The Great Beau

by O'Neil De Noux

  Juanita looks at Beau. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  Beau dodges a yellow car cutting him off. In New Orleans you drive defensively or buy a new car every six months.

  “That was a compliment,” Jordan says. “You’re a cool looking woman. Sultry. Latino. Got potentially bad all over you.”

  She looks back at him now.

  “You’d prefer a redhead driving a Mercedes.”

  “Not necessarily. I’m ambidextrous.”

  She tries not to smile.

  Jordan says, “All men are ambidextrous. Except Beau here. I’ve seen Jessie. Damn. Did you know he used to shag Judy Barlow?”

  AILEEN PASSES BEAU a phone message from an Aubrey Monistere, Crime Lab, phone number with a 225 area code.

  “Not our crime lab?”

  “Oh, no. LSP.” Louisiana State Police. “He called to verify your email address and asks you call him as soon as you come in.”

  For the next half hour Beau shows Juanita around, shows her where they moved her desk then gives her the file on the Albert D’Loup case. Jordan rolls his chair to her desk to go over the case file with her. “So you don’t miss anything.” He checks out her legs, which she crosses and fights from reaching to pull her skirt down.

  She’s trying to keep her temper in check but her world changed this morning. She and Beau were partners, worked so closely together through the Hooker murders, as their last case is now called, they’d become like brother and sister. At least she thought so and now there’s a baby brother in the family and Juanita Cruz is now the middle child. She gives Beau a pleading look and he turns his chair around to keep from laughing and calls Baton Rouge. Yep. Just like a big brother.

  “Yes, this is Aubrey Monistere. I’m a forensic scientist here and I’m about to email you an ‘Immediate Follow-up Required’ notification. That natural death case, let me see –” Beau hears papers shuffling.

  “Albert D’Loup. It isn’t a natural. He was poisoned.”

  “The fuck!” Beau stands, shoving his captain’s chair away.

  “Yes, fuck. The CDC in Atlanta sent me an alert. Furbanide, an incredibly rare poison. Hard to detect. From the fluid samples from the D’Loup autopsy. We have a special test for it and when it hit I thought we were in error so I sent it to Atlanta and the CDC confirms. This is the first reported case of furbanide poisoning since World War II and the first ever in the US.”

  Beau turns on his voice memo app on his iPhone to record the conversation.

  “Listen to this,” Monistere goes on, “The CDC describes furbanide as odorless, tasteless and colorless, immediately lethal, producing symptoms resembling those of an acute myocardial infarction – heart attack. A medieval poison from the furbane bush found in central European old growth forests. The plant has never been plentiful. Nazi spies used it when they could find some. The plant was actively eradicated by the West German government after the war. KGB tried to acquire plants and the CIA hurried to gets some but the Germans were efficient in eradicating the plants.

  “I’m thinking – who says the plants only grew in Germany? I mean, central European old growth forests. That could mean Austria, Hungary, Poland, Romania even Switzerland, Czech Republic, Slovakia.” The man rambles now.

  “We have a universal test for poisons and this one automatically flags the CDC, State Department and FBI. I’ll send that email.”

  “Wait. Wait. How is it administered?”

  “You got me. Gotta go. Bye.”

  Beau stretches his arms, twists his back tells Juanita, “It’s not a 29.” He looks her in the eye. “It a 30.”

  “What?”

  “Albert D’Loup was poisoned.”

  And I’m back where I belong. A Homicide.

  “OK.” He catches Juanita’s eye. “We need warrants.”

  Jordan’s confused. Juanita smiles and goes, “Come here. I’ll show you how real cops do it.”

  “Warrants? As in plural?”

  “Search warrant for the countess’s room and an arrest warrant.”

  “For what?”

  “Illegal possession of stolen things. The Remingtons. You heard the will.”

  Jordan slides his chair over, bumps into Juanita and goes, “This could be fun.”

  Beau picks up his office phone and calls the chief’s office. He tells Chief Féroce her neighbor was poisoned and she goes, “I guess I called the right man over that morning.”

  He asks her to call the CDC. Keeping a lid on the information, giving him a shot to solve the case before they blurt out about furbanide. “We need to get a line on this furbane bush before the media explodes with it.”

  “Keep me informed.”

  Beau looks at the two across the room. Juanita’s typing on her MacBook Pro. Getting blank warrant files up, no doubt. Jordan’s got his chair next to her, looks up at Beau who tells him to get working on finding out what we can about furbanide.

  He calls Monistere back

  Odorless? tasteless?

  “Have you analyzed the coffee and the swabs from the coffee cups?”

  “Not yet. But I will right away.”

  “Look, I realize y’all want to brag about being the first to identify this rare poison and all but I have a murder on my hands and I don’t want anyone knowing what we know right now. Can you keep this quiet for now?”

  “Oh. Yeah. I’ll ask my director. Can’t promise anything.”

  “Thanks for trying.”

  Beau gets up. “Y’all get those warrants.”

  “Where you going?” Juanita asks.

  “To tell Claire D’Loup in person. Her grandfather was murdered.”

  Jordan stands. “Can I come? Maybe she’ll give me a ride in her Mercedes.”

  Beau points to Jordan’s computer. “Furbanide.”

  BEAU LEADS JORDAN and a uniformed NOPD officer move up the lobby stairs of the Creole Palm Court, while Juanita tells the young woman behind the desk they have a search warrant for Room 201. It is 10 p.m.

  “The key please or we’ll kick in the door.”

  The night clerk gives Juanita an owl-eyed stare. The woman stands maybe 5’1”, thin, with light brown hair and wears a maroon uniform jacket with a name tag ‘Mary’. She pulls out a large drawer and takes out a key marked ‘201’ and hands it to Juanita who asks a second uniformed officer to stand by, make sure Mary doesn’t call anyone.

  Juanita goes up the stairs, finds Beau and Jordan on either side of a door and passes Beau the key. They go in unannounced, their eyes adjusting immediately to the night light in the room. It takes three seconds to realize, the suite is empty. No clothing, no luggage, no poison vial, no countess. A note atop her dresser reads: For my bill. Next to the note are 9 hundred dollar bills.

  “Go downstairs,” Beau asks Juanita. “See if she left a forwarding address.”

  “See if she’s not in another room here,” Jordan adds.

  Nothing. Zero. Edna Greta Schwandorf, Countess Isenburg wasn’t seen leaving – which Beau does not believe. He rousts Elton Schwartz, the day manager, from his room but Elton swears he saw nothing.

  “She’s gone?”

  They go to each room, see if anyone knows anything. Maybe the countess made a friend. No. The countess just dematerialized. Yeah. Right.

  Later, sitting behind his desk, Beau calls Chief Féroce, “We checked every cab company in town and customs at the airport. Jordan’s gonna call the German Counsel in the morning.”

  “Thanks for keeping me updated.” Féroce sounds tired. It’s one a.m. now. No wonder. “Let me know if anything else develops.”

  Beau makes sure the arrest warrant for Edna Greta Schwandorf, Countess Isenburg for Illegal Possession of Stolen Things – the Remington paintings – is entered into the NCIC computer and they issue a BOLO – Be On The Lookout for the missing countess.

  Beau to Jordan sitting at his desk – “Contact the State Department first thing in the morning. Put a block on the countess’s passport. Keep her
from exiting the country.”

  He stretches his back as he stands, reminds them, “Silvers Vault Complex. 10 a.m.”

  CLAIRE CALLS BEAU before 9 a.m., asks if he can pick her up. He sends Jordan in the black SUV and drives Juanita in the navy blue SUV.

  “That new perfume?”

  “Yes, picked it up on Grand Cayman.”

  They pull up on Common Street, 15 minutes early and find a parking meter across the street from the loading zone in front of Silvers Vault Complex, a gray, six story granite monolith with marble columns out front. Chiseled in the granite above the front doors is – AMERICAN BANK of Louisiana.

  A white armored truck parks in the loading zone. It has no marking.

  “This used to be a United States Repository of Specie,” says Juanita. “I looked it up online. US gold and silver were stored here from 1870 until it was all transferred to Fort Knox in 1938. Not a bank anymore. Privately owned building where people store valuables, records, jewels, gold and silver bars, art in private vaults and boxes. Temperature controlled and guarded, contents confidential.”

  “That lipstick is browner than you usually wear.”

  “What’s with you? Checking out your little sister?”

  “Your hair looks fluffier and that skirt’s been taken up and your polo shirt hugs your bustline.” Beau grins at her. “All this for Mr. Jordan?”

  She can’t stop the blush rising on her face.

  “What’s this about you shagging Judy Barlow?”

  Damn. Beau has to explain she wasn’t Judy Barlow then. She was Judy Soubirou. At LSU. He was a quarterback and she was a Golden Girl. Dance team.

  “A Golden Girl. Jesus, Beau. They’re superhot in those white and gold outfits.”

  Why is it every time I mention this, everyone go ooouu about a Golden Girl when I was an LSU Tiger quarterback? Even if I was a backup quarterback.

  A black van parks behind the armored car. A man in a blue suit looking like the big guy in the Mission Impossible movies, Ving what’s-his-name, steps away from the van with a smallish woman with a thick shock of brown hair streaked in gray and wearing a red blouse and a full, green and blue plaid skirt. Two security guards step from the armored car and the four confer outside the front door of Silvers as the black SUV pulls up. Jordan bounces out the driver’s side and Claire steps out the other side and someone gets out the back seat. Dr. Fukoda in a white shirt and baggy brown pants and carrying a large briefcase.

  Claire’s in another sundress, this one pale green which she wears with white high heels. An eye-catching sight in the breeze between the buildings, hair flowing, dress rising to her thighs. Beau pulls the navy blue SUV behind the black one, parks.

  They meet attorneys Fisher and Stoat in the vast marble foyer, Fisher in another black suit while heavy-set and balding Stoat wears a blue seersucker suit. Two security guards stand just inside the doors with a tall woman with blond hair streaked in silver wearing a snug blue dress with a high collar. The dress reminds Beau of those vintage movies with women wearing form-fitting dresses reaching almost to their ankles.

  She is Emilie Deslonde, Executive Director of Silvers. The woman in the plaid skirt is Dr. Jean Becker from the Smithsonian.

  “Ving!” Jordan says before they get to the big guy. “You are the man.”

  The man smiles, extends his hand and says, with a heavy British accent, “Percy Freemantle. Armytage House Fine Art Auctions and Private Sales, Charing Cross Road, London. Ving Rhames is my stunt double on occasion. When I have a particularly dangerous art appraisal.”

  Ms. Deslonde’s Office is twice the size of the CIU suite at headquarters with a black quartz desk and two thick brown sofas, large framed black and white photographs in black lacquer frames – Pirate Alley in the rain, oaks with Spanish moss on a foggy morning, a row of walled tombs on a sunny day.

  “So sorry to hear about your grandfather. I only saw him a few times. A polite gentleman.” Deslonde shows a sad smile to Claire, looks at Beau, lifts her chin to look down her nose at him.

  What? I’m an impolite gentleman?

  “Guns are not usually permitted in here.”

  Beau gives her the expressionless stare. Jordan pretends he’s not looking at Deslonde’s ass.

  Your fucking security guards have weapons, lady.

  She stares at Beau for a few more seconds then goes through the ritual of checking Claire’s identification, confirming her signature on the signature card. The vault was purchased by Claire’s grandfather in 1939.

  Claire remembers signing a number of documents over the years, including bank cards because, according to her grandfather, her name is on all his accounts. This must be one of the cards she’d signed.

  “You are now the owner of one of our large vaults.”

  Stoat is satisfied and decides Fisher can handle this and leaves.

  On their way up to the vault on the sixth floor, Claire explains to Beau the experts are here to view the Renoir, Remingtons and anything they find in the vault. She seems befuddled by the logistics. They have to get the paintings from Jessie’s vault, put them in the armored car to take them to the airport for a chartered flight to Washington. The Smithsonian.

  Amazingly, they all fit in the elevator and Deslonde explains the building’s granite walls are five feet thick and the six vaults on the top floor are each 60’ square.

  Claire asks, “Will my iPad work in the vault?”

  “We have Wi-Fi. I shall enter the password for you. It changes weekly.”

  Dr. Becker pulls an iPad from her large purse as well. Fremantle also has one.

  Claire inserts her key in the lock and Deslonde inserts hers then punches in a code and a red light next to the vault turns green. The ceiling’s got to be 16 feet tall illuminated by bright florescent lights, the air cool and dry. The wall on the right is lined with metal tables with a dozen wooden boxes, each about a foot tall, and sculptures from 6” tall to 6’ wide, some marble, some metal, some glass and some ivory. They check each carefully.

  Beau draws Juanita and Jordan outside the vault. Ms. Deslonde steps away.

  “Good posture,” Jordan says, watching her leave.

  She does have a nice ass – Beau thinks.

  “No sense all of us staying.” Beau pulls out his iPhone, turns on his reminder app and shows Jordan an address on Carondelet Street. “The German sub-Consulate is at this address.” He shows it to Juanita. “Four blocks away. Let them know we have an arrest warrant for one of their citizens.”

  He taps Juanita’s shoulder. “Then go back to the hotel. Ole Edna must have interacted with someone there.”

  The boxes contain jewelry, manuscripts in German and French, some loose jewels, rubies, sapphires, garnets and pearls. One is has 97 gold bars, each 1 kilo 24 karat gold and 79 silver bars, 100 ounces each. According to Percy Fremantle, each gold bar is worth $35,000, each silver bar $1,600. Another box is full of boxes of coins – $50 American gold eagles, gold Kruggerands, Canadian gold coins and American silver dollars. Another box is full of postage stamps. Look pretty old to Beau and Fukoda tells him some are rare.

  Wooden boxes line the other wall, the same type the Renoir was in, all screwed shut. Some are two feet tall, others much larger. They all put on surgical gloves and start in on the smallest. Deslonde comes off the elevator with a guard pushing a silver cart to the vault. Atop is a coffee carafe, cups, spoons, sugar and cream bowls.

  “Need some help?” Beau says.

  “Janet Féroce just set me straight.” The woman’s stern face almost smiles.

  She called to bitch about me, I’ll bet.

  “I didn’t realize who you are, Mr. Beau.” She takes the cart, rolls it into the vault, offers coffee all the way around and serves all. She passes Beau a full cup and he drops cream and sugar in his.

  “I was a couple years ahead of Janet at Smith. New Orleans girls gravitating to one another up in Massachusetts.”

  Smith College. The chief mentioned going there to B
eau.

  Emilie Deslonde’s brown eyes seem softer now. “Just looked you up online. The media doesn’t like you much. Ever read your Wikipedia page?”

  “I have a Wikipedia page?”

  “No one can agree on how many people you’ve shot.”

  She stands close now, takes a sip of coffee, still looking him in the eyes.

  She’s not flirting. It’s something else. Then again, she’s a woman. How the fuck do I know what it is? More mystifying than a cat.

  She smiles again. “I ran ‘New Orleans bad cop’ and found you. Who is this LaStanza fellow? The media thinks he left the department to become a gangster.”

  “A friend. Taught me everything I know.” It’s Beau’s turn to smile.

  Deslonde finishes her coffee, says she has to get to back work, hands him a business card. Her cell number is written in blue ink on the back. She tells him if they need more coffee send the guard down. The guard remains by the elevator and Beau thinks about LaStanza. Jessie’s cousin, Dino LaStanza was a homicide detective who handled the murder of a female police officer Beau had just started dating. Solved it and kept Beau close, let him work with the homicide dicks until Beau was promoted to the Big Show after LaStanza killed too many men and the old chief tried transferring him to the record room. When Beau met Jessie she was an operative with LaStanza’s private detective agency. She was a private eye and LaStanza warned Beau she was a maneater. Beau snickers to himself.

  Jessie.

  Women do seem to be on a different level. Jessie is so intuitive. Even Stefi seems like she’s ahead of Beau most of the time. He should have read these signs from his mother, only Laurie Beau was a quiet mother and a quiet wife and his father told him, many times, while they were out fishing or hunting, how he was a fortunate man to have a woman so quiet.

  He finishes his coffee, steps into the vault and moves over to the big guy. Percy Freemantle types on his iPad and Beau asks if this is a good haul.

  “Yes, actually. I have a lot to auction if Miss D’Loup decides to sell some of these items.” He nods to the sculptures. “Two Han Dynasty sculptures and a rare Qin Dynasty dragon sculpture. The jade piece is from the Mauryan Dynasty. India. The copper mask is African, Kingdom of Ife and the ivory is Songhai Empire, also African.