Where The Devil Won't Go: A Lucas Peyroux Novel

by E. J. Findorff

  Tonight, the entire staff had been given the day off.

  They veered around the side of the house to the servant’s entrance. If things went as planned, Cozy could possibly try to reunite with Tabby one last time. Vegas odds would say that she would never see Tabby again. As the other girls piled out, Cozy leaned in for a quick, discreet kiss on Tabby’s lips.

  A man in a dark suit and glasses held the door open without a greeting, giving everyone a clear entrance. Cozy scooted in with the others girls and was escorted to a luxurious room with pristine antique furniture, where a spread of sliced fruit, crab cakes, finger sandwiches and lemonade sat in plain view. Each of the curious ladies found a chair and waited in silence. Cozy figured they were all being watched on some multi-screen video feed in another part of the mansion.

  Two more women entered the room dressed to impress. They exchanged a glance, but didn’t fraternize much like kids at their first school dance. She wondered if there were more escorts in the other rooms and, underneath it all, how sick that this was just an excuse to have a sex party.

  “First time?” A tall, slender blonde asked. She didn’t wait for an answer as she downed a full glass of lemonade. Her eyes twinkled blue against pale skin.

  Cozy smiled, patting the chair for her to sit. “Yeah, does it show?”

  “You’re wide-eyed. This is my third party. An Arkansas congressman has taken a liking to me. Well, he likes what I do for him.”

  “Do I want to know?”

  “It might help relax you to know what you’re getting into. Hold on a second.” The blond got up on long boney legs and refilled her glass. She returned taking a large swallow.

  “Thirsty? That’s going to make you have to pee really bad.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Exactly, what? Won’t your having to pee make it uncomfortable for you?”

  “Oh, sweetie, you are so cute. He wants me to piss on him. Sure, any one of these chicks can squat over him and let loose, but apparently I have the strongest stream he’s ever seen.”

  “That’s gross.”

  “My talent for peeing makes me a shit-load of money. You have to be prepared for anything. Just remember, you’re not here to get off – they are. What they like has nothing to do with you. You just have to play along.”

  “Thanks. That’s good advice.”

  The blonde finished the lemonade and let out a charming belch before filling it up again.

  Chapter 36

  After leaving Harry Winslow in a nervous stupor, I stopped at my in-laws where my wife and daughter were still holed up due to the press camped out on our front lawn. So far, the Public Affairs Officer gave a press conference stating that the car bomb was under investigation, but that wouldn’t satisfy them. Let those vultures sit in front of my empty house. Captain Dobson had assigned a squad car to my in-law’s house just in case.

  Heather and Alicia were sitting at the kitchen table with her parents Carl and Ruth. A thick, circular rug lay under their feet and a stained glass fixture hung above. There was barely any room between them and the walls.

  “Why is your main priority to investigate this man?” Heather chastised. “We almost died.”

  “Because it’s not going to end. If we don’t find Cozy, they’ll kill her.”

  Carl and Ruth stayed quiet, probably having given Heather their opinion earlier. Carl’s hand rested on his wife’s wrist. They held their tongue, but they had never been shy about sharing their opinion of me, or my job.

  Heather stayed calm for Alicia’s sake. “Do you love your job more than us?”

  I grabbed a nearby bar stool as I was the only one standing. “How can you ask me that? That bomb was a scare tactic.”

  “Well, we’re scared.” Heather pounded the table.

  “This isn’t about my job or my love for my family. This is about humans being treated as animals in a network so powerful that the FBI looks the other way. They are taking other parent’s daughters that’s Alicia’s age.”

  “Don’t you dare mention her name in the same breath as those people.” She grabbed Alicia’s hands. “Jesus, Lucas.”

  “As far as they know, I’m not investigating their operation anymore. There won’t be a reason to retaliate.” After a bout of silence, I spoke again. “I’m going into the station. I’ll keep you updated.” I leaned in and gave my wife and daughter a kiss, but I felt it wasn’t welcomed.

  #

  As I came into the station, Tara had just finished tapping on her keyboard and then ran to the printer. “How’s the family?”

  “Hanging in there.”

  “I can’t imagine. Don’t worry, we’ll find those bastards.”

  “What you got there?” I pointed at the laser in her hand.

  “I think I got something on Apex.”

  “Tell me.” I sat down, considering a meeting with Chance.

  “There’s an Apex Industries that’s an importer-exporter of clothes, alcohol, and other shit. They run the Claiborne Container Terminal on the river.”

  “Trouble is, I have to put my family into protective custody just to ask any questions.” I looked over the laser.

  “I’m with you, either way.”

  “I know. Giving up goes against every fiber of my being.”

  “So, what do we think of Apex?” Tara flicked the laser while in his hands.

  “That freight dock would be a perfect front for trafficking. Do they bring in the women for Harry’s parties or does Harry supply women for export? Does Raymond sell one or two of his strippers to make some extra cash? Haley could have been one that fought back. That video she made had other bodies with her.”

  “Corporate offices for Apex Industries are guess where?”

  “Spring-Love Square? Probably above Winslow’s offices. The problem here is that we’d have to catch them in transport. Once we ask the first question, they’ll shut it all down and then plant another bomb.”

  “This is your call, Lucas.”

  “Heather and Alicia are with her parents and two cops are sitting outside. They lost the element of surprise. It’s late. Let’s go home and look into Apex tomorrow and see how this plays out.”

  Tara grabbed her purse and a man’s voice boomed from the doorway. “I wouldn’t do that, Lucas.”

  “Chance.”

  My friend approached in jeans and a powder blue collared shirt. “I came as soon as I heard about the car bomb. The news stations are going on and on about mob hits and terrorist strikes. How’s Heather and Alicia?”

  “They’re good. What do you mean, you wouldn’t go to Apex?”

  Tara came to my side. “What business is it of yours, Mr. Mayor?”

  “These are very powerful people with everything to lose.”

  “Chance, I love you more than my real brother, but your friggin’ picture is hanging up in Raymond Corondelet’s office. You are the last person to be telling me how to handle this investigation.”

  “You think I had something to do with this?”

  “The bombing of my wife’s car? No, but you’re in a position to know things that you would never tell me. The corruption runs so rampant, how can you be the mayor and not know the players?”

  “What I know is the type of people they are. They’re ruthless and power-hungry and will destroy anyone in their path. All small-time, local politicians start out wanting to do good things, but as we rise, we all reach a level where we either play ball or stop rising up the ladder. Check your soul at the door kind of shit. I’m still clean. I haven’t been asked to play ball yet.”

  “Will you, if that gets you governor?”

  He turned away from me. “I honestly can’t answer that question right now. Harry Winslow is my campaign manager and he’s lining up contributors. If they’re dirty, put them away for life, but I have nothing to do with their business practices.”

  “Winslow is dirty. He practically told me how dirty he is. You have to get out now, Chance. If you’re not a part of it.”<
br />
  “Then, let’s you and me go talk to Harry again. Put the Apex thing on hold for now.”

  Tara spoke, “I can find out who the employees are. Maybe we can isolate one and limit the damage.”

  I nodded. “That’s worth considering.”

  “As it is, you’re disobeying Captain Dobson’s direct orders and interfering with a Federal investigation.”

  “It’s a fake investigation, Chance.”

  “Fake or not, the Bureau is involved.”

  “So fire me.”

  “Come on. Let’s go to Harry’s and the three of us will hash this out.”

  #

  We took separate cars to Harry’s home. I pulled behind Chance’s Towncar in the circular, bricked drive. Chance got out of the car while on his cell phone at the same time as his driver. He hung up as we started for the door.

  “Wait here,” he told his driver, who immediately got out a smoke.

  The humid air filled my lungs, making them heavy. Chance unbuttoned the top of his collar as if that would get him to relax. He rang the bell.

  His wife answered in shorts and a heavy plaid shirt. “Chance? And you.”

  “Sorry about that, Mrs. Winslow.” I bowed my head.

  “Are you kidding? If my car blew up, I’d want Harry to be as passionate about finding the answers. Not that I know what information Harry would have.”

  “He knows people.”

  “Well, Harry has to be the most popular man in New Orleans today.”

  “Why do you say that?” Chance took a step, but hesitated.

  “Oh, where are my manners. Come on in. I just put the boys to bed.” They entered the kitchen. “First Detective Peyroux here busts into the house and has some kind of serious conversation with Harry and then two FBI agents show up on my door step.”

  “The Feds?” I asked.

  “Yes. At least they said they were. Two large, rough looking men.”

  “They show identification?”

  “No. Harry said to let them in. They went into his study for fifteen minutes and then left. Harry hasn’t come out since. Do you know what’s going on?” Her expression switched to concern.

  “I can’t imagine.” Chance touched her arm. “We came over because we need to talk.”

  She headed towards the study, but I stopped her abruptly. “No, wait. Maybe I should go in.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Wait here.” Chance calmed her down.

  I stopped at the door and knocked on the heavy, wood door. “Harry?”

  No answer.

  “I’m coming in, Harry.”

  Chance and I entered to see Harry slumped over his desk as if he fell asleep while working. I rushed to his side, noticing an empty pharmacy bottle by his hand with a few pills scattered about. Harry didn’t have a pulse.

  “Oh, God.” Came from the doorway.

  Mrs. Winslow, with her hands over her mouth, faltered backwards.

  “Call 9-1-1.” Chance yelled.

  She ran down the hall and Chance wiped his forehead. I searched the desk, finding a note under his other hand. It simply said I’m so sorry.

  Chance’s shock was real. “Do you think he really killed himself? Or those FBI agents…?”

  “You know what I think.” I searched the room for some magical evidence as Chance wiped his hands on his thighs in panic. The shelves were all in order, his desk clean. The drawers in his desk had legal pads, invoices and bills. A display of Mardi Gras memorabilia caught my eye. He must have caught a coconut from the Zulu parade for he past thirty years, although they’re not allowed to throw them anymore.

  I glanced in his garbage can. It was completely clean except for one tiny, balled up piece of paper. I reached in and uncurled it. It was a business card on thick stock.

  “What have you got there?” Chance asked.

  “A business card from LaPlace on Bourbon. Mark Alexander, proprietor.” The initials M.A. were seared on my brain.

  “Harry hires LaPlace to cater his parties – used to. He knew Mark Alexander pretty well.” Chance finally looked to be getting his senses back.

  I put the card in my pocket. We left the home office and trotted into the living room where Mrs. Winslow paced while on the phone. She put the cell against her shoulder with tears falling down her cheeks. “Police are coming.”

  “I have to leave,” I said.

  “We both have to leave,” Chance added.

  “My husband just committed suicide! Where are you going?” Here wild eyes darted between us. Her arms spread as if to stop us.

  I held my hand up. “I’m so sorry. Tell the police that I’ll make a statement later. I can’t explain, but I have to go. I’m sorry.”

  Chance followed, shutting the front door. He yelled to me in the driveway. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the station. I just can’t be here. I’m not supposed to be investigating him, remember?”

  “You’re going to talk to Mark Alexander.” He stopped at his car. The driver had the engine running already.

  “Were are you going?” I asked to deflect his accusation while opening my car door.

  Chance sighed, looking back at the house. “Alexander does his books on Sunday nights. He’s probably at the restaurant right now.” Chance pursed his lips as if he had seen my future.

  #

  “Your hostess brought us through the kitchen.” I fully entered Alexander’s office with Tara at my side after climbing a flight of stairs. “Quite amazing.”

  “The kitchen is the heart of the restaurant. Its gotta beat properly.” His accent was New Orleans, but didn’t flow naturally, like he had learned it. Alexander continued to stand, waiting for Tara and I to take our places opposite his desk. His greased hairline retreated towards the back of his head, but his European goods looks more than compensated. However, close up, I could tell he had the remnants of large abnormality that covered most of his forehead.

  Tara eased into a chair made of twisted white pipes with a flat square to sit on, more suited to be a work of art. I maneuvered into the chair’s cousin, the same pipes twisted into a letter ‘A’. They were sturdier than they looked.

  “Interesting chairs,” I commented.

  “I bought them from an art student at UNO. Form and function.”

  “You support a lot of the arts and charities around New Orleans.”

  Alexander shrugged. “Least I can do for the city that has given me so much.”

  “Thanks for taking our questions.” Tara said.

  Mark Alexander tilted a gracious nod with smiling eyes. “My scar,” he said after noticing my eyes shifting.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. An unfortunate accident with a deep fryer in my youth.”

  “Ouch. Lucky you weren’t blinded.”

  “True dat.”

  “Do you know this man, Harry Winslow?” I put a picture on his desk taken at a fundraiser we found on the Internet.

  He glossed over the picture. “Obviously, I do. He insists I call him Harry, but we’re business associates, not friends. I’ve been to a couple of his functions, as I like to dabble in politics. Sometimes it helps my business. I catered some of those functions.”

  “What about this girl? Do you recognize her?” I placed Haley’s picture in front of him.

  He peered at it. “If our paths crossed, I don’t remember. But, I meet many people that I forget.”

  “She was a guest at one of Harry’s parties. She was found in the Mississippi River.”

  “Oh. That’s sad. The manager of her apartment complex was just murdered, too. And your wife and daughter were almost killed by a car bomb. Terrible coincidences, eh?”

  “I see you’re up on current events.” Tara spoke for me.

  “I just watch the news. Half of it’s crime related.” His elbows rested on his desk, making a pyramid up to where his hands met his chin.

  I threw my left foot onto my right knee, adding to the chai
r’s symmetry. “We’re trying to avoid getting a warrant for Mr. Winslow’s client list. We really want to ask about one guest from a party that no one will admit to.”

  He folded his arms. “As far as I know, none of Mr. Winslow’s parties fall in the realm of secret. And I have not been to one of his events for months.”

  “Harry Winslow was found dead this evening. That hasn’t been on the news yet.”

  His small eyes finally opened. “That’s horrible. How did he pass?”

  “Hasn’t been determined yet. You’re Russian, right?”

  He sat straight, appraising me. “Yes. How do you know?”

  “Not by your accent. You got New Orleans down. It’s your name - Alexander. And you have a European look to you. Plus, we can’t find a record of you before the past decade. It’s like you didn’t exist and then you come to New Orleans and buy LaPlace on Bourbon. How does that happen?”

  “If you are through asking me about Mr. Winslow, then please leave. I am very busy.”

  “Have you heard of Apex Industries?”

  He stared at me – hard – like I insulted him.

  I continued, “Apex controls the Container Terminal. They import Top Notch vodka.” I said, more than asked.

  “Yes, one of our many spirits. Your point?” He shifted in his chair.

  “LaPlace on Bourbon… Is this your hobby?”

  “I find hobby to be a dismissive word and you’ve obviously never owned a restaurant.”

  “I’ve eaten here recently with Mayor Picaud.”

  “Ah, Mayor Picaud. A class act, soon to be governor. I trust that you enjoyed yourselves?”

  “I’m more of a po’ boy man myself, but yes, I must say the entire experience was excellent. Would you say that you and the mayor are friends, or just business associates?”

  “What business is that of yours?” He dropped his eyes. “I understand that you and Mayor Picaud are close. He spoke highly of you when he requested the table the other night.”

  “I want to know the nature of your relationship.”

  “I see. Perhaps I can put my social life in perspective for you and your lovely, lovely partner. I don’t have any friends that are business associates and I don’t have any business associates that are friends. The two don’t mix.”