Casting Bones (4 page)

And then he saw her, a brief glimpse, walking across the street with a lanky young man wearing a sleeveless tee. The familiar sharp pain gripped his chest. She turned, and of course it wasn't her. He saw Denise daily. And he didn't see her at all.

A short black man wearing a shaved head and a worn burgundy sport coat walked toward him staggering slightly, too many drinks too early in the day. He appeared to step out of Archer's way, then stumbled as he bumped the cop.

‘So sorry,' he mumbled, continuing down the cobblestone sidewalk.

Archer brushed his hand over his rear pocket, spun around and in that single motion pulled his pistol from the shoulder holster under his jacket.

‘Freeze.' His voice chilling, no-nonsense. ‘NOPD. Turn around.'

The little guy hesitated, as if he might run or he might comply.

Slowly turning around, he put his hands out, palms up. At five three, even his hands only came up as high as Archer's shoulders.

‘A gun? Isn't that a little severe, Jack? I done nothing to warrant a gun. What you want me for?'

‘I thought about public intoxication, but if I arrested everyone down here for drinking, the jails would be overflowing right now.'

‘I didn't know you was a police officer. Plain clothes and all,' a grim smile on his face. ‘So sorry, man. Please, let's just forget about it.'

He stood firm as Archer approached, the pistol leveled at him.

‘You probably make more at your little business than I do at mine,' Q said. ‘I need every cent I've got, police pay being what it is.'

‘Listen, Mr …'

‘Not Mister. Detective. Detective Archer. Detective Quentin Archer.'

He stepped closer, and the dark man with the shaved head cringed.

‘What? You gonna shoot me? Arrest me?'

‘I'm going to get my wallet back.' He stuck out his hand and the man reached into his waistband and handed Archer the wallet.

With one hand he thumbed it open.

‘What's your name? Your real name.'

‘Samuel.'

‘Samuel. I want the cash.'

‘Damn, man. Wasn't but twenty-seven dollars.'

Archer nodded, somewhat surprised. It had only been in his possession a few seconds yet the man had already counted the money. He reached out and grabbed the little guy by his shirt collar.

‘I don't care if it was one dollar. Do you know what happens if I take you in? Do you?'

The short man reared back, a sly smile on his face as if he'd been waiting for the question.

‘Yeah. I know what happens. I'm out in two hours.'

‘The money.'

He reached into his pants pocket and handed the detective the twenty-seven dollars folded in half.

‘Another twenty,' Archer said.

‘Now you crazy. Weren't but twenty-seven. You know it, I know it. You can go fuck yourself.'

‘Another twenty, Samuel.'

The man pursed his lips, squinted and looked up at Archer. ‘So you just like all the rest of 'em. On the take.'

Same shit, no matter where you were.

Pulling him closer, his hand still clenching the shirt collar, Archer looked him in the eyes. ‘I'll give it to the poor children's fund. Maybe it's a donation for injured cops. I haven't decided yet, but yeah, I want twenty for not turning you in.'

‘Damn, man.'

Shorty was right, of course. The conman would be out in two hours. The jails would be overflowing if they arrested every pickpocket, every public drunk in town. This was a drinking town with a murder problem. That's where the effort should be directed. With his best hard-assed cop attitude, he repeated.

‘Twenty.'

Samuel reached back into his pocket and pulled out the Andrew Jackson.

‘What's your last name?'

Samuel smiled, handing him the bill. ‘Jackson.'

‘Right.'

‘No, 'tis. Jackson. No relation.'

‘Samuel, if I catch you again—'

‘You won't, brother, because I've learned my lesson. Believe me, Detective, I'll recognize you.'

‘If I do catch you again, I'll run you in. And I won't let you out in two hours. I promise.'

‘Just tryin' to make a livin', dude.'

Archer nodded, putting his pistol back in the holster. Samuel Jackson shook his head, sighed, and continued staggering down the sidewalk. Probably already plotting his next sleight of hand.

Archer's cell phone jangled and he glanced at the caller ID. Strand.

‘Partner, I'm in the Quarter. Where are you?'

Archer gave him the address and two minutes later Strand pulled up in a blue Buick LeSabre, turn of the century vintage.

‘Q, I figured I'd find you down here somewhere. We might have this thing wrapped.' Strand motioned him to the passenger side. ‘Get in.'

‘Only twenty-two percent of your cases are solved, and you're telling me we might already have the killer?'

Strand stepped on the gas and the Buick shot forward.

‘Those interviews you and I did at the lobster place?'

‘Yeah?' Archer detected a slight odor of alcohol on his partner's breath.

‘One of the line cooks got a year from the good judge. For some petty theft when he was a minor.'

‘Priors?'

‘Looks like it was his first.'

‘A year? Sounds a little harsh.'

Strand wrapped his hands around the hard plastic steering wheel, staring intently at the narrow street as shops and small houses rolled by.

‘He thought so too. Complained about it to some of his coworkers. Anyway, five minutes after I talked to him, he walked off the job. He was two hours into an eight-hour shift.'

‘Maybe he got sick?'

‘Maybe. But that manager, Marcus Walker, says the kid was one of his best workers. Today, he never said anything to anyone. Just took a powder. I got the call five minutes ago. We're going to the guy's house. I got a feeling about this, Q. We've got a disgruntled ex-con who found a way to get his payback. What do you think?'

‘I hope you're right.'

‘Even if we solve it, I can't begin to tell you how much pressure there's going to be. The victim was a white judge. And this guy, this cook, he was a black thief. You were in Detroit. You know how these things play out.'

Archer nodded.

‘We've always been a town with a race relations problem.'

Among many other problems, Q thought.

Strand only slowed slightly at the stop sign, glancing both ways, then stepping on the gas.

‘You didn't hear so much about it before Katrina. I mean, on a major playing field, it didn't get that much attention.' Strand took a deep breath, delving into a theme he was passionate about. ‘You knew it was there, but it was an undercurrent. Then Katrina hits and boom, the national press, they played it up really big. White cops shooting black looters. People saying Bush delayed national aid to run the blacks out of New Orleans. Oh, it got nasty. Q, you know you've always had the R problem in Detroit, but here it wasn't so in your face. You know what I'm sayin'? Now the world pays a whole lot more attention to us. Black versus white, my friend. Detroit's got nothing on the Crescent City.'

A white judge oversteps his bounds and a black ex-con extracts his vengeance. There could be riots in the street.

‘Are you rooting for the kid to be the killer?'

Strand took his eyes off the road for a brief moment to look at Archer. ‘I'm rooting for us, Q. I became a cop because,' he paused, ‘well, because I wanted to be on top. I like being in control. You either lead, or you follow, you know what I mean? I want to be the guy who calls the shots.'

‘You want to be on top?'

He nodded. ‘I grew up as a scrawny kid in a neighborhood where you got shoved around a lot. By adults, by other kids. I always ended up on the wrong side of a fist, an open hand, a knife and a gun. I swore that when I grew up, if there was shoving going on, I was going to be the one doing it.'

‘I get it. You need to be in charge.'

‘You and I both know a lot of cops with answers weaker than that. So it's a power thing. So what? There are benefits, dude, so don't be critical.'

There were dozens of reasons. Q had become a cop because of his family. Not so much the history of the Archer family, but because of Archer family problems. His dad had been a cop, but when Archer chose law enforcement, it was his way of righting the ship. His two brothers had tilted it just short of going under. Quentin Archer wanted to prove that not all of his father's offspring were as bad as Jason and Brian Archer. Both had been part of the drug ring he'd tried to expose. He'd busted his ass to prove there was at least one member of the clan who turned out all right. And look where it got him.

‘So you do want this kid to be guilty.'

‘Sure. Anything to make this job easier. Anything to make us a hero. That's what it's about, Q. We come off like heroes and the world is good. Let's make this guy the killer. All of our problems go away.'

‘Where does he live?'

‘The Lower Ninth.'

Q nodded. ‘How do we play it?'

‘Probably two doors. I'll knock on the front, you cover the back.'

The Buick cruised by Mango Mango on Conti and Bourbon, the original absinthe house where such notables as Andrew Jackson and Mark Twain had hoisted a drink. The garish neon sign advertising daiquiris was a more recent addition.

Out of the Quarter the route took a stranger twist, Strand pointing out the old Intracoastal, showing Archer where the water had overflowed the banks when Katrina hit.

‘Hell of a mess, Q. I saw it with my own eyes. Some of it in my old neighborhood.'

Payback for some of the pushers, Archer thought as two young men walked toward them on the brown worn lawn. One of the boys raised his middle finger, sneering at the detectives.

‘Cover's already blown, Q. Two guys wearing ties in this neighborhood got to be cops.'

Further into the Lower Ninth, Archer saw the crudely drawn tattoos on the houses.

Archer had researched the drawings. They appeared on specific homes. The search-and-rescue teams had marked those that had already been searched so that people would know not to re-search. The signals also marked which houses had dead bodies so that workers could come for them. Very sad.

‘Badges of courage, man. Some of these homes, no one's there. But some of them remodeled and they leave that information on the front. The Katrina tattoo. It's an honor.'

He pointed to the left.

‘Down here, Fats Domino's studio. And the Ellis Marsalis School of Music in Musician Village. Man, Harry Connick Jr and Wynton Marsalis, they helped a lot. But look at those homes there.'

The detective pointed to an odd-looking shotgun house, narrow and two stories high.

‘This is what's happening, man. The actor Brad Pitt and some other guys have invested some serious jack in building new homes. These people who live here, they buy the place, they pay an agreed-upon monthly and they get a really inexpensive house. On stilts, see?'

Archer saw the new construction, complete with solar panels that heated the homes. Wouldn't happen in Detroit. Detroit registered a little colder in the winter months. A lot colder. And the sun didn't shine like it did here.

‘Kid lives up about two streets.' Strand stared straight ahead now, focused like a laser beam.

Turning left, he passed four houses, before pulling up to the curb. 1323 Barataria. The number was poorly scrawled on the mailbox.

‘This is it?'

‘'Tis.' He reached across Archer and opened the glove box. Pulling out a silver pint-sized flask he twisted off the cap and, tilting it back, took a slug. ‘You want some, Archer?'

‘No. I'm on duty.'

‘Duty gets a little easier, my man. Jack Daniel's has been my partner for several years.'

‘I'll cover the back,' Archer hesitated, ‘and the side. Sometimes there's a—'

‘Side door. I know. Chances aren't likely. These older homes were built on the cheap. Front door, back door …'

Strand wiped his lips, put the flask back into the compartment and they both stepped from the car.

‘Give me a second to hit the rear and—'

Archer was interrupted by a tall figure who appeared from behind the house, running full pelt. In seven seconds the runner was behind the ramshackle building to the south. Q bolted after him, Detroit Crockett High School linebacker style, his feet beating the pavement, then the grass. He agreed with Strand. Archer wanted this guy, this petty thief with an axe to grind. Archer, Strand, Sullivan and the entire department needed to make this case go away.

F
eeling the holster tight against his chest, he took short, powerful strides, covering ground as if there was a goalpost just ahead. Sparse grass turned to bare earth as he caught a glimpse of the tall black man running a straight path two houses up. Kid had done some time and maybe he was gym tough from the prison. Maybe, but prison was strength training. Pull-ups on upper-level bunk beds, lifting heavy pots of water in the kitchen, and working on push-ups and sit-ups. Not much attention was given to endurance. There was no track, no long-distance course. Nowhere to run.

Archer was gaining, his breathing coming a little harder now. He had no idea where Strand was. Probably calling for backup. The gangly kid threw a quick glance over his shoulder and Archer could tell he was gasping for air. The detective started stretching his stride. Back in the groove. The rasping sound of the runner's breath told Archer it wouldn't be long. Gliding over the ground, Q closed in as the black runner veered right, heading for the street.
Cut the angle, take twenty feet off the chase and hit him just as he reaches the sidewalk.

He closed the gap, ten feet, five feet, and leaped in the air, tackling the kid mid-thigh as their bodies crashed to the ground.