Crescent City Detective

by Vito Zuppardo

  “Want to meet me for happy hour at The Last Call bar?”

  “Sure, Howard. How about in an hour?” Mario replied.

  “Great. I just got a call our favorite bartender is on duty.”

  Nothing was revealed or suspicious in the short conversation, but yet Mario knew Howard was tracking Angie. The detective in him wanted to notify the investigating team about Angie. It would be easy to come up with some bullshit like a snitch he knew might have seen Willard at the bar. His picture was all over the news, so that would have been an easy way out. The police didn’t have the information on Angie, and that could be significant. Mario kept the information to himself—for now.

  It was about an hour before the meeting at the bar, so Mario stopped at the hospital, which was on the way, and checked on Kate. First, he had to stop at Truman’s desk and at least say hello. The last few days Truman was handling the workload for the two of them.

  “How are you doing, partner?” Mario said, slapping him on the back.

  Truman stood up and gave him a hug. He was like that, a very touchy kind of guy. Mario not so, but Truman was sincere and a sensitive person. “How are you? You holding up okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll be back to work tomorrow morning,” Mario said as he started to walk off, but was held back by a hand that stuffed an envelope in his top pocket by a passing detective.

  “Good to see you, Mario,” the detective said as he winked and kept walking. Mario went to his police cruiser, put the envelope in the passenger’s seat, and headed to the hospital.

  Police were present in the lobby and on Kate’s floor as soon as you walked off the elevator. The lady police officer once stationed in front of Kate’s door moved down to the nurse's station. Mario knocked softly on the door before walking into the room.

  Kate was sleeping.The attending nurse in the room was taking her vital signs. “Everything looks good. The pain pills are allowing her to rest. The doctors are very pleased with her recovery,” the nurse said.

  Mario wrote a little note on a small sheet in his pad and signed it with a heart behind his name, sticking it between her fingers. “I’ll see her tonight,” he said to the nurse.

  He closed the door gently behind him and made small chit chat with the police officers in the hall and on the ground floor, thanking them for their assistance in protecting Kate after the attack. To some, it seemed useless to have a police officer guard her in the hospital, but there was still someone that wanted her dead. A second attack in the hospital to finish off the job would not be uncommon.

  Stopping to see Kate was refreshing for Mario. It lifted his spirits a little to know she was recovering and well taken care of in the hospital. It also fueled his determination to find the person behind this.

  He got in his car and picked up the envelope from the seat and read the note. It was not uncommon for a detective to pass information on a case they were not involved in but wanted to tell you about a lead they stumbled across—but didn’t want it on record. Mario had to wonder why he didn’t give it to Truman. Everyone knew Truman was working their cases at this time.

  He read the note, and it was short and to the point. The chief did not reveal this in the news conference, nor did his fellow detectives share this information about Kate’s attacker.

  He pulled out of the hospital parking lot like he was in a rush. The bar was only a few blocks away. Seeing Kate was exhilarating, and he was ready to take someone down for the violence against her. With this new information, he had to consider his options.

  The more Mario thought about the crime, the more he felt Howard was right. The police might not do much in this case and close it by adding some years to G-Man’s sentence. It was the easy way out for the police who were burdened with crimes and had to pin it on the most logical person and move to the next case. He had seen it happen many times. The city was overrun with crime and pressured to solve cases, and sometimes you had to take the easy way out. They all knew Gordon G-Man committed the crime, but he wasn’t the mastermind behind the plan. Someone carefully planned the attack, setting up the prison fight to get G-Man in a position to attack Kate. Inmates and guards were involved in pulling this off, and that concerned Mario.

  He spotted Howard’s limousine parked on the side of The Last Call Bar. He skirted his police car around some potholes to find a parking space. He popped out of his vehicle like he was in a high-speed chase on foot and sat on the passenger’s side of Howard’s limo.

  Taking a deep breath, Mario said, “I got a break in the case.”

  “I have something, too. Angie is by the back door taking a smoke break. What do you have?” Howard asked.

  “Willard Smith had been released from Calabar just thirty days ago. The State cut two years off his sentence.” Howard started to interrupt, and Mario cut him off. “There is more. He has been living in a medical halfway house for terminally ill until two days ago. Which was the day of the attack. A year ago he was diagnosed with cancer and given six months to live. He is living on borrowed time.”

  Howard ran his hands through his head. “What is your police department doing?”

  “It’s like you said, they are looking for him, just not too hard. They will find Willard dead someplace in a few days. It’s not going to matter to the police why or how Willard Smith was involved. G-Man will go down for the crime,” Mario said.

  Howard watched Angie at the back door then said, “And another New Orleans case will close. That’s all that matters to the chief.”

  They both agreed they had to know what information Angie might add. Howard asked Mario to wait in his car while he tried to convince her to talk to him.

  She was facing away from the limousine, hanging out the back kitchen door, taking a long drag on a cigarette to get as much out of it while looking at two cats fighting over food in the dumpster. Howard walked briskly up to her. She turned and recognized Howard and tried to dart inside. He put his hand over the screen door, stopping her from going in.

  “I’m not here to hurt you, and I’m not a cop,” Howard said.

  A kitchen worker came to the door with a trash can. “What’s going on here?”

  Howard moved his coat to his side, showing his Smith and Wesson sitting in a pull-down holster. “Take your trash and move from the door, son.

  “Angie, all I want to do is talk. We are going to walk to the limousine and sit in the back seat and talk, that’s it.” She slowly walked while Howard held her by the arm and forcefully moved her towards the limo. She broke away, but Howard managed to catch her by her hand and pulled her. Grabbing her around the waist, he carried her to the car.

  Mario watched with concern—he was now involved in an abduction and was getting deeper into Howard's way of law enforcement.

  They both sat in the back of the limousine, and Howard locked the doors. “Look, I’m here to help you.”

  “How can you help me?” she said, throwing her head back into the seat. “You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

  “Trust me, I can help you. Just tell me how you know Willard Smith.”

  Angie sat silently. “It doesn’t matter anymore. He is gone and will be dead soon.”

  Howard leaned forward. “How do you know him?”

  She said nothing, but Howard could see she was about to crack. Her eyes watered and the expression on her face changed. She put her face into her hands. “He is my brother.”

  “Your brother?” Howard said with some compassion.

  “Well, not by blood. But we grew up together in the same foster home, and now he’s dying,” she said as tears ran down her face. “Look, all I know is he was moved out of Calabar to a halfway house for the terminally ill. I didn’t know he had cancer. I only visited him a few times a year in Calabar.”

  She finally opened up and said Willard had met someone in the prison hospital that said he could earn ten thousand dollars for a simple task. He had nothing to lose; he was going to be dead soon—way before the police would fi
nd him. He broke out of the halfway house and got a hold of a guard’s uniform. Willard told her security in the halfway house was poorly enforced; you could just about walk out the front door and returned whenever you wanted.

  “Do you know who offered him the money?” Howard said.

  “No.”

  He took her hand. “Did he get paid?”

  “Yes, last night. He came to the back door of the kitchen and asked me to drive him to some house on Frenchmen Street. I drove him—that’s why I didn’t meet with you last night,” Angie said, trusting Howard for some reason.

  “Would you recognize the house?” Howard said, knowing more than likely it was the Cornerview Gang’s house.

  Angie made a face. “Maybe—it was dark. A lot of people roaming the area, some sitting on the front concrete steps. I do remember a yellow lowrider truck parked in the front.”

  Howard rubbed his face. “It’s the Cornerview Gang.”

  Angie started spewing information to Howard. She felt comfortable with him; he didn’t come off as a cop. Trusting people was always an issue growing up in foster care. There was a lot of suppressed feeling inside her waiting to get out.

  She went back to an early age of nine when she and Willard first met at a foster home. They were together for three years in that home until Willard was removed, leaving Angie unprotected when the lady of the house was not home. Her foster father would come home from work drunk and continued drinking until the time he passed out on the bed at night. She was about to go into detail of how Willard protected her when Howard stopped her from finishing. He said he had heard the story many times before.

  “Angie, the police will dig into Willard’s background and find you. They will be checking him at an early age, like high school, all the way to prison. You were on the visitor's list.”

  Howard got blinded by Mario’s headlight going on and off, indicating he needed to cut it short and get back to the car. “Once they find you, they will dig into this bar, your apartment, and your friends. The police will be looking for any connection between you, Willard, and the attack.”

  “Attack? I wasn’t involved,” Angie shouted.

  “I can’t tell you what to say, but if asked, I would leave out the part about driving to Frenchmen Street and the ten thousand dollars.”

  Mario’s lights flashed again. Howard opened the back door. He heard police sirens, and they were close. “We have to go.”

  “Wait, what about the money?” Angie said.

  “It will keep Willard on the run for a while. Until he can’t run anymore,” Howard said with compassion, the best he could offer for a dying man that assisted in Kate’s attack.

  “No, I have the money. It’s in my car, under the driver’s seat,” Angie blurted out.

  Howard looked at her. “Angie? Where is Willard now?”

  “Please let him die in peace?”

  The police sirens were getting closer.

  Howard grabbed her by her arms. “Look at me, it’s not about Willard any longer. We all know he will be dead soon. We have to get to the truth of Kate’s attack.”

  “London Avenue Canal pumping station under the train trestle. That’s where we went as kids. It was our safe place. Try there first,” she said.

  Howard rushed her out of the limousine. “Go in the bar, and remember what I said.”

  Angie ran to the front door, pulling it open, and rushed behind the bar. Within seconds four police cars sped into the parking lot of the Last Call Bar with overhead lights flashing.

  Howard pulled the limousine behind the building, and Mario followed. The limo stopped behind what he believed was Angie's blue Honda parked by the back kitchen door. Mario’s car was blocked in behind the limousine. He sat in frustration, wanting to get out of the area before the police converged on the bar. Flashing his headlights again, the limousine pulled slowly out to a back street, and Mario followed.

  CHAPTER 11

  Prison records showed Willard had very few visitors. Angie Browning was an approved visitor at Calabar Prison and listed as a non-relative visiting Willard a few times a year. His record reflected that they both lived in the same foster home for several years. Mother and father of both parties were unknown like they both appeared on earth without any records, or at least any that could prove who the parents were. She had always respected the system during the visiting day and was the only person to deposit money into Willard’s prison account. Although it was only seventy-five dollars a month, it purchased a lot of luxuries in jail. Willard always told her how much he appreciated it, and someday he would repay her.

  Angie stood behind the bar washing glasses. The usual work crowd started strolling in as happy hour approached. She was preparing herself for questioning with two shots of Patron Tequila behind the bar when Alfonso wasn’t around. The police should be coming in any second. Lights from police cars in the parking lot flashed through the small window on the door. Red and blue lights were flashing for what reason she didn’t know, and couldn’t believe it was taking them so long to come busting through the door. They would be asking questions, might even take her downtown. She had nothing to hide, she kept telling herself. “Maybe they already found Willard, and he ratted me out? I’ll say he held a gun to my head and made me bring him to Frenchmen Street. But why didn’t I call the police after he dropped me off?” she kept saying to herself.

  “Are you talking to me?” a customer at the bar asked.

  Angie said, “No, just looking for something” as she took another shot of Patron, ducking behind the bar.

  The police came in with force, maybe eight of them in uniforms and one detective in a cheap suit that was too big for him and a necktie that should have been retired years ago. Like an armed robbery was going on, except they didn’t have their guns drawn.

  “Nothing to worry about, folks,” the lead officer said. “Angie Browning?” he said, looking at her behind the bar.

  She tried to compose herself and look as natural as possible. Surprised that they were there, not like she was expecting them. “I’m Angie.”

  Alfonso came in from the storage room, rolling a keg of beer in front of him. He wore gloves to protect his hands from the cold stainless steel barrel kept in the refrigerator. The first officer yelled to Alfonso to stop while putting his hand on his gun.

  Alfonso looked surprised. “What the hell is going on?”

  The police came into the bar from the kitchen door. “It’s clear. He’s not here,” a female officer said.

  “We’re looking for Willard Smith,” another officer said, looking at Alfonso as the room went silent. “What is your name, sir?”

  “I’m the owner,” he said.

  The officer said, “That’s nice, but I’ll ask you once more. What is your name?”

  “Alfonso Campo—can you tell me why you’re disrupting my business?”

  Angie grabbed some glasses and dropped them in the soapy water. With a brush that had seen better days, she cleaned the inside of the glasses.

  “You, keep your hands where I can see them,” an officer said to Angie. She felt her stomach flip and tried to look cool, holding her hands on the bar.

  The detective in charge introduced himself as Detective Louis Perkins.

  “Mr. Campo, do you have an office or someplace we can talk to Ms. Browning?”

  Alfonso walked the detective to a small room in the back of the kitchen.The police disbanded from the bar, and it went back to the noisy, happy hour it was earlier.

  “What’s going on?” Angie all but pleaded.

  The detective asked her to sit while he stood in the doorway. “Sorry for busting in the bar, but we are looking for Willard Smith—thought he might be here. Do you know him?”

  Angie wanted to say no, but she knew they had all the answers already. Her three shots of Patron was wearing off, and it was for the best. She needed to think clearly. “Sure, I know him. Willard and I were in a foster home together years ago.”

  “When
was the last time you saw him?” Detective Perkins said, watching her body movements, anything that might show she was lying: eye movement, head turns downward, and many other things he was trained to look for during questioning.

  Angie looked him straight in the eye, without a blink or movement. “I saw him about two weeks ago at the halfway house. He’s very sick.”

  “Did he say anything like a plan to break out the halfway house or the hospital job he planned to pull?”

  Angie rolled her eyes. “He talked about dying. That I was on his record as next of kin, although we’re not related.”

  A police officer walked up to Detective Perkins and whispered in his ear. Even with the kitchen noise of clanking dishes, one word sounded out something about a blue Honda.

  Angie was unprepared to try and explain why ten thousand dollars in cash was in her vehicle. She hoped the fear in her body would stay put and not show on her face.

  “Ms. Browning, do you own a blue Honda?” Perkins asked.

  “I drive one—the bank owns it.” She quickly smiled to make light of her answer.

  “We would like to have our Forensic Department look at your car.”

  She knew she had to get aggressive. “Why? Did you find anything of interest?”

  The detective wasn’t giving up much. “We would like to see who might have been in the car with you. Maybe some hair samples from the passenger’s seat.”

  “You mean Willard’s hair or fingerprints?”

  The detective smiled. “Now you’re following me.”

  Angie smiled back at him, but what ran through her mind was more important.You assholes, I’ve got ten thousand cash under my seat, you didn’t do too good of a job. She had answers to the rest of his questions. “There is no need for your forensic specialist. I can tell you right now you will find Willard’s DNA if you look hard enough in my passenger's seat.”

  Detective Perkins was surprised Angie gave up so quickly. “Where did you take him? Where did you all go?”

  “We didn’t go anyplace. Check the halfway house log book. I signed him out, and we sat in my Honda in the parking lot. Perfectly legal. He can go anyplace he wants as long as it is one hundred feet from the front door,” she said, thinking, You assholes. You have nothing. “I brought him his favorite snack, Elmer’s CheeWees. I’m sure you’ll find some orange fingerprints on the dashboard, door handle, or numerous other places. CheeWees are delicious, but you can only lick so much of the orange off your fingers. The rest sticks to everything you touch. You don’t need forensic; hell Ray Charles would have been able to see the glowing orange color.”