by Harper, Chap
Confident men can be very sexy, Debi thought as she toyed with Lester on the phone.
“Just because I don’t have any more patients today doesn’t mean I can go riding around with the first cop who calls me. Maybe I’ve got things to do…and didn’t we have lunch together yesterday?”
“Since I’m the first cop to call you today, maybe I get some credits for being…in line first. And remember, you fired me yesterday. I’m traumatized and in need of counseling. I’ll be by in the shiny red car in five minutes.”
Debi was waiting outside her office, smiling. She leaned towards the approaching car as though she were excited about the trip. Lester got out of the car to help her, but this time she wore pants, so the awkward short dress affair was avoided. He put his hand out to help Debi step into the elevated SUV.
She felt that same magical electrical feeling as Lester squeezed her hand to assist her. Debi really wanted to get out of the office. She really wanted to be with Lester today and wanted desperately to hide that from him. In a playful manner, she started arguments with him and disagreed with everything he said. Debi was more attracted to him than to any guy in her past. What she wanted was a relationship—the relationship—that would shape everything they would ever do in their lives. Her goal was to hold herself together until then and not blow it.
“Can we drive out to Ouachita and look at the lake, maybe get a bite to eat at Shangri-La? Just get away for a while and not be at work,” Lester said, waiting for Debi’s reaction to see if she was game.
“Well, I guess, but I was hoping to see you shoot somebody today. Have you gotten around to that yet?” Debi said, holding back a laugh.
“If I just wounded you—would that count?”
“Too easy a target. Tell me about some cases you’re working on, or would you have to shoot me if you told me?”
“I may have to go to New Orleans for a gun dealer case. Want to go with me?” Lester cut his eyes at her and flashed a goofy grin.
“Do I get my own room or would I be required to sleep with the head investigator?”
“Well, that’d be Captain Campanella. I’ll call and ask if you can sleep with him. I think he’s married but I’ll call to see…” Lester reached for his phone and acted as if he were dialing when Debi took the phone from him.
“When is this trip?” Debi asked.
“Right now Sheriff Adams is a little cool to the idea, but in a few days—months—maybe years—he’ll give in.”
“What else do you have a little closer to home so that I don’t have to sleep with a New Orleans cop?”
“Possible drug lab posing as a crystal mine. And that’s all I’m going to say, or I’ll have to kill you, and I’d hate to do that on an empty stomach.”
Debi laughed and wondered about the world cops lived in. She knew their jobs could be dangerous, and maybe she was attracted to guys who liked a little danger. Her ex-boyfriend was a scuba diver and sky diver. She loved scuba diving but refused to leave a plane that was still airborne with the engines running. She liked motorcycles if they were girl-sized, such as trail bikes. Big Harleys—not so much. She had shot trap with her dad at his gun club and was getting to be better at busting the clay targets. Maybe Lester would like to go with her.
“Lester, would you take me trap shooting sometime?”
“Will you have a gun, too?” Lester couldn’t hold back the laughter and then noticed a fist coming in his direction.
Debi reached over and slugged him on the shoulder. She had come up with something slightly manly they could do together, and he had made fun of it. Typical male, she thought.
Realizing he may have been a little harsh, he reopened the game. “Debi, I’d love to go trap shooting with you, and I’ll go a step further—I’ll take you to shoot sporting clays if you want to,” Lester said in his most sincere voice.
“Maybe…but now you’ve pissed me off, and I might just shoot you by accident.”
“Whatever. There’s a bait shop before we get into Montgomery County where we can get some beer or wine to take with us. It’s a dry county at the lake. That be ok?” Lester asked.
“Yes. Can I tell you what kind of wine I want? I prefer a Jordan’s cab—maybe a 2008 or 9. If not, a Cakebread chardonnay with some nice Havarti cheese.”
“Debi—it’s a bait store.”
“How nice of a bait store?”
“It ain’t a Neiman Marcus bait store!”
“Well, shit. I’ll go in with you and pick out what I want.”
Lester laughed and wondered if she had ever been in a real bait and tackle store.
They kidded around about the type of beverages they expected to find and whether worms, minnows, crickets, or beer would be the best use of floor space. Nothing had been solved when Jody’s Bait Store came into view on the right. The side of the small white building was covered in huge letters that said, “Beer, Bait, and Ammo.”
“Oh, they’re using my floor space for ammo, I see. Most effective—high return during deer season, I bet,” Debi said.
Lester had gotten quiet. He reached under the seat and pulled out two black cases. Without looking down he removed two pistols. One was a Sig Sauer .45 caliber automatic and the other a Berretta 9 millimeter. He slid shells into chambers, released the safety on both and handed the Berretta to Debi. He put an extra clip in his pocket.
“Don’t point this at me and if you have to use it, just aim and pull the trigger as fast as you can.”
“What the hell is going on, Lester? I’m scared!”
“So am I. Do you see that pimped-out car parked sideways in front of the bait shop?” Lester asked but didn’t expect an answer. “Pretty sure the place is being robbed. When I pull in I’ll park the Yukon in front of their car. We’ll get out and take cover behind our car and wait to see what happens. If I get hit, just point the gun at anyone that comes near you and empty the magazine.”
Lester pulled up the big SUV and pointed the front towards the highway, blocking an older model Chevy with thin tires and expensive rims that spun while the car was stopped. A black man with a knit ski hat pulled down over his face sat behind the steering wheel. The motor was running. Lester jumped out, pulled Debi across the seat and placed her in a squatting position near the ground behind the rear wheel well.
“Stay there and keep your head down!” Lester yelled as he moved to the front wheel well. He rose up with his gun directed across the hood. The Chevy’s driver started opening his door at the same time a gunshot rang out from inside the bait store. Seconds later a skinny tall black man ran out of the shop.
He carried a plastic bag and yelled at his friend, “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”
Before he could take another step, a blast from inside the building blew out the front store window, spraying buckshot and glass on the man’s back. He turned to fire at the store owner.
“Sherriff’s Department! Drop the gun or I’ll take your head off!!” Lester expected what would come next since most robberies were committed by people who were fried on drugs and didn’t care if they lived or died.
“No way, motherfucker!”
The man wheeled around and started firing his pistol on full semi-automatic. Bullets zipped by Lester’s head and burst through the windows of his car. Brutal metallic sounds pierced the air when the bullets slammed into the door and hood of the car. Most cops fire off a lot of rounds because they are fueled with adrenalin, but Lester stood up, Zen-like through the chaos, and fired one shot centered almost perfectly between the man’s eyes. A halo of pink appeared at the rear of the man’s head as brain matter exploded. The man crumbled into an awkward pile of legs and arms.
The driver was up behind his door and began to spray the SUV with automatic pistol fire. Lester realized he was using a machine pistol like an Uzi or a Mac-10. Bullets were flying everywhere. He glanced at Debi and instead of looking scared, she looked mad. Lester dropped to the ground and motioned for Debi to do the same. She was so sexy with a
gun in her hand—like a Vogue cover girl or maybe a model on the front of a hunting magazine. Lester told her to shoot at the legs of the guy standing by the car door from under the Yukon. Debi took aim and fired through the tight space under the carriage of the Yukon in the general direction of the shooter. She hit near his legs and through his door. That was all the distraction Lester needed. He stood erect and took aim at the little bit of the knit hat that showed above the door. The bullet entered the man’s brain through the hat and he too slumped into a weird position.
Debi and Lester rushed with a first aid kit to the front door of the bait shop.
“It’s the police. Don’t shoot. It’s Lester McFarlin, Jody. You okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. That black motherfucker tried to kill me. Come on in.”
Lester and Debi ran to his side where he had propped himself against the counter while seated on the floor. His right chest area had a bad bullet wound. Blood was pumping out but slowed by a large stash of paper towels Jody had stuffed in the hole. Lester and Debi put on rubber gloves and worked on the wound with gauze compresses and bandages while they dialed every emergency vehicle in two counties. He could survive the wound, but loss of blood was a concern. Lester asked his blood type and added that to his telephone report. A Lifeline helicopter with type O Positive was on the way. Debi noticed blood running down Lester’s shoulder and raised his short-sleeved polo shirt to find a small hole where a bullet had entered and exited his upper arm.
“Just a flesh wound, my dear. Don’t hurt much.” Lester grinned, but Debi didn’t believe the not hurting part. She cleaned the wound and put a gauze dressing on each side with an ample amount of antibiotic she found in a tube.
Jody appeared stable when the paramedics arrived. Before they loaded him in the helicopter, Debi said she needed to ask him a question. “What is it?” he asked.
“Can you recommend a nice red wine from your collection here at the bait shop?”
Jody laughed out loud and whispered something in her ear.
“What did he say?” asked Lester, who was being re-doctored by paramedics from Mt. Ida. They praised Debi’s first aid work but added stiches to his wound. Debi ignored Lester’s inquiry.
Police and sheriff cars started pulling up. Sheriff Jake was one of the first to come from Mt. Ida. Lester introduced Debi.
“Debi, I want you to watch how a group of cops can screw up a crime scene,” Lester said.
They both watched as state police, sheriff deputies, and others strolled over the entire crime scene—stepping on footprints, leaning on doors and counters and placing their hands on everything and everywhere. One by one, they walked up to the bodies and poked around in pockets. They stepped in blood and picked up empty cartridges without properly marking them. The actions would have been comical had the crime not involved Lester and Debi.
Sheriff Mike Adams pulled up and shooed everyone out of the area except for Little Richard and the photographer. The sheriff came over and introduced himself to Debi. Rich then followed Lester’s protocol. He interviewed Lester and Debi—separately. Later, he would interview Jody when he was stabilized at the hospital. He collected all the weapons, including Lester’s two pistols, while wearing gloves. He issued instructions to the coroner. He collected evidence inside the store and on the grounds. He started to put up crime scene tape and Debi asked him to give her a minute. She ran inside and came out with a bottle of wine. She told Little Richard to tell Jody about the wine.
“Lester, why is he being so thorough on this crime scene? It’s cut and dry. You saved Jody and took two criminals off the streets,” Debi said, perplexed.
“Cops are investigated on a tougher standard than bad guys.” Lester had been a part of cases on both sides of the spectrum.
“I’ll be suspended with pay until I’m cleared. My car can’t be fixed until the authorities check it out. First thing they’ll say is I was racial profiling when I pulled in front of a black guy parked at a store with his car running and wearing a ski mask in August. Maybe the guy fired at me to defend himself. Maybe Jody tried to rob the black guy when he went in to buy some beer. Maybe the machine pistol was a Christmas present,” Lester said without much emotion.
“Horse shit! How in the world does anyone ever become a cop if they are treated that way?” Debi was furious.
“Really, the investigation is done to satisfy the relatives of the dead robbers and the general public. I know the results will be favorable, especially because Little Richard is doing his job. We all go through this and can just hope Internal Affairs works quickly because I have work to do. By the way, you were great under fire. I’ll think twice from now on before making you too mad.”
“Let me see if I can borrow a car since I’m off duty now.”
Little Richard said he would ride back with the sheriff and lent Lester his patrol car, assuring him he would stay until Lester’s car was towed.
Lester turned onto the highway and headed to Shangri La Resort. Once he pulled up to the restaurant, Debi got out on her side, holding the wine close to her body. The manager, Sam Barnhouse, knew Lester and had heard about the shooting from a customer who had passed the crime scene. The staff gave them a round of applause as they walked in.
“Would it be possible to drink our bottle of wine here?” Lester asked. “I don’t think Sheriff Jake will arrest me.”
“Lester, you can open a saloon here if you want after what you went through today,” Sam said.
Still hiding the wine from Lester, Debi ordered fried shrimp, while Lester found a large chef salad on the menu and added shrimp as a topping. After they ordered, Debi carried the wine to the kitchen and asked them to serve it when the food came out. Seated at the table, both sipped water and gazed at each other.
So much had happened since Lester called her for a little drive by the lake. They were having fun before the killings. Now they stared and said nothing. Debi reasoned they had earned the right to lock eyes. Hell, they had been in a gunfight. Bullets had flown by their heads. One had torn through Lester’s arm. They had stopped the bleeding on a man who might have died if they hadn’t come into the bait store. They both had blood on their clothes. She had shot at a man who had a machine pistol and was spraying bullets all around them.
Debi wondered if the good times of sparring with each other and dancing around the mutual attraction had disappeared. The phoniness was now gone. How long could they keep looking at each other? As these thoughts moved around in her head, the food arrived and both blinked. Directly following the food, Sam lovingly carried a bottle of wine wrapped in a towel. He was holding two beautiful wine glasses Debi imagined belonged to a local household, maybe robbed for this occasion. Sam placed the glasses in front of them and peeled the foil from the top of the bottle, exposing the cork which he removed like a pro. The “no alcohol law” possibly had been ignored many times before. He poured a small amount for Lester, who swirled the wine around in his large glass and viewed the rich red color. He sniffed and tasted the smooth, bold, and complex beverage. Sam poured a glass for Debi and then filled Lester’s glass. They each sipped. Both acknowledged the wine was very good. Debi pulled down the towel, exposing the label on the bottle.
“Let me read the label, Lester. Jordan’s Cabernet Sauvignon—estate bottled—2005.” Debi smiled at Lester. “It appears that ol’ Jody is a wine freak and only too happy to share his private stock. He made this a gift for helping him.” Debi was beaming.
Lester took Debi’s hand, leaned over the table and kissed her on the lips…not too long, but not too quick. He stopped for a minute and savored her breath—then kissed her again.
In one afternoon, they had bonded more strongly than some people do in a lifetime. He held both of her hands and whispered, “Baby, where do we go from here?”
Chapter Six
St. Bernard Parish, Chalmette, Louisiana
One visitor to the Louisiana Sportsman’s Super Store in Chalmette gave a statement to the New Orleans
Times Picayune, “Dey’s enough guns in dere to start and win World War III—twice.”
The huge gun store was a cavernous building that featured stuffed animals ranging from rabbits to a rhinoceros. They were placed in settings much like their own habitat next to animals which were normally close associates before they were all shot, skinned, and sent to the neighborhood taxidermist. Live alligators were in an enclosure along with a few turtles and fish. Whole chickens were thrown to them during a well-announced and posted feeding time.
“Attention Super Store Guests! We will be feeding the alligator in fifteen minutes. Find your way to the center of the store. While you’re there, please notice the sale on Alabama rigs for only fourteen ninety-five. They won’t last long at that price. Thank you for shopping at our Sportsman’s Super Store.”
Suddenly there was a loud murmur as everyone pushed in to watch alligators fighting for dead chickens. Adjoining the gators was a big glassed-in display of water moccasins squirming around in a swamp setting replete with Spanish moss hanging from tree limbs. The place had a Night in the Museum feel to it until you noticed that every room held weapons. A dizzying array of rifles, pistols, bows, arrows, and ninja throwing knives were for sale. If the United States were attacked by any country smaller than Russia or China, the place could easily hold them off for a good while.
A more remarkable collection of weapons rested behind a concrete bunker hidden in back of a false wall in the rear of the store, its contents lovingly cared for by Anthony “Tony” Evola. Tony was in his sixties, short, round, and partly bald with a comb-over effect going on in a last ditch effort to cover an emerging shiny skull. He had a large Italian Catholic family—five sons who worked in the store and a daughter who was a doctor in the Memphis area. It was unlikely that Mr. Evola had ever been hunting or knew anything about it. He, however, knew guns and this store was his second. Katrina took the first one.