Night Watchman (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 8) (19 page)

While locking the front door, he noticed a silver Chevy Impala parked under the live oak tree shading the curb. His own car was in the driveway, but as he walked toward it, the driver’s door of the Impala opened and out stepped Detective, or retired detective, Kronke.

Tubby turned to face him and dropped his ring of keys into his pocket to free up his hands. Kronke, ever the cop, marched in like he owned the place and planted himself less than a foot away from the homeowner’s shoe tips. Kronke was shorter and rounder than Tubby, but he had a lot of muscle mass packed under his blazer. He was bald and red-faced. He had the remains of a fat cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth.

“You got a lot of nerve,” he said to Tubby, punching out the words.

“What the heck are you talking about?” the lawyer asked, his butt braced against the door of his Camaro.

“Walking around like you ain’t got a care in the world. You ain’t forgot where you was two nights ago have you?”

Tubby wasn’t sure what Kronke knew or didn’t know, so he just said, “What’s it to you?”

“I’m asking the questions.” Kronke pointed a finger as if to prod the lawyer in the stomach but stopped, maybe sensing Tubby balling up his fists. “Tell me how you killed Rick Sandoval.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How’d you pull that off?”

“I want you to get the hell off my property.”

“Listen to me, you dumb shit. Your days are numbered and that number is going to get a lot smaller if you cause any more trouble for the Pancera family.”

“What’s it to you? I thought it was your father who investigated the Parker kid’s murder.”

“You happen to be messing with my friends.”

“So you were in the group, too? What did they call you? The ‘Cop’s Kid’?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“How about Sandoval? You called him ‘Security,’ right?”

“He’s never been anything but an FBI snitch,” Kronke grunted.

That shut Tubby up.

“You got it?” Kronke mocked him. “You killed a government man.”

“Did I save you the trouble?” Tubby whispered.

Kronke’s grin was mean. “That’s something you can worry about at night, Dubonnet. In the meantime, leave my friends alone.”

“You mean friends like their priest, Escobar?”

“Him, especially,” Kronke growled, edging forward until their chests almost touched.

“What was his job in the group? Father Confessor?”

“You’re a shithead.” His breath was in Tubby’s face.

“Did they call him the ‘Night Watchman’?”

“Now you’re going too far.” Kronke reached into his jacket as if going for a shoulder pistol, but Tubby’s fist caught him in the jaw.

Kronke stumbled back and came up with a gun, but not before Tubby drew down on him with his own .45.

Panting deeply, the lawyer still managed to get out, “I’m entitled to shoot to kill anyone who threatens me on my property. You know that, old man?”

Kronke straightened up and carefully re-holstered his pistol. He felt his jaw, then spat onto the driveway near Tubby’s shoe. He grinned, wiped his lips slowly, turned around, and walked away. His car screeched off down the quiet street.

One of Tubby’s neighbors came out on her front porch to see who was causing trouble, and Tubby promptly hid his weapon. He got behind the wheel, still shaking.

Once he remembered what he was doing, he drove off to the grocery store.

* * *

The next morning, while Tubby’s new girlfriend was giving horse rides to happy children in some better place, Tubby was pulled away from his second cup of coffee by the ringing house phone.

He didn’t recognize the voice that asked for Mr. Dubonnet, but the caller explained.

“My name is Victor Argueta. I’m a policeman. I’ve been investigating the shooting of an officer named Ireanous Babineaux.”

“I thought that was being handled by Internal Affairs. Is that you?”

“So you knew Babineaux?”

“Yes. He was my client.”

“That’s what I gathered.”

“Really? How?”

“From his text messages. I downloaded them off his phone.”

“Great initiative,” Tubby said.

“Not really. It’s not very hard.”

“It’s impressive that you thought to do it.”

“Not all cops are stupid, Mister Dubonnet. In fact, most of us aren’t.”

“Sorry. I’ve just had some bad experiences in the last few days with members of the force.”

“Understood. Did one of those happen to be Archie Alonzo?”

“The head of your union?”

“The head of the union, yeah.”

“No. I’ve never met him. Why do you ask?”

“There was a text from Alonzo that could be interpreted as a threat to Babineaux.”

“They weren’t on the best of terms. Alonzo claimed that my client broke his jaw.”

“That’s right. Your client did, in fact, break his jaw. That could be reason enough to kill a man, don’t you think?”

“Could be. Or to have him killed. Is that what happened?”

“I don’t know. How about Rick Sandoval?”

“The cop who got blown up? What about him?”

“Babineaux sent him a text, asking him to help you find some documents.”

“That’s right. Sandoval located an old police file for me, about a shooting that happened in the 1970s. He didn’t find much.”

“Closed file, huh? A lot of those are very skimpy. Officer Babineaux also texted Alonzo and told him to stay out of the business, by which I think he meant the off-duty patrolman referral service. It was a racket that Babineaux and Sandoval were running.”

“I didn’t know it was a ‘racket.’ ”

Officer Argueta chuckled into the phone. “It was a way to make lots of money off cops who need to make a little money. But I guess it was probably legit. Alonzo has it all to himself now.”

“What does that tell you?”

“I got two dead cops. Ireanous Babineaux and Rick Sandoval, both of them twenty-year veterans, like me. And one thing that links them together is Archie Alonzo.”

“That’s interesting.”

“I think so. But guess what? The other thing that links them together is you.”

Tubby couldn’t argue with that.

But he wasn’t ready to spill what he knew about the youth group, Pancera, and all those old records. Not to a stranger on the telephone, and not while those papers were still in his house.

He placed another call to the Tulane historian, but he got the same voice mail.

“These university guys work less than I do,” he muttered to himself.

He decided to devote a few more hours to going through those bins. His initial foray had taken him up to the fall of 1963.

He fixed another cup of coffee and opened the folder identified as “November 1963 to December 1963.” The first papers in it were minutes of a meeting on November 1, 1963. As usual, the meeting was called to order by “the Leader” and there was a quick report from “Security” to the effect that no new subversives had been identified in New Orleans, other than the usual outside agitators and the fact that a lawyer had arrived from New York City to staff the “Committee for Civil Rights” office on Magazine Street. She would be watched.

Then came a financial report from the Recorder. There had been new income of $35.25 as a result of “paper sales.” Then there was a note that “$100 delivered to J. Ruby for Dallas travel plans.” Tubby jumped up and began to pace the room. There was only one Ruby he could think of— the anonymous man who had shot to death the president’s assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, in the basement of the Dallas police station, before Oswald could talk.

When he calmed down, Tubby read on.

* * *

“Should I pick you up?” The voice was Peggy’s, and it broke Tubby’s spell. He tried hard to remember what she was talking about.

“The wine and cheese?” she prompted. “The gallery opening? Dinky Bacon’s exhibit on Julia Street? Five o’clock?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I did sort of forget. I’ve got to grab a quick shower. How about I meet you there?”

“At five,” she repeated.

“Right. I’ll be there.”

* * *

He made it to “Gallery Row” just a few minutes late, wearing a blue linen jacket over a natty white shirt and khakis. After cruising two blocks in both directions he reluctantly accepted valet parking and handed over his keys to a teenager with styled yellow-blond hair. A number of the art galleries were apparently having functions at the same time because the sidewalk was packed with pedestrians, all dressed in good taste and all looking like they had some money to spend.

Through its expansive windows one could see that “The Gallery Z’Herbes” was popular tonight. Tubby adjusted his collar, took a deep breath, and plunged in.

More people than legally allowed were crowding the center of the narrow space, waving glasses of wine and laughing at each other’s wit while not paying a lot of attention to the art. Tubby, however, found it hard not to inspect the work, partly because it seemed so inartful. The pieces were smaller than those displayed at the Contemporary Arts Center, but they were of the same genus. The first to catch his attention was an irregular construction of white plastic water pipes from which was suspended a rusty wrench and three framed black-and-white photographs. They depicted what appeared to be old-time Bourbon Street burlesque shows.

Peggy found him studying one of these pictures— girls in a can-can line.

“My forgetful date appears,” she said and lightly kissed his cheek. “Our artist is in the back room. He asked if you were coming.”

They picked their way around two diminutive men with identical goatees and chartreuse turtlenecks to the next display. “Is his filmmaker with him?” Tubby asked.

“I didn’t see him,” Peggy said, which was a disappointment to Tubby. He leaned over to admire an ancient cast-iron water heater repurposed as art. A number of framed photographs had been fastened to it with solder. One picture in particular caught his eye.

“This is interesting,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Here, take a look.”

She bent over, careful not to spill the contents of her plastic cup.

“It’s some old building?” she ventured.

“Doesn’t that look familiar to you?” They were cheek to cheek. “See that door? See that window? I’m pretty sure that’s an old photograph of Janie’s bar, the Monkey Business.”

“You could be right.”

“Look over the door. Doesn’t that say ‘Club Caragliano’?”

“It could say that. I’d need my glasses.” Tubby didn’t know that Peggy wore glasses, but never mind.

“And there’s a poster on the door.” Tubby pushed his nose up to the picture. “I think it says ‘Vince Vance and the Valiants. No Cover’.”

“Okay. So?” Peggy wasn’t getting it.

“What it means,” Tubby shouted in his excitement, “is that there was live music in Janie’s bar back in the days of Polaroids. She’s going to win her case. Let’s go find Dinky before he sells this contraption to somebody.”

Cherrylynn’s day at the office got off to a bad start. Tubby didn’t show up, and he was short with her when she took the initiative and called him to ask if there were any assignments for her.

“Use the time for studying,” he said. That was nice, since she was on the clock, but not so nice because studying for eight hours was going to be extremely boring. The ringing telephone gave her hope.

The man’s voice at the other end said, “My brother got a call from this number, asking about a boy who disappeared back in the 1970s.”

All boredom vanished.

“That was from me. Who’s calling, please?”

“This is Mister Haggarty. To whom am I speaking?”

“My name is Cherrylynn. I’m a legal secretary, and my boss Tubby Dubonnet is investigating the shooting of a young man that took place here in New Orleans during that period.”

“Shooting, huh? That’s what my brother said.” The voice was unemotional.

“Yes, a boy who was killed in a demonstration.”

“Was it some kind of civil rights protest?”

“No, I think it was against the war.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Parker. He was a troubled youth, not like his kid sister. He didn’t seem to want to get along here in Muncie. As soon as he turned seventeen, he hitched a ride out of town. We got one postcard from him about a year later, and it was from New Orleans. After that, we ain’t heard a thing.”

“Are you his father?”

“Yes, that’s right. Spencer R. Haggarty.”

“And his name was?”

“Parker M. Haggarty.”

“I’m real sorry to say that this could be the same boy. I hate to be the one telling you this news. I can have Mister Dubonnet call you as soon as he comes in. I’m sure he can tell you more.”

“No need for that. Parker never wanted us to know his business, and if he’s dead, he’s dead. If his sister wants, she can call you.”

Cherrylynn didn’t know what to say.

“Well, you be good,” the man said, and he hung up.

Tubby finally connected with the Tulane Library and arranged to drop off the bins. With some effort, and help from a passing undergraduate, he hauled them up the steps to the circulation desk. He asked the student behind it to summon Dr. Sternwick. The librarian appeared quickly and helped Tubby move the boxes into one of the offices. The lawyer took a chair and gave the doctor a quick summary of what he thought he had found.

“Do you mean the JFK assassination?” the librarian asked doubtfully.

“Yes,” Tubby said. “And more.” He popped open one of the plastic covers and flipped open one of the folders that referenced Lee Harvey Oswald.

Sternwick’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the pages more closely.

“There’s lots more in there,” Tubby repeated. “You’ve got material on Judge Leander Perez down in Plaquemines Parish. There’s this money trail to Dallas. There’s evidence of shootings and beatings and other crimes. And how the police gave cover to the whole thing.”

“How would we authenticate any of this material?” the skeptical librarian wondered out loud.

“I guess you could get together some scholars. I’ll tell them what I know and who else they ought to talk to.”

“We do have local scholars,” Sternwick said, thinking out loud. “There’s a Professor Prima over at Loyola. I’ll call him right away and tell him what we think we have. And there are, of course, people here at Tulane, too, I’m sure.”