by Don Bruns
He closed the gap, ten feet, five feet, and leaped in the air, tackling the kid mid-thigh as their bodies crashed to the ground.
Pulling his weapon from the holster, he jumped to his feet, staring down at the suspect crumpled on the dirt, his chest heaving.
‘You work too hard at it, Q.’
He spun around and there was a smiling Strand, standing by the car door, gun drawn.
‘Got your back, partner,’ he said smugly.
Archer was taking deep breaths, as his eyes looked back to the man sprawled on the ground.
‘Next time,’ he said breathlessly, ‘you do the running. Then I get to cover your back.’
Strand shrugged his shoulders. ‘Deal.’
‘I ain’t no killer, man.’ Antoine Duvay glared across the bare table. A bandage covered the two-inch gash on his forehead above the right eye from where he’d hit a stone as he landed.
‘But you are a thief. You got into some fights while you were doing time. Your record doesn’t exactly sparkle, Antoine.’ Strand stood and walked behind the young man. ‘We talked to some of your coworkers, and they say you’re a bitter guy. Pissed at the system, pissed at the judge that put you away. We don’t expect you to be happy, but when you get bitter and—’
‘Yeah? You gonna haul in every nigger that’s bitter? They got white boys up there, bitter too. I don’t see them down here.’
‘They didn’t take off running when the cops showed up.’
Duvay took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing. Archer thought he saw some fear showing through the tough exterior.
‘Why did you run, Antoine?’
‘That’s what you’ve got, man? I run so I must be the killer? I been here before, motherfucker. Shit. You can manufacture whatever you want, but you got nothing. Cracker makin’ shit up about me.’ He folded his hands defiantly on the gray metal tabletop and looked at the wall in silence.
The door opened and a uniform walked in with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. He handed Archer a piece of paper and exited.
‘Here’s that coffee, Antoine. Station-house brand. The best we can do.’
The suspect ignored it, staring straight ahead.
Archer examined the blank piece of paper, holding it in his right hand. He glanced at Strand and nodded.
‘We’ve got a witness, Antoine.’
The young man squinted, turning and now looking puzzled. ‘You got shit. You know it and I know it.’
‘We’ve got someone.’
He was quiet for a moment.
‘Who you got?’
‘Someone who is willing to testify. Testify that you made serious threats on the judge’s life. Said you were going to get him someday. According to this person, a couple of times you described in detail how you were going to kill him. Put a bullet in his head.’
The tall man let out a breath. ‘I don’t remember ever sayin’ I was gonna kill that fucker.’
‘It’s enough to hold you, man. You want to confess now, we can make a plea. My suggestion.’
Strand sat down across from Duvay, pursed his lips and put his hands on the tabletop palms up.
‘We build up frustrations, Antoine. Then, one day, things just break loose. You tell us what happened now and we’re open to a lot of options. You don’t tell us, those options go away. We’ve got the arrest. We need to know how and why you did it.’
‘Let me see that paper.’
‘No. I told you what we’ve got.’
Duvay shook his head. ‘Detective. My momma told me every night that she was gonna kill me for what I did every day. She was gonna skin me alive. She was gonna beat my sorry ass till there was nothin’ left of me. Every day she told me this. You understand?’
His eyes opened wide and he focused on Strand’s face.
‘You find me dead some morning, you gonna arrest my momma?’ He smiled, a grim grin. ‘I don’t think so. And you ain’t gonna get more than you got. A couple of loudmouths talkin’ shit about me. Because I didn’t kill no judge, and unless you go back out there and do a better job of lookin’, there be a killer on the loose. And I ain’t lyin’.’
‘Antoine—’ Strand turned his hands over.
‘Get me a lawyer, Mr Policeman. I know my rights.’
7
‘We can hold him overnight.’ His breath smelled faintly like Jack and Coke. The on-duty cop, with a little bit of fortification.
‘We can hold him on what?’ Archer looked at the clock in the lobby. Time to check out. ‘What do you have?’
‘Suspicion.’
‘Come on, Strand. There was no accusation. Nobody ratted him out at the restaurant. We made it up. It was a desperation move. He called our bluff and didn’t fold. We’ve got nothing and you know it.’
‘We’ll find something. It’s the way we do it in Nola. I say we hold him. If we just cut him loose we’ll never see him again. He’ll disappear into thin air, Q. I say we get him his attorney in the morning. Until then, we’ll let him think about it and I’ll do a little background work. I’ll get a warrant to search the house tomorrow. I’ll find something, I promise you.’
Archer stepped outside, holding the door open. Turning to Strand, he was quiet for a second.
‘You do that, but the kid did a year, for God’s sake. I mean, one night in the city jail isn’t going to rattle him, Strand.’
‘You don’t know the Orleans Parish jail, Q. It’s not your everyday prison. Honest to God, he’s going to go through a lot of shit in twenty-four hours, Q. And besides, I think he’s our guy.’
Archer had an idea of what their suspect was going to go through. The jail had a national reputation as one of the worst in the country. Squalid conditions, abusive situations, drugs, weapons and whatever else you could find.
‘We don’t have enough to hold him, Strand.’
Bullheaded. His partner was an ego-driven, bullheaded son of a bitch, but he was saddled with him so he had to at least pretend to be nice. It wasn’t going to be easy. It never was.
‘Let’s do it my way, Q. I’m trying to make it easier on us. You’re new to the system, so let me lead, OK?’
‘We’ve got absolutely nothing. No motivation. Why did he do it?’
‘Revenge.’
‘I don’t believe it. Look, tomorrow I’m going to go downtown and talk with everyone in Lerner’s office. I think you should come down, too. Two of us would lighten the workload.’
‘Christ, Archer, let’s work this guy. We should stick around and revisit our runner. Where he lives, where he worked, you know.’
Archer nodded. ‘OK. You follow that lead and you know where I’ll be. You’ve got my cell. Call me if you get a conviction.’
‘At least maybe I’ll have a confession by the time you get back. Don’t forget where you heard it.’
‘I’ve got a feeling about this, Adam.’
‘And I’ve got a feeling too, Quentin.’ He stared at Archer. ‘This can be an easy case, open and shut. You got a problem with open-and-shut cases?’
‘It’s not him.’
‘Kid ran. He’s hiding something and it has to do with the judge, I’m telling you.’
Archer shook his head and let the door go as Strand said, ‘See you tomorrow morning. Tonight I’m going to be with my girl.’
‘You’ve got a girl?’
‘A real sweetheart.’ Strand turned abruptly and walked back into the bullpen.
Archer was certain it wasn’t the kid, Antoine Duvay. Maybe Duvay was scared they’d single him out. That may have been the reason to run, but he wasn’t the killer. Archer was sure of it. His partner was looking for the easy way out. Quentin Archer took the elevator to the ground and walked to the street. He headed left, hoofing it to Canal. Three minutes later he was on a streetcar to the Quarter. No vehicle tonight. He’d have a couple of beers and hole up in his rented cottage. He had vowed to keep it simple this time. Start fresh, no baggage.
And it did seem much simpler. Until now. He’d drawn a high-
profile murder, and the entire investigative team would be subjected to scrutiny. As co-lead on the case, he knew what to expect. The press would be on him every minute, making judgment calls, criticizing every move the team made. Making his job all that more difficult, just like in Detroit.
But Detroit had been more than just pressure and criticism. It had been accusations directed at his family. Accusations from his family. The finger pointing that came from his relatives regarding his charges against his brothers. That had been all over the Detroit Free Press. All over the Detroit media. Scrutiny at the highest level. And in Detroit, he’d alienated the one group he couldn’t afford to antagonize. The department he worked for and its employees. No matter who was right, he’d found it didn’t pay to piss off the cops. There had been blood spilled, largely because he’d taken on the establishment, and a life lost. His wife, murdered in cold blood on the streets of Motor City and no one had yet paid for that crime. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. OK, lesson learned. The blue brotherhood was strong, loyal – Serpico, the story of a New York cop who ratted on his fellow police officers, that story did not resonate anymore. Archer had to regroup. And there wasn’t a day that went by, not an hour that passed, that he didn’t try to figure out his next plan of attack. There wasn’t an hour that passed that he didn’t think about revenge for the murder of his young, innocent wife. He never gave up. And there was a handful of faithfuls who hadn’t given up either.
Archer’s attention went back to Antoine Duvay. The young man may have had serious issues with the dead judge, but in the brief conversation Archer had had with the kid there hadn’t been a lot of emotion. The man had denied ever threatening to kill the judge, and Archer believed him. He was usually right about things like this.
His cell rang, an actual telephone ring instead of some popular song. The phone showed a blocked call, and he immediately knew how it would play out. It always did. He always answered it anyway. Connection with the bad guys. Someday one of these calls would lead to the killer. Someone on the other end would say something that would give him a lead. He prayed that it would. ‘Archer.’
‘Quentin Archer? Is that you?’
‘You know it is.’
‘Just checking.’
The line went dead. He could swear it was his brother’s voice, thinly disguised. Jason Archer, playing mind games. Brief and to the point. It was his job to torture his brother, remind him that he and the Detroit force were still there should Quentin ever decide to push further with his allegations. Jason had walked away from his charges and was now officially on the run. Jason, who would give himself away with his stutter if he spoke more than two sentences.
Archer placed the phone back in his pocket. The calls didn’t bother him so much, but in the two months since he moved in weird things had happened. He’d found misplaced items in his small place. The chair and table moved. A nightstand overturned.
A week ago, he’d walked into his bedroom, bone tired from a long day working four new cases. Across the room he saw the iron bed, spread thrown on the floor. The sheets were streaked blood red and wet, liquid still dripping to the floor. He flashed briefly on the scene from The Godfather, where the film producer woke up with a bloody horse head in his bed. Archer had seen a lot of grisly murder scenes, and prepared for the worst he pulled his gun and braced himself, holding his breath as he walked softly to the scene. The killer could still be in the small room. The body could be in several places. Taking a deep breath he bent and looked under the bed then stepped to the closet. He paused for several seconds then yanked on the door handle, bracing himself as he aimed directly at the entrance. No body. No killer. He let out his breath and prayed a silent thanks. His next thought was of Jason.
He’d taken a sample to the lab and they identified it as animal blood, probably a rabbit. And there was the evening when he arrived to find a dead black cat in front of his door, its head twisted in a grotesque tableau. The body was still warm. No notes, no warnings, just a reminder that there were people from Detroit who knew where he was and were likely to kill him if they felt like it. Archer was a target and he knew it. Secretly it frightened him, but outwardly he had a life to live. He looked over his shoulder more than usual and at his own expense added a security alarm to the small cottage, but there was only so much you could do. He’d warned his wife to be vigilant as well. That hadn’t worked out at all. It was all a warning. If he pushed any harder, they wanted him to know, they’d take him out too.
Archer jumped off the trolley and walked north to Bourbon, ducking into an alley behind the Cat’s Meow, a balconied drinking establishment. His six hundred square foot cottage was nestled into the corner of a small courtyard, a well-worn brick walk leading to the door of this former slave quarters. A quick stroll through showed him nothing disturbed this time.
The wailing of an off-key karaoke singer in the bar bled into his cramped one room abode, and Archer switched on the TV, partly to drown out the caterwauling and partly to see how the murder was being played out by the local media. He didn’t have to wait long for either.
The NBC affiliate broke into programming, news anchor Alicia Manor announcing that the police department had a suspect in the murder of Judge David Lerner. The suspect, name withheld, was in custody at the moment, and was rumored to be someone Lerner had sentenced to prison three or four years ago. Archer knew that Strand had leaked the arrest. Some people couldn’t leave well enough alone.
She finished the two-minute bulletin by saying lead investigator Adam Strand said there would be more information released in the next twenty-four hours.
Lead investigator. Adam Strand? He shook his head. It was a shared title, but just as well. In the short time he’d known him, he already realized Strand was a showboater, someone who would always be proving to himself that he wouldn’t be bullied again. He was now in charge. That was fine by Quentin; he was happy to just try to fly low, staying off the radar screen.
Detective Adam Strand might have to eat his words tomorrow because he wasn’t going to be able to make the charge stick. Archer was sure of it.
Walking to his compact refrigerator, he pulled out a Dixie beer and popped the top. A New Orleans beer, now made in Wisconsin. The plant had been looted after Katrina and the owners had moved the operation to a more friendly location.
He sipped the beer and decided he was going to have a talk with the landlord about getting a new fridge. It was nothing close to cold.
Closing his eyes, Archer ran the day’s events through his mind like a newsreel, starting with the call from a dispatcher this morning. Duvay’s attempt at evasion was cause for concern, yes; but young black men in Detroit, especially ex-cons, distanced themselves from cops with regularity. They didn’t trust law enforcement officers. How many times had he shouted out ‘Police’ and watched people race from a scene. Almost every time. It didn’t always equate to specific guilt. They may have been guilty of something, but not necessarily of the crime he was investigating. Why should it be any different in New Orleans?
The oysters still heavy in his stomach, he drank part of another beer and fell asleep in the worn pea-green lounge chair, NBC still broadcasting in the background and Bourbon Street music still ringing in his ears.
The young, light-skinned black girl stood on the carriageway that led to his courtyard unit, breathing in the pungent odor of a ripe gardenia bush. Her dark eyes darted right, then left and settled on the brick building as she brushed coal-black curls from her face. Blocking the music from her mind, she concentrated on Archer and wondered if the time was right. She needed to tell him, to warn him about the death of the judge. She studied the small home, drumming fingers against her jean-covered thigh. Then, with a frown, she walked back out onto Bourbon Street. Tomorrow would be preferable. The detective would be fresh, rested and better able to deal with her. Then she wondered if he would be receptive to dealing with her at all.
‘Damballa,’ she whispered, ‘you who makes valleys with your
passing, bring me an inquiring mind. Bring me a sponge that I may let it soak up the knowledge.’
A breeze kicked up a cloud of dust from the sidewalks, blowing fine particles of dust into the eyes of the Bourbon Street crowd, and drunken revelers on the street looked skyward, wondering where this puff of wind had come from.
Archer sat bolt up in his chair, an icy chill racing through his body. The man’s heart skipped a beat and he quickly surveyed the small living space. Instinctively he reached for his Glock 22, feeling some comfort in the grip of the handle. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. Nothing out of place. It wasn’t a dream, but something had invaded his space. Music still blared from Bourbon Street, the sound of a noisy throng only slightly muffled in his courtyard. Everything was as it had been, but he knew something had happened. Wiping a sheen of perspiration from his forehead and rising from the chair, he grabbed his beer bottle and dumped the remainder in the white porcelain sink. He needed a clear head.
With one more sweep of the tiny room, then the bath, he re-holstered his pistol and checked the deadbolt and cheap lock on the front door. He had been getting used to someone playing mind games with him, but this felt different. Stripping off his clothes he lay back on the bed staring at the cracked ceiling. The Glock rested on the cheap vinyl end table, within easy reach. If he was threatened, he was ready. Never afraid to pull the pistol and use it.
Archer had drawn parallels between Motor City and New Orleans. Some of them were crystal clear. With roiling racial biases, drug trafficking, a corrupt police force and a murder rate that seemed to increase every year, the two cities resembled each other in many ways. But there were differences. He’d felt it the moment they’d seen the body. The bloated, dead body of Judge David Lerner. He’d never encountered anything like that in Detroit. Something about this case continued to haunt him. He hadn’t been able to put his finger on it, but something floated in front of him, nagged at his inner core and clouded his brain. He’d always been a man who crystallized his thoughts, his methods, his purpose. Not anymore. Not after the body in the Mississippi River had surfaced. The murder of David Lerner, the case itself confused him. It was as if a ghostly presence surrounded the situation.