by Ed Kovacs
Honey pursed her lips. “I’m not afraid, but— I’ll do it for mom’s sake. We’ll make the move tonight. Feel better now?”
“I’d feel better if I knew what Brandt’s Plan B was.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brandt wasn’t the only person with a plan. Honey and I also had something up our sleeves. As I followed her unmarked unit up Canal, I spotted the blue Camry tail vehicle. The day’s fun and games were just beginning.
It was time to see Peter Danforth and learn where Del Breaux warehoused his weapons. Honey and I also needed to review the material from Clayton Brandt’s office computers. And there were about ten other things I should do immediately, if not sooner, like run Brandt’s spiel by Agent Harding, update Kendall’s assignment, thank Barry Morrison and Chief Ritzman, and call an NOFD captain buddy of mine for the exact GPS coordinates of Building J-19 at Michoud, which I planned to visit later tonight.
As I drove I rewound the confrontation with Ding Tong in my mind. I could have head-butted him, kicked him, tackled him. There were a hundred things I could have done, moves I have made thousands of times. But instead I had stood there flat-footed, wrestling around like I was going to cuff him or something. Honey could have been hurt if the SWAT commander hadn’t stepped in. That was another thank-you call I had to make.
With no answers, just questions, I booted up the in-dash computer, engaged the heads-up display on the windshield, and eavesdropped on Claytons Brandt’s staff as I followed Honey all the way to the New Orleans Fair Grounds.
Honey had made a lot of friends in the department in the last year. It didn’t hurt that she was beautiful. Hence, unmarked detective units rolled up all four of our tail vehicles simultaneously, freeing us up to go where we wished, unseen.
Based on the detective’s traffic stops, we’d soon know who was so interested in us. Meanwhile, Peter Danforth had some explaining to do.
“I should have a lawyer present,” said Peter Danforth, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“Okay,” said Honey. “I’ll take you downtown right now. Park you in an interrogation room. When your suit shows up, we’ll talk.”
“And I’ll text Brandt, Chu, Haddad, and Pelkov to give them your location,” I said. “Who knows, maybe it was one of them that put the Jefferson brothers through that metal shredder over at Scrap Brothers.”
“Go ahead and get your lawyer. It will skyrocket you to the top of our suspect list,” said Honey.
“Suspect?” Danforth blew air in frustration. “That’s not why I want a lawyer. Like I said before, I need witness protection. The federal program.”
“Then call the feds,” I said. “Tell them where you are. Then everybody will know.”
Danforth didn’t look happy. He looked good: six-pack abs, chiseled features, blond-streaked hair. But he looked far from content as he wiped his face again with a workout towel. He’d been on a treadmill in the Academy’s cardio room when we bulldozed our way in.
“Did you check out Clayton Brandt?” he asked me.
“Yes, and the other Buyer’s Club members. Why not start by telling us how Breaux got into the arms business?”
Danforth looked us up and down as if gauging how much contempt he should show us. Finally he threw the towel on the ground. I knew what it meant to throw in the towel.
“Ty Parks opened the door.”
We just looked at him.
“Ty was the main logistics and shipping guy at Michoud. And he’s ex-air force. Clayton Brandt is a former air force general, and Ty helped out to get the general’s operation set up at a remote part of the facility. Nuts-and-bolts stuff like providing forklifts, helping with loading dock repairs, things like that. When Ty found out the nature of Brandt’s project, he told Del about it. Del had money, a security clearance, and a trading company; he wanted in on the action. So Ty went to the general on his lover’s behalf. Del became the last member of the Buyer’s Club. He didn’t know the first thing about arms trafficking, but he knew there was money in it and he learned fast.”
“How could Brandt be the Pentagon’s point man but also be a member of the Buyer’s Club?” I asked.
“The greedy bastard did both, and the Pentagon let him. He got paid to run the sales operation for Global. So that meant he was also a facilitator working to make sure that the whole thing ran smoothly and stayed off the radar screens.”
“He came to Tan Chu’s rescue at the port,” said Honey.
Danforth shrugged. “He would have done it for any buyer. His job is to make sure the goods get sold and leave the country quietly.”
“Since Brandt is running the operation for the Pentagon, does that make Global Solutions Unlimited one of his companies?”
“Not at all. Brandt buys weapons from Global and sells them on the world market, just like the other members of the Buyer’s Club. Global Solutions is some kind of Pentagon cut-out, but sometimes it’s best not to ask too much.”
“So the Buyer’s Club was the exclusive purchaser of all this exotic material?”
“No. Buyers from all over the world fly in every week. They stay at the Windsor Court. Most of them are from the Third World—African, Asian, Middle East, South American countries. Buying weapons from America. Come one, come all.”
Honey and I glanced at each other; sometimes it was hard to keep the poker face going.
“So they come every week because—there’s a weekly auction?”
“That’s right. The Buyer’s Club was just a nickname for the dealers who stayed local. Pelkov, Haddad, and Chu were buying so much, the on-going sales became so important to them, they essentially relocated here. Brandt was here to run the operation, but Del was the only truly local arms dealer.”
“Why did this kick off right after the Storm? Conditions were terrible,” I said.
“The move to New Orleans had happened a week or two before the Storm hit. Brandt doesn’t let much get in his way of making money, even a killer hurricane. And he was right; in the chaos of the Storm, it was still possible to conduct business and get things done. No one paid attention.”
“So after the Storm, buyers were housed on navy ships docked on the river?”
“That’s what I heard. Brandt has tremendous pull, as you can imagine.”
“Have you been out to Building J-Nineteen at Michoud for one of the auctions?” I asked.
Danforth nodded cautiously. “A couple of times.”
“You told me before that all of the members of the Buyer’s Club had their reasons for wanting Del Breaux dead. Haddad and Pelkov, I understand. And I think I have a good idea about Chu. But why would General Clayton Brandt want him dead?”
“Because he suspected him of leaking to the FBI,” said Danforth, matter-of-factly.
“I thought the FBI was the security arm giving you guys cover,” said Honey.
“A unit from Washington does that, yeah. But somebody started talking to a local agent, who opened up an investigation. It created a lot of fear and suspicion until the boys in D.C. put the kibosh on it.”
Harding. He was talking about Agent Harding’s investigation.
“Why did Clayton Brandt think Breaux was leaking?”
“Petty revenge. He was kicking him out.”
“But Breaux wasn’t the leaker, was he?” I figured the leaker had to be Decon.
“No way. Del was a greedy, corrupt horse’s ass. He wouldn’t blow the whistle on a gravy train, especially since he had a plan to worm his way back in.”
“If he was that unscrupulous, would he have sold out his country? Would he have sold some secret-something from his scientific work at Michoud? Something separate from the buying and selling of arms he was doing?”
“Well, when he saw that the government was willing to sell sophisticated weapons and equipment to our enemies, his thinking definitely changed. But I never saw him do anything treasonous.”
“You handled billing?” asked Honey.
“There was no billing. The goods ne
ver shipped until a buyer transferred money into an escrow account. Del kept money in a small company account that I wrote checks on to pay the rent, utilities, incidentals. But at any one time there was never more than seven or eight thousand in that account.”
“So why did Breaux have two point five million in cash in his house?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
Danforth’s response was too quick, the voice tighter. He was good, but we’d struck a nerve.
“Sure you do.”
“I don’t. Del always knew how to make money. Lots of it.”
“We have the serial numbers from the cash in his house, so don’t bullshit me.”
“Good for you, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. Del didn’t trust me with the money end. He wouldn’t have trusted anyone, not even Ty. I was a well-paid assistant, but the money part he handled himself. I don’t know anything about a bag of money in his house.”
“You mean you didn’t drain his bank accounts the night he died?” asked Honey.
“Hey, I got screwed out of my last paycheck, including one percent of a four-million dollar sale to Liberia.”
I glanced at Honey, who looked back at me. Danforth’s statement about his commission fit Breaux’s laptop records precisely.
“Since you made a small fortune—one percent of the weapons sales—where’s your money?” I asked.
“I sink every dollar into real estate. I’m in it for the long term. I’m rich on paper, but cash poor. Fixing up demolished properties isn’t exactly free.”
“What business did Breaux have with that scrapyard over in the Ninth Ward?”
Danforth cracked his knuckles. He had relaxed just a bit. “The first few weeks after he joined the Buyer’s Club, he kept his stock there. All the guys in the Buyer’s Club did at one time or another, because Tan Chu had an established relationship with them buying scrap. Once anyone bought merchandise at auction, it had to ship out the same night—Brandt’s orders. Chu always had his purchases trucked to Scrap Brothers and stored there until the items shipped out of the country. But Del didn’t trust people, and he sure didn’t trust the Jefferson brothers, so about ten months ago he found another location to warehouse his stock.”
“What location?” I demanded.
Danforth waited a beat before answering. “Right here.”
Peter Danforth unlocked a large padlock, swung out the hasp, and heaved open a heavy old wooden door, oily and darkened with age. The room felt cool as we stepped in. Wooden cases of 7.62 mm ammo stacked six high. Barrels, bundles, boxes, crates, containers, and canisters brimmed with war matériel, much of it Russian manufacture.
“This building used to be a warehouse; the owner offered Del a good deal to rent this space, so he took it.”
Honey and I did a quick walk-through, appraising the inventory.
“So everything Breaux bought from Global Solutions came here first. Before he shipped it to a buyer somewhere in the world?”
“Yes. Toward the end, items would ship out a day or two after they arrived here. Del had the Midas touch, and business was taking off.”
“Who had access to this room?” asked Honey.
“Del, myself, the security guys.”
“This is all Russian manufacture matériel. None of this came from the auctions at Michoud,” I said, pointedly.
“Del bartered for these goods. With some of the other guys in the Buyer’s Club.”
“So where are the non-lethal weapons he bought the night he died? Microwave crowd dispersal generators.”
Danforth glanced around the room. “Good question.”
Honey and I worked our cell phones as we walked to our vehicles, and then conferred as fat rain droplets fell sparingly from a partly cloudy sky, sizzling partially to steam as they hit the hot pavement.
“Two operators in each tail vehicle,” Honey said, relaying the info about our tails from the detectives who’d helped us out. “Six men, two women. All carrying concealed, but they have valid permits. High-end comms, no law-enforcement ID. All flew into town from around the country. Rented the vehicles from Avis out on Airline Highway. Staying at the Sheraton.” Honey stopped. She had more to tell me, but looked worried.
“Okay. Any sniper rifles or heavy artillery?”
“They had extra sets of keys to vehicles unknown. Maybe a gun truck.”
I nodded. “Where are they now?”
“Detained. No arrests yet. Each group of two is being held at a different district station house. Fred Gaudet will make sure they’re held overnight.”
Detective Fred Gaudet was an old buddy of mine; we’d gone through the police academy together. “To get their latent prints, I bet. He can’t print them since they’re not under arrest, but they have to eat, go to the toilet, drink something. He’ll get their prints from what they touch, then maybe we’ll know more,” I speculated.
“We know a little more already. Each vehicle had an identical tablet computer. Three were password-locked. The fourth, we got lucky. There were files inside. Photos of your dojo, your trucks, you riding your bike, your place in the warehouse district. Photos of my house, rooms inside my house, my mom’s house, me driving my unit. Text files of our dossiers. Routines, habits, places we frequent.”
“So they planted the bugs in your house, not the FBI.”
She shrugged. “I just want my mom left out of it. Fred’s assigning two uniforms to Mom, to supplant your guys.”
“Good. Fred’s a good man to do that. Once we get you and your mom moved into my building, you can breathe a little easier.”
“Get this,” said Honey, cracking a smile. “Fred called a thug in the Iberville Projects. Told him the locations of the four tail cars. Said NOPD would like the vehicles to disappear forever. No questions asked.”
I smiled for the first time today. “Excellent. We need to keep poking our opponent in the eyes.”
“We’re not the most effective police department. But we know how to screw with people who screw with us,” said Honey.
“Indeed. If I know Fred, their cell phones will be returned after being accidentally dropped into a bucket of water, he’ll leave no shoelaces in their shoes, he’ll report their credit cards as stolen, check them out of their hotel rooms. Little things mean a lot. Especially to an out-of-town crew.”
All of this held some small solace but Honey looked frustrated. “So who are they working for?”
“Clandestine operators don’t carry badges. Could be from any number of government agencies. We’ve been stepping on some toes here. Or maybe they’re freelancers working for somebody in the Buyer’s Club.” I wanted to put Honey’s mind at ease. “If they were going to take us out, they could have easily done it already. The photos prove that.”
“I’m not a rookie. We both know that with these high stakes there’s no telling what they might do next, or to whom. Like maybe to one of our family members, to send us a message.”
She was right. I’d already decided to fly two guys to St. Louis to look after my mom.
“I talked to Kendall,” I said. “The FBI showed up in force at Chu’s warehouse in Harahan.”
“A raid? Looking for the GIDEON sample?”
“Apparently.”
“Local FBI?” asked Honey.
“No, an SRT, Special Response Team, from Houston. Maybe showing Brandt the pictures had an effect.” I lit a cigarillo and looked up at the sky, trying to tell which way the wind was blowing. “So what did you think of our boy inside?”
“Danforth? He lied a few times. Probably could have drained Breaux’s bank accounts.”
“Did you notice he referred to the cash at Del’s house as being in a bag? We never said that, it might have been in a safe, in a box, on a shelf.”
“‘Bag of money’ is a common term. If you had that kind of money at your place, where would you keep it?”
“In a bag,” I admitted. “But that storage room just now? Pelkov and Haddad both complained that
Del cheated them on shipments, shorted customers of theirs that he was supplying. Maybe Danforth was the guy doing the shorting. Creating his own little stash. That could be what he just showed us.”
“So Breaux’s actual storage room could be elsewhere in the building,” said Honey.
“With the non-lethal weapons system and who knows what else. Can you get a search warrant?”
Honey shook her head. “We need more evidence.”
“Then we keep digging.”
“Danforth could have whacked Breaux and Parks. Emptied the bank accounts. Then went after the two and a half million.”
I shrugged. “Would he also be the one who sanitized Breaux’s office? Who would be helping him?”
“He has his own small army in there,” Honey said. “But why kill the Jefferson brothers?”
“Good point; there doesn’t seem to be a connection. I’m heading back to my place to go over the files we got from Brandt’s office.”
“I’m paying a visit to TDF Shipping with a search warrant. I want to legally establish J-Nineteen as the origin of the weapons. And see what else might turn up.”
“I’ll go with you,” I offered.
“I can handle it.”
I looked at Honey. She wielded an edginess that she couldn’t quite conceal. “Is there something else you want me to do?”
“I want you to be the old you. I want you to be brilliant and solve this.”
She turned, got into her unit, and drove away.
I’d never thought I was brilliant, just bull-headed. And obviously I was selfish, because my need to have the distraction of this investigation, to help me forget about Bobby Perdue, had ended up endangering the lives of people I cared for. This case needed to go down yesterday, but I only had multiple guesses as to who staged a murder / suicide and then brutally, heinously killed three others, all as part of an effort, it seemed, to keep an illicit cash cow rolling along.
