by Corey Brown
Robbie tucked the gun into his waistband, buttoned his jacket and said, “There, you happy?”
“Not really, I told you to put the gun on the ground.”
The stranger stepped over to Kozlowski, knelt beside him. “I think he’s in trouble,” he said, touching Kozlowski’s throat. The stranger looked up at Mough. “No pulse.”
This was Derek’s first hint, the first clue this guy was a cop. Robbie had pulled a gun, Derek had identified himself as a Federal agent and the guy in the white tee shirt never hesitated, never missed a beat. Later, while giving an account to a policeman who had responded to the emergency call, Derek overheard the stranger identify himself as a patrolman from District Two. The guy was in his mid-twenties, a few years younger than Derek. He could tell this cop was new to law enforcement. Derek watched him, liked what he saw.
«»
Derek Simmons looked out the window, a nice change from his twelve-week stint in New York. Sure that gig was cool, Twenty-Six Federal Plaza was not far from Chinatown and in the heart of state and federal judicial activity, but his desk had been crammed into a windowless conference room with four other newbie agents. It was hard to get to lower Manhattan from New Rochelle, parking was lousy and one of the guys in his conference room-turned-office had a gas problem. Downtown New York? Big deal. Here, in New Orleans, the view wasn’t spectacular but at least he had one.
Derek drummed his fingers on the desk, looked at the phone, his conversation with the New Orleans District Attorney still ringing in his head. It would never stick, what was that idiot thinking? Derek stood and walked out of his office.
“Is he busy?” Derek said to the secretary.
She looked at him, looked at her boss’s closed office door. “Kind of. He’s got some big shot from the DEA in there.”
Derek considered this. Special Agent-In-Charge Harvey Jackson was a reasonable guy. He encouraged open dialogue within his team and never gave you shit unless you had it coming, but how important was this meeting? Who was a bigger shot, Jackson or the other guy?
“How long have they been in there?” Derek said.
“A couple of minutes, maybe five.”
Derek considered this, too.
“Buzz him, would you?’
“You sure?” She said.
“Yeah, buzz him.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Sir,” Derek said, crossing Harvey Jackson’s office.
“Not a problem, Agent Simmons.”
Jackson’s signature style was attention to protocol, everyone was Agent This or Agent That; no first names.
“What’s on your mind?” Jackson said.
“I just got off the phone with D.A. Freeburg.”
Jackson glanced at the other man, raised his eyebrows. “The Kozlowski affair,” he said, nodding toward Derek. “Agent Simmons was a principal.”
The man stepped forward, his hand extended. “Robert Murdock, DEA. Pleased to meet you.
Derek shook Murdock’s hand. “My pleasure,” he said. “Are you stationed here in New Orleans?”
Murdock looked to be in his fifties, early to mid, he was over six feet tall and solidly built.
“I was,” Murdock said. “Now I head up the south Texas region. I’m still trolling the Gulf, just farther west.” Murdock gave Derek a look and said, “So you were there when Kozlowski checked out?”
Derek nodded.
“Interesting,” Murdock said. “The ripple effect should be very interesting.”
“The D.A.,” Harvey Jackson said. “What did he want?”
Derek faced his boss and said, “Freeburg has charged Walter Mough with reckless homicide, he wants me to testify.”
Jackson shrugged. “What of it? Is there a problem, Agent Simmons?”
Derek hesitated, wondering if he was about to sound very stupid. “Yes, Sir, there is, as far as my testimony is concerned.”
“Elaborate, please.”
Derek swallowed. “Mough had no intention of hurting, much less killing, Kozlowski,” he said. “Nance surprised Walter and Walter accidentally hit him. The old guy’s heart gave out. Walter did nothing that could be construed as reckless or irresponsible.”
“Your point?” Jackson said.
“If Freeburg is looking for an FBI agent to support his charge of reckless homicide, he’ll be sorely disappointed. I won’t be that agent. It was nothing more than an accident, Sir. And as much as I’d like to put Walter away, convicting him for this would be…” Derek paused then said, “It would be unethical. I won’t do it. I’d be lying under oath.”
“I see.”
Derek swallowed, waited a beat. “How will that affect the office?”
Jackson clasped his arms behind his back, looked at Murdock, turned away and looked out the window.
Shit, Derek thought, there goes my career.
“It will have no effect,” Jackson said, turning to face Derek. “Our reputation is more important than any single criminal conviction. Have you apprised Freeburg of your position?”
“Yes, I have.”
“And?”
“Freeburg said he would have a talk with you. He intends to, uh, straighten my ass out.”
Jackson’s mouth pulled into a tight smile. For a moment Derek thought his boss was suppressing a laugh. “That sounds like Wallace,” Jackson said. “He’s always looking to straighten out someone’s ass. Don’t give it another thought, Agent Simmons. If Freeburg calls me, you’ll have my full support.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it.”
“Wasn’t a New Orleans cop involved?” Murdock said.
Derek looked at him. The question suggested that Murdock was paying closer attention to this case than he let on. What did that mean? Maybe nothing, maybe something.
Derek nodded. “Yes, that’s correct.” Derek thought about slipping the cop’s name but held back, decided that Murdock already knew it and if he didn’t, the cop was better off.
Smiling, Murdock looked at Jackson and waved dismissively. “Harvey, don’t worry about Agent Simmons’s testimony. It won’t matter if he’s a witness or not. This New Orleans patrolman will tow the line, they all do. Mough will take the fall for Nance’s death and two scumbags will be out of circulation.”
“Perhaps,” Jackson said. “But Freeburg isn’t like that. I wouldn’t bet the farm on it.”
A smirk, a look, and Murdock shrugged. He knows, Derek thought. Murdock already knows the outcome. But how?
Derek turned to leave then stopped and faced Murdock. “Do you remember anything about Remy Malveaux?” Derek said, wondering where in the hell that question came from. “I mean, what about his disappearance? And those other NOPD captains who were murdered?”
Murdock stared at him. It was an odd look, something between surprise and who gives a shit? But Derek was sure he saw anger in that odd look and it sent a chill snaking through Derek’s body.
“Well, I don’t know,” Murdock said, after a time. “I was new in the Bureau---”
“You were FBI?” Derek said.
“Uh-huh, I started out in the Bureau then transferred to drug enforcement in seventy-four. Why do you ask about Malveaux?”
Derek made a face, tried to appear disinterested, tried to come up with something. “Well, the other day, when Nance died, I saw him leaving Saint Paul’s. I was thinking how different things are now that the Organization is running the streets again. I thought it strange that Remy was ever able to take control. When I transferred to this field office I did a little research, you know, to learn about the players. And Malveaux figures in prominently, most people don’t know of him but he made his mark.”
Murdock nodded. “Yes he did. And that case up in Chalmette was pretty strange alright. Like I said, I had just joined the Bureau, maybe six months before those guys were killed. As I recall, everyone assumed Carlos Marcello ordered the hit.”
Murdock looked at Jackson.
“Were you here for that one?”
“No,” Jackson
said. “I was stationed up in Alabama at the time. All I know is nobody was ever charged, not Carlos, not anyone. They never even had any suspects.”
“And Remy’s body was never found,” Derek said.
The statement seemed to halt the conversation. The two lawmen just stared at Derek. “Remy’s blood was everywhere,” Derek said. “But not his body.”
Part 3: 2001
Chapter 6
“Hi, I can’t answer the phone right now, leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
Suzanne Carlson disconnects the call. “Crap,” she says. “Where is he?”
Someone leans on a car horn. Suzanne glances in the rearview mirror then she looks at the traffic light, which now glows green.
“All right, all right, I’m going.”
She takes another look in the mirror, as her midnight blue BMW surges ahead, leaving a stretch of pavement between the two vehicles. A gift from her brother, David, the convertible glides up the coastal road under a clear California sky, a gentle breeze rolling in from the ocean. Normally on such a day, Suzanne would have the top down, taking in the salty sea air, but at the moment she has an expensive hair styling preserve.
Suzanne’s thoughts return to her brother’s unanswered call. She feels a pang of worry, the fact his answering machine picked up is unsettling. The limousine will be at his condo in less than an hour, David should be getting ready. At the very least, he should be home.
“He should be answering the darn phone,” Suzanne says. Then, trying to convince herself, she says, “Maybe he’s in the shower.”
She presses a little harder on the gas pedal.
After his second blockbuster, Suzanne became David’s unofficial personal assistant managing, among other things, her brother’s social calendar. Ordinarily, Suzanne did not mind having to jog David’s memory about important events but today was different. Today was big, and she was running late.
Suzanne sets her turn signal and waits for the on-coming traffic to pass. Spinning the steering wheel, she pulls into the entrance of the Pacific View condominiums. An exclusive complex, Pacific View caters to the wealthy and influential. Each of the glass and steel buildings stretch eight stories, while the large, private balconies offer spectacular views.
Like a lazy river, closely cropped, lush green grass meanders beneath the young palm trees. Although Suzanne is no stranger to luxury, she never really felt comfortable at Pacific View. Inexplicably, Suzanne always feels ill at ease, even wary, whenever she spends time here.
“Hi Andrew,” Suzanne says to the guard, showing her resident’s pass.
David had insisted that Suzanne be treated like a tenant, so he had twisted management’s arm to get her a resident’s ID card. And even though Suzanne comes here regularly, security is strict; everyone has to show identification or have a resident confirm their visit before a guard allows entry.
“Good morning, Ms. Carlson,” Andrew says, touching the visor of his cap. Then he opens the spiked, iron gate.
“Oh, stop, already,” she says, a friendly smile on her face. “Call me Suzanne.”
Another measure of management protocol requires employees to address tenants or guests formally.
“Yes, Ms. Carlson,” he says, brusquely, nodding his head.
Suzanne hooks her sunglasses with an index finger, pulling them down so she can peer over the top. “Sorry, Andrew,” she says. “I’m just having fun with you.”
Relaxing a bit, Andrew forces a contrived expression, something between a smile and discomfort. “I understand, Ms. Carlson.”
Poor guy, Suzanne thinks as she pushes her sunglasses back into place. Life is too short.
Suzanne waves, says, “Thanks. Bye.”
“Good day, Ms. Carlson.”
A pretty, thirty-something with shocking green eyes and light brown hair, Suzanne is five foot seven in heels and has an alluring figure. Her smile can equally disarm or set you on edge, depending upon how she chooses to use it.
Suzanne drives into the underground garage. Red brake lights splash across the wall behind the BMW as she pulls into her parking spot. The car door opens and two silky legs swing out, planting a pair of white Reeboks on the cement. She goes around to the passenger’s side, retrieves her dress, and heads toward the elevator.
As she waits for the elevator, Suzanne’s thoughts turn, once again, to her brother. Perhaps David has started a new project, which could easily explain why he had not answered the phone. The doors slide open, Suzanne sighs, steps in and says, “I hope it’s not that.”
“You hope it’s not….what?” A man says.
Startled, Suzanne turns to look at him. Entering the elevator she had not noticed the man. It is as though he appeared by magic.
“You surprised me,” Suzanne says. “Were you waiting for the elevator, too?”
“I am sorry,” he says. Contrary to his appearance, his voice is sophisticated, refined. He shakes his head and points toward the ceiling. “No, I was going up already.”
“I didn’t see you. I must be going blind.”
A smile traces across the man’s face. “I doubt it. You seem a bit preoccupied.”
Suzanne nods. “Yes, I am. I have a lot on my mind.”
Why, on earth, was she saying these things, yammering on to a complete stranger?
“I understand,” he says, reaching to press the six button on the elevator control panel.
An odd feeling sweeps through Suzanne. His tone of voice suggests he really does understand. It is as though this man has intuited her thoughts. Suzanne stares at the stranger. There is something attractive about him. Dark, wild hair, and that angular, unshaven face; there is something reckless about him. This man reminds Suzanne of an untamed midnight wind.
“Are you all right?” He says.
Suzanne blinks hard, just now aware that she is staring.
“Um, yeah, I’m okay.” She looks away. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.” Suzanne reaches to press the floor button and realizes, not only is the sixth floor queued up, they are already moving.
“I don’t mind,” he says. “It’s not often that I am so closely examined by such a stunning woman.”
Suzanne makes a face. She is not interested in slick pick-up lines. Still that accent… What is it? Irish, British?
“Cute,” she says. “Now I suppose----?”
“No, I do not want your phone number. And, no, I’m not trying to get you into bed. But I did find your momentary fascination quite flattering.”
“Well, I...” Suzanne fumbles, unconsciously still trying to identify his accent. “I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.”
Australian. That’s it. He has an Australian accent.
“I didn’t feel that you were,” he says. “And I certainly did not mean to imply that I had any designs on you.”
Suzanne starts to speak but the elevator chime cuts her short, signaling their arrival to the sixth floor. The doors open and the man passes his hand into the opening, prompting Suzanne to exit first. Suzanne pauses, looks at him, letting a gentle smile glide onto her face.
“Thank you,” Suzanne says, stepping out of the elevator.
“Don’t mention it. Which way are you going?”
Suzanne points. “That way. You?”
“The same.”
Together, they make their way through a wide hallway marked by occasional prints, nineteen fifties-style sconce lighting, random pseudo Art Deco artifacts, and, of all things, potted fig trees. There is no mistaking the age of the building; it is new but the halls smell musty, maybe even old. A scent obviously left by the cleaning crew, not the passage of time.
“This is me,” Suzanne says, stopping at David’s door.
“Oh yes, here we are. Say hi to David for me.”
Suzanne frowns. “You know David?” Her inflection suggests apprehension.
The man shrugs. It is an easy, unpretentious move and it chases away Suzanne’s unsettled feelings. “No, not really,” he says. �
�I see him at the health club once in a while, sometimes we talk.” The man shrugs again. “That’s about it. Give him my regards.”
Suzanne hangs her dress on the doorknob, reaches into her purse for the key. “I will.” She turns back and says, “Hey, what’s your… name?”
But he is gone.
Suzanne makes a face. Where’d he go?
“Oh well,” she says, turning back to the door. “Another one gets away.”
She hesitates, looks once more, hoping to see the stranger. Unlocking the door, Suzanne twists the knob, and starts to push the door open then thinks better of it. Maybe David has company. That would explain why he hadn’t answered the phone. Suzanne lifts the knocker and raps sharply.
No answer. She knocks again, still nothing.
“Okay,” Suzanne says under her breath, “if you’re home, I hope you are alone.”
With that, she unhooks her dress from the knob and pushes the door open.
Suzanne looks around then calls out, “David? Hey, are you here?”
But there is no response and Suzanne feels a swell of panic rise in her stomach.
“Oh, for goodness sakes,” Suzanne says to herself. “The limo is going to be here in forty-five minutes and he’s not even home.”
Closing the door, Suzanne walks across the stone floor of the entryway and steps into the living room. It is obvious David is not here, but she stops and looks around, the David’s place is a wreck. Unwashed dishes, clothes on the living room floor, miscellaneous crap everywhere. She shakes her head then walks toward David’s office. And there, crumpled in a heap in front of his computer, she finds him. David’s left arm is splayed out, the left side of his face pressed against the desk, and his naked body is wrapped, from the waist down, in a thin blanket. The computer’s screen saver flashes scenes from some inane movie.
