by Nancy Gideon
Those plans scattered when he opened the newly replaced glass door to Legere Enterprises International.
“Marissa? Are you supposed to be here?”
“I still work here, Mr. Savoie, don’t I? Your messages are on your desk.” When he just stared, brow lowering at the sight of the small bandage defacing her flawless dark skin, she sighed. “I couldn’t stand the thought of the mess all those police persons must have left behind. Don’t worry. I was cleared for a light, part-time schedule.”
He smiled, shoulders relaxing. “I’ll see you stick to it.”
“I’ll make coffee for you and your visitor.”
Visitor? Before he could entertain hopes of vigorous brunch activities with a certain detective, his assistant scattered them.
“He wouldn’t give his name, just that you’d want to see him. He’s waiting in the lounge. An associate of Detective Caissie’s.”
Her subtle emphasis on the word associate held many possibilities, and all of them had his heart pumping a ragtime rhythm as he continued to the less formal room across from his recently violated office.
A college-aged kid sat on the edge of one of the chairs. Sleepless eyes flashed up, wide with alarm before blinking in short-lived relief. A bundle of high-strung tension, he jumped to his feet, hands twisting the jacket he’d removed. “Mr. Savoie, I hope it’s okay to just show up like this.”
“You’re here now,” Max replied, waving for the kid to follow him into his office where he settled behind his recently restored desk. Everything on its gleaming top was exactly where it should be, though broken locks on the drawers would need replacing. On Marissa’s To Do list, he was sure. He gestured for his visitor to take a seat. “So, start with your name and your business with me.”
“It’s not with you, sir, not exactly.” The hoist of a heavy brow encouraged him to hurry on. “I’m DeShawn Collette.”
“Ahh, the elusive witness.”
Some of the anxiety eased from the young man’s expression. “Yessir. I was scared to go to the police and thought maybe I could . . . I could talk to you.”
“I believe you should be talking to my wife.”
“I don’t want to end up like my co-worker. She was my friend.” A quick blink cleared welling eyes. “But I need to do the right thing.”
“Detective Caissie will need a full, sworn statement. . .”
His head jerked side to side, sending tightly braided tuffs of hair into an agitated dance. “No sir. I won’t live long enough.”
“In a police station filled with the city’s finest?”
“They ain’t all straight up like Detective Caissie. I knows what happened to that fella and to my friend. That ain’t gonna happen to me and my family.”
“She can see you’re protected.”
An expression Max was intimately familiar with tightened wary features. “Not while she trusts the wrong people.”
His senses quivered. “The wrong people? Like Brady?”
“No, not him. His friend. The one I saw with Mr. Pomerelli da night he were killed.”
Max leaned back in his chair, expression stoic. “This friend have a name?”
When DeShawn Collette spoke it in justified dread, Max understood everything.
– – –
Casting an anxious glance at the bank of black clouds crouching over the city’s high-rises, Simon Cummings waited for the door to his airport limo to be opened. He wasn’t a good fair-weather flyer, so the thought of this last-minute junket to Baton Rouge for a closed-door meeting before the next session convened knotted his stomach like the morning after a long night at a jazz club. Ordinarily, he’d have a driver convey him to the State Capital, but the political clock was ticking, necessitating the charter from Louis Armstrong to Ryan Field.
The guarantee of a bumpy ride increased twenty times over when his driver opened the rear door, revealing its occupant.
“What the hell are you doing in my car?”
As dangerously cool as always, Max Savoie regarded him for a nerve-itching second before answering. “We need to have a conversation. Should have just enough time if you’re to make your flight. You might want to get in before you get wet.”
On cue, the first fat raindrops splashed down, patterning his expensive suitcoat. Muttering a curse, he slid inside without sparing the driver a glance and was closed in nice and snug with his arch enemy. He glared at Savoie. Did the son-of-a-bitch control the weather along with every other damned thing in the city? Once settled in the cushy backseat, he impatiently tapped on the privacy petition to signal his hurry to leave.
As the car rolled forward, Cummings smoothed out any prospective creases from his jacket and tailored pants, snapping, “What do you want, Savoie, beyond raising my blood pressure with your mere presence?”
“A continuation of that conversation we started in your kitchen.” When he’d broken in to threaten the then mayoral candidate over his dealings with Rollo Moytes.
An audible swallow preceded a brusque, “I have nothing more to say on that matter.”
“Oh, I think you’ve been holding back one important detail that will eventually bite you very hard in the political and personal assets unless you do the right thing.”
“Right thing? For whom? You?”
“The city. Isn’t that what you swore to do, protect all those wide-eyed voters who believed you when you promised to be their white knight representative?”
He scowled, both suspicious and reluctantly curious. “And what good deed would I be doing?”
“You’d be the protected whistleblower bringing down a long-established ring of political and criminal corruption.”
“Against, who? Brady?”
“And Carmen Blutafino.”
His expression morphed from irritation to self-preservation. “No. Way. I will not speak out in a public forum against either of them. I’d be a dead man walking.”
“And the third player,” Max added with a sinister quiet, “who, so far, has been skirting just under the radar.”
Simon Cummings stopped breathing. Finally, he whispered, “You’re just guessing, trying to rattle me into saying something that’s not true.”
“I think you’re already rattled enough to know this is your one opportunity to save yourself.”
A few desperate breaths led to a faint, “I’ll lose everything.”
“Not everything. Not those things that have real value if you speak now, rather than when you’re subpoenaed. You could spin this and come out the hero you’ve always pretended to be. And I’ll use all my considerable contacts and influence to support you and applaud your courage.”
Cummings’ was no fool. He didn’t know what, if anything, Savoie had or could prove, but suspicion tended to create an impossible momentum once raised in the political arena. He’d be ruined and his family along with him. Just like Brady. And, damn him, the sleek Mobster was right. If he were smart and quick to grab this chance that would never come again, his future aspirations would be all but guaranteed.
A heavy sigh. “All right. If you want me to go on record, I’ll go on record. But I don’t have time to make a statement. I’ve got a plane waiting.”
The petition between front and back seats slid open, and Cummings got a look at their driver in the rearview. Savoie had planned for every outcome, the smooth bastard.
Detective Alain Babineau smiled. “I’ve got your conversation on tape already. Why don’t we make it official, and you can fill in the blanks, starting with the name of the third ringleader.”
Cummings exhaled and spoke what he hoped wouldn’t become his death warrant.
“Byron Atcliff.”
– – –
As they watched Simon Cummings hurry aboard the waiting charter, Babineau verbalized what both were thinking.
“Considering what we’ve got on him, what’re the chances he’ll be on that return flight?”
Max saw the hatch closing as a possible end to Cummings’ cooperat
ion but chose to be optimistic. “His family’s here along with that reputation he thinks so highly of. He’s a player and loves a winner’s limelight. I think he’ll be busy plotting how he can turn things to his best advantage.” And if not, Turow Terriot, as a return favor, was in place to change his mind if he tried to run. “He’s a coward, not a hero or true villain. He’ll take our deal and convince himself it was all his idea.”
“And what about Atcliff?”
Grinding his teeth, Max could taste the red of the man’s blood until he took his mate’s partner’s meaning.
What about Charlotte?
Of all those she’d counted on who’d failed her, Byron Atcliff was her one foot on solid ground, the pinnacle she aspired to, the father figure she’d been denied.
“Maybe he was lying.”
Babineau’s words lacked conviction. They both knew out of the three top players, Atcliff was the brains, Brady the money, and Blutafino the muscle to make their greedy collaboration prosper undetected for so long. He was that missing piece frustrating Cee Cee’s attempts to bring the other two to justice. Justice Atcliff had always bent to his own purpose.
As he had when he saw to the death of his partner when Tommy Caissie was about to fold.
“Are you going to tell her, or do you want me to?”
Max drew in deep and expelled heavily. “I will. But not yet. Not until we can nail his slippery hide to the wall.”
– – –
Things were going well, considering.
Warren Brady settled in behind his big home office desk, allowing a smug smile as the camera crew began an efficient setup. A personal interview with Karen Crawford for her One-on-One morning program was just the venue he needed to push his agenda. A haircut and facial erased signs of lingering sleeplessness and stress. His uniform was pressed to razor-edge perfection. When appearing on the ambitious reporter’s local network show, he’d put on the performance of his life, because it would be. He’d be fighting to keep all he’d built for himself and his family.
His family. A wife who’d killed herself rather than share the vision he had for them. One daughter who chose betrayal in the bed of an enemy and the other . . . he didn’t know what to think of the creature she’d become under Genevieve’s tutelage. Firmly in survival mode, he’d hang on to his well-crafted plans by any means necessary.
Making a friend of the press presented his first challenge. On camera, he’d portray the pinnacle of control and comforting power, not angry or resentful, but confident that the justice he’d championed throughout his career would prevail, thus vindicating him. If Crawford wanted a sensational story to humanize him, he’d provide one filled with familial tragedy from which he’d heroically risen. He angled the smiling portraits on his desktop, so they’d be visible to viewers.
Crawford arrived with a team of staff buzzing about her like a queen bee, spraying her hair, adjusting her lapel mic, touching up her makeup to disguise the years cameras cruelly accentuated. With a final sip of her coffee and a finger brush of her teeth, she shooed away her sycophants to approach her guest with feral professionalism. That same smile would address the day’s hero or a serial killer.
“Commissioner Brady, thank you for your time. You’ve been briefed on our format. We’ll speak about your distinguished career, your family, and about the charges you hope will be dismissed.”
“They will be dismissed.”
That smooth mask never flickered. “Of course. Then we’ll take a few phone calls from our viewers. You’ll keep your answers brief and to the point.”
“Ms. Crawford, I’ve given my share of interviews to tougher rooms than your viewership.”
Her smile tightened, betraying hard-won lines of experience around her mouth. “Of course, you have, sir. No one questions that. I remind you again that this is a live broadcast.”
“We’re wasting time, Ms. Crawford. Let’s get to it.”
She assumed the seat on the other side of his desk, an inferior position instead of the elbow-to-elbow, tete-a-tete she’d requested in front of it. If that annoyed her as a professional, she covered it well. He wasn’t fooled by her airs. The fading media comet struggling not to become a dead star would make certain he looked good for her viewing public.
The lights went on, cameras rolled, and ratings predator Karen Crawford came to life, rising to the surface with scarcely a ripple, eyes gleaming like a swamp gator assessing its meal.
“Good morning, New Orleans. I’m Karen Crawford, and I’m pleased to welcome our own Police Commissioner Warren Brady to One-on-One as today’s special guest. His lengthy and impeccably bulletproof career has recently come under fire with allegations of corruption and criminality that would have a less connected public servant hiding behind his attorney. But our calm-under-fire Commissioner is no stranger to life and death situations and has agreed to take your pointblank questions live on our show. So, let’s get right to our first caller. This is One-on-One, and you are on the air.”
Allowing no opportunity for him to first present himself as a hero and victim of false accusations, Karen Crawford provided that cold, reptilian smile that had warned countless others of that snap of jaws they’d failed to anticipate until too late.
The first caller was a plant who asked about his charitable contributions to the community, painting him with a saintly halo over-head. But the next came at him, a knife in a dark alley.
“Commissioner, you’ve hung your entire career on punishing those who victimize the weak and helpless of our community. So, how can you justify brutally beating and attempting to rape the underage daughter of your business partners in one of the upstairs rooms of Maisy J’s, a well-known Algiers club that caters to prostitution and illegal drug activities? She was fifteen years old. How can a man with two daughters live with that on his conscience?”
Brady betrayed none of the shock paralyzing every muscle group. “I have no knowledge of any such event. What is the source of this outrageous lie?”
“The recorded testimony of both the victim and an officer on the scene who witnessed your trip to the hospital for damages the underaged girl inflicted in order to escape. Plus supporting copies of medical reports you tried to have erased.”
“If there was such a victim or witness to this fictitious event, why haven’t they come forward?”
“They will. At your trial.” The caller’s voice lowered to a menacing growl. “And you’ll pay for putting your hands on her, then and now.”
The connection ended before Brady had a chance for repudiation. Nor did Crawford request one.
“We have another caller,” she announced. “Good morning. You’re One-on-One. Please state your question for the commissioner.”
“It’s rumored there’s a ledger showing payments for both bribes and extortion by you and your former partner at Maisy J’s, a business you still own and run despite its reputation for illegal activities.”
“That’s not true.”
“I understand a copy of that ledger was retrieved from a computer in your own home and will be evidence at your trial, tying you and your mysteriously deceased partner to Carmen Blutafino, a well-known criminal figure in our city.”
“I’ve never had any dealings with Mr. Blutafino other than in my capacity as a servant of the law!” He caught himself before blurting out the name of his accuser. Kip Terriot wouldn’t dare take the stand, giving him the confidence to rebut, “There are no witnesses who can verify that this alleged information had anything to do with me.”
“But there is one. And he will bury you.”
The call disconnected.
Brady’s thoughts churned frantically. Neil? Neil D’Poussier, whom he’d thought ruined the digital copy of that ledger? Whom he’d fired with extreme prejudice? Was that little pissant looking for revenge? He hadn’t heard a whisper about him being picked up or questioned.
“Enough!” Medal-studded chest heaving, he leaned across his desk to glare at the calm reporter. “I wan
t the identity of those callers.”
“You have the right to try to subpoena them, sir.” And she smiled, stare as flat and cold as that well-fed reptile.
He rose, becoming a threatening figure in full view of the audience. “This interview is over. My attorneys will be contacting you. I’ll see your credentials pulled. You will never work in my city again!”
After the cameras were silenced, Karen Crawford stood, calmly smiling in the face of his seething rage. “Oh, I think after this, I can pretty much write my own ticket. Maybe even go national. Good luck on getting anything buried. I did remind you it was a live broadcast, and nothing makes an impression on a viewer like live TV. Thank you for your time, Commissioner.” She turned to her crew. “We’re done here.”
As they packed up their gear, Brady slumped back in his chair, heartbeat hammering nails into his casket. Finally left alone, an animal panting in a trap of his ego’s making, he felt the buzz of his private phone in his pocket.
Carmen Blutafino cut right to it. “What the hell have you done? How could you let my name come up in connection with yours?”
“She was fishing.”
“And she managed to snag not just you, but us both. What witness?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’d better find out, or they’re going to find pieces of you floating to the surface in Pontchartrain come summer.”
Brady straightened, chest puffing up with indignation. “You petty thug. You dare threaten me? I’ll put a lid on this nonsense.”
“See that you do, or I’ll put a lid on your empty coffin.”
That warning echoing all the way to his bowels, Brady sat frozen. What could they have to connect him and the mobster other than the claims of those meddlesome Terriots?
Cold certainty settled like the cement shoes Manny referenced. There was no way to make the disastrous broadcast disappear, not in time. It would hang him in the minds of the public long before the court had its say.