Casting Bones (15 page)

Archer nodded. He'd heard some of the stories. And where was all the stimulus money that had been poured into his home town of Detroit? In the pockets of corrupt business tycoons, organized-crime bosses, crooked politicians and a mayor who robbed the town blind. Dirty cops who ran drug rings in the inner city. Those were the ones who made the money, while the city went bust. And now, the State of Michigan ran the city, selling museums of artwork and whatever else the bankrupt city of Detroit owned to pay down its massive debt.

‘And then, the BP spill?' Strand was just hitting his stride. ‘Oh, man. The same cast of bad characters or those just like them siphoned off millions more.' Shaking his head, he continued, ‘There was one guy alone who got a bunch of low-wage earners to give him three hundred dollars a piece so he would file a claim that they lost jobs because of the spill. It was bogus. Hell, Q, the guy then raked in fifteen million dollars from BP. Fifteen million fucking dollars. He's walking tall, man, with government money. I'm not sure he ever settled up with the workers.'

As Strand vented his frustration, Archer watched him, wondering whether the detective wasn't really upset about the fact that he hadn't been able to profit from these catastrophes himself. In the short time he'd known him, Strand seemed to be the guy who was looking for angles. Maybe small-time, but still someone who worked the edges.

‘These opportunists, these rich motherfuckers who know how to manipulate the system, they are members of Krewe Charbonerrie. You want to know what power means to them? There you have it.' Strand took a deep breath. ‘And they intend to keep that power. No doubt about it.'

‘You never were presented with an opportunity?'

‘What?'

‘Come on, Strand, you've insinuated that there are opportunities.'

The detective was quiet. ‘Not a fair question, Q.'

‘No?'

‘I can't compete with these rich motherfuckers. Couldn't begin to compare. We're homicide detectives, Q. Nothing like these other guys. Once in a while I get a bone thrown to me and I pick it up, but come on. I don't come close to these guys.'

‘No fifteen million, but you do make some money on the side?'

‘I'm not admitting anything, but try to live in this town, Archer, with a cop's wages.'

‘Does the name Rayland Foster mean anything to you?' Archer asked, changing the subject.

‘Everyone knows who Foster is.' Strand cocked his head. ‘The guy is called the Chemical Czar of Nola.'

‘Was there anyone who liked this guy?'

‘No one. Believe me, nobody really likes this guy at all. He's ruthless. The guy owns at least six chemical plants between here and Baton Rouge. You know what that one-hundred-mile stretch is known as?'

Archer shook his head.

‘Cancer Alley, Q. Man, the chemical plants, the landfills, the dumps – they are thick in that stretch. Why do you bring his name up?'

‘Supposedly Foster was a one-time president of Krewe Charbonerrie.'

Strand had a tight-lipped smile. ‘Wouldn't surprise me. He's a perfect example of a man making the system work for him.'

‘I don't think that's working so well right now.'

‘No?'

‘Your chemical czar has advanced dementia. He's in a place called Water's Edge Care Center, down by the river.'

‘Man. That's news. I hadn't heard that. And you think he was associated with the Krewe?'

Archer stood up, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

‘It may mean nothing, but I've got a source who thinks we should look into a possible tie that links Charbonerrie and Lerner's murder.'

‘Q, what the hell is this about?'

‘What if Lerner was a member?'

Strand stood up.

‘No way. Lerner may have been a judge, but give me a break – he was a juvie judge. He wasn't in that kind of stratosphere. And there's the financial issue. I think you've got to have some pretty big bucks to belong to an organization like that. Jesus, what can a juvie judge make? These guys in the Krewe are high stakes, Q.'

‘This person, my anonymous source, they believe that Foster had intimate knowledge of the murder, months before it happened.'

‘I'm telling you, Q, if you'd ever go public with that, your life wouldn't be worth squat.'

Archer sat down on the corner of the gray metal desk. ‘It's not like that's anything new, Adam. I've been through some shit. Someday I'll tell you why my life isn't worth squat now.'

Strand ignored the comment. ‘Seriously, I have never heard that Foster was the head of that Krewe. But you know, it sounds right. I can see it. He's the kind of guy they would want. Someone with a lot of power. And believe me, he has, or had, a lot of power.'

‘So, if I can prove Foster has, or had, intimate knowledge of who is responsible for the murder of David Lerner, you'll back me with an investigation?'

Strand looked him in the eye, then motioned him into the hall.

‘Look,' he said in a hushed tone, ‘I don't know if that's strong enough. They want to charge Duvay week's end, and I don't think that's going to change their minds.'

‘You won't back me?'

Strand closed his eyes for a moment.

‘I'm not saying I do, but what if maybe I have certain relationships with certain people.' He looked down at his shoes.

‘Certain relationships?' He'd been suspicious from the day he'd met his partner. This was not really a surprise.

‘On the QT, OK?'

Archer nodded.

‘There are certain people in this community. Certain people. People that make things happen. And yes, there are certain opportunities. Damn it, Q, to make a city like New Orleans work, you have to bend some rules. I'm not admitting anything, but come on, man, you worked a hard-core city. Rules aren't made for certain people. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Life isn't fair, so sometimes you take advantage of it.'

‘All right.' Archer nodded his head. ‘We all bend the rules a little, Strand. I've done it. But how far?'

‘Don't be judgmental, my friend.'

‘I simply want to know where we stand, Detective.' This was exactly what he didn't need right now. Proof that he had a partner on the take. Archer just wanted to escape the entire system.

‘I said I
may
have business dealings, Q,' Strand continued, his tone intense. ‘There are a lot of cops who have side ventures. Don't play innocent with me, Archer. Look at what the fuck they're paying us. As I said, you can't live on that down here.' His palms open, asking for understanding, maybe forgiveness.

Archer had known it all along. The guy was too greasy not to be getting it on the side. He'd hoped he was wrong but—

‘I don't know who is or isn't a member of this Krewe Charbonerrie. Really. But I've got reason to believe some of the people that I have business with …' he hesitated, finally making eye contact with Archer, ‘people I may give some information to now and then, they would be very upset if they knew I was investigating that specific organization. So I stay away from them.'

‘So that's the way it is?'

‘Yeah. That and they kill people, Q.' The kid who had been bullied all of his life was cowering once again. ‘That's exactly the way it is. And you need to chill. Come on, Q. I'll deny I ever said this if you try to narc me, but here's how it plays out. Listen carefully.'

Closing his eyes for a moment, shaking his head, Strand continued.

‘I have information, they need information. I know something, they may pay me a little to clue them in. That's what it is, Archer. Sometimes I can help, you know? It doesn't go any further than that. Come on, Mr High and Mighty. Tell me there wasn't a lot of this going on in Detroit. Tell me you didn't play that game once in a while. I know better. Detroit has the same power struggles as any big city. Not that I'm painting myself into a corner, but there are a lot of crooked cops in your city. I'm talking about serious corruption.'

Strand had hit the nail on the head. There had been a lot of it going on. Corrupt cops, side deals, vice, bribery. It was everywhere. Archer's family was evidence. His blood family and his wife. Some were victims, and some of them were perpetrators. Archer nodded, breathing deeply, a cleansing breath, needed to settle himself in the current situation.

‘What's the definition of crooked, Strand? Apparently it doesn't involve selling information. To you, that's not a crossed line.'

‘I'm a survivor, Q, I'm not
that
crooked.'

Archer played the hand he was dealt. He'd tried to put a Detroit cop in jail for major drug crimes and it had all backfired. He'd had to implicate his brothers. But with Denise's death, he'd decided now was not the time to start another war. Later, not now.

‘So …' Strand laced his fingers and rocked back on his heels. ‘You don't have any proof about Foster or the Krewe. You have no motive. And some anonymous source is speaking about Rayland Foster, who can't speak for himself from what you've told me. Does that really make any sense?'

Archer shook his head. It was a long shot at best.

‘A hunch,' he said.

Strand again gave him a grim smile.

‘Well, listen, man, until it is much more than a hunch, don't bring me in on it, OK? There's a lot of things you don't know, rookie. Don't fuck it up for the rest of us. And if that's all it is, some lame hunch, I suggest you should go in a different direction, because we are about to get fucked by the press tomorrow. And it just gets worse from that point on.'

T
he Italian Pie was a hole in the wall restaurant, a block and a half from the courthouse. Green tablecloths, wooden chairs with vinyl seats, and on the wall a flat-screen television broadcasting
Fox News
.

Archer looked up to see the newscaster announcing breaking news. The sensational murder of a local judge had made national news and they were about to cover the New Orleans mayor's news conference. The mayor was first to speak about the dead judge, praising his work and calling for swift action. Then he introduced the Chief of Police. Archer couldn't wait to hear what his boss had to say, though he had been warned by Sullivan that the department would not come out looking good. Maybe the chief could stave off some of the criticism.

The conference didn't last long. All the chief announced was that they had a suspect in custody and expected to make an arrest by week's end. Archer tuned out when the questions started. He knew they were looking in the wrong direction and he had only until week's end to prove it.

The smell of fresh tomato, oregano, frying sausage and baking dough only stimulated his hunger and Archer approached the counter ordering a twelve-inch mushroom and pepperoni pizza. He wanted to see if it compared to Little Italy Pizzeria on 8 Mile Road in Detroit. Great food, and one of the places he and Denise had frequented, almost weekly. Closing his eyes for just a moment he saw her. Right beside him, a funny smile on her face.

When he turned around, the voodoo girl was sitting at a table by the door. The young lady seemed to appear and disappear at will.

‘Mrs Cordray.'

She smiled and he felt that same uneasiness he'd felt the first time he'd seen her. Somewhat tongue-tied, not quite sure what to say.

‘Detective Archer.'

Nodding, he said, ‘Are you following me, or do you and I just have the same taste in restaurants?'

She glanced around at her surroundings.

‘No,' she frowned, ‘we do not have the same taste.'

And he thought about her ex-husband, a multimillionaire. Some guy who'd made a fortune from the misfortunes and misdeeds of others. Possibly she was more the Armand's, Commander's Palace, August kind of girl. Archer tended to go for the lower-class establishments. The food was usually greasy, but there was more of it, and it was a whole lot cheaper.

‘So then, you're following me.'

She nodded as he walked over and sat down across from her, facing the door.

‘I needed to see you.'

He smiled. For whatever reason, she wanted to see him. This attractive, mysterious girl
needed
to see him. This might be a good thing.

‘Tell me something, Mrs Cordray. What are the worst things people ask you to do? If you are able to perform miracles, then …'

‘I perform nothing. I ask for the intervention of the spirits.' A very stern tone to her voice.

‘What do people ask? I don't get it.'

‘Those who want serious help ask about their financial future, their romantic future, their own future. They ask about their health. However, there are those who ask to be fabulously wealthy. I don't think that's ever worked. And there are a surprising number of people who ask for a spell that will kill someone.'

‘Really?' Archer actually wasn't that surprised.

‘Really. If there is such a spell, I'm not aware of it. And if I were aware, I would refuse to use it.'

Archer nodded.

‘And there are people who ask about the outcome of a project. They ask whether they should attempt a business deal, or take a certain trip. Will an investment pay off? They want approval before they make an important decision.'

‘OK, you had to see me for what reason?'

‘Two reasons. I have a question for you, and you may not have the answer. This may involve something that happened without your knowledge.'

Intrigued, Archer leaned in.

‘Ask me.'

‘Two questions, actually.'

‘All right.'

‘Did you keep your
gris gris
bag?'

Archer leaned back abruptly. How could she know about last night? He was somewhat afraid of the next question.

‘I take that as a yes.'

Pushing her fingers through her thick hair, the girl smiled faintly, and Archer noticed the long eyelashes, the full lips and the dark, perfect complexion.