Casting Bones (3 page)

‘Q, you OK?'

Adam Strand raised his eyebrows, noticing the look on Archer's face, flush, with perspiration dotting his brow.

‘Sure. Fine. It must be …' he trailed off, not sure what it must be.

The two detectives stripped off their gloves.

‘You want to sit down, partner?'

‘No.' He shook his head. ‘Really, I'm good.'

‘Look, the crack about the judge's money—'

Archer shook his head. Regaining his composure, he walked over to the four other detectives on the scene, two in sport coats, the others in long-sleeved shirts and ties.

‘Two of you pick up anything you see and someone talk to the deckhands on the
Queen
. We'll cover the restaurant up there, and you' – pointing to the other two detectives – ‘see if any of these tourists saw anything.' His breathing had returned to normal and he felt his heart rate slowing down.

Strand stood back and nodded.

‘You know it didn't happen here.'

‘And you know we've got to cover every base,' Archer responded.

They walked away from the river, heading toward the Crazy Lobster.

‘How many cases you worked?'

Archer put his hand to his head, a slight feeling of uneasiness still lingering. ‘Never counted them.'

‘As of now, we've got the highest per capita murder rate in the country.' Strand pointed beyond the restaurant where New Orleans spread out into the downtown area. ‘About one hundred eighty murders a year. Mostly young kids who've got nothing to lose.'

‘Three hundred plus in Detroit.'

‘Jesus.'

‘Still, you've got the highest per capita. Pretty impressive.'

‘We duke it out with Baltimore or Flint, Michigan for bragging rights every year.'

They reached the brown pavers strewn with green tables and chairs that sat in the brilliant sun outside the Crazy Lobster. Patrons of the trendy restaurant drank Abita beers, sucked meat from red, boiled crawfish and warily watched the two detectives as they approached.

‘Can you get the manager?' Archer touched a waitress on the shoulder and she nodded, walking quickly into the restaurant. In a moment, a young black man walked out, an apron tied around his waist.

‘You dealing with the dead guy?'

‘We are. I'm Quentin Archer, and this is my partner, Adam Strand.'

The two offered their badges and the manager nodded.

‘I'm Marcus Walker. We sort of talked about it while you were down there,' he motioned to the muddy river. ‘Nobody noticed anything. My guess is the guy washed up or somebody dumped him recent.'

‘You don't mind if we talk to your staff?'

‘Not at all. You'd do it anyway.'

‘We would,' Strand said. ‘You get any judges, court people who come down here for a meal? A drink?'

‘Detective, we get everybody. We're on the water and if I do say so we put out a really good product. Listen, if people don't come here, we've probably catered something for them. We go to their place, you know what I'm sayin'? Sure, we do some parties at City Hall.'

‘Know a guy named David Lerner? Judge?'

‘Is it the
late
David Lerner? Was that his body they found?'

Q shook his head. ‘No positive identification yet. We just wondered if you recognized the name.'

‘Sure. I've seen his name on the news. Hard guy. He gets a lot of press because of his stiff sentences. We've got a couple young guys in the kitchen who received some of his tough love.' The manager offered a weak smile. ‘That's who we're talking about, right? Lerner?'

‘Has he been here?'

‘I can ask around. I wouldn't recognize him.'

‘Let's find out. Can you get your wait staff one at a time? Then the kitchen crew?'

Walker nodded and walked back toward the bar.

‘Maybe the judge complained about some bad service?' Strand watched the manager as he brought a waitress to them.

‘Or somebody didn't like
his
service.'

‘Maybe one of the boys in the kitchen?'

Q motioned the lady to a seat at an empty table and took a deep breath. He'd done this too many times. At thirty-six, young by most standards, he was already burned out. Detroit, New Orleans, a body in the river … same story, different city.

‘Hey, Q, how many murders do you solve in Detroit? What's your percentage?' Strand straddled a chair as Archer sat down.

‘Fifty percent, maybe less.' There was only one that haunted him every day. One unsolved murder. Denise, his wife. The love of his life. One of the reasons he'd left Detroit.

‘We've got an impressive record here,' Strand said. Highest murder rate per capita, and last year we solved about twenty-two percent. Maybe with you on board our percentage goes up.'

Archer frowned, drumming his fingers on the table. He hadn't solved Denise's murder, so his track record wasn't that good. But to be fair, he hadn't given up trying.

H
is father had bitched about filing reports. Banging away on a manual Underwood, going through a bottle of Wite-Out every week to correct all the mistakes. He'd told Quentin how cops today had it easy, with computers and everything. It didn't feel that easy.

One day, when Q was maybe ten years old, the old man had taken him to the precinct house. Must have been summer because otherwise he'd have been at school, and when they entered the old brick building he smelled the pungent odor of sweat, smoke and burned coffee. The smell stuck with him almost as strong in memory. Even with air conditioning in all the offices and a no smoking policy, he expected to breathe in the aroma of sour body odor and cigarette smoke every time he walked into a police station.

‘Damn,' Sergeant Dan Sullivan hovered over his shoulder. ‘Had to be a judge.'

Archer nodded and continued to peck away on the keyboard. Fastest two-finger typist in the building.

‘I'd expect this to happen in One,' the balding man said. ‘Across Rampart Street. But I can't picture Lerner hanging out over there. Bad neighborhood.'

‘Could have happened anywhere,' Archer replied, hitting the keys with his index fingers.

‘Any reports back from the interviews?' Sullivan continued to press. ‘We can put some more manpower down there, if need be.'

‘Nothing yet. Strand may have heard something. He was finishing up with the kitchen crew.'

‘The minute you know anything I want to know. Anything at all, Q.' He drifted down the row, talking to another detective.

‘Got it, Sarge.'

The manager of the Crazy Lobster, Marcus Walker had said point-blank that some of his help had been sentenced by the dead judge. He continued to hunt and peck while detectives drifted in and out of the room.

Thirty-two homicide detectives, all of them in a pressure cooker situation, working third floor of headquarters in a bullpen setup. An open room, devoid of personality, with gunmetal gray desks crowding each other. Sixteen on one side of the hall, sixteen on the other.

Archer knew there was manpower if needed, and he also knew the department was down three detectives. Recruiting was apparently not going well. And the guys who had been brought in for relief were all working their own cases. With eighty-some murders already committed for the year, they were busy. Very busy.

‘I knew him,' Sullivan was back. ‘Played some charity golf with him a couple of years ago.'

‘Raising money for what charity?' Archer didn't look up.

‘No, no. I mean, nobody would ever play with the guy. That was the problem. Judge David Lerner was a duffer with an ugly attitude and a really bad hook. Spent half the time looking for lost balls and bitching his head off. This one time he needed a partner, so I drew the short straw.'

‘Uh-huh.
Charity
golf.' Archer got it.

‘Cocky guy.'

‘Not anymore, Sarge.'

‘No, I suppose not.'

Archer finally looked up. ‘You got any thoughts on why someone would want him dead?'

‘He was a judge. A heavy-handed judge. There are probably hundreds of reasons why people would want him dead. This one may not be easy.'

Archer turned back to the flat screen. When he had exited the force up north, even Detroit had sprung for the big flat-screen monitors. Technology was changing so fast, and he was still a two-finger wonder at typing. Get with the program, Archer.

What had Strand told him? Only twenty-two percent of all murders were solved?

‘My father was a cop.'

‘Yeah?' Sullivan sounded half interested.

‘He taught me one thing. The most important thing to look for in any case.'

‘What was that?'

‘Keep asking why.'

‘“Why”?'

‘You start every case by asking why. Why did someone kill this person? You follow up with a why, and a why, and a why. When you run out of whys, when you run out of questions and answers, you've solved the murder.'

‘Well, you know it's not that simple,' Sullivan said.

‘No, Sergeant, I don't know that. It pretty much works every time. And if the crime is still unsolved, it's because you haven't answered every
why
.'

Sullivan cocked his head, staring at Archer.

‘We all have our methods, Archer.'

‘We do. Mine makes the most sense.'

The officer turned to walk away.

‘Oh, Sergeant, you think of anything,
you
let me know. You know this town a whole lot better than I do.'

The other equation was who. He knew why they killed Denise. To send him the sternest of warnings, that if he didn't quit pushing the case against a certain drug ring, they would make his life miserable. But he didn't know exactly who had committed the crime. He didn't know yet. He kept it low-key, but there were friends in Detroit. People who were in his corner, working the edges.

Archer finished the report along with his third cup of green tea. The caffeine in coffee drove him crazy so he settled for this thin bitter liquid. It was healthier, too, so he'd been told.

Throwing on his dark blue sport coat, he stood up and took the elevator to the lobby. Nodding to the young black woman who doubled as dispatcher and information officer he said, ‘Gonna grab a bite to eat, Cheryl. Call me on the cell if anything comes in from the coroner's office, OK?'

One o'clock and he was hungry. And thirsty.

He rented a little cottage in the French Quarter, ten minutes by car. A car that NOPD provided. Probably some drug dealer's ride or a repo. No restrictions. Archer used it for work, and to drive to lunch. But when he went home in the evening and to work the next morning, he took the streetcar. It beat getting towed every week or so when they hosed down the streets in the Quarter and he'd forget if it was odd or even streets. Paying for impounded cars applied to everyone, even detectives.

Driving to Decatur he turned left. There was a parking spot on the street and he pulled in.

The nice thing about the French Quarter was that you didn't really need a car. It was made for walking. He could pass dozens of restaurants, bars and coffee shops on foot. He'd stand outside, study the menu on the wall or window, look inside and see what kind of clientele frequented the place, breathe in the unique aromas from the kitchen and then move on to the next establishment. A quick course on the French Quarter cuisine. You couldn't do that on the east side of Detroit. Where he'd been stationed, around Warren and Conner, you very seldom ventured out on foot. If someone didn't steal your wallet or cell phone, they'd slice your throat for your Nike LeBron X Cork shoes. Not that the French Quarter here in New Orleans was safe. Far from it. Still …

The French Market on San Felipe was one of his favorites. So far. Spicy shrimp, crawfish, oysters, done just about anyway you could imagine. And he loved talking with Mike, with his wild wiry hair and jovial manner.

‘Hey, Q! You're a little early. The good lookin'
femmes infidèles
show up a little later in the evening.'

‘Coke, Mike. And what else do I want?'

‘Goin' light?'

‘I am.'

‘Half a dozen of the char-grilled oysters. You're gonna love 'em, man.'

Archer smiled. ‘Haven't had a bad meal here yet.'

Mike nodded. ‘You've been here what? Couple months now?'

‘A couple.'

‘Just breakin' you in and you draw the dead judge.'

Archer looked at him inquisitively. It had only been a couple of hours. ‘And where did you hear this?'

Mike walked back toward the kitchen shouting over his shoulder. ‘This is the Quarter, Q. I know everything that happens down here, man.'

‘Mike. Wait.'

The frizzy-haired man turned, his big eyes boring into Archer's. ‘What,
mon ami
?'

‘You know everything that happens down here?'

‘Most things.
Most
.'

‘Then answer the obvious question. My life would be a lot easier.'

‘Who killed the judge? Is that your question?'

‘Go ahead.'

‘I know most things that happen in the
Quarter
, Q.'

‘And?'

‘Didn't happen in the Quarter. That's a sure thing.'

‘We figured as much.'

‘So I don't have the answer. Not yet. What's your next question?'

Archer gave him a grim smile.

‘The next logical question, Mike. What do you think it is?'

‘I know what it should be,
inspecteur
.'

‘What should it be?'

‘The question should be why? Why was the judge murdered?'

‘Exactly.'

‘Don't have that answer either. Not yet. But check back soon. Eventually I'll have the answer. I always do.'

T
he char-grilled oysters were anything but light. The butter and Romano cheese lay heavy in his stomach. Or was it the quarter loaf of French bread he'd used to sop up every last drop of flavor in the shells? He walked toward his car, wondering if Strand had any new information. Unless they received a fabulous stroke of luck, it was going to be a late, late night.