by Ed Kovacs
The best you could say about the area was that the streets were cleared and a couple of gas stations, fast-food joints, and scattered home owners had returned to give it a go. Read had been a major thoroughfare before the Storm. It now lay virtually deserted and, unless my shadows had an accompanying air unit, it should be easy to pick them up.
After darting through some residential neighborhoods that led me onto Chef Highway, hanging a left on Wright Road, and then snaking my way back to the Interstate, I had ID’d and recorded the images of four vehicles: a white van, blue Camry, white pick-up, and a silver Ford coupe.
I had pending business with Honey, so I leisurely drove into the French Quarter and parked in the Omni Hotel parking garage. Knowing the service passageways well, I quickly exited the building into a crowd on Royal, hailed a cab on St. Louis, and was clear.
A trio worked out a swinging, jazzy blues number in Tommy’s Wine Bar across from Emeril’s, and the cat on the Hammond B3 organ made some lightning fast runs that almost made me forget about the deep kimchi I was in. I ordered a $110 bottle of Bordeaux from the pretty cocktail waitress, shattering my bar- tab budget, because, what the hell, life is short. I told Honey about the tail I’d just shaken.
“Think they were feds?” she asked.
“Either feds or they work for the Buyer’s Club.”
“I want to find out. I’ll arrange something.”
“And here’s a tidbit: Pelkov claimed Breaux raped Nassir Haddad, and that Haddad wanted to put out a contract on him.”
“What a swell bunch of guys the Buyer’s Club was.”
“And I found a million bucks in the desk in Pelkov’s study.”
“Tell Chief Pointer that? He’d get us a warrant in about three seconds.”
“Arms dealers almost never do deals with cash, but Breaux and Pelkov both had large sums on hand,” I said. “Breaux sold the GIDEON sample to Chu. Could he have had something else to sell to Pelkov? Not weapons, but something from his black- projects work?”
“Maybe,” said Honey, as she laid out three listening devices on our private, corner table. “Found these in my house. They’re disabled now. Recognize them?”
I examined the units closely and removed a SIM card from one. “SIM card transmitters. When the perpetrator sees you enter your home, they call the number associated with the SIM card. That activates the device, and they can eavesdrop on whatever you’re doing. Made by a British company and not for sale in the States, except to law enforcement.”
“I don’t like those FBI creeps going into my house.”
The cocktail waitress returned and used a “waiter’s,” the handiest kind of corkscrew, to expertly open the bottle. I waved off the rest of the ritual and instructed her simply to pour. We waited until she departed to continue our conversation.
“We’re getting closer, so they’re ramping up the pressure. I’ll take their spying on us as a good sign and a vote of confidence that we’re on the verge of screwing up their game.”
“And the next move in the game?”
“Nassir Haddad.”
Honey nodded. “Let’s put the squeeze on him, soon as we leave here. But first, check out this video.”
We used her laptop to watch the video from One Shell Square and compared it to the video from Del Breaux’s home CCTV cameras. The same crew who sanitized his office had tried to get into his home. One of the perpetrators in both videos wore a green cloth bracelet on his right wrist.
“Be great if we could ID Mister Green Bracelet,” I said, studying the man’s face.
“We need a task force, but there’s just you and me.”
We followed up the bottle of wine with triple espressos as we reviewed key items in Breaux’s laptop, skimmed the dossiers of Buyer’s Club members, and revisited the files from the Scrap Brothers’ computer and office. I told her about my conversation with Blanchard, then Honey asked to listen to my recording of the talk I had with Grigory Pelkov.
When she put on earbuds, I looked over to the bandstand. Amazing how jazz musicians could take a tune like “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?” and turn it into a thumping bluesy groove that just made you want to snap your fingers and nod your head. The band here in Tommy’s—keyboardist, guitarist, and drummer—reminded me of one of the great keyboardist Joey DeFrancesco’s trios. Honey shot me a look like I needed psychiatric help.
“Hey hipster, did you catch that Pelkov said Breaux had his goods warehoused?”
I turned back to her and nodded. “And the spreadsheet in the laptop had a category for warehouse expenses. We should track down the location.”
“We can get that from Peter Danforth. Tomorrow.”
“Speaking of keeping goods warehoused, what was in the silver container that disappeared from Scrap Brothers?” I asked. “Could Breaux have been keeping something in there? Maybe something Danforth didn’t know about?” I asked.
“Decon said that container has been sealed since forever.”
“I’ll track down Decon after we finish with Haddad.” I took a healthy swig of the strong coffee. “This Global Solutions Unlimited, whoever they are, must have some incredible caches of weapons in the area. I mean, international arms dealers and intelligence agents like Pelkov have made NOLA home for the last year. And it’s not because they like Shrimp Creole.”
“Global has to be a front company controlled by Brandt. Don’t you think?”
“The FBI dossiers I got from Harding don’t clarify that. That’s another reason I want to find Decon. He knows more than he’s told us. He could know who Global is and where they’re operating from.”
“Brandt was acting as a fixer for Tan Chu at the port. He has to be part of Global.”
“I’ll ask Harding what she can find out about Global Solutions Unlimited,” I said.
“Wait a second. Except for Breaux, they all showed up a year ago, right around the time the Storm hit. The city was destroyed. Where could they have been operating from? How could they even find a hot meal? A hotel room?” asked Honey.
Honey’s questions hit me like a broadside from an empty sea. “Damn, you’re right. I mean, phone service didn’t exist. The port was closed. The airport was out of commission for weeks to all but military and government flights.” The strange case just kept getting stranger.
“Would’ve been tough to ship out anything they bought.”
“And where could Global Solutions have gotten arms from? Jackson Barracks got flooded bad. Michoud did okay because it has its own levees and they kept their pumps operating. Belle Chasse wasn’t in good shape and they were overwhelmed running most of the helicopter rescue operations out of there.”
“When the Eighty-second Airborne Division arrived? They camped out at Naval Support Activity on the West Bank. In the parking lot. That was a mess,” said Honey.
“And the Coast Guard facilities got hit hard. Those folks were up to their eyeballs.”
“We had all those U.S. Navy ships docked along the river. But they acted as housing for government workers. And brought in relief supplies, not weapons,” said Honey.
“Doesn’t make sense for Pelkov, Nassir, and Chu to be here then. Hell, we were under curfew, the city was closed. Residents weren’t allowed to return till the end of September.”
Honey and I looked at each other; it didn’t make sense.
“What was it Decon said? That NOPD couldn’t handle this case; we’d be outclassed.”
“Maybe he was right,” said Honey.
“Or maybe we just need a lucky break. And where better to get lucky than at a casino?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Harrah’s New Orleans Casino reopened six months after the Storm. First responders had used the building as a staging area in the immediate wake of the disaster. Cops and firemen from out of town who had never been to New Orleans could see what the city was supposed to look like because the interior of the casino was decorated to resemble a French Quarter street party. I found it odd that the c
asino was done up to replicate an area that was only a few blocks away. Last time I checked, there were no casinos in Las Vegas done up to look like Las Vegas.
Gamblers complained that since the Storm the slots were tighter than a spinster’s ass. Since I’m not much of a gambler, I couldn’t say, and Honey and I weren’t here to play slots. We’d come because the FBI dossier had stated that Nassir Haddad gambled and partied at Harrah’s almost every night of the week. Turns out the feds were right.
We nursed lattes as we observed Haddad, an Egyptian, gambling in the private baccarat room. The young blonde on his arm must have had really good fake ID. The brunette I figured for a casino shill. A couple of young guys and another female rounded out his party.
“If the FBI has it right, Haddad should be retiring to his penthouse suite for his nightly party right about now.”
“But he lives on his cargo ship, right?” asked Honey.
“Right. The casino penthouse is for partying. His ship is docked in Saint Rose. He commutes via helicopter to the New Orleans Downtown Heliport over at the Superdome, then takes a limo here. An armored limo.”
“He has a helipad on the ship?”
“A big one that can accommodate two choppers.”
“Business must be good,” said Honey.
“In the history of the world, has there ever been a time armies haven’t been attacking each other?”
“I’d like to think so. But probably not.” Her phone beeped and she checked an incoming text. “SWAT exercise tomorrow.”
“As if you’re not busy enough.”
“Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone.”
Before I could ask her what she meant, Haddad stood up and casino security escorted him and his party to a private walkway that connected to the hotel tower.
Haddad’s parties lasted for hours, meaning he would keep for a minute. We were both famished, so I treated Honey to overpriced sushi at Bambu in the casino lobby. I waited until we finished our salmon-skin roll to tell her something I thought might set her off, so I braced myself before I spoke.
“Listen, don’t get mad, but—I assigned some guys to cover your mom, around the clock. They’re in a white van a couple doors down from her house. Let her know, but tell her not to take them coffee or anything. Just let her know they’re there and they’re watching her.” I slid Honey a slip of paper. “If your mom has a problem, she can call this number and they’ll come running.”
Honey looked at me wide-eyed. I figured she was about to blow her top and lay into me, since she’d always taken her own and her family’s personal safety to be exclusively her domain. Detective Baybee, as she had proven time and time again, was quite capable of taking care of herself; I was now stepping on her toes, so to speak, by getting involved in her family’s protection, the inference being she couldn’t handle it herself.
“I know you can take care of your mom on your own, but we’re both just so busy. So I apologize for not checking with you first. It was a gut reaction; I just wanted to make sure she’d be okay.” I was explaining myself too much in hopes of mitigating her anger.
“The department isn’t going to pay for this.”
“The department has nothing to do with it,” I said.
“You’re paying for it? It was a gut reaction?”
I wasn’t sure where she was going and couldn’t read her thoughts. “Look, I’m sorry. If you want me to pull the coverage—”
She took my hand and squeezed it hard. Tears burst from her eyes and rolled down her creamy white cheeks dappled with freckles. For Honey to even hint at showing emotion was a huge thing. But to cry? I’d only seen her do it once, when we had found her grandpa’s corpse after the Storm. I watched as she bit at her lip, and I averted my eyes. I didn’t know what to say. So we just sat there.
After a minute or so, her vicelike grip loosened into more of a caress as she used her free-hand to daub her eyes with a celadon-colored linen napkin.
She stroked my hand and looked me in the eyes. I had horribly misjudged her reaction; there was no anger, only deep gratitude. She had no words, so I struggled to find some. I wanted to tell her how much I cared for her, how I worried about her and thought of her and, I suppose, needed her.
“Honey, I—” was all that came out. I wished to clarify my relationship with her, but somehow this—sitting in a casino restaurant while on a murder investigation—didn’t feel like the right time. But then, it never felt like the right time.
The green-tea ice cream arrived, we finished the meal in silence, then wordlessly headed up to the penthouse.
Maybe it was frustration in general, maybe the needlessly profane hip-hop music coming from the penthouse door, maybe the idea that Haddad was a borderline pedophile, or maybe it was because people were tailing me and breaking into Honey’s house and threatening her mom. Maybe it was all of those things. But when two foreign members of Haddad’s security detail refused to honor our being there on official police business and laid hands on us to stop our approach to the penthouse door, we simply demolished them. I gave my guy a quick pop to the chin. When he swung at me, I had him where I wanted and hit him in the diaphragm pretty hard. It was a carefully measured blow; I could have hit him much harder, but it still knocked the wind out of him, and he dropped to his knees with his eyes rolling back in his head. Perhaps I was getting my mojo back. I casually reached into his suit jacket and removed a Taurus 9mm and his keycards.
Honey had kicked her guy in the shin—she wore sensible shoes with steel toes, like mine—grabbed his arm, spun him around, and then used the bar-arm control to cut off his air passage and choke him unconscious. The public had a hard time understanding that choking out perps was much more humane than beating them senseless, I guess because it looked like you had just killed them.
“I haven’t used that hold in a while. Good to get some practice in,” she said, not even breaking a sweat, as she took his Springfield XD from a shoulder holster.
“I got it on video in case they file a complaint. They initiated first contact.”
“They won’t file a complaint. You heard the accent? They’re not licensed to carry concealed while working here.”
I swiped the keycard in front of the lock, and the penthouse door clicked open.
“I feel like raining on Haddad’s parade,” said Honey.
“Sounds good to me.”
We entered quickly. Nassir Haddad, an obviously devout Muslim, danced sex-sandwich-style with a guy and a girl as he swilled from a bottle of champagne. The sweet, sharp smell of hashish hung in the air. Maybe twenty people were scattered around the room, meaning a group had to have been up here partying while Haddad was downstairs gambling.
A few people gave us cursory glances as I scanned the room. Except for the guy smoking a small hash pipe, I saw no obvious signs of drug use, although a young, half-dressed redhead stumbled around with glazed eyes in some kind of stupor.
“New Orleans Police Department! Everybody out!” shouted Honey, holding her sixty-dollar gold shield in the air. The department was so cheap, detectives had to pay for the badge themselves. The guy with the hash pipe dropped it but was too scared to exhale. “I said everybody out!” yelled Honey.
By the time I turned off the sound system the more sober present were already exiting. Haddad hadn’t said a thing. His beady eyes shifted between Honey and me as he edged toward another room.
“Nassir Haddad! Stop right there!” Honey lasered in on the short, thin Egyptian in his forties with thick black hair.
Always keen on helping others, I lifted a couple of college-aged guys off the sofa by their shirts and shoved them toward the door. “The detective said everybody out!” I had a nastier tone than Honey, and the room cleared quickly.
Haddad darted into a bedroom and almost had the door closed when Honey reached in and pulled him out. She shoved him up against a wall and cuffed him. A pat-down revealed a small cloisonné-and-sterling-silver vial, which she tossed to me. She l
ed him to a sofa and he fell onto it, askew. He still hadn’t said a word; in truth, he looked like he didn’t believe Honey was a real cop and he expected instead to get a bullet to the head. I sat on the armrest near him as Honey sat across from us. I tapped out a tiny amount of white powder from the vial. “Hmm, hard to say. Cocaine, China White, crystal meth—”
“Why was he trying to get into that bedroom?” asked Honey.
Haddad tensed as I stood and crossed to the bedroom. The young blonde who had to be underage that we’d seen with Haddad in the casino lay fully clothed on the bed, unconscious. A silk scarf was tied around her right bicep and her “outfit” dangled from the vein in her arm. She was zoned-out on heroin. I took a quick cell-phone snap.
I lit a cigarillo as I reentered the main room and sat on the sofa armrest. I exhaled into Haddad’s face, and then showed him the cell-phone photo of the girl. “His underage girlfriend in there is a skin-poppin’ mama. She’s geezed out. If we look around, wonder how much H will turn up? In addition to this here.” I held up the vial.
Tiny beads of perspiration formed a sheen on Haddad’s upper lip. His eyes fluttered like his horizontal hold needed adjusting.
“I’ll just MMS this photo to Judge Grenadine,” I said to Honey. “You know, the judge whose daughter OD’d on smack. I figure it’ll take about five seconds to get a search warrant for Mister Haddad’s boat. Oh, sorry, it’s an insult not to call it a ‘ship,’ isn’t it? Be interesting to see what turns up.” I exhaled again into Haddad’s mug. “Did you know Detective Baybee was a member of the SWAT team? We’ll bring them along when we go on board. Hopefully they won’t break anything.”
“You’re bluffing,” said Haddad. He spoke with a slight British accent; I pegged him for a moneyed Egyptian who’d gone to university in England.
