Smith, a man who referred to himself in the third person as ‘The Wolf’. It was a cop killing, a heart-wrenching case that left everyone frustrated. Beau especially because he wasn’t able to shoot the fucker.
SA Donna Biondolillo stands outside the condo townhouses in a dark green running suit, a small, khaki tactical bag hanging from her shoulder. The band-aid on her face is flesh colored and tiny, barely noticeable and she’d made up her face quickly. Her hair’s damp.
That was a quick shower.
The two New Orleans cops treat Baltimore-born Biondolillo to a succulent quarter pound of black Angus beef burger grilled under a hub cap, piping hot French Fries and a Barq’s root beer. Beau forces himself to eat slowly, savor each bite. The FBI special agent looks out the café’s picture window, shakes her head.
She speaks barely above a whisper. “This is one big cluster-fuck.”
“We’re headed back to the scene after we eat,” Beau says. “We’ll keep asking around. Someone had to have seen something.”
“If they took her …” Biondolillo’s voice falls away.
“We gotta know who ‘they’ are,” Juanita says. “You have to tell us who those bodies are as soon as you learn.”
Biondolillo nods, takes another bite of burger.
“Good isn’t it?” Beau takes a big bite of his.
“Yeah.”
Sixty seconds later the special agent says something that freezes Beau.
“I just hope she shows up at your boathouse. She said you’re the only one she trusted.”
“How does she know I live on a houseboat?”
“You didn’t tell her?”
Beau leans back. “No. Did y’all?”
She shakes her head.
Creepy crawlies climbed up Beau’s back, along his arms. He takes a hit of Barq’s and thinks hard. He’s not used to being two steps behind fucking criminals. But that’s how he feels right now.
They drop Donna Biondolillo at her condo, head back for Canal and Broad, Juanita driving so Beau can talk on his phone. He taps it to get Siri’s attention to dictate a reminder.
“Yes, My Love,” Siri answers, snapping Juanita’s head again.
He shakes his head, tells Siri – “Remind me to contact 3rd District captain and Chestal about patrolling marina. Watch for 107s. Talk to buddies at the marina to call 911 on any suspicious persons, anyone asking about me, any blond woman in particular. Call me right away.”
Siri answers, “When do you want to be reminded, My Love?”
“Nine a.m. every morning this week.”
“Yes, My Love.”
“Goodbye, Siri.”
“Goodbye, My Love.”
He waits for it.
“My Love?” Juanita has to ask.
“Damn Rothman talked me into telling Siri to call me ‘My Love’. I keep trying to change it and she just goes, “Yes, My Love and keeps calling me My Love.”
Juanita smiles.
“What? What does your Siri call you?”
“Juanita. With an English accent.” She glances at him. “Why does your Siri have a French accent? Is it that Aliz girl?”
“Alizée? Yes. You caught me. It’s her voice.”
Juanita waits until she pulls into the Family Dollar parking lot to ask, “Is that really that French singer’s voice calling you My Love?”
“Yep.” As if.
They stick together and canvass in an ever growing circle around the wide intersection. Beau taking time to call the 3rd District captain at least and ask for them to keep an eye out at the marina. They talk to everyone in the area. By two p.m. they’d covered from South Dupre to South Rocheblave, from Iberville to Palmyra, left over two dozen business cards.
Back at the SUV, they watch two white SUVs pull up and a shitload of FBI special agents climb out, led by SA Bishop who gives them instructions on where to canvass. Beau waves at them on their way out. No one waves back.
“Little late, aren’t they?” Juanita says.
• Leon C. Simon Boulevard, 4:18 p.m.
Supervisor Aiden’s silver suit almost matches the color of his hair. He sits in front of the desk while ASAC Esposito sits behind, an unlit cigar in his mouth. Donna Biondolillo sits in a chair off to the right, along with SA Elvin Bishop. A few inches shorter than Beau, the man has the muscular build of a football lineman.
They’d flipped a coin. Juanita lost so she’s taking notes as they settle in chairs on the right.
Esposito gets right to it. “The four deceased came in two pairs, one in a blue van, one in the black Chevy. The van was stolen between midnight and five a.m. yesterday from the Bethlehem Ogonical Church on Stumpf Boulevard, Gretna. The driver was local, Enzo Caruso, and the passenger was Al ‘The Plug’ Zenone from Kansas City. The Racconto Family up there and the Badalamente Family here are close.
“The black Chevrolet was stolen from a residence on 31st Court in Kenner sometime last night. The driver died on the neutral ground on Broad, his passenger in the Family Dollar parking lot. Driver was,” Esposito picks up a sheet of paper, reads from it. “a local, Joseph Sibunescu who lived on Magazine Street. The passenger was Vladislav Slobozia of Saint Paul, Minnesota.”
According to FBI
forensic experts, the Romanians in the Chevrolet fired first. Shooting at the FBI white SUV carrying Maria Mirescu and Special Agents Biondolillo, Ocheski and Smith. The Mafiosi in the blue van opened up on the Romanians and the groups returned fire while the FBI and US Marshals in the two gray vans on either side of the white SUV opened up on both vehicles.
“The occupants of the van were killed by gunfire from the Romanians in the Chevy. The driver of the Chevy sustained four wounds, one fatal, all fired by Mafiosi. The only one shot by law enforcement was the passenger from the Chevrolet, who was killed in the Family Dollar parking lot.
“Slobozia sustained three wounds, one fatal, all from SA Ocheski’s Glock.”
Beau looks at Juanita, slaps his knee and laughs.
“Where the hell is Leroy? His marshals must have fired a couple hundred rounds and hit nothing.”
Aiden says, “Oh, they hit things. Blue van, the Chevrolet, along with twenty-three other vehicles, seven buildings, a streetcar, a bicycle chained to a fence and two light posts, as well as one of their own vans.
“Is SA Ocheski all right?” Juanita asks which seems to surprise Aiden. The woman’s always thinking.
“Yes. He’s off-line for the moment.
Off-line? Typical government non-speak.
Aiden continues, “We’ve retrieved the latent prints your crime lab retrieved from the murder scene of Judy Allure and prints from the attempted murder of Consuela Anna Suarez and the Roma Real Estate murder and sent them to our lab.”
Beau thinks – since Judy Allure had never been arrested, never been fingerprinted, then they may not learn she’s Judy Crumit. Obviously, the Secretary of the Interior did not want the FBI investigating or she would have gone to them in the first place.
Esposito addresses Beau now. “Where is your attempt murder victim? Mandelina Moore?” He picks up a sheet of paper, reads, “Consuela Anna Suarez.” He takes out the cigar, puts it on a clean ashtray and smiles. “You do know she got off that cruise ship early, don’t you?”
Beau smiles back. “You know so much, why ask us?”
“Because the Royal Caribbean people don’t know which destination site she got off but she wasn’t on the ship when it returned to New Orleans.”
Aiden picks it up here. “IDs are checked for everyone disembarking and re-embarking at each site and she never got off.”
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