by Ed Kovacs
* * *
The guy on the Hammond B3 organ at Tommy’s Wine Bar made some fast runs on the keyboard that almost made me forget all the bad luck this case had brought. If the music couldn’t make me forget my troubles, maybe the Pali Keefer Ranch Vineyard Pinot Noir would lend a hand. I noshed on a plate of Oysters Tommy—oysters baked in the shell with Romano cheese, pancetta, and roasted red pepper—and asked myself a series of questions.
What exactly connected Valencia’s strange death with Sanchez’s and Ruiz’s? Was someone killing all of the members of the Crimson Throne? If so, maybe our surveillance teams should be acting as protection details. Was it mere coincidence that three of Drake’s students had been killed in ritualistic fashion, albeit using different rituals?
Anastasia Fournier’s presence on the scene still made no sense, and I’d forgotten to ask Hans about her. I’d try to do so tomorrow. And what about the mad dog, the bad dreams, and the sigils? Who was the disguised person who’d stalked me and killed Valencia? Were they even the same person?
What was the lyric from the old Albert King blues song? “If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all.” I knew things could always get worse, but I didn’t think they would here in my sanctuary for good music, food, and wine.
Until Twee Siu sat down next to me.
Twee Siu, the New Orleans CIA station chief.
A former client and lover, Twee had once saved my life. But another time, in a suite at the Hotel Monteleone, she’d come close to gunning me down in cold blood after she murdered her husband, who had preceded her as NOLA’s CIA station chief.
A beautifully put-together thirty-year-old Vietnamese American with fashion-model cheekbones, she always elicited conflicted feelings of lust and repulsion from me. We hadn’t seen each other recently, but she regularly sent me classified intelligence reports in hopes of recruiting me to spy for the Central Intelligence Agency.
For her to show up like this at one of my neighborhood haunts told me something was up. Something connected to this damn case. I casually looked around to see if she had backup. Nobody stood out, and thanks to the cozy nook we sat in and to the music, we could speak openly.
“You don’t look too worse for the wear,” she said. “Although I heard you fell off a two-story building.”
“They didn’t teach you tactical jumps like that at spy school?” I asked with a straight face. I motioned for a cute waitress to bring another wineglass. “This pinot is very nice. Please have one with me.” I looked at her as I fired up a cigarillo. “Is this about Drake, Townsend, or Vermack?”
She smiled. “I have a sitter for Brendan until eleven. It’s been too long. Even single moms deserve to have a social life.”
I didn’t believe for a second this was just a social visit.
“Come to my dojo and meet the gang. We’ll do some upper body on the Infinity Rig. And I’ll only charge you twenty percent more than everyone else,” I said, smiling. Twee was worth over thirty million, but that was another story.
“Drake is a company asset and has been for something like thirty years. Since he was a grad student on digs in the Yucatan. His hobby back then was ethnobotany, and the Agency was very interested in synthesizing unknown native plants into drugs that could be used as truth serums or for mind control. He helped the scientific directorate in those days.”
I shook my head. Bad luck squared. “Okay.”
“But that was just a hobby. His field of study was bones. In Mexico he befriended a young American-born thug named Tico Rodriguez, who years later became a top leader of the San Leon Drug Cartel.”
“And the San Leon Cartel begat Las Calaveras, who are now the largest cartel in Mexico. So I’m guessing Drake has used them to smuggle human remains into the States.”
“Yes. And certain psychotropic drugs.”
So Tony Fournier was right.
“Some cartel bosses like Rodriguez practice black magic. In brutal ways. So there was a lot of common ground between Drake and those people. Rodriguez is a Nicaraguan American, originally from Mobile, Alabama. The fact that he’s done so well in Mexico suggests just how ruthless he is.”
“So what do Tico Rodriguez and the Mexicans get out of their relationship with Drake?”
“Looted bones and skulls from Maya archaeological sites. The skulls of kings, artifacts that belonged to old sorcerers. Precious things, some of which they use in their black rites.”
“The Agency approves?”
“Well, they did, but that was way before my time. But, yes, they wanted access to the cartel leaders who have performed favors for us. Including recent favors in the War on Terror.”
“Terrorists on our borders?”
Twee didn’t answer.
“So Drake is an active CIA asset, meaning you want me to do what? Back off?”
“If he’s guilty of murder, then arrest him.”
“He contacted you for help?”
“I’ve never had any contact with him. He’s not run out of NOLA Station. But I got a call, yes. From a person in a powerful position at Langley.”
“How much trouble can I expect from you or the CIA if I don’t let it go?”
“None from me. I just can’t protect you. I’m short on field operatives. The Skulls might have a contract from Drake for your death. I’m trying to confirm that.”
“A contract? For what, doing my job? Does he think if he eliminates me, his problems will go away?”
“Maybe. The Skulls are forming cells in cities all over the country. And they won’t become schoolgirls just because they crossed the border. The eight men here were doing groundwork for a substantial cartel presence in New Orleans. Wish I had followed my instinct.”
“Which was?”
“Establish contact. Do them a favor. Get a favor in return. I can think of a dozen scenarios where I could use their services. Don’t forget, the founding members of the Skulls were originally disgruntled ex-Mexican special forces operatives. They are the most technologically advanced cartel, period.”
One thing I’ll say for Twee, she never papered over who and what she was.
“I understand that the CIA has to turn a blind eye to who they do business with, as long as the intelligence obtained is good and the results positive. But getting into bed with the Skulls?” I shook my head.
“You don’t approve. But if I had done that, I could get them off your back. Now that four of them are dead, others will be sent, looking for payback.”
I didn’t say anything, just took another sip of pinot.
“The CIA has been making deals with the devil since forever, to realize larger goals. All intelligence agencies the world over do the same. Stansfield Turner tried to purify the CIA when he was DCI and fired nearly a thousand operational employees—covert-action people. I guess it appeased the politically correct crowd, but it was a disaster for American intelligence. It took decades for the Agency to recover from that misguided blunder. Even Turner now regrets what he did. When my late husband saw Turner here in New Orleans walking on the street, he had three words for him: ‘Fuck you, Stan.’ So, sure, I’ll use drug cartels or anyone else to get the job done.”
Who was I to take the moral high ground? Intelligence is a dirty business. If you don’t want to get dirty, don’t play. I’d played a dirty game as a cop and investigator for years. Even on this case, I’d already crossed lines most detectives wouldn’t.
The cute waitress finally arrived with a wineglass and poured one for Twee. I’d always meant to ask the waitress out but never got around to it. So I was happy she was seeing me sitting with a woman as attractive as Twee Siu. The waitress finished and moved off.
“You like her,” said Twee, as if reading my thoughts.
“Just eye candy. I need to find a sitter so I can get out more and have a social life again,” I joked.
Twee glanced at the wine. “I’m not much for pinots. I like bold tannins. You have a nice bottle of Chalk Hill Cabernet-Carmenère
at your place.”
How did she know that? Maybe Twee had hacked my security video. As I ran possibilities through my mind, Twee put her hand over mine. “Like I said, I have until eleven.”
What the hell … I signaled for the check.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I was at my desk by 7:30 A.M., mostly out of guilt. Even though Honey and I weren’t lovers, I always felt bad after sleeping with another woman. Kate Townsend had been right, and it was an issue I felt a strong need to resolve. But how had Townsend guessed that? None of my friends, no one, knew how I felt about Honey or the issues between us that I’d been wrestling with.
After Twee left my place promptly at eleven last night, I’d driven out to Tony Fournier’s house in LaPlace. He was either a sound sleeper or had gone out, because he didn’t answer his cell and ringing his doorbell from the locked front gate produced no results. I’d gone back home and done more research until two this morning.
I took a healthy gulp of hot coffee and then checked in with the lab and got a shock. Of the more than thirteen sets of unique fingerprints lifted from Becky Valencia’s acupuncture office yesterday, five sets matched people with criminal records, although none were violent criminals. And one set belonged to someone we knew: Gina Sanchez.
Clearly her husband, Felix, knew Valencia, so it wasn’t beyond the pale that Gina Sanchez may have gone for an acupuncture appointment. But it was a fact I’d need to check up on.
Honey must have been running late, because she hadn’t yet come in when Chief Pointer strode into the Homicide Section at 8:42. The chief’s visit was not a usual occurrence, but even more unusual was that Heckle and Jeckle were nowhere to be seen.
“Saint James,” he growled, “let’s take a ride.”
* * *
The chief told me to drive the Bronco. I carefully logged my starting mileage as we left headquarters. Neither of us liked small talk, and while I wasn’t nervous, since I didn’t consider the chief to have power over me (I’d been shot in the line of duty, so I couldn’t be fired), it was highly unusual to have him sitting next to me in my truck.
“If you need the Internet, I have a computer there, Chief,” I said, indicating the unit I had built into my dashboard.
“No thanks. I have my BlackBerry if I need the Internet in the next hour or so.”
Okay, so this would take an hour. I remained silent as he gave me the occasional driving direction to a liquor store on Loyola Avenue. Seemed a little early in the morning to be hitting a liquor store, but this was New Orleans.
“Ever hear of Evan Williams Single Barrel bourbon?”
“I’ve heard of Evan Williams, but never tried it.”
“The single barrel is its classier cousin. Let’s go.”
I followed Pointer into the shop, where he purchased three bottles of the bourbon from the owner, his brother Morris Pointer. The chief made a quick introduction, I shook hands, and then he ordered me to put the bourbon in the Bronco.
“Take us back toward headquarters.”
I learned patience through all of the stakeouts I’ve pulled and through years of martial arts training, where learning the weakness of an opponent took time. We got back into the Bronco, I pulled into traffic, and we rode in silence for a few blocks.
“We’re riding alone in your truck, but I don’t hear you asking for any favors or bitching about something or someone,” said Pointer.
“You never will. I figure in the NOPD, we make do with what we got. End of story.”
“That’s about right. I’m in a similar situation right now, and I’ve decided to do something about it. I’m going to stop ignoring a problem but instead address it by making do with resources we already have.”
Now he had my interest. How did I fit into this?
“I may not be well liked, but I take my job seriously. I’ve had many discussions with my pastor regarding my responsibility to the community.” His BlackBerry chimed, he checked the call, then ignored it.
“Behavioral scientists tell us the underlying motivation for murder is shame and humiliation. They say the perpetrator is trying to get back some self-respect. Think that reasoning applies to the killer of your three victims?”
“For my first theory on who the killer might be: no. For the second theory: yes. Seems to me law enforcement understands very little about ritual crime,” I said as we cruised along Tulane Avenue.
He nodded vigorously. “I can’t tell you how many conferences I’ve attended where police chiefs can’t agree on the extent of it, can’t agree on what ritual crime consists of, and can’t even agree on the motives of the perps.”
“Forget shame and humiliation. Some of the ritualistic killers are deliberately trying to gain power through their violence. It’s these beliefs about magical power that they have.”
Pointer pursed his lips. “We have a major problem here in New Orleans. Too many drugged-out freaks who watched too many vampire or zombie movies. I’ve been covering a lot of things up the last couple years, but that’s finished. I want to go proactive. I don’t want to discriminate against anyone’s ethnicity or religion—there are plenty of decent people who practice hoodoo and the like, but I’m not going to let a small minority of those folks terrorize the city, either.”
I started to get a bad feeling about where this was going.
“The department needs an interdisciplinary, cross-cultural approach to this wave of ritual crime. We need someone who can interpret the violence through a familiarity with world religions and theories of sacred violence and rituals.”
Uh-oh.
“Meaning you are the department’s official occult specialist, as of now. That doesn’t mean you only work the ‘woo-woo’ cases. You will continue to partner with Detective Baybee on every Five Alarm case that comes down the pike. But every occult issue that pops up will be yours.”
The chief looked out of the window and gestured. “Park in the side lot there at the criminal courthouse.”
I turned right from Broad into the lot the chief indicated. We were a block from police headquarters, and I was starting to get the picture.
The chief reached for his door handle. “So, Saint James, to establish your credentials with the rank and file, I need you to stop farting around and nail Drake or whoever you need to nail, okay? Now grab the bourbon and follow me.”
We exited the Bronco, and I tagged along behind Pointer through a side door. We wound through the entrails of the seat of NOLA justice and into the private chambers of the Honorable Benjamin X. Soniat, whom I had always affectionately referred to as “The Old Drunk Judge.”
The chief gestured to a mahogany table where I was to place the bottles of Evan Williams Single Barrel. Soniat reclined on a forest-green corduroy sofa wearing jeans, a blue denim work shirt, and looking like a poor man’s Willie Nelson. Like Hans Vermack, he had long hair in a ponytail tied behind him, but Soniat’s hair was decidedly more silver. He looked over his bifocals, first at the bourbon, then at me, then at the chief, but he didn’t speak.
“Ben, this is Detective Saint James. He needs some help going after a murdering shithead. Next time, he’ll be coming alone with the whiskey.”
Pointer pulled an envelope from inside his suit-jacket pocket and tossed it on the coffee table next to Soniat. “Here’s the particulars for some search warrants.”
“All right. Tell him to wait in the commissary.”
“Tell him yourself, he’s right there.”
“Wait in the commissary, detective. It won’t take long.”
And that was that.
* * *
The good news was I now had multiple warrants for Drake’s properties and possessions. The bad news was, no warrants for Kate Townsend or Hans Vermack.
As we drove up St. Charles in Honey’s unit, I filled her in on Twee’s appearance at Tommy’s and what she’d said about Drake.
“That’s it? She didn’t ask you to back off?”
“She didn’t. Said she’s never me
t Drake. She did warn me that the Skulls cartel wants to see me six feet under. I tell you that only because you are my partner and it could impact you. I’m carrying an extra piece, extra mags, extra knives. I know you don’t carry a backup gun, but maybe you should start.”
“Okay. Then what happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“At Tommy’s,” said Honey, her eyes glued to the road.
“She picked up the tab.”
“And after that?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Did she go to your place?” Honey asked the question as casually as asking me if I slept well.
“What do you think?”
“I think she did,” she said, without hesitation, as she stopped at a red light.
“You have a dirty mind.”
“You’re obfuscating.”
“Hey, now, don’t use those ten-dollar words on me.”
“You know what I mean,” she snapped.
And I snapped, too, but in a different way. I’d had enough; I needed to erect some boundaries. “I have asked you to marry me, how many times? And how many times, when I was expressing how much I loved you, how much you meant to me, did you step on my neck? Thus establishing the following facts: (A) It’s none of your business who I do or don’t invite to my home. (B) You have no right to even ask the question. Those have been our unspoken ground rules for almost two years, which you are now violating in the middle of a murder investigation.”
She blanched. The traffic light turned green, but she just sat there. A horn honked behind us. I reached to the dash and switched on the red-and-blue emergency flashers mounted in the grille and the front and rear windshields.
“But I have never lied to you, and since I never will, I’ll answer your question. Yes, she came to my place. For privacy. For what we were discussing.”
“That being?”
“She asked me to join the CIA. And I’m seriously considering it. It’s not the first time she’s tried to recruit me, but this time she got more specific. And that is all I can reveal. Period.”