by B. A. Savage
French was silent a moment. When dealing with Susan, you had to be careful with your words. She was much more sensitive than Karen. Always joyful and in a good mood, but once something upset her, it would take a lot of tenderness to get her spirits back up.
“Tonight was seafood night and the kids missed you.”
“I’m sorry but the last few days have been kind of rough on me.”
“I know, Karen told me you located Mark.”
“Yes, we did.”
“She also said he's married.”
Susan walked into the living room and flipped the light switch on. She took two steps toward the bedroom and saw clothes tossed all over the floor. She put down the phone and walked cautiously to the door with a pistol in her hand. She could hear French calling her name on the phone as she slid to the right side of the doorway, flattened her back against the wall, and slowly opened the door.
The gun was the first thing to enter the room as Susan’s eyes swept the room, and her ear listened for movement or breathing in the darkness. Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the room with so much force; it threw her across the bed. As soon as she hit the floor, she rolled over her left shoulder and came back up in a shooting stance but it was too late. The only thing she saw was a flash of the figure going out the door. She picked the phone up off the table.
“Mister French, I need your help. Someone has just broken into my apartment.”
“Call the police and lock your door. I will be right over.”
Chapter Eleven
As French was walking into the apartment building, three young patrolmen were standing outside laughing and talking. The sight of the officers’ horseplay outside a crime scene pissed him off, but the heavyset investigator kept quiet, walking past the officers up to Susan’s apartment.
Karen didn’t come because the next day was a school day and Victor was spending the night. Her evening would be spent helping the kids with homework and supervising baths before bedtime.
As French walked into the apartment, the last of the officers were walking out the door. “I’m sorry, ma’am, that we couldn’t do more. You should be hearing from a detective tomorrow. I would look again and make sure nothing is missing and stay with a friend tonight. Good night.”
“Thank you, Officer, good evening.”
“Honey, are you alright?”
“This isn’t my day, boss.”
“I know, but everything will be better tomorrow.” French assured her. “The police are finished already?”
“It wasn’t much they could do. I just don’t understand. The burglar got into my room but didn’t take anything.”
“How did he get in?” French asked as he looked at the mess in the bedroom.
“I don’t know.”
French walked back over to the lock, bent down, and started studying it. Susan was in the process of cleaning up her bedroom when he stopped her. “Don’t move anything until I get the chance to look at your room again. Have you noticed anyone following you today?”
Susan shrugged. “Are you talking about the heavyset man with slicked back blond hair and a neatly trimmed mustache?”
“Touché, Susan, when was the last time you saw him?”
“When we parked on Main Street and went into the library.”
“Well, your lock was picked by a professional, someone who knows what they are doing. Did you notice anything strange about this break in?”
“Yes, just like I said before, they didn’t take anything.”
“They also only searched the luggage you brought back from New Orleans. It could mean that Mark has something to do with this.”
“What could he have been looking for? He has ripped my Osprey Shuttle 32 luggage apart. Karen’s going to kill me.”
“Why? It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know, boss, but it’s her luggage.”
French took her hand and walked her over to the couch, and they both sat down.
“On the day you and Mark went out to eat, and you said some guy was there to meet him, did that guy give him anything?”
“Yes, I remember him giving Mark an envelope.”
“What did you do after you left the restaurant?”
“We stopped at the post office on the way home and he mailed out something express mail.”
French gently squeezed her hand. “Was it the envelope that he mailed out?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, let’s put it another way. You ask him why he was going to the post office?"
“Yes, and he said he was going to mail out some postcards.”
“Okay, did he bring any letters with him when you were eating?”
“No, I didn’t see any.”
“Did he stop to pick up any postcards?”
“No, we walked straight to the post office.”
“What was he wearing, do you remember?”
“Sure I do. He was wearing white shorts, a pink silk shirt, and black Dockers shoes.”
“So if he had postcards, he would carry them in his hand. Unless he purchased them from the post office.”
“No, that didn’t happen. He pulled something out of his pocket and mailed it out.”
“He pulled out an envelope, right?”
She shook her head. “Boss, I just don’t remember.” She sat back on the couch and watched the wheels turning in French’s head. Like a surgeon, he was cutting this case apart and putting back together. She wanted to ask his questions, to find out how his mind worked. But she didn’t want him to think one of his investigators was a dumb blonde, so she remained silent.
“I know what you are thinking, my dear.” French addressed her. “You are wondering what a visit to the post office has to do with the murdered man being in your boyfriend’s hotel room.”
“I think I know but why don’t you tell me?” was the best she could do without looking stupid.
“They are all looking for this package that Mark Campbell, a.k.a. Mark Dalton, was carrying. It all started in New Orleans. Mark was given this envelope by a nervous man, who probably stole the package. Mark noticed in New Orleans that he was being tailed. So he mailed the package here and let you fly here alone, thinking they would go after you, giving him the opportunity to meet with his contact in the hotel room. Something went wrong, and the victim was shot.”
“Mister French, did Mark kill him?”
French knew the answer, and he believed that Susan was a good enough investigator to know the answer, too but he had already tossed enough salt in her wounds for the day and decided to lie.
“I don’t know. Come on, pack some clothes, you’re spending the night at my house.”
Chapter Twelve
French was alone in the kitchen cooking breakfast Thursday morning. The sweet fragrance of fried apples filled the air as French sprinkled cinnamon powder in a skillet.
Toni had gotten comfortable, lying rolled up into a ball on a throw rug on the living room floor, when the sound of the footstep brought him leaping to his feet. The doorbell rang. Toni ran in the living room, jumped up on the couch, stuck his head through the curtain, and began to bark. By the time French had reached the door, Toni had awakened everyone in the house.
“Is it my granny, Mister French?” Victor said, tugging at French’s housecoat.
“I don’t know, son, we will have to see.”
Victor, the little black child who knocked on French’s door three years ago, had become the member of French’s family. French didn’t know much about the child’s mother and less about his father. The only thing he did know is that Victor had a beautiful granny. She worked as a nurse at Central Hospital. She didn’t have a sitter so French, Susan, Karen, and Eleanor loved the child and enjoyed his company.
French looked through the keyhole, expecting the mailman or maybe UPS. He was surprised to see Sergeant George Smith of the New Orleans Narcotic Division.
Smith wasn’t a handsome man. He displayed th
at hard rugged look like Charles Bronson with that Clint Eastwood demeanor.
“Good morning, Mister French.”
“Good morning, Sergeant, what brings you out to our side of the woods?”
“When you asked me to run a check on Mark Campbell, I had no idea what Susan had gotten into.” Smith’s eyes grew wider as he talked.
“Come in, Sergeant. Would you like some breakfast?”
“No, thank you. Alex, you need to tell her to stay away from this.”
“Stay away from what?” Both men turned to see Susan standing at the foot of the stairs. She was wearing shorts and a Boston White Sox Jersey, and her hair was up in a ball.
“You are into something, little girl, that could get you killed.”
“Mister French, is anything going to happen to Aunt Susan?” Victor asked, tugging at his housecoat as his big brown eyes filled with tears.
Susan reached down and pulled him up into her arms. “No, Victor, I will be okay. Go downstairs and get dressed for school.”
“No, I want to know what this man is talking about.”
“Come on, Victor,” Karen said, pulling him down the stairs as he protested.
“The only thing I’m trying to do is help a man who may be in trouble.”
“Listen to me, Susan. The man who was murdered in the International Hotel yesterday was an undercover cop working for the Mexican government. There are other officers working in Fayette County now, and guess what? They’re all looking for you, Miss Day.”
Susan looked at French and Smith, and a frown crossed her face. “What would the Mexican police want with me?”
“Because your boyfriend was mixed up in some international situation and that’s all you need to know.”
“What you’re saying is that’s all you are going to tell us?” French said with a smile. “Whatever the Mexican police is here looking for is the same thing that brought Sergeant George Smith to our doorstep this morning.”
“Oh, now I understand, Mister French, Susan added. “We are talking about that little package.”
Smith’s eyebrows arched. “Where is it, Miss Day?”
“What?”
“The package, I need to take it back before it gets into the wrong hands.”
“So what you are trying to say, you need it before the cartels get a hold of it.” French added.
Smith eyes grew wide, and his thin, hard face turned red. “How did you find out the cartels are in on this?”
French smiled. “You just told me, Sergeant. Now, stop playing games and tell me what this is all about.”
“May I have a cup of coffee?”
“Sure, Susan, please get the detective a cup of coffee. Black, am I right, Sergeant?”
“Yes!”
Susan came into the room with a large cup of coffee and two glazed donuts. Smith took a large gulp, a bite of the donut, and looked up at French, Susan, and Karen. He cleared his throat, stood up, and walked to the sliding doors, looking out at the backyard.
“What I am about to tell you cannot be repeated to anyone. Guys, this is highly classified information that could lead to some significant and influential people going to prison. Do I have your word?”
“Yes,” French said. The girl replied yes, too.
“A year ago, two Mexican couriers were hauling a tractor-trailer full of cash. These men had millions collected for drugs sold on the streets of New Orleans. David Gonzalez and Juan Gonzalez were driving their rig down Highway 75, transporting the money to Mexico. As they stopped to fix a flat tire, three members of the Warlord Disciples gang held them up at gunpoint.
The gang bought the drugs, and now these members wanted the money back. They pistol-whipped and handcuffed Gonzalez. As the Warlord was hooking their truck cab to the money-laden trailer, Zuniga fled through a cornfield and called the police.
After a 36-mile chase north along Interstate 27, highway patrol intercepted the rogue truck, arrested the gang members, and recovered the drug money.
Zuniga, who worked for Mexican drug lord, Guzman, made a surprising request that cold day. He agreed to work with the New Orleans Police Department to bring the cartel leader and his organization down. We put together ten officers, all rookies right out the academy and trained them as undercover officers to become members of Guzman’s group. Don Howard was one of these officers. This young man decided he could make a lot of money by working for both sides.”
“And Don Howard was the guy we met at the restaurant?” Susan asked.
“Yes,” Smith replied. “He knew if the cartels caught him, they’d kill him or his family in New Orleans. So he partnered up with Mark Dalton, who was a heavy gambler and a ladies man. The two would betray both sides the cartels and the police department, by selling information. Howard would give Smith a list of undercover officers working inside the Guzman organization. Smith would broker this list to the cartels for a considerable amount of money and the two men would split the cash.”
“Are you telling me that Mark is ratting out undercover officers for a living?” Susan said in a loud voice.
“Yes, Susan, he is. But I’m not sure he knows it. When he met a guy at the International Hotel, this guy might have been corrupted and sent to kill Dalton.”
“So you believe the victim could have been working for the cartels?” French asked.
“I believe he wanted this list. I think that anyone who has this list can get top price with the cartels.”
“What do you want from me, Sergeant?” Susan asked.
“Has Dalton been in contact with you?”
“I talked with Dalton Sunday evening.”
“Do you know how to get in contact with him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Did he give you anything?”
“No.”
Smith looked at her in disbelief. “You are telling me that you two spent all that time together, alone, and he didn’t give you anything?”
“No, Sergeant, he didn’t give me a list.”
“How many names are on this list?” French asked.
Smith shrugged. “I’m not sure but it could be as many as two hundred names.”
“Two hundred names of undercover cops working for the cartels?” Karen asked.
“Not only cops, but also DEA agents, Mexican Police, and local narcs.”
“Smith, how the hell could a rookie on the police department get his hands of a list like that?” French asked.
“His father was the lieutenant of the Louisiana State Police Narcotics Division for the past fifteen years. He kept records of all his contact locked in a safe in his basement. We don’t know what all was in this safe, but it could mean a lot of money for anyone who carried the list.” He looked at Susan for several moments. “How about gifts, did he buy you any gifts?”
“Yes, he brought me an $800 ring, some flowers, and dinner for five nights.”
“No clothes or anything that he could slide a list in?”
“No clothes or anything.”
“Would you let me know the minute that he calls you?”
“Yes, I will.”
Smith walks down the steps to the front door and turns around. “Did he ask you to mail anything or did you see him send anything?”
She looked at French and Karen, and then back to Smith. “No, I’m sorry, Sergeant.”
Smith threw up his hand as he walked out the door. “Stay in touch, guys.”
“I’m sorry, Mister French, but I must try to help Mark. I believe I’m in love with him.”
“What do you think?” he asked, turning to Karen.
“Let’s find him first and see what he has to say.” she replied.
“Okay, I’m in.” French added with a smile.
Chapter Thirteen
Later that day, after Karen had dropped the kids at school, French and the two girls sat in the living room talking about the case and drinking coffee.
“Susan, you said that Mark stopped at the post office after Howard g
ave him the list?”
“Yes, sir, and he mailed out something.”
French pulled the shirt down over his stomach. “Well, it seems, if I were in Mark’s shoes, I would mail the list to a safe place that no one would suspect.”
“Where is that, boss?” Karen asked.
“I would mail my list to the United States Postal Service.”
“So he sent the list to his ex-wife’s house?” Susan asked.
“No, honey that would be the first place the police would look. But he could send it to himself or to be delivered to Mark Campbell at the main branch of the Post Office.”
“He got three-day delivery,” Susan added.
“That’s a very smart move. It would give him time to lose the tails or anyone who may have him under surveillance and to set up a buy.”
“Susan and Karen, I need you guys to watch the Lands Down Drive branch of the post office. The package should arrive today or tomorrow. If you see him, don’t approach him, Susan. Just contact me and follow him. Do you understand?”
She lowered her head like a child being scolded for bad behavior. “Yes, Mister French.”
“What makes you think he’ll send it to that address?”
“I checked. For the area where he lives, the mail would go to Lands Down Drive.”
“What are you going to do?” Susan inquired.
“I will be watching his ex-wife’s house, just in case he shows up.”
“What if you are wrong?”
“We will have to cross that bridge when we get to it.”
Chapter Fourteen
It was 3:15 pm when Mark Dalton entered the Lands Down branch of the Post Office. Even at a distance, Karen could see why her sister had a strong attraction to the guy. Mark Campbell Dalton was handsome, tall, and lean with dark natural skin. He had black hair that was cut short. His mustache was trimmed perfectly to match with his mouth and nose.
He walked through the doors of the post office and walked around the counter to a door marked supervisor’s office.
“I’m here to pick up a package.” he said to a woman sitting behind the desk.