Chapter 23
Eighty-two-year-old Oscar Weaver sat calmly in a holding room at police headquarters. The hallways were filled with chatty police officers giving their accounts of what happened or what they were told happened. The only cops with a clear view of the shooting at the gravesite were Mario and Howard, and they had no clue why the man held committed the crime.
Around a conference table in Chief Parks’ office, Mario, Howard, DA assistant Leah Cook, and an FBI agent by the name of Max Toups, who walked in with an attitude. No one spoke, as they sat waiting for Mayor O’Keefe to arrive.
With a forceful turn of the door handle, the mayor burst into the room alone. Even his personal adviser sat with the press in another room. This was a private meeting. He took a seat next to the chief, paused with a deep breath, then spoke in a low tone. “I’d like to hear FBI Agent Toup’s account of what happened in my city today.”
Max rattled off how many men were on the ground, in the funeral parlor, at the gravesite, helicopter overhead, and even a profiler watching the behavior of the guests. “We didn’t suspect the old man, he barely walked upright. I’m told he looked fragile.”
“Right, fragile enough to pull the trigger,” O’Keefe shot back.
“No, Mr. Mayor.”
“Max, your case died with Tony Nazario,” the mayor said. “This is no longer a federal case. Oscar Weaver committed murder in my city. This will be handled like any other case, by New Orleans detectives.”
“Mr. Mayor,” Max said. “Oscar Weaver killed a man under federal indictment. The FBI will continue the investigation and pass information to Chief Parks.”
Mayor O’Keefe, of medium height, stretched taller at the table, his white-knuckled hands firmly pressing the edge of the table. All eyes were on him, especially Mario, who did everything including biting his lip not to add his thoughts. “If you want to take this to a judge, then please do. Maybe the same judge who allowed Tony to go to the funeral in the first place.”
The mayor left the table, walked to the door, and turned the doorknob slowly. “If you push, I suggest tuning into the nightly news to hear my press conference how the FBI botched a federal case,” he said, then smiled at the chief. “I expect an update every morning.”
“Yes, Mr. Mayor,” the chief said. “Meeting adjoined. Everyone but my detectives get out. Now!”
There wasn’t much for Mario to apprise the chief on, she must go with the little information they had and give the local news reporters an update.
“You get in there and bend this old man’s ear,” she said. “I need answers—why he killed Tony, what’s his connection?”
Mario saw she was in a panic. He pulled her to the side. “Let me do my job,” he whispered. “I’ll have something soon.”
Mario joined Oscar Weaver in a holding room under the watchful eyes of two cops. Still dressed to perfection, except he wore handcuffs, age didn’t matter. He had just killed someone in cold blood. Mario thanked the guards, and they stood post on the outside of the room. Howard watched from the other side of the one-way mirror.
Mario used the friendly approach and took the handcuffs off the elderly man.
Oscar rubbed his wrists. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” Mario said. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Sure,” Oscar said. His eyes lit up. “Sazerac, one cube, and a lemon twist.”
Mario wasn’t sure if Oscar was being cocky or on the level. He was just too old to be an arrogant asshole with such a demand.
“Sorry—all out of Sazerac,” Mario said, his face wanting to smile. “Coke, coffee, or water? It’s your choice.” Oscar declined. “So, Oscar, let’s get to the point. Why did you kill Tony Nazario?”
Oscar sat back, took his hat off, and placed it on the table. “It was my best move.”
“What does that mean?”
“It was in my best interest,” Oscar said. “Look, Detective. I admit killing Tony; there’s nothing more to say. The why doesn’t matter.”
“But it does to me,” Mario said in a low tone. “I’d like to go to my boss and say Oscar Weaver and Tony Nazario were dreaded rivals, and Oscar got the opportunity to take Tony out.”
“That sounds good. Go with that, Detective.” Oscar loosened his tie.
Mario looked up at the mirror, suspecting Howard was having a good laugh. The old fart wasn’t giving anything up. He slapped the bracelets back on Oscar and locked them to the steel bar on the table.
“Detective, I wave my rights. Bring me a pad, and I’ll write my statement,” he said.
Mario raised his eyebrows, a little surprised. “No attorney?”
“Don’t need one.”
The two detectives met in the surveillance room and joked about Oscar and had a good laugh. Mario pointed out he had to break the old guy and get the truth. Howard handed him a phone note that came in at the front desk. “We haven’t heard from him in a good while.”
“Zack Nelson?” Mario said.
“Said he knows a few things about Oscar.”
A police officer babysat Oscar, while Howard and Mario took a ride to Riverside Inn. The sun was still bright, but at six in the evening, it was dinnertime at Riverside Inn. At their usual table in the corner sat Zack, Emma Lou, Dave, and Pearl Ann. Mario and Howard got a kiss from the ladies. It didn’t take long for Pearl Ann to ask when Howard planned another limo party. She only knew him as a limousine driver. It was best to disregard her question, for it would turn into an hour tour down memory lane.
They excused themselves and Howard, Mario, and Zack moved to another table. A waitress poured coffee and left the pot, not to bother them any further.
“What do you have, Zack?” Mario asked.
“This Oscar Weaver guy—he’s been living here for about three years.”
Mario was surprised. “Wow, right here at Riverside?”
Howard dropped some sugar in his coffee. “The old guy had no driver’s license and refused to tell us where he lived.”
“I should have known the guy was capable of murder,” Zack said, shaking his head from side to side.
Mario’s eyes widened at that remark. “Why is that?”
“He knew I was on the job, thirty years,” Zack said. “We’d talk, and he would bring up names, you know names he shouldn’t have known about—”
“Unless he was a wise guy?” Howard ended his sentence.
“Right.”
“We’d sit in the garden, and he’d tell me about something he’d read. A big diamond heist years ago,” Zack said, fiddling with his cup. “He knew a lot more about the case than you could ever get from a newspaper article.”
Zack went into detail how suspicious he was of Oscar, even checking the front desk to see if that was his real name. He alerted Howard and Mario to one crucial fact. Oscar visited someone frequently at the Orleans Care Facility. He never spoke the name, just said that the guy didn’t recognize him anymore.
“What Zack said,” Howard commented, looking at Mario’s face. “I know that look.”
Mario reached for his radio and called Olivia. She was only back at work a few days, but this was an easy task. She agreed and followed Mario’s directions.
A few minutes later, Olivia called back and filled him in on the details. The old man’s real name was Ozzy Weaver, not Oscar. He’d been a long-time gangster but never arrested, that’s why old man Weaver’s fingerprints weren’t in the police database. His heydays of crime were long before Mario and Olivia became cops. In the 1970s, he was scrutinized by the FBI for some bank robberies, then he fell off the radar.
“Zack, you’ve been a great help,” Mario said, with a pat on his back.
“Once a cop—always on the job,” Zack smiled, and bid them farewell. “Hey, Howard, let’s make a limo run one day. Could use some excitement around here.”
Howard gave a head nod and said, “Sure thing.”
Orleans Care Facility was a few blocks away, and the detectives stopped in to sp
eak with Carol at the front desk. Her eyes lit up when she saw Howard, always ready to flirt, hoping this day was the day he would rescue her into his loving arms.
Carol quickly answered Howard’s question without looking at the Weaver name in the computer. She had a man with that last name in the facility. She typed the name into the computer and turned the screen for them to see a picture of him.
“Otis Weaver,” she said. “Been here about three years. Alzheimer’s is winning the battle.”
“His mother sure liked the O names,” Mario said. “Bet his sister is named Ofelia.”
Carol smiled. Howard wasn’t sure if the broad grin on her face was for the joke or for him. She just gazed into his eyes, not even a blink.
“Carol!” he said. She had a look like she drank herself into oblivion. “I’m looking for anyone who might have visited Mr. Weaver.”
She batted her eyelashes, turned, and went to a file cabinet.
Howard studied the picture on the computer screen and walked the facility without an escort, while Mario waited at the counter.
She pulled Otis Weaver’s folder from the cabinet and read it walking back. Her face was blank. There was no flirtatious smile this time. “Oh, my.”
“What?” Mario asked.
Carol gave the folder to him. “Read that letter. It looks like it came in a few days ago.”
There were three pages and two pictures in the file. One of Otis, when he checked in, and one of Ozzy Weaver, identified as a visitor. From the photo on the screen, there was no doubt the old man sitting back at the police station was Ozzy Weaver. Mario flipped to the next page. “Is this wire transfer normal?”
“No,” Carol said. “All we ever get are wire transfers for one or two months in advance. Never a hundred grand.” She pointed out a paragraph that came with the wire.
Mario read out loud. “If Otis dies before the money runs out, the balance goes to the facility to assist uninsured people.”
“This is crazy? Why wouldn’t the person take the money back?” she said. “Mr. Otis can’t live much longer than a few more months.”
“You can’t trace the wire back to the original sender?” Mario said.
“Not an international wire like this,” Carol slipped the paper back into the folder. “The money showed up in our account with Otis Weaver’s account number. No other reference. There is no way you can reverse the transaction or trace the money back to the sender.”
“So, whoever sent the money,” Mario paused, “knew the Orleans Care Facility bank account number and Otis Weaver’s information.”
Copies of Otis’s file were put in a brown envelope for the detective. It wasn’t legal without a court order, but Carol would do just about anything for either detective’s attention.
Mario caught up with Howard at the doorway of Otis’s room. A nurse assured the detectives that anything Otis said wasn’t reliable, if he even spoke. Mario got a peek closer at Otis, maybe younger, but he looked like his brother. Now he was just a man degenerating in a bed with his mind forgetting every happy or sad moment he’d ever lived.
With the brown envelope in hand, Mario and Howard strolled the hallway back to the front entrance. Carol gave Howard a big hug before leaving, and he gave her what she wanted. A tight arm grip and a kiss on her cheek. “Thanks for your help.” Then, with a wink of his eye, he said, “See you soon.” She gazed at him walking out.
Outside the entrance was a Times-Picayune local newspaper vending box and several free papers. One caught Mario’s eye. He took one of the free magazines. “I have a favor to repay.” He dropped a quarter in the payphone on the wall and dialed the Big Easy Voice phone number splashed across the bottom of the front page. Only a free paper could be so bold as to use the front page for its own publicity.
“Glenn?” Mario said. “Detective Mario DeLuca.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied.
“I’ve got something for you.” Mario paused. He looked at Howard, unsure he should tell Glenn. He carried the obligation of owing him an exclusive story for his silence when he saw Julie Wong walk away from Tony Nazario’s home right before his arrest. “Glenn, are you following the Tony Nazario murder?”
“Sure, all the majors are writing the same information with a different twist,” he said. “But in the end, it’s the same old story.”
“I’ve got an exclusive. Just for you.”
“Exclusive?” he hesitated, and when he spoke his voice cracked. “Really? No one else has the story?”
“I told you I’d take care of you,” Mario said, raising an eyebrow at Howard, bending to hear the conversation.
“The guy who killed Tony is Ozzy Weaver, not Oscar. Until a few months ago, he lived at the Riverside Inn. His brother is under doctors’ care at Orleans Care Facility with final stages of Alzheimer’s kicking his ass.”
“Oh, my God, Detective,” Glenn said, now his voice at a high pitch. “This is significant information. I’ll run five thousand extra copies.”
“I don’t care what you do,” Mario’s voice went low and expressed seriousness. “It can’t hit the street before midnight, you have a twenty-four-hour exclusive.”
“Thank you—a million times over.”
“Glenn—we’re even,” Mario said. “Still friends, and I’ll do what I can to help you.”
“I understand, Detective. You’re a stand-up guy, thanks again.”
Back at the station house, Oscar Weaver was marinating, as Mario liked to call it when he held a suspect in a holding room for hours. Being locked in a cell is one thing, but in a holding room with a cop watching you, not knowing when the detective might pop in with new information, that’s just nerve-racking.
Mario and Howard took a seat across from Oscar. He sat at attention, showing the wait didn’t bother him. A cop stood guard in the hallway. From the inside, his reflection could be seen through the glass panel in the door.
Mario leaned across the table. “Oscar?”
“Yes, sir?” he replied.
“Let’s start with your real name.”
“It’s Oscar.”
Mario pounded the table with his hand. “Don’t lie, Ozzy!” Mario shouted. “I’m going to ask you questions of which I know the answers. So you’d better answer correctly. If not, I will knock your old ass to the ground.”
“Okay, my real name is Ozzy.”
“Why tell me it was Oscar?”
“Got to make you work for something,” Ozzy said. “I killed Tony in front of you. That was an easy solve.”
“Why did you wire a hundred Gs to your brother’s account at Orleans Care Facility?”
“I didn’t, but good to know the money is in place.”
Mario turned to Howard and motioned for him to follow him out. He did, they met in the hallway. Mario was frustrated with the old man, wished Ozzy was younger. If so, he’d slap him on the side of his head and beat the truth out of the bastard.
A clerk from the crime division came down with a report on Ozzy Weaver. He had been on a watch list for years by the FBI and ATF; Ozzy was no saint. Money laundering, selling firearms to Colombians, and questioned in several execution-type hits. He’d never spent a day in jail. Howard looked through the folder they got from Carol. They tried a different approach and Howard took the lead in questioning when they went back into the interrogation room. Mario hung back and rested against a post, while Howard sat snug against the table in front of Ozzy.
He hit Ozzy with direct questions; it was more of a conversation. Sliding a picture of Otis on the table, he could see it affected Ozzy.
“That was three years ago,” Ozzy’s hand shook when he picked the photo up. “He doesn’t look like that now.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Howard said. “Alzheimer’s. A terrible disease.”
Ozzy sat silently; his eyes welled. A tear rolled down his face. He stared at the picture and mumbled, “It’s okay, Otis. You’re well taken care of.” He handed the picture back to Howard. “To me Otis di
ed about eighteen months ago.”
Howard pushed the money wire transfer in front of Ozzy. He read it, his eyes widened, and a slight calm came over him. “So the money came through.”
Howard asked where the money came from but got no answer. Ozzy grabbed his side like he was in pain. Mario shook his head and thoughts raced through his mind. Have no heart attack and die without a confession.
“You okay?” Howard asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Please tell me one thing,” Howard said, in a sincere tone. “Why did you kill Tony?”
Ozzy made a face, a wrinkled nose, and pushed his hair back, as if it was in his eyes. He told them to get a tape recorder. Mario shot out the door and returned with a portable one and lucked out with the DA’s attorney available to sit in on what he hoped would be a confession. The recorder was set and ready for a statement. Before they started, Ozzy asked for a Sazerac, again this time in exchange for a confession. Howard laughed it off.
Mario wanted to know why. “What is it, Ozzy? Does a Sazerac cocktail have anything to do with your brother?”
Ozzy smiled. “Yes. We’d meet at the Carousel Bar & Lounge. Been going there since we were old enough to drink.” A warm smile came over him. “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” Mario stood, and sat on the table in front of Ozzy. “You give me full details, and I’ll take you to see your brother. We’ll put a Sazerac on his nightstand, and you and I will have one last drink with him.”
“Carousel Bar at the Hotel Monteleone?”
“I know the bartender, I’ll get three to go,” Mario said.
“Deal,” Ozzy said. “But one more thing. Orleans Care can keep the money that was wired, no strings attached. I want it in writing.”
It took about a half hour for the DA’s office to agree. A letter approved that the money wire transfer, regardless of where or who it came from, was no part of the investigation.
The tape recorder light went to red; it was recording. The attorney took notes from a corner chair. Ozzy talked for over twenty minutes on point, and other times Howard had to steer him back on topic. Ozzy admitted several unsolved murders, which left Howard and Mario shaking their heads. He didn’t have to give that up. Money laundering drug money for a cartel in Colombia, setting up real estate deals as investments. The attorney made a note to turn that information over to the FBI to dig into further.
Vieux Carré Detective Page 13