An Evil Shadow (18 page)

Moncoeur’s eyebrows shot up a little too far. Val had
struck a nerve.

“Certainly not. It such threats have been made, which
I very much doubt, I’m sure the only people he would have discussed them with
are the relevant law enforcement agencies. It would be in his interest to have
the matter satisfactorily resolved as soon as possible. If it isn’t, and the
flotation was to proceed, he would be leaving himself open to prosecution by
the Securities Exchange Commission.”

“But if the threat became public before the
extortionist was caught, the percentage take up of the stock would be greatly reduced.”

“It’s difficult to say. It would depend on the
analysts’ appraisal of the stock. If they considered the flotation price equitable,
then there might still be a full take-up. Extortion threats are not exactly
uncommon in the business world. Have you further questions for me? I’m a guest
in the US, and as such keen to assist the police in any way I can, but I really
don’t see what help I can be to your investigations.”

Val could think of a dozen questions at least. But
without some hard evidence, there would be little point in putting them to
Moncoeur. The man was an accomplished liar.

“That about covers it,” Val said. “For now.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Lakefront campus was only a mile from Moncoeur’s
house, so Val headed there next. The first full day of orientation week was in
full swing and the campus had sprung to life. Groups of students were
everywhere, familiarizing themselves with the geography of the campus, making
new friends, checking out the sports facilities. For the first time in his life
Val regretted never trying for a college education. Marcus had been destined
for an academic life from early on, but Val’s interest had been leaning more to
the military until the night his father had launch his first attack on their
mother.

As usual, an innocuous incident had triggered his
father’s fury. The family was finishing supper when Marcus reached across the
table for a slice of bread and caught a glass of milk with his sleeve. Their
mother mopped up the spill and poured another glass for Marcus. Without saying
a word, their father closed his hand into a fist and punched her. She put a
hand to her face and looked at him with uncomprehending eyes. He struck her repeatedly.
She threw a tin of cookies at him. He kept on hitting her even as Val was
phoning the police.

By the time the patrol car arrived, their father had
cooled down. Their mother was resting on her bed, with their father holding her
hand and begging forgiveness. Marcus answered the door and he told the officers
it was a false alarm — but they refused to leave without speaking to his
mother. One glimpse of her bruised and bloodied face was enough. They threw the
culprit against a wall and handcuffed him. The police had released him the next
morning when their mother refused to press charges, but Val never forgot the
look of fear in his father’s eyes as the cops had handcuffed him. Val knew from
that instant that he was going to be a policeman. He would protect his mother
and all the other mothers.

There had been a phone call from Larson’s investigator
friend at the Securities Exchange Commission. No message left. Val rang him
back, but he wasn’t available. A nasal-sounding secretary advised to phone
again sometime later in the afternoon. Val made a note of the number on the
back of the dog-eared envelope that went everywhere with him since he’d been
given the cell phone.

Val’s next call was to the press office of Arena
Victory. A cheery-voiced girl answered it. He posed as a journalist and
requested details of Stuart MacLean’s itinerary for the rest of the day. The
girl recited a list of engagements lined up for her boss. She offered to fax a
copy through, but Val told her it wasn’t necessary.

The last time Val had visited the Superdome was three
years before and he hadn’t been there as a spectator. His company had won the
contract to supply some of the stage illuminations for a Rolling Stones’ gig.

He had heard all the technical facts about New
Orleans’ largest landmark, and they never failed to impress him. Seating
capacity for 76,000; 9,000 tons of climate-control equipment; that it was
twenty-seven stories high. Home to the New Orleans Saints, it also hosted the
Saturday games of Tulane University’s football team. Arena Victory supplied its
sports footwear.

Stuart MacLean to announce a new sponsorship deal with
Tulane. The ceremony was to start at the Superdome at three o’clock. Two of the
Saints’s biggest stars, who had attended and played for Tulane, were also to be
present. Predictably, TV vans and press vehicles gathered in a throng in their
reserved parking slots.

Val flashed his shield at security and made for the
raised platform in center field. The event designers had decorated the backdrop
with Arena Victory’s logo and blow-ups photographs of some of their products.
It was immediately apparent from the blank faces of the Tulane footballers and
the seriously disgruntled press that MacLean was running late.

Val took a seat at the halfway-line and prepared for a
long wait. A high-school marching band sat in the club seats higher up, their
instruments in the row behind them, the teenagers killing time joshing one
another.

Voices of guides echoed across the playing surface as
they showed parties of tourists around the Superdome. The two giant Diamond
Vision screens played a rerun of a Saints game. Predictably, it was a game
where the Saints had come out on top.

An hour crept by. More press arrived. The mood of the
male journalists brightened considerably when a cheerleader team trooped out.

The first signal of MacLean’s imminent arrival was
when Jarvis Kraftson appeared in the stadium. Dressed in a pale blue suit,
white shirt and yellow tie, he looked every inch the sharp executive going
places. The bruise above his lip had almost faded. He walked straight over to
the platform and chatted with the press, making apologies and smoothing things
out. After that, he had a word with the student footballers, and then headed to
the sideline to wave down the band members. His gaze swept past Val to the
musicians, then back to Val again. The confident manner evaporated.

“What do you want?”

“I’m here to speak to your boss.”

“That’s impossible. He’s on too tight a schedule.”

Val shrugged. “Didn’t they warn you about being
negative at MBA school? Nothing’s ever impossible. Set it up. Or would you
rather I talked to the press? Let them know what I’ve found out about Arena
Victory.”

Kraftson held up a placatory hand. “I’ll see what I
can do. Though it will have to be after the reception.”

Val stood up.

“I’ll be waiting
for him in the mayor’s suite.”

Val hung around the edge of the playing field until
MacLean finally appeared. The crowd in front of the platform had swelled
considerably by then. They weren’t disappointed; MacLean’s entrance was
presidential, sitting in the back of a ’59 open-top Cadillac. The address
system played the
‘Rampart Street
Rag’
and MacLean waved and shook hands
as the car moved slowly across the Astroturf. He was wearing a Tulane football
jacket and an Arena Victory baseball cap.

The car stopped in front of the platform and MacLean
climbed up the steps, smiling and waving all the time. The marching band
started into its musical routine and the six leggy cheerleaders strutted their
stuff. MacLean grabbed a football and he adopted a throwing pose for the press
photographers.

Val had seen enough. He headed for the mayor’s suite
on the 300 Level.

A paper cup of soda was the only thing MacLean brought
with him when he showed up three-quarters of an hour later. Val wondered what
explanation MacLean had given his people for deserting them. Roughly the same
height as Val, MacLean had mid-length red hair and pale skin. He joined Val at
the viewing window and stared down at the bright green carpet below. The crowd,
the band and the footballers had dispersed and already workmen were dismantling
the platform.

MacLean shifted his gaze to Val. “I don’t much like
the way you do things. Making threats and physically abusing a member of my
senior management.”

“It doesn’t keep me from sleeping nights.”

MacLean took a drink from his paper cup. “Say your
piece. I’m a busy man.”

“Is Donny Jackson putting the bite on you and your
partners?”

“No. Why should you think that?”

“Maybe he knows more than he should.”

Two splashes of color appeared high on MacLean’s
cheeks. “About what?”

‘The murder of Valerie Duval”

“Never heard of her.”

“Jackson killed her, but you were party to it.”

MacLean threw the contents of the paper cup into Val’s
face.

“You’re a small man, Bosanquet. And small men get
walked on.” He stormed out of the box.

By the time he made it back to his car, Val had worked
himself into a foul mood. His shirt and jacket were damp and sticky. He had
lost most of the afternoon waiting for thirty seconds with MacLean and a face
full of Seven Up.

Sorting through his pockets for a handkerchief, he
came on the battered envelope with his phone numbers. That reminded him there
was still a call he had to make. He found the number of the Securities Exchange
Commission and tapped it into his cell phone.

He made a request to speak with Mike Rankin. “It’s Val
Bosanquet here,” he added.

It took a few moments to be connected.

“Val, it’s good of you to call me back. Sorry I wasn’t
available the first time. How are things in the Big Sleazy?”

“Much the same. Torrid and sordid.”

“You want to see sordid, take a trip to Washington.
Paul says you’re with the UNOPD.”

“For now. Have you anything for me on Arena Victory?”

“Are you kidding? That could take weeks, maybe months.
I’ve just spent the whole summer proving end-proprietorship of a fraudulent
shipping company. It was like unwrapping an onion. I had to peel my way through
two hundred companies in fifteen countries, and each one brought tears to my
eyes. No, Crescent City Holdings is the
reason I called. I recognized the name straight off.”

“How come?”

“It’s an ethical investment company. Its sole
stockholder is the archdiocese of New Orleans. Part of its portfolio is in
property. They buy up old buildings and restore them. I’m involved with a
Washington historical building preservation group and we’ve consulted with
Crescent City Holdings. I can’t give you much more than that. Is
it relevant?”

“It could be. Do you have an address for the company?”

Val heard paper rustling in the background.

“Right here. I dug out some old correspondence when
Paul Larson called me. The registered company address is Walmsley Avenue, the
archdiocese office. The administrative address is 116 Ursulines Street.”

Val scribbled it down on the back of the envelope.
“Thanks.”

With most offices having closed for the day, Val was
able to find a parking spot on Ursulines right in front of the building where
Crescent City Holdings had its administrative center. Val rang the security
bell and was buzzed through the main door. A uniformed security man at the
reception desk asked him his business.

“I need to speak to somebody at Crescent City
Holdings?”

“They’ve all gone. Come back in the morning.”

“You sure?’ Val took his shield out end showed it to
the man. “It’s police business.”

“Give me a moment. I
think Monsignor Charbonnet may still be upstairs, though he might
not answer the phone. He doesn’t like being disturbed. Gets through a lot of
work when the office is quiet.”

The man picked up a phone and pressed a button. More
than a minute went by before Charbonnet answered. After a brief exchange, the
security guard told Val to go up.

“Second floor. Third office on the left.”

Monsignor Charbonnet was in his mid-forties,
silver-haired, and had skin burnt the color of mahogany by the sun. He brought
Val into his office and offered him a seat. Charbonnet closed the cover of a
file lying on his desk.

Val showed him his shield and got straight to the
point. “Have you heard of a Father Malcolm Kellerman?”

“Sure, I know him well. Has this something to do with
what happened to his sister and her husband?”

Val nodded. “What sort of priest is Kellerman?”

Charbonnet gave him a questioning glance. “Very
dedicated. A quiet, unassuming man. Not at all the type you’d expect
considering his background.”

“What about his background?”

“Kellerman came to the priesthood late in life. He was
in his late thirties when he was ordained. Before that, he was an investment
analyst with Salomon Brothers on Wall Street. He gave up a high six-figure
income to take holy orders, though he still advises the archdiocese on its
investments. That’s how come I know him well. He and the Archbishop meet on a
regular basis. The Archbishop’s very committed to ethical investments and that
was Kellerman’s specialty. It can be a bit of gray area, tricky to navigate a
path through. You think you’ve bought in stock that’s green, and then you
discover that the parent company manufactures land mines. Father Kellerman’s
approach is that it’s best to invest in small companies, not listed, but with
fresh ideas and plenty of potential. Buy in, make an acceptable profit, and
sell out before too much of a good thing attracts predatory bids from the
conglomerates.”

“Sounds like a difficult way to make money.”

Monsignor Charbonnet sighed “It is. Ethical investment
comes with a high price-tag. I often wonder if it’s worth it. Maybe we would
better advised to chase the big bucks. Think of all the extra good we could do
if only we had more cash. That’s the dilemma facing the church. Without Father
Kellerman, the archdiocese would be losing a packet on its ethical portfolio.
He has a truly remarkable knack for spotting small companies with promise.”