“Wrong answer,” Mario shouted. “Try again.”
A thin line of blood streamed down Brandon’s forehead. He struggled to his feet, bracing himself for another blow. “What do you want from me?”
Mario stared him down, pinning him to a steel post with one hand and tightened his fist with the other hand. The violent side of Mario surfaced; he was getting the answer by any means. From behind, Howard pinned Brandon’s shoulders to the post. His strength was no match for Brandon. He wasn’t moving. Mario reared back with his right arm.
“Wait!” Brandon yelled. “You’re going to get me killed.”
“One way or the other, you’re going to die. Now, or later,” Mario said.
“I’m just a bartender at one of Savino’s places,” Brandon said. Howard loosened his hands, giving Brandon some flexibility. “A guy approached me and paid three hundred to drop some pills in a woman’s drink.”
“How did you know Olivia?” Mario said, teeth pressed tightly, his lips hardly moving.
“I didn’t know her,” Brandon took a deep breath. “Manny Ruiz, a bartender, called me. It was her local hangout. The pill was just supposed to make her tipsy.”
“Who hired you?” Howard said, tightening his arms around Brandon’s shoulders.
Brandon’s face twisted out of shape, then he revealed it was Little Pete who approached him and paid him three hundred to drop two pills in Olivia’s drink.
Mario and Howard locked eyes. What they knew all along was confirmed; Savino tried to kill Olivia. They walked up the steps.
“What’s going to happen to me?” Brandon’s shaky voice bellowed.
Without turning back, Mario said. “Manny got two to the back of his head yesterday. If I were you, I’d start running.”
“Stop running somewhere around the Midwest,” Howard said. “That should be good for a week or two.”
The yacht cruised the North Shore, as close to land as possible. The captain’s voice bellowed throughout speakers, as they passed Lorenzo’s compound, pointing out the mansion, guest house, horse stables, and his fleet of luxury cars, all pointed toward the lake for perfect viewing, and his staff, dressed in white, standing at attention on the dock. A planned route to once again show off Lorenzo’s wealth. Turning south, purposely running twenty-five yards off the Causeway Bridge so motorists crossing could see the yacht cutting through the waters in all its glory. Turning east, they headed back to New Orleans to let the passengers off.
When the boat docked, cars lined the street, and men dressed in red vests were handing out guests’ car keys. A much sober Lorenzo stood and thanked everyone for joining him, like a respectable businessman. Howard waltzed Julie Wong down the plank. She gave Lorenzo a kiss on each cheek and mumbled something. Howard couldn’t make it out.
Mario, with Olivia in hand, passed Lorenzo; he moved his lips: two thousand. Mario gave an okay nod and a half-ass smile. He’d preferred to stick his gun in Lorenzo’s mouth and watch his brains blow out the back of his head. Patience wasn’t his best virtue, but for now, he’d trust his chief. Waiting could bring Lorenzo and his crew down to a place where they might never see the light of day again, preferably a short stay on death row.
Chapter 17
Mario and Howard talked all night over chicory coffee and beignets at Morning Call, their go-to place for meeting during the night. On a pad, they listed every fact they came away with from the lake cruise. The interrogation of Brandon Asher and his confession, and recorded conversations with Julie Wong and Lorenzo Savino. Their case was locked down solid and now needed the chief’s recommendation to the DA’s office for indictments. Howard offered an idea on how to handle Chester Philips. Mario had other plans, but for now sent a unit to sit on Olivia’s house and another to follow her to work in the morning.
After several cups of coffee and the morning sun peeking down the street, they’d worked through the night and put too many hours in rehashing details. Tourists gathered for a jump on sightseeing as crowds gathered in the coffee shop to the extent a line formed at the entrance, that would soon run down the street, a regular occurrence on most days.
Brushing powdered sugar off his black slacks, a color you should never wear when eating beignets, Mario had little time before meeting with the chief at her office. A quick shower and some fresh clothes would help, so he headed home.
Mario pulled a twenty from his wallet. It covered the bill and use of the table they’d occupied for so long. “Keep the change,” he said, slipping the money in the hand of the waiter.
“Thank you, Detectives. And thanks for all you do for the city.”
An exhausted Mario worked up a genuine smile.
“Wow. Nice to hear people appreciate our services,” Howard said to Mario as they strolled to the car.
“Sure, and it always comes from the working man—never from the humps living in the Garden District.”
Through the chief’s private entrance, Mario and Howard arrived in the waiting area within minutes of each other. Gretchen Parks’ door was closed. Mario tapped on the glass. She looked up from a file open on her desk and signaled them in with an arm wave.
“Chief Parks,” Mario said, stepping into the room.
She raised her hand for quiet and motioned them to sit at the conference table.
The chief ran her finger down a list of items on the page. Mario stretched his neck unsuccessfully to get a glimpse of the name on the file folder.
“I’ll be with you in a second,” Chief Parks said. “I’m waiting for Leah Cook from the DA’s office.”
Mario whispered to Howard, “What do we need her for?”
“Because I asked her to sit in,” the chief said, slamming the file closed. Silence came over the room until Leah Cook arrived.
The four sat around the table, each with notes. Mario, excited to spill his findings from the yacht cruise, spoke first but was quickly cut down.
“When I ask you a question, you can speak, Detective,” Chief Parks said. Mario could have sworn she purposely stalled long enough for him to speak, to show her authority.
“Excuse me, Chief,” Mario said. “It’s only nine A.M. What did I do to piss you off so early?”
“Detective, you’re walking a thin line with me,” she said. “I’d be careful.”
Mario eyeballed new personal items the chief displayed on her desk, just passing the time while the two women huddled over notes. Leah’s eyes widened and pointed to something in the folder as they whispered back and forth. He spotted a silver picture frame he’d not seen before on a bookcase added to the collection of family photos. A picture of Leah and Gretchen in workout clothes at the finish line of the New Orleans French Quarter 5K run. The chief and Leah had become close friends.
“Detective, when was the last time you saw Brandon Asher?”
“On the yacht, we recorded his confession,” Mario said. “Howard has the recording.”
“What time did you last see him?”
“About eight P.M.,” Mario said, giving Howard a side glance, “right before we docked.”
“Last night, about ten P.M., the Harbor Police received a call from a boat captain that a crew member was missing,” Chief Parks said, flipping over a page. “It wasn’t confirmed until the boat landed at Savino’s private dock in Mandeville and a head count was done. They discovered Brandon Asher was missing.”
The detectives waited for the other shoe to drop—it did.
“Brandon Asher was pulled from the water this morning when his body surfaced, floating along the seawall steps of Lakeshore Drive—he’s dead.”
“So, Lorenzo’s alibi is that his crew called in this missing person,” Mario interjects. “That asshole is trying to cover his tracks.”
The chief pointed her next question to Howard. “When was the last time you saw Julie Wong?”
This had become serious, and Howard thought carefully before answering. “I dropped her at the airport about nine P.M. in front of the same jet she arrived on
.”
The chief and Leah locked eyes like they knew all the answers before they asked a question. “Did you wait for the jet to get airborne?”
“No, the norm is not to wait. Why?”
“Her plane didn’t take off until 11:22 P.M.,” Chief Parks said, standing, resting her hands on the table. The detectives had seen her make this move before, showing power and control of the discussion. This time it was way over the top, more like a performance. The two men sat quietly, sneaking a peek at each other from the corner of their eyes, as though they were in agreement. The chief could be demanding and bold, but the arrogance was over the top, presumably for the benefit of her new friend, Leah.
“Do we know if she left the plane?” Howard asked.
“Yes. A rental car company delivered a dark color Ford sedan to the steps of the aircraft. Sometime before ten P.M., Alton Simmons was killed while walking his dog. Two to the back of his head.”
Howard massaged his forehead with his fingers. “This has Julie written all over it— I should have stayed until her plane was in the air. Lorenzo is cleaning up everyone who knew something about Olivia’s attack.”
“Any witnesses on Alton?” Mario asked.
“Not a one,” the chief said, sitting back down.
Chief Parks motioned with her hand to Leah, “Bring them up to date.”
Leah flipped through some notes. “With the recording you dropped off last night, we have enough to indict Lorenzo Savino, and this guy called Little Pete.”
“I hear—a but?” Mario said.
Leah stalled. “The FBI is in control of the case now. They think more people are involved and want one shot at taking them all down.”
“So, we’re going to back off?”
“No, Mario,” Chief Park’s nostrils flared. “I have to give the FBI an update every morning, and they will call all the shots, nothing happens without their approval, first.”
Mario sat starry-eyed, looking at the chief, but his mind was far from the conversation. Howard gave a comparable blank look. It was apparent they were not in agreement with the FBI monitoring their investigation.
“Detectives? Do you understand?” the chief blurted. Her two, top detectives could get aggressive by taking the law into their own hands. She often disagreed on their aggressive ways of closing cases. It was clear to them that for Lorenzo Savino, she’d be willing to look the other way. Her outburst was mostly for Leah’s sake and the DA’s office she represented. The two men gave head nods and exchanged handshakes with the women.
“Detectives? Keep me updated,” Chief Parks said.
Mario reached for the door handle. “Absolutely, Madam Chief.” They had been through this charade before. The chief’s tough talk was meant for Leah and her superiors’ benefit. The message, the way Mario read the chief, was that nothing was off limits to taking down Lorenzo Savino.
Chapter 18
Mario left his condo for the short drive to the station house on Royal Street. He hit the play button on the portable record sitting on the passenger seat. It was the part where Lorenzo asked him to get Gaspar Ricci out on the street, even if it was just one day. Mario played it, again and again, remembering the look on Lorenzo’s face as he spoke. Lorenzo was asking and wanted confirmation where Gaspar was detained. Fuck, he didn’t want me to get him out; he just wanted Gaspar’s location, and I fucking gave it to him. Mario hit the stop button on the recorder and came to a stop, scraping the curb in front of the Royal Street police station.
Climbing two steps at a time up his back staircase, he reached his office and dialed the chief. Luckily, she was in her office and picked up on the second ring.
“Chief! Get Gaspar Ricci out of jail. Now!” Mario stopped and took a breath. “He’s in danger. Lorenzo has people on the inside; I’m sure they are going to take him out.”
“Are you sure?”
“Chief, if I’m wrong, all it will cost is a few nights in a motel and some cop overtime.”
“Okay. Done,” Parks said and hung up.
Mario barely hung up the phone and cleared his head when Howard came busting in the office. “I just got a call from Carol.” Howard reiterated, “Carol, the desk clerk at Orleans Care Facility.”
“Something wrong with Gloria Stein?” Mario asked.
“No. Virginia Hoffmann Nazario is on death’s door, and the doctor called for her family, Robert and Sharon Hoffmann.”
“We need to interview them,” Mario said, gathering his keys.
“A man arrived, ten minutes ago, claiming to be Robert Hoffmann, but Sharon is unavailable,” Howard smiled. “Isn’t that funny? No one has ever seen them at the same time.”
With lights flashing, Mario drove with Howard through the city, running traffic lights like heading to an armed robbery in progress. They parked and quickly entered the rear door of the building. Howard confronted Carol at the front desk. She escorted the detectives to a private room, where they found a doctor explaining to a man that Virginia Hoffmann had passed away.
Howard looked at Carol for an answer if the man was Robert Hoffmann. She shrugged her shoulders, not sure. She’d only met Hoffmann twice in three years.
Mario walked closer and got a side view. It definitely wasn’t Tony Nazario. “Mr. Hoffmann?”
The man hesitated, then said, “Yes.” Before he could say another word, Howard snapped the man’s wallet out of his back pocket.
Mario, with his hand on his gun ready to pull, made sure he didn’t run while Howard thumbed through for a driver’s license. The doctor and Carol slowly backed out of the room.
“You want to come clean now,” Howard said, holding the driver’s license, “Mr. Stan Shea?”
Mario backed Stan into a chair in the corner of the room. Towering over him, the detectives drilled questions until he broke and gave up who hired him. Offering up a man he’d seen once in a while at a bakery across the street from City Park. They never spoke much to the other than to say, “How you doing?” he said and maybe discuss the weather. They both loved feeding the ducks and often did so with the crumbs from pastries they purchased at the bakery. That morning, the man offered five hundred bucks for Stan to pose as Robert Hoffmann.
“What harm did I do?” he pleaded. “I identified a woman Robert said was his sister.”
“Why?” Mario said, pushing his fingers into the back of Stan’s neck.
“Five hundred is not a good enough reason? The guy said he didn’t want to see his sister that way,” Stan paused. “You know, dead and all. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah, asshole I know what you mean,” Mario said, pulling up a chair next to him. “Now this is what you’re going to do.”
Stan was to meet Robert at five P.M. by the City Park duck pond for his payoff, after he produced paperwork that Virginia Hoffmann Nazario’s body could be picked up by a funeral home for proper burial. Carol and the doctor made that happen, while Mario arranged for a sting operation to take down who he hoped was Tony Nazario. Once the arrangement was finalized, Stan left for the park, followed by Mario and Howard in an unmarked police cruiser.
A few minutes before five P.M., Stan parked at the bakery, got his favorite pastry, a cinnamon twist, and walked over to the park. Mario and Howard strolled over a bridge that crossed the pond and talked but kept all eyes on Stan.
A lady’s voice came over Mario’s radio. “Baby on duty,” a female plainclothes cop said, pushing a baby carriage. It looked realistic with a baby wrapped in a blanket, but he was sure it was a doll.
A young couple on a bench overlooking the pond held hands and whispered to each other and identified themselves over the radio.
All the pieces were in place, thanks to Chief Parks’ quick response and trust in Mario.
From the bridge, Mario spotted a person coming from the bakery walking toward Stan. “Heads-up,” Mario sounded into everyone’s earpiece. Then he quickly retracted, “False alarm; it’s a woman coming over to the pond.”
A man, about the s
ize of what Mario pictured Tony Nazario, crossed the street. This time Mario had everyone on alert. From the bridge, Mario had a perfect view of the man, but he passed Stan up and walked to the other side of the water.
Mario dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief the evening sun was warm even in casual clothes he and Howard changed into for the stakeout.
The woman continued feeding the ducks and emptied the balance of crumbs from a bag. She adjusted a scarf she had on her head, pulling it tighter and casually walked pass Stan and spoke in a soft whispering voice, “Your money is on the stump. Do you have my paperwork?” Stan handed the envelope to her, and she strolled to a car in front of the bakery. At the edge of the waterline, Stan found a brown paper bag with five hundred dollars inside, then waved to the detectives, getting their attention.
Mario shouted into his radio, “Go, go.” Within seconds, five cops surrounded him and viewed the area but there was no one else. The drop was made by the woman, and Stan could barely describe her other than she was tall with long, brown hair. The scarf covered most of her outline features.
Howard got a look at her car, and he and Mario followed a blue Chevy coupe, no lights flashing or sirens used. They needed this woman to take them to Tony or Mario would have a lot of explaining to do.
Catching up with the car at an intersection, the vehicle then headed up Esplanade Avenue. Two blocks down, the Chevy pulled up a long driveway into a garage. A remote must have released the door, until it was locked down to the ground.
The detectives sat curbside, waiting for a light to come on or some indication that the lady was inside.
The house was large for its size when it was built, maybe in the 1940s, Mario estimated. A Victorian style of the time with a real slate roof, something you didn’t see in a new home being built. It was well kept, and the gardens were manicured. Mario peered around the neighboring dwellings; they were of the same style but not nearly as well maintained.
“You remember reading Tony Nazario’s profile?” Mario asked Howard.
Vieux Carré Detective Page 9