Casting Bones (7 page)

‘I know what the past has been and what the present brings. You don't have to believe me, but I swear to you, they hear us.'

Bavely shook her head.

‘Sometimes you make no sense.'

Solange smiled. ‘I know more than you give me credit for.' Changing the subject quickly she said, ‘So, how was your date last night?'

The petite blond gave her a broad grin. ‘Not good enough for me. You know, the older most people get the more desperate they become. They settle. I'm not a settler. This Craig Landis, he's a pretender. He barely got a kiss goodnight. And believe this, it's the last one from me.'

‘You're too hard on these boys,' Cordray smiled at her.

‘
You
need a man to be hard on, Solange. Or, the other way around.'

Laughing they walked down the hall, footsteps echoing off the walls.

‘I'm taking Mr Essex and Mrs Abrahms out to the banks in,' Kathy Bavely checked her watch, ‘fifteen minutes. Do you have time for a coffee?'

They continued the walk to the small break room. Pushing a five-dollar bill into the machine, Bavely programmed two lattes, and passed one to Solange.

‘Ma and the two ladies in the lobby, my job today.' She motioned to two women down the hall, a vacant stare in their eyes as they sat in rocking chairs, looking at nothing.

‘Do you ever wonder if they really do hear, what are they thinking? To be locked up with their thoughts, not being able to talk, to express themselves and never—'

‘And you, Kathy, with no filter, if you weren't crazy already, it would drive
you
crazy. Am I right?'

‘You are,' she chuckled.

‘So, what was wrong with Craig Landis?'

‘Talked all night about himself.'

‘Which stopped you from talking about yourself?'

They both laughed.

Picking up their coffees, they saluted each other then sat back and watched the Mississippi River as it flowed outside the window. More at home in the quietness of their relationship than with a constant stream of conversation.

Twenty minutes later, Solange Cordray and her three charges were perched on vinyl lawn chairs on the grass, enjoying the seventy-five-degree weather and a gentle breeze off the river. In front of them the brackish water swirled by, pieces of wood and debris riding on the surface.

‘Thelma, are you enjoying the day?'

The woman to her right didn't respond. The second woman nodded.

‘The day. The sun. And fried chicken tonight.'

‘You're having chicken, Ruthy?' Cordray asked.

‘I'd better hurry home. Harold will be coming in the door just any minute. Loves my fried chicken, he does.'

Harold had been dead for ten years, killed by a drunk driver in the Garden District. Records confirmed that the lady's mental condition deteriorated from that point.

‘Ma, are you comfortable?'

Her mother looked up, staring into her eyes.

‘Yes, dear.'

Then she looked away, gazing at the dirty river.

It was the first time in three days she had spoken to her daughter, and Solange's heart actually skipped a beat.

‘Ma,' she touched her arm but there was no response. It was as if her comment had never happened. ‘I almost talked to the detective. I almost told him last night what Mr Foster knows.'

She heard. She heard everything. But her lack of response was the issue.

‘I'll find him today, and I'll make my case. I know, I know, you're thinking I don't know him. He may not take me seriously. Or, he may not care what I have to say. And you and I both know that trying to explain
how
I got the information won't be easy. It may be impossible.'

The Big Muddy stretched out wide, bank to bank. She never tired of the river. She was glad to be a part of it, every day. The water gave her energy, strength, and renewed her courage. And God knew she needed that. The courage to face these people each day, and to deal with their problems, their quirks, idiosyncrasies and their secrets.

‘I'm going to confront him, Ma. You would. You
did
. But I will be careful. It won't be like in your time. I know you used what you had for good. Not like some. But
they
didn't understand. And that only seemed to make you stronger. You know that. Still, you told me, always use the gift for something good. To make something better. I'm doing that, Ma. You taught me well.'

The hour went by slowly and a uniformed orderly with his name tag prominently displayed arrived at the appointed time and gathered up the lawn chairs, helping the older women to their feet.

‘Thank you, Clarence.'

‘My pleasure, Mrs Cordray. You're looking good today. Very good.' He wore a thin smile, his eyes looking into hers with an interest that was not reciprocal. Then his eyes lowered as he took in her person. The man stared at her upper body, that smile still plastered on his face. The way he studied her and spoke made her uneasy. The guy was creepy.

‘Ma, I'm seeing Matebo soon. I'll tell him you asked about him.'

The old woman turned her head and Solange thought she caught a small smile on her lips. Matebo. Maybe her mother's best friend. Someone Solange had grown up with, a partner in the voodoo practice, a true medicine man who worked in the bayou, cultivating herbs and flowers and all kinds of wild things. Just one name, Matebo. It's all she'd ever heard him called.

Kissing her mother on the cheek, she walked to the desk and logged out, the day of volunteering at an end. Solange walked past the sign,
Water's Edge Care Center
, and continued up Barracks Street, turning left on Dauphine.

There was a sense of danger in the air. She was receiving far more information than she was comfortable with. And she didn't know what to do with most of it. The detective from Michigan somehow had the background to put it all together. She was convinced that Archer could make sense of it all.

Clarence the orderly was a minor disturbance. Still, the man was a problem. He worked the center for his own amusement. Seeing how many women he could score with. Workers, patients, it probably didn't matter to him. She'd heard the rumors. Solange shuddered, thinking about all the problems at the center. And the most important problem? Ma.

Ma had spoken to her today. Actually seemed engaged. For about two seconds. She'd actually said two words. Two whole words. And the world was a brighter place.

H
e'd taken a long swallow from the flask of Jack Daniel's, a little courage, a little fortitude. It made the job a little easier.

Strand stood in the small living room of Duvay's shotgun house. A threadbare green sofa and chair, a couple of cheap store-bought prints on the wall and an old black man in a threadbare undershirt, his back plastered against the far wall. The narrow house had a living room, hallway, a kitchen at the end, two very small bedrooms and a bath. Long, narrow, you could fire a shotgun from the open front door and through the rear exit without hitting anything else.

‘You flash your badge and a piece of paper and espect me to let you in here?' The man pointed his thumb and index finger at the detective.

Gun drawn, Strand nodded.

‘Look, Dad, I expect you to back off and allow these two detectives and myself to do our job. We will search this home, and we will look at everything we possibly can. If you get in the way, we can and will arrest you. Do you understand?'

‘I have a question, officer.'

‘What?'

‘Would I be in trouble if I said “go fuck yourself”?'

‘I'm trying to make it easy on you, Dad. Just hold it inside. We'll be in here for twenty minutes.' Less than twenty. Much less. ‘If you want to jeopardize your situation, keep on talking. We've already got your son downtown, and if you want to smart off, we'll be happy to bring you in as well.'

Adam Strand nodded to a detective named Rooney, who promptly drew his Glock 22, keeping it by his side as he eyed Antoine Duvay's father.

Moving back down the hall, Strand reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a fist-sized package wrapped in a white cloth. Two small bedrooms opened off the short hallway and he chose the first one. It had to be Antoine Duvay's room. A few posters of obscure rappers tacked on the wall and some T-shirts thrown on the unmade bed confirmed it. A shirt flung on the rumpled sheets boasted the slogan
Don't Be a Sexist. Bitches Hate That
. Pulling open the top drawer of a chipped and faded white dresser he dropped a cloth-covered package inside on the pile of underwear and closed the drawer.

‘Cassidy?'

‘I've got nothing so far, Strand.' The paunchy, balding detective walked out of the kitchen. ‘Kitchen, bath, standard fare.'

Strand nodded.

‘You?'

‘I'm going to check the old man's room. You give a thorough to Antoine's room here.'

‘Got it.'

Fifteen seconds later, Strand heard Cassidy shout it out.

‘Detective. We've got a gun.'

Strand allowed himself a brief moment. In this city, in this department, a man had to do what a man had to do.

They met in the boy's room.

‘Sig Sauer P290.' He held the small pistol in his gloved hand. ‘Wrapped up in this handkerchief. I'm gonna bet it's wiped clean.'

Strand smiled. ‘This should hold him for a while. See what else there is.'

An ex-con with a gun. That wouldn't play well at all. He'd bought himself some time. But tying the gun to the murder of Judge David Lerner,
that
might be harder to do.

Archer left the precinct and drove his Chevy downtown, the faulty air conditioner cranked to the max to combat the humidity. Not much relief. The car was a perk, but the department never guaranteed the quality of the vehicles. He was sweating profusely by the time he arrived. There was a story about the cops, after Katrina, looting citizens' Cadillacs and patrolling in the ‘borrowed' vehicles. Totally unacceptable, but anything was better than this beat-up Chevy.

He found the four-story courthouse at 421 Loyola.

Clearing the metal detector, he introduced himself at the front desk and told the receptionist his business. The older woman waved him to the elevators.

‘Judge Lerner's office is second floor,' she said, ‘to the left, and it's clearly marked. Very sad about the judge.'

Her flat voice belied any sincerity.

He found the office five doors down. Turning the handle, Archer walked in and glanced around the reception area. The actual office was in the back, the door wide open.

The attractive woman sitting behind the judge's desk looked up. The pile of papers in front of her must have been eight inches high.

‘Yes? Can I help you?'

Her voice was a little brusque, and she seemed somewhat perturbed that he'd interrupted.

Palming his badge, he introduced himself.

‘I'm obviously here to get as much information on Judge Lerner as possible.'

‘Well of course,' she said. ‘I'm Sue Waronker. I worked with the judge for twelve years. He was a tough judge, but a fair man, Detective. Most of the time.' She paused, then glanced down at her desk. ‘Some of the time.'

She sounded less than sincere.

‘I'm sure he was, ma'am.' The lady sounded like she had memorized the line. Tough but fair. As if she was used to defending him.

‘I've been working with Traci next door.' She brushed back her dark hair; she looked haggard.

‘Traci?'

‘Yes, Traci Hall. She's a judge as well. We've been sorting out some of the immediate things that have to be done.'

‘Everything is documented?'

‘Not as well as I'd hoped. Or assumed. David was a very organized man, but there are some things that don't seem to be where they should.'

The dark-haired woman waved her hand at the computer monitor in front of her and the stack of papers and files.

‘We're only dealing with immediate issues. Court dates in the next week, obligations that he had to meet tomorrow and the next day. Even that is a bit overwhelming.'

‘I'm going to need to talk with you. Is now a good time?'

Shrugging her shoulders, she motioned for him to sit down. Archer took a seat across the desk, a seat that over a fifteen-year career had probably seen its share of attorneys, offenders and a whole cast of characters who influenced the justice meted out to young people.

‘Twelve years? That's a long time.'

‘Twelve. This August.'

‘Tough man to work for?'

She frowned. ‘Is everything you say going to lead to a negative response from me? Is that your intent?'

‘I don't follow.'

‘You start out with “a tough man to work for”? And if I say yes, then do you keep probing? Trying to get me to tell you all of his negatives? And does that lead to you measuring my responses and weighing whether I might be a suspect in his death? Because, I am not going to be a person of interest, Mr Archer. I don't like the tone of your voice.'

A lady who had seen twelve years of lawyers, probing for the defense, for the prosecution.

‘Whoa.' Archer motioned for a timeout. ‘Miss Waronker …'

‘Mrs.' Her voice very firm.

‘
Mrs
Waronker, I'm not playing games here. I'm not a trial attorney. Just a cop trying to solve a murder. I want to know this man inside and out. I want to know who his friends were, who his enemies were, who his contacts were. The question was somewhat of an icebreaker. I'd heard he was a little harsh in his opinions, in his judgment. Let's start over, OK. It is not my intention to back you into the corner.'

Her eyes boring into his, she studied him for a moment, and he straightened his posture, shifting his shoulders.

‘OK. Yes, he was tough to work for.' She spit out the words. ‘He could be a real son of a bitch at times. Demanding as hell, but I put up with that for twelve years. There was another lady who didn't last twelve years. There's a story there. I suppose,' she hesitated, ‘I suppose I should point out that there were some good things about him too.'