Casting Bones (29 page)

‘Worked for the aforementioned Richard Garrett. Big man in the oil business.'

‘Yeah?' Where did this guy get his information? ‘Why are you asking me about this murder?'

The bar manager took a step back, studying Archer with a cynical eye.

‘Because if you are truly interested in solving the murder of Judge David Lerner, this murder, this Gandal murder, may be important to you.'

‘You want to be a little more clear?'

‘Think about this, man. There's a lot of killings in New Orleans. Blacks, minorities, hoodlums, gangsters, bangers and once in a while a cop gets shot in the line of duty, but high-profile white people? Three judges and a respectable businessman all in four or five days of each other? And Gandal worked for Garrett.'

‘Mike, I appreciate anything you can bring to the table. And I suppose that the demographics of the victims skews a little higher than usual, but what you're suggesting is that Richard Garrett is involved in the murder of Judge David Lerner and Gandal.'

‘Yes. It's a suggestion, Detective. I don't have all the answers, just good information. I can't solve the crime for you. If I did, you could turn your paycheck over to me.'

‘You'd be very disappointed, my friend. Do you have any idea how much a detective makes? It's not that much money, trust me.'

‘My point is,' Mike said, ‘I can show you the evidence. I can introduce the stories, but it's up to you to make the case. It's up to you to tie everything together. Am I right? You are the one who has to find the answer.'

He was right.

‘And, Q, I'm not the only one who is suggesting leads, offering theories. There are others who are coming to you with information. Am I right? Come on, man. Put it together.'

‘Do you know who set Lerner up?' Archer was beside himself, wondering if everyone around him knew the answer except him.

‘No one knows for sure except the guilty parties. Other than that, you are the only one who has all the information. No one else knows. No one but the persons who contracted the hit. No, Q. No one else has all the evidence except you. I believe that somewhere in your soul, you know who killed the judges and why. You have compiled all the information. Now, just sort it out.'

Archer took a sip of the strong cocktail. Then another. At one time the drink had been outlawed across the country. The devil's brew it was called. Now, for those in the Quarter who could make it, it was the bestselling drink in town. Absinthe, bitters and rye whiskey. A little bit of licorice with a hammer attached. The detective felt a rush to his head.

‘What do you know about Gandal?'

‘Only that he was strangled in his car. As far as I've heard, no one has a clue as to what happened.'

‘Mike …' Archer took another sip and let it slide down his throat. ‘You once told me you know almost everything that happens in the French Quarter.'

‘I do.'

‘Then tell me exactly what happened.'

‘I've got some people who feed me, Detective. They've already given me some very interesting information. But, I need twenty-four hours, my friend. At least. I'm not a fortune teller, not a Solange Cordray.'

‘What the hell do you know about Solange Cordray?'

‘Everyone knows about the Voodoo Queen, Q. Listen, I visited her mother many years ago. Madam Clotille Trouville. Very savvy woman before the dementia. And I know Solange Cordray has taken her mother's place. She's a bright girl, despite marrying her ex-husband. Big mistake. But, she's talked to you. I'm right, aren't I?'

‘She doesn't make any sense.'

‘I read a lot of mysteries, Q,' the bartender said, ‘and they're always different, but always the same.'

‘What's that, a riddle? What's always different but always the same?'

‘There's always a puzzle in mysteries. At least the good ones. The ones I like to read.'

‘You're going to give me some pithy philosophy about solving a crime based on crime fiction you've read?'

‘No. I give you a very simple truth.'

‘That is?'

‘The answer is always in front of you.' Mike's big eyes focused on Archer and he gave him a slight smile. ‘It's in front of you, it's in front of the protagonist, it's in front of the reader.'

‘I'm afraid not in this case. I've studied every piece of evidence, Mike. It's not there right now, trust me.'

‘Come on, Detective, you've been through this before. There's never any magic. Even the locked-room mysteries don't have magic. There's no such thing. Once you explore the room, the characters, the circumstances, there's always a solution. You may not see it right away, but it's always there. Has to be. Because in a real world, there is no magic. It's a very controlled environment. You've solved a lot of crimes and you know what I'm talking about.'

Archer nodded.

The bartender picked up empty glasses from his bar and plunged them into a soapy mixture behind the bar, running them up and down on a soft brush, readying the vessels for the next round of drinks and customers.

‘I remember one story where a man is killed in a hotel room. His wife finds the body and she is not in the room when he dies. The room is locked and we know the victim did not let the killer in. Locked room mystery, right? Well, I'm struggling to find the answer. How the hell does someone get into the room? Then it occurs to me. At check in, the couple is issued just one electronic entrance card for the room. They are issued one, not two. The writer tells us that the victim has nothing on him. No money, credit cards, no room card. So we assume the killer stole the room card along with everything else.'

‘The reader assumes that everything was stolen, but forgets that the killer would have to have been in possession of the key to gain entrance to the room,' Archer said.

‘Exactly,' Mike said. ‘So, the wife must have given the killer the card so they could gain entrance. And I'm reading this thinking the killer stole the card.'

‘Except,' Archer nodded, ‘the victim could easily have known the killer and opened the door and let them in. Then the killer would have taken the card and locked the door on the way out.'

‘It took hundreds of pages to tie it all back to that entrance card. The evidence was there from almost page one. But there were at least three scenarios.'

‘And you feel stupid that you didn't catch it right away.'

‘Exactly. The evidence was there. You just had to sift through it.'

‘It was the wife, right?'

‘You figure it out, Detective Q.'

‘I don't have a husband or wife in this case. No locked room.'

‘You'll get it, man. I feel it in my bones. You've already got the evidence, you just don't know it yet. You'll figure it out, OK. It will happen and I think deep down you know it too. I'll look into Gandal's murder. Someone in this small village of ours knows something. Trust me. And I'm next in line. I'll hear about it before anyone else and you will be the first person I'll contact, Detective. I promise.'

H
e left after one drink. That was one more than he should have had. But this time he felt that he really needed it. Archer headed for his car, two blocks away.

He didn't need some bartender to point out how his business worked. As much as he liked the man, the detective was somewhat put out with Mike's spin on the science of solving crimes. Put out because the son of a bitch had pretty much nailed it. Archer may have had enough evidence about the case to solve it, but he had yet to put those puzzle pieces together, and that was the frustrating part. It was always the frustrating part. Like a damned Rubik's Cube.

Turning a corner, he stepped aside as the short man brushed up against him, stumbling and moving on in the other direction. Spinning around Archer ran his hand over his rear pocket. To his surprise, he found his wallet intact. He looked after the retreating figure.

‘Jackson.'

There was no acknowledgement from the would-be pickpocket. Without hesitation Archer walked after him.

The man in the worn burgundy sport coat kept moving up the street.

‘Jackson, stop. Get back here or I'll arrest your sorry ass.'

Abruptly the short man stopped, seemed to consider the consequences then slowly turned around, a questioning look on his face.

‘Hey, Detective Archer.' He acted surprised. ‘Didn't even know it was you, sir.' Opening his hands and holding them out he said, ‘I never did nothing. You check, sir, and see for yourself because I saw the light the last time we met, sir. No more pickin' pockets, no sir. I'm a changed man.'

‘No pockets picked?'

‘No, sir.'

‘So what are you doing for a living? Now?'

Jackson bit his lip. Slowly walking back to Archer, he folded his hands in front of himself.

‘Sir, what if I confided in you. Told you something that would possibly help you in your line of work. You know what I mean, sir?'

Archer didn't have a clue.

‘Have you been charged with something? Do you want something from me?'

‘Lord, no,' Jackson said. ‘If I needed something from you, I think I'd look elsewhere,' he said. ‘After all, you and I have a history.'

Archer studied the man for a moment, there on the street, cars passing by and tourists and colorful locals crowding the space.

‘So what are you confiding?'

‘Please, sir, this doesn't go against me?'

‘How bad is it?'

‘It's only an observation, Detective.'

‘Jackson,' Archer cleared his throat, ‘an observation is not anything that can get you in trouble. At least legally.'

Nodding his head, the short man smiled.

‘Well, an observation may be a thought, or it may be something I saw. If it was something I saw and didn't report directly, I am afraid it may get me in trouble. I'll let you decide.'

Archer nodded, intrigued.

‘Sir, before I tell you, did you seriously donate my money to some charity? You told me you would. You do remember taking some of my hard-earned money, right?'

Archer found himself smiling. The first time in a long time.

‘Yes, I did. I most certainly did. Your twenty went to help police families who are facing a rough future.'

‘I'll need a receipt for tax purposes,' Jackson said with the straightest of faces. ‘A receipt, Detective.'

‘Understood. I'll get it to you.'

‘Thank you, kind sir.'

‘Now, Jackson, about what you saw?'

‘Well then, I noticed that a man named Gandal was killed today here in the French Quarter. Don't misunderstand, I didn't see any murder, but it happened. It did happen, ain't that right, sir?'

What the hell? The last two people Archer had talked to had made that murder a focal point of the conversation. Now a street-smart criminal?

‘I heard the same thing, Jackson.'

‘Well, I may have stumbled on some information regarding that murder. Something that might interest you.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘What kind of information?'

‘I'm paying this forward, Detective. You know, so if I run into a spot of bad luck, you'll remember I helped you out.'

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a black American Express card. Holding it back, he said, ‘No questions asked, Detective? Got to have your word on this. Is that OK?'

‘I won't ask any questions, Jackson.' He might not, but what his superiors would do was an entirely different story.

Samuel Jackson handed the card to Archer.

‘Never used it or anything,' he said. ‘Hell, a Black Card? You just don't mess with stuff like that, you know what I mean? Man has to spend two hundred fifty thousand dollars a year just to own one. Two hundred fifty thousand, sir. Now you know I don't have that kind of dollars on me. Twenty here, maybe, twenty there and that just don't add up.'

Archer looked at it, then looked at it again. It was the shiny black anodized titanium card used by high rollers only. He'd heard about it, but never dreamed he'd hold one in his hand. The Centurion Black American Express Card. Archer was lucky to have a MasterCard with a thousand dollars charged to it, and that was probably delinquent.

‘Where did you get this?' He studied the name, his hand slightly trembling. The entire encounter was getting stranger by the second.

‘You askin' questions already? You promised.'

‘Sorry.' He looked at the raised name again, not sure whether to believe his eyes. The name scared him.

‘OK, Detective. I will volunteer one piece of information.'

‘That being?'

‘That Lincoln Navigator where Gandal was killed?'

‘Right.'

‘Please, Detective, now this can't blow back on me, understood? You and me, we got a history. I donated to that police charity, sir, am I right?'

Archer nodded.

‘The man who walked out of that vehicle before they found Gandal's body, he carried this credit card. Understood? I ain't sayin' he did nothin', but he walked out of the back seat of that Lincoln.'

‘You know this because?'

‘Shit, you askin' questions again? Give me back my card then.'

‘No. No.' Archer studied the card again, shaking his head. He couldn't understand how this entire puzzle fit together. ‘Do you recognize the name on this card? Do you know the man?'

Jackson's eyes drifted as the two men stood on the sidewalk. He shrugged his shoulders, uncomfortable with the question.

‘I heard about a guy with that name.'

‘You lifted this off of him?'

‘What? Lifted it? Hell no. What you trying to imply? He dropped it. I simply picked it up.'

‘Ah,' Archer nodded. ‘You picked it up. I see. Well, what do you know about him? This guy who dropped his card?'