Casting Bones (16 page)

‘Detective Archer, is there a chance that something happened last night that put you in danger? Something that possibly threatened you with bodily harm? Something that the
gris gris
, with its spiritual charm, helped avert?'

Archer was silent, staring intently into her eyes. Unless she had been the one trying to break into his cottage last night, there was no way she could have known what happened. Unless …

‘Detective. As I said, you may not have been aware. It's an unfair question. I believe that the
gris gris
may have helped stop a crime upon your person. I needed to know if that were the case.'

Archer took a deep breath. If he told her she was right, he was admitting belief in her voodoo cult. A crime upon his person. Hell, that could be anything. It could be a drunk on Bourbon Street, almost colliding with him. It could be that he drank too much and was almost mugged going home. Actually, he'd been robbed in broad daylight by one Samuel Jackson, without his drinking a single drop of alcohol. It wasn't exactly uncommon in New Orleans. To answer, or not to answer. That was the question.

‘There was an incident.'

That faint smile appeared on her face again. He'd pleased her.

‘I was working last night, paperwork on the judge's murder, and I believe someone tried to break into my cottage. They tried to …' He hesitated, not wanting to tell her everything but compelled to bare his soul. ‘They tried to pry a window open. It was locked and they weren't successful. Is that what you're looking for?'

Archer spread his hands on the green tablecloth, and Solange Cordray reached across the table, her palms on top of his hands. The detective shivered internally, the chill traveling down his spine.

‘I felt it.' She shuddered and he felt the tremor. ‘Was the
gris gris
bag nearby, Detective?'

It was the first time they'd had physical contact, and it was electric. The moment took his breath away and almost didn't return it. He'd never felt that from a touch. Almost like a sexual experience, but deeper. He felt it in his inner person, as ridiculous as it sounded, and he found himself wanting to tell her more.
Man up, Archer, man up.

‘The bag was one inch from where the person was prying. The window was locked. I'm not sure I can say that the
gris gris
bag had anything to do with it. It had to do with the fact that I had made sure the windows were locked.'

‘Believe what you want.'

For that brief moment, Archer believed in
her.
But the feverish blush subsided and she removed her hand.

‘And that's why you followed me here?' he asked.

‘For another reason as well.'

‘OK.'

‘You are taking my presence lightly, and I understand that. I told you the last time we met that I've had a lot of experience with people, especially people in positions of authority, who do not understand what I – what Ma and I do.' Pausing, she closed her eyes. ‘What Ma
did
.'

Archer nodded, remembering the conversation vividly. Her mother had been held for a crime she hadn't committed. It was a cop's nightmare to arrest someone and have them convicted for something when they were totally innocent. Unless the person was a lowlife who deserved to be incarcerated for a number of reasons. He never wanted that thought to get out.

‘Detective, I know more than you think I do. I know about your wife and the trouble in Detroit, I know about—'

‘Oh, you do?' At the mention of Denise, he stared at her, his defenses on high alert. ‘Well, it's easy to find that information on a simple Google search.' He was surprised at the vehemence of his response. ‘Don't try to dazzle me with your voodoo connections or your spiritual presence regarding my wife.' His voice was stern. ‘I can tell you some rather shocking things about yourself, and it comes from nothing but working the Internet.'

She took her hands off the table, turned her head, gave him a sideways glance and remained quiet.

‘You were married. To a Joseph Cordray. He is a finance guy who invested heavily in private prisons. One that's not too far from here. Made a ton of money with this investment, and moved on to a wife even younger than you. If I dug hard enough, I'd probably discover that he was able to low ball any settlement you received. Guys like that usually have some pretty high-powered attorneys who make mincemeat out of people like you and me.'

Archer was immediately sorry he'd said anything at all. The girl had pushed his buttons and now he'd stepped in it.

‘I'm sorry,' he continued, his usual filter dropped, ‘but to tell me about
my
problems, to bring up
my
deceased wife, it's an easy find. Anyone with a rudimentary understanding of their computer can—'

‘Detective Archer, did your intruder use a knife?'

Archer froze. He knew it showed in his eyes, in his facial expression, and yet he was dumbfounded. How the hell could she know? Casting meaningless spells was one thing. Looking up information on the Internet, something else. Having proprietary information was out of the ball park. Especially information that could only be known to two people. The actual intruder and Archer. And she was so calm. So in command of the situation. He shivered again.

Finally able to speak, in a coarse, strained voice he said, ‘Why would you ask that question? Is it a guess?'

‘I had an epiphany.'

‘A what?' He knew what the word meant, but he needed time to regroup.

‘I had a dream, Detective Archer. A very vivid dream.'

‘And you saw a knife?' He didn't want to believe.

‘Detective, I needed to know if I was going in the right direction. I am now convinced of it. I have more information on Krewe Charbonerrie. Do you want it or not?'

Compared to her, Archer was not in control. He'd never felt more out of control in his life. His head was spinning.

‘How do you know about the knife?'

‘Do you want the information or not?'

‘I do. I also want to know how you have intimate details regarding—'

‘I have been informed of the new Krewe leader's name.'

He studied her. It wasn't often that someone one-upped him like she had. Archer leaned over the table.

‘Rayland Foster? He told you?'

‘Detective Archer, I can't explain how this information is transferred. The old man speaks to me, but he doesn't talk. I'm not sure I understand it myself.'

‘Why does Foster want you to have this information?'

‘He has yet to share that with me. Maybe he wants to right a wrong. I believe he has committed a lot of wrongs in his life.'

She remained calm, and he was taken with the softness of her eyes. Light brown, with a sadness he hadn't noticed before.

‘So you believe you know the new head of Krewe Charbonerrie?'

‘I do. If I'm correct, he is my client.'

‘You really
know
the new leader of Krewe Charbonerrie? You do business with this man?'

‘This gentleman has asked me to intercede in a business proposition he's involved with.'

‘Jesus.'

‘Damballa.'

‘Damn what?'

‘The supreme ruler. The voodoo snake god. Your ruler is Jesus. We worship Damballa.'

He was Catholic, not that it mattered much, but she seemed to know that. Archer tried to process the information. Never before had he dealt with emotions like this. She mystified him, humbled him, excited him more than anyone since Denise, and yet, in his white-bread culture, he couldn't help type her as bat-shit crazy. There was no snake god. There was no voodoo culture. This sexy black girl had his mind spinning out of control. A snake-god-worshipping voodoo queen who had knowledge of the attempted break-in at his cottage. It was all too surreal.

‘During our conversations,' she continued, ‘I simply intercede for him. I make sacrifices, supplications to the spirits that affect his work. I had no knowledge he was involved in the Krewe. He seemed to be pleased with what I offered, and twice he has asked me for advice on projects and investments. Nothing specific, mind you. The man is very guarded in his talks with me.'

This young lady, a witch doctor sorceress, was giving out financial advice to billionaires. And they were paying for it.

‘I did a Google search. I admit, Detective, that I don't see all the answers in my mind. OK? He's an entrepreneur. This gentleman, with whom I've consulted, for whom I have prayed, for whom I have gone to the spirits, is an oil tycoon. He owns over one hundred patents regarding new uses of oil.'

‘He's obviously wealthy.'

‘Wealth? I know of no one who approaches his value.'

‘So, if he's the head of this Krewe, it may mean nothing,' Archer said. ‘You are channeling the thoughts of someone who can't communicate with anyone.' He cleared his throat. ‘Except you.'

‘Do a web search for the head of Krewe Charbonerrie. Look for the name he gave me. Please, do it, Detective Archer. I know of no other way to prove to you that I have some important evidence in the murder of the judge. You won't find it anywhere.'

‘I will.'

‘I challenge you. Try to find that information on a Google search or anywhere on the Internet. I looked. It doesn't exist. And yet, I have intimate details.'

‘So, if the name is unavailable on any search, who is he? And how does it effect the murder of the judge?'

‘This man, if I understand the information that has been given to me, makes the final decisions for the Krewe. He was the person who gave the order to kill your judge.' She folded her arms across her chest in a defiant manner.

‘Rayland Foster told you this?'

‘I've explained that. Not in so many words. I sense things, Mr Archer. And my senses are usually very accurate.'

‘And this man is your client?' The information was baseless. Yet Archer felt a burning need to find out everything this girl thought she knew.

‘I don't know how to handle it,' she said. ‘With no proof, there's obviously little I can do. If you could prove it—'

‘You could be in a lot of danger, are you aware of that?'

She looked puzzled, her brow wrinkled as she stared at him.

‘Danger?'

‘This guy, your client, if you're accusing him, he may come after you. You do understand that you've put yourself in jeopardy?'

Cordray slowly shook her head.

‘Don't worry about me. I'm concerned for you, Detective. My faith, my gods, they strengthen me. I think you are the one in danger.'

The knife under the window.

‘Are you going to give me a name?' Archer asked.

‘Detective, the information I give you is powerful. And I believe it is reliable. But without work on your part it is useless. I am simply trying to feed you enough fuel to start a fire.'

Archer sat back, shaking his head.

‘I think you may be crazy.'

Smiling, she showed her near perfect teeth.

‘I know that. I have been called much worse. So has my mother.'

‘You've got a name to give me? The person who is your client? The person who may have put the hit on Judge Lerner?'

‘Use it carefully, Mr Archer. Just the possession of this name may put you in serious jeopardy.'

‘Stop stalling. Who is the new head of Krewe Charbonerrie?'

‘Richard Garrett,' she said. ‘I think you'll find him a very interesting character.'

‘Garrett.'

‘Richard Garrett. His father owned a successful oil business and my mother used to advise him.'

‘Whoa. His father was your mother's client.'

‘He told me. My mother never spoke of her dealings with him. And, Detective Archer, he wears something very interesting. Being a practitioner of my religion I noticed it immediately.'

‘What?' He was tiring of the games and the back-and-forth subtleties.

‘He wears the tattoo. A coiled snake on his wrist. Identical to the one Rayland Foster wears.'

J
onathon Gandal sat in the dining room of Broussard's, sampling the smoked salmon. He glanced at his watch and noticed his companion was fifteen minutes late. Not unusual for the man, but still inconsiderate. Gandal was an impatient man, who normally didn't tolerate inconsideration. In this case he made an exception.

His back to the wall, away from the window, he sipped his Sazerac. Whiskey, bitters, Pernod and simple syrup.

The gentleman walked in, casually glancing around the room. The man's head never moved, just his eyes taking everything in. Dressed in a pair of gray slacks, black tasseled loafers and a blue dress shirt with diamond-patterned tie, he looked like a New Orleans banker. Nothing to draw attention to himself.

‘You're late,' Gandal announced guardedly as his guest slid out a chair and sat across from him.

‘I was being careful.' The man's steel-gray eyes bore into Gandal's.

‘If you were being careful, your back wouldn't be to the room.'

The man smiled, his perfect teeth a perfect shade of white. ‘Look behind you, on the wall.'

Gandal turned his head. He was surprised to see the ornate mirror that reflected the entire room.

‘I underestimated you.'

‘Appearances can be very deceiving.'

‘I won't make that mistake again.' Gandal sipped his drink. ‘Can I order you something?'

‘I'm hoping I won't be here long enough to enjoy it. Mr Gandal, you have a problem?'

‘I do. It seems there is someone else who needs to be dealt with.'

‘And you are looking for the same outcome?'

‘A message was sent the last time,' Gandal said.

‘That message received quite a bit of attention.'

‘It did, and I'm certain it was received. But someone has been voicing concern about that message. In the company of friends. And we're concerned this person may eventually confide in someone else.'