by Don Bruns
She smiled.
‘You’re working on the judge’s murder, right?’
Strand’s smile froze. Did he have a sign on his forehead? Ask Me About Judge Lerner’s Murder. Shit, the last thing he needed was the lady reporting that he’d been in just before the evidence had come up missing.
‘I’m co-lead. But this visit was about something entirely different,’ he was babbling. ‘Checking up on a suspect from a couple of years ago. A bank guard who was killed during a robbery. Different case altogether. No connection. Thanks, Gwen. Look forward to the next time we talk.’
The lady studied him for a second, finally nodding as if she understood what he was saying. She didn’t.
Couldn’t catch a break. Probably another bad decision.
Strand quickened the pace, wondering whether maybe they had installed some cameras. Possibly they had a way of tracking what he’d just done. He concentrated on the forty thousand dollars he was being paid for his theft. What would it buy? What security would forty grand give him?
It was a load of crap. He was putting his life, his career on the line for forty grand. The worst decision of his profession. He pushed open the door and, turning right, almost ran into a uniform.
‘Sorry,’ he bowed his head. It was going to be a whole lot easier the fewer number of people who recognized him.
‘Aren’t you Detective Strand?’
‘Jesus.’ He said a silent prayer.
‘Hey, man, three judges. You guys getting anywhere with that case? Sounds complicated.’
The man in blue removed his cap, brushing his hand through his short hair.
‘You know,’ Strand said, ‘Detective Quentin Archer is the top on that case. He’s got the answers. You know how it is, man. I’ve got seven cases I’m working on. One of ’em I just researched. Carry-out clerk got killed back in February? Anyway, have a good day, Officer.’ There was a carry-out clerk murder, wasn’t there? There was always a carry-out clerk murder.
The man nodded. The patrolman got it. After all, he was a cop in New Orleans. Everyone in law enforcement was overworked, overstressed. Every cop on the force understood that.
Strand double-timed it to his car, his folder held tightly under his arm. Jesus, forty grand. That was all? What had he been thinking? Forty grand wouldn’t post bail if he was caught. Wouldn’t even pay that much to get out of the country and start over somewhere else. Wouldn’t do much of anything. What the hell had he been thinking? And he wasn’t even sure that Paul Trueblood was on the up and up. Something disingenuous about that man. What if he was gunning for Strand? Maybe his bad decisions had finally caught up with him.
The guy could be with the Independent Police Monitor group, someone who investigates the way the NOPD handles cases. Damn. If he was on that board, Strand was in for a world of hurt. And of course there was Internal Investigations and the mayor’s Committee on Police Action. Hell, there were a whole lot of ways that he could be nailed. A number of organizations that wanted to monitor every action the department made. And every entity tried to justify its existence. They would all be vigilant, hoping to open a hole in the dam, hoping they could find some violation that they could take credit for. And then there were the Feds, sticking their nose into the NOPD. This guy, this Paul Trueblood, could be with anybody.
Strand opened his car door as another uniformed patrolman walked by. Perspiration dotted the detective’s face, and he felt sweat running down his chest. Stripping his jacket off, he tossed it along with the folder into the back seat.
He had to get the hell out of this area. Everyone who saw him was a possible witness. A detective in a sport coat and tie stepped from his car and walked toward the building.
Strand buried his face, shaking and wondering who would turn him in. Forty grand? He felt like fucking Judas. It wasn’t worth this torture, was it?
He raised his head, peered over the steering wheel and finally saw no one. Turning the key, he backed out as soon as the engine engaged. There were forty thousand dollars’ worth of spreadsheets in the back seat, inside his black vinyl folder. Lord let him deliver those before he was caught.
Skeeter Lewis was tired. His eyes were puffy and he blinked incessantly at the bright light in the interrogation room. Archer sympathized. He’d had fresh coffee and a sandwich while Levy covered, but they hadn’t gotten too far.
‘I want an attorney, man. Get me a lawyer.’
‘We’ll do it, Lewis. But tell me who talked to you. Tell us who was your contact. My God, man. Right here, on this recording we’ve got a solid case. You are giving up any chance of a deal once you go lawyer. A name, Skeeter. Give us a name.’
‘I’m not sayin’ that I talked to anyone.’
‘Who hired you?’
‘I’m not sayin’ anyone did.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘If there was a name, if there was someone who was trying to hire people to maybe kill or consider killing a judge …’
‘If there was?’ asked Levy.
‘There’s a guy who I heard of.’
‘Please, Jesus. A name.’
‘Loup-garou.’
‘What the hell kind of name is that, Lewis?’ Archer was ready to strangle the guy. Hours and hours and he comes up with some silly French word. There was no given name of Loup-garou. Archer knew better.
‘He’s the Werewolf. If there was someone who was trying to hire people, it would be the Wolf.’
Archer looked at Levy and shook his head. Too much coffee, too little sleep, too many hours in the company of this crazy lunatic.
‘Look him up, Archer. I’m just sayin’. If there was a guy, it would be Loup-garou. But I never talked to him. I never worked for the man. He’s a crazy motherfucker. I don’t go near people like that. You understand?’
Archer nodded.
‘We pick up your partner, Jim Gideon, he’ll tell us the same story?’
‘Shit,’ Lewis said, ‘he’s a crazy motherfucker too. Gideon is liable to say anything. Anything to save his neck. He may say we talked to the Wolf, and that would be a lie, man. Or maybe he talked to the Wolf. I would never talk to Loup-garou. Not me. I’m clean.’
‘We will hook up with Gideon. You know that.’
‘So?’
‘If he doesn’t back your story, if he tells us something different …’
‘You find this Werewolf.’
‘And if we do?’
‘You find the man behind the Lerner murder. Maybe those other two judges too. You find him, Detective.’
‘Loup-garou.’
‘Loup-garou.’
Levy smiled, then started chuckling. Starting to shake, he finally let loose with a loud throaty laugh.
‘This is crazy, Q.’
Archer didn’t crack a smile.
‘You lie to me, Lewis, and I promise you we’ll bury you in the judicial system and you will never have a prayer, my friend.’
‘You find him, Detective Archer. Then you come and see me.’
‘Oh, I will. And I know exactly where you’ll be. In that hellhole next door that we call our jail.’
49
‘Another murder, Archer. Guy named Jonathon Gandal. Strangled in his car down in the Quarter,’ said Sergeant Sullivan as he passed Archer’s desk on his way to the coffee machine.
‘Sergeant, you’re not thinking about loading this on top of—’
‘No. But wondered if you had any thoughts about him.’
‘Gandal? I don’t know the name. Look, Sergeant, I’m a little busy right now and I don’t need to worry about—’
‘You brought up his employer’s name the other day. Out of the blue.’
‘All right’ – Archer threw his hands up – ‘enlighten me. Who did this Gandal work for?’
‘Richard Garrett. My friend’s son. The oil tycoon, remember?’
Garrett. According to Solange Cordray, the head of Krewe Charbonerrie. Archer shook his tired head. If something would just come together.
‘I’ve got nothing, Sarge.’
‘Guy was a supervisor for Garrett. Don’t know for sure of what, but I was hoping this might make some sense to you. He’s sitting in his black Lincoln Navigator and someone strangles him from the back seat. It probably took a minute and a half and he was dead. No fingerprints in the car. Looks like it was wiped clean.’
‘We just spent four hours with Skeeter Lewis in interrogation, Sergeant. Nothing is making sense right now. I’ve got the French nickname of some guy who hires killers, a guy who calls himself the Werewolf. I’ve got Skeeter Lewis who has heard the recording of himself killing Judge Lerner and still tells me he had nothing to do with the murder. We’ve got a rumor that Krewe Charbonerrie may be involved in the murder, plus a prison warden and the head of prison security that might be involved.’
‘That’s what we do, Archer. We put all that shit into a mixer and …’
‘Yeah. And sometimes it comes out exactly like that. Shit.’
‘You OK?’
‘I need to take a breather. Be back in a couple of hours.’
‘Stay focused, Archer.’
The detective nodded. ‘Before I go, any unusual tattoos on Gandal? Like a small coiled snake on his wrist?’
‘Didn’t hear of one. Is it important?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Everything at this stage is important, isn’t it?’
‘Why the question?’
‘Why do some of the players have the same tattoo? That’s the question, Sergeant Sullivan.’
Why? Archer thought about it as he walked to the restaurant. He knew the answer. They were members of Krewe Charbonerrie.
A detective walks into a bar. The bartender says, ‘On the clock or not?’ The detective looks up at the clock and says …
‘Hey, Q. What brings you in?’
‘Tough day, Mike. I’ve been working on the murdered judges and …’
‘Judges, plural?’
‘Yeah. Multiples. Doesn’t seem to stop.’
The bartender from the French Market smiled.
‘Man. We’ve got to catch the dude at the top.’
‘I have to catch him, Mike. Bring me a Sazerac.
‘Strong medicine, mon ami.’
‘It’s more than the judges’ murders. It’s a lot more. It’s this city, it’s Detroit, it’s about family and it’s about my wife and innocent people who shouldn’t have died, Mike. But none of it is your concern. Thanks for showing some support.’
The man with the wild hair nodded, a faint smile on his face.
‘I’ve got some information, my friend: the murder involves Krewe Charbonerrie and a Richard Garrett.’
Archer’s eyes widened, and he tilted his head, looking at the bartender in a whole new light.
‘Why am I not surprised that you suspected that all along,’ Mike said. ‘You see, it is my concern. Q. Did you hear about a Quarter murder in the last couple of hours?’
Archer paused, watching the ’tender mixing his drink.
‘What murder?’
‘Jonathon Gandal?’
Archer closed his eyes. When he opened them, Mike was staring at him, his gaze burning into his brain. ‘What about it?’
‘Worked for the aforementioned Richard Garrett. Big man in the oil business.’
‘Yeah?’ Where did this guy get his information? ‘Why are you asking me about this murder?’
The bar manager took a step back, studying Archer with a cynical eye.
‘Because if you are truly interested in solving the murder of Judge David Lerner, this murder, this Gandal murder, may be important to you.’
‘You want to be a little more clear?’
‘Think about this, man. There’s a lot of killings in New Orleans. Blacks, minorities, hoodlums, gangsters, bangers and once in a while a cop gets shot in the line of duty, but high-profile white people? Three judges and a respectable businessman all in four or five days of each other? And Gandal worked for Garrett.’
‘Mike, I appreciate anything you can bring to the table. And I suppose that the demographics of the victims skews a little higher than usual, but what you’re suggesting is that Richard Garrett is involved in the murder of Judge David Lerner and Gandal.’
‘Yes. It’s a suggestion, Detective. I don’t have all the answers, just good information. I can’t solve the crime for you. If I did, you could turn your paycheck over to me.’
‘You’d be very disappointed, my friend. Do you have any idea how much a detective makes? It’s not that much money, trust me.’
‘My point is,’ Mike said, ‘I can show you the evidence. I can introduce the stories, but it’s up to you to make the case. It’s up to you to tie everything together. Am I right? You are the one who has to find the answer.’
He was right.
‘And, Q, I’m not the only one who is suggesting leads, offering theories. There are others who are coming to you with information. Am I right? Come on, man. Put it together.’
‘Do you know who set Lerner up?’ Archer was beside himself, wondering if everyone around him knew the answer except him.
‘No one knows for sure except the guilty parties. Other than that, you are the only one who has all the information. No one else knows. No one but the persons who contracted the hit. No, Q. No one else has all the evidence except you. I believe that somewhere in your soul, you know who killed the judges and why. You have compiled all the information. Now, just sort it out.’
Archer took a sip of the strong cocktail. Then another. At one time the drink had been outlawed across the country. The devil’s brew it was called. Now, for those in the Quarter who could make it, it was the bestselling drink in town. Absinthe, bitters and rye whiskey. A little bit of licorice with a hammer attached. The detective felt a rush to his head.
‘What do you know about Gandal?’
‘Only that he was strangled in his car. As far as I’ve heard, no one has a clue as to what happened.’
‘Mike …’ Archer took another sip and let it slide down his throat. ‘You once told me you know almost everything that happens in the French Quarter.’
‘I do.’
‘Then tell me exactly what happened.’
‘I’ve got some people who feed me, Detective. They’ve already given me some very interesting information. But, I need twenty-four hours, my friend. At least. I’m not a fortune teller, not a Solange Cordray.’
‘What the hell do you know about Solange Cordray?’
‘Everyone knows about the Voodoo Queen, Q. Listen, I visited her mother many years ago. Madam Clotille Trouville. Very savvy woman before the dementia. And I know Solange Cordray has taken her mother’s place. She’s a bright girl, despite marrying her ex-husband. Big mistake. But, she’s talked to you. I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘She doesn’t make any sense.’
‘I read a lot of mysteries, Q,’ the bartender said, ‘and they’re always different, but always the same.’
‘What’s that, a riddle? What’s always different but always the same?’
‘There’s always a puzzle in mysteries. At least the good ones. The ones I like to read.’
‘You’re going to give me some pithy philosophy about solving a crime based on crime fiction you’ve read?’
‘No. I give you a very simple truth.’
‘That is?’
‘The answer is always in front of you.’ Mike’s big eyes focused on Archer and he gave him a slight smile. ‘It’s in front of you, it’s in front of the protagonist, it’s in front of the reader.’
‘I’m afraid not in this case. I’ve studied every piece of evidence, Mike. It’s not there right now, trust me.’
‘Come on, Detective, you’ve been through this before. There’s never any magic. Even the locked-room mysteries don’t have magic. There’s no such thing. Once you explore the room, the characters, the circumstances, there’s always a solution. You may not see it right away, but it’s always there. Has to be. Because in a real wo
rld, there is no magic. It’s a very controlled environment. You’ve solved a lot of crimes and you know what I’m talking about.’
Archer nodded.
The bartender picked up empty glasses from his bar and plunged them into a soapy mixture behind the bar, running them up and down on a soft brush, readying the vessels for the next round of drinks and customers.
‘I remember one story where a man is killed in a hotel room. His wife finds the body and she is not in the room when he dies. The room is locked and we know the victim did not let the killer in. Locked room mystery, right? Well, I’m struggling to find the answer. How the hell does someone get into the room? Then it occurs to me. At check in, the couple is issued just one electronic entrance card for the room. They are issued one, not two. The writer tells us that the victim has nothing on him. No money, credit cards, no room card. So we assume the killer stole the room card along with everything else.’
‘The reader assumes that everything was stolen, but forgets that the killer would have to have been in possession of the key to gain entrance to the room,’ Archer said.
‘Exactly,’ Mike said. ‘So, the wife must have given the killer the card so they could gain entrance. And I’m reading this thinking the killer stole the card.’
‘Except,’ Archer nodded, ‘the victim could easily have known the killer and opened the door and let them in. Then the killer would have taken the card and locked the door on the way out.’
‘It took hundreds of pages to tie it all back to that entrance card. The evidence was there from almost page one. But there were at least three scenarios.’
‘And you feel stupid that you didn’t catch it right away.’
‘Exactly. The evidence was there. You just had to sift through it.’
‘It was the wife, right?’
‘You figure it out, Detective Q.’
‘I don’t have a husband or wife in this case. No locked room.’
‘You’ll get it, man. I feel it in my bones. You’ve already got the evidence, you just don’t know it yet. You’ll figure it out, OK. It will happen and I think deep down you know it too. I’ll look into Gandal’s murder. Someone in this small village of ours knows something. Trust me. And I’m next in line. I’ll hear about it before anyone else and you will be the first person I’ll contact, Detective. I promise.’