An Evil Shadow - A Val Bosanquet Mystery

by A. J. Davidson

  Comeaux shook his head. “No calls.”

  Val let the cell phone slip from his hand. Both agents saw it fall. Lehman made a grab for it and collapsed like a house of cards when Val slammed a fist into his solar plexus. As Comeaux moved for his gun, Val stomped a heel down on the bridge of his foot. The agent groaned and tried to pull his leg away, but Val caught him by the arm. Unbalanced, he was easy to swing around Val’s projecting hip. His head went through the driver’s window as if it was sugar glass.

  Val took to his heels, his injured knee forgotten. There were shouted demands for him to stop. Val half expected the agents to open fire as he ducked into the narrow alley between the backs of his neighbors’ houses. He had known every inch of ground around here since childhood. They would never catch him.

  Captain John Clements sat in his car in the privacy of his garage next to his house. He had his UNOPD revolver in his hand, but knew he wouldn’t use it. His wife was at their prospective in-laws house finalizing wedding arrangements. Their son had driven her there, and then taken his fiancée to the movies. The girl’s father had promised to drive his wife home. But what if she was to be the first back and the one to find his body? The shock would be bad enough for her without having to see blood and bits of brain splattered all over the interior of his car.

  He set the revolver down on the passenger seat and opened the car door. He once had had to deal with the suicide of a beautiful young student. She had attached a garden hose to her car’s exhaust and fed the other end through the window. She closed the door, sealing the gap in the window with a towel. She shut all the vents and sealed them with duct tape. Then she put the car in park and turned on the engine.

  Clements’s world started crashing down around him when the two FBI agents arrived at the station house. They wanted to interview Bosanquet in connection with the homicide of Howard Woods. A witness has seen the Chief at the scene, the agents told him. Somehow he had coped with their questions, knowing all the time that he was responsible for the man’s death. That appalled him. He had signed himself off duty and driven home in a daze. Then, five minutes ago, the station sergeant rang to say that Angie Bosanquet had disappeared.

  The beautiful student hadn’t left a note.

  Neither would he.

  Philip Lausaux was waiting behind the wheel of a bronze Jeep Wagoneer when Val made it to Woldenberg Park at ten-thirty. He had flashed his headlights to attract Val’s attention.

  “You’re late. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.” Lausaux said, when Val walked over to where he had parked. The Creole was smoking a thin cheroot.

  “Where’s my wife?” Val panted. He had sprinted all the way. Sweat had soaked his shirt and stained his jacket.

  “Jump in and I’ll tell you.”

  “I’m fine out here.”

  “I’d like it better if you were inside.”

  Val walked around and opened the passenger door of the vehicle. He climbed in.

  Lausaux turned off the radio that had been playing softly. “Until I saw how she kissed you after the press conference, I had assumed the beautiful Angie loved only your brother. They’re much better suited, don’t you think?”

  Val reached for the door handle.

  Lausaux laid a hand on Val’s arm. “Don’t go. You haven’t seen what I’ve brought with me.”

  “What?”

  “This.”

  He handed Val a small phial of clear glass. It had a rubber stopper, but no label and was empty.

  He grabbed Lausaux by the throat and cracked his head back against the door post. “You bastard. What have you done with her?”

  “She’s okay,” Lausaux croaked. “As long as you do exactly what I ask of you. Touch me again and she’s dead.”

  Val let him go and pulled the Beretta automatic. He thumbed the safety off, cocked it and jabbed it against Lausaux’s breastbone. A white-hot fury had engulfed him. He wanted to kill this man.

  “Tell me where she is?”

  Lausaux made a show of checking the time on his watch. “Ten-thirty-five. Your wife ingested a powerful neurotoxin just under two hours ago, and is currently in a state of deep cataplexy. As long as you cooperate, she’ll be fine. I know you’re acquainted with the facts; your drinking buddy, Richard Bickford, mentioned that he had been discussing Zombism with you. I had lunch with him yesterday. He’s a persistent man. Doesn’t give up easily when he needs another post-graduate project funded. His unintentional disclosure gave me the idea of how you could be of some assistance to me.”

  “I should kill you right now,” Val said, his finger applying pressure on the trigger. “There can’t be that many places you could have hidden a grown woman.”

  “Finding her would be the easy part. You would also have to find the antidote. That was much easier to conceal.”

  “A hospital could supply the antidote.”

  “Unlikely. Strictly speaking, it isn’t an antidote at all; merely a blocking formula which prevents further absorption of the Zombi neurotoxin until, eventually, the person expels it from the system. The doctors might come up with something similar, but they would need time to do perform tests, take blood samples, and run analysis. Angie may not have that long. The baby even less.”

  “You know about that?” Val said, astonished.

  “Of course.”

  Lascaux had Val backed into a corner. Tight-lipped, he asked, “What do I have to do?”

  “Simply be my driver for an hour or so. I need someone I can trust implicitly and, regrettably, my partner isn’t able to be with me tonight.”

  “Donny Jackson?”

  Lausaux smiled thinly. “I take it I have your cooperation?”

  Val gave him a murderous glare. “For now.”

  Lausaux took hold of the automatic by its barrel and eased it from Val’s grip. “We both know you won’t use this. Now get out and walk round to the driver’s seat. I’ll ride in the back.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “The Moncoeur mansion. I happen to know he’s going out tonight, but if we’re early maybe we can catch him as he leaves.”

  Moncoeur sat behind two square meters of Louis XVI desk, calmly checking the Canadian Treasury bills. Satisfied that all was in order, he placed them inside an ox-blood leather briefcase and snapped the locks shut. He interlocked his slim fingers and pushed back in the leather captain’s chair.

  “What time is it?” MacLean asked. He had been pacing the floor of Moncoeur’s study for the last hour.

  “Five minutes further on from when you last asked. Sit down and try to relax. We don’t need to leave for another three-quarter of an hour.”

  “How the hell can I relax? I’m about to hand over twenty million dollars to a cheap punk we should have dumped in the Mississippi five years ago.” He pulled a cigarette from a carton and lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter. A gift from a London stockbroker.

  “I don’t think cheap is the most suitable adjective.”

  MacLean grunted. “Kellerman should be doing this. Jackson’s his cocksucker of a nephew.”

  “You don’t have to come. I’m perfectly capable of doing this myself.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. But I would have preferred the priest to be with us.”

  “We both agreed to his proposal. It made a lot of sense.”

  “What guns do you have in the house?”

  “What would you prefer?”

  “Something small. Better make it a revolver. I’m only going to get one crack at this and I don’t want an automatic jamming on me.”

  Moncoeur opened the bottom drawer of his desk and lifted out a snub-nose .45 special. He placed it on top of the briefcase.

  “Have you another one?”

  “Isn’t one enough?” Moncoeur asked disparagingly.

  MacLean blew a thick stream of blue smoke down his nostrils. “He’ll have us frisked. If one gun is found, he might overlook a second.”

  Moncoeur produced an
identical weapon. “Are you sure about this?”

  “I’ve never been more sure. And when I’ve done with Donny, I’m going to deal with that Bosanquet bastard. Who the fuck gave him the right to poke his nose into our business? He’s a fucking lousy campus cop for chrissakes?”

  Moncoeur nodded. MacLean had been Kellerman’s choice from his Soloman Brothers former associates as the man most capable of turning their dream into reality, but Moncoeur would be relieved to have the flotation successfully concluded and his association with MacLean ended. He had always found his brashness and his vulgarity unacceptable. It was a deficiency of character, a suspect trait. Now, under pressure, MacLean was becoming unstable, displaying signs of cracking. The breeding just wasn’t there.

  MacLean stubbed his cigarette out in the earth of a potted plant. “What the hell is Jackson playing at; dragging us all the way out to a phone booth in La Freniere Perk?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  “What if he spots the men I have watching the entrances and exits to the park?”

  “My opinion hasn’t changed. It is pointless having men there, I doubt very much if Jackson will be within a mile of the park. He probably intends to give us the runaround first. From telephone booth to telephone booth. He’d get a kick from ordering us about.”

  “Well I hope he enjoys it. It’s the last laugh he’s ever going to have. I’m going to blow his fucking brains all over Orleans parish.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The electrically operated gates of Moncoeur’s mansion rolled open at twelve-twenty and the silver Bentley swept out onto Lake Shore Drive. Moncoeur was driving, with MacLean sitting in the passenger seat. The gates closed immediately behind them. The car flashed past the opening of the dead-end street down which Lausaux and Val were parked.

  Val put the Jeep in drive, pressed down on the accelerator and started after them.

  “Let them get well ahead,” Lausaux warned him. “We don’t want them to see us just yet.”

  “We’ll lose them.”

  “No we won’t. I know exactly where they’re headed.”

  Val eased off. The traffic was light and the Bentley easily identifiable from a distance. The car headed south along Wisner Boulevard, parallel to City Park.

  Lausaux was keeping a careful watch on other vehicles behind. He spent a lot of time twisted around in his seat, peering out the tailgate window. Val waited for the right moment and adjusted the rear view mirror so he could have a good reflection of Lausaux. Sodium street lights illuminated his features with a yellow brilliance each time they passed under a lamppost, then rapidly plunged back into shadow.

  After the Bentley had taken the slip road for Highway 610 heading west across City Park, Lausaux finally appeared satisfied that they weren’t being tailed. He turned to face the front and took a slip of paper from his hip pocket.

  “Time to give our friends a call,” he said. “Catch up on them. I want us right behind.”

  Lausaux pressed the barrel of the gun into the back of Val’s seat as he leaned over the front seats and unhooked the cell phone. He tapped out the number of the Bentley’s cell phone on the keypad, but waited until the Wagoneer had closed to a hundred yards before pressing the send button. A few seconds later Val saw Moncoeur’s head dip as he leaned forward to answer.

  “Jean, it’s Philip Lausaux here. My apologies for calling at this hour.”

  Val couldn’t catch the response. The drum of the tires on the asphalt and the noise of the engine drowned it out.

  “Yes, it is important, very important. Take a look behind you.”

  Up ahead the heads of both the Bentley’s occupants twisted round. Lausaux put a hand over the mouthpiece of the cell phone. “Flash the headlights.”

  He again pressed the barrel of the gun into the back of the seat. Val didn’t need reminding who was in control.

  Lausaux took his hand away from the mouthpiece. “I want you both to listen very carefully. The seats of your Bentley have enough C4 explosive packed inside them to blow both of you straight to hell.”

  The Bentley weaved and started to decelerate. It moved over to the inside lane. Val kept one eye on the mirror.

  Lausaux took a small, black plastic object from his jacket pocket. The size and shape of a pocket radio, it was fitted with a matt-black aerial which Lausaux extended.

  “All I need do is press a button on the radio-detonator I have in my hand and your own proctologist wouldn’t be able to identify you. Drop your speed below fifty-five, try to outrun us, or cut me off, and you’re history. Have I got your undivided attention?”

  The Bentley increased its speed to a steady fifty-five. Val could see MacLean’s head bobbing about, turning around to stare back at them every once in a while, but he could only imagine the frenzied dialogue in the other vehicle.

  Know your enemy, Val thought. Lausaux had read Moncoeur like a book. Right down the line. He’d correctly anticipated that Moncoeur would bid for the Bentley. Pay whatever it took to possess it and to have his face splashed all over the New Orleans newspapers. And would be arrogant enough to drive it when the time came to make the payoff.

  “Donny?” Lausaux was addressing the cell phone. “He was never part of this. Though he served a valuable purpose. To make it this far without sparking your suspicions, I needed a decoy to focus your attention in the wrong direction. As long as Jackson was AWOL, you dumb bastards didn’t think to look any further for your extortionist.”

  Val cursed his own obtuseness. He’d been that focused on Jackson, he’d fallen for Lausaux’s ruse as well. Which meant Gilett had to be Lausaux’s partner. Presumably, their plan had been to kill Jackson and dispose of the body. Somehow he had managed to frustrate them and had vanished, believing himself targeted by FRAPH, the victim of a double-cross by Moncoeur, MacLean and Kellerman. Angie would love the irony of it. Jackson’s elective disappearance had resulted in Moncoeur and company drawing the exact conclusion Lausaux had intended all along.

  Lausaux sat back in his seat, the cell phone pressed tightly to his ear. Val studied his face in the mirror. The man was exulting in his triumph, savoring every moment, and in no rush to finish it.

  “Moncoeur, you should have treated Gilett with a bit more respect. His skin may be darker than yours, but that doesn’t mean he’s stupid.”

  Suddenly, the wail of an ambulance drowned out Lausaux. It was coming up fast from behind. Val stared through the windshield at the road ahead. An accident was blocking the highway. He could see flashing blue strobes in the distance. Already the traffic in front was slowing.

  A line of hazard flares was burning on the blacktop of the two outside lanes, channeling the traffic into a single lane. If it had been earlier in the evening there would have been an immediate back up. At this time of night, although the traffic was forced to reduce speed, it was at least still moving.

  Lausaux sat forward and peered out the windshield. Two highway patrol vehicles blocked the outside lanes. It was their strobes that Val had seen from further back.

  “Don’t try anything,” Lausaux snarled into the phone. “I’m right behind you and I have my finger on the detonator. If I see a window or a door open, then it’s boom!”

  The ambulance, still using the closed lanes, came alongside the Wagoneer. The police cars blocked its path and the driver signaled his intention to insert his vehicle between the Bentley and the Wagoneer.

  “Close up. Don’t let it in,” Lausaux screamed.

  Val fed the jeep some more gas and came close to clipping the ambulance’s fender. The paramedic in the front seat gave him the finger.

  A heavily laden flatbed truck had been tail-ended by a car, spilling some of its load of soda can cases onto the blacktop. A few cases had burst and vehicles were driving over the crumpled cans. Two police officers were tending to the injured car driver while their colleagues kept the traffic moving.

  They cruised past the scene of the accident traveling at thirty-five m
iles an hour. The ambulance peeled off and stopped in front of the truck.

  “That was close,” Lausaux whispered to Val, then to the cell phone, “Move into the center lane and stay there. A steady fifty-five.”

  The Bentley surged ahead as its turbo kicked in. It took Val a few seconds to achieve the same speed.

  “This is how it’s going to happen.” The accident had shaken Lausaux. He had lost his desire to gloat, and was now anxious to get down to business. “You will remain in the center lane and we’ll draw up alongside you in the outside lane. Open the window and pass me the briefcase, or whatever it is you have the treasury bills in. Once we complete the transfer, I will fall back and tuck in behind you. We will leave the highway at the next slip road. You will stay on it until the one after that. Have you got that? Anything doesn’t look right, you’re dead men.”

  Val could see that Moncoeur and MacLean were in heated discussion. Their heads were bouncing about and there was a lot of animated gesturing going on.

  “Fuck!”

  “What’s up?” Val demanded.

  “They’ve cut me off,” Lausaux said, punching the redial button on the cell phone.

  Nothing. Lausaux tried again. He was mumbling curses to himself.

  “What the hell are you playing at?” he screeched when they were reconnected. “I should press the detonator right now.”

  It must have been a fault in the cell grid, Val concluded. They were disconnected for too short a time for it to have been anything else.

  Lausaux listened intently for a few moments.

  “You’ll be perfectly okay as long as you don’t try anything. All I want is the money. I want to enjoy it, not to spend the rest of my life on the run.”

  They’re terrified he intends killing them anyway, Val figured. They had every right to be worried. A good prosecutor could tie Lausaux into Gilett’s killing of Trochan. The Haitian must have been keeping up surveillance on Jackson’s apartment house in case he returned.

  “You’re just going to have to take my word for it,” Lausaux assured the two in the Bentley.

  ......

  “I don’t give a damn if you don’t think that’s good enough. It’s all you’re going to get.”

  There was another bout of frenetic activity in the car in front. Judging by his body language, MacLean appeared to be going ape-shit. Val thought of how he had reacted at the Superdome.