Casting Bones (9 page)

‘Sergeant Sullivan talked to me this morning. He said he doesn't believe the kid is guilty.'

‘He's singing a different tune now.' Strand walked into the hall, then turned and looked at Archer. ‘You know the old saying? When you want someone's attention, you pull a gun. I think we've got this kid, Q.'

‘And I think it goes further than the kid.'

‘All right, what have
you
got, hotshot? Interviews today, talking to his colleagues. What did you learn?'

‘The guy was a bit of a jerk.'

‘We knew that, man. Come on, you want me to believe, give me something, Quentin. What do you have?'

‘He was rough on offenders.'

‘Yeah, yeah. What's new?'

Archer shrugged his shoulders.

‘I'll send you the report.'

Turning away from his partner he continued keying in his notes. He was angry and he was hungry and it was going to take an hour or more to put this report together. Time was slipping away, the killer getting further from the crime, and all they had was a planted gun, and an ex-con who never killed anyone.

Detective Adam Strand was pushing just a little too hard. And if someone did plant the weapon, it was just like the killings on the bridge after Katrina. The cops had planted guns then too. Hadn't they learned anything? It was just Archer's luck to have drawn Strand on this case.

H
e checked his watch, knowing he only had a small window of time to make the call. They had offered him a nice bonus if he gave them something solid.

‘Hello.' The voice on the other end was quiet and the ‘hello' almost a soft question.

The caller didn't recognize the voice. ‘You wanted to know about the murder investigation. Where it stood. You're going to make it worth my while if I give you good information?'

‘What have you got?'

‘We've got an ex-con with a gun. This ex-con, he was sentenced by Lerner.'

‘Anything else?'

‘A detective is interviewing other judges. He's not convinced yet.'

‘What's your take?'

He hesitated with his answer. ‘The ex-con with a gun. I don't think we can prove it's the murder weapon but it's a pretty good lead. We're hoping to wrap it up soon.'

‘Call me with any updates.'

‘I will.'

‘Oh, and find out who he's talking to, this detective. I need to know what judges he's contacting.'

The informant hesitated. ‘Should I stop by the restaurant? Compensation and all that?'

‘I think something a little more solid would justify payment. We'll try to accommodate on your next phone call.'

The line went dead. They weren't going to pay him for this information. Damn. Maybe when he had a little more juice. He'd tried to trace the number he was calling, but to no avail. With all the technology in the world today, there were still ways to hide.

Y
o Mama's Bar and Grill was headquartered on St Peter's between Bourbon and Royal. It was close to his home and the burgers were good, the beer cold. And they served a New Orleans draft.

Driving from the office, he'd circled the block several times, finally finding a spot about thirty yards from the restaurant. The early revelers had already replaced the more sedate tourist trade as Archer walked the walk, dodging several drunks, an Uncle Sam on stilts trolling for money and a one-man band playing drums, guitar and a kazoo. The crowd was avoiding him. Inside the small bar he sat in one of the booths, immediately ordered a Tin Roof and drained it while waiting for the barmaid to bring the food. An open-faced chili cheeseburger. The perfect meal.

He was checking his cell phone when he glanced up and there she was, sitting across the booth from him. He'd missed it altogether, and that didn't happen very often. Almost never. A chill went down his spine and he actually shivered. She was beautiful. Simple, unadorned and naturally beautiful. Archer tried to catch his breath as the young lady gave him a wry smile.

‘Ma'am, if you're selling something, roses, or something else …' and immediately he knew she wasn't.

‘Detective Archer.' A smile played on her lips, inviting and friendly. There was no question she knew him.

He continued to be struck by her presence, struck by an emptiness where his heart should have been. Dark skin, but not black. Eyelashes longer than those of anyone he'd ever met. Cute? No, it wasn't just cute. She was striking to look at, the kind of girl you dreamed about but never had a chance with. And she was probably ten years his junior. High cheekbones, that flirtatious smile on her face, perfect teeth and, from the waist up at least, a perfect figure. He couldn't see any more than that. He struggled to regain his composure.

‘I believe I may have some information you might be interested in.' Now a more somber tone.

He found his tongue not responding. Attractive women like this one did not normally seek him out.

‘You have no questions?' Now more of a quizzical smile and she ducked her head just a little. ‘About what this information is? How I knew where to find you? Detective, you must be skeptical, am I right?'

Archer took a quick swallow of his beer to give him time to think. It almost felt like the girl was toying with him, but it was more than that.

‘Mr Archer, please, I've searched you out. It's not easy for me to approach someone like yourself. In your position. There are people like
you
who don't understand people like
me
. I speak from experience. Please, let me try to explain that.'

Archer studied her face and nodded. He had yet to say a meaningful word to the young, mysterious woman.

‘OK, let me start the conversation. I'm here because I believe I have some information on the death of Judge David Lerner. Information that could help in your investigation.'

Finally he found his voice. ‘I don't know what people like
you
are like,' he wrapped his hand around his beer bottle, squeezing it, ‘but I'm always accessible when it comes to information on one of my cases.'

He saw his reflection in her brown eyes, her look almost inviting. Almost, but not quite.

‘No matter how the information came about?'

‘You stole it? Bought it? You're divulging some sort of secret you promised to keep?'

‘Here's your chili cheeseburger, hon.'

The waitress with a dragon tattoo from wrist to shoulder set it on the vinyl tabletop. The sandwich was a picture of excess. Half a pound of meat covered in chili and gooey melted cheese, presented as an open-faced sandwich.

‘You having anything, sweetie?' She looked at the girl, did a second take, backing away.

Archer noticed, wondering what kind of aura this young woman was radiating.

‘Please,' Archer asked, ‘can I order you a drink?' He couldn't enjoy this dinner or even partake of it if she just sat there with nothing. ‘Have you had dinner because I'm not going to finish this thing by myself.'

The young lady shook her head, the soft black hair moving like a gentle wave.

‘Please?'

‘Coffee, black,' she said.

The waitress nodded, her frozen gaze focused on the young lady. Finally, she turned and hurried back to the bar.

Archer gained his composure, and tried a smile.

‘I'd like to tell you that good police work solves most crimes, but the truth is,' he paused, still taken aback that she'd come to him, this strange, beautiful woman, ‘most crimes are solved because people like you come forward. You fill in some blanks. Is that what you're going to do? Fill in some of the blanks?'

‘I'll tell you my story.'

He couldn't wait.

‘You haven't told me who you are.'

‘You are not from New Orleans.' She made the statement matter-of-fact, not a question.

‘No.' He put his hands on the table, not even thinking about the large patty of meat, chili and cheese in front of him.

‘So the name Clotille Trouville doesn't mean anything to you, am I right? You've never heard the name?'

He would have remembered a name like that.

‘You are Clotille Trouville?'

‘No. I'm her daughter. My name is Solange Cordray.'

Strange names. Clotille. Solange.

‘And why should I know your mother?'

‘My mother practiced,' she cleared her throat and just for a second he thought he saw her eyes cloud over, ‘she practiced voodoo. She was somewhat famous in this area. Her name and her story made national news a number of years ago.'

The waitress with the twisted dragon on her arm set the coffee cup in front of the young lady. Staring at her for a moment, she said, ‘Here you go, hon.'

‘I don't know her.' Archer admitted. ‘Obviously I'm not from here; and I know very little about voodoo.'

‘And I could spend a week and not explain everything the religion of voodoo has to offer. Briefly, Detective Archer, in the early 1700s, when African slaves from Benin were shipped to the French colony of Louisiana, they introduced voodoo to the community. Haitians brought their version to Louisiana. We are an active faith, one that is much like the Catholic religion. Followers often practice in the Catholic faith as well. Voodoo believes in one deity, Damballa, the snake god. Then, just as the Catholic religion has their saints, we have our spirits. For money, for love, for faithfulness, happiness …'

‘There's a famous voodoo lady who's buried not too far from here, isn't there?' One of the few cultural stories he'd heard since moving to the city.

‘Marie Laveau, the Voodoo Queen. She is buried in Saint Louis Cemetery Number One, off Basin Street. A very mystical woman. People who don't believe at all visit her gravesite and make wishes. They draw three Xs on her tombstone.' She paused and shook her head. ‘Religion in all forms is very strange, don't you agree?'

Archer stabbed a piece of burger with his fork, feeling glutinous while the young lady across from him demurely sipped her freshly poured coffee. No cream or sugar.

‘So your mother cast spells and made people's lives better? Or worse?'

‘This is why it's not easy to talk to someone like you. You make light of what is often very serious.'

Taking a deep breath, he resolved to concentrate on the story at hand.

‘Your mother has something to do with the case I'm working on? Is that what you are telling me?'

‘My mother has Alzheimer's disease. Her memory is fading, and she rarely communicates with me or anyone.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that.' His mother didn't communicate with him anymore, but it had nothing to do with dementia. ‘So what's the connection? To her and the murder of David Lerner?'

The young girl put both arms on the table, presenting a diminutive but formidable presence.

‘Records will show, Detective, that my mother came to the police fifteen years ago. I was ten years old. She had a premonition that one of her clients was going to be killed. She could see the killer's face and warned her client and your police department. She gave them all the time of the killing, the place it would happen and the identity of the killer. She saw it very clearly. The lady who was to be the victim, her very own client, told her she was wrong. Called her an insane bitch. This was a woman who had paid for my mother's advice.'

Archer nodded, hearing the pain in the young lady's voice. Obviously it was hard to tell this story.

‘The police told my mother she was a crazy woman. They laughed in her face and called her
anraje
. A lunatic. I was there when it happened. At the police station in the Quarter. The most humiliating moment of my mother's life. Of my life.' She paused, and breathed a ragged breath.

Finally, regaining her composure, she said, ‘I was by her side when they threw her out. She was trying to save a life, Detective.'

And Archer could see the young girl, holding tight to her mother's hand while a cynical policeman escorted her from the building. He could see it as if it was happening at this very moment. As if he were there in the precinct house.

‘And this murder took place, am I right?'

‘It did. Mrs Robert James, the wife of a prominent businessman in New Orleans. The killing happened at the place my mother said it would. It happened at the same time she said it would.'

‘And the cops and Mrs James ignored it.' He cut off another bite of the burger, wondering where the story was going.

The young lady paused. She struggled for the words and Archer struggled with her, a strange feeling.

‘My mother paid dearly for sharing that information.'

‘What price?'

Deeply engrossed in the dialogue, he wanted answers, even though he had no idea where the conversation was going.

‘The police arrested her, Detective. They accused Ma of the murder.'

Ma. The story had turned very personal.

Her voice broke, and she blinked her eyes. ‘They put her in jail and she sat there for six weeks, Detective Archer. Six weeks before Mrs James's
infidèle
husband finally confessed.'

A tear trickled down her cheek and Archer wanted to console her, touch her hand or say something. Instead he looked away.

‘Now do you understand why I hesitate bringing this story to you?'

‘Yeah. I do.' His uneasiness at listening to her most intimate feelings was apparent. ‘Whatever you tell me, I'll never divulge where I heard it.'

‘You can't. Ever.'

‘You have my word.'

‘I'm a good judge of character, Quentin Archer. But I'm also wary of the police. I do have one thing in my favor, if you should ever divulge your source.'

‘What's that?' She intrigued him. He was under her spell, hanging on her next thought, her next utterance.

‘I
also
practice voodoo.'

There was no smile on her face.