by Mike Dennis
“Hotel? Four blocks away? Was he stayin’ there?”
“No. That’s the funny thing about it. We don’t know where he was staying. We checked all the downtown hotels. None of them have any record of him. We figure he was staying somewhere because there was no luggage in his car. We know he ate dinner with another man and a woman in the restaurant of this hotel on the matchbook. He parked his car there. Picked up the tab, too, according to the waiter. Paid in cash and left a healthy tip. And let me tell you — this place ain’t cheap.”
“What’s it called?”
“The Louis Philippe. Two hundred block of Bourbon. Oh, and after he ate there, he and the others went into the lounge.”
“The lounge?”
“Yeah, it’s a place where they got high-ticket whores. Been around forever. Nice place, pretty fancy setup. But he didn’t mess around with any of them. Seems he got friendly with the girl who plays piano there.”
“Can you gimme her name?”
“Sure, it’s, uh —” He checked his file. “Linda Lavelle.”
Dunlap head-signaled the young detective, who took out his own notebook and began to write.
“Did you check her out?”
“Nope. We were about to do it yesterday morning, but we had a double murder on Rampart Street about an hour and a half after the Ryan killing, and the paperwork just backed us up.”
“What about the other two with him? A man and a woman, you say?”
“Can’t find `em. Maybe they freaked, I don’t know. But now that you say Ryan was wanted for murder, they might’ve been accomplices of his, who probably split as soon as he went down. Even if they weren’t his partners, it damn sure would’ve gotten sticky for them if they’d hung around, having to answer for their connection to him. No wonder they didn’t want to get involved.”
“You don’t consider them suspects in Ryan’s murder?”
“Nah. It’s a classic street robbery. Fits the exact MO of some other tourist crimes we’ve had here lately. Hit him the minute he gets out of the car. Take the money and run. It’s only a coupla blocks back to the projects from where the killing took place. We got our informants over there, though, so we might eventually get him.”
“This, uh — what’s her name? Linda something?”
“Lavelle. Linda Lavelle. She’s legit. Been playing piano around town here for years. Mostly at the Louis Philippe. We’re not worried about her skipping out. We’ll get around to her pretty quick here.”
“How about the body? Where’s it at now?”
“Still on ice. We’re trying to find a next of kin. If we come up dry, it’s potters’ field.”
Dunlap glimpsed the open file on the desk. He pointed to a set of black-and-white photos partially protruding from under the top papers.
“Are those from the crime scene?”
Champagne pulled them out. “Yeah, this’s them. Just routine stuff.”
“May I?” asked Dunlap.
Champagne handed him the folio. Dunlap eyed the photographs carefully for nearly two minutes. Looking back at Champagne, he asked, “You say there was a wallet?”
The lieutenant reached into a drawer. His hand came out holding a well-worn leather billfold. He tossed it onto the desk.
“Driver’s license and not much else.”
“Funny the guy just took the money and not the whole wallet,” Dunlap said, fingering the billfold.
“Yeah, you’re right,” said Champagne. “Usually they take everything, they don’t bother stopping to pull the money out. Maybe Ryan pulled it out for him and gave it to him.”
“But I mean,” Dunlap said, “for all the killer knew, there mighta been more hidden inside. Maybe plastic, too.”
“Yeah, who knows? Like I said, when a kid takes down a citizen these days, no telling what he’s gonna do.”
Dunlap continued poring over the photos as well as the rest of the file.
Champagne added, “You got a warrant out on Ryan, Lieutenant?” His black eyes, large and full of expression, studied Dunlap closely.
“Uh, no — no warrant. Not yet. We just wanted him for questioning right now. Not much doubt he’s our man, though.”
“Mm-hm. Must be a pretty important case for you guys to come all the way over here. Who’d he kill — the mayor?”
Dunlap and the young detective each stifled a laugh. “I wish he had,” said Dunlap. “But no, it was just some Mess’can. Uh, a businessman. A Mess’can businessman.” He handed the file back to Champagne.
“Well, if there’s any other way I can help you out, Lieutenant, just holler, okay?” He reassembled everything in his file just the way he wanted it, then carefully returned it to its place on top of the neatly-arranged folders on his desk. “Sorry about the way this turned out for you. I guess this closes your case?”
“Yeah, I s’pose.” Dunlap rose from his folding chair, and the young detective did the same.
They shook hands with Champagne, then left the office. Within moments, they were back outside in the gusty parking lot. Neither one had spoken.
The young detective broke the silence. “Well, it looks like that’s that.”
“Whaddya mean, that’s that?”
“Well, I mean, it looks like it’s open and shut. Some scumbag just took him for the dough in his wallet, then probably made off with the bag or whatever he was carrying Salazar’s money in. Probably had no idea what was in it. He’s most likely back in the projects right now shitting his pants over what he’s found.”
“Projects, my ass,” Dunlap growled. “This don’t add up.”
They got in the car. The wind sounded even worse whistling around the car’s contours. Dunlap shuddered from the cold, while he settled into the passenger seat. He could see his breath.
“Why not?” said the young detective. “It looks like Ryan just —”
“I know what it looks like. But it just ain’t put together right.”
“Well, what do you think is wrong?” He put the key in the ignition but didn’t turn it.
“Number one,” Dunlap said, holding up a thumb, “he wasn’t offed by no street scum. If he was, the wallet woulda been gone, I don’t care what that cop said in there.”
“It’s possible, isn’t it? I mean, it could’ve happened that way.”
Dunlap shook his head. “Nix. Where’s the swag? The killer knifes our boy and takes a few bucks out of his wallet? He throws the wallet down, then what? He stops to open the trunk and sees a big bag or a suitcase? Then he takes it and goes runnin’ down the street with it? All the while, the stiff lays right out in the street, while his friends are gettin’ hysterical, yelling and screaming? No way, Jose. That ain’t how this deal went down.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Shit, I know so. Why would he waste time lookin’ around for suitcases or laundry bags or whatever, when he could’ve just taken the damn car? The keys were right there. Probably still in our boy’s hand as he hit the pavement.” After a moment of silence, he added, “And what about them other two that was supposed to be with him? Where were they while all this was happening? Why didn’t they come forward? And if it was some street asshole that did this, why didn’t he at least boost somethin’ offa them? Money or jewelry maybe. And if he did — which your average street punk would do — then why didn’t they report it?”
Billowy clouds of breath came out of both men, fogging up the Dodge’s windows. The young detective knew that despite Dunlap’s brutal and greedy nature, he had always possessed some of the sharpest cop instincts on the force. Few men could read a crime scene as well as he could. Fewer still could draw the nuanced conclusions that came to him so easily.
All at once, a light clicked on inside the young detective’s mind. With a dropping jaw and widening eyes, he said, “Then you don’t think … you don’t think the cops grabbed it, do you? Oh shit! Not the cops —”
Dunlap remained calm, assuming his college-professor role.
“Possi
ble,” he replied. “Possible, but doubtful. Maybe, if this was a drug deal gone bad, the first cops on the scene woulda known there was a bundle of jack around somewhere. Then sure, they’d start lookin’ for it right away, just to stuff their pockets. Same thing if this Ryan was some kinda high-profile bad dude, where it might be likely that he’d be holdin’ a shitloada money.”
The young detective said, “But that wasn’t the case.”
“Not by a long shot. But this? This looks for all the world like your average robbery-murder, just like Champagne said. That’s what it looks like.”
“I still don’t see why it isn’t.”
Dunlap continued his college professor demeanor.
He said, “Okay, put yourself at the scene for a minute. The black-and-whites were probably the first to arrive, right?”
“Right.”
“All right, so right away, they’re busy gettin’ their facts together and roping off the area and shit. It doesn’t look to them like there’d be any serious money lying around. Then in a few minutes here come the plain-clothes guys. Detectives everywhere. Pretty soon you’ve got lab guys runnin’ around, dusting for prints and whatnot. Then the ambulance pulls up, and out jump the paramedics. By now, there’s probably even a bunch of citizens standing around, and maybe even a few TV news people with their cameras and shit. A regular fucking street party with all these people all over the place. And no one, but no one, has any reason to think there’s anything worth taking. So, if anyone did happen across a bag fulla money, by now there’s no way they could grab it with the whole crowd watching. They’d hafta turn it in. And then all the attention’d be on the money, and not on the stiff layin’ in the street.”
“Well, if the cops didn’t snatch it, who did?”
“Hmph! If I knew that, we damn sure wouldn’t be sittin’ here freezin’ our fuckin’ asses off.” He stopped talking. His eyes hardened into a gaze, straight ahead at the foggy windshield. “Unless …”
The young detective was following it all, this thinking process. If he wanted to inherit Joe Dunlap’s lucrative territory one day, he had to learn to think like him. So he said, “Unless, just maybe, the people he was with grabbed it and ran. Because …”
“Because they knew what was in it!” said Dunlap with a clap of his hand. “That’s why they didn’t wait around. First of all, you can bet your sweet ass he had it with him. He didn’t leave it in no hotel room or wherever. You pull a job like knockin’ over Salazar, you don’t ever put a lotta distance between you and the take. Now let’s run this down one more time.”
Dunlap shifted his weight in the seat, concurrent with his shift to a higher mental gear.
He began to roll. “Champagne says Ryan ate dinner with two others at this hotel, then goes into the bar. Has a few drinks, cozies up to the piano player, then next thing you know, they’re all leaving.”
“Right,” said the young detective. “Then a few minutes later, he gets it on the street just four blocks away as he steps out of his car.”
“Okay. Now what’s the big question?”
”Where’d he stash the money?”
”Wrong.”
The big cop gestured with his hands like he was holding a basketball.
“Why was he gettin’ out of his car just a few blocks away from where he was having dinner? He parks at the hotel and goes in. Then he comes out and drives just a coupla blocks. Why’d he bother drivin’ for such a short distance?”
“Because, that’s where he was —”
“That’s where he was staying!” The pieces were now sliding together. “And he still had the money with him. That’s why he drove there.”
“So he wouldn’t have to leave the money and the car in the hotel garage all night.”
“Now you’re catchin’ on.” He broke a smile, a truly friendly one. “That’s the way to use the old bean. I’m betting he was staying not two doors from where he got it. We’ll find out a little more when we speak to this Linda Lavelle. She might even know the people he had dinner with.” He shifted in the seat again. “And speaking of eating, I’m a little hungry myself. I think a lot better on a full stomach. Start the car.”
35
The young detective parked the Dodge on Bienville Street, around the corner from the Louis Philippe Hotel. They spotted an inexpensive-looking oyster bar only about a block away, so they ate there. After a particularly hearty seafood meal, they were ready to hit the hotel for a line on this Linda Lavelle.
Besides, darkness had settled over the city. The temperature fell off the table, so Joe Dunlap was in no mood to do any serious legwork.
As they rounded the corner onto Bourbon, they didn’t notice the new Cadillac cruising down Bienville. Had they seen it stopped at the Bourbon intersection, they might have observed the passenger make a sudden move to the driver, grabbing his shoulder or something.
≈≈≈
“¡Hijo de puta! ¡Tomás! ¡Mira el otro lado!”
Tomás felt the force in Rafael Vega’s small hand as it shook his shoulder. He looked across the street, not sure of what it was he was supposed to be seeing.
“¡Mira!” cried Vega. “¡El bruto gordo!”
Tomás’ hands froze on the steering wheel at the sight of the Fat Beast and his companion. “Dunlap,” he breathed. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Vega said, “What do you think he’s doing here, Ese? He’s after Chico’s money.”
“But how’s he know that? How’s he know to come here?”
“Hey, we found out. He could, too. Looks like he already did.”
Horns blared and angry drivers shouted, as traffic built up behind them at the stop sign. They inched through the intersection, Vega never taking his eyes off Dunlap’s hulking figure.
Just as they were about to lose sight of him, they saw him turn and enter a building — what, a hotel? They quickly parked on Bienville and jumped out, hurrying around the corner and crossing the street.
They paused in front of a take-out bar directly opposite the hotel entrance. The street activity was picking up pretty good for a Monday. The take-out bartender barked his specialties, while tourists brushed by the Mexican killers to purchase hurricanes in preparation for a big night in the Big Easy.
“Awright, listen,” said Vega. “This pendejo is here just like we are, looking for Ryan. There’s no other reason for him to be here right now.”
“Man, you sure?”
“I’m sure. That’s el bruto gordo, Ese. He wants the money.” Vega held up a hand and rubbed the tips of his fingers together. “It’s Chico’s money and that slob’s not gonna get his fat hands on it.”
“So what do you want to do, Ese?”
“We gonna wait here till he comes out. If he has the money, we take it from him. If not, we follow him till he takes us to Ryan and the money.”
“We gotta be careful, Rafael. This Dunlap, he don’t fuck around.”
“We’ll be careful. But he don’t know we’re here. That’s our advantage.” Vega grinned, adding, “Then, when we grab the money from him, we give him a full fucking load right in his fat fucking belly. I been wanting to do this a long time, Ese. A long time. And Chico’s gonna love us for it, man. We give him back his money and waste el bruto at the same time. He’s gonna be plenty surprised.”
Tomás nodded and looked away, knowing there was more than one surprise in store.
36
Dunlap flashed his gold tin at the front desk.
“Police officers. We’re here to see Linda Lavelle.”
“All right,” said the clerk. Her smile was bright. Too bright. “Let’s see if I can find her for you.”
She picked up the phone and dialed the lounge. After a brief conversation, she hung up and said in her sunny tone, “Linda usually starts at nine, but they said she has the night off tonight. She’ll be back tomorrow night, though.”
Her smile was still blinding, overflowing with industrial-strength perkiness.
Du
nlap leaned his elbow on the desk. He glared at Miss Perky.
“This’s important. Official police business. Where can we find her?”
That swept the smile off her face. The happiness that exuded from all those white teeth ran back down inside her, until it was safe to come out again. The corners of her mouth turned downward into unfamiliar territory.
“J-just a moment, please. I’ll get the owner for you.”
≈≈≈
Within moments, AJ Frechette appeared in the lobby. Even though they showed ID, there was no need. He knew these guys were cops. They had the look.
“Good evening, gentlemen. I’m AJ Frechette. Let’s go back in my office. If you’d please follow me.”
He led them back behind the front desk, through some doors and hallways, but mainly out of the lobby area, away from public view. John Law standing around your lobby isn’t exactly the kind of image you want for your classy hotel.
His office was sumptuously detailed, teeming with mahogany and glove leather. Abstract copper sculptures stood in the corners behind his desk, while right behind him on the wall hung a very large aerial photograph of New Orleans. The focus was sharp, with the French Quarter in the foreground. It was enclosed in an ornate frame, covering over half the wall. AJ’s own Ermenegildo Zegna suit, an elegant pale gray, looked like it was chosen specifically to blend in with the finery of his office.
It was also warm in there. Dunlap exhaled loudly, as he removed his cheap overcoat, finally warm for the first time that day. AJ estimated that about four people his own size could fit inside that huge garment, though he couldn’t imagine who would want to.
When everyone had settled around the desk, AJ said, “Now, what’s on your mind, Lieutenant?”
“I understand you have a piano player workin’ here named Linda Lavelle. We’d like to talk to her.”
“Sure. She works here. Say, she in trouble or something?”
“No, we’d just like to talk to her. Ask her a few questions.”