Good Junk

by Ed Kovacs

  “You mentioned he had very high standards. Did that cause any friction?”

  “Not really. Everyone knew up front that if you were going to show something to Del, it had better be right.”

  “So he was here nine-to-five?”

  “He was only consulting. Came in two days a week, ten or fifteen hours a week.”

  “So as far as you know, none of his co-workers had it in for him, no resentment, couldn’t stand him for some reason?”

  “Well there’s always office politics. We all have to work with people we don’t particularly like, but as far as I know there was nothing of an ugly nature, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Were Breaux and Parks gay? Did they see any of their coworkers outside of work?”

  Both men shifted in their seats. “I’m not sure it’s appropriate to discuss that,” said Salerno. “Federal regulations prohibit—”

  “Screw the regulations, I got two dead guys in a parking lot. Gay, straight, bi, asexual—I could care less. But I need facts. Facts help solve murders.”

  “Yes, they were gay, and they were a couple. They made no secret of that, and that is the best policy for people in sensitive work, I think.”

  “It eliminates the blackmail potential,” said Salerno, deciding to go along with Klenis.

  “The funny thing is, you never would have known it. There was nothing about Del’s manner or behavior that indicated he was a homosexual. As to off-hours socializing, I’d have to say no. Del wasn’t friendly with any employees other than Parks.”

  “Tell me, since your work is so hush-hush here; did he have some information that might have gotten him killed?”

  “Like what? What are you suggesting?” asked Salerno.

  “You know exactly what I’m asking. Since you can’t tell me what your secret program is here, is it possible Breaux was killed for his laptop? For what was inside it?”

  Klenis looked uncomfortable merely considering the question. I guess he didn’t want to believe that maybe it could happen to him, too. I expected that Salerno would be handling these kinds of questions and that he’d most likely stonewall me.

  “Well, I suppose you’ll be finding that out and telling us,” said Salerno.

  The subtext of Salerno’s response told me that this was a super-secret program of the highest order. But I wanted somebody to say it.

  “I thought I made it clear we weren’t doing those kinds of non-answer answers. I’m not here to debate the merits of how things get classified and I’m not asking you to compromise national security. But there’s secret work, and then there’s the kind of secret work that a foreign government will do just about anything to get its hands on. Was Breaux working on the former or the latter?”

  “The latter,” said Klenis, matter-of-fact.

  “Thank you, that’s helpful. What kind of security clearance did Breaux hold?”

  Klenis looked to Salerno, who looked like he was in some kind of retreat as he tried to decide how to answer. He was now the bottom head on a three-man totem pole. “A TS / SCI clearance with a polygraph.”

  “I’d rather not get into the exact nature of his clearance compartmentalization, if that’s all right with you,” said Klenis. “That information going into a police report could become public, and coupled with Breaux’s resume, a foreign intelligence agency might deduce what we’re working on here.”

  “Okay. What about Parks?”

  “He had a Secret clearance when he was in the air force. But he didn’t have an active clearance. His work as the shipping manager wasn’t of a sensitive nature,” said Salerno.

  “And how did Parks get along with his coworkers?”

  “Are you kidding? There will probably be two hundred employees from Michoud at his funeral. He was a great guy, knew how to manage staff, never had a complaint. Incredibly well-liked.”

  “Were Breaux or Parks being investigated for anything? Were they under any suspicion? I mean, the red flags are pretty obvious. Ultra-expensive luxury vehicle. Pricey jewelry, accessories, clothes—”

  “Breaux’s income as a government consultant was substantial, and his trading company did very well. He submitted yearly financials. The fact that he legitimately earned so much made him less of a risk. He passed every security evaluation he’d ever taken with flying colors,” said Salerno.

  “So neither of them were being investigated or looked at, officially or unofficially?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Salerno looked at me evenly. “It’s like painting the Golden Gate Bridge. It takes something like three years. When the painters finish it, they go back to the beginning and start all over again. That’s how I run my shop here. The investigations never stop. But the details of all that are classified.”

  How interesting. Salerno had just refused to go on record stating that Del Breaux and Ty Parks were not being investigated.

  “So, other than the laptop, is anything missing, Mister Klenis?”

  “Such as?”

  “Documents, files, equipment—”

  “A full inventory and a security review will begin tomorrow, as a matter of policy. I’m sure Mister Salerno will let you know how that develops.”

  Now I was the one getting the bunk. I smiled and nodded.

  I stepped out of the Michoud administration building into the furnace of the afternoon. Moisture condensed on my sunglasses so heavily that I couldn’t see. As I wiped my glasses clean I figured I was in a race with the feds to find Breaux’s laptop; maybe with local FBI, maybe special agents flying in from D.C. Either way, I wanted to find it first. Breaux’s computer would contain the most pertinent clues to any work-related motives for his murder, and I wanted those clues for myself.

  I was halfway to the Broadmoor District—I remembered Breaux’s home address from his driver’s license—before the air-con in my ancient midnight blue and white Ford Bronco sufficiently cooled the vehicle to the point I could stop sweating. I preferred biking whenever possible, but it often wasn’t practical since the Storm, nor that much fun when the pavement felt like the surface of Venus.

  The Bronco functioned as a good PI work truck, outfitted not only with hidden compartments, but with racks of locking compartments as well. I stocked weapons and ammo, surveillance and tracking electronics that I might need to plant, night vision and other optics, lock picking and burglary tools, disguises and changes of clothing, an evidence-gathering kit, a well-stocked combat first aid kit, MREs, a case of water, and other supplies. I had a computer built into the dash and could project a heads-up display on the windshield. She had exterior high resolution video cameras providing 360-degree coverage, so I could use her as a surveillance vehicle even when empty. Like I said, I liked tools.

  Mechanically, the Bronco was perfect. Sure, she could use a little body work and desperately needed a paint job, but that wasn’t going to happen. I kept the tires dirty but the tread deep. No need to make her attractive to the city’s legion of car thieves, although often a thug would boost whatever was at hand simply because he was tired of walking and needed something to drive for a week or so. That’s why I had a kill switch installed. Nobody would be stealing my Bronco. And I kept the bullet holes in the tailgate to remind me not to overestimate myself or to take my security for granted.

  I had a second truck, a massive monster that I tried out of pure guilt not to drive. There was enough guilt shadowing my life. I didn’t feel razor sharp, but seemed to be focusing better now that my mind was engaged in the investigation. I’d surfaced from a dark gray malaise, and while I still felt emotionally raw, I wasn’t thinking about the dead kid all the time. That was good; that was an answer to my prayers.

  I called Honey, figuring she’d want a break from the stench of the autopsy room, even if it was just to take a phone call. I’d always spread a generous amount of Vicks VapoRub under my nose as a masking agent before going in to witness the procedure, but Honey had told me she wanted to get used to the smell. We had agreed to disagree; one c
ould get used to being tortured every day, but would you really want to?

  “You sound like you’re in a car,” I said, surprised.

  “Six murders last night in the great city of New Orleans. Plus five dead from car accidents. A couple of suicides.”

  “So the bodies are stacked in the temporary morgue like chips on a roulette table.”

  “And the coroner is still short of staff. He’ll give me a heads-up in a few hours. I’ll go in then,” said Honey. “What happened at Michoud?”

  “Breaux had a government laptop and the feds want it back. We need to get it first.”

  “That might be a problem.”

  “Oh?” I asked.

  “Just left Breaux’s office on Poydras. Jammed over there after the coroner told me to chill.”

  “And? What did you find?”

  “It’s what we didn’t find. The place had been sanitized.”

  “Sanitized?”

  “Yeah, it looked like some kind of model office. That no one actually worked in. New computers, but no digital files. No notes, papers, Rolodexes. Fax and copy-machine memories had been wiped.”

  “Building security would have video,” I said.

  “I’ll have it tomorrow. Security says a crew of guys with a work order and invoices came in overnight. At two-twelve A.M. Delivered a bunch of new office equipment.”

  “Out with the old, in with the new. So maybe they got Breaux’s laptop as well. Unless—you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Pretty sure so,” said Honey. “Meet me at Ninety-four twelve Derbigny Street.”

  Del Breaux’s house.

  “I’m just rolling up,” she said. “Damn. Looks like these boys didn’t do anything small.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The big thunder boomers of earlier had been somewhat anticlimactic and a gentle rain began caressing the city as I hung a right on Napoleon, past dozens of corrugated plastic signs stuck into the ground at the corner, as they were all over the city, advertising the services of roofers, contractors, stump grinders, plumbers, electricians, landscapers and re-opened restaurants. The post-Storm recovery boomed, and at the very least, the person selling the plastic signs was making some money.

  Yes, things were getting fixed, but it was taking so damn long. One year after the Storm and the police academy was still in trailers, as were any number of district station houses, post offices, banks, and half the population. The city morgue had yet to be fully cleaned out so the coroner operated out of yet another temporary facility. Huge sections of New Orleans still stood in ugly ruins. And in nice neighborhoods like the one I currently traversed, parking remained at a premium due to all the pickup trucks and repair vehicles driven by mostly out-of-town contractors getting fat on our misery.

  I made a quick left and found Breaux’s house. But to call it a mere house didn’t do the structure justice. One could find exquisite southern mansions all over New Orleans, not just in Uptown on St. Charles Avenue. Six massive pilasters supported the deep overhang of the lavishly maintained Greek Revival, double-galleried, clapboard-sided townhouse. The second-floor gallery, faced with a fine wrought-iron railing design, wrapped the front. A massive teak and leaded-glass door centered the ground floor, bookended by lesser entryways, which I realized belonged to separate apartments. Excellent! Living below Breaux and Parks were renters who might prove to be nice sources of info.

  I jogged up the wet walkway and logged in with a uniform at the front door. I figured the renters had already been interviewed, so I bounded up the oak stairs in the narrow entryway to the second floor to be greeted by oversized rooms painted in bold color schemes, polished hardwood floors, large statuary, art pieces, and expensive Oriental rugs. The place looked like a private museum.

  I found Honey on the third floor in a massive bedroom. She had a CSI team with her, but there was a lot to cover in the house.

  “Lifestyles of the rich and famous,” I said, looking around. “If the FBI wasn’t keeping an eye on Breaux, they should have been.”

  “Exactly. And let me ask you. How much cash do you keep in your bedroom?” Honey popped open a leather Louis Vuitton carry-on bag on the bed, full of crisp one-hundred dollar bills. “The quick count is two point five million. Sequentially numbered.”

  “That should trace it. And my answer is, maybe thirty bucks. In my bedroom.”

  “Looks like they lived up here on three. Entertained on two.”

  “And rented out one. You talked to the renters?” I asked.

  “You mean the Guardians.”

  I looked at her funny.

  “If it wasn’t for those nosy renters downstairs? This house would have got the sanitation treatment, same as the office,” said Honey.

  “Don’t tell me they stopped delivery guys trying to bring in new computers.”

  “Five men posing as FBI agents. Claiming to have a federal search warrant.”

  “How did they know it was bogus?” I asked.

  “Five guys picking the front door lock at four in the morning? The renters just kept a shotgun trained on them as they called nine-one-one. The perps left saying they’d return with NOPD backup. They didn’t. But we got them on video, Breaux has an extensive CCTV set-up.”

  “Quality good enough for an ID?”

  “Night footage isn’t great. I’ll have it enhanced,” said Honey.

  “So if the bad guys were here at four in the morning, what time did Breaux and Parks leave?”

  “The fat guy downstairs said about one A.M. They got in at midnight. Left at one and never came back.”

  “Those crack dealers said gunshots were heard from the murder scene sometime around two.”

  “And the bad guys showed up at Breaux’s office just after two. Came here at four.”

  “Right after they cleaned out Breaux’s office. They can’t be happy they didn’t get the two point five mil.”

  “You think?”

  “Were they driving dark SUVs?”

  “The fat guy didn’t see their ride. A rental truck was used to deliver the computers to Breaux’s office. I ran the plate and the truck was stolen.”

  I picked up one of the bundles of money, and then my attention shifted to the Louis Vuitton bag itself. “This bag’s a fake.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at the stitching. This is some cheap Chinese knock-off. It’s not even a good fake like you can get in Bangkok or Singapore.”

  “Okay.”

  “So I don’t think it belongs to Breaux or Parks, but to whoever gave them the money.”

  “We’ll give the bag a good going-over.”

  “But speaking of the mountain of cash. Were they killed for the money? If so, why hit the office?”

  “Maybe they thought the dough was in the office,” said Honey.

  “So why replace the computers and clean out the place? And take the risk building security would ask too many questions. The killers had to be removing incriminating or sensitive information, maybe something related to Breaux’s black projects work.”

  “Black projects?”

  I nodded. “The Stealth program and a long career in secret engineering work of the first order, including whatever he was doing out at Michoud”.

  As I stepped into a walk-in master closet, my eyes riveted on a couple of military uniforms hanging in clear plastic dry cleaner’s bags: U.S. Navy dress whites. “Was Breaux ex-navy?” I asked.

  “He’s ex-everything now.” Honey joined me in the closet.

  “Parks had been air force, according to the security guy at Michoud.”

  “Military service didn’t come up for Breaux,” said Honey.

  “So what’s with the navy uniforms?”

  “This is New Orleans,” she said, like speaking to a particularly dense pupil. “You know anybody who doesn’t have costumes in the closet?”

  Once again, Detective Honey Baybee was thinking better than me. “Costumes or skeletons.”

  She shrugged.
“Why don’t you take the second floor?”

  The second floor featured four large high-ceilinged rooms, two bathrooms, a couple of smaller rooms, closets, and a kitchen. One large room functioned as an art gallery, another as a drawing room, the third I’d call a media room, and the biggest I simply thought of as the party room.

  The party room had a well-stocked wet bar, felt-topped card table and chairs, pool table, a small raised stage complete with a brass stripper’s pole and stage lights, karaoke machine, sofas, machine-age design aluminum lounge chairs, and a big circular bed. Screens discreetly partitioned an area with thick pillows on the floor. A goldfish bowl on the bar sat full of condoms in colorful packaging.

  I’d brought my backpack with evidence-collection materials inside, so I methodically worked the second floor. After an hour and a half, I’d carefully examined the kitchen, art gallery, drawing room, and media room and I’d found a few things out of the ordinary: a Fabergé egg, which might be downright pedestrian to an art collector like Del Breaux, and two sophisticated listening devices that had been hard-wired into lamps in the drawing room. Had Breaux planted the bugs, perhaps to eavesdrop on business guests when he was out of the room? Maybe, but the high-end nature of the technology baffled me; the units weren’t products on the commercial market, which led to a whole different kind of speculation.

  And then there was something else I found that might lead to some insight. Like other antique collectors, Breaux taped the invoice for the piece to the item itself, but out of view. Each of his nineteenth century Swiss-carved Black Forest side chairs, for instance, had a paper receipt taped on the seat bottom. This way Breaux could easily check to see where he bought the antique, when, and how much he paid. I found receipts from a number of dealers, including an acquaintance of mine, Barry Morrison, who owns an antique shop across from my dojo in the Lower Garden District. I’d be giving Barry a call.

  The last room I checked on the second floor was a bathroom, and that’s where I found it: the edge of Breaux’s laptop jutting out from under a magazine on a small wooden table. A sticker on the laptop’s battery compartment identified it as being property of the Department of Defense.