Jessie to Beau – “Not porn? So, why won’t you look at her below her waist?”
Beau to Stella – “Somehow I knew this was going to be my fault.”
JESSIE SIPS CAPPUCCINO as she stands behind her desk. She wears a long, red, cold-shoulder, body-hugging dress to her ankles. When she came in, Jefferson said, “Nice gown.”
“It isn’t a gown. Just a long dress.”
She scans the three televisions on the credenza next to her desk as her 27-inch iMac boots up. One TV shows CNN, another WWL-TV local news on the third, BBC World News, which she turns up as a banner atop the screen reads: SWISS BANKS ATTACKED. A dark-haired woman on the screen stands across the street from a tall building Jessie recognizes as the Schweizerische National Bank in Bern, Switzerland. Thankfully, Louvier, LLC, is not connected to any banks in Bern. Jessie grabs the remote control and turns up the volume.
“… originally believed to be Curd nationalists. The Einstazgruppe Tigris specialized tactical police unit of the Swiss Federal Criminal Police and the French Sureté now report the suspected terrorists are Tariq separatists. There are multiple deaths reported at all three banks and police confirm the scenes are not secure at this time.”
Jessie puts her cappuccino on her desk and reaches for her iPhone when a tone goes off on the building’s alarm system. She turns to the other credenza which has nine computer screens and sees the red light blinking on the screen that shows the rear stairs. Two bulky figures in black rush up the stairs. They wear large black motorcycle helmets and carry long-barreled hand guns, most likely silencers on the end of their barrels.
Jessie reaches into her center desk drawer and hits the silent alarm to 911. She kicks off her high heels and runs across her wide office, bangs open the door and rushes to Mrs. Soffon’s desk and tells her admin assistant to get under her desk.
“Right now!”
The elderly woman hesitates and Jessie points to the desk.
“Now!”
The door at the far end of the hall opens and one of the men comes in and Jessie turns and races back to her office as fast as she can in the tight dress. Two holes appear in the wall next to the door as she slams her hands into it and the door opens and she jumps in, shuts the door. She presses her palm against the lock pad next to the door and hears the lock click as several thumps strike the heavy door.
Jessie races back to her desk, scoops up her purse with her model 26X baby Glock inside and runs to the safe on the side of her office. She starts working the combination of the large, walk-in safe, a bank vault. An explosion behind her knocks her down as her office door crashes in.
She rolls behind the nearest sofa and digs the Glock out of her purse, grabs it with both hands, standard police grip and knows if she just lies here – she’s dead. Jessie crawls to the edge of the sofa as one of the men goes around her desk to look under it. He’s in bulky body armor. The other man moves to the sofa near the window to look behind.
She has twelve bullets in the Glock.
Jessie aims carefully at the lower spine of the man by the desk. She locks her arms to stop the shaking and squeezes the trigger three times. The man crumbles and she crawls to the other side of the sofa. Thumps strike the sofa and she knows the other man is coming. She peeks out, sees him firing at the other side of the sofa where she’d been. She aims at the man’s crotch and fires five rounds, the Glock bucking in her hands, the man stumbling forward his pistol flying from his hand.
She has four bullets left. She peeks out and sees the man near her desk trying to point his gun at her but he’s in agony.
She crawls back around the sofa, takes in a breath and runs toward the man, who tries to aim at her and she’s on him, sees his eyes – the only part of his face uncovered by the helmet’s face guard – she presses the Glock against his right eye and fires twice. The Sicilian way. Two in the head. The other man crawls toward his gun and she runs over, pulls his head up and presses the Glock against his right eye and fires twice.
She runs out of her office and sees Jefferson and Stan Smith coming from the elevator with their guns drawn.
“Here!” She waves them to the Mrs. Soffon’s desk and peeks under. The old lady looks up at her.
“You OK?”
Mrs. S nods and the two men arrive.
“Shot two in my office.”
“They dead?” Stan starts moving to her office.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll make sure. Ain’t killed anyone in a while.”
Jefferson covers their rear and Jessie follows Stan into the office. He checks both men as Jessie picks up her iPhone from the desk.
“Jesus R. Christ!” Stan shakes his head. “You’re a better shot that Beau. Both in the right eye.”
She heads out.
“Wait. There might be more of them.”
Jessie opens her office door and calls for Jefferson to bring Mrs. Soffon. She goes back to the vault and opens it.
“In here,” she says. “Until the cavalry arrives.”
Her iPhone rings. It’s Beau.
“Jessie?”
“I’m OK, Babe.” She hears the engine of the SUV roaring in the background of his call.
“Got the alarm. We’re coming.”
Jefferson peeks in and says he better go down and unlock the front doors for the police. He slips his Beretta into its holster.
“I locked the front doors before we ran up here.”
“Let me go,” says Stan. “Y’all stay up here.” He holds his palm out to Jefferson. “I saw a jittery cop shoot a black security guard by mistake once.”
“You just wanna get on film when the TV cameras come,” Jessie says.
“I’m prettier than him.” Stan takes the key and heads down the hall.
“Mrs. S still under the desk?” Jessie asks Jefferson.
“She said she ain’t moving until your boyfriend shows up.”
Jessie coaxes Mrs. S from under the desk and sits with her until Beau arrives. The two FBI agents from the SUV outside are the first up, followed by three uniformed NOPD Officers. Jessie sees flashes of the gunplay when she closes her eyes and twitches.
“You all right?” asks Mrs. S.
She nods, feels her heart still hammering, takes in a couple breaths and holds the elderly woman’s shaking hand. Both hands stop shaking. Jefferson asks if they’d like some water, gets no answer. He stands beyond the desk and looks down to the elevator, his hand on the butt of his gun. By the time Beau arrives, the building has been searched and sealed off.
Beau leads Mr. Madison from the elevator with Juanita and Jordan.
“We were headed to the airport,” Beau says as he hugs Jessie. Juanita leads Mrs. S to the elevator to take her to the break room on the second floor where NOPD’s assembled the rest of the staff.
They go back in Jessie’s office and she tells Beau what went down. She points to the safe.
“I need to leave that open so I can lock myself in.”
One FBI agents stands up from checking out one of the dead men, the other agent talks on his radio.
“We’re securing the scene,” announces the agent with the radio as Juanita and Jordan rush in.
“Good,” Beau says. “Don’t let anyone else in.”
The agent says. “You all have to step out.”
“We’ll only be a minute. You can watch to make sure we don’t fuck with anything.”
“You don’t seem to understand –”
John Raven Beau turns to the man with cold and cruel look in his eyes.
“We’ll only be a minute,” Juanita says as she moves to the first body to look down at it. Beau joins her and they are careful to not step on the shell casings as they move to the second body. The dead men wear heavy body armor covering the upper torso, helmet covering everything from the neck up except the eyes.
“Beretta 92FS,” says Jordan, on his haunches next to one of the pistols. “9mm. Carries fifteen rounds.”
Beau checks out the holes i
n the sofa and wall before everyone, except the FBI, steps back out. Stan is with Jefferson by Mrs. Soffon’s desk. When they step up, Stan says,” “Rear door downstairs, big steel door with a touch pad lock. They blew the lock with an explosive device. No circumventing the alarm. Blow the lock and run up the stairs. They knew where Jessie’s office was obviously.”
“Another assassination attempt,” Mr. Madison says.
Jordan says, “Y’all really pissed off these guys.” He holds up his iPhone and pulls the earbuds from his ears. “Jessie. I got your song on.” He turns up the volume.
Hall and Oats. Maneater.
Stan eases over to Jessie, bumps her shoulder with a fist.
“That was some good fuckin’ shooting. In the eyes from across the room.”
“She pressed her gun against their faces,” Beau says.
Jessie nods slowly.
Stan goes, “I thought you shot them from across the room.”
“That’s because you were never a homicide dick,” goes Beau. “There’s gunpowder residue and stippling around the wounds.”
“Oh.”
FBI agents in all black, some carrying cases, step out of the elevator, along with SA Allison who moves up and says, “We’ll do the interviews at our office.”
He goes to take a look at the scene.
“Coffee,” says Jessie and they all go down to the break room.
WHILE JESSIE SUBMITS to a post-shooting FBI interview with her attorney Stan Smith and her ad hoc attorney Director Thomas James Madison, Director of ECON COM – no one knew Madison was licensed to practice law in Louisiana – Beau, Juanita and Jordan watch CNN in an FBI Conference Room.
The news from Switzerland confirms six victims of the attacks and six dead terrorists. Subsequent police operations in Bordeaux and in northern Spain have already netted nine additional terrorists, only one captured alive. The French Sureté leads the investigation, along with Interpol, as journalist experts on terrorism discuss the Tariq Separatists. One believes this was their swan song.
ASAC Esposito leads the way in with Jessie, Stan, Madison, SA Allison and the two special agents in charge of this facet of the ongoing Tariq Case – SA Donna Biondolillo, a petite woman with short brown hair and wearing glasses with navy-blue frames. She’s with another special agent, SA Jerome Pillhead.
“Pronounced Pill-heed.”
He isn’t an albino. His skin is pallid, his short hair pale blond but his eyes are dark brown.
Beau’s worked with Biondolillo and knows she’s good people.
As they all sit around the big table, an elderly woman steps in, passes a thin folder to SA Biondolillo who sits and peruses the pages inside.
Two young men in suits come in carrying trays with coffee carafes, cups, saucers, spoon, bowls with packets colored white, blue, yellow and pink and a large bowl with little containers of creamer. Beau mixes coffee for him and Jessie and she takes his hand.
Biondolillo begins without prodding, “Preliminary post mortem on the two men show European dental work, a couple old scars. No tattoos. No IDs on them. The Berettas they carried were model 92FS, model code JS92F300M, carries 15-round magazines. These two pistols do not appear in any ATF or FBI data base. We’re checking with Beretta.
“First body has five bullet wounds – one in the coccyx, one in left buttocks, one in right hip joint. Two through the right eye, lacerating the brain. Second body has seven bullet wounds – two in lower intestines, one in left hip, two just above the penis that ripped through the testicles, two through the right eye, lacerating the brain.
Biondolillo looks up. “Twelve bullets. All hit home.”
Back to her notes. “Both wore body armor protecting them from the top of their head to below their stomach area.”
“We believe these men are Tariqs.” She looks up again. “So much for their new tactic of terrorist organizations using Americans to carry out killings. We’re still weighing the significance of two different groups attacking here at almost the same time. We have a lot of work to do.”
“Can somebody ‘splain to me about theses Tarackees?” Stan asks.
Biondolillo says, “Group named for the Moorish General Tariq ibn-Ziyad. They wish to avenge the Moors defeat at the Battle of Tours in 732 a.d. They are Muslim but not devout and their organization is not jihadist, not religious, but political.”
“Do you say 732 a.d.?”
“Yes.”
“Stone fuckin’ nuts.”
Stan calling anyone that is classic pot-calling-the-kettle-black.
Esposito tells them the FBI will increase their protection teams for the time being.
“Including you, Chief Inspector Beau.”
“At the house but not at work.”
“We will have a team stay with you all day.”
“Ain’t gonna happen.” Beau looks at Esposito. “I have my own CIU bodyguards.”
“On your way to and from your office,” goes Allison.
“No.”
Esposito sucks in a breath. “You could be ambushed.”
A cold smile comes to Beau’s lips. “They tried that. So did the Brown Ravens. So did the cop-killer Clyde Pailet. You want me to go on?”
IT’S AFTER 2 A.M. before they get to bed, both clean after showering together, both lie atop the cool sheets. The ceiling fans blow air-conditioned cool air over their naked bodies and Jessie positions herself against Beau. Both watch the ceiling fans in the dark room, bright moonlight streams in through the transoms.
“We can talk if you want to.”
“Maybe later,” she whispers. “Right now, I want this.” She moves her face to his and kisses him softly before her tongue finds his and Beau lets her take charge. His hands automatically respond as she moves atop and he kneads her breasts before reaching down to cup her ass. She kisses her way down to his dick which is already a diamond-cutter. She kisses its tip and flicks her tongue against it before sinking her mouth on it. She waits until he pumps back before pulling out and she crawls up to sit on his face. He works his tongue with her rising and falling until she bucks against his licking, cries out and crawls down his body to guide his dick into her. He suckles her breasts as she rides him.
The hot and frenzied love making comes to a shuddering climax and Jessie sighs, lets her breath come back and starts giggling.
“That was nice.”
“You telling me.”
She climbs off quickly and heads for the bathroom. “That was a gusher.”
“You’re welcome.”
Another quick shower, lathering up and rinsing off, drying themselves before climbing back in bed and lying beneath the ceiling fans. Stella jumps up on the bed, positions herself at the foot between them and starts kneading the bed.
“I don’t hear leaves rustling,” Jessie whispers.
“Blue Swan’s quiet tonight.”
Beau feels himself drifting.
“You hit an impasse,” Jessie says, “in your church case, haven’t you?”
“Impasse. Nice word for ‘we got nothing’.”
Beau opens his eyes, looks at the twirling ceiling fans above the bed, closes his eyes.
“Got a middle-aged man on a Huffy bicycle with a smart-as-hell border collie out-foxing the vaunted CIU, the entire NOPD. And me.”
“Without a name you have nothing.” Jessie’s voice fades.
Beau stirs next to her and she opens her eyes to see him smiling.
“We have a name.”
“What name?”
“Jack.”
THE ANIMAL SHELTERS in Orleans, Jefferson and Saint Bernard parishes had eleven dogs listed as border collies adopted the last three years, six males, none named Jack. Juanita and Jordan compile a list. As they all head into the conference room, Aileen Bowers holds up a slip of paper.
“Talked with nineteen vets so far. One treated a border collie named Jack six months ago for a light case of mange.”
Beau takes the slip. There’s a name and address with
the word ‘owner’ next to it.
Juanita finds a mug shot of owner Sherman B. Pecan, white male, 44 years old with an address on Clouet Street, Bywater. Man has a wide face and a full beard.
“He’s wanted for 67. Theft by shoplifting. B&B Hardware on Franklin Avenue.” Juanita scrolls the man’s criminal history on her Macbook Pro. “Three previous arrests for shoplifting and two other thefts. No convictions.”
Beau says, “Let’s go arrest this guy first.”
He thanks Aileen on the way out.
Juanita stays to start up a search warrant – in case this is their guy – and Jordan goes with Beau for a drive-by to get a description of the house for the warrant, the place turning out to be a shotgun house in need of repainting. All the houses around there could use fresh paint, all sit on narrow lots, wood-frame houses or creole cottages. Across the street from Pecan’s house sits a defunct bar with three metal signs nailed to the wall – Falstaff beer, Schlitz and Coca-Cola.
Faded hand-painted sign above the door reads: EASY CAT BA.
No. Beau sees a faint ‘R’ at the end ‘GR’ in front of the ‘E’. GREASY CAT BAR.
He gets goosebumps and laughs as he pulls around the corner.
Jordan shakes his head. “You can’t be this lucky.”
“It’s not luck, Mr. Motown.”
Beau parks a half-block from Pecan’s house, calls Juanita on her cell to give her a description of the house and it’s time to wait. Jordan plugs in his ear buds and Beau listens to Motown for a little while, before Jordan unplugs and says, “Guess your Mafia connection idea was wrong on this case.”
“What’s your point, Hillel?”
Jordan taps the dashboard with his fingers, like a bad drummer. “Uh. Well. You ain’t perfect.”
“I know that. And the Mafia connection idea was the archbishop’s.”
“It was?”
Jordan plugs back in.
A yellow tennis ball bounces off the windshield and a familiar black and white border collie comes racing for it, snatches it and races back to a little dark-haired boy standing in the street now. The boy throws the ball again and Beau opens the door, steps out and catches the bouncing tennis ball.
The dog runs up and Beau says, “Jack. Jack.” He holds up the ball and the dog goes, “Ruff. Ruff.”
12 Bullets Page 17
