Ray watched the cops photograph the car and the inside of the trunk. They put the Smith. 40 caliber into a plastic evidence bag, preserving it for prints. They bagged the cash, too. Landry was never far from the money, Ray noticed. He must be worried that some of it might disappear.
Ray waved to the bartender for another beer.
Half an hour later, Ray walked to Jenny’s apartment. Her car wasn’t parked on the street. He rang the buzzer anyway.
No answer.
He stuck a cigarette between his lips and walked away. Reaching for his lighter, he remembered he didn’t have one. He had been using Tony Zello’s gold-plated “Z” lighter, which was now no doubt in police custody.
Ray put the Lucky Strike back into the almost full pack and was just about to slip it into his pocket when he passed a trash can on the sidewalk. He stopped. A slogan painted on the side of the square trash can said DON’T TRASH NEW ORLEANS.
Ray looked at the pack of cigarettes in his hand. He looked at the trash can. Then he reread the slogan. He had been smoking since high school. What had it done for him? Jenny had said something important. Something Ray was sure was true.
People can change.
Ray threw the pack of Lucky Strikes into the garbage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ray woke up at two o’clock the next afternoon. He was at the Doubletree, a high-rise hotel off Canal Street, a block from the casino. It was a big step up from the dump on Chef Menteur Highway. Here they put a free newspaper in front of your room in the morning and mints on your pillow at night.
The newspaper headline screamed: MOB BOSSES, BROTHERS, GUNNED DOWN! CARLOS AND VINCENT MESSINA KILLED. REPUTED MOB SOLDIER ARRESTED, CHARGED WITH MURDERS.
Ray switched on the TV. CNN and Fox News were running with the story. Updates linked the murders of the Messina brothers to two more bodies discovered in the New Orleans suburb of Kenner, where another reputed Messina soldier had been found dead, along with his wife.
Ray called Jenny a few times, but she didn’t answer.
He called Carl Landry.
“If you’re looking for a reward,” Landry said, “you’re not getting one.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“So talk.”
“In person.”
“I don’t have time.”
Ray had expected that. “Landry, I just gave you the biggest arrest of your career. You’re on all the cable news channels doing the perp walk with Tony. You owe me a few minutes.”
They met in the bar at the Sheraton, across the street from the Doubletree. Ray didn’t want Landry to know where he was staying. Ray had a Jameson on the rocks. Landry had a glass of water with a slice of lemon.
“Does it bother you,” Ray said, “that Jimmy LaGrange is still a cop?”
Landry took a sip of his lemon water. When he put his glass down, he said, “Why, does it bother you?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe it bothers me, too,” Landry said.
“You said he had immunity.”
Landry nodded.
“What kind of immunity?” Ray asked.
“Anything he admitted to got written up and everyone signed off on it. No one can touch him for anything on the list, and it’s a long list.”
“That’s some deal.”
“He went way back,” Landry said. “Even before he was in Vice. When the feds tell you that if you admit to it, you can’t ever be prosecuted for it, it’s in your best interest to dig deep.”
Ray took a sip of whiskey. “How about murder, was that part of the deal?”
Landry’s eyes widened. “No, that wasn’t covered.”
“He strangled a girl in the Rose Motel.”
For several seconds, Landry didn’t say anything. Just stared across the bar at the rows of liquor bottles. “That must have been his favorite hangout.”
Ray nodded. “I pulled him out of there a few times.”
“When did it happen?”
“Two years before I got arrested.”
Landry sipped his water. “How do you know about it?”
“Jimmy told me.”
“That was seven years ago. Without a body you don’t have a case.”
“I know where she is.”
“What?”
“Saint Louis Number Three.”
The detective frowned. “You think a judge is going to let us exhume her on your word?”
“She’s never been buried. At least not officially.”
“I’m listening.”
“She’s in the Underwood family tomb, but she’s not an Underwood.”
“I think you better explain that.”
Ray slid more whiskey down his throat. “She’s right behind the Third District station.”
“I know where Saint Louis Number Three is,” Landry said, his impatience showing.
“No, I mean the tomb. The Underwoods are right behind the station, just across the fence from the back parking lot.”
“LaGrange told you right where he hid the body.”
Ray drained the rest of his drink in one gulp. To make this work, Ray had to be willing to go all the way. “No,” he said. “I helped him put her there.”
The detective pushed his glass away and sat up straight. “Then I’m going to have to advise you of your rights.”
Ray leaned close to Landry, his voice sharp. “Who do you want, Carl? An ex-cop and ex-con because I didn’t report it, or do you want an active-duty cop who strangled a teenage girl?”
Carl Landry shook his head. “Accessory after the fact is a felony that could violate your parole.”
Straight-arrow, by-the-book motherfucker. “Without me, you got nothing.”
“I can dig her up,” Landry said. “LaGrange will crack in ten minutes. He’ll probably put the whole thing on you. He’s done it before.”
“The deal Jimmy made with the feds sticks in your craw, doesn’t it? You had to watch your father go to prison while a piece of shit like Jimmy LaGrange went free and got to stay on the job.”
Landry’s face turned red. He grabbed the front of Ray’s shirt and pulled the two of them together. With their faces only inches apart, he said, “My father is none of your fucking business.” Spittle flew from the detective’s lips and struck Ray in the face. “You’re a fucking scumbag, and I’m not working any deals with you.”
So Landry wasn’t always in control. He had a dark side after all. Ray pushed the detective’s hands away. “After he killed her, he called me in a panic and I helped him get rid of the girl’s body.”
“So you’re admitting to being an accessory.”
Ray nodded. “But accessory after the fact carries a seven-year statute of limitations.”
Landry’s face hardened. His lips pressed together so tightly his mouth looked like a red line.
“You just can’t help it, can you?” Ray asked.
“Help what?”
“You’re so fucking straight you’d break if you tried to turn a corner.”
“The law is not a suggestion, Shane. You don’t get to bend it to suit your needs.”
“Bullshit,” Ray said. “Police work is a dirty business. Sometimes you have to look the other way.”
“I don’t work like that.”
“What do you call the deal you made with LaGrange? If that’s not looking the other way, I don’t know what is.”
“That wasn’t my decision.”
“But you went along with it, didn’t you?”
Landry turned away.
Ray stared at him for several seconds. “It’s been eating you up, hasn’t it? Five years, tearing your guts out. Thinking about your dad-”
“My father deserved to go to prison.”
“And so does Jimmy LaGrange.”
Carl Landry waved for the bartender. He ordered two drinks, a Jameson for Ray and a vodka and tonic for himself. After the drinks came, he looked at Shane. “Tell me about the girl.”
“Aren’t you going to
read me my rights first?”
“Fuck you.”
Ray kicked back a slug of whiskey. “I don’t know what happened before I got there. He called me about midnight, out of his fucking mind, said he had to have my help. When I got there, the girl was dead. Jimmy said it was an accident.”
“An accident?”
Ray shrugged. “Jimmy was into weird stuff.”
“What kind of weird stuff?”
“Eroto-asphyxiation, bondage, S and M.”
“Who was she?”
“A runaway. A junkie. A whore. But she was only about fifteen.”
“You said he strangled her.”
“The only marks on her, other than the tracks on her arms, were bruises and some scratches around her neck. Jimmy was nuts, screaming about prison, threatening to kill himself. He grabbed his gun off the dresser and put it in his mouth. I had to take it away from him.”
Ray took another sip of whiskey. Thinking how different things might have been if he’d never gone to the Rose Motel that night. Thinking about the cleaning lady finding LaGrange with his brains blown out, next to a dead hooker. “I shouldn’t have stopped him.”
“What happened next?”
“He wanted to put her in my car. I told him there was no fucking way a dead prostitute was going in my car.”
“So what did you do?”
“We put her in his trunk.”
“Why the cemetery?”
“Who’s going to look for a body in a graveyard?”
Landry nodded. “Whose idea was that?”
“Jimmy’s.”
“The cemeteries are locked after five.”
“That’s why we went to the Third District station. LaGrange backed his car up to the fence, and we borrowed some tools from the desk sergeant.”
“Who was the sergeant?”
Ray shook his head. “He didn’t know anything about it. LaGrange told him we were pulling a surveillance and we had to get through a fence. He just lent us some tools.”
Landry gestured for him to go on.
“Jimmy cut a hole in the fence. He crawled through and pulled the girl’s body in behind him. I followed him.” Ray lifted his glass and downed the rest of his drink, feeling the amber liquid burn the back of his throat. “He found a tomb in the cheap seats, right behind the station.”
“Cheap seats?”
“There’s a double row of small family tombs just across the fence.”
Carl Landry had been eyeing his vodka and tonic while Ray talked. Finally he took his first sip. Ray thought it was probably the first on-duty drink he’d taken in his life.
Ray said, “Jimmy picked a tomb that looked full.”
“How could he tell?”
“It was a small one, no more than six or seven feet tall and about four and half feet wide. The marble stone on front had about eight names on it already. Seemed like a good bet they weren’t going to be able to fit any more in there.” He paused for a few seconds, thinking about that night seven years ago.
“The heat cremates them after a year or so,” Landry said. “There’s really no limit to how many you can put in there.”
“We didn’t know that,” Ray said. The image clear in his mind of him and Jimmy LaGrange carrying the naked body of the dead girl. When they set her down in the grass beside the tomb, Ray had thrown up. “I remember the family’s name, Underwood, engraved in block letters across the face of the tomb.”
“How did you get the body inside?”
“With a screwdriver.”
“How?”
“Two long screws are all that hold the marble stone-headpiece, tombstone, whatever you call it-in place. All you need to get into one of those things is a screwdriver, and we had the sergeant’s toolbox.”
“So you unscrewed the cover?”
That was the second time Landry had said you. Ray nodded. “But I let Jimmy handle the rest.”
“All right. What did he do?”
“It was pitch dark in that tomb. Jimmy asked me to help him carry her inside. I told him there was no way I was going in that thing. It was his mess. He could finish cleaning it up.”
“So you stayed outside while he went in?”
“Jimmy grabbed under her arms and was backing in, but he missed one of the steps and ended up falling backward into the tomb. She fell on top of him. Scared the shit out of him and he started screaming. I had to kick him to get him to shut up.”
“Where were you when you kicked him? Were you inside the tomb?”
Ray shook his head. “His legs were hanging out, so were the girl’s. I kicked the bottom of his foot just to get him to stop screaming.”
“Where exactly did he put her?”
“I don’t know. I told you it was dark in there. I’ve never been in one of those things, and I don’t have any idea what they look like on the inside.” Ray wished he had another drink. “The inside of that tomb was the blackest thing I’ve ever seen. When Jimmy went in there, it was like the dark just swallowed him up. He was sweating like a pig when he came out, but I didn’t know if it was from exertion or from fear. I was sweating, too, but I knew mine was from fear.”
“What happened next?”
“Nothing. We never talked about it again. Just pretended it never happened.”
“So why are you talking about it now?”
Ray signaled for another drink. “Why are you asking me that? You’re the one who set this thing up.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s why you told me about Jimmy’s deal with the feds. You wanted me to get even. You wanted me to do your dirty work for you.”
After Ray’s drink came, Landry said, “You’ll have to testify.”
Ray thought about the garbage bag full of money across the street in his hotel room. Somewhere around $250,000. “After what he did, I don’t care.”
“Are you talking about what he did to the girl or to you?”
“Take your pick,” Ray said. “As long as the D.A. is paying for the ticket, I’ll fly back and testify.”
“You’re leaving?”
Ray nodded and took a sip of his drink.
“Where?”
“I don’t know yet. When you need to reach me, you can contact my parole officer. He’ll know where I am.”
“What are you going to do?”
Ray shrugged.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The next morning, Ray was up early. He stuffed himself at the all-you-can-eat breakfast bar in the hotel restaurant. After that he went back to his room and called Jenny. Still no answer.
He decided to take a walk.
It was ten blocks to Jenny’s apartment. He tried to come up with something to say to her. Some kind of apology. It didn’t matter. Her car wasn’t there.
He remembered what she had said about wanting to go back to California. He leaned on the buzzer outside the main door to the building for a good thirty seconds. A third-floor window jerked open and a young guy with long hair stuck his head out. “Knock that shit off!”
Ray didn’t recognize him. He bit back his first response, waved up at the guy, and said, “Sorry.” Then he walked away.
Back in his room at the Doubletree, the red message light on the telephone was blinking. He had not told anyone where he was staying. He picked up the phone. On the hotel’s voice mail system was a recorded message telling him to call the front desk for an urgent message. With a growing sense of dread, he dialed the front desk. The girl who answered wanted to know if he would be staying another night.
Ray told her he would be staying at least one more night. He was enjoying spending someone else’s money. Since he was using cash, he had to pay up front. He pulled the garbage bag out from the closet, grabbed two hundred bucks, then wandered toward the lobby. On the way out of his room he double-checked that the do-not-disturb sign was still in place. He didn’t want housekeeping throwing his garbage bag out with the trash.
After paying for another night, Ray went b
ack to his room and spent the next two hours staring at a movie on pay-perview. When it was over, he realized he didn’t even know what it had been about. Instead of watching it, he had spent the last two hours trying to decide what he was going to do for the rest of his life. He had not made any decisions.
That was too much thinking, so he pulled the money out and counted it-$247,374, not counting the small stuff in his pocket. He went to the gift shop and talked the clerk out of three shopping bags, the stiff, square kind with the twine handles. He put $100,000 each into two bags, and the rest in the third bag.
At 4:00 PM, he called Jenny again, and still got no answer. A gnawing feeling in the bottom of his stomach told him she was gone for good.
Ray loaded the three shopping bags into the trunk of his Mustang. Then he drove past Jenny’s apartment. Her car still wasn’t there. This time he didn’t stop. At a store on Esplanade Avenue, he stopped and used a pay phone to call the House.
Someone whose voice he didn’t recognize answered. No, the voice told him, Jenny Porter wasn’t at work. As soon as he hung up, Ray hated himself for making that call. She had said she was through at the House. When Jenny said something, she meant it. There was something to be learned from that.
Ray took the expressway toward Metairie. At the hotel where they had stayed, he circled the parking lot looking for her Firebird. It wasn’t there. He wandered into the lobby. At the front desk he asked the clerk if Jenny Porter had checked out. The clerk, a young Pakistani man, eyed him for several seconds, then said, “Are you Mr. Shane?”
Ray nodded.
“Mr. Ray Shane?” the clerk asked in his lilting accent.
Ray fought the urge to reach over the counter and choke the shit out of him. Instead, he said, “Yes, sir. My name is Ray Shane.”
The clerk reached under the desk and then handed Ray an envelope with the hotel’s logo and return address in the upper left corner. Ray Shane was written in pen across the front. Jenny’s handwriting. So she had at least left him a Dear John letter.
Ray mumbled his thanks. He trudged across the lobby and sat down on a sofa. The envelope was sealed and didn’t appear to have been tampered with. He used his Swiss Army knife to slit open the flap. Inside was a single sheet of hotel stationery. On it, written in Jenny’s hand, it said, Call me, and gave a downtown phone number.
House of the Rising Sun Page 27
