An Evil Shadow (14 page)

Val asked him if they could have a word.

“Sure. If you don’t mind riding with me. Stand on the
footplate and grip the cage. The ball dispensers are almost out; Sunday’s our
busiest day.”

Val suspiciously eyed the bays where upwards of two
dozen golfers were single-mindedly driving balls skyward. He heard a tinny
crash as a ball whacked into the two-hundred-yard marker.

“Don’t worry, the odds are against being hit,” Stone
said.

“That’s easy to say from where you’re sitting.”

Val climbed on board and Stone steered the lawn
tractor back towards the center of the range, around the
two-hundred-and-twenty-five yard mark.

“What can I do for you? I take it you’re not here to
groove your swing,” Stone said.

“I’m not,” Val replied, ducking instinctively as a
ball clanged against the mesh cage, grateful that he was on the leeward side.
“I need some information.”

“I heard you took a job at the university. My niece is
about to start her sophomore year.”

“Remember an officer called Donny Jackson?”

“Sure do. What’s he been up to now?”

“He’s missing. I think you might be able to help me
find him.”

Stone turned the tractor in a wide arc and started
another traverse across the range. The plastic discs on the ball-retriever were
set a fraction narrower than the width of a golf ball. The balls lodged between
the discs as Stone drove over them, then metal fingers scooped them into wire
baskets. Val watched as a kid blasted a golf ball right at him. The prick
seemed to be using him as a target.

“He must have loused up pretty bad for you to be
interested.”

Val closed his eyes and flinched as a ball whistled
over his head, missing him by inches. “I think he may have heisted some
university property.”

“Seems to me you’ve got yourself a trifle out of
kilter,” Stone said, twisting around in his seat. “You’re been backing that
child axe-killer. Now you’re trying to hang something petty on an ex-cop with a
bad rep. I don’t know that I want any part of it.”

Val relaxed slightly as Stone started his turn for
another traverse. Each crossing was taking the tractor further from the driving
bays. They’d soon be at John Daly distance. He scanned the bays. Damn, the kid
was reaching into his golf bag and taking out a longer club. He probably had a
swing like Tiger Woods.

Now wasn’t the time for discretion.

“The girl didn’t kill her mother,” Val shouted above
the din. “It was Jackson.”

Stone reached out and turned off the engine. “Why
didn’t you say so? I always had him read as a stone-killer. How can I help
you?”

Val stepped onto firm ground again. “I’m not the only
one after Donny.”

“So?”

“He needs to keep some distance between him and them
and can’t rely on any of his recent associates to shield him. I’d figure he’d
take up with somebody he knew a long time ago. Maybe another coonass who has
moved up to the bright lights.”

“Sounds like he’s bitten into some real trouble this
time.”

“I thought you might have a name. Someone who might
owe Jackson a favor.”

Stone’s face turned serious. “There were plenty of
street hookers who owed Jackson, but he wasn’t slow in collecting — usually in
kind. Most of the girls he put the bite on would be long gone by now’ If you
were to wade into the right sewer, you could probably find Roland Galen. He
could be worth talking to.”

“I don’t recognize the name.”

“Galen comes from outside Morgan City. An army doctor,
he returned from Desert Storm straight into a drug rehab program. He cleaned up
his act, but it lasted only for a year or two. Eventually the army dumped him,
and the AMA pulled his license to practice. His family had money, so they
opened a weight-loss clinic in New Orleans and hired a legit doctor to front
it. They thought they would be killing two birds with the one stone; Galen
wouldn’t need to risk being busted buying his drugs, and he would stay close to
New Orleans and not come bothering them.

“The family got it wrong big time. Half the buzz for
Galen was the danger involved in sourcing his drugs on the street, and the
doctor they installed to run the clinic had expensive vices of his own. He was
a gay stud with a libido that required the services of two or three juveniles a
day. Galen kept him supplied with druggies who didn’t mind who they had to blow
for the price of their next fix. As trade-off, the doctor let Galen’s
activities slide. Pretty soon he and the Doc had diversified the clinic
operation by adding an illegal but lucrative service. Abortions ‘R’ Us. They
were also heavy into the treatment of STDs.”

“Were they selling scripts?’

“No. Galen was too smart for that. He knew the wise-guys
wouldn’t have tolerated the competition.”

“The clinic was never busted?”

Stone shook his head. “It was raided on three separate
occasions, but no conclusive evidence was ever obtained.”

“Somebody was tipping them off?”

“Sure seemed that way. Jackson was thought to have
been responsible.”

“Why was that?”

“Three months after he and Trochan are canned, the
clinic is targeted again. This time the police department gets all the evidence
it needs. The doctor loses his license and gains three years in Angola prison
farm. He was killed his second week, for making a move on another con’s bitch.
Galen is handed down a heavy fine, which his family stumps up for.”

“You think Galen could still be in New Orleans?”

“Sure to be — that’s if he’s alive. A druggie never
strays far from his source.”

“Who is?”

“An ass-wipe calling himself Logjam. His pappy named
him Howard Woods. He’s been up to the farm a couple of times.”

“Where’s his pitch?”

“He sells mainly around Tulane and Loyola. Sometimes
he could be
found on St Charles and
Lee Circle. Had a partner, Bobby Deal.”

Val tipped an imaginary cap to Stone and thanked him.
He waited until the long-hitting kid had taken his swing before making a
beeline for the side of the range. Stone restarted the tractor and went back to
trawling golf balls.

Val had the name of the restaurant where Duval worked
from the photograph he had taken off Roy Jackson’s body. It was a trendy place
on Tchoupitoulas Street’s gallery row in the warehouse district, catering for
expense-account executives, especially those with a taste for seafood. They
served brunch on Sundays, which normally required a reservation.

The maitre d’ took a haughty glance at Val’s shield,
then showed him to a table near the kitchen door. Val cast an eye over the menu
as he waited for Duval to appear. He could have bought a three-course lunch at
Daft Eadie’s for the price they were charging for a bowl of chowder.

Duval was togged out smartly in a black skirt, white
blouse, and burgundy mess jacket. She didn’t notice him and continued to bus
tables. The restaurant was crowded, and the headwaiter was keeping his staff on
their toes.

Eventually she spotted him. He noticed how her lips
tightened as she pretended she hadn’t. Va1 stood up and walked over to her.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed, not wanting to
be overheard.

“I want to talk with you.”

“Haven’t you said enough?”

“To apologize.”

He saw how his admission had taken her by surprise.
Her eyes darted from side to side, unsure of what to do next.

“The restaurant is full. It’s not a good time,” she
said finally, throwing a glance in the headwaiter’s direction.

“I’m here now. Is there somewhere private? It won’t
take long.”

Duval took another glance around. “You’d best come
through.”

She led him into the kitchen, stopping briefly to ask
another member of staff to handle her tables while she took a quick break, into
a room at the back. There was a row of metal lockers along one wall and a
wooden-slatted bench in the center. Some Baywatch fan had taped a poster of a
swim-suited Pamela Anderson to the outer wall. One of her front teeth had been
blacked out.

“This had better be quick,” Duval said, turning to
face him.

“I was wrong about you having contacts with FRAPH. I
realize now that their involvement in Bill Trochan’s death had nothing
whatsoever to do with you.”

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. The
ridicule in her eyes made Val feel two feet high, but he held his gaze. “My
brother has told me that you have refused to register with the university. I
was hoping you would change your mind.”

“It’s a bit late for that. I have already informed
Assist Haiti that I couldn’t accept their sponsorship.”

“I can talk to Lausaux on your behalf. It shouldn't be
a problem. There won’t have been enough time for the money to be relocated
yet.”

“What planet are you on? How could you possibly think
I would allow you to speak for me?”

Val was beginning to tire of humble pie. “It was
you
who involved me.’’

“Boy, was that a mistake!”

“Then you talk to Lausaux,” Val snapped.

“No. Morally I would have difficulty with that. You were
spot on about a Caribbean Art graduate not being of much practical use in
relieving the misery in Haiti.”

“That was just me scratching around for anything that
would help my argument hold water. Twisting the facts to suit.”

“You’re very good at it.”

“You’ve twisted some yourself.”

“I had a reason to. What’s yours?”

“The truth. I needed to be sure you hadn’t set me up.”

“Can’t you speak without shouting?”

Val lowered his voice. “Please reconsider. Orientation
week doesn’t really kick off until tomorrow. You wouldn’t be missing out.”

Duval’s expression grew more determined. “I won’t be
changing my mind. I’ve been offered full-time employment here and I have
already sent in an application for a mail-study course.”

“What’s it going to take to make you change your
mind?”

Duval’s top lip trembled. “A lot more than you’ve got.
Now clear out before you get me fired.”

Val turned sharply and, seething with rage, retraced
his way back into the restaurant. He came close to bowling over the maitre d’
as he pushed past him. One thing for sure: Duval hadn’t heard the last of him.
There was no way he was going to permit her to blow her chance of a college
education. If she wanted to martyr herself, she wasn’t going to hang it on him.

Monday week, Duval would attend her first lecture,
even if it meant him taking her there and handcuffing her to her desk.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The duty sergeant came rushing out from behind his
desk to give Val a hearty slap on the back as soon as he walked through the
doors of the campus police office.

“Way to go, Chief!” he said, reaching for Val’s hand
and pumping it vigorously. “Been hearing on the radio about how you wasted a
perp down in the wetlands. A bunch of reporters have been calling, wanting to
speak with you.”

Much to the sergeant’s disgust, Val refused to allow
himself be drawn on the incident. He brightened up when Val asked for an
inventory of their spare handguns.

The sergeant guided Val through to the squad room,
proudly produced a key and unlocked a gun safe bolted to the rear wall. Most of
the weapons were Ruger revolvers, standard issue for the UNOPD officers, but
there was also a 9-mm Beretta Centurion semiautomatic.

The sergeant explained that a former officer had
purchased the weapon privately, before later moving to Europe. Before he left,
he donated the gun to the UNOPD rather than sell it. Some ex-cops, the sergeant
expounded, can’t live with the thought that their gun might one day wind up in
the hands of some scum-bag liquor store thief.

Val picked up the Beretta end quickly stripped it. He
examined the inside of the barrel for pitting and the spring and firing pin for
wear. The gun had been well cared for and was still in mint condition. It
weighed considerably more than the Ruger, but had the advantage of extra rounds
before reload. He reassembled it and inserted the clip with its fifteen rounds.
Pulling back the slide, he put a round in the firing chamber and clicked the
safety on. Next, he removed the clip again and replenished it with a spare
shell from a pack in the safe. He slipped the automatic into its holster and
clipped it to his trouser belt. The sergeant gave a nod of approval.

It was Val’s fervent hope that he no incident would
arise that would force into drawing the weapon, much less firing it.

In his office he had the sergeant brief him on what
had been happening while he had been away. The freshmen students were currently
arriving in force and Val could sense a buzz around the station house.

There had been two incidents reported so far, both
minor. A female student had had her laptop stolen from the back of her father’s
car as they were unloading it; they had left the tailgate open between trips up
to her dorm room. And a student had been arrested for public intoxication after
being caught urinating outside the door of students’ union building.

Captain Clements wasn’t expected in until four
o’clock. The Sunday evening of orientation week was usually pretty hectic and
he would be on duty most of the night.

Val had the sergeant run the names of Roland Galen,
Howard Woods and Bobby Deal through the state criminal database. As an
afterthought, he added Philip Lausaux’s name.

It took the sergeant less than ten minutes to return
with the print out. Lausaux wasn’t on file. Nothing current on Galen. Deal was
deceased, a gunshot DOA six months previously. Woods had violated his parole
and there was an arrest warrant out on him. There was no current address for
him or Galen.

Stone hadn’t promised him that it would be easy.

“Tell Captain Clements I want to see him as soon as he
comes on duty,” Val said.

“Will do. Anything else?”

He hesitated, in two minds about ordering a watch on
his brother’s house. He decided against it. Gilett was out of circulation and
FRAPH had no quarrel with Marcus. Their grievance was with him and, if they
wanted him, they knew where to find him.

“No, that’s all for now.”

Val waited for the sergeant to close the door after
him, then made a call to the offices of Assist Haiti. He connected with an
answering service, but he didn’t have a message to leave.

Stuart MacLean had renamed his yacht
Ocean
Victory
one month after he had bought it at its moorings in
Marbella, Andalucía, from an Arab arms dealer fallen on hard times. He readily
acknowledged the many millions of dollars he could have saved himself if he had
sought counseling for his pathological fear of flying, but what fun would there
have been in that? Besides, he was not the type of man who would contemplate
admitting a weakness to anyone.

He opened a cedar wood closet off the recently
refurbished master suite and started to select the clothes he would wear. He
was in no rush, even it others were. Moncoeur had telephoned twice and had sent
a car for him. The Bentley had been waiting on the Julia Street end of the
Riverwalk for two hours. It could damn well wait until he was good and ready.

MacLean smiled. No one who knew Moncoeur and him would
have ever thought of comparing them, but beneath the surface there were similarities.
He wouldn’t have been able to resist buying the car either if he attended the
auction. Moncoeur and he were men with world-class egos, and enough money to
indulge them. But the flotation meant more than money to MacLean. It was public
acknowledgement, that he, third-generation immigrant stock, descended from
Scottish cattle thieves, could take on some of the biggest, most successful
sportswear companies in the world and come out on top. This week he was the
public face of Arena Victory; the spotlights would all be on him, and he
intended to make the most of it.

MacLean had had to obtain a special license before he
could moor his yacht next to the Riverwalk, the covered shopping mall adjacent
to the convention center. Arena Victory had lain on an enormous riverside party
for Thursday evening to celebrate the flotation. They were flying in two
planeloads of brokers from New York and Chicago. A dozen of the highest paid
sports stars in the world would be there. Musicians, fine food and wine, and a
spectacular cabaret show would make it a memorable night, culminating in the
biggest laser and firework display New Orleans had ever seen. The extravaganza
would guarantee worldwide media coverage. It had better, MacLean thought. He
knew to the last cent what it was costing.

They would see fireworks of a different kind if the
Jackson matter was not taken care of before then. Not that he was overly
concerned. They had overcome bigger obstacles. Greed was Jackson’s motivation
and that was something with which MacLean could identify.

He finished dressing and went on deck. A crowd of
curious shoppers had lined the Riverwalk windows to admire the sleek lines of
the pristine white yacht.

Let them gawk, MacLean thought. They paid for it.

Clements put in an appearance a little before four. He
walked into the office and Val told him to take a seat.

“You heard what happened down in St Francis?” Val
asked him.

 
“I read a
piece about it in the paper at breakfast. The story didn’t refer to Duval, but
I assume it had something to do with her?”

“Yeah. They’ll make the connection sooner or later.”

The frown lines on Clements’s forehead deepened.
“Maybe there’s something I’m missing here. Our duty is to serve and protect
university personnel and property. We don’t have jurisdiction outside the
campus, and the last I heard Duval isn’t part of the student body any longer.”

“Duval will be starting here next week.”

“Then I suggest you don’t mention that to the press
until after you’ve spoken to your brother. The university issued a statement on
Friday afternoon announcing that Duval had decided not to take up the offer of
a place. How is she involved with the Haitians you ran foul of?”

“She isn’t, at least not directly. I seem to have
stumbled across an attempt, linked to the murder of Duval’s mother, to extort
money from Arena Victory, the sportswear company. But I don’t have a shred of
evidence to back it up.”

“Who do you suspect is behind it?”

“The real killer of Valerie Duval, an ex-policeman
called Donny Jackson. But he’s unlikely to be working alone. Jackson was never
the smartest of men.”

“Whatever he has on them, it must be major league?”

“Yes.” Val nodded thoughtfully, taking a close look at
Clements. The man appeared stressed; too distracted to comment on Val’s
disclosure on Duval not having killed her mother. Maybe he had underestimated
his second-in-commands ability to cope on his own.

Clements suddenly caught on that Val was evaluating
him. He sat up straighter. “What are you planning to do about it? Pass
everything over to the NOPD?”

“Not just yet. One way or another. I’ve landed myself
in the middle of a showdown, and neither side will want me there. If I get in
their face sufficiently, one of them is bound to react.”

“Makes about as much sense as putting your nuts in a
vise. Why don’t you just walk away from it? None of this was part of the deal
when you accepted the job.”

“After killing the Haitian in St Francis I don’t think
I’d be allowed to. Those island guys have long memories.”

“I’ll assign you a couple of my detectives.”

“No, I don’t want to involve anyone else in this,” Val
said sharply. He noticed how Clements’s pupils contracted. “I’m sure they’re
fine investigators, but the worlds the Haitians and the UNOPD inhabit are a
million miles apart.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely. Is there anything you need assistance
with?” Val asked, slightly surprised that Clements had acquiesced so readily.

“Not at the moment. Everything’s in hand.”

“Don’t be afraid to ask.”

“Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind. If that’s all, I’d best
be getting on.”

“Talk to you later.”

Clements paused as he was leaving and looked back.
“Watch your step, Chief. Don’t forget, you’v
e
been in a different world yourself for the last four years.”

Clements walked across the hall to the front desk. He
collected his messages, then checked the duty-roster. They had one man off with
illness.

He noticed a printout on the duty sergeant’s desk.

“What’s this, sergeant?”

The duty sergeant looked up from the credenza he was
working at. “Just some names the chief wanted checked out.”

Clements lifted the sheets and placed them with his
messages. “Best not leave them lying around.”

“Anything you say, captain,” the sergeant said,
returning to his filing.

Val was preparing to leave the station house when
Angie appeared. The duty sergeant showed her through and asked if he could bring
them coffee. Angie declined, so Val didn’t bother. His wife was dressed in a
striking two-piece black suit with corn yellow collar and cuffs. She had her
determined, no nonsense face on.

“Why didn’t you tell me what had happened?’ Angie
asked as soon as they were alone. “I had to read about it in the newspapers.”

“It was late. I was tired.”

“We need to talk. That’s if you can spare me ten
minutes of your valuable time.”

“About you and Marcus?” Val asked.

“Partly. But mainly about you and me. I’ve been trying
to find the right moment to tell you something, and Sunday afternoon, across a
desk in the university’s station house, is not what I had in mind. But since
you seem determined to get yourself killed, so be it.”

“Tell me what?”

Angie’s face was transformed with a smile. “I’m
pregnant.”

Val swallowed hard. “You’re what?”

“Pregnant. Can you believe it? It has yet to be
confirmed by my doctor but the home-predictor test has a ninety-eight percent accuracy
rate.”

“Are you sure? You’re---”

“Too old? I’m forty-one. Lots of women have children
at that age. It’s not so unusual.”

Val was stunned. They had hoped for children,
especially in the first few years of their marriage, but none had come along.
Gradually, the idea cooled inside Val as self-doubts mounted. Angie, he knew,
considered the absence of children to be a contributory factor to their break
up.

“Which of us is the father?” was all he could think of
to say.

“Does it matter? Can’t you simply be glad for me
without the need to qualify paternity?”

Val went to Angie and wrapped his arms around her.
“No. I mean, yes. I mean ... I don’t know what I mean.” He kissed her.

When they broke off the embrace, Angie said, “You’re
my husband, and I want my child to be born into a proper family, meaning both
social background and in the eyes of God. I’m going to leave Marcus and move
back in with you.”