The Great Beau

by O'Neil De Noux

  “Didn’t eat much over there did you?”

  “I rarely do. Stefi picked a fight with my mother. Again. And you missed Alaina, again.”

  “Your father stay out of it, as usual?”

  Jessie nods and they both take in a fork full of spaghetti covered in brown-red gravy, New Orleans Italian style, cooked with a roux that darkens the tomato gravy. Beau spears a meatball.

  “Your mother sure can cook.”

  The eyebrows above Jessie’s light green eyes. “I cook just as well.”

  He feigns surprise.

  “Was your mother a good cook?”

  “Oh, no. My father did the cooking. Cajuns are cooks, not the Sioux.”

  They dine quietly as a tapping against the windows turns them to see rain falling outside. It’s nice and quiet in the house and the couple watch each other as they eat. They’ve only known each other a half year but both know this is solid, as solid as it gets, they suppose. Affection and passion mixed with plenty laughter and the fact they love to be together.

  “So what happened with the barricaded subject this morning?”

  “He killed himself.”

  He knows he’s not going to get away with just saying that.

  “So, why’d they call you?”

  “He was the cop who trained me in the field. When I was a rookie.”

  Jessie waits for him to look at her again. John Raven Beau is expert at inexpression, keeping his face deadpan but she sees a hint of emotion in those light brown eyes. He looks at his plate, spears another meatball, eats it.

  “You wanna tell me about it, Babe?”

  “No.”

  Distant thunder rolls as the rain increases. Stella jumps up on the nearest windowsill to sit and look out at the wet world. The old house has wide window sills, perfect for cat perching.

  “The chief called me to another scene after. Her next door neighbor died this morning. Looks like a natural.” He explains about the granddaughter and the big house full of books, magazines, pottery and art, mentioning the Remingtons and the sculpture from Rodin’s student.

  They rinse the plates, put the dishes in the dishwasher and curl up on the sofa together to watch a movie on HBO called In Bruges and Beau didn’t realize pretty-boy Colin Farrell could act but the man was captivating and his co-star Brendan Gleeson hysterical.

  “I like dark comedy,” Jessie says as they strip on either side of the bed after, watching each other.

  Beau stretches out his back, flexing his muscles. A hairless chest stands in contrast to a face that needs shaving twice a day. His skin stands out darker than her creamy complexion, like he has a year-round tan. He looks as if he’s lived under a perpetual Caribbean sun. A man who moves with such self-confidence, smoothly, like a tiger.

  Jessie stands 5’4” and as she pulls back her long hair, which reaches half-way down her back, with her elbows up, her breasts rise and Beau smiles. She’s top heavy but not overly with slim, sleek legs. He waits for it and as she pulls the sheet down, she shows her best feature, that dazzling, sexy smile.

  Jessie lies on the bed on her back, one knee raising slightly and he looks at her body lying there, his gaze lingering on her trimmed bush then glances over at the portrait of the wall, her NUDE IN RED – a painting of Jessie’s torso from neck to her thighs, an oil painted by a young artist gathering international fame. Or so she tells Beau.

  He looks back at her and lets out a long sigh.

  Beau asks, “What? Sex again?”

  She goes, “Heh, Heh, Heh.”

  He climbs next to her, hovers over her and kisses her lips softly, before the French kissing starts and the scintillating feeling of lying together naked is as electrifying as that first kiss months ago. They keep kissing, riding the affection until their hands being to roam over each other’s body. Beau pulls his mouth from hers and he kisses his way to her breasts. She grabs his dick and it’s already hard and she moves her hand up and down his shaft, feels it growing even harder. It’s been a couple days and they both rise to the pleasure as he moves down her body and she gasps and it’s on.

  Beau caresses her familiar curves, kisses her soft flesh, licks his way to her silky-soft pubic hair, licking her lips, vibrating his tongue against her clit and she pumps her hips against him and gasps and he keeps going.

  The waves shoot through her body and Jessie rides them through the pleasure until she comes in a numbing climax and he slides his dick in her and it rises again through the long pumping and grinding. He slows and moves with her and they make love now and it’s so smooth until it wells up in him and before he explodes and it’s fucking now and she comes again with him this time.

  The ceiling fan helps cool their damp bodies as he slowly rolls off Jessie to lay next to her on his back.

  “Sometimes,” she whispers. “You’re pretty great.”

  Beau draws fingers across her belly to her hip and leaves his hand there, tapping his fingers gently.

  “What? No response?”

  Why does she want to talk when we finish?

  He whispers, “You too.”

  She waits until he’s dozing to say.

  “That’s it? ‘You too’?”

  His left eye opens and sees the smile on her face.

  “You wanna talk, Babe?”

  She draws fingernails over his chest.

  “Not really.”

  He waits for it, feels her tapping the fingernails on his chest now. A minute later the fingers stop tapping. A minute later she rolls over and turns off the light, resettles and the deep breathing starts to pull him away and he’s glad he didn’t answer when he wanted to when she said, ‘Not really’. He almost said, ‘Good’, and the fingernails would have definitely not stopped.

  THE BLOOD SMELLS so real Beau wakes up, looking at Jessie in the moonlight streaming through the transoms above the windows. Then he realizes it was a dream and the exploding brain was Mike Agrippa’s. He settles back and looks at the revolving blades spinning above.

  “You all right, Babe?”

  Jessie has her back to him.

  “Just a dream.”

  “Nightmare. You’ve been whimpering.”

  “What?”

  “Mewing actually.”

  Dammit to hell.

  “I don’t whimper or mew.”

  She reaches back to touch his leg, leaves her hand there.

  “RIM dreams cement events in your memory. If you don’t dream about something your mind doesn’t solidify the memory so it usually forgets it.” She runs her fingers up his leg. “Psychology 101.”

  Just fuckin’ great. Mike’s bloody brains cemented in my memory.

  A few minutes later she adds, “Are you shaking the bed on purpose?”

  He gets up and goes to the bathroom, Stella following. He looks at his hands as the muscles tighten. He won’t look at his face in the mirror. Beau closes his eyes, inhales deeply then exhales, breaths in and out, holding the sink now. Stella rubs his left leg, then moves to his right leg. Eventually, his hands quit clenching. Eventually, he goes back to bed. Eventually he falls asleep again but it’s a fitful sleep.

  THE INNER DOOR of the superintendent’s office opens and Curtis Edwards peeks around as Beau steps in. Edwards, who passed the Bar Exam just last week, is the cousin of former Governor Edwin Edwards, fast Eddie. He’s a smallish man and wears a prim gray suit. He moves to his desk as Beau crosses the office to the large desk where Superintendent Janet Féroce sits with her cell phone pressed against her left ear. She waves Beau to a chair in front of her desk.

  Féroce stands and paces behind her desk. She’s in a dark blue skirt-suit, rolls her free hand to hurry the caller as she listens to whoever talking to her on the phone.

  John Raven Beau wears a white dress shirt with khaki police tactical pants made of RipStop fabric treated with Teflon to resist spills and stains, one of the new generation police trousers with seven pockets. He wears a canvas belt with a carbon fiber holster on his right hip. T
he holster features a Serpa active retention system that automatically locks his expertly pre-sighted 9mm Glock G40 weapon as it is holstered. This is his duty weapon, a full-sized Glock with recoil dampening. It carries seventeen turbo-shock semi-jacketed hollow-point rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. His badge is clipped to his belt just in front of his holster. Another carbon fiber case on his left side holds handcuffs and two magazines. Today he wears sand colored canvas tactical running boots.

  Féroce sits, puts her cell phone down, asks about the autopsy.

  “Albert D’Loup died of myocardial infarction.”

  Heart attack.

  “How long does the toxicology take these days?”

  “Two weeks to a month.”

  Beau had gone early to the morgue to make sure his cadaver was up first. He didn’t want to sit through Mike Agrippa’s autopsy. There were nine bodies waiting evisceration.

  “I called you in this morning, Chief Inspector, to talk about budget news.”

  “This can’t be good.” Beau glances at Edwards who sits at his small desk with his iPad. Beau stopped taking notes when talking with the chief because Mr. Efficient Edwards always followed their meetings with an email of what was discussed.

  The chief leans back in her captain’s chair.

  “Our budget is a mess but yours isn’t.”

  “I have a budget?”

  “CIU does now. Federal money allotted to your division.”

  Federal money?

  “Don’t know if I like the sound of this. It’s gotta come with strings.”

  “Remember the man who gave you the SUV? You have another SUV coming and yes, there are strings. They’ll manage the money which is good so they won’t be auditing us, but you have a new member of your unit.”

  “A Fed?”

  Féroce smiles and Beau feels the hair on his arms stand up.

  “They have to be a participant. Like a mini-task force. But you’re still in charge and answer only to me.”

  “What kinda Fed?”

  “ATF.” Féroce reaches for a file in a basket on her desk, opens it.

  “He’s a curious study.”

  “A problem child?”

  “A little like you. Just a little. He’s been with ATF three years and got into six shootouts.”

  It’s Beau’s turn to smile.

  “You don’t need more bodies lying around, Chief.”

  “He never seems to hit what he’s shooting at.” She looks at the file again. “So far he’s shot two fences, a generator, two unoccupied trucks and a his own car. Twice.”

  “What? He’s cross-eyed?”

  “It doesn’t say that.” The smile again.

  This is aggravating.

  “Apparently he has a high IQ. Like your partner.”

  The chief keeps smiling. “Your IQ is good enough, Chief Inspector. Right on the norm.”

  Beau looks at Edwards who looks away. Edwards graduated with honors from Loyola Law School.

  Beau lowers his voice. “You should realize the mind of a Sioux does not register on your IQ charts. It’s not on the same human level. It’s on a plain, a vast prairie, far above white folk.” His face is void of expression.

  Féroce looks at Edwards who stands, which usually means the meeting is over so Beau stands.

  “Your partner’s on vacation, correct?”

  “Through next week.”

  “Tomorrow. 10 a.m. Meet Curtis here. He’ll take you to your new offices.”

  New offices?

  “Your firearms-challenged ATF agent will be there.”

  Alizée starts SINGING as Beau leaves and he looks at his iPhone screen, sees it’s Claire D’Loup.

  “Someone broke into my grandfather’s house. The door’s wide open.”

  “Go back down to the sidewalk and wait for me. Don’t go inside.”

  He calls Headquarters on the radio to get a unit straight over to the house.

  “Possible 62 in progress. Complainant will be out front. Woman with red hair.”

  By the time Beau pulls up, Claire’s standing next to a police unit. She’s in another sundress. This one pink and shorter, well above the knees. Her hair’s curlier and her lipstick a darker shade of red-brown, a pair of sunglass dangles from the side of her mouth. She takes them out of her mouth, tells him the cops are inside. Beau calls them on the radio and tells them he’s coming in.

  He asks her to wait outside and goes in, finds Officer Murphy in the kitchen.

  “Brown’s upstairs. No forced entry down here.”

  Beau calls for the crime lab right away as he checks the rear door, shrugs. They find Brown coming down the main staircase. No forced entry through any upstairs window. So they go through the routine, asking Claire if she’s sure she locked up when she left yesterday.

  “Positive. I double checked the alarm.” She closes the front door and turns on the alarm. The green light goes on and Beau opens the door and the alarm starts clanging. She hurries to punch in the code and the turns off the alarm. The phone rings and she scrambles to the room with the tables and answers the phone. She has to climb over a table, giving the men a nice view of her legs. She gives the alarm company the password.

  She takes a roundabout way back through the maze and still has to climb over another table, pulling her dress up, showing a flash of white panties this time.

  “No way to do this like a lady.”

  Beau takes her hand to help her over, says, “Let’s see if anything’s missing.”

  She doesn’t spot anything missing until they reach the master bedroom and sees the Remingtons gone.

  Beau points to the end table. “The Chantal sculpture.”

  “Claudel. Thank goodness I took it home yesterday but my alarm there is no better than here.”

  “Any jewelry missing?”

  She goes to the dresser, looks in a couple drawers. Her grandfather’s rings are still there, watches too. Beau sees they are old fashioned wind up watches. A couple look like real gold. Some of the vases and pottery are missing from the other room.

  Beau has Brown and Murphy do a canvass before they leave, see if any neighbors saw anything. He and Claire wait downstairs where he explains her grandfather died of a heart attack.

  “I suppose that’s good news, if there is in any of this.”

  Standing in the open doorway, Beau realizes he’s smelling her perfume, rather than the flowers outside or the plug ins. A nice scent. He takes out his notebook.

  “You brought the statue home. You live nearby?”

  “On Milan between Coliseum and Chestnut.” She tells him she has a dog that’ll scare off a burglar.

  “Not a Chihuahua, I hope.”

  She doesn’t smile. “Scottish deerhound.”

  So much for humor. The fuck’s a deerhound? Sounds big.

  She keeps staring at him with those big eyes.

  The crime lab technician finds many prints and Beau asks the tech to print Claire.

  “We’ll need comparison prints.”

  “What about my grandfather’s fingerprints?”

  As delicately as he can, he tells her they took his fingerprints at the post mortem.

  “Standard procedure.”

  “There has to be an attic here.”

  She nods and they go up to the third floor and Beau pulls down the attic ladder as Claire flips on the light switch below. Huge attic with several empty books cases, couple of small chests-of-drawers, about a dozen boxes with clothes inside. No burglar hiding.

  Beau goes back down and they put on their sunglasses as they step out on the gallery after Claire resets the alarm and lock.

  “Did you tell anyone your grandfather died?”

  “Huh? No. We have no living relatives and I don’t know if he had any friends.”

  A pair of cardinals, male and female, land on a large feeder just off the porch. The grass has been freshly cut. Beau takes out his notebook, jots a reminder to ask the chief about the lawn man she a
nd Albert shared.

  “Tell anyone about the Remingtons?”

  Claire takes off her glasses to look at him again.

  “Matter of fact I did. I called Christie’s, Sotheby’s and Kronos. The art auction houses. If the paintings were genuine they’re worth six figures. The Claudel sculpture as well. I’m sick over this.

  “Any of these guys local?”

  “Huh? Oh, no. New York.”

  She stares at him. “What? You suspect them?”

  Beau takes off his Ray-Bans to focus his deep set eyes on hers.

  “I suspect everyone. Except me.”

  The girl does not have a sense of humor. Beau struggles to keep from smiling. He slips his notebook back in a pocket, turns to step off the gallery. She grabs his arm.

  “Oh, my God. My grandfather’s antique shop.”

  “What antique shop?”

  THE VALENCE ANTIQUES sign along the top the glass door of the narrow shop seems like a work of art to Beau.

  “Acrylic oil,” Claire explains.

  Dark brown letters flow in neat script on a beige background, each letter a knotted tree branch. Claire slips a key in the lock, punches in the alarm code in the panel next to the lock and opens the door. She locks it after they go in and moves straight to the counter and a large glass case, looking inside as she puts her large red purse atop.

  The case is filled with rings and necklaces and bracelets, gold mostly but some silver. Most of the settings are ornate filled with diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sapphires. Two broadswords, along with rapiers and other swords line a glass cabinet on the wall behind the big case.

  “Who works here?”

  “No one. It’s not a shop anymore. My grandfather bought it about five years ago. He stores things here.”

  The plug-ins cannot clear the stuffiness and Claire moves to the thermostat to turn up the AC. The place is only about 100 feet wide but long with winding stairs up to a second floor. A counter up front opens to a one aisle running up the center with aisles running to each wall, with baker’s racks packed with vintage items – dishes and pottery, bread boxes, lamps with huge lampshades, record players, old radios, a wide shelf unit with miniature soldiers. Two displays catch Beau’s eye, both laid out on large boards with miniature trees, trenches, cannons, cavalry and infantry – one a Civil War battle scene with Robert E. Lee on his gray Traveler and Stonewall Jackson, while the Yankees are represented by U. S. Grant and Sherman.