Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller

by David Lyons

  “What do you want to do, Fitch?”

  “I’m going to see the boy’s father. I was hoping you might want to go with me—that is, unless all that busywork is really important. There’s something else I need to tell you. Not on the phone.”

  “Fitch, I’m about as useful here as tits on a bull. When do you want to go?”

  “Can you get away now?”

  “Meet me at my place in an hour.”

  Mildred frowned as he left.

  • • •

  Fitch pulled up in front of Boucher’s home. Ready and waiting, Boucher locked his front door, then descended the porch stairs.

  “I appreciate you coming with me,” Fitch said when Jock got in the car. There was an odor of fried chicken, Fitch’s carry-out dinner of the previous evening, but the more prominent aroma was of freshly brewed coffee. Fitch sipped his; and a second cup, with a thin column of steam rising from its sip hole, was set in the two-cup holder between them. Boucher lifted it almost as if offering a toast.

  “Did you know this fellow well?” he asked.

  “The trooper? Met him for the first time yesterday. But his dad and I were on a joint operation a few years ago, a takedown. He caught a bullet in the back and is confined to a wheelchair. I think he has people looking after him, but I want to make sure. I also want him to know that I care about his son, whatever happened. He was still MIA, last I heard.”

  Fitch turned to face Boucher. “Might do a little sightseeing too. There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.” He gave a narration of his cleanup job at the Dumont mansion. “The caliber of the bullet that killed the maid in his basement was the same as that of the gun used in the attempt to rob you. Now we have a trooper missing after asking a few questions about a boat owned by none other. This Ray Dumont’s got me curious. I thought we might pass by his company headquarters in Houma on our way back.”

  “It’s funny how his name keeps popping up. I met him at an art walk. He said he was going to invite me over to his place. You know, now that you mention it, I’m in the mood for a little sightseeing too.” He leaned back in his seat.

  They left New Orleans on Route 90 east, then turned north on 70 just outside of Morgan City. They said nothing. Boucher knew these bayous. He’d almost been murdered in one near here and had the detective next to him to thank for saving his life on that occasion. Fitch either knew where he was going or had memorized an impressive number of directions: a flurry of lefts and rights. There was water all around them. Lake Verret was actually a shallow system of waterways east of the Atchafalaya levee system. The day was clear, and the sun could be seen in brilliant patches through the leaves and branches of cypress trees along the shoreline. It was too pretty to be on such a sad mission. They passed competing real estate agents’ signs offering waterfront lots for sale. Fitch turned in to an overgrown drive. Dense low-hanging branches completely hid the house from the road. The driveway was not deep. It ended about ten yards into the brush, right in front of the house. The covered porch had a ramp built for the owner to enter and depart. It was unscreened and wrapped around the right side. This section was supported on stilts and built right over the water. The front door had been widened to accommodate a wheelchair. The lord of this manor could just roll out his front door, take a left, and hang his fishing line over the balcony. It was almost like living on a houseboat. Tom Freeman sat in profile, staring over the lake. He didn’t turn when the car pulled up, when the doors opened and closed, not even as the two men approached.

  “Tom, it’s me, Fitch. I brought a friend.”

  “Come on up, Fitch.”

  They climbed the porch and walked slowly toward him. Anyone could see from his face that worry had already given over to expression of life’s most profound grief.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  “Have you got anybody looking after you?” Fitch asked.

  He nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about me. Pull up a chair.”

  There were two collapsible lawn chairs folded and leaning against the wall. Boucher grabbed and unfolded them, and they sat next to him. Fitch reached out and put his hand on the man’s forearm. The touch brought on the tears.

  “It’s okay, Tom,” Fitch said. “It’s okay.”

  “They found him,” Tom Freeman said. “They found my boy’s body.” The father sobbed.

  Fitch’s complexion turned from gray to white. “Oh, God, Tom. I’m so sorry.”

  “It was a car wreck, but it wasn’t an accident.” He ran the back of his right hand over his eyes, then forced a smile. “This is really thoughtful of you, Fitch.”

  “Nonsense. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  “Actually, I do. Once a cop, always a cop, you know? They called me and told me what they know so far. There were simultaneous collisions, front and rear. Two other cars were involved. They fled the scene, left him lying on the road.” Tom lifted his head and looked at Fitch. “They estimate from skid marks that all three cars were barely doing a crawl. My son always wore his seat belt, and his car had air bags that deployed on impact.

  “He was in chemotherapy: one week on, one week off. Had a catheter surgically implanted in his chest, and every other week his oncologist hooked it up to a pump the size of a tennis ball that he carried in his pocket. The pump injected the chemo over a two-day period, so instead of spending that time in a clinic, he could work and live almost normal. During the chemo weeks, he couldn’t drink any alcohol; during the off weeks, he could have a little. They say last night he had more than a little. Then with the shock from the collision . . .”

  There were no more sobs, but the tears silently flowed. On still waters, a largemouth bass broke the surface. A great white egret skimmed over the ripples. Boucher studied the grieving man. He wore blue denim, both shirt and trousers, fabric softened and beginning to fray from many washes but spotless. His upper torso was brawny and his belly still flat, no beer gut, which so many sedentary men acquired with much less justification than this gentleman. His jeans rode up to reveal withered ankles, but he wore socks rather than skip the effort of putting them on, and his shoes, not slip-ons but black leather oxfords, were shined. The only concession to his limited mobility was a Velcro overlapping strip on his shoes in place of laces. His short dark gray hair was neatly trimmed, and his nails were clean and manicured. His appearance was one of pride, not surrender, though his slouching posture warned of a possible change in this attitude. After minutes of a silence to be found only on a woodland lake, he straightened up and asked, “Fitch, what did you two talk about?”

  It hit Boucher that he’d been deaf and dumb to his friend’s dilemma before this moment and only now understood the courage, perhaps the necessity, of the journey. The father was voicing the doubt Fitch himself was wrestling with—did he say something that had led the young man to his death?

  “Wait a minute,” Freeman said, “I’m being rude. You haven’t introduced me to your friend.”

  “This is Jock Boucher, federal district judge in New Orleans,” Fitch said.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir. Excuse my manners.” His handshake was firm, perhaps a sign of the strength and resignation that would be needed to carry him through this tragedy.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Boucher said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Fitch began his response to the unanswered question. “The judge and I took my boat out and went fishing in the gulf last Sunday. We found a body floating and brought it in.”

  “You know, I was real pleased when they assigned him to criminal investigation,” Freeman said. He was staring, it seemed, right into the sun above the cypress and mangrove trees that encapsulated his private world. “I knew they’d arrange it so he would run less of a chance of coming under fire. They could have let him go after his cancer. I’m sure they kept him on because of what happened to me.” He turned to Fitch. “I interrupted you. I’m sorry. You two went fishing.”

/>   “Decedent had been working an offshore service vehicle. Body was found in state jurisdictional waters, and your son got the case. He came to me after visiting the company that owned the vessel. He happened to catch one of the seamen who’d been on the ship. When he and I talked, he told me he had this ‘feeling’ after talking to the guy, and”—Fitch paused and took a deep breath—“I told him he should talk to the entire crew, even arrest the vessel if he thought there was sufficient reason. He was going to do just that, he said, then he left my office.”

  “Who owns the vessel?”

  “Dumont Industries.”

  “Aw, fuck,” Freeman said. “That’s like screwing with God. You don’t screw with God. Not in Louisiana.”

  For this assertion, no explanation was needed, no dissenting opinion expressed.

  Fitch had borne his burden and laid it down. There was nothing more to say, nothing more to be done.

  “Can we get you something?” Fitch asked. “Go to the store, maybe?”

  Freeman ignored the offer. He spoke barely above a whisper. “My son was dying of cancer. I felt so fuckin’ helpless.” He looked at the men sitting with him. A sneer curled his lips. “I couldn’t do nothin’ against that killer, but I can make life hell for those bastards who left my boy lying there on the road.

  “I appreciate you coming, Fitch. I really do. You too, Judge. You’re both busy men. Why don’t you go along and do what you’re paid to do. I got me some fish to catch.”

  Fitch stood and said, “I’ll do what I can, Tom.”

  “You won’t do a damn thing,” Freeman said, not a challenge but an order. “It’s not your jurisdiction. Those responsible will do what they can. I’m going to make damned sure they do. Now, go on. Get out of here.”

  It was hard to leave him there so alone, his mantle of grief visibly pressing down on his shoulders. Fitch took one more look at the profile of Tom Freeman as he sat behind the wheel.

  “I just gave him a new lease on life,” he said bitterly. “Now he’s got something to hate.”

  “You told him what he wanted to know, what he needed to know. And he was right. It’s the responsibility of the state police. Not New Orleans Eighth District and not Roscoe Fitch.”

  “Don’t call me Roscoe. It’s Fitch. Just Fitch.”

  “Okay, Fitch just Fitch. Let’s go home.”

  “I want to see that ship,” Fitch said.

  “Where are you going?” Boucher asked.

  “The Houma Navigation Canal runs into the Intracoastal Waterway and extends about thirty-seven miles southward to the Gulf of Mexico. Dumont has their shipyard alongside the canal. We won’t have to go on their property. I’m going to find a spot on the other side. We’ll just park and watch for a while. Maybe we’ll see something, maybe not. It’ll be like a picnic. You up for a couple po’boys?”

  “I don’t have much of an appetite.”

  The name of the vessel was the Gulf Pride, and finding it could not have been easier. Fitch used Google Maps on his cell phone to locate the company’s private docks. There was no problem finding a spot on the other side of the navigation canal where they could watch. Larger than most of the gulf’s offshore fleet, the ship was easily spotted.

  “It’s loaded,” Fitch said. “Look at the waterline. It’s going out with the tide, what do you want to bet?”

  “I wonder what it’s carrying. And where it’s going.”

  “As to the second question, that should not be too difficult to find out. With the size of that vessel, it’s not cruising the shore. How many deep-water offshore rigs are operating right now?”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard to find out either.”

  “Should be a piece of cake.”

  CHAPTER 9

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON by the time they got back to New Orleans. Fitch dropped Boucher off at his house.

  “I’d better show my face at work,” Fitch said.

  “I’d better get to the office too,” Boucher said. “By the way, isn’t tomorrow night your date with that woman you met?”

  “Don’t remind me. I’m nervous as hell about it.”

  “I’m sure it will go fine. What have you planned?”

  “Dinner.” Fitch told him where.

  “That’s a bad idea for a first date. I know it’s popular. That’s the problem. It’s crowded, too noisy for conversation, and the service is fast because they’re trying to turn tables. The owner told me they try to do three covers per table a night. You need something at least a little more sedate, if not romantic.”

  “I don’t want any romantic shit. This is a dinner, that’s all.”

  Boucher picked up a scrap of paper from the console, took out a pen, wrote something, then handed it to Fitch. “This is where I suggest. Call and ask for Ted and tell him I recommended his place.”

  “Is it expensive?”

  “No. If this woman is worth your time, she’s worth the price of a nice dinner. Look, Malika is coming tomorrow. I don’t know how long she’ll be staying, but I’m sure there’ll be an evening we can go out together. Maybe you should postpone your plans till we can arrange a double date.”

  “Listen to us,” Fitch said. “We’ve got dead people everywhere we turn, and I’m talking like a high school kid with a zit on his face before prom night. No, I’m going out tomorrow. Thanks for the advice. I’ll be fine.”

  “I know you will. Just watch your language.” Boucher got out of the car. He looked at his watch, then ran to his pickup. He had to get to the office without delay and face judgment from a sweet little lady with the scent of talcum powder.

  The peace offering of fresh flowers in a reusable vase helped, but Mildred still had something to say about his unexplained absence. “Everything has been properly filed, Your Honor, but the work isn’t going to do itself.”

  “You are absolutely right, Mildred. I plan on staying late tonight. If you have a few minutes to explain your filing system to me, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “I’ve already written this guide”—she held up a piece of paper. “It explains everything, but sure, let me show you. Oh, wait, I almost forgot. This came for you by messenger.”

  She handed him a sealed envelope. Fine stationery. Not office supply. Certainly not a government document. He opened the gummed lip and pulled out an invitation with a coat of arms embossed in gold, beneath which, in florid script, was one word: DUMONT. He and a guest were invited to dinner Saturday. Smoking. RSVP. He stared, puzzled.

  “Something wrong?” Mildred asked.

  “It’s a dinner invitation. It says ‘smoking.’ ” He showed her the card. “I don’t smoke.”

  Mildred tittered. “It means that you are requested to wear a smoking jacket. I haven’t seen this term used in quite a while. A smoking jacket is what Hugh Hefner wears with his pajamas, but in Europe—on the continent, at least—what many call a ‘smoking’ is what we would call a tuxedo jacket. Like the white one Humphrey Bogart wore in Casablanca. I would say the dress requirement is a step up from a business suit. Who are these . . . Oh, the Dumonts. Now I understand. They were never ones to shy away from pretension, those Dumonts.”

  “So you think I should rent a tuxedo for this dinner?”

  “If you don’t own a white tuxedo jacket, I would suggest you purchase one. I think every gentleman should have both a black tuxedo and a white tux jacket in his wardrobe. White is especially useful in this climate. You can wear it with black dress slacks if you don’t own a tuxedo.”

  “Thank you for your advice.”

  “I do have another suggestion. Do you plan to bring a date?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you should encourage her to bedazzle them. The Dumonts are hard to impress, but when it happens, they don’t forget.”

  “It sounds like you know them.”

  “Ray Dumont’s uncle was mad about me when I was young. I led him on, then dropped him for the man I married.” She tossed her head and looked up for a moment, gazi
ng somewhere in her distant past. Boucher recognized the aspect of one who once was the belle of the ball. The reminiscence faded. “This day is almost done,” she said. “May I respectfully suggest that you get busy?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ ‘Ma’am’ is for old maids.”

  Mildred explained her filing system, which was logical and simple. She offered to work late, but Boucher was adamant in his refusal. He was looking forward to a little solitude and some hard work. The total silence heightened his concentration, and though the tasks were insulting to his intellect and ability, they had to be done. They would have been just as demeaning to the judge who assigned them. He gave his best effort to chores that he too would have delegated to others. More than once he came across a seemingly insignificant detail that could have had larger repercussions in a case. Several times he caught minute errors that could have sent a contested matter in a wrong direction. And over the hours he once again came to appreciate the details of jurisprudence, the intricacies that seemed so tedious but, when ignored, could lead to errors, even abuse of the system. Once again he was honing that tool he’d valued as a younger man, but which had become dull due, he had to admit, to his own arrogance. That invaluable tool? A fine-tooth comb.

  It was after three a.m. when the ink began swimming before his eyes and he had to call it quits. The federal marshal looked at him curiously as he left the building and walked alone to the parking lot. Boucher’s Ford F-150 was right there in the prime spot, under lights, safe and sound. Earlier that evening it had been under surveillance by a man who was unable to match Judge Boucher’s late-night stamina, a man who had already gone to his rest. His mission not accomplished this evening, he would bide his time.

  • • •

  Boucher had set his internal clock to wake him the next morning, and it did almost to the minute. Having worked as late as he had, he felt no compunction to race and instead fixed himself a breakfast of fried egg with runny yolk, one piece of buttered toast, and freshly ground coffee made with his French press. The only thing missing was fresh juice. After sponging his plate clean of yolk with the toast, he slowly enjoyed a second cup of coffee while he watched news on the small TV he kept in the kitchen. Then it was the morning mechanics, push-ups, sit-ups, shower, shave, and dress, then out. Mildred was beaming when he got to his office. She didn’t need to say a thing; “that’s more like it” was written all over her face.