Nude in Red

by O'Neil De Noux

  “How lucky can you be?” Says one of the cops.

  “It isn’t luck.” Jodie says.

  • Tulane and Broad • 6:12 a.m.

  The FBI sends two agents Beau has never seen and he tells them if they think they’re taking this body, they’re fuckin’ nuts.

  “We shot this one fair and square.”

  The agents tell them they’re there to report to SA Supervisor Aiden so Beau and Juanita set up next to the autopsy table with a crime lab tech while the agents stands in the corner, by the door, to get away from the stench of formaldehyde, blood and the stale stink of a body when it is sliced open by the pathologist’s scalpel.

  The crime lab tech takes photos of the dead man from Lee Circle, good close-up shots of his face, then scrapes beneath the fingernails, runs swabs over the hands to collect evidence the man fired a handgun. He fingerprints the dead man, two sets, then steps back as the pathologist finishes his first autopsy, leaving an assistant to close up the body of a young man killed in a motorcycle accident.

  Another assistant removes the dead man’s clothes. No wallet. No keys. Just a pair of black gloves, two extra loaded magazines and a garrote in his back pocket. – thin black nylon rope with two knots to crush the larynx. Small wooden handles. A professional murderer’s garrote, the type used on Judy Allure.

  “Damn,” Juanita whispers.

  There are seven wounds. One in the throat, two in chest, three in the stomach, one in the leg. Not bad shooting at night and under stress. There are two perforated gunshot wounds. One in the belly, the other in the leg. But the entry is the back of the leg. Beau hit him at fifty yards. Through and through wounds. They’ll have search the circle in daylight. Find the projectiles. The two chest wounds and two belly shots are penetrating wounds, no exit. The doctor carefully logs the trajectory of each wound, locates the projectiles, cuts his mark on each with a diamond scriber, turns them over to the crime lab tech.

  The pathologist holds up a projectile in pieces. “What type of round is this?”

  Beau steps closer, sees the bullets is nicely splintered. “Shtark 9mm. Got it from ATF.”

  “This one’s from the throat and the chest wounds are the same. Shtark. That’s a Yiddish word. Means ‘strong’.”

  Beau nods.

  “Four potentially fatal wounds,” the pathologist dictates. “Throat wound sliced the windpipe and severed the left carotid artery. Chest wound number one severed the left subclavian artery at the junction of the aorta. Chest wound number two perforated the heart at the left ventricle. Abdomen wound number one severed the inferior vena cava three centimeters above the stomach. Abdomen wound number two penetrated the liver. Abdomen wound number three penetrated the right kidney.”

  They both killed the bastard.

  A check of the man’s mouth shows the doctor Eastern European dental work.

  Juanita seems quieter than usual, her cheeks drawn, her eyes darting and her breathing deeper. They give one set of the fingerprints to the FBI and head out, the crime lab man hurrying back to the lab for a metal detector to meet them at Lee Circle.

  Beau stops outside, puts on his Ray Bans, looks up at the bright sky. Juanita stops, puts her sunglasses on and waits.

  “The first time is stressful. The department psychologist will try to help but killing a human is a sad thing. No matter how bad they are.”

  She takes off her sunglasses, those brown eyes looking hard at him. He takes off his glasses.

  “You mean that?”

  “You’re gonna feel bad. Your mind’ll play tricks in dreams, even daydreams. You’ll wonder what he was like when he was kid. About his mother.” Beau nods. “It’s natural. We are not supposed to kill each other.”

  Juanita’s mouth opens, hand on her hip now. “I never thought you’d say something like that.”

  “I’m a multi-talented individual.” He puts his sunglasses back on.

  “You mean multi-faceted.”

  “That too.” He smiles, then slowly, looking at her again, his face turns warrior. Not fierce, but still and with no emotion.

  “Is this a Sioux thing? Native love of the land and all living things.”

  “No. It comes from inside. Not any folk tale or book.” He smiles again. “It’s a John Raven Beau thing.” He softly punches her shoulder, starts for the SUV. “You need to talk about it in the future. Call me.”

  “What’s the Grand Jury like?”

  “Not as formal as you think. The DA will walk you through it. This is as justifiable as they come.” He points the key lock at the SUV parked along South White at the corner. “Just don’t use cop jargon. Look at each juror. Tell them in plain English. He shot at us, kept pointing his gun at us and you were in fear for your life or receiving great bodily harm and were also protecting others from the same. But say it more like, ‘he was shooting at us and we shot back’.”

  They climb into the SUV and head to Lee Circle.

  He remembers something. “Didn’t you complain a little while back about no action? That we haven’t shot anyone.”

  “That was a joke.”

  Beau nods. “I told you then the case wasn’t over, didn’t I?”

  She takes in a deep breath.

  “It still isn’t,” he adds.

  • Police Headquarters • 4:27 p.m.

  Jodie comes in as Beau calls the Saint Paul Police.

  She tells them, “You’re supposed to be on administrative leave after you shoot someone.”

  Beau listens to the phone ringing, wonders if the police close shop in Saint Paul after four.

  “Find the bullets?” Jodie asks Juanita.

  Juanita nods. “Throat shot came from Beau’s weapon and leg shot too. Never found the one I missed with.”

  “Could be lodged in a passing car.”

  “Nobody went to the hospital.”

  Someone answers the phone and Beau asks for Detective James Gotland.

  “He’s right here.”

  Gotland also sounds like he’s from Sweden as he explains he found someone who recognized the picture of the dead man from Lee Circle that Beau emailed earlier.

  “Intelligence Division chap. They labeled him Blackbeard and know where he lives but they don’t know his name. We’re getting a search warrant right now. Our crime lab says the prints you emailed should be sufficient if we can lift prints from his room. If he answers the door, it’s a bust.”

  “Yeah. Wrong fuckin’ beard.” Beau thanks them, makes sure Gotland has his cell number.

  Jodie sits in the chair next to Beau’s desk, those wide set cat-eyes focus on him. “Two things,” she says.

  “First. Did she slip you the tongue with that goodbye kiss?

  Beau tries bringing out the expressionless warrior face. Fails. Tries not to smile.

  “Just a little. She was emotional. Goodbye forever, you know.”

  Jodie had developed a mock Sicilian-stare from working with LaStanza and gives it to him.

  A half hour earlier, when the FBI Special Reaction Team – who looked like Navy Seals in olive drab fatigues, heavy flak-vests, black helmets and three different types of machine guns – came to fetch Maria Mirescu to whoosh her away to a secret military base in preparation of hiding her for eternity in their witness protection program, Maria asked to see Beau one last time.

  She rushed to him, threw her arms around his neck and kissed his neck, his cheeks, his lips. That’s when she French kissed him before pulling away, turning and not looking back. It was like a scene from a bad foreign film.

  “What’s the second thing?”

  “Got a job offer. Director of LaStanza’s detective agency.”

  It’s about damn time.

  “I’ll run the office and Fel will run the field operatives.”

  She looks weary.

  “Dino will handle select cases, if he feels like it. Lizette’s taking him on a world cruise aboard some luxury liner.” The wrinkles on Jodie’s face are slight but she gotta be forty-so
mething and has her twenty years in at NOPD. Get out while she can. If her not coming to CIU helped convinces Jodie to retire, then Beau figures he did well.

  “What now?” Juanita asks when they’re alone.

  “We wait for Saint Paul.”

  • Exposition Boulevard, 6:27 p.m.

  “OK, Babe. No problem. I’ll eat here with Lizette.” Jessie puts her cell back in her purse.

  They are at the kitchen counter at the rear of the mansion Lizette’s parents gave her just before she married the man her father tried to talk her out of marrying. A most dangerous Sicilian-American homicide detective, a man who would surely bring Lizette far more heartache than happiness. Alexandre Louvier was wrong, freely admits it now.

  Lizette Marie Louvier, Ph.D., is a twenty-six year old New Orleans beauty of old Creole blood, pure-bred French who can trace her ancestors back to the Valois Kings of France. The Louviers came to Louisiana and managed to only marry others of French descent until Dino LaStanza married her.

  Lizette’s large, perpetually innocent-looking gold-brown eyes stand out on a perfectly symmetrical face of such beauty, she has always turned heads even when she and her identical twin were babies. She wears her dark brown hair to her shoulders. She’s in a T-shirt and shorts, Jessie in T-shirt and jeans. So is Stefi who plays slappy-ear with one of the greyhounds. Jessie waits to see when the dog will have enough and run away.

  “What’s this one’s name?” Stefi asks.

  “Flash.”

  Lizette sits across the counter from Jessie who cannot hide the pain in her eyes. Lizette waits for it.

  “He, um. A bullet just missed him. So close he got a burn mark on his shoulder.”

  “Beau got hurt?” Stefi stops slapping the dog’s ears.

  “Almost. He got singed by a bullet.”

  “Singed?”

  “Bullets were shot and it was close.”

  Jessie waits for Stefi to go back to messing with the greyhound who seems to like it.

  “John has a scar on his right forearm. Bullet wound.” Jessie holds her head in her hand.

  A sad smile crawls to Lizette’s lips.

  “Dino’s got one on his neck.”

  “How do you live with it?”

  “We’re living a syndrome.”

  “What’s a syndrome?” Stefi asks.

  Lizette says, “A condition. There’s the Wyatt Earp Syndrome. Being cop, judge, jury, executioner all in one. Dino and Beau both suffer this, but not all the time, thankfully. Then there’s the one all of us suffer. It’s the Purple Side of Blue. We bruise inside because we are victims of the violence, like poisoned tentacles around us. A victim may die, but the rest of us live with the pain.

  “It bruises our spirit.” Lizette moves to the refrigerator, brings out a bottle of white wine.

  “My therapist is trying to help me. I’ll give you his name. Your new health insurance will pay for it all.”

  Lizette pulls a bottle of red wine down from the cabinet and starts to open both bottles. Jessie knows where the glasses are and gets three.

  “What’s for supper?” Stefi asks.

  Lizette moves to the refrigerator. “Leftovers. Aunt Brulie’s chicken fricassee and dirty rice.”

  Jessie comes to help warm up the food as Stefi steps to the French doors that open to the rear porch with the Jacuzzi. She opens the door and Flash hustles out into the backyard. She calls back, “Is Dino coming? I wanna get naked in the Jacuzzi but only if a man can see me.”

  It sits there a moment as the other greyhound comes through the kitchen and out the back door. No way Thompson will let Flash have all the fun. Might be a squirrel out there. Jessie and Lizette haven’t moved, looking at each other as Stefi’s words linger.

  “Maybe she needs to see my therapist as well. Dr. McCaffery’s treating me for sex addiction. I can’t seem to get enough.”

  Jessie’s felt that way for years.

  • New Orleans Marina, 10:07 p.m.

  Stella finally settles next to Beau on the sofa. A late supper for both, although she still has dried food in her food dish, Beau’s stomach finally eases up after a thick cheeseburger from Burger Chef and super-long fries, washed down with an Abita beer.

  He pulls out his cell to call Jessie but Alizée starts up with a call from area code 651. Saint Paul.

  It’s Det. Gotland. “You’re not gonna fuckin’ believe this.” Same cop lingo only with a Swedish accent.

  “Try me.”

  “We found three used garrotes. Blood and skin on each.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Fuckin’ A. Any way you can send DNA profiles of your victims to our lab?”

  “I’ll do it tonight.”

  “Let me give you their contact information.”

  Beau jumps up, sending Stella scrambling and gets a pen and pad.

  “You ID him yet?”

  “No. The prints match. It’s your dead guy but he didn’t even rent the place. Landlord claims he didn’t know who was living there. Everything paid in cash.”

  Beau gets as much information as possible, calls Juanita right away.

  “You’re sure he’s not joking?”

  “I don’t think Swedes have a sense of humor. Get dressed. I’m coming.”

  “OK.”

  He stops and calls Jessie, starts with, “You’re not gonna believe this.” He dresses while telling her. She interrupts him after about twenty-two fast sentences.

  “Can you pick me up? I want to come along. It’s all paperwork, right?”

  “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

  “I just deposited Stefi back home and I’m lonely.”

  “I know the remedy for that.”

  “After a little police work first?”

  “Yeah, Babe.”

  Thursday

  • Police Headquarters, 3:10 p.m.

  There’s no room for another chair, even a folding chair, but that doesn’t discourage Mike Gonzales from setting up a folding chair in the open doorway.

  “Seriously,” Captain Mark Land says, “he brought a date last night?”

  Juanita tries to hide her smile as Beau leans back in his chair, hand behind his head.

  “She curled up on his lap right there and fell asleep in his arms.” Juanita grins at her partner.

  “It was after midnight,” Beau reminds her. “The girl needs her beauty sleep.”

  “She should pass some of that over here.”

  “LaStanza’s cousin?” This from freckle-faced, redheaded Lee O’Hara.

  “Who else?” This from the other Lee. Jeffries, who was also a dual-threat quarterback who played at LSU one season, like Beau. Jeffries had led the St. Augustine Purple Knights to a state championship. In New Orleans, St. Aug is the premier African-American private school. Several mayor went there and some famous musicians. Jeffries didn’t get hurt after his freshman year. He just didn’t like college.

  Beau hates this waiting.

  When his office phone rings, he snatches it up quickly. It’s SA Biondolillo.

  “You didn’t lose Maria again?”

  “No. She’s safe and far away. Did I hear correctly from the ASAC about garrotes?”

  He tells her the story. As soon as he hangs up, his phone rings immediately and he snatches it.

  “How you doin’ Mister Chief Inspector?”

  Lord. Town Marshal Wardell Percy.

  “Busy at the moment.”

  “Well, I won’t keep ya’. I’m here on Bourbon Street and wondered if you could recommend a decent hotel.”

  Oh no.

  The man cackles and says, “Just kiddin’. Ain’t nuttin’ goin’ on up here in DeLAWdeer so I thought I’d call to find out if you have any luck with your case.”

  “Marshal Percy. We’ve had a break in the case. Can I call you back in a couple days, give you an update?”

  “That’ll be fine, Chief Inspector. I’ll look forward to it.”

  Beau hangs up, asks Juanit
a to remind him to call Percy.

  “Tell Siri.”

  He does it before he realizes and as soon as Siri answers, “Yes, My Love,” everyone roars.

  Beau hopes these guys will be gone when suppertime closes in.

  They aren’t so he orders out.

  At 6:22 his cell starts singing. A local call from an unknown number. Beau answers.

  “Hi. I didn’t believe Dino when he told me you shot more people than him so I looked it up on the internet.” It’s Stefi. “Did you know there’s a website called New Orleans Killer Cops?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well it has the coolest picture of you and the worst picture of my cousin. You’re standing in a dark alley, at least it looks like an alley, with a cop next to you with a machine gun and you have a big pistol in your hand and there’s a body at your feet and you’re looking right at the camera with your chin down and your eyes staring from that hooded brow and you hadn’t shaved for a couple days.”

  That would be Exchange Alley. BK.

  “The picture of Dino is with a buncha cops too but its further away and all the cops are tall, probably taller than you and Dino looks like a midget detective.”

  “Stefi?”

  “Yes, Johnny. Jessie says I can’t call you John because only she calls you John and everyone else calls you Beau and I want a special name for you. I was thinking of ‘My Love’ but Siri already calls you that.” Stefi thinks this is very funny, laughs, tells him how Jessie let that slip.

  “Don’t let anything slip around me. Did you know I’m punished until I’m seventeen?”

  “Stefi. I’m a little busy at the moment.”

  “I know. Jessie says she doesn’t want to call you because you’re so busy which was an invitation for me to call. She shouldn’t tell me stuff like that.”

  “Stefi, a giant wolf just snatched the mayor’s daughter and they need someone who knows how to track it.”

  Stefi laughs. “Good one. I’ll call later.” She hangs up.

  He calls Jessie and she says, “I did not give her your cell number. She must have figured out the password on my cell.”

  “So how is your day going?”