An Evil Shadow - A Val Bosanquet Mystery

by A. J. Davidson

  “This had better be quick,” Duval said, turning to face him.

  “I was wrong about you having contacts with FRAPH. I realize now that their involvement in Bill Trochan’s death had nothing whatsoever to do with you.”

  She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. The ridicule in her eyes made Val feel two feet high, but he held his gaze.

  “My brother has told me that you have refused to register with the university. I was hoping you would change your mind.”

  “It’s a bit late for that. I have already informed Assist Haiti that I couldn’t accept its sponsorship.”

  “I can talk to Lausaux on your behalf. It shouldn't be a problem. There won’t have been enough time for the money to be relocated yet.”

  “What planet are you on? How could you possibly think I would allow you to speak for me?”

  Val was beginning to tire of humble pie. “It was you who involved me.’’

  “Boy, was that a mistake!”

  “Then you talk to Lausaux,” Val snapped.

  “No. Morally I would have difficulty with that. You were spot on about a Caribbean Art graduate not being of much practical use in relieving the misery in Haiti.”

  “That was just me scratching around for anything that would help my argument hold water. Twisting the facts to suit.”

  “You’re very good at it.”

  “You’ve twisted some yourself.”

  “I had a reason to. What’s yours?”

  “The truth. I needed to be sure you hadn’t set me up.”

  “Can’t you speak without shouting?”

  Val lowered his voice. “Please reconsider. Orientation week doesn’t really kick off until tomorrow. You wouldn’t be missing out.”

  Duval’s expression grew more determined. “I won’t be changing my mind. I’ve been offered full-time employment here and I have already sent in an application for a mail-study course.”

  “What’s it going to take to make you change your mind?”

  Duval’s top lip trembled. “A lot more than you’ve got. Now clear out before you get me fired.”

  Val turned sharply and, seething with rage, retraced his way back into the restaurant. He came close to bowling over the maitre d’ as he pushed past him. One thing for sure: Duval hadn’t heard the last of him. There was no way he was going to permit her to blow her chance of a college education. If she wanted to martyr herself, she wasn’t going to hang it on him.

  Monday week, Duval would attend her first lecture, even if it meant him taking her there and handcuffing her to her desk.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The duty sergeant came rushing out from behind his desk to give Val a hearty slap on the back as soon as he walked through the doors of the campus police office.

  “Way to go, Chief!” he said, reaching for Val’s hand and pumping it vigorously. “Been hearing on the radio about how you wasted a perp down in the wetlands. A bunch of reporters have been calling, wanting to speak with you.”

  Much to the sergeant’s disgust, Val refused to allow himself be drawn on the incident. He brightened up when Val asked for an inventory of their spare handguns.

  The sergeant guided Val through to the squad room, proudly produced a key and unlocked a gun safe bolted to the rear wall. Most of the weapons were Ruger revolvers, standard issue for the UNOPD officers, but there was also a 9-mm Beretta Centurion semi­automatic.

  The sergeant explained that a former officer had purchased the weapon privately, before later moving to Europe. Before he left, he donated the gun to the UNOPD rather than sell it. Some ex-cops, the sergeant expounded, can’t live with the thought that their gun might one day wind up in the hands of some scumbag liquor store thief.

  Val picked up the Beretta and quickly stripped it. He examined the inside of the barrel for pitting and the spring and firing pin for wear. The gun had been well cared for and was still in mint condition. It weighed considerably more than the Ruger, but had the advantage of extra rounds before reload. He reassembled it and inserted the clip with its fifteen rounds. Pulling back the slide, he put a round in the firing chamber and clicked the safety on. Next, he removed the clip again and replenished it with a spare shell from a pack in the safe. He slipped the automatic into its holster and clipped it to his trouser belt. The sergeant gave a nod of approval.

  It was Val’s fervent hope that no incident would arise that would force into drawing the weapon, much less fire it.

  In his office he had the sergeant brief him on what had been happening while he had been away. The freshmen students were currently arriving in force and Val could sense a buzz around the station house.

  There had been two incidents reported so far, both minor. A female student had had her laptop stolen from the back of her father’s car as they were unloading it; they had left the tailgate open between trips up to her dorm room. And a student had been arrested for public intoxication after being caught urinating outside the door of students’ union building.

  Captain Clements wasn’t expected in until four o’clock. The Sunday evening of orientation week was usually pretty hectic and he would be on duty most of the night.

  Val had the sergeant run the names of Roland Galen, Howard Woods and Bobby Deal through the state criminal database. As an afterthought, he added Philip Lausaux’s name.

  It took the sergeant less than ten minutes to return with the print out. Lausaux wasn’t on file. Nothing current on Galen. Deal was deceased, a gunshot DOA six months previously. Woods had violated his parole and there was an arrest warrant out on him. There was no current address for him or Galen.

  Stone hadn’t promised him that it would be easy.

  “Tell Captain Clements I want to see him as soon as he comes on duty,” Val said.

  “Will do. Anything else?”

  He hesitated, in two minds about ordering a watch on his brother’s house. He decided against it. Gilett was out of circulation and FRAPH had no quarrel with Marcus. Their grievance was with him and, if they wanted him, they knew where to find him.

  “No, that’s all for now.”

  Val waited for the sergeant to close the door after him, then made a call to the offices of Assist Haiti. He connected with an answering service, but he didn’t have a message to leave.

  Stuart MacLean had renamed his yacht Ocean Victory one month after he had bought it at its moorings in Marbella, Andalucía, from an Arab arms dealer fallen on hard times. He readily acknowledged the many millions of dollars he could have saved himself if he had sought counseling for his pathological fear of flying, but what fun would there have been in that? Besides, he was not the type of man who would contemplate admitting a weakness to anyone.

  He opened a cedar wood closet off the recently refurbished master suite and started to select the clothes he would wear. He was in no rush, even it others were. Moncoeur had telephoned twice and had sent a car for him. The Bentley had been waiting on the Julia Street end of the Riverwalk for two hours. It could damn well wait until he was good and ready.

  MacLean smiled. No one who knew Moncoeur and him would have ever thought of comparing them, but beneath the surface there were similarities. He wouldn’t have been able to resist buying the car either if he attended the auction. Moncoeur and he were men with world-class egos, and enough money to indulge them. But the flotation meant more than money to MacLean. It was public acknowledgement, that he, third-generation immigrant stock, descended from Scottish cattle thieves, could take on some of the biggest, most successful sportswear companies in the world and come out on top. This week he was the public face of Arena Victory; the spotlights would all be on him, and he intended to make the most of it.

  MacLean had had to obtain a special license before he could moor his yacht next to the Riverwalk, the covered shopping mall adjacent to the convention center. Arena Victory had lain on an enormous riverside party for Thursday evening to celebrate the flotation. They were flying in two planeloads of brokers from New York and Chic
ago. A dozen of the highest paid sports stars in the world would be there. Musicians, fine food and wine, and a spectacular cabaret show would make it a memorable night, culminating in the biggest laser and firework display New Orleans had ever seen. The extravaganza would guarantee worldwide media coverage. It had better, MacLean thought. He knew to the last cent what it was costing.

  They would see fireworks of a different kind if the Jackson matter was not taken care of before then. Not that he was overly concerned. They had overcome bigger obstacles. Greed was Jackson’s motivation and that was something with which MacLean could identify.

  He finished dressing and went on deck. A crowd of curious shoppers had lined the Riverwalk windows to admire the sleek lines of the pristine white yacht.

  Let them gawk, MacLean thought. They paid for it.

  Clements put in an appearance a little before four. He walked into the office and Val told him to take a seat.

  “You heard what happened down in St Francis?” Val asked him.

  “I read a piece about it in the paper at breakfast. The story didn’t refer to Duval, but I assume it had something to do with her?”

  “Yeah. They’ll make the connection sooner or later.”

  The frown lines on Clements’s forehead deepened. “Maybe there’s something I’m missing here. Our duty is to serve and protect university personnel and property. We don’t have jurisdiction outside the campus, and the last I heard Duval isn’t part of the student body any longer.”

  “Duval will be starting here next week.”

  “Then I suggest you don’t mention that to the press until after you’ve spoken to your brother. The university issued a statement on Friday afternoon announcing that Duval had decided not to take up the offer of a place. How is she involved with the Haitians you ran foul of?”

  “She isn’t, at least not directly. I seem to have stumbled across an attempt, linked to the murder of Duval’s mother, to extort money from Arena Victory, the sportswear company. But I don’t have a shred of evidence to back it up.”

  “Who do you suspect is behind it?”

  “The real killer of Valerie Duval, an ex-policeman called Donny Jackson. But he’s unlikely to be working alone. Jackson was never the smartest of men.”

  “Whatever he has on them, it must be major league?”

  “Yes.” Val nodded thoughtfully, taking a close look at Clements. The man appeared stressed; too distracted to comment on Val’s disclosure on Duval not having killed her mother. Maybe he had underestimated his second-in-command’s ability to cope on his own.

  Clements suddenly caught on that Val was evaluating him. He sat up straighter. “What are you planning to do about it? Pass everything over to the NOPD?”

  “Not just yet. One way or another. I’ve landed myself in the middle of a showdown, and neither side will want me there. If I get in their face sufficiently, one of them is bound to react.”

  “Makes about as much sense as putting your nuts in a vise. Why don’t you just walk away from it? None of this was part of the deal when you accepted the job.”

  “After killing the Haitian in St Francis I don’t think I’d be allowed to. Those island guys have long memories.”

  “I’ll assign you a couple of my detectives.”

  “No, I don’t want to involve anyone else in this,” Val said sharply. He noticed how Clements’s pupils contracted. “I’m sure they’re fine investigators, but the worlds the Haitians and the UNOPD inhabit are a million miles apart.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely. Is there anything you need assistance with?” Val asked, slightly surprised that Clements had acquiesced so readily.

  “Not at the moment. Everything’s in hand.”

  “Don’t be afraid to ask.”

  “Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind. If that’s all, I’d best be getting on.”

  “Talk to you later.”

  Clements paused as he was leaving and looked back. “Watch your step, Chief. Don’t forget, you’ve been in a different world yourself for the last four years.”

  Clements walked across the hall to the front desk. He collected his messages, then checked the duty-roster. They had one man off with illness.

  He noticed a printout on the duty sergeant’s desk.

  “What’s this, sergeant?”

  The duty sergeant looked up from the credenza he was working at. “Just some names the chief wanted checked out.”

  Clements lifted the sheets and placed them with his messages. “Best not leave them lying around.”

  “Anything you say, captain,” the sergeant said, returning to his filing.

  Val was preparing to leave the station house when Angie appeared. The duty sergeant showed her through and asked if he could bring them coffee. Angie declined, so Val didn’t bother. His wife was dressed in a striking two-piece black suit with corn yellow collar and cuffs. She had her determined, no nonsense face on.

  “Why didn’t you tell me what had happened?’ Angie asked as soon as they were alone. “I had to read about it in the newspapers.”

  “It was late. I was tired.”

  “We need to talk. That’s if you can spare me ten minutes of your valuable time.”

  “About you and Marcus?” Val asked.

  “Partly. But mainly about you and me. I’ve been trying to find the right moment to tell you something, and Sunday afternoon, across a desk in the university’s station house, is not what I had in mind. But since you seem determined to get yourself killed, so be it.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Angie’s face was transformed with a smile. “I’m pregnant.”

  Val swallowed hard. “You’re what?”

  “Pregnant. Can you believe it? It has yet to be confirmed by my doctor but the home-predictor test has a ninety-eight percent accuracy rate.”

  “Are you sure? You’re---”

  “Too old? I’m forty-one. Lots of women have children at that age. It’s not so unusual.”

  Val was stunned. They had hoped for children, especially in the first few years of their marriage, but none had come along. Gradually, the idea cooled inside Val as self-doubts mounted. Angie, he knew, considered the absence of children to be a contributory factor to their break up.

  “Which of us is the father?” was all he could think of to say.

  “Does it matter? Can’t you simply be glad for me without the need to qualify paternity?”

  Val went to Angie and wrapped his arms around her. “No. I mean, yes. I mean ... I don’t know what I mean.” He kissed her.

  When they broke off the embrace, Angie said, “You’re my husband, and I want my child to be born into a proper family, meaning both social background and in the eyes of God. I’m going to leave Marcus and move back in with you.”

  “Have you told him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then you mustn’t,” Val said, wishing he could bite his tongue off. The hurt on Angie’s face drove a nail through his heart.

  She stepped back. “I thought you still loved me? I know I love you.”

  “I do. I never stopped loving you. I’ve longed for the chance to try again. But right now it could mean putting your life in danger. Those men I shot are evil. They have evil friends. They take reprisals against the family of anyone who defies them.”

  Angie said nothing for a few moments. Her face had lost its radiance. “I’m your wife. If they’re serious about coming after me, it won’t much matter under whose roof I’m living.”

  “They might not know you’re my wife. Other people have made the same mistake. Besides, there’s no furniture in my place.”

  “No furniture?”

  Val told her about the warning he had received and the form it had taken. “For the moment, it would be best if you stayed with Marcus.”

  She took his hand. “Can’t you forget about being a policeman? Go back to designing signs.”

  “Too late for that.”

  “This is all M
arie Duval’s fault.”

  “She has nothing to do with it. It was my decision to go skulking around St Francis Parish. I can’t begin to tell you how thrilled I am that we’re going to have a child, but promise me that for the next few days you’ll act as though you don’t know me. Try to remain in the house as much as possible. Keep all the doors and windows locked.”

  “Val, you’re frightening me.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to. Maybe I’m overreacting because I’m going to be a father. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll detail some men to watch the house.”

  Angie nodded.

  “I’ll explain it to Marcus,” Val assured her. “He won’t much like it, but that’s too bad.”

  “Okay. Don’t do anything stupid. I want my baby to know its father.”

  “I guarantee it.” He drew her to him and sealed the bargain with a kiss.

  Immediately his wife left the station house Val called the sergeant in and told him he wanted his wife followed home and an around the clock watch put on her. He was to be informed by him of the slightest problem.

  Val sat at his desk for a long time. He thought about Angie and the baby; he thought about Marcus. He even thought about Duval. The sooner this was over, the sooner they all could get on with their lives.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Val ordered a dozen oysters on the half-shell on the balcony of a restaurant on St Charles. He squeezed lemon juice over them and added a couple drops of Tabasco to each. He took his time over them as he watched a freshening wind stir up the canopies of the live oaks lining the street. A streetcar, its interior brightly lit, rattled past, heading for Lee Circle. It was cool on the balcony, the air loaded with the scent of hibiscus and bougainvillea, and Val was tempted to order a bottle of wine, drink a toast to his wife’s pregnancy, and forget all about Jackson for a few hours.

  Instead, he paid his bill and headed out. The warrant for Logjam was a month old and no dealer could stay out of sight much longer than that before his customers migrated to a new supplier. Logjam would have resurfaced by now.