Crescent City Detective

by Vito Zuppardo

  Mario looked in disbelief. “That is amazing.”

  She continued, “Yea, all was good. Until a rainstorm came and our truck got flooded. Lost the truck and all the equipment.”

  “No insurance?” Howard asked.

  “No,” she said, looking like it was painful to talk about the loss. “We’re saving money to start up again.”

  “Angie, I could use some help over here,” Alfonso yelled out, giving her a look.

  “See you guys,” she said as she moved to another customer. “Can I help you?”

  They both got to the parking lot, and Howard doubled back inside. He got Angie’s attention and leaned over the counter and whispered into her ear, “I left you a little package under your driver’s seat.”

  Angie realized it was Howard that must have taken the money and saved it for her, knowing the police would search her car. Oh my God, ran through her mind. Her lips formed the words, but no sound came out. Thank you.

  Willard assisted in Kate’s attack, Angie wasn’t actually involved. The money was just a dying gift Willard left for Angie—how he got the money didn’t matter to Howard. If the police found the money, it would just go into the police fund—Angie could best use the money.

  Some downtime at the bar helped Mario relax, even if it was only an hour, but now it was back to reality. He had stopped at the hospital earlier that morning and peeked in on Kate. She was doing much better and could get released from the hospital in a few days. She planned to live with her parents during recovery, which was okay with Mario. Her parents had a big beautiful house on St. Charles Avenue with full-time help for cleaning and cooking. She could get much better care at her mother’s home than at his condo, where she would be alone all day. The long day came to an end, and with a quick phone call to Kate, he then headed home.

  ***

  The alarm clock went off, and Mario rolled over and turned it off. He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and put his running shorts on with his faded Saints jersey. The elevator took him to the ground floor and he was greeted by the doorman, like he did most mornings. He started running down North Peter’s Street, crossed over Canal Street and down Decatur Street to Jackson Square. The two-mile run put him in front of a café where he got his morning cup of coffee and a newspaper when he had time to read.

  Sipping on his coffee, Mario reflected on Felipe Cruz and wondered where such hatred could originate. That was the problem with the system: Felipe could be out of jail in eight more years. The man at the very least should be in prison for the rest of his life, and had the witness not disappeared, he would have been. Putting him back on the streets would increase violence. It was unimaginable that Felipe was in Calabar and could still have reach and control of his crime mob. Scarier was the resentment he carried, and how it didn’t matter who he hurt. You, your family, and in Mario’s case, his girlfriend. No one was off limits. He would hurt someone close to you just to show you he didn’t forget and he was still coming for you. The word monster couldn’t describe Felipe.

  “Would you like a refill?” the counter clerk asked, breaking Mario from his trance.

  “No, thank you,” Mario answered, “I need to get going.” It was time for the run back to the condo so he could get dressed and head to work for the morning briefing. The run back always took longer, and he made it into the building without encountering the doorman, who was a talker and an authority on every subject.

  ***

  Truman walked with Mario, discussing some cases they were working on before going into the morning briefing. The room was packed with officers and detectives at a request from the chief, who wanted everyone attending the meeting, including those on duty as well as those finishing the late shift. Chief Parks opened the meeting with some cases that were closed, some that were in court, and congratulated those detectives for a good job on them.

  Detective Louis Perkins was standing near Chief Parks, so Mario knew there was new information on Kate’s attack. She turned the meeting over to Perkins.

  “Good morning. I want to dim the light if someone would hit the switch?” The lights in the room went dark, and the only light seen came from the hallway. “I’m going to run a two-minute film clip of the shooting of the two inmates in the prison van. The film came from the dashboard and rear cameras of the van. Then I will break it down by frame.” The film ran, and it was incredible to see how one person was able to overthrow the transportation van with three armed guards inside.

  “We have been looking for a thinly built guy with long brownish hair. This first still picture shows the man standing in front of the van with his right hand holding the cable over his shoulder. His left hand is up high over his head. Now I’m zooming in close to his sleeve; it moves down a little. Looks like a yellow tag or something colored hanging at the sleeve.”

  Mario learned to Truman. “Where is he going with this?”

  “You know Louis when he gets the floor, he'll keep it as long as possible,” Truman said.

  Detective Perkins flipped on a still shot of the guy in the van right before he killed the two prisoners. “What we didn’t know—the van has three cameras. When the dashboard camera is off, the interior camera comes on automatic. While the rear camera was ripped off before the man entered the truck, a third camera hidden in the top side door panel was running. The first picture is from the middle row seat of the vehicle. You can see the guy is talking to the prisoners like they all know each other.”

  Mario let out a sigh. “Get to the point.”

  Truman shook his head and let out a sigh too, folding his arms.

  “The next picture shows the tow truck driver with a gun in the right hand. Now pay attention. The last picture shows the left hand going over the right hand to steady the weapon before firing. You can see the design of some flower. Might be a tattoo, but it is not a clothing tag as we thought.”

  “You're telling me this dude has a flower on his wrist?” one officer shouted across the room. The room broke into chatter and laughter.

  Mario became alerted. He was all ears to what Louis had to say.

  “Okay, let's settle down. The last slide is what the artist thinks this is.” The last picture came on, and there was a white daisy with a bright yellow center. “My friend, I don’t know any man that has a flower on their wrist. We have been looking for a man, and it is a woman that killed the inmates. And she may be involved with Kate’s attack.”

  Mario sunk into his seat. He couldn’t believe he saw Angie’s daisy tattoo, thinking it was beautiful. He didn’t know what to do—could Angie be involved with Kate’s attack? A major break in the case was right under his nose the entire time.

  “So let's check tattoo parlors for a woman that may have gotten a daisy tattoo on her wrist. Check your contacts, stitches, street rats, or whatever you call them nowadays. Somebody has to have seen this person,” Detective Perkins said, turning the meeting back to the chief. She had a few closing points, and the meeting disbanded.

  Mario sat at his desk and looked through Felipe’s folder. His blood was boiling, and he wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. For sure he didn’t want to tell Chief Parks without being one hundred percent sure Angie was the gal with the daisy tattoo. He called Howard to meet him at the Last Call Bar parking lot. As usual, his friend had no problem assisting, and was waiting for Mario when he arrived.

  Sitting in Mario’s police cruiser, he briefed Howard on his morning meeting like he was his official partner. They agreed Howard would go inside and Mario would watch the lot for Angie. It was too early for the bar to be open, so he walked in through the rear delivery door.

  Howard waved at a guy that was prepping food for the lunch menu. “Alfonso in his office?” he shouted. The worker nodded.

  Finding Alfonso sitting in front of a makeshift desk, he said, “Good morning.”

  Wide-eyed, Alfonso’s reflex was to reach in a drawer but not before Howard jammed a foot into the drawer, smashing his hand. “No need for a gun.�
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  “What the hell do you want?” Alfonso said, easing his hand out the drawer. “Shit!” he said, rubbing the top of his hand, getting the blood circulating.

  “I want Angie’s address.”

  “She is an employee. That is privileged information. I can’t give it to you. There are laws—employers have to protect workers.”

  Howard became angry. “What about the rights of the woman in the hospital fighting for her life? What about her rights?”

  “Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alfonso said, standing up and looking Howard in the eyes, trying to intimidate him—something he should have never done.

  Howard shadowed him by about three inches. “I’m going to ask you again very nicely. Let me rephrase that for you.” He pulled his gun from his shoulder holster faster than Alfonso could blink and placed the nose of the weapon under his chin. “What is Angie’s address?”

  “One twenty-seven North Broad Street, it’s a little white shotgun house,” Alfonso said so fast he had to repeat it twice for Howard to understand.

  “Now wasn’t that easy?” Howard said with a smile. “You’re going to walk out to my limousine and sit in the back seat. Just a little precaution so that you don’t alert her before the police get to Broad Street.”

  “Not a problem. Whatever you need,” Alfonso said, walking out the rear door directly to the limousine as Howard nudged him along.

  Ducking his head, Alfonso got in the back of the limousine, and Howard walked to the driver’s window of the police cruiser.

  “One twenty-seven North Broad Street, a white shotgun house,” Howard said. “Call me when you get there—I’ll release him.”

  “Will do. Went down smooth?” Mario asked.

  “Yeah, real easy,” he chuckled. “Mario, one more thing. I found ten thousand in cash in Angie’s car. A lot of money for a barmaid.”

  “When was this?”

  “Doesn’t matter—just thought you should know.”

  Mario called Commander Waters, head of the SWAT team, and told him he was in route to the address and filled him in on seeing the daisy tattoo. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure about Angie’s tattoo, but this was too coincidental. Turning the overhead lights on, they flashed as he drove fast through the streets without a siren blaring. At police headquarters, three patrol units and a SWAT team were dispatched.

  Mario parked on the corner of North Broad Street and Bayou Saint John, waiting for backup. It was a quiet area of New Orleans for the most part, lined with local stores that had been operating for generations. The police cars filed behind Mario and the SWAT team gathered as they caused attention to the area.

  “Let’s get moving before we draw too much attention,” the commander ordered.

  Angie’s house was three off the corner. Four officers went down the alleyway of the shotgun house, bending down as they passed two windows, whispering into their headsets that they were in position. On the count of three, they broke in the back door and stormed in the front door simultaneously. Angie was in bed with a man in a less than favorable situation. She jumped up and grabbed her clothes.

  With the SWAT team pointing handguns at her, one officer announced, “Angie Browning? You’re under arrest for murder. Keep your hands high.”

  A female police officer helped Angie put her clothes on, and once she was all buttoned up, the sound of handcuffs clicked, securing her hands behind her back.

  CHAPTER 19

  Larry Dunbar and his partner, Michael Vail, arrived at the restaurant and pulled into the valet line. The attendant traded his car keys for a ticket stub, but not without Larry going into detail about the value of his Porsche Panamera Turbo. With specific details of keeping the car out front and not in the garage, the attendant parked the car in one of the three slots used for expensive vehicles directly to the left of the building. It gave the restaurant a prestige status and a luxury atmosphere when you entered. For the car owner, it gave peace of mind from door dings and careless valet drivers.

  Upon entering the restaurant, the hostess walked them to a table. You couldn’t help but notice Larry and Michael walking through the restaurant; they were two NFL retired football players that made their living destroying quarterbacks until the old age of thirty-four caught up with them. Both were dressed like they just walked out of a fine men’s store, wearing tailored suits, white silk shirts, and ties that completed the outfit. They were tall, with broad shoulders, a trim waist for their size, and good-looking, something you rarely saw in defensive linemen. Turning heads as they walked between the tightly arranged tables in the main dining room, they gave a casual smile, enjoying the attention as they made their way to a table.

  Larry and Michael sat at a table in the garden area that was always perfectly maintained. The waitress took their drink order, not without some sexual harassment from Larry. A combination of steroids, recreational drugs, celebrity football player status and Larry’s good looks gave him the confidence with a woman to say or do just about whatever he wanted. She smiled after taking their order and mumbled obscenities all the way back to the bar station, where she entered their order by banging the keys on the computer out of frustration.

  Looking at his watch, Larry said, “Your friend, Dr. Ross, is late again.” Michael made a face as if to say, relax. Luckily the waitress returned with their drinks and shifted Larry’s thoughts to her beauty and put a smile on his face.

  Dr. Walter Ross loved to gamble and held box seats during horse racing season at the New Orleans Fairgrounds. When the season ended, he made several trips a month to Las Vegas, where he sat in a plush sports parlor for hours at a time, gambling. While enjoying the good life, he was not very lucky, and over the years borrowed all he could from his trust fund and mortgaged Riverside Inn to the fullest. The lawyers for his family trust cut him off from borrowing years earlier.

  That’s when Walter met Larry Dunbar through a doctor friend who had used his services before. Larry was the President of Louisiana Investment Bank, a privately held company. Larry started the company in the late 1990s when his NFL football career was cut short due to an injury. For twelve years, he was one of the most feared defensive linebackers in the NFL and earned enough money to start his private banking business. Standing six foot five and two hundred and sixty pounds of solid muscle, you would never take him for a banker. He developed and eliminated the long process for the wealthy when they wanted to make a quick loan. There was virtually no limit to the amount he would lend, but for only short terms, usually three to six months. There were no credit checks, no application, or waiting period. You called Larry or Michael and discussed what you needed the money for, and if you made a good pitch, he gave you the money within twenty-four hours. You could make a payment any time during the term of your agreement as long as principal and interest got paid in full by the due date. It was just that simple and perfect for high-profile people that gambled, used drugs, housed their girlfriends, or any other reason you couldn’t explain to your local bank manager.

  Those were the troubled years for Doctor Walter Ross, and that was all behind him—he hoped. He could always count on his friend Amir, but since Myron took over, he became an instant problem. The business had been good. A recent visit by Julie Wong could put a dent into his cash if he didn’t replace the damaged organs sold to Myron. One way or another, someone would die soon to replace the organs for Myron. Walter had a bigger deal he needed help with—one that only Larry could service.

  Larry sucked the last of the vodka between the ice cubes in his glass as Dr. Ross sat down. “It’s about time,” he said, waving the glass to the waitress. She took the gesture for another drink for him and one for Dr. Ross.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t get out of the office,” Dr. Ross said.

  Larry gave him a disgusted look. “When you ask for a meeting, you’re the one who should arrive first.”

  The waitress showed up just in time with the drinks to break the tension. The smallest issue could pi
ss off Larry, and that would set the tone for the meeting. She placed the fancy cocktail glasses on the table.

  “I took the liberty to order you a Vodka and tonic,” Larry said, pushing one of the glasses in front of Walter.

  Dr. Ross smiled. “Great—I could use a drink.” Then he opened the conversation with something about the New Orleans Saints to see the mood Larry might be in today.

  Larry was never in for small talk and extremely impatient. He also had little respect for Walter and seldom ever called him by his title as a doctor of medicine. Larry just wanted you to get to the point and ask the question.

  “Walter!” Larry said, hitting the table with the palm of his hand, not too hard but enough for the doctor to get the hint that he was annoyed.

  Walter had been through this many times before, but his hidden agenda had him a little uneasy. “I need two hundred and twenty thousand,” he quickly spurted out.

  “Now wasn’t that easy?” Larry said with a smile.

  “There is a little catch,” Walter said, taking a sip of his drink.

  “Catch? The only catch is the problem you’ll have—if you don’t pay it back,” Larry said, looking directly into Walter’s eyes.

  Few people talked to Doctor Walter Ross that way, but he knew if they were going to do business he had to suck it up. “Look—let me lay out the plan.”

  Larry sat back in his chair. “Please do.”

  Walter carefully selected his words and outlined what he needed. “The bail for Angie Browning is set for two hundred thousand dollars. I want to borrow the two hundred thousand plus twenty thousand for the bondsmen fee. That is all I can tell you.”

  Larry made a not so pleasant face. “What the hell, Walter—all you need is ten percent of the bond in cash to get that much from any bond company.”

  “Larry, I know—this is different.”

  “The woman in the newspaper last week who killed the two convicts on the way to Calabar? Is that who we’re talking about?” Michael blurted out, giving Larry a look.