Vieux Carré Detective

by Vito Zuppardo

  Mario had to smile. Over time a long-term prisoner learned the way of everyday life. When two detectives pick up a prisoner and escort her back to the city, it usually meant they found more charges to add to the sentence. Billy Jean had hit the lottery. She didn’t know it, but by tomorrow morning, she could be sporting the latest style of clothes as a free woman.

  They were on their way back to police headquarters, about fifteen miles from the city, when Mario got a call on his cell.

  “You’re running my minutes up,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Mario, I got something,” Olivia said. “Get to my office as quickly as possible.”

  “The account numbers?”

  “Yes. Let’s not talk on a cell phone.”

  Mario hung up and gave a side look at Howard, “Olivia might have info on the numbers.”

  Howard looked in the back seat. Billy Jean was sleeping, maybe even enjoying the ride. It was best not to discuss any part of a case. He gave a head nod, and Mario understood.

  It was up to the chief and the DA’s office to explain the sudden turn of events in Billy Jean’s case and get her to court. That was something he didn’t want to see. Billy Jean could be excited that she had a possible release or go batshit crazy on them for not believing her plea of innocence throughout the trial. She never wavered from her innocence, not even at sentencing.

  Mario handed her off to a uniform female cop in the garage, and they followed Mario to the chief’s office.

  “What the hell is going on?” Billy Jean blurted out, walking into a room of mostly woman.

  Mario handed the chief the keys to Billy Jean’s handcuffs and shackles. “I’ll leave you all to get acquainted.” He smiled at the chief. She shot him the bird with her hand pressed against her chest, as she closed the door in his face.

  Howard and Mario met up with Olivia. The three were locked in her office, huddled over a computer. She showed them how easy it was to get into a Panama bank site. Her pad, in hand, had 728H589 written on it, followed by 7285891. Dropping the H, she added one number to the end. She had gotten to 7285894, and it kept coming back with no such account number.

  “I had to stop,” Olivia said, showing them the pad with all the numbers written. “Too many incorrect entries will lock me out.”

  “What’s the plan?” Howard asked, “if you get in the account?”

  Olivia smiled. “Remember Brandon Asher?”

  “Yeah,” Mario said. “Not too good of a swimmer, as I recall.”

  “For sure,” Olivia replied, pulling a folder out of her desk drawer. “I got this from the coroner’s office. When he washed up in the lake, a check stub was in his pocket.”

  Mario reached for the stub. “I can still ready Lorenzo Savino’s signature.”

  “And! The routing and account numbers,” Olivia pointed out.

  Howard studied the numbers and read them out loud, “728H589.” He walked the room much like Mario, maybe from watching him for so long or just to think. A steady movement increases blood circulation and stimulates the mind, so he was taught. Howard came to a sudden stop. “Several years ago in the UK, I was assigned to protect a wealthy guy when in public.”

  “Protect?” Olivia gave a wrinkled nose look.

  “Let’s not worry about that part,” Howard said. “At times he wanted to buy something but didn’t want it charged on his Black American Express card.”

  Olivia’s eyebrows moved funny. “Black Amex, I could do some damage with that card.”

  “He’d say, ‘I have to go see Heidi for some money.’” Howard sat on the edge of Olivia’s desk. “Then he’d punch in some numbers into an electronic wall safe and pull out a stack of money.”

  “Heidi?” Mario asked. “What does that have to—” He stopped in mid-sentence. His eyes roamed the room, then reached for the phone. “Electronic safe keypads have buttons like a phone, three letters under each number.”

  Howard smiled. “It was easier to remember the name Heidi than the number code to open the safe.” Howard spelled Heidi on the phone, the translation was 85949.

  Olivia scrambled for her pad, “728H589,” she said. The H is a 4, Lorenzo’s account number is 7284589. That’s why he asked for those numbers.”

  “Of course, it would be available for a personalized license,” Mario pointed out. “No one would ask for those random numbers, and it blends in with other plates.”

  They decided if they gained access to Lorenzo’s account, it couldn’t come from a police computer. Olivia gathered her information, and the three jumped into Mario’s car. They arrived at the New Orleans Public Library on Loyola Avenue. A lady at the podium directed them to a public computer, no access code was needed to get online. Olivia got them into the Panama bank money transfer page. The woman, who went through a strict police academy training, both physically and mentally, looked criminals, even murderers, in the eye in court, was sitting at a computer with her hand shaking. She touched up perspiration on her forehead with a tissue.

  “Ready,” she said to the detectives. She punched in the numbers and rested her hands on the desk, so no one would notice how rattled she was. They waited and waited. A popup screen read locating account. “Holy shit, I think we’re in.” She no sooner got the words out, than the screen displayed Lorenzo Savino’s account, with over fourteen million dollars. Olivia flopped back in the chair exhausted, like she had just run a race.

  Mario wasn’t sure Olivia was up to the task but pushed for a test run on transferring one thousand dollars from the Panama account to Lorenzo’s bar account. If she did it, within seconds, a notice should pop up on the screen reading transfer complete.

  Olivia’s eyelids twitched rapidly. “If I press enter, I’m breaking local, federal, and international banking laws.” Her eyes said she didn’t want to.

  “Wait!” Mario spoke louder than he should in a library. Heads turned. “I have an idea.”

  Chapter 25

  The next morning, Mario was sipping coffee on a balcony overlooking the Warehouse District of New Orleans. His ritual each morning was to mull over his agenda of the day, before heading to the Eighth Police District station. It baffled him why and how he’d got so attached to Ozzy Weaver. He was just another gangster who added one more murder to the city’s books.

  Billy Jean Ravis would walk out of police headquarters this morning a free woman, after the DA confirmed the judge’s decision, without a press conference.

  Ozzy Weaver admitted to all charges and was sent to a hospital until the judge handed down his sentence. The least the judge would hand down would be life without parole, which for him might only be a few months. Then he would direct all his attention on taking down Lorenzo Savino. He chuckled, thinking how the FBI would react to him arresting Savino and stealing their thunder.

  A phone ringing, muffled by a train, car sounds, and a ship horn slowed Mario from answering. It’s called the sounds of the French Quarter, and that’s why people love to live there. The call was short. Ozzy requested Mario drive him to the hospital where doctors would run an additional test on the progress of his cancer. Information forwarded to the police department by the oncologist who cared for Ozzy indicated that he was a very sick man.

  Mario had no clue why the chief approved him to deliver Ozzy to the hospital, but once again they were put together, like long-lost friends.

  Click, went a snap that held an ankle holster in place, a backup gun that Mario had only used twice, but he sure was happy when it was needed. Then he locked in place his shoulder holster that housed his Glock. It was time to head to work. In the hall, he pressed the elevator button and while waiting, his cell phone rang. It was Olivia, burning up his minutes. He answered, and she jabbered fast. Mario couldn’t understand. He calmed her down. She explained that a police detail sat at her house until seven A.M. that morning. When she drove to work, she felt someone was tailing her, a dark color sedan. Making turns at corners not usually made en route to work confirmed her fear. She was fol
lowed all the way to the building garage.

  “Olivia? You’re sure it wasn’t an unmarked vice police car?”

  “No, it had front license plates from Texas.”

  “Okay, go to work and don’t leave the building. I’ll catch up with you soon.”

  The elevator doors opened to the lobby. Mario high-stepped to the front door to avoid the chatty doorman. No such luck.

  “Detective?” Robbie, the doorman, shouted.

  Mario tried to clear an annoyed expression on his face with a smile before turning to answer. He was somewhat successful. “Yes, sir.”

  “There was a man here asking about you earlier this morning.”

  That got Mario’s attention. “Who?”

  “He wouldn’t give a name. I asked if he wanted me to ring you, and he said no. I think he just wanted to know if you lived here.” Robbie reached in his pocket and pulled out some money. “He gave me a twenty not to tell you, said he was a friend who wanted to surprise you.”

  Robby described the man as tall, in his thirties, medium build, with jet black hair.

  Mario thought for a second and asked if he could view the video of the front entrance. He did and stopped the computer at 6:45 A.M., only twenty minutes earlier. Coming into the building, the guy was out of camera range. Leaving, the camera caught the back of the guy. He wore a black leather jacket with white piping across the top of the shoulders. The car, a dark blue Lincoln, pulled off, and the camera caught the license plates. Mario wrote the Texas plate down.

  “What the hell is going on?” Mario said, staring at the Texas plate on the screen. “Thanks, Robbie, you were a great help.”

  Luckily, Howard was near when Mario called and in his own car, a black Audi S5. Through the rearview mirror, he saw Howard’s car parked curbside about the middle of the block. Mario pulled off from in front of the building. Howard kept his distance and followed. When Mario passed the first corner, the blue Lincoln tailed him, and Howard followed from the rear. On his phone, Mario called “shortstop” on Canal Street. It was a code, and Howard knew the drill.

  When Mario’s car turned on Canal Street, a green traffic light was about a half block away, then it became yellow. He pressed the accelerator, as if he would run the traffic light, then slammed on his brakes. The Lincoln came to a screeching halt, and Howard planted the bumper of the Audi S5 within inches of the Lincoln. Mario jumped out with his gun drawn and had the driver of the Lincoln on the ground within seconds.

  There was no hassle. The man didn’t speak, even after Mario screamed in his face, “What’s your name?” A cell phone, a handgun, and a silencer for the pistol were found on the guy and a high-powered rifle was in the trunk. There was no doubt in Mario’s mind this was for a hit. A police unit arrived, and the guy was taken to Central Lockup and held for questioning.

  Howard made a U-turn on Canal Street and floored the Audi S5. The rear tires smoked, and the noise of the high-performance engine caused shoppers to be alarmed. He drove fast and ran a few traffic lights to get to Olivia’s office building. He sat in the garage and clocked a light-colored Ford with Texas plates make several runs through the garage, then parked near the exit gate on the street. A call from Howard and some coaching got Olivia to her car. It could just be some guy waiting for a friend, Howard told her, knowing it was bullshit. He pulled the hammer back on the gun in his hand when he hung up. He was seldom wrong when sniffing out bad guys.

  As she drove out of the garage, the Ford moved slowly from the curb, until Howard’s Glock came through the window, threatening to blow the guy’s head off. The man got out of the car, the entire time looking down the barrel of Howard’s gun.

  A police unit waiting for the call arrived quickly and held the man against the car. Howard frisked him and came up with a cell phone and a handgun. When Howard discovered a case in the back seat, neatly housing a rifle, a suppressor for sound, and a high-power scope, his jaw twitched, and the anger rushed hot blood through his body.

  He got in the man face. “This is a lot of firepower.” He’d seen the damage a weapon like this could do. It doesn’t just kill the person—it’d rip a limb off from fifty years away. A bullet would enter a forehead and take out half the skull. “What’s your fucking name?!” The guy said nothing. Howard looked him over. He recognized the man’s nationality; it was written all over his face.

  “Who sent you?” Howard said in Russian. He remained silent.

  Cuffed in the back seat of the police car, Howard instructed the cop to get him to Central Lockup and keep him separated from the Russian caught on Canal Street.

  “I don’t want them talking to each other or anyone else until I get there,” Howard demanded. The officer gave a head nod and hauled him off.

  Mario caught up with Howard, and they agreed it was best to settle down with a cup of coffee at headquarters before they questioned these two guys or explained to the chief why they were in custody.

  Mario’s cell rang. He looked at the name flashing on the screen. “Olivia,” he said to Howard. “You sure we got both the guys?”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Don’t worry, we know Lorenzo is behind this. We just need to beat it out of these two Russians, and it’s over for Lorenzo.”

  “You think all this is about me reopening the Tony Nazario file?”

  Mario didn’t answer the question. He didn’t blame her. This was all on the chief, it never should have been pushed off on Olivia.

  An unmarked police car parked next to Olivia’s car in the garage, and a female cop was sent to her office. She bitched but agreed to the precautionary measures that Mario put in place.

  Olivia’s primary issue was her cat. She failed to put her cat out for the day before leaving for work. She told Mario the cat only came in at night. There was no way Mario was allowing Olivia to go home and let the cat out, so he volunteered.

  Howard’s phone rang, a unique ringtone assigned to Julie Wong. “Julie called twice this morning,” Howard said. “I’m not doing a code-red move for her. Too risky right now.”

  “See what she wants,” Mario pushed for him to answer.

  Howard clicked the phone off and headed to the station. Mario swung by Olivia’s house for cat duty.

  A key to Olivia’s house was taped to the bottom of a birdhouse hanging from a tree in her backyard. It was dirty, as she predicted, and in the exact place he was directed. Pulling the tape off, he cleaned the dirt off the notches on the key with a garden hose. Entering through the back door, Mario went to the laundry room where she said the cat hung out.

  “What did she tell me the cat’s name was?” he mumbled to himself. “Fluffy, Buffy? Huffy, that’s his name.” He strolled through the house, calling Huffy. There was no sign of the cat ever being in the laundry room. The litter box and the food were untouched. Mario continued calling Huffy, then his eyes focused on the front door; it was open. He pulled his gun, combing the rest of the house, under beds, closets, and behind doors.

  Standing in the hall, a flicker of a shadow caught his eye coming from the bathroom. With his gun cocked, he entered cautiously, aimed at the shower, and with one hand pulled the curtain back. It was a shadow of a tree branch blowing in the breeze from the window above. The house was empty, but for sure someone other than Olivia had been in the house. There was no way she’d left the front door open. He closed and locked the door. That’s when he saw Huffy on the side of the sofa, dead, his throat cut just about from ear to ear. Next to the cat’s bloody paw was a piece of paper. With a gloved hand, he picked it up and read, “I must have just missed you—I’ll be back.” Mario read the note several times, then folded the paper into an evidence bag and stuck it in his pocket.

  There was little that Mario could do other than clean up the blood and bury the cat in the backyard. He’d have to think about how to tell Olivia, if he’d say anything. For now, he’d say he let the cat outside.

  Chief Parks called twice, looking for Mario. He let the calls
go to voicemail. The message was straightforward—when was he picking up Ozzy Weaver? He wanted to call the chief and tell her he hadn’t been sitting on his ass all morning. With two Russians in custody and a serial killer after Olivia, he’d been a little delayed.

  Mario’s car arrived, just as police were loading Ozzy in a van. He had them place him in his back seat, and one police unit was to follow.

  “I thought you forgot me,” Ozzy said.

  “You know,” Mario said, “you’re a criminal and have a lot of demands.”

  “I know, I’m just an old guy. I gave you a lot of information to close cold cases. That’s got to be worth something.”

  “You’ve been paid back,” Mario smiled, peaking at him through the rearview mirror. “A couple of Sazeracs and a farewell visit with your brother.”

  “Now that’s an idea,” Ozzy said. “One last Sazerac.”

  “No way.”

  “Come on,” Ozzy chuckled. “You know, I’ll never leave that hospital.”

  Mario gave it a thought, but that was all. He made a turn onto Tulane Avenue and followed directions to the emergency ramp of the hospital. Waiting were two doctors, a wheelchair, and three police officers to get Ozzy to a room and cuffed to a bed rail.

  The car stopped. A doctor opened the rear door. “Mr. Weaver,” he said, bending into the car to help him out. “No need to cuff him. He’s dead.”

  “My God, we were just talking,” Mario said.

  “Based on what I read on his chart, he’s been dodging death for a few weeks.” The doctor stepped aside to confirm Ozzy’s death.

  Chapter 26

  A little before noon, Mario arrived at Central Lockup to a phone call, as he entered the building. Olivia was checking up on Huffy. Mario kept the conversation short, saying Huffy was in the yard and he was late for a meeting. His blood was still boiling, knowing that someone killed Olivia’s cat, and it could have been her, had she been home.