by Owen Mullen
Diskins rubbed his chin, sorry to be the one to throw cold water on my discovery. He needn’t have worried. I was way ahead of him. The connection was valid, though, in the end, limited. Our best bet was still what Tom Donald had strained to tell us. Understand that, and we had a fighting chance.
I joined a group with a male detective called O’Rourke and Detective Corrigan, the dark-haired woman who had asked a question about the lack of semen at the crime scene. I got the impression she was wary of me. O’Rourke, on the other hand, was relaxed and friendly.
‘Good work, Detective.’
I accepted the compliment. He was right; it was good work. Just not good enough for me or the next victim, if we didn’t catch this guy soon.
‘It’s not detective anymore. I’m only drafted for the duration.’
‘Yeah. I hear McLaren make a big thing out of the Mr Delaney, remindin’ you you’re the temporary help. Listen, I’ve been in five years now. When I started out, I partnered Ricky Young.’
‘Oh, I remember Ricky. How’s he doing?’
‘He’s in Florida. Says he loves it. I don’t believe him. Anyway, one morning we were drivin’ past the courthouse, and Ricky points you out. You were walkin’ up the steps on your way to testify, I guess. Ricky said, “See that guy climbin’ the steps? That’s Vincent Delaney. You don’t know it, but that’s who you want to be: that’s a detective.” So, it’s Detective Delaney, far as I’m concerned. Okay, let’s bat the ball.’
And we did. For forty fruitless minutes.
Match, catch, latch, patch, thatch, scratch – zip, zero, nada, nothing.
These two were a whole lot less conspicuous in their behaviour than their boisterous predecessors and still managed to look more arrogant than anybody else on the street.
Trainee gangsters, and loving it.
They made the same stop-offs as the first two, out of sight for a couple of minutes then back, kidding their way through a felony-filled morning.
Eventually, they walked into a Universal Car Parking facility. Five minutes later, I recognised them in a white Honda Civic. I pulled out a couple of cars behind. For all their kings-of-the-hill attitude, these were trained people who might spot a tail.
I hung back all the way out to Crossgates. When they drove off the road down to some derelict ground, I let them go and carried on a few hundred yards until my car was out of their sight. Then, I clambered down the bank away from the road. Now, there were three of them – the two I’d followed and a stranger leaning against the side of a blue Mustang. In the distance, the mighty Mississippi flowed on by. The new guy was wearing shades, a dark coat and a deep-red tie. His hair was slicked back above a pencil moustache and a prominent nose. He was relaxed, chewing gum, and smiling at the two felons. The main man took the briefcase from his colleague and handed it over. Two white envelopes were exchanged. Payday.
I’d seen all I needed to for now.
These guys were confident. Running exactly the same scam in exactly the same way: believing they were beyond detection. They hadn’t bargained for Pricilla Bartholomew’s anger and shame on a rainy night in Jackson Square, and her need to confront me.
I imagined them laughing in the Honda, fingering the cash and thinking how clever – and easy – it was, while the big money went somewhere else. Tomorrow, I’d know where.
I was close to facing what I’d been unable to discuss with myself until now. And I didn’t have to wait until tomorrow. I already had that information. All I needed to do was admit it.
Who knows where the road goes?
Who indeed?
But wherever it went, I’d follow.
‘It’s gotta be.’
Words I’d heard him say so often.
33
For more than a week, there had been no practice – or rehearsal, as Katie Renaldi’s gran insisted on calling it. Katie tiptoed from her bedroom and sat down on the top step. A thin line of light came from under the door. She could hear adult voices.
Talking about her.
Their sound rumbled like a far-off thunderstorm, too indistinct to make much out. She went back to bed and fell asleep. Downstairs in the lounge, Bob and Eadie sat side by side on the couch. Eadie’s mother occupied the armchair by the television.
Ray said, ‘Well, it looks like you were right, Mama. According to the newspaper, she was drowned. We live in a sick world.’
‘Maybe the contests will stop.’
Gran Russell shook her head. ‘I doubt it. People never think anything bad will happen to them. It’ll be business as usual next week.’
‘But how does that affect us? What’re we going to do? You said the wrong kind of people gravitate to these events. I didn’t want to hear that. Now, look,’ Ray said what they were all thinking, ‘you’ve put in so much time, but if being there puts Katie in danger, we have to let it go. Nothing to discuss. What do you think, Mrs Russell?’
Emily Russell took a deep breath. ‘I think what I always thought. Anything that guarantees a whole lot of kiddies will be there’s bound to gather some weird types. You’re right, Bob. It’s the world we live in.’
Eadie sighed. ‘Poor Katie. She’ll be so disappointed.’
‘Her safety comes way ahead of any disappointment.’
‘Her safety is our responsibility, nobody else’s. I’ve always accepted that,’ Gran Russell said. ‘I don’t just accept it, I welcome it. Who else would we trust?’
‘So, how do we do that? How do we keep Katie safe?’
‘By never leaving her alone, even for a minute.’
‘But the danger is real, Mama. Why would we go anywhere near these events?’
‘We can’t teach a child to run away every time life throws up a problem. No more singing? That can’t be right. Nothing’s different. Not really. This killer has been out there all along. Now we know what we have to do to look after Katie.’
Bob didn’t agree. ‘Katie can sing anywhere.’
‘Where, Bob? She wants to sing, that’s what all the work’s been about, an attempt to change how it was the last time. I think we should allow her her moment. Even just one time.’
‘And her safety?’
‘Her safety is always down to us. Doesn’t matter where.’
Bob Renaldi bit his lip. ‘Mama?’
‘It’s important to get out what’s inside us when it’s pure and good. Don’t let it be suffocated by what other people do. Katie wants to sing. Why don’t we let her?’
‘So, we’re going?’
‘To one more,’ his wife said. ‘Only one. I don’t want Katie to keep her music inside. That isn’t the way to live.’
‘One more. When?’
‘Are we ready to do this, Mama?’
‘Yes, I think we are.’
‘Saturday then.’
34
The next morning, everything happened just as before, the collectors worked both sides of the street and returned to their car. I followed their Honda to the pick-up point. Danny was in position to take it from there. Thirty minutes later, I joined him outside a house in Marrero. The bag-man had been in his sights from the moment he pulled off the wasteland on to the road. His gaze never wavered, even when I slipped into the passenger seat beside him.
‘There.’ He nodded to where the blue Mustang I’d seen a day earlier sat in the drive at the end of a block. ‘Sergeant Miller Davis. Long-time law enforcement officer with the NOPD; dependable, upstanding and dirty as they come.’
Our paths had never crossed. He was a stranger to Fitzpatrick, too, until he’d run a check on the vehicle reg.
‘And where do you suppose he’s stationed?’
‘The Fifth?’
‘The Fifth. Same as his deceased colleagues.’
‘Don’t know him.’
‘His mother doesn’t know him, Delaney. These guys should be on the History Channel – Secret Lives of New Orleans’ Finest. That precinct’s a nest of snakes.’
Around six o’clock, Sergea
nt Miller Davis came out of his house, still wearing his shades and still chewing gum. He got into his car, backed out on to the street and took off. He drove north. I hadn’t been here in a long time. But I’d been here.
When he pulled the Mustang over, we parked down the street. He wasn’t in a hurry. A couple of minutes passed, before he emerged from the car carrying the briefcase. The door in a white clapboard house opened to let him in. He was expected.
The click, click, click of Fitzy’s camera added a dramatic soundtrack. Danny knew what I was feeling. I remembered Cal’s outrage in the greasy spoon; the colour washing from his face. He said he’d lost something of himself and had learned to live with it, to adjust. Now I realised what those adjustments had been.
The house looked the same as when he lived there with his mother, in the days when we were buddies hanging out together: listening to music, talking about girls and football.
But that was then.
When I called, he was upbeat.
‘Sure thing. When do you want to meet?’
‘Tomorrow some time.’
‘Can’t do tomorrow. On duty during the day, and later, there’s a lady waiting for me.’
I didn’t believe him. ‘Okay. Friday then.’
‘Friday night. Late. For the same reasons. I’ll tear myself away.’
‘That’ll do.’
‘So where and when?’
‘How about the Algiers Ferry pier?’
A note of hesitation crept into his voice. ‘All right.’
‘After your date, say one o’clock?’
‘I’ll be there, buddy. Any clues about why?’
I didn’t answer. No need. He knew.
‘And, hey, are we on for Sunday?’
‘Can’t miss that,’ I lied.
There was no woman, and Cal Moreland was no fool. Neither was I. He’d been a friend. Now, he was a dangerous stranger, probably a murderer. And something in that last exchange told me he was rattled.
Are we on for Sunday, same as usual?
He was talking about football. I’d answered yes. But the Saints were away to the Panthers, so unless we were flying up to Carolina, I doubted it.
A crowd gathered to watch the excitement. The police car sat in front of the garage door, its red light flashing. Another squad car was parked twenty yards away with a uniformed officer beside it.
High above the drama, the sky was cloudless and dark, filled with the noise of a news chopper. Two policemen kept the spectators back. Every light in the house was on. Inside, Officers Dimmock and Paterson completed their preliminary inspection and found nothing amiss. Nothing, except the body on the bed.
A wailing siren told the ghouls an ambulance was on its way. When the white vehicle raced into the street, the warning noise was deafening. The crowd watched the medics remove a stretcher. Curiosity outweighed compassion.
Officer Paterson met them and went ahead. There were no unnecessary words. The cops stood aside to let them do their job. On the bed, a woman’s naked body lay sprawled across the covers. The medics ran simple tests to establish her status. It didn’t take long.
The empty pill bottles on the bedside table explained how. When the body was taken out to the ambulance, the bystanders were rewarded for their patience. Tomorrow, they’d have plenty to talk about.
Mia Johnson’s final act.
Centre stage, at last.
35
Drizzle fell from the night sky, the kind of rain that rests on every surface; seeping through clothes and skin, cooling blood, chilling bone, muting the spirit. Perfect conditions for what I had to do.
I arrived at the meeting-point ahead of time and let the car roll to a stop in the lot next to the landing: a featureless tarmac space jutting over the Mississippi, illuminated by spotlights on the terminal roof.
It felt unreal.
The Aquarium of the Americas sat off to my right, a bold, black smudge against the grey sky. It was twelve-fifty. He’d be here soon. I wasn’t afraid. I was beyond normal emotions. Cal had said it best: gotta be.
I walked towards the deserted jetty, conscious of the wire underneath my shirt. Danny’s idea. At the rear of the terminal hidden in the gloom, a van sat. I ignored it and was glad it was there.
The broad steel barrier was wet and cold on my hands. I leaned against it and looked into the void below. There was only blackness, and at the bottom of it, the Mississippi River rushing to the end of its long journey. I ran my fingers over the out-sized rivets that held the barrier in place, lowered my chin and spoke in a whisper to the dank night air.
‘Hope you’re getting this.’
At one minute to one o’clock, a car turned off Canal onto the ferry approach. It stopped in the middle of the embarkation area thirty yards from where I stood.
He waved, playing our friendship to the last. Cal wore the same blue windbreaker he had that night in the diner when I’d gone against the traders and told him about Cilla Bartholomew and her friends. I was the one who warned him of the danger he was in. I’d confused his angry reaction with everything good.
‘Hi, buddy. What gives?’
His act was old. I’d had enough of it. He was dirty.
‘When did it begin?’ My voice was flat.
He made a face, pretending he didn’t understand. ‘When did what begin, Delaney?’
I watched him, still confident in his ability to end up walking away free and clear. It wouldn’t be like that. However, it finished for me; he was going down.
‘When did what begin, buddy?’
I looked at my watch. ‘Right now, Miller Davis’ll be wondering who could be knocking on his door at this hour. Boy, is he in for a surprise.’
He dropped the pretence. We’d arrived at the end-game. The fingers of his right hand tensed and stretched. Then, the gun appeared, its stubby charcoal barrel pointing at me.
‘You just couldn’t leave it, could you? Just couldn’t leave it alone.’ He cocked the hammer.
‘Thought we were on the same team, Cal.’
His lips parted in a grim smile, and I knew we’d never been on the same side.
‘That night in the diner, I realised it would take a miracle to shake you off. You’ve always been a pussy, Delaney. But you’re a persistent pussy.’
‘So, you killed Raymond Clark and Ryan Hill.’
Hope you’re getting this.
‘Casualties of war. Low men on the totem-pole. Gotta be.’
‘And Clyde?’
‘Who?’
The name was unfamiliar to him. He’d killed a man he didn’t even know.
‘The trader you hanged in his back shop.’
‘A warning to the others. Except somebody wasn’t paying attention.’
He took a step towards me getting ready to pull the trigger. I felt the steel barrier against my back and moved away from it.
‘Why?’
He sneered. ‘Why? Money, that’s why.’
‘Money to do what?’
‘Those Saints don’t win nearly often enough.’
‘Fifty dollars?’
His laugh was a bitter snort.
‘Yeah, right, fifty dollars.’
He raised the gun. This man hadn’t bet only fifty dollars on anything. Ever.
‘Sorry, pal,’ he said, and shot me. Twice. I didn’t feel myself fall. After the first bullet, I didn’t feel anything.
Being able to give good advice is fine. Being able to take it is something else. Danny had thrown the Kevlar vest to where I sat checking the fixings on the recorder.
‘And wear this.’ It wasn’t a request.
‘You can’t believe he’d shoot me?’
‘Wear it.’
My chest felt as if a bus had run over it, but I wasn’t dead. I struggled onto one elbow. The scene had changed. At the back of the lot, the side door of the parked van lay open. A figure crouched behind it: Danny. Cal had disappeared.
Then, I saw him walking along the top of the barrier that s
tood on either side of the landing out over the river.
I called, ‘Cal! Cal! Stop! It’s over!’
He edged along the width of steel, measuring each step on his road to nowhere. To his right, the last few yards of asphalt slipway still offered a safe alternative. Tomorrow, hundreds of vehicles would use it to board the ferry to Algiers. Tonight, Cal Moreland was alone, inching into the pitch-black night above the Mississippi. Then, I understood his insane balancing-act and, in spite of everything, wanted to help him. It shouldn’t end like this.
‘Cal! Not this way!’
‘Yeah, buddy! This way! The only way!’
‘You can cut a deal!’
Cal Moreland laughed. ‘The people I work for don’t make deals, Delaney! There are no deals with them!’
‘Cal! Don’t do it! Think!’
He stopped and stared into the blackness below. He had a look about him; the wildness I’d admired all my life.
‘Cal! Give them up! Whoever they are! Whoever’s behind this thing!’
The rain kept falling. Nobody noticed. The sound of footsteps running towards me got louder.
‘Cal! Let’s talk!’
For the briefest moment, I thought he’d changed his mind. Then, he spoke. ‘Who knows where the road goes? Sorry, Delaney. It’s gotta be!’
‘Fuck’s sake, Cal! Don’t! Let’s deal! Give me a name!’
Then, he was gone.
He cried out as he leapt into space. Fitzy and a guy I hadn’t seen before arrived at my shoulder, eyes fixed on where Cal Moreland had been. Fitzpatrick dragged his gaze back to me.
‘You all right?’
I didn’t answer.
I’d been shot. I’d survived. But I wasn’t all right.
Friday night became Saturday morning.
