Casting Bones (14 page)

‘Hold on, hotshot.'

He felt a strong hand tighten on his shoulder. As he turned to lash out, someone swung around in front of him and grabbed his right wrist, wrestling the gun from his grasp. A second person gripped his arm and pulled it behind his back, sending a sharp pain through Archer's shoulder. He could have taken one, but two—

‘Want to tell us what you're doing waving a gun on Bourbon Street?'

Two uniforms.

Archer did his best to explain. The officer released his arm and the detective pulled his ID from the wallet in his back pocket, and both cops nodded. A homicide detective in New Orleans was gold. They admonished him for possibly panicking the general populace, although they admitted no one seemed that upset, and they let him off with a warning.

He walked back home, a sheen of perspiration on his skin, gun tucked into his trousers. What the hell had he been thinking? He would have sworn it was his brother Jason, but there was no proof. Another warning to leave the Detroit story alone. Because they knew he never would. Archer walked into his tiny cottage and there it was on the windowsill. The mysterious package.

Then he remembered. He'd placed it there when he first walked in. Hours ago.
Gris gris
. The cloth covered gift from Solange Cordray. It was supposed to keep him safe.

His hands were shaking as he pushed aside the curtains and twisted the lock. Pulling open the window, he allowed the cacophony of music and the din of the crowds to pour in. Staring at the shadows in the dimly lit yard he reminded himself that someone, something had been attempting entry. Then out of the corner of his eye he noticed a glint of steel. An inch and a half long, it appeared to be the tip of a broken knife blade, resting on the outside sill, separated from the
gris gris
bag by the depth of the window frame. He studied it for a moment, wrapped a T-shirt around his hand and picked it up. The shiny steel came from a thick, heavy blade, and it appeared to have snapped at a weak place in the metal when the would-be intruder tried to pry the window open. Archer placed it on the end table.

He was certain there would be no fingerprints on the stainless-steel blade, but he'd try to run it anyway. Closing and locking the window, he considered the possibilities. The voodoo lady had told him his life was in danger. Thank God for the
gris gris
. Maybe her gift had saved his life.

S
he tied off the small cloth bags with twine, five of them, filled with different mixtures of herbs, seeds, pebbles and twigs. Picking up the first, which had seven silver-painted seeds inside, she rubbed lemon oil on the fabric and inhaled the fragrant aroma. This was a good
gris gris
and should be pleasing to Filomez. Tossing the bag from one palm to another she closed her eyes.

‘Great Filomez, bring Roberto prosperity and new beginnings with a job. The job tears in this
gris gris
bag are my gift to you, a thank you for what you are about to grant him.'

Setting the bag down, she picked up the next, in a bright red fabric. She repeated the process, now praying to Erzulie Freda.

‘Sandra wishes her marriage to find a firm foundation. Please, Erzulie Freda, accept the love seed, and accept her supplication. I ask that it be granted.' In the heat of the evening she felt a chill, and instantly knew that the marriage was doomed. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she closed them for a second, thinking through the process. There was nothing she could do.

Three more clients' wishes were prayed for. Three more
gris gris
bags set in a row, to be delivered tomorrow.

Picking up the final bag she gazed at it for a moment, then gently rubbed new oil on the cloth. Oil that smelled of cloves and cinnamon. For a moment she was transported back to her mother's kitchen, where the saintly woman would make roasted pears with honeyed cinnamon and cloves. The aroma was a clear path to the past. An oil for the
gris gris
bag, spices for the food. Tears once again sprang to her eyes as she remembered the vibrant woman who no longer made the potion, the mother who no longer roasted pears or baked brown bread. The lady who was taken at a young age by spirits that refused to respond to any spell Solange cast.

There were times like this that she felt she was too emotional for the job at hand. Then she realized: the entire job was one of emotion. Without it, she would be doomed to failure.

Tossing the bag back and forth she once again evoked the life forces.

‘Baron, if you do not dig the grave, the body cannot die. I ask that you forgo the digging. There are evil spirits who are threatening Quentin Archer. I have prayed to you about this man before, and I have given the detective a
gris gris
bag, but if one prayer and one gift is good, aren't two better?'

She continued to toss the bag. There was a nagging message gnawing at her mind, that Detective Archer might be her most important client at the moment. Not important to the grand scheme of things, but important to her. And she wondered. Was it a romantic important? She surprised herself with the thought.

It was important to get back to her evening task.

‘And, Baron, I am blessed that you did not dig another grave. Ma continues to survive, but I pray that her mind returns. If this is not possible, I am thankful for her life. I mean no disrespect.'

She placed the scented bag next to her bed, and felt a tremor surge through her body. Breaking out in a cold sweat, the woman watched the cloth covered seeds radiate a faint orange light. She'd seen it before. Once. And now, it was a miracle. Mystic, shimmering, lasting only for a moment. Less than a second. Still, an omen. A sign that something good was about to happen.

She passed a hand over her forehead, wiping away the perspiration. A prayer was answered. She felt it. She knew it. But it was impossible to know which one. Ma? Or had the detective been saved? Those were the two supplications most present in her mind.

Stripping off her clothes, she breathed deeply, then slipped a thin cotton T-shirt over her naked body and lay down on the bed. The heat and humidity prohibited her from crawling under the sheet where she wanted to be, taking cover from her responsibilities. The girl was alive, her mind conjuring dozens of scenarios and her lithe body on fire, every nerve alive and stimulating her core.

With the small package beside her, she closed her eyes, trying to settle down, praying for peace, praying for forgiveness, and praying that her prayers would be answered. It was an exhausting and complicated procedure. A true voodoo practitioner carried the weight of all of her clients. Their dreams, their desires, their ambitions. She interceded with the spirits. And if the spirits were cooperative, she could give the patron a path to achieve their goal. If the spirit was stubborn, and they sometimes were, she would try again. And again. And sometimes she would have to admit that as strong as her aura may be, there was nothing left to do. Possibly it was the clients themselves that were the obstacle. Their inability to believe.

Sometimes it wasn't her fault. But she always took the blame.

As the young lady finally drifted off, somewhere in the fog that filled her mind her mother was talking. Speaking clearly, succinctly, as she had in years past. And try as she might, Solange Cordray still couldn't understand a word the woman was saying.

O
n the phone the next morning Sue Waronker was able to give him three names, based on the initials. One was a judge, one a stockbroker and one an old friend. She didn't recognize the initials P.T. and had no recollection of any meeting that was to be decided.

‘The three you recognize, those meetings all took place in his office?'

‘To the best of my recollection, Detective. I'm not always here. I'm usually busy with running briefs or something to other offices and the courtrooms. I can't verify that they all showed up.'

A simple follow-up call to the three would answer the question, or he could just run the surveillance tapes. They had cameras in every corridor.

P.T. was another matter. P.T., the man without a name. Archer searched the Rolodex. There were fifteen last names beginning with T. None of those had a first name starting with a P. It could be the middle name. He'd call those names just to make sure.

P.T. had met Lerner at Cochon, a Cajun restaurant with an upscale menu. Archer called the restaurant, identifying himself.

‘We do take reservations, Detective Archer, but looking at that day and covering eleven a.m. till we closed, I see no Lerner or anyone with the initials P.T. We weren't that busy for lunch so anyone could have walked in and they would have been seated.'

‘How many people on your wait staff for lunch?'

‘Oh, on a day like that, maybe five.'

‘Can you ask if any of them knew the judge?'

‘Sure. And I'll see if anybody recognizes the initials P.T. We get a pretty regular lunch crowd and our staff might recognize that combination.'

‘You can talk to them today?'

‘I don't have a chart in front of me, but I'll find out who was working that day and get with them.'

‘Understand, this doesn't necessarily have anything to do with the murder. We're just trying to trace his steps.'

‘Got it.'

‘Can you get me this information by tomorrow?' Time was of the essence. He needed every bit of information today, it was critical, but that wasn't going to happen. End of the week. Sullivan had warned him. They were going to announce Antoine Duvay as the killer.

‘I'll make every effort.'

‘Check credit card receipts from that day. If Judge Lerner picked up the tab, it probably won't matter. But if someone with those initials on their credit card shows up, we may have our answer.'

‘Anything we can do to cooperate with police, we're always happy to do, Detective.'

Most people in the town were happy to do whatever. Because they could call in a favor when something happened to them. And then there was the criminal element. They only gave out information when it benefited them.

‘Call me.'

Archer crossed that task off his list, hoping the answer would come tomorrow.

He called the lab and was told they were still working on restoring the cell phone records.

‘I've got a lot of pressure here.' Archer was matter-of-fact. He had to get across his point. ‘As you know this is a high-profile case, and we need some answers fast. Can you speed it up? Make this a priority? I really need this before week's end.'

The voice on the other end told him that everyone insisted they had a priority case, but she would do her best.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he looked up. His errant partner Strand stood there, smiling, dressed in a deep blue shirt with a maroon tie smothered in gold fleur-de-lis. Go Saints.

‘Hey, Strand. What's new with your suspect, Duvay?'

‘Still working it, Q. He's got a lawyer, but we've got him in jail next door and I don't think a judge is going to set bail anytime soon. Judges tend to look out for other judges. I understand you've got a thing with some Krewe.'

‘Sullivan told you?'

‘Yeah, Sullivan.'

‘I heard something.'

‘Where?'

‘I can't say, but apparently our judge was a member of …'

‘Charbonerrie.'

‘That's it.'

‘Q, pray that we've got the right guy already in jail. Pray that he's our killer, because if you bring that group into the mix, there might be hell to pay.'

Archer nodded. ‘Sullivan was a little concerned as well.'

Strand blew out a long breath, pulling a desk chair from the next desk and straddling it. Archer thought he detected the faint scent of alcohol.

‘Honest to God, Q, this Charbonerrie is a nasty group. You know, it's mostly rumors, but they apparently go to great lengths to make things happen. According to local gossip, they've killed people who get in their way.'

‘Killed people?'

He paused. ‘Yeah. Killed people. People who go up against them, sometimes they just disappear. Not one or two people, but numbers, Archer.'

Strand lowered his voice and glanced around the room. Two detectives worked quietly at their desks and no one seemed to be paying Archer and Strand any attention.

‘Literally. One detective who was investigating an embezzlement of funds never showed up for work one day, and he hasn't been seen in probably two years. A reporter for the
Times-Picayune
wrote a story about the Krewe and was found at a city construction site. He'd apparently fallen in and been impaled on a long steel rod. A city councilman who did some investigating several years ago fell off an excursion boat and drowned. Things like that. They happen to people who question this Krewe.'

Archer knew, only too well. Try to break up a drug business and they kill people. Kill your wife.

‘They kill people? To what end?' Archer asked, already knowing the answer.

‘To what end? What is the endgame for organized crime? Organized religion? Most governments? To dominate, to make sure the system works for them. It's a power thing, a financial thing, Q. King of the hill kind of shit.'

The two men were quiet for a moment.

‘Katrina, man. It was – how can I tell you? It was a clusterfuck, where every poor sucker in this town got the shaft, but when the money started pouring in? When the Feds finally got their act together and sent money down here? Well, then the rich got richer. A lot richer. The scam artists also came out of the water like river rats. They swarmed in. Jesus, Q, if you were connected, you could have socked away millions. Seriously, millions. Contractors, guys who started up companies in twenty-four hours to get some of these grants. Engineers who had bogus ideas for the levies, I mean, there was, hell, there
is
, serious money to be made on the backs of the people who took it up the ass. Millions of dollars went to people in power who never did a damn thing for the recovery. They just sucked up government money. Even the mayor, Ray Nagin. Son of a bitch took bribes, free trips and handed out recovery contracts to his friends. I mean, it was like God opened up the heavens and just poured hundred-dollar bills from above.'