Casting Bones (33 page)

How many people had seen him in that evidence room? He could count five or six. Probably more. And if those records carried more important information than he could understand, well, that was even worse.

And at that moment, as if on cue, a long-haired bearded man came barreling out of the 7-Eleven, a paper bag in hand, and a pistol in the other. He turned on the sidewalk, a bullet ricocheted off the building as he fired back at the store.

Strand took a deep breath, calmly reached into his glove compartment and pulled out his Glock. Pulling back the hammer, he aimed the gun at the retreating robber. He held the pistol steady, watching the man run, then turn the corner and disappear from sight. Strand put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

T
here was no question it was Garrett.

‘He was a crazy man, Detective. After he knocked Matebo to the floor, he grabbed my throat and said I needed to be silenced.' She sat in a hemp-woven chair, gaining her composure.

The old man, Matebo, had argued, but the paramedics took him to Tulane University Hospital for observation. They assured Solange that he seemed to be fine, but to be safe they needed to transport him to the medical facility.

Archer had invited her to Cafe Envie, a neutral spot, hoping the young woman would give him a more substantial statement. Hoping she would … he wasn't sure what. Maybe just solve the case.

Cordray and Archer sat across from each other in Cafe Envie, the high, lazy ceiling fans slowly stirring the stale air, the girl with her dark espresso and Archer with his green tea.

‘Why?'

She stared into his eyes and he steeled himself against any emotion. She had an effect, manipulative or unintentional, but Archer needed a clear head.

‘Why? Why did Garrett say you needed to be silenced? What do you know that you were going to tell?'

‘Because of what I've told you. He is the leader of Krewe Charbonerrie. He's responsible for the death of—'

‘Why? Why did he have the judges killed?'

‘It has to do with the prison. It has to do with the young men who go there.'

‘How do you know that?' he asked.

‘He told me.'

‘Told you?'

‘He said I must be silenced. And as he wrapped his hands around my throat, he said that I knew about the sentencing, I knew about the boys in prison, and I had to be silenced.'

Archer looked away, sipping his tea.

‘No voodoo spell? No reading minds?'

‘No, it was what Richard Garrett told me.'

‘He thought you knew. As he was strangling you. As he was trying to kill you.'

‘Just as he did with Jonathon Gandal.'

The detective shook his head. ‘Garrett is about six foot two, weighs around two ten. If he wanted to kill you, he would have killed you.'

‘I don't think so,' she said.

‘You put a curse on him? Chanted something?'

Cordray wrapped her small hands around her coffee mug.

‘Are you mocking me, Detective?'

‘No. Not at all. I want to know. How did you stop this man from ending your life? You have some abilities that I'm apparently not aware of.'

‘There are certain things we learn from an early age, Mr Archer.'

‘Your mother taught you?'

Smiling, she nodded. ‘I'm sure my mother taught me, and others as I grew older.'

‘Voodoo secrets that you can't divulge?'

‘A knee in the groin, Detective. And when he let go I screamed like hell. So did he. It has nothing to do with voodoo. It has to do with survival.'

Archer arranged for a patrolman to watch Solange Cordray, and put out an all-points bulletin to pick up Richard Garrett. When reached at his corporate headquarters, Garrett's personal assistant claimed to have no knowledge of his whereabouts and strongly denied any suggestion that the oil magnate had anything to do with murder or attempted murder.

On his way home Archer called Strand's phone, but after five rings he got an automated answer so he decided to try back later. His shirt was wet with sweat and he walked the short distance to his home, planning on a quick shower and a change of clothes.

Put the pieces together.
Antoine Duvay was the first piece. Duvay was their first suspect. He and Adam Strand had admitted to each other that if Duvay had confessed, this case would have been perfect. But that piece didn't seem to fit.

Richard Garrett had told Solange Cordray that it was all about the boys in prison. And Antoine Duvay had worked personally for the warden. Duvay had run at the first sign of trouble. Archer took a chance that Levy would still be at the precinct and called his extension. Levy answered on the second ring.

‘Antoine Duvay worked personal detail for Warden Jakes at the prison.'

‘Yeah. A real model prisoner, seriously.'

‘Listen, Levy, the kid Duvay runs when he hears that Judge Lerner has been murdered, but it turns out Duvay had nothing to do with the murder.'

‘Unless he knows why the judge was murdered and he's afraid you know more than you do.'

‘Yeah. I may have to actually apologize to Strand. Maybe Duvay was involved.'

‘You haven't heard?'

‘What?'

‘Strand committed suicide. Shot himself in his car.'

‘Jesus.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Did he leave a …'

‘Note? No. But there was a note beside him.'

‘What?'

‘He'd scrawled one line.
Meet P.T. at 7-Eleven
.'

‘P.T.?'

‘They're running it now but all that came up immediately is the P.T. you included in your report. The guy that Lerner was supposed to meet just before he was murdered.'

‘Somebody pick up Antoine Duvay. Bring him in and we're going to question him one more time.'

Strand, dead? And a meeting with P.T. The case got stranger every minute.

Once home, Archer threw his keys on the small kitchen table and headed for the bathroom. Quickly stripping off his clothes, Archer stepped into the lukewarm shower and let the water wash over him. A little soap, a little scrubbing and in five minutes he felt much better. Stepping out, he wrapped the worn white towel around his waist and took a deep breath. Tobacco, cigarette smoke. He remembered it well. Often longed for it. Someone outside his cottage must be smoking. He opened the bathroom door and the man sitting on his bed smiled at him, cigarette burning in one hand, Archer's Glock in the other.

S
he prayed for Matebo. To the spirits, all of them. The old man didn't deserve to die at the hands of a thug like Garrett. And she cast a spell, one she seldom used, wishing that Richard Garrett would be punished. She was responsible. She'd accepted the degenerate as a client and even when she knew he was evil, she had strung him on, hoping that she could learn more about his immoral mission.

It went against her beliefs to wish someone harm. But she followed the ancient ritual. His name, written three times on rice paper. Then she torched the paper, ashes forming in a ceramic bowl. Praying to Erzulie Dantor, goddess of vengeance, she stepped outside, nodding at her uniformed nanny, and blew hard on the black ashes. They scattered in the gentle breeze and she could feel the intense gaze from the police officer. Garrett deserved to be convicted and sentenced to death. He'd been responsible for killing three judges, and he'd hurt Matebo. She hoped the spell was powerful enough. And Garrett was responsible for the patrolmen assigned to her. She was not going to be held prisoner by anyone. The voodoo lady had a healthy distrust of all law enforcement officers, even Quentin Archer, and now to be surrounded by them twenty-four hours a day was almost unbearable.

‘Ma'am, is there any trouble?'

‘No.' She forced a smile. ‘Some ashes I needed to get rid of.'

He nodded as if he understood. But no one really understood.

She walked back into her shop, thinking about Ma. What if Garrett decided to use her mother? There was almost no security at the home, no real reason for it. Yet Garrett knew her mother was there, and he was aware of the bond between mother and daughter.

She needed to do something. The worst thing that could happen would be if Richard Garrett used her mother as a bargaining chip.

Pulling her cell phone from her purse, she called Archer's cell. No answer, just an automated voice.

Solange walked into the back room of the small shop, opened the waist-high window and climbed out. In a minute she was on the next street and headed toward the Water's Edge Care Center.

A
rcher stood there, with just a towel for protection.

‘You're looking a little tired, bro.' The man with the Glock hesitated, taking a deep breath. ‘And apparently you-you-you're getting a little sloppy. I thought you took your gun with you-you know, every-everywhere.'

The slight stutter was familiar. Archer had grown up listening to it every day.

‘What do you want?'

‘A piece of y-you, my man.' Jason Archer aimed the barrel at Q's chest. ‘For what you did. You fucked up my life, Quentin. And my brother's li-life.'

‘You two fucked up your own lives.'

‘We don't see it like that. And I don't think D-Dad sees it like that either.'

‘I've got a killer on the loose, I've got an interview with a suspect, and a partner who just committed suicide. I've got a young lady whose life is in jeopardy and as you probably know, my job is on the line. So why don't you either do what you came to do, or get the hell out of my house.'

‘Always the strong man, Quentin. Always the guy who was p-put upon but kept his backbone straight, like iron. What was that song Dad used to s-sing? “One fist of iron, the other of steel.” I grew up thinking that was prob-probably you.'

‘Didn't work out so well in Detroit, did it?' Archer asked.

‘Bobby M is still driving the streets, bro. You should have left well enough alone.'

‘Who killed her, Jason?'

‘I th-think it was an accident.' He aimed the barrel at Q's head, then moved it down to line up with his crotch. Pointing with his free hand to the papers on the end table, he nodded. ‘You've been doing a little dig-digging. Somebody in D-Detroit feeding you information?'

‘Private security company. Nobody you know.'

‘You were warned, b-bro. Leave it alone. We'll st-stop you if we have to.'

‘Who killed her, Jason? Tell me. Because if it was you, you'll never outrun me. And if it was Mercer or somebody else, I need to know.'

‘Denise was a noose around your neck, Quentin. You got all high and mighty when you finally hooked up. L-let it lie.'

‘That was my wife, Jason. My wife.'

‘I know, dude.' He snubbed the cigarette out on the faux wooden end table and the embers sizzled as they burned into the surface.

‘So what's it going to be?'

‘Pretty tough talk from a man with no clothes.'

‘Get it over with, Jason.'

Jason Archer smiled, and stroked his scraggly beard with his left hand.

‘No heroics? No desperate grab for the gun?'

‘You've got to live with what you did and what you're going to do. It's pretty much your call right now. I just want to know who killed Denise. Who ran a vehicle up on a sidewalk to get even with me?'

‘You put our brother Brian in jail, Quentin. You set back an, you know, an operation that was doing pretty well for everyone. There are a hun-hundred side deals going on in Detroit. Everyone looking out for themselves and you come along and decide to play Serpico. One man is going to bring down everyone. You arrogant piece of sh-shit. You pompous asshole. You could have stayed out of it and none of this would have happened. Even dad told you to b-back off. Your wife would be alive, you'd have your old job back and Brian wouldn't be doing time.'

‘And you'd still be pushing drugs on the street and getting people killed.'

‘Fuck you.'

Jason raised the barrel, aiming it directly between Quentin Archer's eyes.

‘You were sent here to kill me, weren't you? You going to shoot me?'

Jason nodded and pulled the trigger.

S
olange walked quickly, not knowing how long it would take until the policeman realized she had left the shop. His job would be on the line, and she felt sorry about that, but her main concern was her mother. That was all that mattered.

Avoiding the main streets when she could, she dodged into alleys and courtyards that she knew well, taking a shortcut here, going the long way around over there. A mongrel dog growled menacingly as she worked her way through a back alley, and she gave it a stern look. The mangy-haired animal cowered and whimpered as she moved on by. She dodged garbage cans overflowing with rotting produce and putrid meat, the stench permeating the air, and several rusted charcoal grills that stood on cement block porches, along with vinyl folding chairs that were torn and faded from wear and the sun.

She wasn't sure what her next move would be, but she felt certain that staying with Ma would be the first step toward insuring her safety. The helplessness of the old woman brought tears to her eyes.

Stepping out of a small courtyard, she saw the long, two-story building one block away. Water's Edge Care Center. She sprinted across the street barely missing a man selling ice cream from a pushcart. A family of four stepped aside as she ran past them. In between two small cottages and—

‘Where the hell do you think you're going?'

The thick arm came out of nowhere, wrapping itself around her neck and picking her up off the ground.

She gave a strangled cry and started kicking, her small frame helpless against the big man who reeked of alcohol.

‘You think you can threaten me, cost me my job? You think you are too fucking good for me?'

‘Clarence, you don't want to do anything else. Stop it now. Seriously, you are going to be in so much trouble.'