Street Justice

by Vito Zuppardo

  Mario played nice, telling him he could go, but he had a few more questions he might answer to help solve Leon and Barry’s murders.

  Jay slowly slipped a toothpick out of his mouth. He sat calmly and listened while whittling on the toothpick.

  Mario was surprised. “Where the hell did you get a toothpick?”

  “Cops are so worried about checking pockets for weapons, needles, and whatever that they never look in your mouth.”

  “Do you know the damage one can do with a toothpick?” Mario shot back.

  ‘No,” Jay said. “Just a habit—I’ve chewed on a stick of some sort since I was a kid.”

  Mario asked a question that got Jay’s attention. He was shocked to hear that Leon was the mayor’s half-brother. His only response—life was unfair. Leon living on the very streets his brother, the mayor, promised he’d find places for the homeless to live.

  “Politicians will promise anything to get elected,” Mario said.

  Howard, in his tender caring voice, asked questions. He’d prefer to grab Jay by the throat and raise him off the ground six inches. If he had information, he’d for sure give it up then.

  “Two men are dead,” Howard said. “Anything come to mind?”

  Jay shouted that he knew nothing about their deaths. Howard pushed gently, asking about Leon and Barry’s daily routines. Jay shook his head, then stopped. Howard immediately picked up on his emotions.

  “What?” His nerves shattered when Howard stared him down.

  Mario reached out. “If I find out you’re holding back—I’ll arrest you for obstruction.”

  Jay was fidgety and gulped down the rest of the Coke. He licked his lips, then said that Leon thought he was above all the other homeless people. Talking how he was a war hero and the government let him down. Other homeless individuals were just worthless people who didn’t want to work and had no meaning in life.

  “I didn’t ask for this life,” Jay shouted.

  Howard encouraged him, Jay was fired up and might drop some useful info.

  “Anything we might use,” Howard said.

  Jay hesitated, unsure of the importance, then explained a walk that Barry and he took with Leon. It was a Thursday about six months earlier. Leon passed Wallace Jackson in the street. It looked planned. One second, Leon was sitting on a bench, the next, he spotted Wallace and walked right up to him. They spoke for only seconds, and money was exchanged.

  Mario encouraged him to continue, he did.

  The three walked to a small hotel on Canal Street. Leon had received cash from the mayor to rent a room. Jay waited in the lobby. A half-hour later, Leon came down, showered, hair combed, looking a little less homeless. He was cleaned up enough to allow him in and out of the hotel lobby, which generally he’d be run out of quickly.

  From the street, Jay watched Leon hand off a room keycard to the mayor. About two hours later, big-shot Leon took Jay and Barry up to the room and they showered. The three men used the place for the rest of the night and got to sleep in a bed on a real mattress for the first time in years.

  The story was choppy. Howard slowed him down. “What was that all about?”

  “I had the same question,” Jay said. “About a week later, Leon showed me some pictures. He had them hiding behind a loose brick on a wall in an alley off Royal Street. Leon boasted how proud he was of taking them, his ace in the hole he called it. Thought they might fetch him more payoffs down the line if he showed them to the mayor.”

  As Leon explained to Jay, the mayor didn’t want to be seen getting a room at the hotel, not under his name. Leon secured the place, with his military ID, still current, and the cash Wallace slipped him. When Leon gave Wallace a second keycard, he walked off and doubled back to the hotel through a side entrance. Then he took shelter near the room in the linen closet.

  It wasn’t too long after, Mayor Wallace showed up at the room alone. A few pictures were snapped from a cheap disposable camera. One picture caught the mayor and the room number. Shortly after, a well-dressed man showed up. He too was photographed with the room number exposed.

  It was Leon’s ticket out of the streets and the start of a new life. Mayor Wallace would pay thousands to keep the pictures out of the newspapers of him entering a hotel room and his lover following shortly afterwards.

  “Any idea who the man was?” Mario asked.

  Jay shook his head. “No, and Leon didn’t recognize him either. But I can show you the pictures.”

  Howard stood ready. “We’ll take my car.”

  Jay said there was no need. The pictures were in his backpack downstairs where he was processed into Central Lockup.

  “You have pictures?” Mario snapped back.

  “Well—Leon has no use for them.”

  Mario called for an officer to stand guard at the door while he and Howard went to check the pictures out.

  At the processing cage, they waited for the officer on duty to bring the backpack from the evidence room. All personal items are kept in a locked room.

  The green Army bag was placed on a table where Mario laid each item out. There it was, in a Walgreens photo packet. Six pictures of Wallace going into the room and a man in a suit followed minutes later. The time stamp put them going in eight minutes apart, staying thirty-five minutes, and departing separately.

  Mario handed the pictures to Howard. “No doubt, it’s Wallace. I don’t know who this other guy is.”

  A questionable look came over Howard’s face. His eyes beamed as if to penetrate the photo, then a blank stare.

  “What? You know the guy?”

  “I sat with him yesterday.” Howard eyes fixed on the man’s face. “It’s Roberto Ferrari.”

  Chapter 24

  Jay gathered his things at the cage and processed out of jail, minus the pictures. Instructed not to leave town, in case Mario might want to ask more questions. He assured the police he could be found at his new job—Royal Street Grocery.

  Mario and Howard arrived at the chief’s office to well-wishes on their return to work. The police investigation had found the shooting justified. Most workers were happy for their clearance of any charges. Two cynical cops wished they’d never returned. Mario had no use for people who weren’t team players. Their heads were fixed on climbing the ranks way too fast; he’d worked on a transfer for them that would soon be a reality.

  A briefing with the chief brought them up to date. As expected, the mayor was on her ass to solve the bombing case. The two detectives held back their information on the sketchy information possibly involving the mayor. They had evidence, with Olivia’s assistance. There would be only one attempt to take down a city official and their case better be rock solid.

  They left the chief’s office knowing their relationship wasn’t torched and she was behind them 100 percent. They had been through a lot. All three had skeletons in their closets and carried demands they had to live with.

  The detectives arrived at the Eighth District station. On the way, Mario took a call from Emma Lou. Zack Nelson had been mugged and was in an emergency vehicle en route to Mercy Hospital.

  Mario made a sharp turn over the trolley car tracks on Canal Street and flipped the blue light on the dashboard to flashing. With his siren blasting, he weaved in and out of traffic.

  When they arrived at the hospital, Zack was in the emergency room being attended to by doctors. Two motorcycle police had escorted the emergency vehicle to the hospital and waited outside the ER for a statement. The detectives were allowed in the waiting area. Dave, Pearl Ann, and Emma Lou sat nervously with eyes focused on the ER doors, waiting for an update. All Emma Lou knew was that Zack had gone to the barbershop. She got a call from the barber that Zack was mugged on the block. A bus driver on the City Park route called the police.

  “Was it a robbery?” Emma Lou looked at the detectives for answers.

  Mario made a face and shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll wait and see what Zack has to say.”

  Howard went out a
nd talked to the two police officers. He learned there was an eyewitness. A woman jogging across the street in the park. She saw Zack hit the ground and a man jumped into a dark-colored sedan. The officer shared the last part of a Saints’ license plate, A409. The woman was positive on the numbers.

  Howard called the plate to dispatch and within minutes got the name and address of the owner. Howard went back to the waiting room to find Mario and Emma Lou in with Zack. He was told he’d be allowed in when one of them came out. He flashed his badge and was allowed in immediately.

  Zack sat up in the bed, a bad gash on his head from when he hit the ground. Emma Lou was asked to leave, and Mario drilled him with questions.

  Zack raised his hand. “Hold up, Mario. Never seen the guys before but could pick one or both out of a lineup. The kid, Logan, sent them; he wants his two hundred grand.”

  Mario’s head was about to explode. The investigation into the mayor had slowed him from making the case on Logan’s computer scam.

  “This punk thinks he can go gangster on Zack? I’ll break him in two.” Howard slipped through the information he got from the officer. It was time for them to make an arrest on these thugs and put a case together against Logan. Zack was warned not to discuss Logan’s involvement with him to anyone. Not even his trusted friends.

  The detectives were fired up and headed to the owner of the car’s address on Coliseum Street in the Garden District. They stopped and parked the car a few houses away and went on foot to the front door.

  “Upscale neighborhood,” Howard said. “Not the kind of house you’ll find a thug living.”

  Mario gave three hard knocks at the door “Well, we’re about to find out.”

  The door opened slowly and a woman peeked out, asking if she could help them. Mario flashed his badge and announced they were police.

  “We’re looking for Gerald Miller.” Howard towered over the woman and got a look into the house. A door slammed at the side entrance. Howard spotted a man running down the alley to the rear of the house. “Runner!” He jumped over the porch rail and chased the man. At the back of the yard, a man fell to the ground after a failed attempt to scale a brick wall. A second try was interrupted by the clicking sound of Howard’s gun when the hammer locked in place.

  “Bet I can blow your leg off before your next try.” Howard reached with one hand and pulled the guy up.

  In the kitchen, Mario secured the wife, and Howard brought the man in with cuffs on. Plopped him into a chair and asked what he was running from.

  The woman spoke up, defending and explaining he worked for her and lived in the cottage at the rear of the vast grounds. He was a housekeeper for everything exterior, gardening, windows, painting, you name it, Akbar did the job.

  Akbar spoke broken English. Said he ran when he heard “police.” In his country, police meant one thing, jail for a few weeks, then death. The woman identified herself as Becky Miller. Akbar was from Africa living with her and her husband. He was a student at Tulane University.

  Mario peeked at his notes again. “I’m looking for Gerald Miller.”

  “He’s not available.”

  Howard rocked on his heels, the woman visibly uncomfortable. “Make him available.”

  Mario calculated the circumstances. The woman, well-dressed, educated, the property on the high side of upscale. Over the woman’s shoulder, he saw expensive, antique pieces in the living room. Add the exchange student, and it didn’t fit the profile of a thug or criminal.

  The woman recommended they visit her husband, Dr. Gerald Miller, at work in an hour when he’d finished a lecture at Tulane.

  Mario apologized. They must have had the wrong address.

  Mrs. Miller, a pleasant woman under the problematic circumstances, asked the detectives for help. Someone had broken into her car, and she wondered what division of the police department she should call. Her insurance company said a police report was required.

  She was shopping at the mall and when she returned to the parking lot, her car was in a different parking space. The driver’s window was broken and wires from under the dashboard pulled out.

  “Crazy,” she said. “A laptop worth fifteen hundred, clothes she’d purchased earlier at Macy’s in the back seat. All left behind.”

  Mario and Howard gave a side glance at each other and almost simultaneously asked to see the car. When the overhead garage door opened, Mario spotted the Saints’ license plate ending in A409.

  Mario explained the car might have been used in a crime and called for a patrol car. Then he called Olivia and asked for a rush on forensics. He was hoping for a useful fingerprint from the car’s steering wheel. Olivia came to the house herself. She processed the steering wheel, dashboard, radio dials, and got a sizeable solid thumbprint on the air conditioner knob.

  The crime involving Zack was personal and no doubt prompted by Logan Taylor. Mario needed a lead on who Logan hired for the job. The detectives followed Olivia back to her office. She had a name and a work address within minutes. They stood by the printer, waiting for a picture of Bowie David. If he didn’t attack Zack, he’d have a lot of explaining about what he was doing in Becky Miller’s car. Armed with the information, the detectives headed to the hospital. With a phone call to the ER to see if Zack had been moved to a room, they learned he’d been released.

  Riverside Inn was a mile away. They found Zack and friends in the dining hall with afternoon coffee and cinnamon rolls the kitchen made every evening.

  One glimpse at the pictures and Zack identified the guy. “That’s the asshole.”

  Before they rushed out, they were offered coffee and a roll but declined, instead taking one each in a napkin for the road. Neither could refuse sweets, especially the cinnamon rolls they were introduced to on the first day they walked into the Riverside Inn dining room.

  The work address Olivia found was from a bartender’s liquor permit needed to serve drinks. The car pulled curbside of a bar too familiar on Bourbon Street. They both agreed it was a bar owned by Lorenzo Savino at one time. Who owned it now or if it was tied up in litigation after Lorenzo’s death, they weren’t sure.

  Mario moved his unmarked police car a few bars down. They put their coats in the trunk and pulled their shirts over their guns attached to their belts. With their neckties off and shirts opened, they strolled in and bellied up to the bar. As expected mid-afternoon, the place was empty.

  They ordered two beers from a bartender. She returned with the beers in one hand and a dirty rag in the other. Smeared the bar with the cloth, dropped two napkins, and placed the beers on top. “Shift change—I’ll leave the bill. My coworker, Bowie, will be out in a second.”

  “No problem.” Mario threw a twenty on the bill. “Keep the change.”

  She smiled, then scooped up the bill and the cash. “Thanks.”

  A man came from the storage room carrying four bottles of whiskey and replaced empties on the mirrored shelf.

  Mario got a glimpse of the big guy’s name tag and nudged Howard. “That’s our man.”

  “Twice Zack’s size.” Howard mumbled. “I’d like a one-on-one with him.”

  “Y’all need anything?” Bowie asked.

  Mario played tourist, asking places to eat and the best place for nightlife. Bowie laughed, said no one ever asked him where the action was when having a drink on Bourbon Street.

  “My friend, if you can’t find a place to have fun in the French Quarter, you’re not looking too hard.”

  “Bowie. Don’t see that name too often.” Mario got him talking. “Is that after the guy with the knife? Jim Bowie?”

  “No, sorry to say my mother was a David Bowie fan in the seventies. My last name is David. So she thought Bowie David would be a fun name.”

  Mario and Howard got Bowie talking, they ordered another round and tipped a twenty. They put on a good act as farmers from Talladega, Alabama, who didn’t get to the big city too often. It was Bowie who brought up ladies, and Mario snapped up the sugg
estion. Nothing had changed, even with Lorenzo Savino dead. The bar still hustled. Ladies flowing freely throughout the ground floor keeping everyone drinking. When an opportunity of a sucker comes along, he’s invited upstairs where it gets costly.

  Bowie gave a nod to a coworker, and he took over the bar while Bowie walked Mario and Howard to the stairs.

  “Can five hundred get me some fun?” Mario asked.

  Bowie grinned. “You’ll be happy with the results.”

  At the top of the stairs, a guy stood. No one was getting any farther without an escort from the bartender. A piss-poor screening process, Mario thought when passing the thug.

  They were taken to a room. Four women sat at another bar, called the VIP room, where customers picked the gal of their dreams.

  Mario whispered in Bowie’s ear, said it was a little embarrassing and could they talk privately. They were taken to an empty bedroom. Bowie looked out a window down at Bourbon Street. Howard guarded the door.

  “Let me guess.” Bowie smiled. “You’re uncomfortable—not looking for a woman. You think you’re the first gay man who walked through our doors?”

  “You got my number,” Mario said.

  Bowie pointed out another bar down the street that could cater to his needs.

  Mario cut him short. “The only need I have is for you to tell me who hired you to rough up Zack Nelson.”

  Bowie’s eyes scanned the room. He was big but wasn’t sure he could take both of them. He shouted for security, and within seconds, the thug at the end of the hall rushed in. Howard closed and locked the door behind him.

  With one swift kick, Howard took out the guy’s right knee. Backhanded, he hit him on the left side of his face. Off balance to the right, a robust left blow to the rib cage put him curled up on the floor.

  “I know Logan hired you.” Mario backed Bowie into a corner. “Just admit it.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Give me the right answer or you’ll be eating through a straw for the next few weeks.” Mario was pressing him against the wall by his neck. “Who?” More pressure was applied. Bowie pulled the best he could, but Mario locked his elbows into his chest.