Casting Bones (19 page)

Archer crossed the parking lot, the quietness almost unnerving. The prison atmosphere missed the sound of sawing cicadas, the croaking of crickets, the shrill call of the red-tailed hawk looking for romance. It was almost as if nature understood this was a place that sucked the life out of everything in and around it.

Approaching the reception desk where two guards were seated, a good two feet above the floor, he looked up and flashed his badge.

‘I'm looking for a Rodger Claim, head of security.'

The small black girl in the blue uniform frowned.

‘You find him, you come and tell us. We all been lookin' for him ourselves and if we find him we'll probably string the boy up.'

‘He no longer works here?' It certainly didn't sound like it.

‘Hell no. We run him out, that lyin' snitch. What you want with him?'

‘I'm investigating a murder in New Orleans.'

She chuckled. ‘Wouldn't surprise me if Claim was the victim. You think Claim is the killer? Well, he's a lot of things, but I doubt if R.C. has the' – she scanned the area with her dark eyes – ‘the balls to do somethin' like that. You know what I mean?'

He didn't.

‘Well, I can't help you, Mr New Orleans.'

‘Where would I find Russell Jakes?'

Gritting her teeth the small woman gazed at him through squinted eyes.

‘Warden Jakes lives on the property. He is not someone who sees you just because you choose to drop in. I
assume
you don't have an appointment.'

‘No.'

‘Then you're pretty much out of luck, Nola.'

He'd visited prisons before. It went with the territory. Sometimes he'd have to visit a suspect who was already serving time for another killing. Hardened criminals. And the power plays that employees pulled mirrored the men and women they kept under lock and key. Tough guys, tough girls, who threw their weight around. It was the culture of the system.

‘You call him.'

‘Can't be disturbed.'

‘Look, Miss—?'

‘Washington. And I can't bother the man. So why don't you just—'

‘Miss Washington, this is about the murder of a judge. A good friend of Warden Jakes. He'll want to see me. And if you don't call him, I'll find his house, tell him what an uncooperative hard-ass you are, and suggest that even though I don't have any jurisdiction in this area, I'll bring so much weight down on this prison and you personally that you will end up in a job where the most important thing you'll say is “do you want fries with that?” Do you want to test me?'

Her eyes smoldered, her hands shaking.

‘You got that? Miss Washington? Do you have an answer?'

She was breathing deeply, Archer recognized relaxation technique. Finally the lady picked up the phone. Archer reached up and handed her his business card.

‘Mrs Jakes, this is Trystan at Central. Would you be so kind as to ask the warden to come to the phone?'

A moment later she leaned down and handed him the receiver. If looks could kill—

Ten minutes later a big burly red-faced Russell Jakes opened the door to his two-story antebellum-style home and, with a wary look, invited Quentin Archer into the house.

T
he man checked his watch, realizing he had a limited window to place the call. He had no idea who would answer on the other end, just that he needed to report.

‘Hello.' That soft, deep huskiness, like a heavy smoker's gravelly voice or someone who was trying to disguise his voice. The caller assumed it might be a little of both.

‘You wanted an update on the investigation? The judge? You suggested I may be paid if I offered some useful information?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Ex-con with the gun still looks good.'

‘I thought you'd have something new.'

‘Oh, I do,' he said. ‘The other detective, he's without any hard evidence, but he's throwing around the name Richard Garrett and Krewe Charbonerrie.'

There was silence on the other end.

‘Are you still there?'

‘Really, those names came up?'

‘He feels there is some sort of a tie-in. And, if it means anything, he is asking questions about River Bend Prison and Warden Russell Jakes.'

He could hear heavy breathing on the line.

‘What else?'

‘A Judge Warren has accused the detective of harassing him, and that detective has talked to another judge, named Hall. Apparently he finds those two interesting.'

‘All right, visit the restaurant in twenty-four. I think you'll find our thank-you gift more than adequate. And give me another update as soon as something happens.'

‘No chance you can tell me why you're interested in this case?'

‘Don't ask again.'

‘OK.'

‘You do know that Krewe Charbonerrie has some high-powered members in its rank?'

He was afraid to admit to anything. ‘Rumors.'

‘I would simply suggest that you steer any thoughts of investigation away from that organization. I don't think Krewe Charbonerrie would appreciate anyone looking into them, and I can't imagine that they would be involved in the murder of a juvenile judge.'

The line went dead.

S
ome lady was talking on her cell phone, holding it close to her face, but not up to her ear. From his third-floor office window Judge Richard Warren pushed his thick glasses back on his nose and watched the woman across the torn-up street. Construction crews beat the pavement with jackhammers; front loaders dug into the broken concrete slabs, pulling the pieces out and dropping them into dump trucks lined up on the side of the road.

The woman was tall and shapely with straight dark hair that hung to her shoulders. She tilted the apparatus toward his office and studied the screen. Taking pictures of the building. It had to be. And, Warren mused, our outside cameras are taking pictures of her. Did she know? Cameras were everywhere. Was this a tourist just documenting her trip? And who would take a photo of the juvenile justice building? With all of the tourist traps in this city, the hall of justice wasn't a place visitors wanted to remember. Was it?

‘There seems to be an interest in our building,' he said to no one. Sitting back in his chair, hands splayed out on the desktop, the diminutive judge watched the lady, who seemed to have a singular purpose.

‘Cell phone photographs.' He surprised himself as he uttered the line out loud.

The photographer studied her phone, then blatantly held the device away from her body and obviously clicked off several more pictures.

The judge thought about calling security. There was quite a bit of security in this building, but even then he sometimes wondered about his own safety. And now, with the Lerner thing …

Picking up his phone he started to call for an officer, but when he glanced out the window again the lady was gone. Disappeared. Warren dropped the phone onto its receiver and closed his eyes. He massaged his temples, wondering how lie upon lie happened. He'd certainly tried enough liars in his courtroom. Now, he was wading deep in lies himself.

At five fifteen he exited his office, almost bumping into Judge Traci Hall as she stepped into the corridor.

‘Judge Hall.' Cold and officious.

‘Judge Warren.' She mimicked his haughty tone.

‘I understand you had a lengthy conversation with the detective who's handling Lerner's case. Quentin Archer.'

‘I wouldn't call it lengthy.' She hesitated, not certain what he'd heard. ‘The detective actually stopped by to see
you
, but we saw each other out here and had a brief conversation. There was nothing to it. Seriously. I guess he had some things to clear up and …'

‘He wanted to see me again?' Warren's voice went up a tone. ‘He wasn't satisfied with what I told him?'

‘I believe he wanted to clarify his remarks to you. I think that was his purpose. But I don't want to put words in his mouth.' Hall put her hands up in mock-defense. ‘I have no idea what the two of you discussed. Other than what you've shared with me. Not my concern, Dick.' It was time to get home. Leave this mess for another day, another conversation.

‘What else did he say? Did he mention his concern about any sentencing I've been responsible for?'

Hall shook her head. ‘Look, Judge Warren' – back to the formal response – ‘I really don't know what his motive was.' Actually, that part was true. She hoped the entire mess would just go away. ‘I shouldn't have mentioned it at all. Leave me out of this, OK?'

Warren looked at her over the top of his black-framed glasses.

‘What? Because you've always been critical of my sentences, you told him you disapprove of my conviction record? Is that it? You told him that? I don't remember discussing your methods with anyone. Why do you feel compelled to discuss mine with other people?'

‘No, Judge. I did not express any criticism.'

She should have just shut up. Never said a word. Now the diminutive man was almost hyperventilating, worried that he was in trouble with the police.

‘Then what is it? Is he worried about me? Does he have some unfounded suspicion – do you, Traci?' The man was trembling.

She shook her head. ‘No, Judge Warren. Nothing was said. He just wanted to clear things up with you. I won't talk to him again, and I won't mention you again, is that OK with you?'

‘No, no. Please, if the man brings up my name again in any conversation with you, let me know. For some reason, I don't trust him. I don't think you should either. Please, Judge Hall, Traci, tell me.'

Outside, city crews were now breaking up the sidewalk and still tearing up the street. Throbbing jackhammers and angry bulldozers were ripping into cement and tearing out the rebar used for support. Getting to and from work was becoming more and more difficult. Becoming more and more of a hazard. Earth moving machines, dust, dirt; an army of construction workers had taken over the parameters and the judge had about had enough of it.

Richard Warren pulled out of the parking lot from his designated spot, driving through the thick dust, millions of fine particles of concrete clouding the area and clogging his nasal passages. Possibly he could sue the city for the damage to his black BMW 5 series and to his personal health. The construction mess had to physically harm every person and car that was parked at the courthouse. A class-action lawsuit might be appropriate.

He punched in his XM radio option and hit the number six setting, settling for Fox News as his entertainment on the ride home.
The Five
was on as he thought about dinner, the lamb chop he'd marinated, the endive salad. He should have invited someone to dinner. He'd open the 2000 Dunn Cabernet Sauvignon, a pretentious red that ran around seventy dollars a bottle. It should be just right.

Thinking of the word pretentious, he flashed back to the detective, Quentin Archer. Son of a bitch. Pushing him, pressing the issue. As if he knew what the hell he was talking about. And Traci Hall. The cute judge next door. Sexy, pretentious little bitch. She was critical of the way he handled his affairs, but never pushy. He just sensed that she was not his biggest fan. There was one way to handle that. He should have asked
her
to dinner. She'd walk in the door and he'd bang her once before and once after. In his dreams.

He looked up from the radio dial and gasped as the ink black Cadillac SUV swerved in front of him, the sun glinting off its shiny paint job, almost blinding him.

In a panic, Warren braked and spun the wheel hard, cranking it to the right as far as he could, to avoid a collision. The silver Toyota Corolla in the right lane failed to yield and Warren's car smashed into the driver's side, crushing the car's body and killing the Toyota driver instantly. Continuing its trajectory, his black five series muscled the Toyota off the road, and followed suit, spinning 180 degrees and slamming his driver's door into a concrete light pole. The last thought in Warren's mind before his spine snapped was his father's comment every time he left his parents' house as a teenager.

‘Dick, be sure and buckle up.'

T
raci Hall held her hand to her face, fighting the cloud of dust from construction in front of the courthouse. She coughed, spitting out phlegm on the coarse stone mix where a concrete sidewalk used to be. Where, God willing, it would be again. She should have told Archer more about her suspicions. Should have told him about her strong suspicions that someone was paying off Lerner and possibly Warren. But there was an allegiance between the men and women in the judicial system. Lawyers looked out for lawyers, didn't they?

Walking to the parking lot at the rear of the building she frowned at the panhandler shuffling on the grass beside her.

‘Please, lady, a couple bucks for a sandwich.'

Judge Hall clutched her purse a little tighter.

‘Lady?' The tone was a little firmer, more intimidating.

Hall glanced furtively, in front of her, in back of her. It was five o'clock, for Christ's sake. Where were the other employees?

‘I need the purse, bitch.'

She sidestepped his grab and started running toward her car, as fast as she could.

Her heels were only about two inches, but they certainly weren't track shoes. She struggled, pumping her legs but hobbled by the high heels and straps.

She sensed the mugger close behind and knew he was gaining on her. Either reach her car soon, or hope someone, another judge, an office worker or a construction worker would see her dilemma and save the day. She ran even faster.

Not fast enough.

Feeling the hand grab her shoulder, she jerked to break free. His hand tightened on the muscle between neck and shoulder, bringing her up short. Spinning around she screamed loudly, to no one who could hear or care.

He chopped at her throat with his right hand, and as she crumpled to the ground the man ripped the purse from her hand.