Angie felt relaxed. She was on a roll. Keeping her composure, she sat back on the chair waiting for Detective Louis Perkins to make his next move.
He broke the silence. “You’re not planning to leave town anytime soon, are you?”
“My friends and I were planning to take my private jet to New York to watch the Saints whip up on the Giants. If that is okay?” Angie said with a smirk on her face. She had the detective by the balls—he struck out on every question.
Detective Perkins told Angie they might come back for more questioning or even ask her to come downtown. She said “Anytime” with a smile, and they left the bar.
It took a while for her heart rate to go down, but she came through like a champ and was proud of herself. Angie waited about a half hour and slipped out the back door and went to her car. She sat in the driver’s seat and felt under the seat but couldn’t find the bag. It was gone. Did that woman cop take my money? Did the police rip me off? Ran through her mind faster than she blinked as her hand roamed the floor of the car under the dirty driver's seat a second time.
CHAPTER 12
All they knew was that it was early morning or the middle of the night. They had to be getting close, as the roads were getting hilly. Surely they were outside of St. Francisville based on the hills and time driving. The two prisoners tried to sleep in the van, but with their feet shackled and handcuffs on their wrists, it wasn’t that easy. The police had no proof that Julian was involved in Kate’s attack, and all indications showed he was going to a Baton Rouge correctional institution. In the final hour, a judge signed off to send him to a maximum-security prison until a hearing could be set for his attorney to argue the changes.
“We’re getting close to your retirement home,” Julian said to Gordon “G-Man” Gross.
“Unless I can outlive two life sentences,” Gordon said with a slight smile.
“Shut up!” the guard in the passenger’s seat shouted.
“Fuck you! Are you going to shoot me for talking? Do the state a favor and save money, just kill me now,” Gordon said.
The van made a hard left turn onto Tunica Trace and stepped on the gas. That was an indication they were on the road directly to Louisiana State Penitentiary’s entrance. Once a beautiful plantation, it was now known as Calabar, named after the country the slaves that worked the plantation’s farm originated from. It was the largest maximum-security prison in the United States, once nicknamed Alcatraz South.
A slight brightness coming from the east showed a new morning was beginning. You could see the sugar cane fields in the distance, although they were still five miles to the main gate. No matter how tough of a criminal you might be, these last few miles to the entrance were scary. All of a sudden Juice Boy and G-Man realized their life was about to change from bad to worse.
All heads jerked up when the driver slammed the breaks on coming around a sharp turn. “What the hell is this? Let's be alert. Turn the camera on,” the driver said.
The guard in the passenger's seat pumped his shotgun, and the third guard in the rear seat had his gun pointed at the back of Juice Boy and G-Man.
A tow truck with the emergency lights and rooftop lights flashing angled across the white lines in the road, blocking both lanes. The flatbed was pulled down to street level. There was no way to pull around the truck on the highway with deep ditches on each side.
The driver came walking out from the woods with one hand up in the air and the other carrying the tow cable. “A car lost control and went about twenty feet into the woods. The driver is unconscious. Police and emergency units are on their way.”
The guard gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I don’t like this.” He picked up his radio and called the prison. Calabar security quickly dispatched two police units.
The person walked closer to the front of the van, keeping both hands in the air with one dragging the cable. All the guard could see from his view was the top of a Shell Oil ball cap and unruly hair sticking out the side. “Are we okay? Can I go back and hook the car up?” the tow driver asked.
“Yeah, let's do it quickly,” the guard said, focusing the dashboard camera on the person.
Standing in front of the police van, with one hand a cable was hooked to the front bumper. The guard was too focused on the individual’s face to be concerned about the movement of hands. Then the person walked swiftly to the back of the truck. In the still of the morning, they heard a whining sound. The winch turned, and the cable tightened, pulling the prison transporter towards the ramp. The driver jumped in the tow truck and pulled it forward in line with the truck dragging the van up a steep ramp in spite of the guard putting all his weight on the brake pedal. The smell of burnt rubber and smoke was taking over the cabin of the van. Within seconds the van was locked down on the flatbed, and the driver backed into the woods, pulling back on the street, bouncing the vehicle and everyone in it from side to side.
The flatbed got off the main prison highway and was moving over a hundred miles per hour on some makeshift dirt road.
The guards tried getting off shots, but they were high up and only could see the steel plate that protected the cab of the truck.
The flatbed came to a stop, and a voice came over a speaker.
“You have ten seconds and one chance. Leave your guns in the van and climb out on the left side of the road with your hands up and you will not be hurt. Ten, nine, eight.”
The driver and passenger’s side guard laid their guns down and climbed out and stood on the left side of the road.
A voice came over the prison transport radio on the dashboard. “Unit twenty-two, where are you? We are on the Tunica Trace.” The officers stood clueless in the middle of the road, standing on top of the rubber marks left on the highway by the prison van.
The guard in the rear looked at the radio. He could easily get around Juice Boy and G-Man and call for help. He looked at the radio and looked at them again. “You’re not worth it,” he said as he threw his handgun in the back seat and joined the other two on the side of the road.
Juice Boy and G-Man were laughing. They knew his boys were going to protect them in prison, but the Cornerview Gang outdid themselves.
“All we need to do is get to Baton Rouge. I know people that can get us on a cargo ship and get us to Venezuela in five days. From there, who knows where we will go?” G-Man said.
The flatbed pulled out, pushing debris and rocks on the three men standing on the edge of the road. Within seconds all they could see was the red taillights fading away.
Fifteen minutes later the tow truck pulled into a dirt road that led to a run-down old farm. It stopped in the back of a barn next to a car. The car had an old steel bed spring attached to the rear bumper by a chain. Some farmers used this type of bed spring to level the ground before planting crops. It was much cheaper than buying a tractor and did the same job.
The person cleaned the inside cab of any fingerprints and climbed out onto the flatbed. Then walked the edge of the flatbed, entering the back door of the van. The person took a hammer off their tool belt and with one swing ripped off the door handle. Then reached into the back of the van and pulled out the rear camera by hand.
Opening the front door of the police van and greeted by two smiling inmates, G-Man and Juice Boy, gave some relief that the mission was successful and just about complete.
“Are you Willard Smith?” G-Man asked.
“No, I’m Angie,” she said as she took the Shell Oil ball cap off and removed a shaggy brown wig.
Juice Boy said, “Well, you did a hell of a job. Give me that shotgun, and I’ll shoot this lock off between our feet. We’ll deal with the handcuffs later.”
She watched smiles come over their faces. “Unfortunately, Willard couldn’t finish the job, so I helped out.” Taking a handgun out of a holster strapped to the back of her belt, she said, “The Cornerview Gang said they were sorry it had to end this way” as she pulled the trigger, putting two bullets in each of them.
She climbed out of the van and jumped into her blue Honda. She drove down the dirt road to the highway, pulling that steel bed spring from behind. It jumped up and down, covering any tire marks in the dirt and even on the blacktop road. A mile or so down the highway, she unhooked the spring from the back of the car and left it on the side of the road.
Angie made it back to the city and got in her apartment without being noticed. After all, it was only six thirty in the morning, and most people were not even up yet.
Angie hadn’t been completely honest the night before with Howard. In fact, as they talked in the limousine, she felt stronger as their conversation continued that she might have some use for Howard if she befriended him. She did drive Willard to Frenchmen Street to pick up the ten thousand for his part at the hospital. That’s when he told her the rest of the plan. He wasn’t sure he was capable of pulling it off with cancer-consuming his body, keeping him in pain and maybe too frail for such an undertaking. But he was going to give it his best shot.
Angie stayed in the car while he collected his money. A woman came down the steps and approached her, dressed too sexy for that time of the morning with leather chinos and a black silk low-cut blouse showing off her double Ds. Angie was sure she was a leftover from a late-night party. She introduced herself as Marina and quickly branded herself as a family member, saying she was Dante’s sister. Willard had talked about Dante, and Angie knew the name but saw him for the first time when he walked out the house. She was smart enough to know Marina only came to the car to make small talk while looking around in the back seat, making sure Angie was alone. Marina spoke—her eyes roamed the back seat, across the street, everywhere but looking at Angie.
Angie was introduced to Dante as Willard’s partner and wanted payment of fifty thousand dollars for killing G-Man and Juice Boy, delivered to her at the Last Call Bar. They all agreed.
That made Cosmo Walker the only person alive that knew who planned Kate’s attack, and his days were coming to an end quickly.
CHAPTER 13
Zack Nelson sat in the dining room with Dave at a table now deemed their breakfast location. They had a view of the garden and some morning sunlight. Their lady friends were not early risers, so the guys had coffee by themselves. Zack opened the New Orleans Times-Picayune newspaper, and there was the lead story of the two inmates murdered on the way to Calabar. Of course, it was old news, just a different version, and maybe little more details than the ten o’clock news broadcaster said the night before.
“You think Mario took the law into his own hands?” Dave asked Zack.
“I know he wanted to. But Mario is a true-blue detective. He may have wanted to kill G-Man, but he is a believer in the system,” Zack said.
Dave took a sip of coffee. “Well, whoever did kill him saved the state a lot of money. No trial, no need to house and feed him for the next thirty or forty years.”
“True.”
Mario showed up for coffee with Howard and took a seat at the table. This twosome had been happening more often, to the point Zack questioned if Howard was his new partner.
Zack smiled. “Detective Mario and Inspector Howard.”
“Hilarious,” Howard replied.
“I haven’t seen Truman in a while. Is he still your partner?” Zack said, once again trying to get under Mario’s skin.
“I have Truman following up on some leads from the armed robbery last week,” Mario said as the dining-room waitress poured him some coffee.
As usual, Dave went right for the questions like an interrogation. Who do you think is behind the G-Man killing, why was Juice Boy killed too, why did the guards go free? Mario couldn’t answer a question without Dave throwing out another one.
“You want my take on this?” Howard said.
“I’m all ears,” Zack replied.
“This was a hit on G-Man and Juice Boy. The person that did this was a contract killer. He only killed the persons he was contracted to kill. There was no reason to take out the guards,” Howard said, smoothing his white cloth napkin out over and over on the tabletop. "Back in the UK, I got involved in a case and found myself on a small island off the coast.”
Zack cut him off. “Please, no horrifying stories. It’s too early in the morning, and we don’t need to know any more about your past.”
“Let’s remember I’m a citizen of the United States for many years and even worked in your law enforcement many years ago in Chicago,” Howard said.
Mario quickly gave him a look from the corner of his eye. “Really?”
“Who is this man?” Zack said, looking at him funny.”We learn something new about you every day.”
Howard realized he might have said too much, and luckily his radio called him for a limousine job. “Got to go. Thanks for the coffee,” he said, taking the last sip from the cup. “Noon at the London Avenue Canal?”
Mario gave a head shake. “Maybe today we’ll get lucky.”
As usual, Dave had to know. “What’s that about?”
Mario hesitated but knew if he leaked the information, Dave would stop asking, and there was no real harm in telling him. “We have a lead on Willard Smith’s location. So far in the last few days, he has not shown up, although some homeless guy recognized his picture and said he had seen him around the area.”
Howard got to his car, and the phone was ringing. His big cell phone, looking much like a military walkie-talkie, sat in the front passenger’s seat. Answering, he heard a voice say the words he had been waiting to hear.
“This call is from Cosmo Walker, a Calabar Prison inmate. Do you accept the call?”
“Yes,” Howard said.
The recording went on. “Please state your name.”
“Howard Blitz.”
A voice shouted. “Hello, Howard? Can you hear me?”
He smiled. “Yes, Cosmo, what can I do for you?”
“I remembered some details of my case.”
Howard paused. “Important details, or the same crap you have been feeding me?”
“I have problems in here. We need to talk.” The fear in Cosmo’s voice was evident.
Howard wasn’t going to give in that easy. “Now, what could go wrong? You’re in prison surrounded by guards.”
“Man, don’t do this. We need to talk.”
Howard mumbled to himself, “I’ve got you now, asshole, and I’m going to squeeze you until you tell me everything.”
“Okay, I’ll be up there tomorrow.” Howard hung the phone up and gave out a laugh.
The limousine pulled up to the largest skyscraper in the city, named One Shell Square on Poydras Street in New Orleans. There were always hundreds of people coming in and out of the front entrance. All Howard could do was park on the street and wait for his client to come to him. He opened his briefcase and looked through the folder he was given by his boss Ben Stein. She was a beautiful woman of about thirty-five and her name was Julie Wong. Howard never asked Ben how he knew these international business people, but it seemed they were coming in and out of the cities more often and seldom stayed more than a night.
The profile folder of Julie Wong stamped Code Red on the front meant Howard was to put his Glock Pistol in his shoulder holster, which he was legal to carry. He was the closest thing to having a bodyguard escort you to your final location. Code Red clients preferred Ben Stein’s service because a security company was overkill and the uniform they wore were too visible, making it apparent you wanted to protect someone or something of value. Whoever hired Howard just wanted to get Julie Wong safely to her waiting private jet, and they knew Howard can handle anyone that tried to interfere.
The steps were swarming with people coming out of the massive building. From ground level, Howard spotted a beautiful tall Asian woman with long black hair coming down the steps, dressed like she just walked out of a Fifth Avenue boutique. She sported a silky black fabric dress and a kelly green jacket that buttoned tightly at her hips. Howard, familiar with fashion from his da
ys living in London, tried to add the dollar amount to the whole outfit and gave up at three thousand dollars without counting the jewelry.
“Ms. Wong?” Howard said as he greeted her.
She smiled. “Yes—you must be Howard?”
He opened the rear door for her, and she tossed her Chanel handbag on the seat and slipped in. He surveyed the area before getting into the driver's seat. In spite of hundreds of people walking in the Business District, it looked like no one was interested in Julie Wong.
The limousine pulled out slowly into traffic down Poydras Street. Passing the Louisiana Superdome, he entered the Interstate and accelerated. Most people for Code Red pickup didn’t talk much on the drive. Partly because they wanted to be private and some just didn’t speak much English. Julie was different.
“You have a beautiful city,” Julie said.
Howard looked in the rearview mirror at her. “It is, although I’m not a local. I’m from the UK—been living here for many years. You might say it’s my adopted city.”
“I need to make a stop at the Diamond Exchange,” she said.
Howard looked at her again in the mirror. “I don’t show a stop on your paperwork.”
She smiled back at him. “It’s just a quick stop at a jewelry store. It’s on the way.”
What the hell kind of jewelry stores they have off the interstate? Howard wondered. He got directions and pulled off the I-10 Interstate ramp, and it was just a few blocks away. The limousine pulled into a parking lot and barely stopped when a man dressed in a suit came out carrying a white bag with the store logo on both sides. Julie opened the door for him, and he got in the backseat. Howard didn’t see this coming and ran around to the door. Opening it, he pulled out his Glock and pointed it at the back of the man's head. To his surprise, Julie had a gun of her own pointed at the man’s head.
Crescent City Detective Page 7
