Drop Dead Crime: Mystery and Suspense from the Leading Ladies of Murder

by Lisa Regan

  “Yeah. Bags of it, packed in the boxes. H kilos, maybe?”

  “Or pot bricks.”

  “Kaynard was peddling crack—these guys must not be specializing.”

  Skip had an idea. “Hey, I wonder if we can find out who they’re shaking down in there? Know any good customers in the Iberville?”

  “Got a buddy working narcotics.” Abasolo made a call while Skip kept watching—in fact, kept watching as they finished, split up, and drove off in different cars. She followed Baggs, who drove to a secluded spot near Audubon Park and transferred the boxes to another car, one with Texas plates. They could run those later—though how much later, she had no idea. It was going to take a department with a working computer system to manage that one.

  Abasolo finished his conversation. “Did we get lucky on the timing or what?”

  “I don’t know if it was luck. Probably if you tailed one of those guys any time of the day or night, this is what they’d be doing. Did you get any names?”

  “Two, with addresses. Samuel Jones—”

  “Of Jones Gang fame?”

  “Yeah. They’re as big as the Corner Boys.” He consulted his notes “And Alden Comeaux. Also of the Jones Gang. Let’s go see them.”

  “Cross your fingers for their continued good health.”

  They found Samuel Jones in perfect health, but handcuffed to his own bed, damn near naked, somewhat battered, and mad as hell. In fact, too mad to even be scared by two more white police.

  “What the hell do y’all think you’re doing?” Hay-ull. “Those other pigs gon’ get me killed. Y’all come back to finish the job?”

  “What job?”

  “Y’all know what job. Gon’ steal the rest of my stash? Well, guess what? They got it all, and I’m a fuckin’ dead man.”

  “They say they’re coming back for you?” Skip asked.

  “Fuck, no, they’re done as hell with me. But you know who’s gon’ kill me.”

  “Your supplier, probably.”

  “You a regular Einstein.”

  “You know Alden Comeaux?”

  “Yeah. I know Alden. He the one rolled on me.”

  “Tell you what. You rest here a few minutes, okay? We’ll be right back?”

  Unlike Samuel, Alden Comeaux, far from being handcuffed and miserable, was out enjoying the fresh air. Either that, or fleeing the aforementioned supplier—more likely, fleeing Jones.

  “Or,” Skip suggested, “the Dirtbaggs took him out.”

  Abasolo winced. “Ow. Shall we go see Sam again?”

  “Oh, by all means.”

  “He’s gone, Samuel,” Abasolo began. “You want to tell us what happened here?”

  The thug shrugged his bare, scrawny shoulders. “Those two assholes busted in here with their guns out, beat me up, cuffed me, went right to the stash.”

  “Want to try again, Samuel? We know that isn’t what happened.”

  “Oh, hell, first one come first. What difference it make?”

  “Just testing you,” A.A. said. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, they tol’ me Alden rolled on me and they let him go. Said they gon’ kill us both, I give ’em any crap.”

  “And there,” Skip said, catching her partner’s eye, “you have it.”

  “You have what?” Jones said, “What the goddam fuck you have? Y’all gon’ get me killed.”

  “Au contraire,” Abasolo said. “We are going to save your life.”

  “Oh who?”

  Skip said, “You are such a nerd, A.A. Always with the fancy words.”

  “You know you love it.”

  “Actually, I do. You,” she said to Jones, “have the right to remain silent. You have the right…”

  “Y’all arrestin’ me? Hey, two pigs just ripped me off. What’d I do?”

  “That,” Absolo said, “is way too complicated to parse right now.”

  “Parse. See what I mean?” To Jones, she said, “Trust us. We’re saving your life. We’re gonna take you where that supplier can’t get you.”

  “Him or any other dirtbag,” A.A. said, and winked at Skip.

  “Whatchoo chargin’ me with? I ain’t done nothin’.”

  “How about resisting arrest?” said Abasolo. The all-purpose, grab-bag charge that fit just fine when somebody really hadn’t done anything. The dirty-pool, he-said-she-said charge. Skip hated cops who hid behind it, but with Elvis and Kirk in the wind, it was Samuel’s best chance.

  They took him to Camp Greyhound, a collection of open-air cages at the Greyhound Bus Station that was currently serving as Orleans Parish Prison. He’d be shipped to out to Angola in a few days and eventually freed.

  “Okay,” Abasolo said, “that was our good deed for the week. Now, let’s get into some trouble.”

  “Something’s been nagging at me—you know?”

  “And that would be?”

  “You know how El yelled when we were in the condo? I recognized his voice.”

  “Well, it is kind of distinctive in a country-boy, corn-pone, raspy kind of way. Those boys are from Monroe. But considering we know who he is, how’s that going to help us?”

  “Remember I told you about that guy with the dogs—Trent? He told me flat out he’d seen cops shooting ‘pond scum.’ And when I left there, I heard someone else coming to see him. He said something like, ‘Honey, I’m home.’ Wait! It was ‘Daddy’s home!’ That was it. In that voice. Elvis.”

  “You didn’t look to see who it was?”

  “I was trying to be low profile, but evidently it didn’t work.”

  A.A. took a moment to put it together. “You mean you’re jumping to conclusions just because they tried to kill you?”

  She swatted him. “Do you ever stop being funny?”

  “You know you love it. Did the guy who hit you look like Elvis?”

  “I guess he was about the right height, but I really couldn’t tell anything. Elvis is gay, right? Isn’t he, like, semi-out?”

  “I think he’s married but…yeah. I don’t know if he’s any kind of out, but rumors abound, as they say. Do you like Trent for a Dirtbagg?”

  “A witness, anyhow. He sure knows something. The main thing is, if Trent’s his sweetie, we’ve now got a way to track Elvis.”

  “He knows you, so let me handle that. I’ll leave you the pleasure of reporting our giant Jones Gang bust to Cappello and covering anything she’s got for us.”

  He texted her about four. “El back at Trent’s three p.m. Just rolled out. Where r u?”

  “Uptown.”

  Fifteen minutes later. “Headed ur way.”

  Twenty minutes after that. “Ripping off some thug—like Samuel. All three of them. Watch the fun?” He gave her an address.

  Watching in their separate cars, they agreed that when the job was finished, A.A. would take Weber, the third guy, and Skip would stay with Kirk, since they now had a reasonably reliable location for Elvis.

  At the end of the day, by candlelight, they met at Skip’s slave quarters to reconnoiter. A.A. brought his own water, and Skip broke out a bottle of wine from Jimmy Dee’s collection—he’d already told her to take anything she needed. And she desperately needed something good and familiar and a little bit luxurious.

  Abasolo took out his notebook. “I tailed Weber to a shotgun Uptown on Foucher Street. Don’t know if it’s his or he’s staying with somebody.”

  “I’m surprised about Weber. I remember him—friend of Joe Tarantino. Good guy—he got shot, didn’t he? Retired a hero.”

  “Which makes it kind of awkward to go to the brass. I mean…could we even trust Joe on this one?”

  She thought about it. “It would be a tough sell. Cappello’s trustworthy, but she’d want to take it higher, and you just don’t know who those guys are in bed with.”

  “And then there’s the fact that we don’t how many more there are. It’s not like we can keep dicking around trying to figure that out. Sure, people are getting hurt and maybe killed—I had
to go rescue the wholesaler they ripped off this afternoon—but this is no crazy, misguided attempt to exterminate vermin. These guys are thieves, pure and simple. We know they killed at least one guy—Kaynard—but I bet it’s whoever gets in their way, not some concerted effort.”

  Skip nodded, but he didn’t go on. “Tangent there, A.A.”

  “Yeah, sorry. You know what? It’s really hard to think when you’re exhausted and filthy and…”

  “And your house is underwater.”

  “Yeah.”

  For a moment, just a fleeting moment, Skip saw his features settle into a tragedy mask. But suddenly he sat up straight, visibly and consciously snapping to. “Okay, listen…we can’t take this to Cappello, and we can’t let it continue. We’ve got to come up with a plan.”

  “You know what? Three guys are all we need to bring them down. ’Cause you know the Baggses are running this thing. Here’s what I’m thinking…”

  ~~~

  She slept better knowing A.A. was next door, waking at sunrise almost refreshed. Quickly, she dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and badge, and went to bang on Ollie’s door.

  Ollie answered sporting serious bedhead and holding Ignatius to her cheek.

  “Ollie, why the hell are you still here?”

  “Bigger question—why are you here in the middle of the night? And by the way, I’m not leaving. The Eighty-Second Airborne was here yesterday. If they couldn’t make me, you can’t. They pried Dawn out, though. Good thing—I think she was starting to go nuts.”

  Skip thought Dawn already had a good start on that, but kept it to herself. “I came to ask if you could do me a favor and watch someone for us. But you just gave me a great idea. Is there anyone in Dickie and Dawn’s house?”

  “Just Breesy.”

  “Who?”

  “She couldn’t take the dog. So I’m pet-sitting and watching the house. He stays over there because Iggy bullies him. Why do you ask?”

  Quickly Skip told her, holding her breath.

  Ollie cried, “Oh, God, thank you! I’ve been feeling so damn helpless.”

  Skip knew the feeling. She went to get Abasolo and a fancy pocket recorder that Jimmy Dee had bought for his nephew, Kenny. Abasolo stared at it. “Why does a kid need that?”

  She shrugged. “School newspaper, of course. And horsing around.”

  They stuck together for the first part—waiting for Elvis Baggs to drag his lazy ass out of bed and head out to his car. Abasolo approached him. “Hey, El, remember me?”

  Expectantly, the other man turned around. He was handsome, for a thug, Skip thought. Probably thinks it’s some twinkie who just can’t forget him. But once he saw it was a cop, his hand went for his gun. Abasolo karate chopped him, causing Baggs to grab his injured wrist, swiveling his head for an escape route. He spun toward their unmarked car. Skip opened the door at that exact second, knocking Elvis into Abasolo’s arms. “Nice timing,” said Abasolo, planting his knee in the small of the man’s back.

  “I thought so. Nice catch.”

  Elvis said, “What the fuck?”

  “You know exactly what the fuck. You knew it the minute you saw me.”

  “I shouldn’t have let that goddam bitch live.” He turned murderous eyes on Skip. “Some goddam kid got in my way. Shoulda killed ’em both.”

  Abasolo smacked him on the temple. “Don’t call the lady rude names.”

  They wrestled him into the car and then into the Horvaths’ house, where they were greeted by a furious Breesy. Skip hoped El was afraid of dogs, but if not, there was always Ollie. Half the neighborhood was scared of her.

  They cuffed him to the Horvaths’ bed—which had evidently been purchased for handcuff compatibility—and went on their way with strict instructions to Ollie. “Shoot him in the balls if he makes any sudden move. Even a tiny one. And don’t remove the cuffs for any reason.”

  “What if he has to pee?”

  “Not your problem.”

  ~~~

  “The balls?” Abasolo asked later.

  “Uh-huh. It’s what I always aim for.”

  And then they split up, Abasolo to find Kirk, Skip to beard the third guy, Mike Weber, who, with any luck, didn’t know she’d been asking questions about crooked cops. One thing, he’d be easy to spot. He was a big, beefy, red-faced clown who fit the stereotype of the corrupt cop far too well for Skip’s comfort. He even wore aviator shades and a ball cap.

  She’d been at the Foucher Street house almost an hour when he lumbered down the sidewalk, self-importance oozing from every pore, a ceramic mug of coffee clutched in his right hand. That part was excellent. She got out of the car, gun in hand. Startled, he stumbled and spilled coffee all over his clothes, flailing helplessly as the hot liquid hit him.

  “You don’t have to dance for me.”

  He straightened up and stared at her, hatred beaming out of his eyes. “Take it easy,” she said, “I’m here to help you. Joe Tarantino sent me.” He relaxed a little. “Said to tell you he’s really, really disappointed in you.”

  “Yeah? He’s a grown man. He can tell me himself.” But he looked slightly alarmed, his dirty secret clearly out of the bag.

  “Can’t. He’s tied up today. But you’re still his friend, he said. And he wanted you to know you’ve got a target on your back.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  She shrugged. “He heard some guys talking about a double-cross. Your partners, maybe. Last thing I want to know is what guys. Somebody jumped me just for asking questions in my own hood. So I know something’s going down that I don’t want to know about. I’ve got my own don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy. You understand me?” The big man didn’t speak, trying to take it in. “We square?”

  Slowly, he nodded. Skip got in the car and drove off before he could collect himself and kill her. It was kind of a thin story, she thought. Not nearly as good as it seemed the night before. But it didn’t have to be— it only had to be good enough to put him on edge. He’d have to check it out, and he couldn’t do that without showing his hand.

  Abasolo had a better yarn, though. While she was conning Weber, he was blowing similar smoke at Kirk Baggs, the twist being that Weber had already killed Elvis and was now gunning for Kirk. They’d have to wait for Kirk to panic and go looking for his brother, but that was okay. More opportunity to prep for showtime.

  Skip parked down the street, stalking Weber with the binoculars from the Campbells’ condo. Once he’d gone back in the house, changed his coffee-stained clothes, and headed out, she settled into a lazy tail, hoping he’d paid a lot more attention to the cop with the gun than to the car she’d exited.

  Abasolo texted. “How’d it go?”

  “Hard to say. Wheels turning slowly.”

  “Can’t be too swift if hooked up with the Dirtbaggs. Things good here. Maybe trouble w/ W already. Kirk just said, ‘I’ll take care of it.’ And rode off like Clint Eastwood.”

  “You kiddin’ me!”

  “Just about Eastwood. I think the recorder got some of it.”

  “Bodes well for the next part.”

  Which was the tricky part. The plan was for Skip to keep on Weber and A.A. to keep on Baggs until the two met up. Weber made a few stops, apparently looking for Baggs and not finding him.

  She reported to Abasolo. He texted back. “Baggs went to Trent’s, came out loaded for bear. Texting now.”

  “Weber’s reading a text.”

  “Bingo. Ready?”

  “Loaded for bear.”

  Skip followed Weber to an isolated area of City Park. There were areas where the park was as woodsy as Golden Gate or Central Park, though much of it had been devastated by Katrina. It was going to take months or years to clean up, and in the meantime, tent cities of workers were beginning to spring up there. But it was a huge piece of land, big enough to have a private meeting unnoticed. The Dirtbaggs had chosen well. Skip watched Weber park and walk deep into the woods.

  Abasolo and Kirk
Baggs were already there. She followed at a discreet distance.

  They’d decided the person who got there first would be point on this, and the other would serve as backup. Abasolo was ideal, becausesince he had the recorder, and, luck of the draw, it worked that way. She could hear yelling even as she approached.

  “Where the fuck is he?” It was Baggs.

  She stationed herself behind a bush that still had enough foliage for cover. The two men were standing on a narrow path, maybe ten feet apart.

  “I don’t know where your goddam brother is, and I don’t give a shit about either one of you dirtbags. I’m sorry I ever got mixed up with this goddam sleazy operation. I’m walkin’, okay? I resign. I quit. I am o-u-t, out. You understand? You assholes keep the money—I’m not doing this no more.”

  Baggs’s voice was shrill with desperation. “What’d you do with my goddam brother?”

  “I didn’t do nothin’ with him. I’m leavin’.” But instead he stood his ground.

  “You killed him, you lowlife, Billy Bob Bubba. Killed him and dumped him in the river.”

  “I…what? Dumped him in the river? What are you talking about?”

  “You think you’re smart, don’t you? Fakin’ me out with the innocent act. You’ve got the stash in that garage, you’re the one with the hotshot connections, you think you can get rid of us now that we got the drugs for you. Well, guess what, douchebag?” He went for his gun even as he talked, and Weber did the same.

  Abasolo shouted, “Drop it, assholes, or I’ll blow you all the way to Biloxi!”

  And then there were two quick, deadly pops in quick succession.

  Skip thought Baggs shot first, but couldn’t be sure. Maybe the two thugs fired simultaneously, like the men who’d famously dueled in City Park a century ago. But only Baggs went down.

  “Drop it,” she yelled, but Weber didn’t. She fired, he fired, and so did Abasolo.

  Weber fell like a tree—all six feet of him exploding to the ground at once, making a cracking noise like a fifth shot.

  Baggs was still alive, bleeding badly from the shoulder. They tossed him in the back seat of Abasolo’s car and Skip applied pressure while they hauled ass to the triage center at the airport. He didn’t deserve Dr. Moreau. “Don’t bother dying, Baggsy,” she whispered. “Your brother’s alive and you’re both going away for a while.”