Casting Bones (6 page)

Detective Adam Strand might have to eat his words tomorrow because he wasn't going to be able to make the charge stick. Archer was sure of it.

Walking to his compact refrigerator, he pulled out a Dixie beer and popped the top. A New Orleans beer, now made in Wisconsin. The plant had been looted after Katrina and the owners had moved the operation to a more friendly location.

He sipped the beer and decided he was going to have a talk with the landlord about getting a new fridge. It was nothing close to cold.

Closing his eyes, Archer ran the day's events through his mind like a newsreel, starting with the call from a dispatcher this morning. Duvay's attempt at evasion was cause for concern, yes; but young black men in Detroit, especially ex-cons, distanced themselves from cops with regularity. They didn't trust law enforcement officers. How many times had he shouted out ‘Police' and watched people race from a scene. Almost
every
time. It didn't always equate to specific guilt. They may have been guilty of
something,
but not necessarily of the crime he was investigating. Why should it be any different in New Orleans?

The oysters still heavy in his stomach, he drank part of another beer and fell asleep in the worn pea-green lounge chair, NBC still broadcasting in the background and Bourbon Street music still ringing in his ears.

The young, light-skinned black girl stood on the carriageway that led to his courtyard unit, breathing in the pungent odor of a ripe gardenia bush. Her dark eyes darted right, then left and settled on the brick building as she brushed coal-black curls from her face. Blocking the music from her mind, she concentrated on Archer and wondered if the time was right. She needed to tell him, to warn him about the death of the judge. She studied the small home, drumming fingers against her jean-covered thigh. Then, with a frown, she walked back out onto Bourbon Street. Tomorrow would be preferable. The detective would be fresh, rested and better able to deal with her. Then she wondered if he would be receptive to dealing with her at all.

‘Damballa,' she whispered, ‘you who makes valleys with your passing, bring me an inquiring mind. Bring me a sponge that I may let it soak up the knowledge.'

A breeze kicked up a cloud of dust from the sidewalks, blowing fine particles of dust into the eyes of the Bourbon Street crowd, and drunken revelers on the street looked skyward, wondering where this puff of wind had come from.

Archer sat bolt up in his chair, an icy chill racing through his body. The man's heart skipped a beat and he quickly surveyed the small living space. Instinctively he reached for his Glock 22, feeling some comfort in the grip of the handle. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. Nothing out of place. It wasn't a dream, but something had invaded his space. Music still blared from Bourbon Street, the sound of a noisy throng only slightly muffled in his courtyard. Everything was as it had been, but he knew something had happened. Wiping a sheen of perspiration from his forehead and rising from the chair, he grabbed his beer bottle and dumped the remainder in the white porcelain sink. He needed a clear head.

With one more sweep of the tiny room, then the bath, he re-holstered his pistol and checked the deadbolt and cheap lock on the front door. He had been getting used to someone playing mind games with him, but this felt different. Stripping off his clothes he lay back on the bed staring at the cracked ceiling. The Glock rested on the cheap vinyl end table, within easy reach. If he was threatened, he was ready. Never afraid to pull the pistol and use it.

Archer had drawn parallels between Motor City and New Orleans. Some of them were crystal clear. With roiling racial biases, drug trafficking, a corrupt police force and a murder rate that seemed to increase every year, the two cities resembled each other in many ways. But there were differences. He'd felt it the moment they'd seen the body. The bloated, dead body of Judge David Lerner. He'd never encountered anything like that in Detroit. Something about this case continued to haunt him. He hadn't been able to put his finger on it, but something floated in front of him, nagged at his inner core and clouded his brain. He'd always been a man who crystallized his thoughts, his methods, his purpose. Not anymore. Not after the body in the Mississippi River had surfaced. The murder of David Lerner, the case itself confused him. It was as if a ghostly presence surrounded the situation.

Through the turmoil in his life, the cases, the family crisis, his romantic disasters, his wife's murder, Archer's grounded sense of reason and justice had been the rock. He could always sort out the good and the bad and arrive at a logical conclusion.

Not here. Not now. There was interference, and the intrusion was disturbing his ability to think things clearly through.

On Bourbon Street the tipsy crowd on the Cat's Meow's second floor balcony was at capacity. The roar of the crowd and the blaring music filled the air as she glanced up at the spring breakers, the Mardi Gras faithful, and the drunken locals who patronized the Quarter. Plastic cups in hand, they swilled their drinks and at least a dozen young men shouted down to the assembled in boisterous voices, ‘Show us your tits.'

Three young women on the street pulled up their tops and bras, shaking their breasts as plastic beads cascaded from above. Two girls on the balcony shouted, ‘Show us your cocks,' and ten feet away from her a drunken twenty-year-old pulled down his pants.

The young black woman walked away, head down. Her town never seemed to change.

E
ven in Detroit, the badge garnered respect. A flash of the brass and doors opened. Important people ushered you into their inner sanctums and told you stories that no one else would ever hear.

Not so in New Orleans. There was a hierarchy that ruled. Some of it from organized crime. Some from crooked politicians who controlled the city. And often the snub was the result of a distrust of any law enforcement agency. Four police officers had recently been convicted of shooting unarmed residents in the aftermath of Katrina. In the last five days one cop had been arrested for rape, another for domestic violence and two had been charged for excessive use of force. Then there was the female detective from the Fourth who had stolen money from a charity for the homeless. A lot of money. There was only so much tolerance from the populace regarding the police abusing their power.

Sergeant Dan Sullivan met him in the lobby.

‘Archer. A brief meeting in my office.'

Quentin Archer followed him into the small room. The desk was piled with paper, and his laptop was pushed to the side. Several commendations were framed on the wall behind him, and someone had made a stained-glass NOPD logo that he'd propped up on the remaining space of the crowded surface. The man needed a bigger desk.

‘Strand thinks he might sweat this Duvay kid. What's your take on it?'

‘It's the first lead, Sergeant.' Still too new to know how far to go. Going on record as criticizing his partner might not play so well. ‘You know. Sometimes that pans out. He's got a warrant to search the house this morning, so there's that.'

‘I've been here awhile, Archer. This isn't my first Mardi Gras. I think it's a little presumptuous. There's no evidence to back it up. Do you agree?'

‘The kid took a hard hit from Judge Lerner. Most minors do community service for shoplifting. Duvay got a year. He may have a reason to be angry. As soon as we questioned him, he bolted from work, and when he realized we'd located him he took off running again.'

‘I rest my case.' Sullivan folded his hands. ‘No evidence. None. Am I right?'

‘To be fair, Sergeant, Strand can use today to find evidence.'

The sergeant glanced at his cheap Timex with its large black face. ‘Whoever the attorney turns out to be, he'll have him out in an hour.'

‘But that's an hour that lets Strand investigate without the kid interfering.'

Every minute you could buy meant you might be that much closer to solid evidence. And he had to back his partner.

‘This morning, where are you?'

‘Courthouse. I've made a list of people who worked with the judge, liked him, hated him, including an ex-secretary who filed a sexual harassment case against him four years ago. She's agreed to talk.'

‘The judge? A sexual harassment charge? Really? I never heard about that.'

‘She dropped the charges, and they moved her to traffic court. She's still there, so I figured …'

‘Interesting.'

‘Oh, there's more.' He'd searched the Internet late in the night, called up police records and found quite a bit of information. Missing a lot of sleep, he'd turned up one important fact. The dead Judge Lerner was no saint.

‘There's also a retired judge, name of Raft, who went public with a claim that Judge Lerner was possibly taking money to throw out cases. The backup on this charge comes through an anonymous source, and I'm not sure this Judge Raft will agree to talk anymore. He claimed his family had been threatened.'

‘What?' Sullivan was obviously shocked. ‘I've played golf with Judge Lerner. Not to speak ill of the dead, but I will agree he was pretty much an asshole. However, throwing cases? Sexual harassment? I would think charges like that would have gone public. I mean, I know he was maybe a little overly aggressive, but that's not in the same league.'

‘Judge Raft was reassigned. Then he took an early retirement.'

Sullivan shook his head. ‘Let me guess. Assigned to traffic court. It's a pattern. Am I right?'

Archer nodded. ‘I made the calls yesterday, Sergeant. It sounds to me like this guy had a lot of power, and it didn't pay to fuck with him. If any of this pans out, there would be several people who had it out for him.'

Sullivan nodded. ‘You tell me everything, Archer. Anything at all that you uncover, you get to me immediately.'

‘Of course.'

‘You're on top of his house?'

‘Detective Levy has a crew. They're looking at it later today.'

‘How many cases are you two covering right now?'

‘Seven. And with the murder rate in this town, that's bound to go up.'

‘I don't have to tell you, Archer, this is priority one. They're gonna come up my butt if we don't have something real soon. And I'm pretty sure this kid in lockup isn't what we're looking for.'

‘Time will tell, Sergeant.' Archer remained circumspect.

‘That's the point. We don't have time.'

Archer turned to leave the office.

‘Good luck, Archer. Make your visit, interview everyone you can, and please, bring back something substantial, because I don't believe your partner has squat.'

Archer clenched his teeth. He wanted to agree. Couldn't. Shouldn't. But he knew deep in his soul that Antoine Duvay was not guilty. It probably went a lot higher than some ex-con kitchen worker.

On his way out, he stopped in the lobby, glancing at Cheryl, who was, just like yesterday, working behind the counter, talking on the phone, keying information into her computer and apparently reading a memo propped up in front of her.

‘Hold on,' she said into the phone. She pushed her long dreadlocks behind her ears and looked up at Archer.

‘Detective, what can I do for you?'

Archer gave her his best smile. He appreciated her dedication.

‘Do we have a fund for cops who are down and out?'

‘Relief and pension fund.'

He reached into his pocket and pulled out forty-seven bucks.

‘Can you see this gets in the right hands?'

She nodded, smiling. ‘Sure. Thank you.'

‘It's not all from me. A guy on the street donated some of that.'

‘Oh, wow. I don't think that happens very often,' she said. ‘I guess there are some good guys out there, huh?'

‘Yeah.' He walked out of the station house, muttering under his breath. ‘Or not.'

A
rcher answered the phone on the second ring. A Detroit area code and he knew the number. Detective Tom Lyons, putting his job and maybe his life on the line.

‘Quentin, we've got a partial on the plates.'

‘Enough to get a name?'

‘No, but we're working on it. The guys think we'll be able to get it.'

‘How many cameras?'

‘The corner where Denise was killed, we've been able to isolate three. Service station, a drug store and a camera at the stoplight where they ticket drivers who run the light.'

‘Look, I'll find a way to pay you. Just keep the pressure on. It wasn't a hit-and-run. You know it, I know it.'

‘You don't owe us shit, Q. We're going to get to the bottom of this, OK? Everything OK in Nawlins?'

‘It's Nawlins. What do you think?'

‘Detroit only ten times worse?'

‘I would agree,' Archer said. ‘Except that Denise was killed in Motor City.'

‘Quentin, you've got friends. We're doing everything we can, no matter what you hear.'

‘And I hear you. Thanks, man. Let me know the minute you have any information.'

He held the phone tight in his hand, staring into space. There were those who believed, and now a glimmer of hope.

‘M
a?'

Solange Cordray studied the old black woman's wispy white hair. She sat on a straight-back couch, a blanket thrown over her slender frame. The frail woman stared out the window, never acknowledging the girl.

‘Ma?'

‘Ah, the silent treatment again.' Kathy Bavely looked over Cordray's shoulder. ‘You know, Solange, most of what you say to her she doesn't even hear. Maybe none of it.'

‘She hears,' Cordray said, never turning. And looking at the ancient one, she said, ‘They all hear.'

‘You sound so confident.'

Solange said nothing, but turned from her mother and gently guided Bavely out the door.