Casting Bones (21 page)

‘What mob?'

‘Actually, any mob. But we figure that's the guy who actually killed him.'

‘My God, that's unbelievable. Did Lerner convict this guy? Was it a grudge thing?'

‘So far we can't tie them together.'

‘Sergeant Sullivan, I think it goes a lot deeper than a simple murder. There are a lot of threads.'

‘We get this Skeeter Lewis, we should get some answers.'

‘Priority,' Archer said.

‘One more thing,' Sullivan said. ‘We haven't reached Adam Strand yet. You know your partner isn't going to be happy. He still thinks he's got this thing wrapped up. Hoping and praying.'

You
were hoping and praying
, Archer thought.

‘Strand had Antoine Duvay locked up for the long haul,' Davis said.

‘Not after this,' Sullivan shook his head. ‘Now Strand might actually have to do some work on this case. He thought it was going to be an easy conviction.'

‘So you could actually hear the gunshot?' Archer asked. ‘On the recording? I mean, how often do you get that lucky?'

‘You can hear it,' Davis smiled. ‘Muffled but loud.'

‘What else?'

‘Well,' Sullivan picked up the player, ‘we'll play it for you, but at the end, at the very end of the recording, about fifteen minutes after the gunshot, you can hear this Skeeter character. It sounds like they're opening the door of a vehicle and struggling to pull something out.'

‘Lerner's body,' Archer said.

‘Probably. Here, I'll just play the last couple seconds for you.'

He pushed a button and there was a whoosh of noise, the phone inside the dead man's pocket loudly rustling over the fabric of the judge's pants.

‘It's coming up,' Davis said.

More rustling, and some muffled grunts as if the man or men who were carrying the body were struggling with the dead weight.

‘Here it is,' Sullivan was grinning, like a kid at Christmas.

Archer strained to hear some words, but they were more like groaning sounds. Then someone said, ‘Ready?'

Another voice mumbled something, and the last words Archer heard came out in almost a shout.

‘
Adios
, motherfucker.'

A count of three and there was a loud splash. A moment later everything went dead.

‘Jesus, there it is. They just threw the body into the river.'

Archer couldn't say he was shocked. He'd been certain that Antoine Duvay had been innocent of the killing. But, the kid had run. He'd been scared of something. And since Archer had learned that Duvay had been in charge of the warden's grounds and vehicles, he wondered. Wondered if the newly innocent Duvay was really that innocent.

Exactly half an hour from the time Solange left the center, her client entered the small shop on Dumaine Street. Her Ma's shop, she reminded herself. The place where Clotille Trouville had practiced her brand of voodoo, a place where the matronly figure felt she could heal the world. It was her dream, one person, one problem at a time. It was the same place her Ma had advised Earl Garrett, Solange's client's father.

In the small cluttered store, with the shelves of ragged dolls and
gris gris
bags for sale, in this tiny room with a bare-wood floor and faded posters advertising lotions and potions hanging from the plaster walls, she was entertaining a killer. She was sure of it. Ma would not approve. Absolutely no way.

An aging hand-painted wooden sign nailed to the counter read
All Payments Must Be Made Before Services Are Rendered
. It had been there as long as she could remember. Ma was strict about it. Pay before you play.

‘What are we searching for today,' she asked, carefully studying his reaction. She was certain who he was, and there was that very strong vibe that he was up to no good. She'd convinced herself. No good at all.

The casting map was laid out on the rough wooden floor in the back room and her four bones lay on top of a worn leather pouch.

Picking them up, she warmed them in her hand, studying the man who took a seat in the old cane-woven chair next to her.

‘There's a project, a plan in place that may have gotten out of control.'

‘Can you be more specific?' She wanted details.

‘No.'

‘Very well.' She would try a different tactic. ‘What information do you want from the bones?'

‘A
gris gris
bag you gave me several months ago, a spell that you gave me, surprisingly they had the desired effect.'

‘Surprisingly?' she asked, raising her eyebrows. She herself was never surprised. It was part of who she was and what she did. ‘Your father always trusted in my mother's abilities. Why would you doubt me?'

‘I meant no disrespect. I am not a firm believer, but it was powerful medicine.'

She nodded, rubbing the bones like a shooter at the casino rubs his dice. Tools of the trade.
Roll a lucky seven and your dreams come true. Roll a thirteen and …

‘Miss Cordray, I believe you have some amazing powers. And I do believe that you can peer beyond the normal. As you said, my father relied on your mother from time to time. I think you know what information I want from the bones. Am I right?'

She studied him, the lines in his face, the furrows in his brow. He carried a lot of worries. If the bones blessed him, he would consider it a license to go ahead with his plans. And if they cursed him, he would probably do the deed in spite of them.

‘There is this project, and I am hoping that it will have a satisfactory ending. I am hoping that the results will be in my favor. Am I being too vague?'

She considered his words.

‘You want to know if your project will be successful. For you?'

‘Yes.'

She studied him, then examined the bones in her hand.

‘And this project, it involves my ex-husband?'

Studying her, he clasped his hands together.

‘Does that matter?'

‘Does the project involve profit or financial gain?'
Lead him. Make him tell you the nature of this project.

‘Again, does it matter?'

‘Of course. I wouldn't ask if it didn't.'

‘Yes.'

‘Is this project you speak of moral?'

‘Define morality.'

‘Does your project revolve around good and evil?'

The man took a deep breath. ‘It has nothing to do with morality. It is a simple project and I want to know if it will be successful. If the bones tell me it will be successful, I will proceed. If they say no, then I will decide whether I need to pull the plug and—'

‘Mr Garrett, I must know if this is a principled project.' Damn it. He was being coy, avoiding the question.

The man shook his head. ‘I was under the impression that you could forecast the ongoing success or failure of my plan.'

‘I can't forecast anything. If the spirits are listening, if they are watching and weighing in on the event, then they may show their favor or disapproval. It's all about the spirits. It has very little to do with me. I am but their vessel.'

‘So? Ask them for me.'

‘I must know where the plan or project as you called it sits on a moral compass. Is that so hard to tell me? Yes or no. That's all, Mr Garrett.'

Watching her hand as she slowly caressed the smooth small bones, he shook his head again.

‘I think maybe we have come to a parting of the ways.'

‘Because you can't answer my question?' she asked. She didn't want to lose him; she still needed answers.

‘Because I want a simple answer and you' – he pointed his index finger in her direction – ‘you won't give me a simple answer. You know about this project, don't you? You see it, and you cast judgment.'

Solange smiled at his choice of words. ‘Mr Garrett, there are no simple answers. We would all like simple answers, but they don't exist. They never have. And, sir, it is not
my
answer to give. You haven't listened to me. The answers come from far greater powers.'

‘Oh?'

‘The
gris gris
bag that you felt helped your cause, the spell that was given to you, they had little to do with me.'

‘And I thought they had everything to do with you.'

She shook her bowed head.

‘The spirits that deal with grief, loneliness, riches and wealth, the spirits of good fortune and health and everything else that humans have need of, these spirits are the ones who determine your fate. Please, don't look to me for an answer. Again, I must emphasize, I am simply the intermediary.'

Garrett studied the map at his feet. Earth, plant and animal. He glanced at the yellowed bones in the young girl's hand.

And the voodoo girl knew in an instant. He'd figured it out. There was no need for an answer. He didn't want definitive proof about whether he was successful or not. There was no sport in those answers.

The man stood, reached into his front pocket and pulled out two twenties and a ten. He handed the three bills to Solange and quietly walked out the store, the small bell tinkling as the door slammed shut. All payments must be paid before services are rendered.

Solange looked at the casting map, then closing her eyes she tossed the bones, hearing them rattle on the oilcloth.

Opening her eyes she saw the result. Four bones, four different possibilities. And every possibility was bad. There was no way, absolutely no way that his project could work. Every answer was a strong negative, every combination a formula for failure. In her normal business life, the man should be warned. In this case, she was exhilarated. He couldn't succeed.

Glancing at the door she knew what her next step should be. Garrett had made his own decision. He no longer asked for the intervention of the spirit world, and that was his decision to make. Solange was tempting fate if she forced her perceptions upon him. She needed to be quiet and let nature run its course, no matter how violent, no matter how bad the situation. The spirits were in charge and a mere human couldn't control the future.

The voodoo lady picked up the three bills he'd given her, placed them in a brown envelope and tossed the envelope in a large copper dish. Picking up a box of wooden matches, she struck one and ignited the envelope. As it burned, the black smoke rose and she smiled.

Folding up the map and putting her bones back in their pouch, she stored them and thought about the safety of her mother. If Clarence didn't follow her direction and leave the employ of the center, she would kill him. She wasn't sure how, but realized that death could be the outcome. Maybe there
was
a spell for killing someone. She'd have to study that. And that possibility didn't bother her at all.

H
e woke up when a rooster crowed outside his window, the same window someone had tried to pry open with a knife. Had it been a drunk from the Quarter who thought no one was home? Not likely, although there were always strange characters out in the evening. Maybe a burglar who prayed on the area, knowing a lot of tourists who rented would be on the town? He didn't think so. He'd taken the broken knife blade to the lab. They had classified it as low priority, but he'd check with them in a couple of days. There was a chance they could match some prints.

He took a cup of instant coffee out to his miniscule front porch, listening to the early sound of the Quarter waking up, or for some, finally calling it a night.

Something told him the window incident involved Detroit. In the back of his mind he could hear and see Jason, his youngest brother. Jason, the one with the scraggly facial hair and the slight stutter, who just before he left had threatened Quentin's life.

He'd told him that until Brian Archer was free and Q was dead, he would haunt his oldest brother. Told him to his face. To be fair, Quentin Archer had tormented his younger siblings when they were children. Made them do his chores, even his homework. He'd just never figured that his kid brother, the young punk Jason, would go this far.

Jason and Brian Archer, his blood relations, but as distant as the ends of the earth. They'd become drug dealers who had hooked up with a very obliging Bobby Mercer, a Detroit cop who had creative ways of making money on the side. Bobby, still a respected cop, was a legend to the underworld. And the DPD refused to deal with it.

When Q had finally had enough, he'd gone to his father and asked what
he
would do. The retired sergeant told him to relax. This was family and the boys would find their way eventually. Archer gave the old man token peace, but when the drug dealing escalated and a city councilman who was leading a probe into police involvement was found drowned in the Detroit River, he acted.

His department ignored him, siding with Bobby Mercer. His family shunned him, siding with Brian and Jason; and when Denise Archer, the love of his life, was the victim of that hit-and-run, Quentin Archer decided he'd suffered enough. Witnesses claimed they saw the driver chase the woman, coming up on the sidewalk with a Chevy sedan to make sure she was hit. The body was battered and broken when they finally cleared the scene. No one had seen the license plate number. Not until Tom Lyons and friends started a search for cameras. Archer would never get over that horrible afternoon. It had left him a broken man. The sorrow of losing his wife drove him from his home. But he hadn't forgotten. Her picture was by his bed, next to a cold, colorless framed photo of the street corner where she'd been killed. He needed to remember every day.

The rogue cop Bobby Mercer continued to prowl the streets of the Motor City, using his uniform and position as a license to earn a second income. Archer's brother Brian was convicted and was doing six months for a minor distribution charge. Jason, who had a larger sentence hanging over his head, had left town under cover and no one seemed to know his whereabouts. Quentin had a good idea of where his brother might be. But there were a lot of places to hide in New Orleans. And with the number of cases Archer was covering, he didn't have time to look. Not right now.