Polly Iyer - Diana Racine 03 - Backlash

by Polly Iyer

  “Wait. Hold on,” Griffin said, sweat blooming on his upper lip.

  “Who’s your snitch?” Lucier pressed.

  “I don’t know, I swear. I get anonymous messages on my email. They’ve panned out.” He swiped his hand over his mouth. “It’s the truth. Honest to God.”

  “Did you try to crack the email?”

  “I don’t know anyone who does that, except Moran. And he’s, you know, dead.”

  “Why would you think Moran knew how to crack an email account?” Diana asked.

  “Come on,” Griffin said. “He worked for you, digging up information on your audience.”

  This time Diana’s face paled. “Not true, and if you print that, will your paper foot the bill when I slap you with a libel suit? I don’t think so.”

  Diana had now gone from pale to flushed. Lucier loved when she got going. One thing about his girlfriend, she could take care of herself.

  “After all I’ve done for you, Jake. I gave you the biggest story of your career. Put you on the damn map.”

  “And because of you I almost got whacked.”

  “Being a star reporter can be dangerous,” Diana said.

  “I want those emails, Jake.” Lucier said.

  “My sources are privileged.”

  “Ah, so it’s a source,” Lucier said. “That doesn’t sound anonymous to me.”

  “They are anonymous, and even if I knew who sent them, keeping my sources private is a First Amendment right, guaranteed by the Constitution. You know, the set of laws our country was founded on? Anyway, the messages came with a caveat: delete them immediately after reading. I did.”

  “You pay informants, don’t you?”

  Jake started to answer, then stopped. Thinking about if that’s a crime, Jake?

  “Well, yeah. Journalists pay for information. So do cops. It’s not illegal.”

  He had Lucier there. “How do you pay them?”

  “The email tells me where. Some kid waits, takes the money, and scrams. It’s always a different kid.”

  “And you never followed the kid?”

  “Why would I? I don’t want to know who’s giving me the info. Besides, there’s more than one person. This is all kosher, Lieutenant.”

  “Okay then, let me put it another way. If you compromise an ongoing investigation and someone dies, I’ll charge you with accessory to murder. That’s a right guaranteed to the police by law. Understand?”

  “You can try,” Griffin said, now bolder.

  Lucier got in Griffin’s face. “You could be dealing with some unscrupulous people, Jake. If you don’t want to wind up in Bayou St. John, I suggest you take in the county bake fair and write about Louisiana hot sauce recipes for a while.”

  “I bet squeaky clean Lieutenant Lucier has a couple of skeletons in his closet. I’ll find them. Count on it.” Griffin turned and stomped off.

  “Well,” Diana said. “That was interesting. Why didn’t you arrest him? You know he was lying.”

  “Slimy little ― I’d love to, but informants are part of journalism. Remember Deep Throat or the reporter whose faulty information contributed to our entering the Iraq War. No matter, I’d like to throttle him, but Jake’s only doing his job. I’d really like to get my hands on the informers.”

  “I used to think Jake was harmless, but I don’t anymore. He’ll do anything for a story, even if it means putting others at risk.”

  “I’ll have Cash make a list of all the leaks. We might be able to narrow down the source. Not many people know Chenault and Alba are missing. He can start there.”

  “Jake could have overheard something.”

  “Possible.”

  They wandered down the Alley, sampling more delicacies along the way. When they finished their stroll, they dumped their empty plates into a big barrel.

  “So what are you going to do?” Diana asked.

  “I hadn’t planned on going to my office today, but I’m afraid I have to cut short our free day. Don’t hate me.”

  “I couldn’t hate you. You need to do what you need to do.”

  He kissed her cheek. “Thanks for understanding.”

  Lucier’s phone chimed. “Yeah, Willy.”

  “Found some interesting stuff, Lieutenant,” Cash said. “Soulé and Winstead aren’t the only victims of an avenger.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Halloran and I found a few more.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A Pattern

  Cash and Halloran were deep into paperwork when Lucier entered the squad room.

  “Got something you’ll be interested in, Lieutenant,” Halloran said.

  “Give me a minute. I need to make a call.” Lucier went into his office and flipped through his phone contacts, stopping at Jason Connors and punching in the number.

  Connors lived in Atlanta and worked for a computer software company, writing code. He filled Keys Moran’s job on Diana’s team when Keys left.

  Lucier had used Jason’s talents in the past, and he was about to ask for his services again. Lucier’s reputation as a straight shooter would be sorely discredited if anyone found out. He was willing to take the risk.

  Jason answered, and after a quick exchange of catch-up, Lucier said, “I might need you to do a small job for me? I’ll pay all expenses.”

  “You need me to fly down?”

  “Only if I can get my hands on a smashed hard drive residing in our property department. If I can, I want you to see what’s left on it.”

  “Isn’t that something you’re not supposed to do?”

  “Yes. Our tech said there was nothing to retrieve. I’m not sure I believe him.”

  “If the hard drive is smashed, getting anything off it is tricky and more than likely impossible, but if the tech is dirty, he’d have degaussed the drive to make sure any information remaining was irretrievable.”

  “Explain that in English, will you?”

  “He would have erased the hard drive by magnetizing it. Are you sure the tech did something to the hard drive, or are you guessing?”

  Lucier thought for a minute. “I’m ninety percent sure I’m guessing.”

  Jason laughed. “What happens if you get caught taking the drive from the property room?”

  “Trouble in Crescent City.”

  “Sounds like it’s not worth the risk, but that’s for you to decide.”

  Lucier knew he was right. “I just wanted your input. I might have something else I want you to do, but I’m not sure just yet.”

  “You’re playing this all by ear, aren’t you?”

  “Right again.”

  “Well, let me know. It’d be good to work with you and Diana again.”

  “Okay, and thanks, Jason.” He knew from the outset his plan was foolhardy. If he felt so strongly about Hodge, why didn’t he go to the captain and voice his concerns? Was he being too suspicious, too secretive?

  Lucier decided to give his next move more consideration before eagerness prevailed over reason.

  He punched the intercom and called for Cash and Halloran. They entered with file folders in their hands, and Cash shut the door behind him.

  “After you fill me in, I want Willy to gather the information on the leaks Jake Griffin wrote about: what stories they referred to, which district they affected, etc. I want to pinpoint them. They take a back seat to the overall investigation, though. The killer comes first.”

  “Gotcha, Lieutenant,” Cash said.

  “Now, what have you found?” Lucier said. “You first, Willy.”

  “Here’s what we did. Instead of going through court files, we hit the newspapers. Both Soulé and Winstead’s cases made the papers big time, public outrage and all that. We figured if a miscarriage of justice caused a ruckus, we’d read it on the first page. We followed up on the three most suspicious cases.”

  Cash put a copy of a newspaper page facing Lucier. “Though I hate like hell to point a finger at cops, these guys should have been charg
ed. They weren’t.”

  Lucier skimmed the article about the ambulance service called to take a ninety-three-year-old man from a nursing home to the hospital for tests. “The old man thought the tests were unnecessary and got unruly, so one of the EMS guys called the police.”

  “Right,” Halloran said. “One caregiver described the three cops who responded as storm troopers, and another said the police wouldn’t let the staff calm the old guy down.”

  Cash pointed to a line on the page. “Later, the cops swore he had a butcher knife. The staff and other residents are on record saying no one saw a knife, just a cane. Anyway, one cop shot the old man with a stun gun and another struck him with bean bag rounds. The old man died on the spot from internal bleeding. He was a World War II vet.”

  Lucier kept reading. The incident took place about fifty miles from New Orleans, so he didn’t know any of the cops involved. “Their captain put them on suspension without pay, but the people caused an uproar when no charges were filed against them.”

  “Here’s what caught our eye,” Cash said. “The cop that used the stun gun was killed in a home robbery. One of the other cops was in a car accident he said another car caused on purpose. He’s paralyzed from the chest down. No one saw the accident, and the victim couldn’t identify the car.”

  “A few weeks later, the wife of the third cop found him in their garage with the car running,” Halloran said. “The ME ruled suicide. His wife said he wasn’t depressed or suicidal, just pissed for being suspended and called a murderer.”

  “Autopsies show any signs of force?” Lucier asked.

  “We haven’t had time to check,” Cash said. “We wanted to run this by you first.”

  “Definitely follow up. I’m surprised no one put those three incidents together. Anything else?”

  “This one made the national news,” Halloran said. “Again, nearby but not in Orleans Parish. Maggie St. Clair mean anything to you? Happened over a year ago.”

  “The woman whose baby went missing?”

  “Yeah. She claimed someone kidnapped the newborn, but the baby was never found. Everyone thought she killed the infant to be with her boyfriend, who didn’t want a kid interfering with their fun. She played the grieving mother, but no one believed her.”

  Lucier remembered back to the case that started with a kidnapped baby. “I remember she disappeared.”

  “Right,” Halloran said. “Cops questioned the boyfriend, but he had an iron-tight alibi. They figured she took off over the border and got lost in Mexico rather than face the music. She’s never resurfaced.”

  Lucier leaned back in his chair and settled into meditative mode. A sick feeling churned his stomach. “Whoever’s doing this isn’t always staying close to home, which makes finding the pattern difficult.”

  “What we thought,” Cash said. He glanced at Halloran. “There’s something else. This does strike close to home.”

  Halloran put another copy of a newspaper article in front of Lucier. “Since you suspect Chenault, we ran a background check.”

  Lucier read the newspaper article. “This happened twenty-five years ago in Livingston. How’d you find this?”

  “We dug and kept digging,” Halloran said.

  “Chenault’s around my age, give or take a year or two, so he would have been around seventeen.” Lucier read on. Denny Chenault’s father bludgeoned his mother to death. “‘Rosemary Chenault was pronounced dead at the scene.’” Lucier stared at the article until Halloran covered that sheet of paper with another. “Someone offed Dennis Chenault Sr. in Angola seven years later.”

  “They never found who, either,” Cash said. “Couldn’t’ve been Dennis Chenault Jr.”

  “No,” Lucier said, “but he could have orchestrated the hit. Chenault was a cop in New Orleans at the time.”

  “How could he get someone to commit murder for him?” Cash asked.

  “Hell, I’ve known some’d shiv a guy for a carton of cigarettes,” Halloran said. “’Specially if they didn’t like the guy.”

  Cash hit Lucier with a penetrating stare. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking I’d really like to talk to Chenault. No sign of him yet?”

  “Nope. Chenault and Alba have disappeared from New Orleans.”

  “Maybe off the face of the earth,” Lucier mumbled, realizing the previously sick feeling had turned into an ominous premonition. Chenault and Alba were two cogs in the wheel, but someone bigger drove the cart.

  “We know Chenault played cards with Rudy Hodge, Dave Rickett, Anton Alba, Marty Feldman, and Chris Michel. Sometimes with Moran, but he wasn’t a regular.” He stopped, doodled on a pad of paper. “Have you checked the others out to see if anything personal in their pasts might set them on a path of vengeance?”

  “No,” Cash said. “We concentrated on finding obvious miscarriages of justice with the one detour.”

  “You did good in the short time. Excellent, in fact. Put together a family history on the others for something that stands out. Anything.” Lucier perused the papers one more time. “Hmm, I wonder.”

  “What?” Halloran asked.

  “You have a funny look on your face, Lieutenant,” Cash said.

  “That’s because he’s thinking about how to find missing people,” Halloran said.

  “Only one way to do that these days,” Beecher said after a quick knock on the door and entering.

  Lucier looked up, surprised. “What are you doing here? I thought you were taking the afternoon off.”

  “I thought you were,” Beecher replied.

  “Yeah, well.” His voice trailed off. “Cash and Halloran found a few stories that reinforce our theory of an avenger.”

  “Or avengers,” Halloran added.

  Lucier handed Beecher what the two men had uncovered, and Beecher quickly scanned the pages. “Jesus. This is a whole new ballgame.”

  “What’s the one way to find a missing person?” Cash asked Beecher, then stopped, eyes widening. He pulled a slow take to Lucier. “Ah, Diana.”

  Lucier smiled at the three men. “Right. Diana. Time to talk to the captain.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Talk to Me

  The group got to their feet when Diana entered the office. She suppressed a smile at their expectant expressions. “Looks like you’re waiting for someone. Me, perhaps?”

  “Yup,” Lucier said. “You need to start earning your salary.”

  “Since when have I received a salary?”

  “I’ll requisition some money. Write up a bill. And remember, this is a police department, not a private client with money to throw away for a psychic reading.”

  “Huh? Throw away? As if I’m not worth it?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Hunh,” she huffed.

  “The captain’s still trying to figure out how to justify your name on the payroll,” Lucier said.

  “Simple. I’m a consultant.” She looked over at the cap and shirt on Lucier’s desk. “Those for me?”

  “Yup. Captain Craven called Commander Lightner to ask if Halloran could pick up something from Chenault’s and Alba’s lockers.”

  “The Commander ushered me there himself,” Halloran said. “He was very helpful. He’s also worried about the two missing detectives.”

  “With good reason,” Beecher said.

  “If I stay in the room, will it make a difference?” Cash said. “I’ve never seen you do this.”

  “You can all stay. Remember, I used to do this in front of an audience. Got a lot more money too,” Diana said, raising a brow at Lucier.

  He shook his head and smiled.

  “Yes!” Cash pumped his fist. “How does this work? You hold the cap or shirt, then what?”

  “The clothing either tells me something or it doesn’t.”

  She sauntered to Lucier’s desk where a ball cap and a white dress shirt waited. Excitement swelled inside her. This case was important. She needed to help find her fri
end’s murderer. She picked up the ball cap. “Speak to me.”

  “Which?” Cash asked. “The cap or the owner?”

  “Either or,” Diana answered, taking a seat.

  “Try to contain your enthusiasm, Willy,” Lucier said. “Not one word after you leave this office.”

  “My lips are sealed, Lieutenant.”

  “This is one time Jake Griffin won’t get wind of what we’re doing.”

  “Nothing from me,” Halloran said.

  The men pulled their chairs to the side to watch, and Diana gave them all a smile. “Just remember, I might not glean anything from these items, so don’t get your hopes up, okay?”

  “Don’t beat yourself up if nothing happens,” Lucier said, “and if you lose control, stop.”

  “Losing control means I can’t stop.” Diana’s outward smile turned inward. Sweet Ernie. Not long ago, he was afraid she’d pass out or die or something. He was coming around.

  “Can someone take notes?”

  Cash waved his notebook. “I will.”

  “Good?” She placed the cap in her lap and held it tightly.

  Concentrate, Diana.

  The cap felt cold to her touch.

  The room went silent. She closed her eyes and after a few moments, she slipped into another world where time didn’t exist. The image formed slowly. “This is eerie. I’m in … a large graveyard. It’s dark, and the full moon is casting shadows everywhere. Creepy.” She clutched the cap tighter against her midsection. “Secluded, on a quiet road with a big iron gate and a long wall or partition nearby.” A chill caused goose bumps to sprout on her arms, and she shivered.

  “I’m near a border of trees ―” She stopped. Aromas filled her senses. “I smell fresh earth and evergreens. The air is muggy, but I’m shivering.” She rubbed her arms. “The area is thick with tombstones and old monuments. The paths are narrow. I see a big headstone with a cross on top.” She squinted, straining to read the name. “Joseph, no, Josiah, Josiah Jackson, 1905-1968.” She trembled again. “The ground is cold.” Her breath quickened as a new image developed. “Arms and legs all twisted around each other. Dirty. There’s blood, dried. So cold.” She swallowed hard and waited, and waited some more, but her vision faded into the darkness.