Casting Bones (34 page)

He tightened his grip and she felt lightheaded, choking and desperately gasping for any air.

‘Tell me about trouble, missy. You don't want to fuck around with me.'

Solange Cordray felt a sharp pain shoot through her brain. She needed to save her mother; that was her primary goal.
Focus. Ma.
Her eyes watched exploding stars, until there was no more air to breath.

CC's Community Coffee House on Royal was one in a chain of thirty in Louisiana. A popular gathering spot in the Quarter with an extensive coffee menu and a variety of baked goods, it was a great place to hang out. And hanging out was exactly what Samuel Jackson was doing.

He sat at one of the tables, rotating fans in the ceiling keeping him cool. He tried again to program his new iPhone. The trick was erasing the previous owner's programming. He'd searched this phone for bank account numbers, phone numbers and any other personal information, but he'd pretty much come up empty. Now he was trying to erase the information already in memory and program his own information. He could then sell the phone and capture any private information the new owner would download. Jackson had a market for all of that information. It was a complicated procedure, but very lucrative. He could make a couple hundred bucks a day just Apple-picking. He pecked at the keyboard, intently watching the screen.

‘Sam?'

Surprised, he looked up and didn't like what he saw. Two bruisers with gray sport coats and their hands in their pockets. Only three reasons why someone has their hand in a pocket. To keep the hand warm, to steal something from that pocket (and he had plenty of experience with that reason) and to pull out a gun. Immediately he settled on number three.

‘Who wants to know?'

Quietly the bigger of the two whispered, ‘Richard Garrett. It seems you have something of his.'

‘Oh, shit.'

‘We can make this easy, Sam. Give us the wallet, everything included. We'll even roll on the money, sonny, but we need everything else.'

‘I can get it. I don't have the Black Card, but I know where it is and if you just—' He'd already sold everything else and pretty much spent the money.

The two men picked him out of the booth, one holding him under each arm.

‘No need to keep looking, folks,' the smaller man said. ‘Nothing to see here. Go back to your business, do you understand?'

Several of the senior citizens nodded, not wanting to rile the local ruffians.

Jackson started screaming, imploring the management to step in and stop his abduction.

Amid the confusion, the two men carried him to the street and threw him in the back of a black Porsche Cayenne.

The smaller man sat with him, pinning his arms behind his back. The bigger man drove, two hundred fifty pounds sitting daintily in the driver's seat, squealing the tires as he pulled out onto the street.

‘Sam, we need all the cards and personal shit that was in the wallet. Surely you understand that?'

‘Please, I don't have that stuff, but I can get it.'

The big man put more pressure on the arms until they almost cracked.

‘How soon can you get it?'

‘Oh, my God, in two days.'

More pressure, and then more and there was a cracking sound. Shoulders separating from the joints.

The scream, the shrieking was enough to deafen someone. Jackson was crying, tears flowing from his eyes.

‘Hey, Sam,' the driver shouted back to him, ‘you fucked with the wrong man. It happens. Don't get crazy over it.'

The screams came even louder and the driver just laughed. He needed a diversion because when the boss found out that he didn't have the goods, the man wasn't going to be happy. Not at all.

L
evy and another detective walked into the restaurant, Levy flashing an official warrant. The patrons and workers parted as the law enforcement team walked into the kitchen. Duvay looked up from chopping an onion and rolled his eyes.

‘Oh, shit. Don't you ever give up?'

‘Antoine Duvay, you are wanted for questioning in the murder of Judge David Lerner.'

The detective walked up and put his hand on Duvay's shoulder. For just a moment the young man gripped his knife, his hand shaking. Levy squeezed hard, sending a message that any attempt at escape would be a mistake. This was serious business.

As they led him away, Levy dialed Archer's cell. Good news needed to be shared, plus he wanted Archer in on the questioning because Levy had no idea where Archer was going with this.

The phone rang and rang and rang. No answer. Levy hoped he'd get an answer by the time he had Duvay at the station.

‘Call me, Archer,' he muttered under his breath. If this was so damned important, he could at least answer his goddamned phone.

A
rcher closed his eyes and held his breath. When he heard the click of the trigger he opened them again, his heart racing.

‘Come on, bro. I wan-want a piece of you. Not everything. Not yet. I'll tell 'em you dodged the bullet. No matter how much I want to, I can't kill my own br-brother.'

‘What the hell was that all about?' Archer's bloodshot eyes stared daggers into his brother's brain.

‘Stop your Mickey Mouse investigation. You'll hear from me again, Quentin. Bri-Brian sends his best.'

Jason Archer rose from the bed, the gun still leveled at Quentin and he backed away toward the door. Reaching it, he laid the gun on the floor.

‘No bullets. I did-didn't trust you.' He laughed as he walked out. ‘Hell, I-I didn't trust myself.'

Archer stood there, a sheen of warm sweat covering his body and the towel wrapped around his hips. He couldn't exactly run through the streets of the Quarter naked, chasing his criminal brother, and he had no weapon other than a cold piece of steel which without its ammunition meant absolutely nothing. It was about as useless as a paperweight.

His phone was ringing and he grabbed for it, but the limit had been reached. He checked it for the number. Levy.

Archer called back immediately.

‘Archer, we've got Duvay. What the hell do we do with him?'

From one crisis to another. The good news was he was alive to handle them. One at a time.

‘Hold him till I get there. Give me twenty minutes, Levy.'

A minute ago he'd thought it was all over. He'd closed his eyes and expected to be on the other side by now. Quite a start. Quite an emotional upheaval. Now he was back, expected to solve the murder of three judges. Nothing had changed, except he realized his own mortality was in jeopardy. His brother proved what he already knew. No matter how careful he was, at any time someone could take his life. And almost had. Jason Archer was on the loose, and as long as that was the case, Q wasn't safe. He wasn't safe at all.

Should he alert the cops that a wanted man from Detroit was in New Orleans? In another minute the city would swallow Jason up and he'd only be seen when he resurfaced. When he wanted to be seen. Yet, in a twisted way, his own brother had spared his life.

Archer walked to his closet, and started to get dressed.

It took half an hour to get there but now they sat in the interrogation room, the suspect chained once again to the metal table.

‘You ran, Antoine. Something scared you. I think you knew more than you told us,' Archer said.

‘Not often a white man accuses me of knowing something. Hell, knowing anything. Most often I'm just some dumb nigger to you all.'

‘You know why Lerner was murdered, don't you?'

‘Shit, man, why do you think I know anything? What makes you think I've got that kind of information?'

‘Because you worked for the warden. You worked Jakes's personal detail and you figured out a lot, didn't you? Lerner's murder had to do with the warden and the prison, am I right?'

‘You understand that I tell you anything and it's a death sentence?'

‘How is that?' Levy asked.

‘How it is, is that this goes to the top, man. Governor's office, maybe further. I'm not shitting you.'

‘What goes to the top?'

‘You can't stop 'em, Detectives. You're two five-ohs who couldn't get a jaywalker ticketed if
they
didn't want you to.'

‘OK, let's paint a picture and you tell me where I'm wrong.'
Pieces. Put them together and see what fits.
‘Lerner had a thing with Rodger Claim, head of security, am I right?'

‘Claim was the one who suggested me to work at the warden's house.'

‘Claim was gay, so was Lerner.'

‘I'm gonna walk if I cooperate?'

‘Pretty sure that can be arranged.'

‘And how am I gonna keep safe once you have this information?'

‘We're trying to get evidence, Antoine. With evidence, we won't need your testimony.'

But they probably would.

‘They used Rodger Claim to get to Lerner. And then Lerner got to somebody else,' Duvay said.

‘Why?'

‘I'm guessing.'

‘You ran, Antoine. You had a pretty good suspicion.'

Duvay was quiet, just slightly shaking his head.

‘OK, was it Judge Warren? Was that the “somebody else”?'

‘I don't know, man. I just got lots of bits and pieces. Maybe I heard Warren's name. I was just some dumb kid, so they didn't seem to worry too much about what I heard or saw. And, man, I saw plenty.' He hung his head low and shook it several times.

‘Like?'

‘I walked into the garage one time and Claim and Lerner were in the Jag, buck naked and—'

‘Keep it PG, Antoine,' Archer said.

‘I agree. But remember, you asked.'

‘What else?'

‘Some pretty high-powered people, they visited on a regular basis. Couple people, I think, were city council, and it was pointed out to me some senators and state big shots.'

Duvay hesitated for a moment and Archer kept quiet.

‘Once or twice, the lieutenant governor of Louisiana. Had the same tattoo as the warden, and—'

‘Why were they visiting?'

‘Once in a while I heard and saw stuff I probably shouldn't have seen. They talked about stuff and when I was serving drinks or cleaning tables on the patio, I may have picked up some information.'

‘The serpent tattoo?'

‘The same.'

‘Jesus,' Archer said.

Levy pressed harder.

‘You gonna tell us what it was you heard? Because this is getting rather boring. You want to go back into that holding cell, Antoine?'

‘They talked about SF. Big company that owned the prisons.'

‘Secure Force.' Archer looked at Levy. ‘Private company that owns something like twenty-five prisons in four states.'

‘Wow.'

‘So,' Duvay continued, ‘we don't have to go there. They don't have to put all of us in private prisons. There are state prisons. State's got more programs, better food.' He paused, looking back and forth at the two cops. ‘But that's where most of us end up. SF. It's crap, man. Pure crap.'

Homicide didn't deal with the juvenile justice system. Because most of the murderers under eighteen were still tried and convicted as adults. Archer didn't really understand exactly how the system worked. He just knew that Louisiana had more prisoners per capita than anywhere else in the world. The world. And from what he'd read and heard, the reason was cash. Jobs. Income. Taxes. It was hard to give any of that up.

‘So what are you saying?'

‘Petty crimes don't have to have long sentences. Come on, man, you know damned well that I got more time than most. Most of the cons in there are way long on their time. State prison, I would have done a month or two. Private prison, they need to find a way to keep you. It's a business, Detective. Ain't nothin' to do with corrections. You already figured all this out.'

‘I agree,' Archer said. The pieces fit.

‘What I saw was long sentences, and a full house. We were squeezed for space, man. And the state pen? Not full at all. Now I ask you, is that fair? Who's strokin' who?'

‘So Lerner was funneling prisoners to his lover's prison,' Levy said. ‘The state of Louisiana still pays for those prisons. They just pay Secure Force.'

‘Yeah,' Archer stood up. ‘I'd lay money they pay per prisoner. How much do you want to bet they pay per prisoner? And when River Bend or any of the other twenty-four prisons is full, Secure Force is making big bucks.'

‘So Lerner and company were loading up the private prison,' Levy said, ‘and—'

‘Getting kickbacks. That's what the other number on those spreadsheets represented. Dollars kicked back per prisoner,' Archer said.

‘Holy shit. Krewe Charbonerrie was getting a kickback and paying Lerner, maybe Warren, a finder's fee.'

‘I'd bet on it,' Archer said. ‘And the big shots in the Krewe owned stock in Secure Force.'

‘Damn. Making it coming and going.'

‘That was it, wasn't it?' Archer stared at Duvay. ‘Prisoner number 12345 was worth two thousand dollars. It's that simple. It was right in front of us all the time. Lerner kept a list.'

‘Jesus, it makes sense,' Levy said. ‘Twenty-five prisons, a cut on every prisoner. That adds up to a nice chunk of change.'

‘Plus, it keeps their investment healthy. These guys had it figured,' Archer said.

‘Q.' Levy had his cell phone out, working his calculator app. ‘If this prison holds eighteen hundred kids, and let's say half of them come from judges who are repping some organization who is on the take, that's one million eight hundred thousand dollars. Per year. From just one prison.'

‘There are twenty-five prisons in the Secure Force network. By your equation, that's forty-five million dollars per year in kickbacks. Enough to pay the judges, the wardens and still pocket a tidy profit for Krewe Charbonerrie.'