by Polly Iyer
The hours fluctuated between the two worlds of joy and misery without a clear idea of the time in between. The pain worsened, wrenching and twisting his insides. He doubled over.
He’d seen addicts go cold turkey, locked behind bars, sniffling and puking, crapping their pants. He’d heard their screams. That wouldn’t be him. I won’t give in, he thought as he burrowed back into bed.
I can do this. The pain will subside, I know it will.
But the pain didn’t go away; it got worse. He buried his head under the pillow, smothering his wails of agony. When he finally caught his breath, he didn’t care anymore. They had broken him. He knew, and so did they. He needed another shot. A little one. Enough to release the clenching and sweats. He’d handle the effects better the next time.
Traversing the small room to the door, he banged hard. No answer. He banged some more. “I need you. Now.”
He heard someone on the other side of the door, but no one came. He started to yell again, then decided he could hold out a little longer. That’s what he needed to do. One minute at a time. One hour. Two hours. He could do it.
Fuck you. I don’t need the damn shot.
The pain subsided. I’ll beat this yet.
Except the respite lasted a short time, and before long, Lucier felt like he’d descended into hell, with Satan himself twisting the organs inside his gut. He stumbled to the bathroom and retched.
* * * * *
The burner phone rang. He answered.
“Lucier banged on the door, but I did as you said and didn’t answer. Now he’s puking his guts out. What do you want me to do?”
“Let him feel the pain, then give him one good shot. Careful not to overdose him. He should be begging in a few minutes. Then leave. You’ve got other things to do, and I don’t want attention called to you. We’re stretching alibis now. You can’t cover for each other much longer. Give him the shot, then one of you can go back later when he’s crawling the walls and give him a final shot. That should do it. Then we’ll let him out.
“You’re the boss.”
“Don’t forget it.” He hung up.
Pacing the floor didn’t help the reservations he had about the Racine woman. Even with Lucier’s team keeping her on a short leash, she could be trouble. He hoped with Lucier’s release, she’d have her hands full. Hell, he knew she would. He’d seen drug withdrawal turn strong men into cowering infants. He doubted Lucier would be any different.
* * * * *
One hour. Lucier lasted one hour. Then one hour more. He’d gulped water from the bathroom faucet, but as soon as he swallowed, he threw up. Then the pain hit again.
He wouldn’t ask.
He knew better.
But knowing better didn’t keep him from calling out in a voice that sounded like sandpaper felt. “I need a shot. I need it. Give it to me.”
He went to the door and banged his fist on the wood. Spasms twisted his insides, sweat poured down his face and neck and back. He slunk to the floor, unable to stand any longer. The lock turned. The door opened, and the hand of the hooded man waved him back. Lucier crawled to the bed and thrust out his arm.
“Give me the goddamn shot, you son of a bitch. Give it to me.” He pulled back his arm and swung, missing his target. The man pushed him down on the bed and backed-walked toward the door. Then he slipped outside. The lock turned, confining Lucier once more to his own personal hell.
He staggered to the door. “No, you can’t go. I didn’t mean what I said. Get back here.” Sliding to his knees, he beat on the door. “I need the shot. Please.” Sobs burst from his throat. “Please.”
The door pushed back hard, shoving Lucier onto the floor. The hooded figure pointed to the bed. Lucier crawled over. The man held the syringe, emitting a deep, throaty snigger. In a moment of lucidity, Lucier knew this evil shrouded man enjoyed his moment of triumph. Lucier didn’t care. He cared only about the shot. He’d beg if he had to.
He thrust out his track-marked arm. “I’ll do anything you want, just give it to me.”
The man motioned for Lucier to get down on his knees. Like a trained dog, he did. His muscles twitched and cramped, his breathing accelerated into gasps. He couldn’t stand it another minute and grabbed for the syringe, receiving a kick in the gut for his stupidity. He doubled over, clutching his middle. The man pushed on his shoulder, and he fell forward.
“Please,” he pleaded. Raising his gaze to meet the dark, hollow eyes inside the hood, he whimpered, “Please.”
The man gestured to Lucier to get up, but drained of energy, rising took every bit of strength he had left. He managed to drag himself onto the cot.
He stared into his captor’s eyes, familiar eyes, as the hooded figure swiped a cotton ball over Lucier’s vein and plunged the drug into arm. Nothing compared to the feeling that filled his body, a feeling worth the pain he’d felt only moments before.
Chapter Forty-Four
One Down, Maybe
The next morning after the captain okayed his next move, Cash drove to Headquarters to meet with Rudy Hodge, without calling first. He poked his head in Hodge’s cubicle, but it was empty. “Any idea where Hodge is?” he asked one of the other techs.
“Across the street grabbing a burger. At least that’s what he said.”
Hmm, strange response. “Why would you doubt him?”
“Dunno. He’s been in and out all week. An hour here, a couple hours there. Been wondering if he’s moonlighting another job.”
“You got a question for me?”
Cash swiveled to see Hodge.
“Detective Willy Cash.” Cash offered his hand.
“I know who you are.”
O-kay. We’ll do it your way. “I’m investigating the recent murders of Keys Moran and Dennis Chenault.”
“And you’re interrogating me, why?”
“This isn’t an interrogation. Just a few questions. However, if you have a problem with that, you can contact Captain Jack Craven. Or I can make this discussion official and request your presence at the district.” Cash stared Hodge down. “Your choice.”
Hodge sputtered something under his breath. He placed his carryout drink on his desk and took his seat, gesturing Cash to the other chair.
“Where were you at three o’clock Wednesday afternoon?”
Hodge reached for a notebook, flipped through a few pages. “Right here working on a surveillance system from a convenience store robbery. Robber shot at the device, but I managed to restore enough to get a picture of the guy. You can check with my boss.”
“What about the next morning, around ten.”
The tech checked his notebook again, looked up. “What am I supposed to need an alibi for?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I have a right to know what I’m being accused of.”
“You’re not being accused of anything.”
Hodge huffed. “I came in around eleven because I worked late the night before. What’s this about? First I was questioned about the hard drive in the Moran case, now it seems I’m on a list for something else. Just because I played cards with Moran and Chenault doesn’t make me an automatic suspect in their murders. A bunch of us played cards together.”
“And four of them are dead.”
“Look, I don’t know what they were into, but I have nothing to do with their murders. Those guys were my friends. Denny and I were like brothers. Friends don’t kill friends.”
“Unless friends are about to implicate friends in other murders.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mathieu Soulé and Henry Winstead, for starters. Then there are a couple of judges, a baby murderer, a ―”
“You’re crazy.” Hodge’s face reddened; his lip curled in an ugly sneer. “Why would any of us jeopardize our lives for a bunch of slugs. That doesn’t make sense.”
“Justice, retribution, revenge.”
“Ha. Taking that on would be a full-time job, because justice is
flawed. Every cop knows that. But I have a full-time job, which you’re keeping me from doing.”
“Your co-worker says you’ve been in and out of the office. Mind telling me where you were yesterday?”
“I sometimes go to the scenes of a crime to work on the technical stuff. I don’t have to report every move I make.” He stared at Cash. “Maybe I should consult with my representative before answering any more questions.”
“If you feel counsel is necessary, I’ll make this a formal request.” Cash closed his notebook and headed for the door.
“Wait.” Hodge waved him back to his cubicle.
Cash turned around.
“I’ve been seeing someone,” Hodge said. “She’s married, and so am I. We’ve been sneaking around.”
Opening his notebook, Cash said, “Name?”
“She’s a cop, and her husband’s a cop.”
Cash didn’t blink. “Name?”
“Denise Garcia.”
Cash froze for a split second. Tommy Garcia was in his district, and Denise was in Commander Goizueta’s. Cash had always thought of them as a great couple. He gathered his composure and wrote down her name. “I’ll have to check on that, you understand?”
Hodge nodded. “Can you check without involving Tommy?”
“I’ll do my best. Thanks for your cooperation.” Yeah, right. “Oh, by the way, did you know Chenault was a switch hitter?”
Hodge flinched but straightened quickly. “I knew he was bi, but I didn’t know anything about who he spent his off-time with, men or women. Frankly, that was none of my business, and I really didn’t care to find out.”
Cash nodded. “Thanks.” He left Headquarters wondering how pervasive this group of vigilantes was. Could half of New Orleans’ cops be involved without the lieutenant or the team knowing, or was Hodge telling the truth?
* * * * *
By the time Cash returned to the district, Beecher had commandeered Lucier’s office for their meeting and had a thermos of coffee on the side table. Though he still wasn’t a hundred percent, Beecher was back on lead. Cash and Halloran each poured themselves coffee and took seats around the desk.
“Glad you’re back, Sam,” Cash said.
“Adele’s mad because I’m not home in bed,” Beecher said, tucking his shirt into slightly looser pants. “I explained that finding the lieutenant was more important right now, but she said I wouldn’t be of use to anyone if I had a heart attack. That damn doctor has her all worried I’m gonna croak if I don’t lose weight.”
“You should listen to him, Sam,” Halloran said. “It won’t hurt you to lose a few pounds.”
“That’s easy for you to say. I hate scrawny people like you. You eat whatever you want and don’t gain a pound.”
“It’s your body,” Cash said. “If you want to overeat, that’s your right, but I agree with Mickey. The four food groups aren’t carbohydrates, grease, cream, and beer. But like I said, your choice.”
“Hrmph,” Beecher snarled. “Thanks for your support. Now, can we get back to the business of finding the lieutenant?”
“What makes you think he’s still alive?” Halloran asked.
Beecher sighed. “I’m not sure he is, but why would they drug him if they wanted to kill him? They’ve had no problem killing the others.”
“So if he’s found with tracks up his arm, the ME will say he overdosed, that’s why,” Cash said. “Damn.”
“This is the lieutenant we’re talking about,” Halloran said. “There isn’t a straighter cop on the force, and everyone knows it. Cothran would find something to prove he was murdered.”
“Hey, let’s stop talking like Ernie’s already dead,” Beecher said. “We have suspects. I don’t care if we have to waterboard one of them to get him to talk. You hear? I. Don’t. Care.”
Cash felt Beecher’s frustration. Being the new kid on the team, he didn’t have the history that Beecher and the lieutenant had developed over the years. They were friends outside of work, and Cash knew how difficult that had to be when one friend is the other friend’s boss. Lucier made the situation work because he was a team player and never showed his ego.
“I took a trip to Headquarters to see Hodge. He wasn’t particularly friendly.” He proceeded to recount his visit. “On the way back, I tracked down Denise Garcia. She confirmed Hodge’s alibi and begged me not to make her relationship with him public. I was very clear that if she was lying, she could be considered an accessory to murder. She didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, or at least she acted that way.”
“So Hodge is either telling the truth,” Halloran said, “or she’s involved.”
“If she’s involved, that makes her husband suspect too.” Beecher pinched his chin. “Don’tcha think?”
“Not necessarily,” Cash said. “But if he’s involved, this is a lot bigger than we originally thought.”
“How can this have gone on without any of us hearing? Someone always finds stuff out.”
“And Jake Griffin would be all over it.”
“Enough,” Beecher snapped. “We can play this guessing game all day. We’re wasting time we could use to find Ernie. Who’s next? We got Chris Michel and Dave Rickett.”
“Rickett took a burglary call at eight this morning,” Halloran said. “I questioned an Officer Howard, and he said Rickett left after he took down the information and talked to the owner of the store. Howard couldn’t say for sure what time that was because he got another call. Rickett filed the paperwork, but no one’s seen him since. Michel had an early call, took a fifteen-minute lunch, and had a deposition this afternoon. He was at the courthouse for two hours.”
Beecher slurped his coffee and frowned. “Yuk. Cold.” He poured a fresh cup. “Still a lot of leeway with both of them. Let’s get Rickett in here. Don’t tell him why.”
“Oh, like he won’t guess,” Cash said. “According to Hodge, the whole force knows we’re concentrating on the card-playing buddies for the murders of Chenault, Alba, and Moran.”
Beecher stood up and slapped the desk. “Let them think whatever the hell they want. I hope they’re all worried. We got a gangbanger, a drunk driver, two judges, and a few other slugs dead, five cops, including three of ours. And according to Diana, Ernie Lucier is somewhere getting shot up with drugs. You think I give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks right now? I want Rickett.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Unexpected Visitor
Lucier lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. After a shot, he could conquer the world, but only in his head. His most productive time, when he had the most strength and clarity, was after the high and before the pain hit, a timeframe that diminished as the hours passed. That’s when he searched for a way out, always unsuccessfully. The windows had iron bars, and the door had no knob on the inside.
Shots seemed stronger, times closer, until they stopped. Then the pain was worse. Now the churning, twisting agony had started. He listened at the door, heard nothing. Were they leaving him here to die? He wouldn’t call this time, wouldn’t beg. If others have gone cold turkey and survived, he damn sure could.
Sweat sprouted from his pores, and a chill quaked through his body until his teeth chattered.
I will do this.
He clutched at his stomach and staggered to the bed. Drawing his knees up, he curled into a fetal ball, sweating and freezing at the same time, his nose dripping like a faucet. He pulled the blanket up over his head and descended into the depths of despair.
He awakened a few times and stumbled to the bathroom to puke, then he crawled back into bed to drift in an out of consciousness.
When the door opened, he couldn’t even react. He was going to get another shot, and he didn’t care. He was doomed either way; he might as well enjoy the ride to hell.
The three men nearing the bed weren’t wearing hoods. No, there weren’t three men. He was seeing triple. He squinted and focused until the three shapes morphed into one. Though familiar, Lucier couldn’
t place him. The man bent down and lifted Lucier’s weakened body to a sitting position.
“I’ve come to get you out of here, Lieutenant.”
Though confused, Lucier managed to say, “I know you.”
“Yes, sir. We need to hurry before one of them gets back.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Ernie’s Voice
Diana hadn’t slept, barely eaten. She sat in her room most of the day, staring at Lucier’s shirt, picking it up, Receiving nothing from its touch. She knew deep down he was hurting. Felt his pain in every cell of her body. In a bizarre contradiction, she hoped he was, because that meant he wasn’t dead. She could handle anything as long as he was alive.
Hang in there, Ernie. Whatever you’re going through, I’ll be with you.
She held his shirt close to her heart. She didn’t see anything specific, no image of the man she loved. Yet she remembered a moment when she was a girl and a ferocious hurricane swept through the city where she and her parents were staying. The storm passed, sparkling rays of sun broke through the dark clouds, and a feeling of tranquility replaced the panic that only moments before had left her trembling.
Something had happened. Lucier was safe. She didn’t know what or how or where. She just knew.
Her cell vibrated, and she answered.
“Ms. Racine. I have Lieutenant Lucier. You need to leave your house out the back door. You cannot tell your guard. Take a right to the end of your street. Go left and walk two blocks. Wait there.”
Diana laughed. “This is a joke, right?”
“No. This is no joke. “
Something in the man’s voice rang true, though she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why. Then she realized no one else knew Lucier had been abducted from the house. “Who are you?”
“Don’t ask any questions. Just do what I say.”
“You’ve got to be crazy if you think I’m going to walk into a trap so you can drug me too.”
