Indian Country Noir (Akashic Noir) (16 page)

"It's Detective. Detective Aaron Lawry."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, detective," he said,
emphasizing the title. "You come from money? Or is the city
of Memphis exceptionally generous with its hazardous duty
pay?" When Lawry remained silent, he continued, "Or does
this have something to do your being here after your buddies
have gone home?" The man glanced down at the ledgers, and
Carson nodded. "I figured it was something like that. Something big enough that you'd risk the complications of a broken
crime scene seal. I don't care what your business was with
Buddy Martin," Carson said at last. "But I'm a man on a deadline, and I always meet my deadlines."

He told Lawry the tale of an unnamed damsel in distress,
in the clutches of an ex-military mercenary who had brought
Buddy's life to an untimely end.

"I'm afraid I can't disclose my client's name," said Carson.
"But I can assure you that he is a major player in this town.
And very generous."

"How generous?"

"Generous enough that, once this is done, I can give you
fifty large, in cash, for less than a day's work."

"Sounds reasonable to me," Lawry said after a moment's
consideration. "Can I have my guns back?"

"Not yet," Carson replied, tucking the pistols beside his Glock. He made a sweeping gesture toward the office. "What
do you know about the investigation?"

Lawry gave Carson a look of resentment, quickly replaced
by resignation. He sighed. "Buddy was tortured. Every bone in
his right hand broken." No prints other than Buddy's and his
receptionist's, which suggested the attacker had worn gloves.
Lawry glanced over at the safe and back at Carson.

"Yes?"

"We assume he was tortured for the combination," Lawry
said. "Once your guy made sure it worked, he finished Buddy
off with a couple shots to the head."

"Any idea where he went?"

"Since your client didn't report any of this, it sounds like
you know more than we do at this point. You care to share?"

Carson told him about his research and his conversation
with jenny's grandmother. "The connection is tenuous, but I
don't have anything else at this point."

"That's okay," said Lawry. "I think we might. Let me make
a call. You mind?"

"I'll be right here." Carson jerked his thumb toward the
outer office. He stepped into the next room and heard Lawry
make his call. Despite the detective's hushed tones, Carson's
acute senses allowed him to hear most of the one-sided conversation.

"It's me ... Yeah, I'm here ... Yeah, I got them, but we
have a situation ... Some guy here seems to know what's going on. He promised me a fifty-grand payout if I help him out
... Give me some credit. If he's offering me fifty, he's got to
be holding back at least that much for himself ... Yeah, yeah.
It's perfect. You get the collar, we get the cash, and the business with Buddy gets buried with him. But we got to deliver
too ..."

Having heard enough, Carson crossed over to the far side of
the room. So that's how it was. Not that he was surprised, but
he'd need to plan ahead. At least Detective Lawry had simplified
the situation for him. He heard Lawry end the conversation.

"Hey, chief." Carson bristled and then turned to face his
temporary partner, who now wore a look of confusion. "What's
your name?"

Carson slowly stretched his mouth into what he hoped
was a relaxed grin. "Faubion. Charles Faubion."

"You got some proof?"

"Of course." Carson smiled for real. No honor among
thieves, he thought as he handed over an Arizona driver's
license and a card identifying Charles Faubion as a licensed
investigator in that state.

Lawry nodded, satisfied. "Okay, Charlie. Our crime scene
boys found a note pad on Buddy's desk with the name jenny
and a New Orleans telephone number. That enough of a connection for you?"

A shave under six hours later, Carson pulled the Charger into
the lot for the apartment complex at the address Dorothy
McLaren had provided. They located jenny's apartment and
saw that the place was dark.

"Looks like she's either still asleep or she's already left,"
noted Lawry.

"Or she's just now getting home," added Carson, hunkering down in his seat as he pushed Lawry down in his.

The young woman in question drove past them in a red
Corolla from the early '90s. They watched her walk up the
ornate wrought-iron stairs and disappear into her apartment.

"Let's go," said Carson.

When she answered the door, jenny McLaren had scrubbed her face clean of the heavy makeup that revealed
why she was returning home at dawn. She looked like a young
co-ed, dressed in a Tulane sweatshirt and baggy jersey pants.

"Hello, Jenny," Carson said in a soft voice. "Mind if we
talk?"

Fear flickered across her face, replaced by sullen suspicion,
as jenny assessed her visitors.

"Who are you and why would I talk to you?"

"Because we've tied you to a dead guy and a suspected
killer."

Jenny stared at the men and then sneered. "I don't think
you've got shit."

Before she could react, Carson stepped forward and spun
Jenny around, pinning her arms behind her back. "Listen up.
A woman's life is on the line, and I don't have time to waste.
We're going inside, and you're going to talk."

Carson ignored the muttered epithet and guided jenny
into the tiny living room, where he released her. "Spill it," he
snapped. "We've got James Hicks driving your SUV around,
while you're in a tin can. We've also got your name and number in the office of the late Buddy Martin, who was supposed
to be protecting my client's money."

Jenny covered her mouth with both hands, and tears
welled in her eyes.

"Buddy's dead?" she whispered.

"Stone cold," said Lawry. "What's your connection?"

She took a deep breath. "We were lovers."

Both men stared at her.

"Maybe that's too strong a word," she admitted. "A few
months back, James talked me into getting friendly with Buddy.
He was a lonely old man." Jenny paused, as if remembering
the accountant. "It wasn't hard for me to seduce him."

"So you sweet-talked him into stealing the money," said
Carson.

She nodded, eyes downcast.

"Were you and Hicks planning to live happily ever after? Or did you know he was picking up a new high-class
girlfriend?"

Her head snapped up. Surprised outrage sparked in her
eyes.

Lawry turned to Carson. "I guess not."

Carson reached into his breast pocket and retrieved the
newspaper clipping. He showed the photo to jenny, who
flinched as if Carson had struck her.

"You know this woman?"

Jenny brushed tears away with an impatient swipe. "Of
course I do," she snorted. "She never shied away from a camera in her life. That lying son of a bitch told me to head down
here while he wrapped things up in Memphis."

"Have you seen him?" asked Carson.

She nodded. "Yeah, he came over here last night, just before my shift. He's staying at some cheap motel about twenty
minutes out."

Before they left, Carson asked jenny for a pad of paper
and a pen. She frowned but retrieved the items.

He jotted down a number and a short note. Then he folded
the paper and handed it back to her with the pen.

"Call this number," Carson said. "If you're interested in
making a change, they can help you out. If not, that's your
choice. Either way, you'd do well to forget we were here."

Her face remained expressionless as she closed the door.

When Carson and Lawry pulled into the parking lot of the
Motel 6 in Slidell, northeast of the city, the Land Rover was parked in front of room 114, just as jenny had indicated it
would be.

"What's the plan?" asked Lawry after Carson killed the
engine.

"We go in, get the girl, and leave."

"You don't think your man's going to have a problem with
that?"

"We won't give him a choice." Movement in the window
confirmed that jenny had followed his instructions and made
the call. "I'll stay here and keep an eye on the room. Go show
the manager your badge, and get the master key. One of us
will open the door; the other will provide cover."

Lawry arched his brow with skepticism. "I'll provide cover.
You open the door."

"Get the key."

The officer opened the car door and strode toward the
office, oblivious as the entrance to room 114 cracked open.
Carson opened his own door and crouched behind the vehicle, his silenced Glock ready. The report of a 9mm pistol
shattered the morning air, and Lawry dropped to the pavement, the left side of his head missing. Any twinge of guilt
Carson might have felt was neutralized by the knowledge
that the dirty cop wasn't planning to let him walk away
alive.

Hicks turned to see Carson's muzzle aimed at him. It was
the last thing he saw before the slug in his forehead propelled
him backward into the motel room.

Carson launched himself across the parking lot and into
the narrow room, entering low with his gun in front. He
nudged the body inside with his legs as he scoped out the
room's interior.

Just as his brain registered that the main room was empty, a petite figure emerged from the bathroom. Cold blue eyes
stared at him from a doll-like face.

"Your father sent me," he said.

She took a step backward.

"We have to go. The police will be here any minute. Grab
your things."

The woman took a shuddering breath and nodded. She
cast one more wary glance at Carson and then turned to disappear into the bathroom. "It's not about the money, is it?"
she asked.

On the porcelain vanity, Carson saw the mate to the earring he had picked up at Buddy's office, the same one she had
worn to the museum event. He considered the question. "No.
I think it's a matter of security. Peace of mind." He envisioned
this same diminutive woman raising a gun to kill a man who
had watched her grow up. Lawry had known that the murder was a two-person job and probably suspected the second
player.

"Does the same go for you?"

"No. For me, it's a matter of honor."

In the mirror, he saw her reflection shoot him a withering
glance. "Honor," she spat. "That's an interesting term for it."

Carson shrugged. "I only pursue those who have proven
themselves dishonorable."

His bullet penetrated the back of her skull, and she crumpled to the floor.

Twenty-five minutes later, he was heading north on 1-90,
crossing the huge expanse of Lake Pontchartrain. He dialed
his client from a disposable cell phone.

"It's done."

Silence. Just before Carson hung up, believing the conversation over, the man spoke.

"Thank you. I trust you collected the stolen cash as the
remainder of your fee?"

"I haven't counted it, but I'm sure it's fine."

"Excellent. Our business is concluded."

The line went dead.

Carson rolled down the passenger-side window and tossed
the cell phone, along with the spent shell casings, into the
water.

He calculated the distance between New Orleans and
Gatesville. Then he activated the Bluetooth device linked to
his personal phone and dialed home.

His angel answered on the third ring. Once more, Carson
found himself wondering how a relationship between father and
daughter could go so wrong as to justify his latest assignment.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, sweetheart. I'll be home to tuck you in tonight."

New Orleans, Louisiana

is all over the Channel 4 Eyewitness News at 10 p.m.-
police officer killed in her home.