Casting Bones (32 page)

‘People have strange friends, Mike.'

‘Ah, but this guy has been meeting frequently with our Jonathon Gandal. As I said, recently. Right around the time that the judges were being murdered. Trust me Q, these meetings have some gravitas.'

Stepping from the wheezing Chevy, wiping sweat from his brow, Archer walked away without locking the car, half hoping someone would actually steal the clunker and maybe he could upgrade to some drug dealer's repo'd Lincoln or Cadillac.

‘This Campari, he's not the kind of guy that Richard Garrett would personally want to meet with?' Archer asked the question.

‘I wouldn't think so. Jesus, Garrett works on a reputation as a wholesome son of a bitch, but I'm sure some of his employees would say different. By my accounts, Garrett has used other people to do almost all of his dirty work. That's why I wouldn't think Garrett would want to get blood on his hands, but he's apparently done that,' Mike said. ‘We're pretty sure he killed Jonathon Gandal.'

Archer heard the word ‘we'. He wondered what Mike had. An entire team of investigators?

‘Maybe Garrett had run out of people he could trust.' Archer was getting to that point, too, wondering who he could trust. Family, the Detroit cops, and now his sergeant and his partner. Neither of the latter wanted to pursue Garrett. But to be truthful, he didn't trust either of them. Sullivan and Strand hadn't shown any support for his ideas this entire case; hell, ever since he'd gotten there. Maybe Garrett had the same problem with his staff. Whatever he was involved with, he had to make it happen himself. There was no one left that he could trust. No one else to do the dirty work.

Archer could hear the clinking of glasses and china and pictured the wiry-haired man behind the bar, talking in hushed tones.

‘Campari has been rumored to solicit a man who goes by the name of Loup-garou. The Werewolf.'

‘Go on.' That corroborated the information from Skeeter Lewis.

‘Guy works the edge and I haven't been able to get a handle on his real name, but he arranges end-of-life scenarios.'

End-of-life scenarios. Serious shit.

Archer thought for a moment. If Mike had told him yesterday that Richard Garrett was guilty of Gandal's murder, he would have questioned the entire account. Probably dismissed it altogether. But he had Samuel Jackson's story, and Archer had the black American Express card. Maybe enough evidence to bring before a judge. The puzzle just might be coming together.

‘Loup-garou has worked for the Gagliano family, Q,' Mike continues. ‘Big time mob name in New Orleans. He stays busy in this area. This Werewolf, he's a bad guy, trust me. So if he's setting up the hits, maybe the mob is involved.'

It was a stretch. Like six degrees of Kevin Bacon. Anyone could piece together enough relationships and trace themselves back to someone. But, if Garrett employed Gandal, and Gandal had had meetings with Campari, and Campari had had meetings with this Loup-garou, then maybe, just maybe there really was a Garrett connection to the murdered judges.

‘I'm going to meet with your friend, Solange Cordray, Mike. Hopefully in a few minutes. I'm thinking she can help fill in some of the blanks. The lady seems to have a pretty good handle on what's going on. And you, my friend, you've been a big help. If it weren't for people like you, we wouldn't solve these crimes.'

There was momentary silence on the other end. Archer could hear the bar sounds, and the breathing of the bartender.

‘Q, I told you that I would tell you everything I knew once I knew. So far, I'm fulfilling my promise.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Now you've got to do what you said you'd do.'

‘And that was?'

‘Keep asking why. Your question should be
why
. I can give you everything I've learned, but you need to know why, am I right?'

‘Exactly.'

‘You've got the pieces, my man.'

‘Why? Why would someone with the strength and power of Richard Garrett kill someone like Gandal? What was he thinking? The guy is an oil magnate. A rich son of a bitch. What was he doing? Protecting himself?'

‘You're on the right track, Quentin. Put the pieces together. If I have any other information I've got your number,
inspecteur
. I'll call you. In the meantime, you need to concentrate on what you know. Figure this out, because the story is not good for our community.'

The connection went dead.

Archer holstered the phone, shaking his head. The events of the last days flew through his head. Three dead judges, a list of numbers, a partner who admitted to being on the take, the former lover of Judge David Lerner who had disappeared, Warden Jakes's Jaguar showing up at Lerner's house and a murder recorded on a smart phone. The Krewe, Richard Garrett and Solange Cordray. Somewhere in there was an answer.

He found a parking spot just a block from Solange's shop. As he walked briskly toward the building he heard a shrill scream. At almost the same time, a disheveled man in his mid-thirties stepped from the store hunched over, running his hands through his hair and straightening his clothes.

Quickly looking one way then the other, the man walked down the street as if in pain, his head bent down as if to avoid detection.

Archer crossed the street with a burst of speed. Pushing open the door of Solange's shop he immediately saw the old man, crumpled on the floor. His white hair was splayed across the aged gray wood and a trail of blood spread across his exposed cheek and ran onto the floor. Across the small room stood Solange Cordray, her ebony hair in disarray, white dress torn so that her right shoulder was bare. Her dark face was flushed and tears streamed down her cheeks. Her eyes were wide open, sharing her terror with whoever stared into them.

S
trand took a long swig from the warm bottle of Jack, feeling the whiskey burn down his throat and into his stomach. The bottle was almost gone. Even with the windows rolled down, the heat was unbearable. He watched the two Hispanics saunter into the convenience store, and almost wished they would try to rob the place. He could step in, level his Glock and save the day. Still vital. Still a damned good cop, right? The Indian who owned the place would probably treat him to a spicy tamarind sambar dinner, and he'd be on all the news shows. Finally, his claim to fame.

Thinking about a curry meal made him even hotter. He was tempted to go in and buy a cold six pack, drink a bottle in the car and hold it to his perspiring face. Where the hell was Trueblood? The waiting was killing him. He should be working on the murders. Instead he was selling the evidence. He took another swig from the dwindling pint. Should have brought another bottle.

He saw the car pull in by the reflection in his side mirror. As Trueblood pulled alongside, Strand patted the file folder next to him. He kept thinking about the forty thousand dollars. He could catch up on child support, actually buy a nice present for his little girl. Take a vacation. Buy some love. It wasn't so bad. It was a lot of money for very little work. Be positive. No one was going to find out that he was responsible. This was simply a list of prisoners who were already documented. Just a list of their prison numbers. Nothing that couldn't be found again with a little digging.'

Then why was he being offered forty thousand dollars for these printouts? What could possibly make them so valuable that this organization, whatever it may be, would offer him that kind of money?

The two Hispanics walked out, a paper bag in the taller man's hand. Some wine. No bag of cash. No chance to be a fucking hero.

He watched Trueblood's car and everything was still. No movement. The glare of the sun cut off any visual through the windows. Who should make the first move? He considered the options. Eying the remaining warm whiskey, he took a long swallow, finally realizing he'd now finished the bottle. A little dizzy, a little woozy, but ready for the next challenge.

After two minutes, Strand finally opened the door. The heat was even more oppressive in the sun. Feeling a little tipsy, he walked around the back of his car and tapped on the window of Trueblood's driver's side.

The window came down and the man looked up at Strand and gave him a thin-lipped smile.

‘Adam, you brought the sheets?'

‘That was the purpose of our visit.' Strand gave a backward glance to see if a cop car was going to appear and arrest him.

‘You've been drinking?'

‘A little. Does that matter?'

Trueblood smiled. ‘No. Can I see them?'

‘Can I see the cash?'

‘After I see the sheets.'

Strand wiped the sweat from his brow, running his hand through his hair. There wasn't a part of him that wasn't damp. He wished he'd remained a little more sober. A little less lightheaded.

‘I'd prefer to know you brought the money.' He repeated the word. ‘Money.' He staggered, slightly. ‘Come on, man, just show me some of the cash and …' He was slurring his words.

‘The money isn't going to materialize until I see the spreadsheets, Detective.'

Strand nodded. ‘It appears we're at an impasse.' Impasse. Good choice of words. He smiled. ‘An impasse, sir.'

‘I don't think you've got them. I don't think you could get the file out of the evidence room. Too much for someone like you. Am I right? You don't have them, do you?'

‘I think you're full of shit, Trueblood. I don't think you brought the money.' And at that point, he seriously wasn't sure. He was scared.

‘Well, I guess this is a draw, Adam.' Trueblood started his engine, putting the car in reverse.

‘Wait. Wait.' He wasn't going to let the money go. Not after all he'd been through. ‘All right, man, I guess I can show you the evidence. You can see the merchandise, but I need to see cash.'

‘Bring them here.'

Strand staggered back to his car, reaching in and pulling out the folder. It just seemed so cheap. Forty thousand dollars' worth of digital printouts in a plain folder. It didn't seem right.

Walking back to Trueblood's car he opened the folder and showed the man what was inside.

‘Give me the folder. I need to examine it to see if this is the information we're after.'

‘I need to see—'

‘Strand.'

Hesitantly Strand handed him the folder.

‘OK, Adam. Your worst fears have been realized.'

‘What?'

Trueblood set the folder on the passenger seat.

‘I'm not giving you forty thousand dollars. I'm not giving you anything. It's over, man.'

‘What the—'

‘The good news is, I'm not going to tell your superiors that you stole these from the evidence room. Nobody is going to know. Do you understand? That's the price, Strand. I won't tell anyone where I got these. You want to argue with me, I'll be happy to tell your superiors where I got them. I'll be happy to destroy you, put you in prison. I get the printouts, everything is quiet, you walk away. That's kind of the way it is, my friend. Sorry.'

Strand stood there with his mouth open. He could see the folder, out of reach, and he could say absolutely nothing. His world collapsed. The spreadsheets, out of reach, no money to be transferred. He stared at the folder as Trueblood reached behind himself and pulled out a pistol. He laid it on the seat, his hand covering it.

Finally Strand blurted out, ‘You can't do that. No, it doesn't work like that. When this evidence comes up missing—'

‘I
can
do that. Try to understand. I just did. Don't you get it? You're fucked. But I won't tell a soul where I got them. If you left yourself as a possible suspect, hey, it's not my problem, Adam.'

‘You said … you said we had a deal. I mean, this was a done deal. How can you …? I put myself on the line, for God's sake. No, no, don't, please. Jesus, don't leave me hanging here. Please. This is a huge fucking deal and …' His little girl, a trip to the Bahamas. ‘Something. Ten thousand …' Tears sprang to his eyes.

As the window started to rise, Strand reached in, his hands going for Trueblood's throat. He could think of nothing else but killing the liar. He'd been through this kind of hell for nothing. The window caught him, his arms pinched now in the space and he wrenched them out, staring in disbelief as the man's car backed out and pulled onto the street.

Watching the car turn and disappear at the intersection he stood frozen on the blacktop parking lot. A fog clouded his brain and he tried hard to comprehend how he'd just been shorted his windfall. It was impossible to absorb. Strand wiped his face with his shirtsleeve, wondering how he could be that stupid, that naive. There was a degree of trust that should have been honored. It was impossible to conceive. Seriously? The guy had just shrugged his shoulders and driven off? Strand had plans for that money. Forty grand. And now, absolutely nothing. And he didn't even know for sure who the man was and who he worked for.

His feet felt like lead as he trudged back to his car. The passenger seat that until minutes ago held forty thousand dollars' worth of merchandise was empty. All because he trusted someone to honor his commitment. All because he'd believed that things always ended up working out. Even though he knew they seldom did. The detective wished himself sober, but that wasn't going to happen any time soon. No booze, no money, no spreadsheets.

Strand sat behind the wheel, staring into space as sweat and tears ran down his face, dripping into his eyes. Five, ten, fifteen minutes he sat there, no air conditioning, the oppressive humidity soaking him in his clothes.

A million thoughts went through his mind, and then it would go blank. He could put out an all-points bulletin, claiming the man stole the printouts, but there was no record of Trueblood going into the evidence room. None. He could try to track the man and confront him. Chances are the file would have been transferred to whoever he worked for long before he even got to him.