Casting Bones (30 page)

‘Man owns some big oil company or somethin'. Kind of guy who is used to having his own way.'

Archer nodded again.

‘I would guess you're right.' Again he read the raised white print on the shiny black object.
Richard Garrett
.

‘And here I am, being a model citizen, Detective. Check it out. I find this card on the ground and first thing I do is turn it in to an officer of the law.'

‘You're cream of the crop, Jackson.'

‘Yes, sir. Well, I got to go. Got a job interview as janitor at a club over on Toulouse Street.'

‘Garrett. He walked out of the Lincoln Navigator? After Gandal was dead? And you saw him?'

‘I'm tellin' you, Detective.' He paused. ‘But you can't be tellin' anyone else. My life would be worth shit.'

Archer nodded. ‘You checked the Navigator?'

‘May have glanced through the driver's window.'

‘And you saw—'

‘Detective.' Frustration in his voice. ‘How much more you gonna ask?'

‘Let's say you saw someone slumped over the steering wheel. Let's just say that might have happened.'

‘Let's say I did.'

‘Jackson, you're aware I'm going to have to know where to reach you. I may not be the one asking questions but I've got superiors who will want more information.'

The small black man nodded. ‘I may not have any more information, sir. Probably don't. You know, shit, I should have kept my mouth shut.'

‘OK, if I'm going to get you a receipt for your taxes, where would I deliver it? You want to get a tax form, just give me an address.'

Jackson shot him a grim look.

‘In that case, I hang at CC's Coffee House on Royal. You want to reach me, you just leave whatever you have there. A receipt, maybe an envelope with cash for the information I just gave you. Or how about you want to give me a “get out of jail free” card, but whatever it is you want to give me, leave it at CC's. Those folks know me well.'

‘How did you know so much about the Black Card?'

‘I, uh—'

‘You tried to use it, didn't you?'

Jackson stared up at him, a thin smile on his lips. ‘Apparently,' he said, ‘you don't use one of those Black Cards to buy a po-boy and a beer. They 'bout threw me out of that place.'

H
e missed Denise every day. Every hour. Every minute. They didn't get to spend a lot of time together, the couple's two jobs in Detroit ate at their chance to be together, but they'd been close. Married just three years, dating on-and-off for ten. They'd grab ten minutes here, twenty minutes there, a cup of coffee, a fast-food sandwich, different spots around the city when he was working.

Denise worked as hard and almost as long as he did. She'd meet him during the day at the El Taquito food truck in southwest Detroit, where they would share a
ceviche tostada
and a chorizo taco, the sound of souped-up car engines and loud Harley-Davidsons gunning down West Vernor and Military ringing in their ears.

At night, they'd sometimes grab a bite near the Henry Ford Hospital in the north end, where Denise tended to emergencies like knifings, shootings, poisonings and a steady parade of hapless Detroiters who had the misfortune to get mugged.

She'd take her break close by, maybe at Park's Old Style Bar-B-Q on Beaubien Street and they'd share a slab of ribs covered in Park's famous sauce. He could almost taste it now. And if he closed his eyes for just a moment, he could taste Denise, her sweet kisses and soft, supple lips.

It seemed that he and Denise only saw each other over a meal. And of course the times they connected in bed. There was more than one time when one of them had been late for their shift because the loving lasted a little too long and was a little too intense. But then, like she once told him, when it came to making love, it could never be too long or too steamy.

As Archer drove back to the office, his thoughts turned to Solange Cordray. Strange to think it, but there was a food connection with her as well. She showed up at the damnedest times. He'd sit down to eat, and there she'd be, piecing out tidbits of information. Cryptic, mystic, just like Mike the bartender, the girl was playing with his head.

And he wondered what Solange Cordray was like in her moments of passion. He hadn't fantasized much about women since Denise was killed. Tried to keep his mind off anything but surviving, getting out of the Motor City, and starting a new life down here in the Big Easy. And of course finding Denise's killer. But the Cordray woman piqued his interest. He'd only seen her a few times, but there was something sexy about her. Possibly the mysterious way she approached him, but certainly for the soft dark skin, the thick dark hair. She was a beautiful woman to look at, with slight curves in just the right places. For some reason, if he were asked to conjure up images of witches or voodoo practitioners, they would be evil-looking women with warts, hooked noses and bad teeth. Solange's skin was smooth, her nose turned up just slightly, and her teeth appeared to be perfect.

‘Where the hell have you been?' Sergeant Dan Sullivan walked to his desk.

‘I told you, I needed a little time.'

‘Well, here's what you missed.' Pointing his finger at Archer, he numbered the things they had learned in the brief time Q was gone.

‘Number one, we found Jim Gideon, Skeeter Lewis's accomplice. Dumb-ass was hanging out at a place his wife's brother owns, wine bar called the Met. Gideon is next door but we're bringing him in for questioning in half an hour. Number two,' he continued, ‘Gandal, the guy who was strangled in his Lincoln Navigator today, was seen having coffee at MRB this morning with a prominent New Orleans businessman. We're tracking down the identity, but several of the help said the man was a regular. Number three—'

‘Sergeant, here's what I have for
you
.'

He handed the stocky man the black titanium American Express card.

Sullivan reared back, surprised by the presentation. Then he took the card, studying it for a moment.

‘What is this?'

‘Check it out,' Archer said.

‘Richard Garrett? How the hell did you get this?'

‘Garrett may be involved in the murder of Gandal.'

‘No. I told you that Gandal worked for Garrett. There's no way Richard Garrett was involved in his murder.'

‘Yes. Prominent New Orleans businessman. It all fits.'

‘No. Do you understand me?' Sullivan was livid. ‘This is not possible, Detective. Please understand what I'm saying.'

‘Sergeant, you can't tell me—'

‘I just did.' Sullivan handed him back the card. ‘Leave this alone, Archer. I want no can of worms opened on my watch, do you understand?'

‘Well, then let me tell you something.' Archer palmed the card. ‘This guy was the last person out of the Lincoln Navigator where they found the body of Jonathon Gandal. It may implicate him as Gandal's killer, Sergeant. I suggest it does implicate him. What do you propose we do? I've got an eyewitness that I think will testify.'

‘Give me the card,' Sullivan said, reaching for it.

‘No.' Archer backed away.

‘Do you understand the implications here? You're trying to destroy the reputation of a pillar in this community. I'll call Garrett and I'm sure he'll have a perfectly good explanation.'

‘You don't get the card.'

Sullivan studied him for a moment, cocking his head and squinting his eyes as if deciding whether to officially confront him for his insubordination.

‘Archer, I don't like you.'

‘That has been obvious.'

‘And if it had been my decision, no one would have offered you this job, knowing what I know about your background.'

‘I'm lucky to have found this job,' Archer said, staring right back into the man's eyes. ‘I will admit that.'

‘Damn straight.'

‘But your point is?'

‘You're mucking up the water. And apparently your job in life is to take everyone else in your circle down with you. I've made it clear. There are certain people in this town that you don't want to fuck with. I'd rather you look in a different direction. Can I be any more direct?'

‘I'm going in the direction of the conviction, Sergeant.'

‘I'll almost guarantee you that this will garner you no conviction. Jesus, Archer, you lost your job in Detroit trying to take down people.'

‘I was trying to get to the truth.'

‘You're about to become a one-man train wreck. Don't fuck this one up the minute you get here.'

He'd started his tenure by pissing off the hierarchy. There was no place to go but up. Or, if he was fired, a spiral death.

G
arrett stopped for lunch. Galatoire's on Bourbon Street, with its French Creole dishes. No hurry. It was probably best to take his time, act as if he was just in the area for a leisurely meal. With a copy of the
Times-Picayune
in front of him he finished his meal, finishing it off with a cup of cappuccino.

The waiter brought his check, and that's when the man started to sweat. His wallet was missing. He thrust his hand into his other rear pocket, then his two front pockets. Stepping out of the booth he studied the area, then looked under the table. Nothing.

All he could think of was the Lincoln Navigator. During the struggle it had slipped from his pocket and right now, as the police combed that vehicle, they already knew that he'd been inside the car. In the rear seat.

Closing his eyes he said a short prayer, hypocritical he knew because he believed in no higher authority. But this situation called for extra measures.

Asking for the manager, he explained the situation.

‘Mr Garrett, we want to accommodate you any way we can. Just sign here, sir, and we'll send you your bill.'

With shaky hands, Garrett signed and left a fifty percent tip. Assuming he'd get the chance to actually pay the bill.

He walked back to his booth one more time, scanning the entire area, but there was nothing. Walking outside, he looked both ways, half expecting a cop to approach him and take him into custody then and there.

What if they hadn't found the body yet? He could simply go back, open the rear door and retrieve it. Then he thought about the cameras. Passing five, or seven or eight businesses, he was sure to be on camera. The damned things were everywhere. And by now, he was certain, they'd have found Gandal's body. Sure he'd had coffee with the man, but there was no evidence that … where was his damned wallet?

Then his thoughts turned to the short man who gave him a strong bump on the sidewalk. How naive of him to think the wallet had slipped out of his pocket in the Navigator. The guy who stepped from the alley was most certainly a professional pickpocket. Son of a bitch, that had to be the answer. Didn't it? So how much did the man know? Was he aware that Garrett had gotten out of the vehicle where Gandal had been killed? Had he watched Garrett actually open the door? It wasn't a good scenario.

On the surface, Richard Garrett was a man who oozed confidence. He'd picked up his father's sense of business, adding a quick decisiveness that almost always led to new avenues of profit for the growing oil firm. On the surface, Garrett was a force to be reckoned with. Someone who's wrath could bring down titans, destroy years of building, and often did.

On the surface, Garrett's magnanimous generosity cemented his contribution to the community and even people who had never met him had heard about the amazing work he'd done with Habitat for Humanity, the Cure and Wounded Warriors.

Beneath
the surface, Garrett ran scared. The bluff and bravado of other titans of industry, captains of commerce and business gurus might fool most people, but Richard Garrett was always looking over his shoulder, assuming that someone else was going to figure him out, take over, do a better job and kick him to the curb. His band of handlers worked their magic and he'd never been uncovered, but damn. This wasn't a good time to have that facade fall apart. And he needed to immediately stem the tide.

He sat down on a street bench and watched the traffic go by. Pedestrian and vehicle alike oblivious to the biggest dilemma he'd ever faced. Someone, either the law or a citizen, had evidence that he was involved in a murder. Involved, hell. They may know he was the killer.

Grabbing his cell phone he punched in two numbers, and the voice on the other end answered immediately.

‘Hey, Mr Garrett. What can I do for you?'

‘There's a guy, short, black, wears a sport coat, in the Quarter. Pickpocket.'

‘There are dozens of pickpockets in the Quarter, Mr Garrett. Pick pockets, apple pickers …'

‘Apple pickers?'

‘Guys who steal cell phones.'

At least he hadn't taken that.

‘There's one short black guy who has my American Express card. I want my wallet, my driver's license and that card and I want
him
. Am I clear?'

‘On it, Mr G.'

‘You'd damned well better be.'

Garrett stared at his phone for a second then made a second call.

He could hear the phone ring, one, two, three and four times. Finally—

‘Joseph, your ex-wife is a liability.'

Garrett could almost feel Joseph Cordray's gut clench.

‘Garrett?'

‘Are you going to deal with this?'

There was a hesitation on the other end. A long hesitation.

‘She can be a bitch. But a liability?' Cordray asked.

‘I've got somebody inside and they say the cops are thinking the Krewe may be involved. And,' he hesitated, ‘me. You tell me who else would figure that out. It's your wife.'

‘Hell, you've been seeing her. Maybe you let something slip.'

‘Listen, Joseph, I may have made a mistake in using her services, but I never …'