by Corey Brown
“Sit wherever you want,” she says, smiling. “Coffee?”
“Yeah,” Cody says, pointing to a man sitting alone. “I’m with him.”
Dimly lit, Rhodes Café consists of mismatched chairs and tables in the center dining area, with worn booths lining the grimy walls. Only a few blocks from the waterfront, the brackish scent of seafood makes Cody wonder if they ladle the Mississippi to boil crawfish.
“Need a menu?” the hostess says.
“Just the coffee, thanks,” Cody says.
“That’s it, nothing else?”
“That’s it.”
“Cream or sugar?”
Cody shakes his head
“Okay,” she says. “Give a wave if you need anything.”
In a booth at the back, away from the regulars, away from the large front window, Cody drops onto the bench seat across from FBI agent Derek Simmons.
Derek is a solid man, frame and muscles, with dark hair and sharp eyes. Even though he is forty-three, almost the same age as Cody, his young, angular face gives the appearance of a man in his early thirties.
“What’ve you got for me?” Cody says.
“I saw the doctor,” Derek says. He shakes his head. “I don’t know about this guy.”
“How was he? Cool? Was he scared?”
“Both. But mostly, scared shitless. What’s up, man?”
“What’d he say?” Cody asks.
Derek produces a manila envelope and puts it on the table.
“There’s a video in here,” Derek says, tapping on the envelope. “Harris said this movie is exactly what happened to the patients he told you about. He also said there are patient records. He was very specific, said it was all of the patients, not just his.”
Cody picks up the package, unwinds the brown string that ties the flap and shakes out the tape. He frowns, looks at Derek. “This is a commercial tape,” he says. “What’s on it?”
Derek shrugs and says, “Just what I told you, a movie. Some movie that, supposedly, is exactly what happened to the doctor’s patients, whatever that means.” Derek looks hard at Cody, draws a breath and says, “What’s going on?”
“How’d you two meet? Cody says. “When did he call?”
“He called me about two forty-five this morning. Told me he had to get in touch with you, that he had information to give you. I instructed him where to meet and how to pass the package. We met in a doughnut shop up in Metairie. No one will connect us.” Derek raises an eyebrow “So, what’s up? What the hell is going on?”
Cody fingers his ceramic coffee cup for a moment quietly. “Sorry about all of this. I’m sorry he called so early or late or…I hope Sarah isn’t mad.”
“She’s used to it.” Derek says. “Now, what’s going on?”
“Hey, I know you’re doing me a favor and I really need you to be there for this guy. If I meet with him, he’ll be marked. But I can’t tell you what’s happening. Not yet anyway. It’s a piss-poor deal, I know, keeping you in the dark, but trust me on this one. You don’t want to know.”
Derek narrows his eyes, a look of disapproval shadowing his face. “I’ve never seen you like this,” he says. “I got a bad feeling, man.”
“We both do,” Cody says. “But right now I can’t do shit. I got no idea who the players are or what they want.”
“It’s not right.” Derek shakes his head. “This is just not right. You’re going to get burned.”
Cody knows he is stretching the ties of friendship. He is pushing Derek out of bounds and if everything goes bad it will be more than just his own ass on the line. Derek might be held accountable, too.
“Look,” Cody says in a low voice. “These bastards, whoever they are, nailed my partner out in the Biloxi wildlife area. They shot him and fed him to the ‘gators. Then they popped his fiancée, they almost got Jamie, too.”
“What? Holy shit, they went after Jamie? Is she okay?”
Cody nods. “Yeah, she’s all right but not by much, it was pretty close.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry, Cody. I had no idea.”
“These boys are serious about something. But I don’t have a goddamned clue what it is. Worse, I think cops are involved.”
“Cops?” Derek says, his expression both surprised and at once, doubtful.
“Yeah, cops. I found a data disc at Nick’s apartment that implicates a group of cops and civilians in some kind of ritualistic sex ring. Lots of money, lots of drugs, weapons too. I haven’t pieced it all together yet, the CD has some names on it but most of the information is speculation on Nick’s part, just notes and stuff. I think he burned the disc kind of last minute, like he knew something was up. But it’s a starting point, at least I know where to begin. That’s what this is all about.” Cody taps the manila envelope. “Nick was on to them and they killed him. I’m sure of it.”
“Nick was your partner?” Derek says.
“Yeah, Nick Wheaton, he was a great cop. He was just a kid but he had a sixth sense about stuff. Nick could tell if someone was lying or covering up. Sometimes he would scare up a lead just because of a feeling. He was like a bloodhound.”
“More coffee?” A waitress asks, jarring the conversation. Neither of them had noticed her approaching.
Cody shakes his head, no. He’s hardly touched his cup.
“Yeah thanks,” Derek says, inching the ceramic mug toward her.
The waitress refills Derek’s cup then moves off. They watch as she lingers at a nearby table.
“You still have this disc?” Derek says, when the waitress is beyond earshot.
“Uh-huh. The original plus a few copies.”
“Good. I want one. Okay, so why his fiancée? And what’s the connection to the doctor? And why Jamie, what does she know?”
Cody wonders why Derek wants a copy of the disc, shakes the question away. “Julia Turano worked for the doctor,” he says. “Believe it or not, he was the one who first approached Nick with this information. Why kill her, who knows? They might’ve just been looking for information, looking for evidence. I’m not sure they planned to kill his fiancée.”
“How’s that?”
Cody hesitates, stares at the floor, ignoring the question. He sighs, starts again. “After we told Julia what happened, Jamie took her home. But someone was in the apartment. Julia and Jamie never should have been there, the killer might’ve been surprised.” Cody looks up, holds Derek’s eye. “They shot her in the head. The fucking gun was an inch from her face, she never had a chance. Julia didn’t know shit and they drilled her for no reason. Jamie barely got out alive. I never should’ve....”
Cody balls his hands into fists and grits his teeth, holding back the swell of emotion rising inside his chest.
“How could you know?” Derek says in a low voice.
“I should’ve known.” Cody’s eyes meet Derek’s and he says, “Nick would have.”
Derek understands, nods, lets it pass. “Now I know why our doctor is so scared.”
“Yeah,” Cody says, his voice a mixture of growl and whisper. “Now you know.”
“Look, if they killed Nick, you know they’re not afraid to kill a cop. You might be high on the list. You gotta bring in help. Don’t turn this into a private war.”
“They’ve already moved me to the top of that list,” Cody says. “Yesterday, I noticed a guy following me. The car he drove had city tags. Not a squad car but it belonged to the city, for sure. Jamie and I were sitting at a stop light and this guy drives alongside, pulls a sawed-off then starts blasting away.” Cody swallows and says, “He didn’t miss by much.”
“That was you?” Derek says, shaking his head in disbelief. “The Times-Picayune had a story about a shooting involving a cop. But that was you?”
“Uh-huh. Well, me or Jamie, depending.”
“Cody, you can’t do this alone. You gotta bring in the heavy artillery.”
Cody lifts his cup of coffee to his mouth and takes a sip. He makes a face, looks down at the tepi
d coffee. “My captain knows but, really, I’ve got nothing,” he says, sounding exasperated. “I have Nick’s notes, but otherwise I have zero. That’s why I need you to be my go-between. Harris may come up with more information but I can’t let anyone know he’s working with me.”
Leaning forward on his elbows, Derek pinches his lower lip. “I’ll do what I can,” he says. “But if it comes down to it, I’ll go to my supervisor.”
“Don’t.” Cody says, flatly. “If it goes bad, just walk. You never had a doctor’s appointment, you never talked to me.”
“Cody, I won’t let you twist in the wind.”
“You have to. If you don’t do this my way, someone else might be next. Just be the mailman, okay? That’s all I need right now.”
Derek looks off, glancing toward the front window. His random gaze registers an unmarked squad car. But the recognition doesn’t reach main-line thought. He shakes his head. “Okay,” Derek says with a sigh. “But I won’t walk. If it gets ugly, I’ll figure something out.”
“We’re square. You don’t owe me a thing. If this goes south, bail out.”
Derek considers Cody’s words. “I’ll decide when we’re square,” he says, then grins. “Besides, you’re just a local cop. I’m Federal. Don’t tell me what to do.”
«»
Detective John Slater unscrews the cap on the dark orange vial and coaxes a pill out. Swallowing it, he closes the bottle and slips it back into his pocket.
Detective Eric Hansen looks at Slater, disapproval framing his face. “Little early for that, isn’t it?” he says.
Sitting in an unmarked squad car, Hansen and Slater are watching and waiting.
“Hey, I had a rough night,” Slater says with a shrug. He feels the speed start to work, his body growing rigid and his mind becoming keen, sharper. “Anyway, it wasn’t a big hit, just enough to get me going.”
“You’re too old for that stuff, it’ll hook you. Probably already has.”
“Too old my ass,” Slater says. “It’s this goddamned job. Besides, I don’t take much, just enough now and then.”
“Don’t give me that crap about the job,” Hansen says. “Everybody’s got shit to deal with. Most people I know aren’t running around popping amphetamines just to get by.”
“They do more than you think,” Slater says. “But you tell me. Speeders, booze, weed, what’s the difference? Hell, put coffee on that list. Everybody does something to get started or stopped. In the end, it’s all the same.”
“Oh yeah, drugs and coffee, those are the same.” Hansen shakes his head. “Where’d you get it?”
Slater frowns. “Why do you care?”
“Frankly, I don’t give a shit. But don’t go popping speeders with me in the car, got it?”
“Cool your jets,” Slater says. “Jesus, what crawled up your ass?”
“Up my ass? Not a thing. It’s just that my partner is breaking the fucking law on company time, right in front of me and he doesn’t even have the decency to answer a simple question. Look, don’t tell me where you got it. Fuck you as far as I’m concerned. But in the future do your drugs on your own time.”
“Okay, okay,” Slater says. “It’s no big deal. Remember the big lab that got busted a few months ago? Well, they were pumping shit out like crazy, tons of it. And not just meth, a bunch of other stuff, too. PCP, Ketamine, even some acid. Well, one of the boys in vice just happened to wind up with some extra in his pocket and he was kind enough to share.” Slater shrugs and says. “A few speeders never killed anybody.”
“It’s a crutch,” Hansen says, looking away, looking across the street.
“Like you can talk about crutches. You got your meetings every Thursday night. That shit is a crutch.”
Hansen snaps his head around and glares at Slater, his eyes dark and piercing. Slater feels himself trying to pull back but there is nowhere to go. Unconsciously, he checks for his weapon.
“What does that mean?” Hansen says, almost snarling. “How the hell can you compare doing drugs with going to church? That’s completely stupid, you know that?”
“Is it?” Slater says, trying to regain a foothold in this discussion. “Maybe if you went to a regular church, like Saint John’s, I’d buy that. But yours? I’m not even sure I’d call it a church.”
Hansen’s face grows more turbulent, his body becoming knife-like with tension. Oddly, Slater feels a hiss of fear. But then Hansen relaxes, seems to shake off the sudden rush of anger.
“I can understand how you’d think that,” Hansen says, a weak smile coming over his face. “I know The Crossing seems like a weird church. I thought the same thing when my cousin first dragged me over there. But, really, the preacher is great. I mean, he really cares about people.” Hansen’s smile fades “Sorry I jumped you so hard. Anyway, who am I to judge? I just don’t want you to get in over your head, you know?”
This always bothered Slater. He has seen this volleyball of anger and understanding before, and he never quite knows how to take it. Usually, he just figures it is Hansen’s way of being righteous without being offensive. But lately, the act has become more intense, almost spooky.
“Well, thanks,” Slater says, slowly. “But don’t worry, I’m not in a cage and I never will be. It’s no different than having a drink at the end of the day. I’m okay.”
“I hear you. But if you ever think it’s getting away from you let me know.”
“It won’t.” Slater says.
“Okay, okay. Sorry.”
Hansen leans forward and looks skyward out the windshield. Even through his sunglasses he squints against the morning sun.
“How about this heat?” He says. The car is idling and he turns the air conditioning up a notch.
“And it’s only March,” Slater says, still trying to figure out Hansen’s Jekyll and Hyde routine. “According to the weather report, this heat wave is practically centered over New Orleans, if you can believe that.”
Hansen looks at Slater and the corner of his mouth drifts up into a crooked smile. “Yeah, I know.”
“Speaking of heat,” Slater says. “You believe that fire at the Criminal Courts building? I mean, who the hell would torch Fletcher’s office?”
“Well, someone who doesn’t want a body to be examined, for starters. From what I hear, the job was pretty thorough.”
Slater nods. “No question, it was professional.”
“And how about that chick working the sunrise shift?” Hansen says. “Oh man, I heard she was burned to a crisp.”
“Oh yeah, she was well-done, all right,” Slater says. “Wasn’t that weird about her ID tag?”
Hansen frowns. “What do you mean?”
Slater shifts his weight, an excited, almost joyful look in his eyes. “You didn’t hear this story?” He says. “Get this, the woman is a crispy critter and ordinarily they wouldn’t have known who she was, not right away, anyhow. I mean, she was so far gone they’d have needed dental records to be sure, but her ID badge was lying on her body, in perfect condition. The arson boys figure, because of all the chemicals and shit in there, the temperature of the fire reached at least two thousand degrees. But her fucking little plastic ID badge doesn’t melt. Figure that one out.”
“No way,” Hansen says. “That’s not possible. Somebody planted it after the fire was out.”
“You’d think so, but the firemen found her while the building was still burning. In fact, she was still burning, they put her out. There she is, smoldering away, and her badge is lying right on top of her chest, like it was still clipped to her shirt or something. It’s bizarre, man. It gives me the creeps just thinking about it.”
Hansen shakes his head. “No way. I ---”
“Look,” Slater says, interrupting, pointing out the driver’s side window. “There’s Briggs, he’s coming out.”
“What’s that he’s got?” Hansen says.
“Just his briefcase. He had it when he went in.”
“Uh-uh, not that.�
� Hansen says. “Under his left arm. It looks like some kind of brown envelope. You know, like for memos and stuff.”
“Oh yeah, now I see it. Think he met somebody in there?”
“He could’ve had that envelope in the briefcase when he went in.”
They watch Cody move up the street.
“Maybe,” Slater says. “But why not keep it in there? He glances back at the restaurant door, half expecting to see an accomplice. He slowly shakes his head. “He didn’t have that envelope going in. Briggs met someone. And that someone passed it to him.”
Chapter 17
The plane touches down, a puff of smoke bursting as rubber touches tarmac. David Carlson stares out the window. He smiles, the look is sad and reminiscent. He has missed their anniversary, both anniversaries. But it really couldn’t be helped. David hopes they will understand. Still, he had marked the calendar months ago and feels bad about being late even if only by a day. David curses under his breath. He wouldn’t have been late if he hadn’t been such a fool last night, how embarrassing.
“On behalf of the flight crew I’d like to welcome you to New Orleans International Airport.”
Over the whine of the engines, the gentle southern drawl of that particular flight attendant fills the cabin. “I’m sorry to tell you this,” she says, “but the temperature here in New Orleans is close to ninety-four degrees. It’s really hot, folks. So stay indoors if you can. Again, welcome and thank you for flying American.”
David looks up the aisle, catches sight of her. She has auburn hair and is tall and slender, maybe in her mid-fifties. He keeps his eyes on her a moment too long. And in just that one second it starts. Again. The thought of her, that sultry voice, the image of her form-fitting, navy blue skirt makes David look at her again. He is aroused, he wants her. David forces himself to look out the window.