Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller (20 page)

“Some called him the equal to Napoleon and the
greatest military mind of his age. His accomplishments are still being praised today. An essay by a U.S. Marine colonel, ‘Winfield Scott’s 1847 Mexico City Campaign as a Model for Future War,’ won a competition sponsored by the Joint Chiefs of Staff in 2009. We could use a man like Winfield Scott. Especially now, since we’re . . .” He left the sentence unfinished. “We’ll continue our discussion after you finish your reading.”

“I’d like that. I would also like to be invited back when you get another game going. Your friends are unique individuals. I don’t often get the chance to converse with men as involved with issues of the day as they are.”

“Involved,” Dumont said as if the word held some private meaning. “They certainly are that. Good night, Judge. We’ll talk soon. You take care of yourself.”

The driver had stepped out and opened the door for Boucher, then accompanied him up his walk.

“Thanks. I can take it from here,” Boucher said. At his door, he turned and waved to Dumont, who raised his glass in toast.

T
HE NEXT WORKDAY WAS
uneventful. Boucher realized he’d had too few days like this lately. Mildred was also appreciative of a return to routine. At day’s end, she stood in the doorway of his office to say good night.

“Your Honor, please tell me you are going straight home to do nothing but rest this evening.”

“Mildred, I would be lying if I told you that. I am going to pay a call on a drug dealer who tried to kill me. After I’ve visited him, then, yes, I will be going home and to bed early. Thank you for your concern.”

“Your Honor, empathy has its limits.” She gave a little sigh. “But I guess little harm can come to you in a jail, as long as you remember on which side of the bars you belong. Good evening, Judge.”

He smiled and nodded. A few minutes later, he locked up and took the elevator down to the main lobby. A federal
marshal manning the metal scanner called to him. “Judge Boucher, I was asked to tell you, there’s a parking space for you now. Please use it tomorrow.”

“Thanks. I will.”

Hallelujah. His assigned parking space. It was better than a presidential citation. He walked to the public lot for the last time, got in his pickup, and drove to the Quarter. Fitch had pulled strings to get Pip into a cell at the Eighth District, rather than lose him both literally and figuratively in the bowels of the midcity Orleans Parish Prison, the subject of horrendous claims of inmate maltreatment for years. Boucher was shown to the cell. Fitch was out on a call, expected back soon. Boucher asked for the cell to be unlocked. The custodian looked at him like he was crazy, but Fitch had left orders: the judge was to be given carte blanche. The door was opened, and Boucher stepped in the cell, closing it behind him. “Pip?”

The prisoner was on his bunk, his face to the wall. He turned and looked over his shoulder, then sat up.

“I just wanted you to know that we’ve done some checking, and we think you told us the truth,” Boucher said.

“You thought I made up that shit?”

“I believe you now.”

“Does that change anything? My brother’s still dead.”

“Your brother died because he abused his body. You want to change things? Then stop living the self-destructive
life he did. Where he is now, he’s regretting what he did to himself, and he wants something better for you.”

Pip stood up, glaring at Boucher. “Don’t you start that hosanna shit with me, ’cause that dog won’t hunt. ‘Where he is now,’ ” he spat. “What does that mean? Where
is
he now? Nobody told me what y’all did with my brother. Did you bury or burn him? What was the cheapest and quickest way for the city to get rid of the body of someone they forgot a long time ago? I know one thing—where he is now, he don’t have to worry about bugs in his crotch, his hair, and his ears, havin’ to live with them till winter comes and he freezes his ass off. He don’t have to eat out of garbage cans no more. He don’t have to worry about someone beating the crap out of him when he sleeps on the street ’cause they think he got something worth stealing or they ain’t got nothin’ better to do. And he don’t have to go through the hell of fallin’ off that cliff when he ain’t able to score. That’s heaven to those of us you call homeless: just getting out of this life of shit. Now get the fuck outta my face.”

It was instinctive, it was visceral, and legions would have argued whether it was right or wrong, but Boucher’s response was immediate. He slapped the foulmouthed ingrate. He checked his swing so that only his extended fingers struck Pip’s face, but it sounded like a pistol shot, which stunned as much as the contact.

“In or out of court, no one speaks to a federal judge
like that,” Boucher snapped. “Now stand up straight. You slump like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders when the fact is, you’re just plain lazy and think you can get away with crying about your miserable life rather than doing something about it. You have never exercised one tenth of your ability, because it’s easier for you to grovel in self-pity. I said stand up straight. You’re a man. You’re a man in the greatest city in the greatest country in the world, and there’s nothing you can’t achieve with hard work and a sense of purpose. Do you know why you’re stuck in the mud? It’s because you don’t have the balls to lift your feet. You just don’t have the balls.”

“Verbal skills,” Fitch said, making his unannounced arrival and stepping into the cell with them. “I do believe that’s what separated us from the animals and set us on the evolutionary fast track to the civilized species we’ve become. I’m not interrupting anything, am I? You comfortable in here, sir? Because if you’re not appreciative of your present circumstances, I can have you moved. You might want to experience the Orleans Parish Prison while you can. I’m told a plan has been approved for a new facility more in keeping with our great city’s reputation for hospitality. How you doing, Judge?”

“Pip and I were just having a conversation about the meaning of life,” Boucher said.

“I thought it was something high-minded like that.” Fitch looked at the inmate. “You do realize this man here
wants to help you, don’t you? This man you almost killed, he wants to help you make something of your life. You remember your old principal, Mrs. Miller? She’d like to see you crawl out of the slime as well.”

“Mrs. Miller?” Pip’s eyebrows rose. “She remember me?” He’d been rubbing his stinging cheek, as if ready to make a complaint about his brutal treatment. He dropped his hand.

“Maybe it was your brother,” Fitch said. “She never could tell you two apart.”

“That ain’t true. Don’t know how, but she always knew. Other than her, our mother was the only one could tell us apart. You know Mrs. Miller?”

“She’s a friend,” Fitch said, looking away.

“I’ll be damned,” Pip said. “You and Mrs. Miller?” He walked straight up to the detective, and for the very first time in their brief acquaintance, the young man showed a hint of backbone. “You better treat her right. She’s good people.”

After a long silence, Pip asked, “What’s gonna happen to me?”

“Depends,” Fitch said. “You could make things a lot easier on yourself.”

“How? Already told you everything I know about the guns. Except . . .”

“Except what?”

Pip paced, then stopped. “I told you we went back and they had dogs and guards, right? I heard one of the guards
say something about moving the stuff that was in the warehouse.”

“What did you hear?” Fitch asked.

“One said that all the stuff was going to be moved to the new compound, that it wasn’t a big deal because the work at the Jackson Barracks was almost finished and they’d have to move it anyway.”

“New compound? Is that all?” Fitch said.

“Give him a break,” Boucher said. “He’s trying to help.”

Fitch turned to Pip. “Okay, here’s how it’s going down. You’re going to have a lawyer, a public defender. You broke laws, and there are consequences. But the judge here is going to speak up for you, and I’m going to say you’ve been cooperative. Let’s leave it at that for now. I suggest that you spend whatever time you have in this little cell thinking about what you could do with your life to change it. You can make that happen. Only you.”

•  •  •

Fitch followed Boucher to his house.

“I’d have been happy to buy you a drink somewhere,” Fitch said as they walked in the door.

“I need to stay in tonight,” Boucher said. “I promised. Beer okay with you?”

“Yeah, fine.”

They walked to the kitchen, grabbed a couple of cans, then sat at the table.

“You know what he meant by the new compound?” Boucher said.

“Houma. Doesn’t come as much of a surprise. There was a lot of work going on there about the time the Jackson Barracks renovation was completed, including a new airport. But damn, that’s a big operation Dumont’s got. Security’s tight too.”

“We Google like we did before,” Boucher said.

“You ever wonder who’s watching us Google? We hunt up something on a map, somebody somewhere is watching us do it. Anyway, it’s a start,” Fitch said. “I’d do anything before trying to get a search warrant. If I was to try and get a warrant to search Ray Dumont’s headquarters based solely on the word of a homeless street punk, they’d lock me up and throw away the key. You don’t piss in the yard of the most powerful man in Louisiana. By the way, I got the lab reports on the shoes your guy wore on the boat. Inconclusive. Sorry.”

“What do you mean, inconclusive?”

“I mean the traces of cocaine were so small, they were inconclusive.”

“Who said we were looking for cocaine?”

“We didn’t know what we were looking for. What I’m telling you is that we found cocaine, but there wasn’t enough of it to be significant. It was almost an anomaly; it barely registered. There was a very small amount of cocaine residue on the soles of his shoes, and I’m assuming it came from the hold.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Boucher said. “I can’t believe Dumont thinks he’s so bulletproof that he would traffic in cocaine when his close friends are in charge of the country’s war against illicit drugs.”

“What close friends?”

Boucher told him of the players at the poker game. Fitch frowned. “That Gary Quaid, he’s big. He can move more assets than a general. What was the Houston lawyer’s name again?”

“Carl Benetton.”

“I know that name,” Fitch said.

Boucher yawned. “Let’s call it a night. I’m going to do a couple Internet searches before I go to bed.”

“Check and see what committees Senator Farmer is on. I’m getting that feeling again.” Fitch finished his beer. “I hope you got boots. I think you’re stepping in some deep shit.”

They said good night. Boucher was at his computer an hour later, when his cell phone vibrated with an incoming text message. It was from Fitch. Boucher stared at the small screen. The message was indecipherable. It read:
Not C. $$$$!

T
HEY MET FOR COFFEE
and beignets the next morning at the Café du Monde before heading to their respective offices.

“I got your message,” Boucher said, “but I couldn’t understand it.”

“I made it intentionally cryptic,” Fitch said. “We’re going to have to start covering our asses. There’s something bigger than both of us going down.” He sipped his café au lait. “It hit me on the way home.” Though no one was sitting near them, he whispered into his coffee cup. “I know why there was cocaine in such small quantities. Money. There was currency in the hold of that ship, and it had been handled by men who handled cocaine. I read somewhere that ninety percent of currency in circulation has traces of drugs. You and I both probably have cocaine
in our wallets right now. Gives you an oblique idea how big the business is. I asked the lab to check again for chemical traces from currency. There should be fibers from the paper and chemicals from ink. Bet you anything it’s U.S. bills.”

“We saw the vessel loaded before it went out,” Boucher said. “It was sitting low in the water. It sold its cargo at sea, brought back cash before Arcineaux was given his tour. Dumont is shipping illegal arms right under the noses of the navy, the coast guard, and almost every national security agency we have.”

“Agencies whose coordinated functions are controlled by his poker-playing buddy, the former head of the DEA. Having fought smugglers, he’s one guy who knows the tricks of their trade. Did you look up that Houston lawyer?”

Boucher shook his head.

“I did,” Fitch said. “He’s one of the country’s top criminal defense lawyers. He has a pretty impressive client list, several of whom have connections to Mexico’s leading drug cartels.”

“That would make him Gary Quaid’s archenemy. I saw them together. Enemies they were not.”

“His clients are in jail. Maybe they’re singing. Maybe his representation is not what it seems.
Something
is not what it seems. Did you look up Senator Farmer?”

“I’ll do it right now,” Boucher said, and took out his
cell phone. “Farmer is chairman of the Senate Armed Services Subcommittee on Emerging Threats and Capabilities. Fitch, what’s going on here?”

“God only knows, but the devil’s in this too.” Fitch’s cell phone rang. He answered, listened, said thanks, and clicked off. “The lab. They confirmed that the currency on the ship was U.S. banknotes.”

“At that poker game,” Boucher said, “conversation was about the border, the problems on both sides, our past incursions into Mexico, and the possibility of history repeating itself.”

“That’s just politics. Men get together, they talk politics. Don’t jump to too many conclusions, Judge. All we really know is that Ray Dumont may be linked to a couple illegal handguns, and that he has an interesting group around his poker table.”

“Dumont sent me a desk that may have been owned by General Winfield Scott, the conqueror of Mexico.”

“I thought that was Cortés.”

“He was first. We did it three hundred years later, just didn’t stay as long.” Boucher put down his cup, his coffee cold. “Who’s he selling guns to?”