Shadow Hunt

by Don Pendleton

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  The blonde woman at the front desk was devouring him with her eyes. Her red sleeveless dress plunged in the front, leaving little to the imagination. She leaned forward even further, squeezing her elbows into her sides so that her cleavage all but jumped out and said hello.

  Resisting the urge to pull the clinging shirt away from his skin, Bolan turned enough for her to see the badge and gun on his belt. He needed to find Rio in a hurry, and he really didn’t want to waste time with someone who was more interested in flirting than being helpful.

  “Matt Cooper,” he said. “U.S. Marshal’s Service, to see the district attorney.”

  Eyeing his gun carefully, she stammered, “Oh, y-yes, sir. Right away.”

  He watched her hurry away from the desk, then duck into an office. He hadn’t had time to put together a full cover, so using a U.S. marshal’s badge was the best idea he could come up with on short notice. It would get anyone in the law-enforcement community’s attention, and it cut down on unwanted questions. U.S. marshals worked all over the country, dealing with everything from basic immigration to drug running to federal warrants.

  He waited patiently, trying to hear the frantic whispers behind the closed door, but having to be satisfied with the knowledge that things were moving along. After a couple of minutes, the busty woman hustled back out, with a man close on her heels. The sign on the door read District Attorney, but Bolan knew in a minute this guy wasn’t the head honcho. For one thing, he was wearing an off-the-rack suit and for another, he was too young.

  Bolan watched the small man straighten his shirt and tie, then march forward.

  “You gave my secretary a good scare, Marshal Cooper. What’s the big idea?”

  Bolan stood a little straighter as the man began to talk. The reprimand he was trying to give was weakened with the small quaver in his voice and the fact that he couldn’t seem to keep his hands still.

  “I don’t know why she’d be scared. I let her see my badge, then she went to get you. We’re all supposed to be on the same side, right? Can we talk in your office? It’s vital that I speak with the district attorney.”

  “Well, sir, he’s not here and won’t be before the end of the week. He’s at a conference in Washington. Might I suggest that you make an appointment for Monday?”

  Bolan looked over the fidgeting man. “You the assistant DA?”

  “Yes, yes, I am,” he said. “I’m in charge of this office until he returns. Trenton Smythe.” He offered a hand, which Bolan ignored.

  “Then you’ll have to do.”

  Bolan could see the sweat bead on the little man’s brow. He couldn’t have been over five-four, and a 130 pounds soaking wet. He looked like an overworked, underweight terrier. If Bolan hadn’t been watching so closely, he would have missed the catch in the man’s breathing, but not the look in his eyes that said more than any one person could with words. That “Ah, crap,” look that was unmistakable.

  “Of course,” Smythe said finally.

  He turned and walked into the office. Bolan nodded to the secretary as he walked past her desk. The outer office was modern and had clearly been updated recently, but the inner office was typical old Louisiana, dark wood paneling, deep rich carpeting and plaques that showed the DA’s latest and greatest fishing accomplishment. Mr. Smythe sat confidently behind the DA’s hijacked desk.

  “Now how can I help you, Marshal?”

  “There was a U.S. marshal visiting on his vacation here. He’s a friend of mine and has come up missing. I thought I’d check in and see if you had heard anything. His name is Jack Rio.”

  Smythe pursed his lips. “No…” he said, thinking. “I haven’t heard of Marshal Rio, but of course many people come here on vacation. If he wasn’t working, why would he check in with us? Are you certain he came to New Orleans?”

  Bolan nodded. “I’m sure he came here,” he said. “And as for a vacation, well, you know some of us in law enforcement don’t really vacation. From what I’ve heard, he came out this way to look into something on his own time. He’s not the type to just go missing.”

  “Does he have a wife screaming for him or something?”

  “No, but he’s my friend and I know he was working on something here.”

  “Ah, I see,” Smythe said. He chuckled weakly. “A cold case or something?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” he said. “But if he was following a trail out this way, I figure he might have checked in with your office. It’s at least odd that he’s gone missing in your jurisdiction.”

  Smythe stood and went to the door. He peeked out around it before closing it firmly, then returned to the desk. Bolan hadn’t even been in the room with the guy five minutes and he wanted to shoot him. It was obvious he knew something about Rio, and Bolan wasn’t a patient man.

  “You said your friend’s name was Jack Rio?”

  “That’s right.”

  Smythe began to fidget with the antique pen that was sitting in an inkwell. He leaned back against the desk and stared at Bolan, but his entire demeanor had changed into something more cocky and confident. The soldier sensed this man was more than he appeared and at least part weasel.

  “Yeah, all right, now that I think about it, we did have a fella by that name come through here.” He glanced suggestively at the door. “But maybe this isn’t the best place to be talking about it.”

  “Look, Mr. Smythe, this is a missing federal agent. If you have some information, you need to tell me. If I don’t come up with some answers pretty damn fast, you’re going to end up with every federal law-enforcement agency in the country breathing down your neck.”

  Smythe pulled one hand out of his crossed arms and pointed a stubby finger at Bolan.

  “Marshal Cooper, this is New Orleans and down here we do things a bit differently. We don’t rush things that we shouldn’t rush, and this is one of them. Since Katrina, about all we’ve dealt with is the Feds, and most of ’em couldn’t find their ass with two hands, a flashlight and a map.”

  Despite the man’s attitude, Bolan could tell that Smythe was nervous about something. So he simply sighed and nodded.

  “It’s your town,” he said. “What do you have in mind?”

  “That’s smart, Marshal Cooper. Why don’t we meet around seven over at Mosca’s? I’ll have more for you then.”

  “Where might that be?”

  “Oh, you’ll have found it by seven. It’s practically famous. Just ask around, and you’ll find it.”

  A discreet knock on the door interrupted Smythe, and the secretary stuck her head in the door when he called out, “Enter.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir, but Chief Lacroix is here to see you,” she said.

  A heavily muscled man in a police uniform pushed past her. “Jeezus pleezus, Sally, since when do I need an announcement?”

  He stopped as he crossed the threshold and spotted Bolan. “I apologize, Trenton,” he said. “I had no idea you were in a meeting.”

  Bolan stood and moved away from the two men. The officer’s name tag revealed that his first name was Duke, and more than anything else, he radiated danger. The soldier wanted room to maneuver in the event he had to make a quick exit. New Orleans had a reputation for being corrupt, especially the police department, and while he wasn’t yet sure who was involved in Rio’s disappearance, he’d wager his favorite Desert Eagle that at least someone from the police department was involved. And Smythe obviously knew more than he was letting on.

  The way Lacroix ignored Smythe told Bolan a great deal about who had the upper hand in their relationship. “Who’s this now, Trenton?”

  “Matt Cooper,” Smythe said. “A U.S. marshal.”

  “Is that so?” Lacroix asked. “What brings you to the DA’s office, Marshal?”

  “I’m here investigating the disappearance of another marshal,” Bolan replied evenly. Lacroix was dangerous—Bolan felt that as clearly as he’d feel it from a water moccasin.


  “It’s common courtesy for you boys to check in with the locals before you conduct any investigation in someone else’s jurisdiction. I’m sick of you federales thinkin’ you can come in here as pretty as you please without a little common courtesy.”

  “Oh, you were next on my list,” Bolan said. “As soon as I was done here.”

  “Is that so?” Lacroix said, using the same expression of doubt again. “What’s the name of your missing marshal? I haven’t heard of anything coming our way, and we usually get a flash alert on those kinds of things.”

  “He was off-duty,” Smythe offered. “Supposedly, he was down here on vacation, but he’s gone missing.”

  “Huh,” the police chief said. “Sounds like you’re wasting your time, Marshal Cooper. He probably hooked up with some sweet thing and is taking a couple of extra days. A few hours with a Cajun woman and a little home brew can make any man forget his duties. You should go on back and tell your superiors to lighten up a little. Boy’ll show back up when he sobers up.”

  Lacroix rested his hand suggestively on his gun belt. Just close enough to his sidearm to make a point, but not close enough to give offense.

  “Is that an order?” Bolan asked.

  “Nah, just a friendly suggestion.”

  “I think I’ll hang around for a couple of days. After all, he may need a little assistance finding his way back home. Gentlemen.”

  Bolan blatantly turned his back on them and walked out the door.

  AFTER BOLAN LEFT, Smythe moved to the phone on the desk.

  “What the hell was that?” Lacroix barked.

  “It’s not like I invited him, Duke,” he replied. “He just showed up here. I’m calling Mr. Costello right away. I can handle this.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Lacroix said. “He’s here looking for Jack Rio. Did he tell you that? I haven’t been informed about a formal investigation into his death, which means they’re either keeping it below the radar or it’s personal for this guy. I’d almost rather it was a covert operation. Personal matters can get messy.”

  “Yeah, that’s who he’s looking for,” he said. “What of it? We can take care of him just like we did Rio.”

  Lacroix shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Something about that man sets me off. I wouldn’t go underestimating him.”

  “You worry too much,” Smythe said, picking up the phone.

  “And you don’t worry enough,” the police chief said, moving to the door. “I’m going to look into this.”

  “You do that,” Smythe said, dialing the phone number from memory. It rang several times before a smooth voice answered.

  “Mr. Costello’s residence,” Victor Salerno said.

  “Vic, it’s Trenton.”

  “I’ve told you not to call me Vic, Smythe. Now what the hell do you want?” he asked. “Mr. Costello is busy.”

  “He’s not too busy for this,” he snapped. “Put him on.”

  “You’ve got a big mouth for a little man,” Salerno replied. “Really big.”

  “Look, I just had a U.S. marshal in here looking for Rio, and he’s not just going to walk away, so maybe you’d like to stop commenting on my big mouth and put the boss on.”

  There was a long silence, then Salerno said, “Hold on, little man.”

  There was the sound of muffled words, then, “Mr. Smythe,” Costello said as he came on the line. “I understand we have a small problem.”

  “I don’t know how big the problem is,” he said, then filled him in on his meeting with the U.S. marshal.

  “And what did you tell him?” Costello asked.

  “I told him to meet me at seven at Mosca’s,” Smythe said. In the background, he could hear the faint, painful moaning of someone—likely Jack Rio—being tortured.

  “That will do nicely,” Costello said. “I’ll send along a welcoming committee and the problem will be solved. Good day, Mr. Smythe.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “Thank you.” He hung up the phone and sat down heavily. Things were going too far, too fast. Sooner or later, they’d all get caught and go to prison or worse.

  And he agreed with Duke Lacroix. There was something about that man Cooper that gave him the willies. Smythe sat back down at his computer and went to his online banking. Maybe it was time to start thinking about moving some money.

  3

  In cities famous for their food, New Orleans stood out. But Mosca’s wasn’t just a well-known restaurant, it was a tradition meant to be celebrated, like Mardis Gras. At least that’s what the waitress at the bistro told Bolan when he stopped in for a cup of coffee to go. While many restaurants were reputed for excellent food and service, only a few were esteemed for their ability to keep secrets. “If you want to talk about taking over the world, you go to Mosca’s,” she said, handing him his coffee.

  While Bolan had no interest in taking over the world, a restaurant with that kind of reputation would certainly be online. He’d returned to his hotel room, locked the door and booted up his computer on the tiny desk that was as scarred as he was. Using a secure log-on, Bolan was able to find Mosca’s website, several other mentions online, and, with a little clever manipulation learned from the Farm’s computer genius Aaron Kurtzman, a back door into a set of FBI files on the Matranga Family itself.

  According to the files, the Matrangas had been operating in New Orleans since at least the 1880s, but had virtually disappeared since the death of Carlos Marcello in 1993. Marcello had used Mosca’s as the epicenter of his empire, having meets there for everything from personal meals to planning killings. Mosca’s reputation of good food, incredibly discreet service and no questions asked had outlasted even the Mafia.

  The location was far enough away from the hustle and bustle of New Orleans itself that it was possible to come and go without being seen by everyone. Bolan pulled up to the simple black-and-white building. It was fairly busy, and the parking lot was almost full. That suited him fine, and he parked on the far edge of the lot and rolled down his window. The smells coming from the restaurant were heavenly despite the heavy humidity in the air, and his stomach grumbled. He’d spent most of the afternoon reading the files he’d stolen from the FBI database and hadn’t taken the time for lunch.

  After watching for several minutes and seeing no signs of trouble, Bolan rolled up the window, got out of the car and locked it, then moved across the lot to the front door. He weaved his way through parked cars on the way there, as the lot didn’t boast marked spaces, but was little more than a graveled area where people parked as they wanted.

  He opened the door to a wave of smells and muted sounds. According to the file, Mosca’s had renovated after Hurricane Katrina, and one of the improvements had been the installation of cork in the panels surrounding the booths, as well as the floors, to further dampen the noise. It had worked well, since while it was obvious that people were talking, it was almost impossible to discern single words.

  There was an older man in a tuxedo shirt behind the bar, polishing glasses, and a middle-aged woman was standing near a podium. “Good evening, sir,” she said. “Welcome to Mosca’s.”

  “Thank you,” Bolan said. “I’m meeting someone.” He scanned the restaurant and spotted Smythe seated in a booth near the back. “There he is,” he added.

  “Oh,” she said. “Mr. Smythe. He’s expecting you.”

  “Thanks again,” he said, turning away from her and crossing the restaurant, while keeping his eyes open for trouble. He didn’t trust Smythe any further than he’d trust Lacroix. His suspicions about extensive corruption had been confirmed in the files he’d read, though nothing solid had been proved in recent years.

  Smythe was seated with a beautiful woman, and both of them were drinking large glasses of red wine, presumably waiting for him to show up. They spoke together in low, heated whispers. Smythe finally spotted him and waved him over. The woman looked even more uncomfortable as she put her glass on the table. She really was striking
, in a conservative cut, tan business suit, with a white blouse open at the neck and unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of cleavage.

  Bolan reached the table. “Mr. Smythe, I don’t recall your mentioning that you were bringing someone else along.”

  “I didn’t, and she won’t be staying long anyway,” he said. “Marshal Cooper, this is my sister, Sandra Rousseau. Sandra, this is U.S. Marshal Cooper.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth as she looked everywhere but at him. “I was just leaving.” She tucked her purse under her arm and looked pointedly at her brother.

  Bolan cleared his throat and her eyes met his. “I’m thinking that you may have a different definition of pleasure than I do. You look like a rabbit ready to dart.”

  “I…I apologize,” she said, stammering. “It’s been a long day for me. We had just ordered, but I really can’t stay.”

  “You should eat something,” Smythe said. “You’ll feel better.”

  “There’s no need to leave on my account,” Bolan said. “Sit.” It wasn’t quite an order, but it was close.

  She relaxed back into her seat. “I’ll just finish my wine, then, and take my food to go.”

  Bolan sat down, ensuring that he had a good view of both the front door and the kitchen entrance. “Is there anything that you recommend on the menu?” he asked them.

  “Oyster Mosca,” Smythe said.

  “I love their Italian crab salad,” Sandra offered. She signaled a server who was passing by and asked for her order to be put in a container to go. Sandra looked anywhere but at Bolan. She fidgeted with her napkin and the pearl drop pendant on the chain around her neck.

  Bolan considered their suggestions and discarded both. He ordered the Chicken à la Grande, and a glass of water. Sandra asked how he was enjoying New Orleans, and Bolan said that all he’d seen of it so far was his hotel and the DA’s office.