Salvation Row - John Milton #6 (John Milton Thrillers)

by Mark Dawson

  “Chalcroft,” came a voice from behind him.

  He turned. It was Jackson Dubois again. There was a snake of a man, he thought, the perfect lieutenant for Joel Babineaux.

  “Yes, Mr. Dubois?”

  “Mr. Babineaux wanted me to talk to you.”

  “About?”

  “About what you are going to do. Shall we sit in the car?”

  That was rhetorical. Just like his boss, there was no deference about the man, no ‘sir’ or ‘mayor.’ There was no suggestion that this meeting was optional. No suggestion that this would be a conference of equals, an opportunity to exchange ideas. He was about to be told what to do.

  “Fine.”

  He lowered his bulk into the air-conditioned oasis of the cabin and ran his fingers over the leather upholstery. The car was expensive. This one was provided by the city, but, he reminded himself, he had a similar model parked in his garage back home. His wife had the sporty Audi, too, and both cars had been purchased out of the largesse that Babineaux had diverted in his direction. His new home, too, not that far from this one. It would not have been possible without the money that Babineaux had used to grease his palm.

  Their arrangement was simple enough. Preston was an educated man and he knew that their scheme was one that had, in one form or another, been duplicated throughout the ages. He had political power, the ability to grant favours. Babineaux had money. They each had what the other needed. Theirs should have been a relationship of equality, so why did he always feel like Babineaux regarded him as the shit on the bottom of his shoe?

  The scheme that he had suggested was simplicity itself: Babineaux wanted to build on the wreckage that Katrina had strewn behind her. He would build his obscene mall right atop the graves of the New Orleanians who Katrina had killed. In return for a very significant backhander, the mayor would support the proposal in the press and usher it through the planning committees. He had stuffed those panels with his lackeys and, for a small slice of the money that was coming his way, he had ensured that approval was granted. He would also be able to claim the political credit for the regeneration of the area, the hurt of the people displaced by the scheme salved a little by the houses that Babineaux would build for them. Everyone would be a winner.

  Except for the interference of the Build It Up Foundation, it would have been simplicity itself.

  Dubois opened the opposite door and slid inside.

  “Mr. Babineaux suggests that you involve our friends in the police.”

  “How?” He almost sighed it, resigned, all semblance of choice and control disappearing and floating away.

  “He has two suggestions. One that might end things in a neat and tidy way, and one that will be more complicated—messier—but will provide complete finality.”

  “You want to give me a little more to go on?”

  “I will. But we need to see the police.”

  “He doesn’t trust me?”

  “Frankly? No, he doesn’t. But he does trust me. If you do what I say, I’ll make sure this gets sorted out so that you don’t have to worry about things.”

  “Things?”

  Dubois nodded, wearing a guileful smile.

  “The money?”

  “Yes, that, the funding for your re-election campaign, but, more importantly, the publication of photographs that will make clear your unfortunate”—he paused, making a show of searching for the right word—“your unfortunate predilections for underage girls.”

  Chalcroft gaped. The driver chose that moment to lower the dividing partition. “Where to, sir?”

  He paused, helplessly, biting his lip, unable to think about what he would have to do next. He turned to Dubois.

  “The police,” he said firmly.

  He managed to find a way through the panic. Yes, he understood what Babineaux wanted him to do. He considered how that would be achieved for a moment until his thoughts alighted upon just the right man.

  “City Hall,” he said. “And call Detective Peacock. Tell him that I want to see him this afternoon.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  MILTON WAS back at Salvation Row again at seven. The pickup that collected the crew had just drawn up, and the men were hopping down from the back. Izzy was there, too, and, as she saw him, she came across.

  “Did you have a nice evening?” he asked her.

  “What?”

  “Last night. Dinner, with your parents.”

  “Yes,” she said, flustered. “Don’t worry about that. Did they come back?”

  “They came back.”

  “And?”

  “And we had an exchange of views. They told me what they wanted to happen. I told them that they were wasting their time.”

  “And that was it?”

  He shrugged. “I might have had to underline it a little. But the message was received.”

  “I probably shouldn’t ask what that means, right?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s all in hand.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “Because it is.”

  She didn’t press. That was good. Milton had a plan, and he knew that she wouldn’t approve of it.

  “You and your parents should probably move out for a while.”

  “No,” she said. “No way.”

  “Just for a few days.”

  “They’ll never go for it, John. And I’m not going to start running.”

  This isn’t finished. I can’t say that they won’t come back, and I might not be here next time. You know what happened with your father. He can be a hothead.”

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Just a few days. I think it’s best.”

  “Maybe,” she conceded.

  “You need money?”

  “No,” she said, her eyes flashing. “I got it.”

  “Okay.”

  She paused for a minute, her mood gradually returning. She looked out at the wild jungle that had invaded the lot and shook her head.

  “We’ve been putting this one off. It’s bad.”

  “And you’re not joining us?”

  “It’s tempting”—she grinned—“but I’ve got preparation to do.”

  “For what?”

  “Court. I’ve got a hearing tomorrow.”

  He fumbled for the explanation that she had given him. “Eminent—?”

  “Domain. Trying to clear us off the land. They’ve got to argue against the Fifth Amendment, but they’ve got precedent on their side. It’ll probably come down to a fight about how much compensation we’re due, but I don’t want compensation. None of us want to go. I’m just fighting it off as long as I can. Maybe something will happen in the meantime.”

  #

  MILTON AND the others started to work, trying to get as much done before the brutal sun had risen too far into the sky. They had only been working for fifteen minutes when two police cars turned the corner and rolled up to a halt next to them. There were three officers in one car and two in the other. Milton drove the blade of his shovel into the tilled earth and wiped the sweat from his eyes. He watched as they consulted on the sidewalk. Izzy came out of the office and watched them, too, meeting them halfway as they walked to the lot.

  “What’s the matter, officer?”

  “Are you in charge here?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  “Isadora Bartholomew. Who are you?”

  “Detective Peacock. NOPD.”

  “What do you want?”

  “We heard that you’ve got illegal migrants on this project. Know anything about that?”

  “No,” Isadora said, but Milton could tell in the stiffening of her shoulders that she was concerned.

  “You have a Pedro Mendoza here?”

  “Yes,” she said. She looked across at the foreman. Milton did, too. Pedro looked back at the officer defiantly.

  “You know that Señor Mendoza has been deported from the United States three times? You know that he has a crim
inal record? He was convicted in 1999 for possession of cocaine in Harris County, Texas. You know that, Miss Bartholomew?”

  “That’s not true!” Pedro said, his spontaneous vehemence enough for Milton to instinctively believe him.

  “How about Hector Rivas? He work on your crew?”

  “Sure.”

  “Señor Rivas has previously served sixteen months for illegal reentry into the United States.”

  The other policemen had moved around until they were behind them. Now, two men stepped up to Pedro and another two moved up behind Hector. They took out handcuffs.

  “This isn’t necessary,” Izzy protested.

  “It’s not true,” Pedro pleaded with her, turning back to the policeman and then back to Izzy again. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

  Milton could feel the atmosphere changing. There had been confusion, but, now that the police had laid out the reason for their visit, there was an undercurrent of incipient violence. The source of the threat wasn’t the workers, it was the police. Hands had been laid upon the handles of batons and rested against the butts of service pistols. It looked as if they were spoiling for a fight.

  The officer turned back to Izzy. “Did you verify their immigration papers, ma’am?”

  “Of course.”

  “Just not very well.”

  “They were checked.”

  Milton could see that Izzy’s temper was flaring. He thought that he knew her well enough by now to know that she would have been diligent about things like that. He could see what she was thinking.

  She was thinking that this was a fix-up.

  He was thinking the same thing.

  “I’m afraid that’s something you’re going to have to argue later. You’re under arrest, too, Miss Bartholomew.”

  Izzy’s temper boiled over, her eyes flashing with anger. One of the officers grasped her shoulder and she turned in his direction, her hand raised. Milton reached across and caught her by the wrist, holding it gently but firmly enough that she couldn’t strike anyone.

  “Take it easy,” he told her quietly.

  “They’re setting us up!”

  “Then you’ll be out in no time.”

  “Take your hands off her, sir,” the cop said.

  Milton squeezed her wrist and released it.

  Peacock started to read the Miranda warning.

  “What if I’m not out?” she said. “I’ve got to get to court.”

  The officer behind her pushed her arms down behind her back and fastened a cuff around her right wrist. “Take it easy,” he said.

  “Get off me!” she protested, trying to free her left arm.

  “Izzy,” Milton said. “Don’t make it worse.”

  She looked at him, held his eye, and he watched as she let the fight drain out of her. She was pushed across the sidewalk to the patrol car, the officer pressing down on her head and manoeuvring her into the back.

  Milton followed.

  “Stay back, sir,” Peacock said.

  “I’ll get you out,” he called.

  The officer turned to him. “And who are you?”

  “John Smith.”

  “You want to come downtown, too?”

  Milton backed away.

  The officer pumped out his chest. “Thought not.”

  Milton watched impotently as the doors of the patrol cars were slammed shut. Pedro was glaring straight ahead. Hector looked as if he was fighting tears. Izzy was looking right at him.

  “Help,” she mouthed through the glass.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  MILTON RAN to his car and followed the two police cruisers back into town. They headed west, crossed the bridge, and then turned onto St. Claude Avenue and, finally, Burgundy Street. The precinct house was a squat, two-storey building, with cruisers parked outside and a phalanx of security cameras arrayed across the whitewashed walls. The windows were behind bars, and the yard at the side was protected by a fence topped with rolls of razor wire.

  He found a space to park a block away and jogged back.

  The precinct house had previously been a post office, and it still retained reminders of its previous use. Antique metal letters over the reception window advertised parcel post services and stamps, and post office boxes lined one wall in the lobby. A plaque inside the door commemorated the building’s completion during the term of President Franklin D. Roosevelt. The waiting room was arranged before a counter that was protected by a screen of Plexiglas. There were rows of chairs bolted to the floor, and the people in the chairs—some lounging, others fidgeting impatiently—gave the place an uncomfortable, antic atmosphere.

  Milton went up to the window. There was a uniformed female officer behind the counter. She looked up at him and then looked down again, making no effort to communicate with him. Milton rested his hands on the counter and waited her out. Eventually, she looked back up at him with a lazy annoyance.

  “Yes?”

  “A friend of mine was brought here.”

  “Lot of people get brought here, sir.”

  “I want to know what’s happening.”

  “Name?”

  “Isadora Bartholomew.”

  “Your name?”

  “John Smith.”

  She swivelled to tap the details into her computer.

  “Miss?” Milton said when she didn’t turn back.

  The woman didn’t look at him. “She’s being booked, Mr. Smith.”

  “When will she—”

  “Take a seat, Mr. Smith,” she spoke over him. “When I hear what’s happening with her, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “But what does that—”

  “Take a seat, please, sir. There’s nothing I can do until I hear from the back.”

  #

  IT TURNED out that the first woman was incompetent or lying, or both. Milton waited two hours and, when nothing happened, he went back up to the window. The woman had been replaced by a male officer and, despite being equally unhelpful, when Milton asked what was happening to Izzy, he reported that she was being detained prior to being booked. He protested, was sent back to wait, and then, when he went back for a third time an hour later, he was told by a third officer that Izzy’s arraignment had been set for three days’ time. In the interim, she was being released on her own recognisance. Milton was about to ask what that meant when a door at the far end of the room opened and Izzy appeared through it.

  He hurried across.

  “Are you all right?”

  She glared straight ahead, the muscles in her face rigid. “What time is it?”

  “Just past midday.”

  “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “Shit, John. I’ve got to be in court in two hours. If I’m not there, they’ll strike out the case. Shit.”

  “What do you need?”

  “To change clothes, to get my stuff. A shower. Shit, shit, shit. I’m never going to be there in time.”

  “Yes, you will,” Milton said. “Come on. I’ll drive you.”

  #

  MILTON DROVE quickly, but carefully. It was obvious that the campaign against Izzy and the charity was being ratcheted up: the goons that had been sent to scare them, the baseless arrests.

  “I knew the politicians were involved,” Izzy said with a heavy frown. “I guess I can add the police to that, too.”

  “Why didn’t they keep you in until after the hearing?”

  “Because I called my lawyer and she threatened to bring a writ of habeas corpus.”

  “Meaning?”

  “They have to take me to a judge and explain why it’s important that I’m detained without being booked. They know the charges are bogus. A judge would’ve seen right through it, provided they don’t have tame judges, too, and, now I come to think about that—”

  “What about the others?”

  She looked troubled. “I told her that she had to get me out first. I can’t miss this hearing. Hector and Pedro are next. They’ll be ou
t today.”

  Milton kept his eye on the mirrors as she spoke. They had been absorbed into a steady flow of traffic on the bridge, but there was nothing about any of the cars behind them that made him unduly concerned that they were being followed. That didn’t mean that they were alone, of course. A good tail would be impossible to spot in heavy traffic, even for him. To be sure, and to speed up the last leg of the journey back to the house, Milton swung off Highway 39 and onto the grid of streets to the north. Nothing turned off with them. Milton pressed down on the gas and accelerated to the east and Salvation Row.

  He glanced across at Izzy. Her face was still blackened with anger. “When the two men came to the house, what did they say about going to court?”

  “I told you, John.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “That I shouldn’t go. That it wasn’t safe for me.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing specific. You think they were serious?”

  “Come on, Izzy. Look at what’s happening. They came around, beat your father, and then they came back just like they said they would. The day after that, you’re arrested on trumped-up charges and put in jail. So, do I think they’re serious? Yes, I do. I’m sure of it. And we have to act accordingly.”

  “I’m not letting them scare me off.”

  “And I’m not suggesting that you do. We just need to proceed with caution.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m going to stay with you today.”

  She swivelled in the seat so that she could look across the cabin at him. “No,” she said. “You’re not.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “How much of what you’ve told me is true?”