by Polly Iyer
“Two people called in that they heard a shot. Front door was locked from the inside. Shooter went out through the sliding glass door in back. He must have parked in the back lot or on an adjoining street. No one saw anything.”
“How can this guy keep shooting people and getting away clean,” Beecher said. “He must be a phantom.”
“No forced entry either,” the crime tech said. “Michel knew his killer if he felt comfortable enough to sit down to finish his breakfast.”
“Cereal killer,” Beecher said.
Everyone stopped to stare at him.
With a shocked expression, Patel said, “Detective. Have some empathy. A cop’s dead. This isn’t the time for jokes.”
Beecher summoned his most apologetic tone. “Sorry. Bad cop humor.”
Patel frowned. “Indeed.”
Beecher glanced at Cash, who shook his head, then turned to survey the room. “What time did the neighbor call in the shot?” Beecher asked.
“Breakfast time,” Patel said, his face flushing.
Beecher snickered. “Touché.”
“Could it be the same shooter?” Cash whispered.
“If so, he got Michel first, wouldn’t you say?”
“Or we could have two shooters. I wish the lieutenant was around. He’d be able to figure this out.”
Beecher led Cash away so he wouldn’t be overheard. “Maybe he’s better today and we can see him. I’ll ask Rickett when I talk to him next.” He turned back to Patel. “Send the report to Lieutenant Lucier’s office, Doc.”
“He back?” Patel said.
“Soon.”
“Hell of a time to take a vacation.”
“He’s recuperating,” Beecher said, annoyed. “He was shot, you know.” As much as he wanted to set Patel straight, he bit his tongue. He didn’t want Lucier’s situation known throughout New Orleans. His boss had enough problems.
“Who said the lieutenant was on vacation?” Cash asked.
“Craven. Guess he couldn’t think of anything else to explain where Lucier was. Let’s go back to the district and see what we’ve got.”
“Yeah, because there’s something I want to check that’s been eating at me all morning.”
“What?”
“I’d rather not say right now. I could be wrong.”
Cash was a smart kid, Beecher thought, often picking up on things the rest of the team missed. He was careful in his judgments too. A break in the case is what they needed.
Beecher’s thoughts flashed to Lucier and to what he must be going through. He’d seen drug withdrawal firsthand when his brother got hooked on painkillers after an industrial accident. Heroin was much worse. If any person in the world didn’t deserve that hell, it was Ernie Lucier.
* * * * *
He studied Dave Rickett’s file on the computer’s NOPD’s database and saw nothing about him completing the usual requirements to work in a different state. No retraining or certification listed either. In fact, there wasn’t much about him at all. How the hell ―?
The way Rickett had insinuated himself into the card-playing group, cozying up to Chenault, had piqued his curiosity at the time. But with more important matters on his mind, he’d forgotten about him.
He slammed his hand down on his desk. How could he have taken so long to figure this out? His file said Rickett came here from Virginia. Yeah, right. More like Quantico. Someone had to know. Who? Authorization could come only from the superintendent or someone higher up. The state’s attorney general, perhaps.
Rickett had transferred in months before. Why? Had they discovered something fishy about the murders or was there another reason? Were they onto him? One of the others? If so, what had tipped them off? The deaths of two judges? One judge okay, but murdering two was dumb.
Was he off base, jumping to conclusions? He didn’t think so.
Rickett had to be the one who rescued Lucier.
Who did he follow? Michel? Hodge? Didn’t matter now. Neither one would talk.
He massaged his temples and thought about his life here, his family. The feds and Lucier’s team hadn’t found him out yet or he’d be behind bars. The walls were closing in every day, every minute.
He’d developed two escape plans, never believing he’d need either. He could chance disappearing, leaving everything, or get caught and spend the rest of his life in prison. Either way, his family would be destroyed, humiliated. His kids scarred forever. He’d written it all down for them to understand why he’d done what he’d done. Maybe they’d understand. The second plan fulfills a promise.
He reached into his back waistband to retrieve the burner phone and hit number one.
“Can’t talk now,” the voice said. “I’m really busy.”
“Tough. Get unbusy.” He explained about Rickett.
“Rickett? That racist asshole? Are you sure?”
“Almost positive. If Lucier cleans up, he could be trouble. He’s a bulldog, and he has reason now to dig in. He won’t quit until he has me.”
“With the blend of dope those boys shot into him, he’s lucky if he remembers his name, never mind anyone he could identify. Hodge said he was in la-la land the whole time, barely put up resistance. The woman, though. I don’t trust her. Do you know where Lucier is?”
“No, but I will. Two can play the same game. That’s where you come in.”
“What do you mean?”
“I need you to follow Rickett. I thought I’d be able to, but I can’t leave here without churning up suspicion. I’ve been gone too much already, and time is crucial. I don’t want to take Rickett out, I just want to know where he goes. He’s hiding Lucier and Racine, and they have to be stopped.”
“You’re not the only one who’s been in and out.”
“Yeah, but no one’s looking at you. Every cop in New Orleans is under suspicion now.”
“Make sure no one’s looking at me, understand?”
“Just follow Rickett and our problems will be over.”
“Or our problems will be just beginning. Where can I find him?”
“He’s at his district. He should be getting off in an hour.”
“If Rickett isn’t the babysitter, who’s watching Lucier?”
“Don’t know.”
“Okay, but if Rickett’s a fed he’ll be watching for a tail.”
“Then don’t let him see you. Let me know where. I’ll take care of the rest.” He hung up and pulled his collar away from his neck. He could almost feel the noose tightening. He didn’t care about Rickett other than as a source to Lucier and Diana Racine. He sure didn’t need the death of a fed on his head. They’d never stop then.
He hated to kill Lucier. An anonymous note to Jake Griffin, and everyone would know Lucier had been hooked on drugs. Jake would make sure. No cop kept his job after that. But Diana Racine would always be a threat. One touch could put me in prison for life. Taking her out meant taking out Lucier. They were a package deal.
No matter how long he lived, he could never finish the task. Injustice was an everyday event. They’d done the best they could. If not for the Racine woman, they would have continued their mission to speak for the victims. Evildoers couldn’t destroy lives and walk away scot-free. Where was the justice for those left behind? Where was the justice for his little girl?
Chapter Fifty-Six
Different Agendas
Lucier sat at the kitchen table, more relaxed than he’d been for days, but still unable to eat the soup Walt had prepared. The smell alone made his stomach knot. Diana watched hopefully.
“I can’t eat it,” he said.
Diana slid the bowl away from him. “Then don’t force yourself.
“The nausea will pass, I promise,” Walt said. His phone chirped, and he listened. “Okay. Opening now.” He got up. “Rickett’s at the door. He’ll stay with you for a couple of hours.”
“You really think we need a babysitter here?” Lucier asked. “This is a safe house.”
“A s
afe house is safe only if no one knows about it. Rickett doesn’t want to take a chance. Not until we have the head honcho locked up. You and especially Diana are still threats.”
He left the room and returned, followed by Rickett carrying a bag reeking of grease. Lucier thought he might lose his cookies right then.
“Sorry I’m late,” Rickett said. “I thought I had a tail.”
Lucier swallowed down the bile and asked, “Are you sure?”
“No, but I drove all over hell and back until I was clear.”
“Did you recognize the car?” Walt asked.
“Dark sedan. Could’ve been a cop, but I’d expect better than a sloppy tail from the NOPD.”
“Be careful,” Walt said. “If they’ve made you, you’re a target. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” He nodded to everyone in the room, settled on Lucier. “You okay?”
Lucier nodded. “Sorry about the soup.”
“Heat the bowl in the microwave when you feel like eating. Or don’t. See you all later.”
Rickett plunked the bag on the table. “I brought me and Diana a burger.”
Diana took the bag. “Sorry if this is insensitive, darling, but I’m starved.”
“Feel free. I’ve cut my bathroom breaks in half since yesterday.”
“Nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” Rickett said.
“That was a fact, not humor.”
“I’ll eat later,” Diana said.
“Don’t be silly. You need to eat.” Lucier looked at the sack of food. “I’ll sit in the living room for a while.” Standing, he waved them on. “Never thought I’d turn down onion rings, but this too shall pass. Go on and eat.”
He picked up a magazine, knowing he wouldn’t be able to concentrate. The smell of the food hung in the air like a toxic poison. In the back of his mind, the craving for a hit of heroin still lingered, and he hated that one part of him still wanted the jolt. He remembered the burning up his arm when the hooded man injected him the first time, the explosion of ecstasy when the drug hit the brain. He never had the strength to fight the man off in the beginning. Then he didn’t want to.
How could he ever explain his weakness to Diana? Diana, who was seeing a side of him even he didn’t know existed. Intellectually, he understood the one shot that would ease his pain would also take him down that dark hole again, and he’d be forced to repeat what he was going through now.
No, never again. Never.
He was almost through this nightmare. A light shone at the end of that dark tunnel, and that was a positive thing, wasn’t it? Still, he couldn’t erase the fact that he wanted the damn shot.
As if some great god of punishment heard his innermost thoughts, a wave of nausea hit like a tsunami, and he shot into the bathroom.
* * * * *
Cash took the afternoon off to work at his home computer, aware the networked laptop he used at the district would leave a trail to his research. He never found reasons for the deceased cops to participate in the spate of revenge murders, other than Chenault. This time he’d dig and dig deep.
He wasn’t an expert hacker, but he could crack easier sites. Newspapers weren’t difficult. Most information was there to find. And he did. Baton Rouge, twenty years before. Another case where a drunk driver destroyed a family and got off. But not for long.
How easy it must have been for the cop to lure a drunk to his death. Only fitting, since the drunk had ruined his life. After his marriage failed, he’d moved to New Orleans, remarried, and moved up the ranks quickly ― a man with a mission. As time passed, had he carefully enlisted others? Cash’s head reeled.
No matter how much you think you know someone, you don’t. How had he kept his former life so secret?
Cash still had no definitive proof. The law said innocent until proven guilty. Time to dig deeper still before he announced what he’d found and what he suspected.
* * * * *
The vibration of his burner cell tingled his back. He glanced at his office door to make sure it was closed, then answered the phone.
“Let me tell you, following a federal agent who doesn’t want to be followed isn’t easy.”
“Did you find the location or didn’t you?”
“Let me phrase this another way. No. Either he made me or he’s the most cautious man on earth, because he dragged me halfway around the city, down side streets, over bridges, into areas where a tail was obvious. I quit before he trapped me. If you want his destination, you’re gonna have to follow him yourself. Believe me, I want Diana Racine dead. She’s the biggest threat we have for long, healthy lives. If we’re about to be exposed, you know what you have to do. I can’t go to prison. I won’t. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I understand.”
“We made a deal.”
The call disconnected.
Yes we did. He sighed, long and deep and wearily. Life was much simpler when there was just the two of them, correcting one bad judgment at a time. Adding Chenault and Hodge hadn’t been a mistake. They were good at what they did and for all the right reasons. Alba was their downfall. Without him, Chenault would still be alive, and that moron couldn’t have sent the picture of Soulé for Diana Racine to see.
What was the old adage about hindsight being twenty-twenty?
This was the point of no return. Following Rickett was risky. He’d be watching for a tail, especially if he made the first one.
He rested his head in his hands, his well-honed instincts telling him he might not have the time. Or, he could walk out of the office and disappear. His passport was in his desk drawer, go-money in cash. He’d cross the border at Matamoros, an eleven-hour drive, and melt into the mass of humanity before anyone even knew he was gone. Maybe one day he could send for his family, though he doubted they’d want anything to do with him once they learned what he’d done.
A wave of sadness descended on him. He’d never again see his wife or kids or his little girl. She wouldn’t know the difference, but he would. She’d be well cared for. He’d seen to that.
But why should he give up anything? He’d done the world a favor by removing the garbage. All he needed was damage control. He hadn’t risen to his present position by being stupid.
There had to be another way. Then an idea came to him. Lucier’s abduction hadn’t leaked. Hell, he wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t been involved. Rickett and Lucier’s team had kept what was happening as tight an undercover project as he’d ever seen. Even the leaker, whoever the hell he or she was, didn’t know squat or Jake Gibbons would have plastered Lucier’s picture all over the front page of the Picayune, exposing the drug-addicted cop.
So how deep was the FBI’s cover? Had Rickett, or whatever his real name was, consulted with the local field office about his assignment and about Lucier, or would that have been too risky? One way to find out.
He dialed Ralph Stallings, the FBI’s local agent in charge. If anyone knew of a safe house in the area, he’d be the guy. After two secretaries, the Bureau chief came on the line.
“Ralph, Jack Craven here.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Coincidence?
After eating the delicious burger and brushing her teeth, Diana joined Lucier in the living room. She couldn’t tell if he was resting or sleeping in the recliner. A magazine lay spread open on his lap, his eyes were closed and his breathing steady, but his fingers pressed tensely into the arms of the chair. Before this ordeal, she marveled at how unlined his face was for a man in his early forties and credited his darker complexion for warding off the creases that affected lighter skin types like hers. Not today. Today he appeared to have aged ten years. Lines cut like parentheses around his mouth, and never-before bags puffed under his eyes. Her heart broke for him, and at that moment she loved him even more than she thought she could love anyone.
He opened his eyes and studied her. “I’m awake. Just resting. How was the burger?”
“Terrible. You’d have hated it.”
He laughed and waved her over. “Come here.”
She gingerly climbed onto his lap, needing the comfort of his touch as much as he needed hers. “We’re going to get this bastard, aren’t we?”
His arms tightened around her. “We are. I guaran-damn-tee it.”
* * * * *
Cash checked and rechecked his findings. He now believed he’d found the truth. It was all there in black and white, and he was sick to his stomach.
He went back to the district to inform the rest of the team, closing the door of Lucier’s office to show Beecher and Halloran what he’d found. “Remember when the ME said Captain Craven visited a daughter in a hospital somewhere near Hodge’s house?”
“Yeah, I thought it was strange I didn’t know that,” Beecher said. “I’d been so distracted, I’d forgotten.”
“Well, listen. This accident happened in Baton Rouge nineteen years ago,” Cash said, jabbing his finger on the screen of the computer. “This is the original newspaper report of the accident. Craven’s first wife was driving. Apparently, she didn’t secure the latch on the car seat harness properly, and the four-year old was thrown from the seat, resulting in severe brain damage. The wife walked away from the crash, but soon after, she filed for divorce. Craven got sole custody of the daughter.”
“Sounds like she didn’t want to take care of the kid,” Beecher said.
“You don’t know that,” Halloran said. “Don’t make assumptions. Maybe he blamed her and she couldn’t take the accusations anymore. Maybe she blamed herself. Guilt is powerfully destructive.”
“Hmm,” Beecher said. “Maybe.”
“Anyway, Craven moved here and put the girl in St. Catherine’s Living Center, a full-care facility in Metairie, about fifteen minutes from Hodge’s house. Craven’s since remarried, had a couple more kids, and worked his way up the ladder to captain, and that’s where the story ends.”
