Casting Bones (10 page)

Archer felt the familiar chill running down his back. Silly. This voodoo was a witch doctor thing. A religion designed to keep the slaves in line. He should be amused, but for some reason he wasn't. She was very serious, and so was he. She was threatening him and he could do nothing.

‘And I do cast spells, Detective. I do cast spells. You mentioned Marie Laveau? She was my great, great aunt.'

Her somber stare scared him. And he didn't scare easily.

S
trand sat across from the young black man, trying to be Mister Nice Guy. Soft tone of voice, a gentle smile on his face. If Antoine Duvay did not respond, Strand would turn bad cop. It was easier to do this with two men, but he'd have to do the best he could. Archer had phoned in and was busy talking to a lead.

‘We visited your house, man.'

‘You promised me an attorney.'

Duvay watched him through squinted eyes.

‘Met your dad. What a charming man.' Strand's own dad had been a disaster. Constantly berating his son for being a wimp, a cowering idiot, or the word he used most: a pussy.

‘You mess with my pop?'

Both hands on the table, Strand shook his head.

‘We didn't mess with anybody. We had a warrant and—'

‘How the hell did you get a warrant? Man, you got no reason to hold me. Who is gonna give you a fuckin' search warrant?'

‘Antoine, Antoine,
judges
issue search warrants. We've got a dead judge, my friend. That's the reason you're here. Almost any judge I call is going to bend over backwards to help me.'

The ex-con grunted in disgust. ‘Where's my lawyer, man?'

‘Why did you run, Antoine?'

There was a flash of fear in the young man's eyes, and just for a moment Strand saw through him. Here was a kid who had been pushed around and bullied by the system. Just like Strand. Strand understood. And the kid was scared, just like he'd been scared his entire life. But Strand needed a confession and now was not the time to be sympathetic. Get the confession, solve the case. Not the moment to go soft.

‘You going to tell me?'

He shook his head. ‘I was in prison for a crime I shouldn't have committed. I was on the warden's honor role, Detective. I had house duty where I took care of Warden Jakes's grounds. I swept his walk, I washed his cars. I greeted visitors to his home.' Duvay swallowed hard as if he shouldn't have divulged his position. ‘Anyway, dude, I was a model prisoner, and that's the end of it. There was never any idea of getting even with that cracker judge. OK?'

‘We went through the house, and you'll never guess what we found.'

‘If you found the pot, it was pop's.'

‘Ex-cons aren't allowed to have illegal substances, you know that, right?' Strand folded his hands, calm, methodical.

‘Hell, man, you gonna bust me on a chickenshit weed charge? That's all you got? You better get somethin' bigger than that. Bring me my lawyer, cop.' His eyes were bright and wide open. Strand could see veins on his forehead. The suspect was working up a head of steam.

‘Didn't even see the pot. Maybe your old man smoked it while you were here. He does seem a little out of touch.'

‘Then let me go, muthafucker.'

‘Well, we considered that. Letting you go. But then Detective Cassidy, he was helping me search the house, he found a gun, Antoine.'

The boy's jaw dropped, and his eyes almost popped out of his dark head.

‘A Sig Sauer P290. Little thing, but we found it.'

Duvay started to get up, shackled to the table. He jerked at the chain and leaned toward the detective.

‘You lyin' sack of shit. There be no gun. You makin' it up, you dirty no good cop.'

‘Got it, Antoine. I didn't find it. Cassidy did.'

‘Fuck this Cassidy. Prove it's mine.'

‘We're working on it, but in the meantime, young man, we've got reason to hold you for a little while.'

‘You gonna prove that this gun was the murder weapon? Are you?'

‘Hard to do. By the time a bullet goes in and out, through flesh and bone, it does so much damage you can't usually tell what gun it came from.'

‘So you can't prove shit.'

‘The fact that you have a gun—'

‘I never owned a gun. In my life.'

‘The fact that we found a gun, that might be good enough. Ex-con, kid who had a vendetta against a judge, and a gun that could have been the murder weapon. You do the math, hotshot.'

‘Oh, Lord Almighty. You can't be serious.'

‘We're building a pretty good case here, Antoine.'

‘Fuck your case.'

Now the hands had become fists and Strand raised his voice.

‘Look, you little turd, I've
got
a case. You confess, right now, and we can make some good things happen. We can take away some of the bad things that
are
going
to happen to you. But if you don't confess, then everything is off the table. Do you understand me?'

‘You, you mouth, you told me this the last time we talked. “Plea,” you said. Well fuck you, motherfucker. Where is my lawyer, dude? I'll tell him what I know.'

Strand stood back, not sure what the young man was saying. So he did know something? The detective shook his head, not certain where to take the next line of questioning. In an instant it was forgotten.

‘Damn. I want an attorney. Don't fuck with me any longer, you piece of shit. Give me my attorney now.'

‘You're positive there isn't anything you want to say?'

Strand felt the pressure. He was losing the battle and he didn't want it to be over. Not yet.

Duvay looked like he might explode. His eyes were wide open, his voice gravelly and he appeared to be shaking.

‘Bring me my attorney.' He screamed at the top of his voice, straining at the chain. ‘You better damned well have me an attorney. No more stallin' cause I got nothin' else to say!'

Strand stood slowly, knocked on the door and an officer opened it.

‘Send in Witter.' Bitterness dripped from his words. ‘Antoine Duvay wants to lawyer up.'

‘M
a spends her time at Water's Edge Care Center. End of the French Market. I'm sure you've seen it.' Leaning over the table, her hands clasped in front of her.

Archer sat back in the booth and nodded, not exactly sure where the facility was located.

‘It's a home for dementia patients.'

‘Your mother. The practitioner?'

‘Let me tell the story, Detective. Then you can decide if you want to take it seriously. OK?'

Archer quelled his desire to ask more questions and settled back to listen. If this was going to help solve the crime, then so be it.

‘I volunteer at Water's Edge three days a week. I talk to the patients, take them on walks, and basically spend as much quality time as possible with them. I have no training in this field, but with Ma being a patient there …'

She sipped her coffee and he tipped his beer, quenching his thirst.

‘Possibly six months ago, one of the patients spoke to me. Out of the blue. We were on an outing.' She paused for a moment. ‘We take the patients up on the levee and spend an hour with them. I try to engage them in conversation.'

‘I understand.' Archer, ever supportive.

‘I'm out with Ma, another woman and a man. And they are just sitting there, non-communicative. I bring up different topics, like how nice the river is, or how warm the temperature is, and this day no one was responding. Some days they do, some days they don't.'

‘This has to do with your information regarding David Lerner, right?'

Cordray frowned. ‘Let me tell my story, Detective Archer. Be patient. This isn't easy.'

Archer signaled the waitress for another beer. Technically he was off the clock and right now he needed a drink.

‘The man, Rayland Foster, was staring at the river water, zoned out, and I heard his voice. Not from his mouth. His mouth had nothing to say.'

‘I'm afraid I'm not sure what
you're
saying.'

‘His voice was inside my head.'

‘So you were channeling—'

‘Mr Archer, I heard him. As clearly as I can hear you.'

The detective scrutinized the young beauty. She was struggling with the story, trying to make a spiritual connection sound credible.

‘And he said to me, ‘the judge, the judge who will be killed, he belongs to Krewe Charbonerrie. Someone must be told.'

His sandwich long since forgotten, Archer leaned across the booth, looking into the young girl's face.

‘Solange, that's it, right? Solange, help me out here. I want to hear your story, but I have no idea what you're talking about. Six months ago someone communicated with you about the death of the judge? But the murder just happened.'

‘I'm well aware of the timeline.'

There was a moment of silence at the booth.

‘All right, go on.' He was used to getting right to the heart of the matter. Just the facts, ma'am, just the facts.
Dragnet
. Joe Friday.

‘Krewes are the backbone of Mardi Gras. Since 1857, Krewes, the families of wealthy locals, have sponsored our holiday. Some of the Krewes are social. They build the floats that you see during our celebration, they make the costumes and purchase the throws – doubloons and beads – that are tossed to the crowds. You may have heard of Rex? Or Mistic Krewe of Comus? Krewe of Proteus, and the Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club?'

She leaned into the booth, her face a little closer to his and he could detect a delicate scent, like frangipani.

‘And some of these Krewes are made up of rich, highly influential members of society who have the power and influence to control whatever they want. And,' she paused, ‘they often want everything.' Solange sat back in the booth and closed her eyes, saying nothing else.

After fifteen seconds Archer figured it was OK to talk.

‘Solange, so what? What does membership in a society have to do with a murder? And, let's assume you are right. The judge was a member of this Krewe Whatever-you-said. Does belonging to this Krewe make a person a target for murder?'

‘Krewe Charbonerrie. Named after a young group of radicals in the early 1800s who tried to overthrow the French government.'

She stared into his eyes, making a strong connection. He shrank back into his booth as she continued.

‘Membership, as I understand it, is very restrictive and very pricey. The Krewe is open only to the rich and powerful.'

‘And?'

‘It struck me that a judge in the juvenile system, while powerful in certain circles, is probably not a rich person.'

‘So he was a member. Someone sponsored him. Gave him the money to join the organization,' Archer said. ‘Isn't that possible? Or maybe he inherited a lot of money. A lot of folks are not what they appear, Miss Cordray.'

‘It was a voice of desperation, Detective. This Rayland Foster wanted to be heard. He was telling me, six months out, that this killing had been planned. I had no idea where to go with the information. There was no dead judge when he spoke to me, and I was confused. You, Detective Archer, were not even on the force at that time. You were still dealing with your problems in Detroit.'

Archer blinked. What could she possibly know about his problems?

‘You see, I had no idea who to contact, or whether I even should. I had no name, no time frame, nothing.'

Archer understood. The girl didn't want a repeat of her mother's mistake.

‘But knowing now what I know, I believe very strongly that this information is correct. Mr Foster knows.'

‘About what?'

‘He believes that the death of David Lerner is related to the judge's membership in this Krewe.'

‘David Lerner, belonging to a Krewe—'

‘As I said, a very expensive Krewe. You must put up one hundred thousand dollars just to apply. Then, if you are accepted into Krewe Charbonerrie, another one hundred thousand dollars is required. Detective, the cost to join this organization is two hundred thousand dollars. Not an insignificant sum.'

‘Jesus.'

‘I think, if you look into it, you will see that a judge in this city makes about one hundred fifty thousand dollars a year. Maybe one ten after taxes. So where does he come up with the membership money?'

‘So, he spent almost two years' salary to belong to this club.'

‘Krewe. It's called a Krewe. On the surface, the judge did not show a large inheritance and his investment strategies were suspect.'

‘How do you know this?'

‘I know, Detective. I know.'

Archer nodded in frustration. ‘We're working on his background.' This wisp of a girl seemed to have all the knowledge at her fingertips and his department had just started. It pissed him off.

‘I have a very strong feeling, Detective, that if you look into his membership to Krewe Charbonerrie, you will find your killer. At the very least you will find the reason he was killed.'

The why factor.

‘It's that simple?'

‘It may be. Mr Foster feels it's very important.'

‘But he never vocalized that feeling. You just told me that. You never heard him tell you that.'

‘He put his information in my head.'

‘Who is this Mr Foster?'

‘He is at this time a pathetic, failing man. He's sick, old, and his family doesn't see him anymore. And besides his dementia, he has mobility issues. He's confined to a wheelchair.' She paused. ‘And he is insanely rich, and he has made everyone in his immediate circle rich.'

Archer missed any empathy in her description of the patient.

‘Who was he? What's his past?'

‘He was an industrialist. Rayland Foster made a fortune in the chemical manufacturing business, and in the process poisoned as much of the Mississippi River as he possibly could. According to everything I've learned, he dumped tons of waste into our river. He used people and natural resources like they were his personal property. From what I have heard, he was not a nice man.'