Casting Bones (17 page)

The man looked up, studying the mirror.

‘You have inside information?'

‘We do. And that information tells us that we need to do some more quality control.'

‘Same message?'

‘We are concerned this person may have an accident.'

His eyes went back to Gandal.

‘An accident?'

‘We need to get rid of this person. An accident would mean there was no way to tie it to the other killing.'

‘Harder to arrange.'

‘Really? Faulty brakes, a fire?'

‘You're reading crime fiction?' he asked in a very soft voice. ‘I doubt that any fiction writer ever actually
staged
an accident.'

‘Point well taken.'

‘Is there a time frame?'

‘Soon. Today wouldn't be soon enough.'

The man had both hands on the table, a simple Bell & Ross watch the only jewelry he was wearing. He tapped a manicured nail on his empty water glass, listening to the crystal ring.

‘As always, I won't be involved, but I know someone who specializes in these types of things.'

Gandal nodded.

‘Twenty thousand.'

Gandal sat back. ‘What? That's ten more than—'

‘This is an accident?'

‘Yes. We don't think it should send a message. That didn't work out so well. We just need to remove a threat.'

He wore a thin smile. ‘We can do that.'

‘Half down?'

The man studied him.

‘Normally.'

‘What are you saying? This isn't normal?'

‘No. This may require some expenses beyond normal. I'm anticipating other players.'

‘No, no. We've been over this. You know damn well you can't involve more than two—'

‘Mr Gandal, there were two players the last time. These other actors, they will be bit players who have no idea what the real mission is. It will not be apparent to anyone. They're contracted to do one job for an arranged price. The privacy factor has been,' he paused, ‘factored in. Don't worry. We'll need the full price. Up front.'

Gandal took a deep breath.

‘It's part of my job. To worry. You understand, the more participants the more chances of exposure. We don't need exposure. And full price up front? I don't know if I can—'

‘How many people on
your
side are aware of the situation?'

Gandal looked beyond his tablemate. He wasn't sure how much information he wanted to share.

‘Four. We have a board of directors, myself and …' He hesitated. ‘Actually five, but that's not really your concern because—'

‘Mr Gandal, I have exposure as well. Do you think that it's a risk-free business that I'm in? Five is a high number. I should refuse your request and walk away from here. Five people? Really?' The man pushed back his chair.

Gandal stared at the tablecloth, his smoked salmon and drink, and felt like a schoolboy who had been chastised by his teacher.

‘Please, don't walk. We've done everything possible to keep your identity a secret. Hell,
I
don't even know who you are. You know that, don't you? I have no idea what your real name is. It was never shared. Just take care of the problem and everything will be fine.'

The gentleman nodded, pulling his chair back in, closer to the table. Checking the mirror on the far wall he seemed satisfied.

‘You have an account?' Gandal asked.

The man pulled a small piece of paper from his shirt pocket.

‘The number is here. It's the Iberia bank, and the company is Waterfront Seafood Distributors.'

Gandal nodded.

‘This account,' the man continued, ‘will only be open for two days. Then it will cease to exist. There's your window. Twenty thousand. And please burn the paper once the deposit has been made.'

He stood up, again studying the mirror with the brass frame.

‘Mr Gandal, as usual, I wish you good fortune.'

The man wished him fortune only as long as Gandal had lucrative jobs for him. Gandal was certain of that.

He stood as well and reached in his pocket. Pulling out a similar paper he handed it across the table.

‘Now, I have to tell you that our inside information has told us there are two people who need to be silenced.'

Studying the paper for a moment, the man finally looked into Gandal's face. His eyes were cold and he kept his voice quiet but serious.

‘Two names?'

Gandal nodded.

‘Are you holding me up, here? Two names is twice the price. Surely you do know that, right? You're not a stupid man. Are you?'

‘We were hoping …'

‘Hope all you want. Twice the price. Do you understand? There is a lot of work to be done here.'

‘I understand.'

‘This is going to raise eyebrows.'

‘Are they going to look like accidents? These deaths?'

‘These murders?' The man spoke softly.

‘Yes.'

‘Of course. But people will assume that—'

‘Then please, do the job.'

‘I hope you made the correct choice. You know what happened the last time. There is no reversing what I do.'

‘It has to be done,' Gandal said.

‘You know the old saying, Mr Gandal:
be careful what you wish for
. It may come true.'

L
eaving his car by the restaurant, Archer walked the short distance to the courthouse. He hadn't settled on a gym yet, and the little exercise he did get was walking to the streetcars. Chasing the jailed suspect, Antoine Duvay, was the closest thing to a workout he'd had in weeks.

Greeted by the stark walls inside, beyond the metal detector he noticed an auction of foreclosed houses going on in the lobby; an auctioneer was pointing to pictures of properties tacked to a board that was mounted on an easel. At least fifty people crowded around, hoping to steal someone's home.

Further back to the right he saw hard plastic seats, green, brown and yellow, bolted to the floor. Black men and women occupied a handful of the chairs, some gazing at the wall, some staring at the tiled floor marred with black cigarette burns from another era, etched forever into the vinyl. They were waiting for their kids, their grandkids, their nieces or nephews to be arraigned, tried or sentenced.

A mousy black receptionist with large breasts sat behind a battered metal desk, across from a colorful cartoon mural depicting a Dixieland band made up of kids.

Archer walked up to the desk and pulled his jacket aside, displaying the gold badge clipped to his belt.

‘I need to see Judge Warren.'

He'd already spoken to Sue Waronker. No reason to revisit that at this point. But Warren was the one who had reported him as threatening. The man had called his office and told his sergeant that Archer was trouble. And, truth be told, that report hadn't bothered Archer. Judge Warren knew there was no threat. He simply wanted to distance himself from the detective. It was a front. But the fact that the judge had seemed to withhold information – that was something else. Of the six juvenile offender judges, Warren stood out as the remaining judge who passed very harsh, almost unreasonable sentences. Warren. A mirror image of Judge David Lerner. Archer wanted to know if there was a connection. He wanted just one more civil, unthreatening conversation.

The office was empty and he gazed into the next room. Judge Traci Hall was just walking out, dressed in her somber black robe, her blonde hair hanging low over her collar.

‘Detective Archer, right?'

‘Yeah. Good to see you, Judge.'

‘I was going to call you,' she said.

‘About what?' Radar tuned in.

‘Something that came to my mind.'

It was always good when someone wanted to give him information.

‘You wanted to know whether I thought Judge Lerner gave out harsh sentences. You asked me what my opinion was. Apparently you believe that his system of justice, the way he meted out sentences, was too severe.'

Shaking his head he said, ‘No, you're wrong. It's not about what I believe.' Archer needed to be crystal clear on his ideas. ‘I questioned the
why
of the severity of the sentences, and I wonder if other judges in this department give equally harsh sentences.' Pausing, he said, ‘Like maybe you?'

She nodded. ‘I think you'll see that every one of us has our own way of coping with sentencing. Personally,' she continued, ‘I tend to be more lenient. If you've got a kid in trouble, try to get
me
to hear the case. I want the youthful offender to get help. The prison doesn't give them that.'

‘That?'

‘
Help
. Come on, Detective. Prison punishes. The fact that prisons are called correctional facilities is a joke. There is no correction. You know this as well as anyone. I want those kids to get help. That's what most of them need. There's the odd exception, where there's no hope, but …'

He nodded. ‘So there is no uniformity?'

Pausing, she studied his face. ‘Officer Archer, Detective, at one time I was in the public education system. I was a teacher before I got my law degree. I worked with troubled teens. Now I sentence them. You see, I'm trying to build a bridge to the other side. That's my way of doing things. And yes, you are correct. Judges like myself may let someone off while we try to find help for them, and another judge may give them a year in prison. It's the way the system works. I didn't design it and I won't apologize for it. Nothing is perfect.'

They were silent for a moment, as two uniformed police officers strode down the corridor, deep in conversation as they passed Archer and Hall.

‘You were going to call me?'

Her eyes followed the two patrolmen as they continued their walk. Then she turned to Archer, her eyes narrowed as she addressed him.

‘Apparently you had an exchange with Judge Richard Warren where he took offence as to your tone. You said something to him that didn't sit well.'

‘I actually came by to see him again. Your Judge Warren took some comments I made the wrong way.'

‘Did you tell him he may be next? The killer may be keying in on him? Was that the gist of your comments?'

Archer shook his head. ‘No. I told him if one judge was hit, the others might be in danger. It's a truth. You are a target. Every judge in this building, in this system may be the next victim. I want to be sure you understand that.'

‘Wow. That's not the way he spun it.'

Archer pursed his lips and thought back to the conversation.

‘Judge Hall, I don't remember exactly how I phrased it. But the message was to watch your back. You never know.'

‘Maybe I should hire a body guard.' She smiled.

‘Look, Ms Hall, maybe you should. We're in the early stages of this investigation. We're going in a number of directions, and one of those directions is that someone has it out for the judicial system. I have no proof of that, but if that is the case, as I said, all of you may be targets. It's not a threat, just a fact.'

‘Dick took it personally.'

‘Well then, so be it. If he's vigilant it may save his life.'

That seemed to sober her up, the smile fleeing from her face.

‘Detective Archer, I thought there were several things I should mention. You've probably already discovered this, but it hit me that when someone is in a relationship, their significant other may be a person of interest.'

‘True.' He waited. Don't push. Let the information come out the way it's most comfortable for the informant to release it.

‘As I said, possibly you know about Lerner's relationship. Or should I say relationships?'

‘He was married. Has an estranged kid.'

‘You do know.'

‘What other relationships was he involved with?'

Judge Hall stepped from her doorway and motioned to him as she started walking down the hall.

‘I have to be in court soon. Follow me.'

Their footsteps echoed down the corridor, sound bouncing from the walls of the empty hallway.

‘Lerner was married. I never met his wife or child, but once in a while he mentioned them. His wife especially.'

Archer kept pace, not responding.

‘So, his comments for the last several years were that she was a cold, callous woman who enjoyed the lifestyle and perks of a judge's wife but hated what she had to do to get them. He claimed that she took full advantage of all that was offered, but she detested Lerner himself.'

‘He divorced her, right?'

‘She divorced him. Took up with a State Supreme Court judge she met at a party in the Garden District, and she got rid of Lerner for good.'

‘Would she have any reason to …'

‘Detective. She got rid of him. She's now hanging with Louisiana State legal eagles. She's been invited to the governor's mansion, for God's sake. I believe she and the Supreme Court bigwig have visited the White House. Anyway, she's climbing that social ladder. No reason at all to look back. No reason that I can think of to come back and kill her ex.'

Archer nodded.

‘Well, thanks for the information.'

She stopped mid-stride, reached up and put her hand on his shoulder.

‘No, no, no. I haven't told you the whole story.'

Archer scratched his scalp, studying her for a moment. Blonde hair hanging straight down, full lips, a dimple in her chin. She looked nothing like he would picture a judge.

‘Lerner, on the rebound, came up with a new partner.'

‘And that would be—'

‘A Rodger Claim.'

‘What?'

‘Rodger Claim.'

‘So Lerner was—'

‘Apparently. Always had been, had finally come or was temporarily out of the closet. I'm not sure.'

‘I did not know that.' He'd already uncovered the wife story, but the gay lover was a surprise.

‘I'm sure you would have found out. He tried to keep it a secret, but most of us knew. Judge Lerner was a strange duck. This relationship just added to his shaky reputation.'