Casting Bones (18 page)

‘So who is this Rodger Claim?'

‘Was. Lerner dropped him after a year or so.'

‘Possibly this Claim didn't like being dumped?'

‘I think that's very possible.'

‘So you think that Claim could have—'

‘Didn't know the man, and I don't want to go on record as suggesting anything of the sort.' She continued her walk, shaking her head back and forth.

He nodded. Hall believed there was a strong possibility this Claim person was a suspect but didn't want to verbalize it.

‘Did you ever meet him?'

‘No.'

‘Know anything about him?'

‘Sure.'

‘What did he do?'

‘With Lerner?' She turned to him with a coy smile.

Archer returned with a disapproving look.

‘You mean for a living?'

‘Yes.'

‘He was supervisor of the guards.'

‘Guards? What guards?'

‘Here's where it gets interesting,' she said.

The lady judge enjoyed drawing out the story.

‘So finish the story, Ms Hall. I've got an important appointment, and I don't want to be late.'

‘OK, Detective, here's the punch line. Claim, Judge Lerner's lover, was supervisor of the guards at River Bend Prison, where Lerner sent most of his convicted offenders.'

‘Oh?'

‘I should stay out of this, but …'

‘But what?'

‘But I think there's something going on with some of our judges and that prison. Something very wrong.'

‘You don't know this for a fact?'

‘It's not gospel.'

‘Then?'

‘Just the fact that I even think it,' she unconsciously looked side to side, checking over her shoulders, ‘makes me a marked woman.'

Archer found himself almost smiling. He swallowed the facial expression.

‘You think someone is after you? Because you believe that some of the judges are involved in something to do with the prison?'

‘Judge Warren has said a couple things to me that were rather strange.'

‘Care to share them?'

‘No. But I will tell you this, Detective. I was half serious about hiring a body guard.' She looked into his eyes. ‘Do you by any chance freelance on the side?'

S
ergeant Sullivan approached Archer's desk, peering over the detective's shoulder at the computer screen.

‘Porter walked away today.'

‘Porter? Walked away?'

‘Turned in his badge and took a hike.'

‘Private security gig?'

‘He didn't say.'

‘How many, Sergeant? This year?'

‘Three.'

‘Still …'

‘It's high pressure. Pressure to make the case, solve the crime, and there doesn't ever seem to be a lull. Money isn't that good as you know, not to mention the horrible hours. You're going after someone who has killed … well,' he paused. ‘Obviously I don't have to tell you.'

Everyone seemed to know Archer's situation. Or they thought they did. Surface stuff. There were actually only four people who knew the true story about his father, his brothers and the death of his wife.

‘And of course now it's even dangerous for a cop to sit in his patrol car,' Sullivan said. ‘Anyway, what new leads do you have regarding the Lerner murder? Anything at all, Archer, even if it's not in your report.'

‘Do you know a Richard Garrett, Sergeant?'

‘The oil guy? Sure. I know who he is. Met him a couple of times when he was a kid.'

‘A kid?'

‘His father, second generation, owned about thirty oil fields, maybe two hundred oil wells.'

‘This Richard, he's a major player?'

‘As far as I know Richard has grown the business quite a bit.'

‘And Dad?'

‘Earl Garrett. I played cards with him every Wednesday for years. He was very down to earth. Shrewd, and a really good poker player. Guy was very philanthropic. Helped a lot of non-profits in the city. Earl died about five years ago.'

‘So Richard, he's a pretty powerful guy?'

‘Why are you asking? Jesus, don't tell me that you're working on a Garrett angle as well as the Krewe Charbonerrie. Archer, I would suggest that you talk to your partner, Strand, and convict this line cook loser, Antoine Duvay. It's going to be a whole lot easier on us and the entire community. I hate to say this, but the kid is expendable. He goes down for the hit, the community gets a little crazy for a couple of days and then it all simmers down. You bring a Garrett or a Krewe into this and it gets more than a little crazy.'

‘We keep dancing around this. Do you want the killer, or someone we manufacture? I really want to know, Sergeant. If you want the fast solution, I'm your next walk. Seriously, I'll pack my bags tomorrow. If you want a thorough investigation, then let me conduct that.'

Sullivan stepped back, one step, two steps.

‘We're going public this Friday. You know that.'

‘I'm not on board.'

‘You get used to a certain vibe in this town, Archer. A certain way that things are done. OK? I want the outcome to be the truth. But damn, when it seems like a slam dunk, I want that too.'

Archer nodded.

‘I want any information, Detective. You give it to me first. Because, at the end of the week …' He let it hang.

‘M
a, some good news.' She studied the frail woman, too old too soon. ‘There are doctors, scientists, who are experimenting with something that removes protein deposits in the brains of mice.'

The girl smiled in spite of herself. ‘Crazy, isn't it. They use mice to find a cure. Mice. Anyway, this drug, it's called bexarotene. Doctor Kahn says it's much too early to tell if it will work on humans, but there are scientists out there, researchers who are exploring, Ma, looking for an answer. They're not going to give up, these doctors and scientists, and neither are we.'

Her mother's hands were in her lap, slightly shaking with a tremor that the girl had only recently noticed. Just another worry.

The lobby was awash in afternoon sunshine and Solange Cordray sat in an easy chair, her mother's wheelchair pulled up close. Potted palms cast shadows on the patterned marble floor and fresh flowers crowded vases in an array of bright colors on ornate tables scattered through the main area.

An aide walked by, nodding at them, smiling with a knowing look. Solange was the only volunteer with a relative in the center. Whether it was pity, or just bliss that their relatives weren't afflicted with dementia in any scenario, she didn't know. But she resented the condescending looks, the patronizing attitude from the staff. Her mother had been a proud woman, someone who made a difference in this community, and for them to humiliate her in any way left Solange with a bad taste in her mouth.

‘It's a beautiful day, Ma. I picked up some fresh beignets at Cafe Du Monde, your favorite.'

She picked up a white sack beside the chair, opened it and presented the pastry with powdered sugar to her mother. No response.

‘Extra napkins, Ma. You remember how messy these are? But they are so good. Remember? You used to take me there as a child.'

Sitting at outside tables in the warm morning air, the low-hanging ferns swaying gently in the breeze. Sweet fried dough and powdered sugar. And then, chicory coffee served
au lait
. Although, she remembered, her mother had served hers with more cream than coffee. Still, a delicious Saturday morning treat. And a cross section of New Orleans characters. The juggler who only wore a jockstrap, and the two black tumblers who fascinated the patrons with their cartwheels, somersaults and almost impossible acrobatics. There was a one-armed guitar player, and a host of other entertainers she'd since forgotten, all on the sidewalk, right outside her Saturday morning haunt. Ma allowed for the other patrons, but had told her the entertainers were there just for her. It was their special place, their special time. Ma and her special little girl. She sensed the tears in her eyes. It seemed she was crying a lot lately.

Setting the bag back down, she reached over and placed her hand on the trembling hands of her mother.

‘Ma, I talked to the detective. I've done what I can do. I may have given him too much information. Or maybe too little.'

The old lady smiled at her, a sad smile, her eyes drooping and her wrinkled chin resting on her chest.

‘I don't know enough. I wish that I could solve the case and present him with the murderer.'

Clotille Trouville's eyes closed for a moment and her daughter breathed deeply, wondering if her mother was asleep. She was always frightened the woman would simply expire and never open those loving eyes again.

‘Baron,' she whispered, ‘please let her live. Let her live so that a cure can be found. Give her life, new life that she can once again inspire and pray for the souls of those who need her.'

The matronly woman opened her eyes as if on command.

‘Ma, it's a heavy burden we bear.'

Who was she to tell her mother about the burden? After all the old lady had been through. It was best if she left her alone and didn't bring up the witching. The voodoo spell that was cast from her moment of birth, from her mother's birth, her grandmother and before. And all the way back to the Voodoo Queen herself, Marie Laveau.

‘The Krewe Charbonerrie, they're deep in this murder. I've felt it before, I feel it now and I'm certain that he will figure it out. With all the powers that I have, I'm not sure how much further I can go. Sooner or later, the detective has to follow my lead. It's just getting him to trust me.'

Drool dribbled down the chin of the old woman and Solange Cordray wiped it away with a tissue.

‘Thank you for listening, Ma. These moments, these sharing times, are important to me. I feel you with me. Do you feel me with you?'

The lady lifted her head, a glint of recognition on her face. She nodded up and down, and Solange looked into her eyes, amazed at the acknowledgement. In an instant the once fiery orbs were clouded over as if the woman had never heard or acknowledged her daughter's presence.

T
o solve a murder you have to ask why, then follow the leads, the chain of evidence, until you've reached a conclusion, or, ask why starting with a suspect and go backwards, tying him into the crime.

Early in his career, he'd found an even easier way: someone simply comes forward and confesses or someone comes to you and gives up the perp. That hadn't happened in the death of his wife and now it hadn't happened in the death of the judge, and, since he didn't consider Antoine Duvay a suspect, Archer decided to follow a lead. River Bend Prison. End of the week, without a suspect, they were charging Duvay and that was not the way to go. He had to take some drastic measures.

The warden Russell Jakes seemed to have a personal relationship with Judge Lerner. They'd even had a photo taken in front of Lerner's piano, with the mug shots of convicted juvies sitting on the baby grand piano's lid. Definitely acquaintances, maybe friends, maybe more.

Then there was the former supervisor of guards, Rodger Claim. According to Judge Hall, Lerner and Claim definitely had a relationship. An intimate relationship that didn't last. Archer hadn't seen that one coming. Lerner, with an ex-wife and a child, seemed to be a straight guy. He should have explored a little further.

Finally, Solange Cordray's ex-husband had a vested interest in River Bend Prison. He had invested heavily in the company Secure Force, and apparently had done quite well as the company prospered. It could all be a coincidence, but seldom did Archer find that to be true. If two or more leads seemed to be headed in the same direction, there was something going on worth investigating.

Strand was off doing his own thing, probably still trying to tie Duvay up into knots so a strong conviction was inevitable. He secretly wished him luck but by now Archer knew full well that the killing went a lot deeper. This wasn't the work of a convicted petty thief who worked as a line cook at a waterfront New Orleans restaurant. The murder of Judge David Lerner went a lot deeper than a grudge shooting from a disgruntled criminal.

Archer's Chevy was in the lot, and even though the prison was an hour away, even though the temperature was eighty-seven in the shade, and even though his air conditioning was spotty at best, he decided to make the trip. Cold. No warning. He'd surprise everyone there and there would be no time to make up stories.

He didn't know if Rodger Claim was still employed at the prison, had no idea if Warden Russell Jakes would see him; he wasn't even sure if Joseph Cordray was still an investor in the prison group Secure Force. It didn't matter. Often, just showing up unannounced was enough to garner major information. If they knew you were coming, they'd conspire to stay silent. No, it was best to spring the surprise, and ask why.

River Bend Prison was northwest on Highway 10, about midway between LaPlace and South Baton Rouge, as advertised, on a bend in the Mississippi. It took him forty-five minutes to get there and it was four fifteen when he arrived. Not a lot of business time to see everything he wanted to see.

Pulling into a spacious parking lot he saw the familiar razor wire, reminding him of the jail right next to his office. But this was massive, rows and rows of the sharp thin shiny steel that would slice through your skin like a knife through warm butter. He'd read that in the last five years, two inmates had tried to traverse the deadly wire and both had died from loss of blood, their bodies sliced like beef
carpaccio
.

Four concrete towers anchored the perimeter of the site, cold and stark, and he imagined armed guards surveying the grounds below. These were the only weapons on the campus. Inside guards couldn't wear weapons for fear an inmate would take one and all hell would break loose.