Polly Iyer - Diana Racine 03 - Backlash

by Polly Iyer

  Beecher bit off a piece of fingernail. “Like I said, I never knew about the daughter, and I doubt anyone else did either. Maybe Ernie.”

  “Craven’s private,” Halloran said, “and he doesn’t get involved in the lives of his men. I always respected that about him.”

  “Me too,” Beecher said.

  Halloran parked himself on the corner of the desk. “I hate to be a naysayer, but what you’ve found is all circumstantial. The only real connection to Craven is the death of the drunk who rammed into his wife’s car. I’m not saying this isn’t the smoking gun, but we’d need more to go to the commander.”

  “What about the judge who let the drunk off with a slap on the wrist?” Beecher said. “Says here, the following year he was mugged and dumped into one of the bayous? Come on. That might be circumstantial, but it’s more than coincidental, don’tcha think?”

  Halloran nodded.

  “If Craven’s our man,” Cash said, “he’ll do anything to kill Diana. If she ever got near enough to touch him, and he passes his evil ― Jeez, we’d better make sure she doesn’t.”

  “Which is why Rickett has her safely with the lieutenant under guard,” Halloran said.

  Beecher stood up. “I wanna run this by Ernie. He’s got to be feeling better by now. After the ordeal he’s been through, he should be in on the arrest. He won’t believe Craven’s our guy.”

  “Me either,” Halloran said. “I’m stunned. My faith in humanity will never be the same.”

  “In the meantime, Craven could kill someone else,” Cash said. “We have to move forward with the captain as our chief suspect.”

  “What about Denise Garcia?” Halloran asked. “What if she’s involved? And her husband? Craven could have her on his to-do list.”

  “I don’t want to bring her in here. Not if Willy’s right about the captain. We’d be signing her death warrant. There’s been enough killing.”

  “I’ll track her down,” Cash said. “She might have been Hodge’s alibi for real, or she might be part of the revenge group covering for him.”

  “Just be careful not to let anything leak,” Beecher said. “Tell her we’re following up on old leads. Lay on that boyish charm if you have to.”

  “Yeah, the kind that doesn’t get me any girlfriends,” Cash said.

  “What if the captain asks how we’re doing on the investigation?” Halloran asked.

  “Say we’re getting nowhere fast,” Beecher said. “Say anything, just sound like you don’t know what you know. I’m gonna call Rickett. He should know what you found, Willy. The safe house is his, and one of his friends is helping Ernie. He’s the one making sure Diana’s safe too. Plus, I want to see the lieutenant. Maybe he’s feeling better.”

  “You think Rickett’ll let you?”

  “Dunno. I’m gonna try to convince him.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Halloran asked.

  “Check with Michel’s neighbors to pinpoint the time they heard the shot. Could a single shooter have taken out both victims? If not, we have two shooters. The superintendent is Rickett’s liaison. When we take this to him, I want all our i’s dotted and our t’s crossed.”

  “Right.”

  “This is coming to a close,” Beecher said.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  If Only

  Craven watched the non-descript one-story house from a block away. His ruse of possibly needing a safe place for an informant before a murder trial had worked. If Lucier and Racine were in the house, Stallings didn’t know. Just like the feds not to let one hand know what the other was doing.

  What did that mean? Rickett had been on the New Orleans force for three months, which meant his cover was deep.

  Craven had to make sure they were actually in there. Seeing a car parked in the driveway lifted his hopes. It wasn’t a New Orleans police car. He should have checked out Rickett’s personal ride. If the fed was inside, he’d have to leave sooner or later to go to work. That meant someone else would take over. Probably someone to help Lucier through withdrawal.

  He couldn’t stay either. He’d been out of his office more than usual, and if Lucier’s team suspected him, his absence would add to their suspicion.

  Halloran, an old by-the-book cop, was a few years from retirement. Beecher was a good detective, steady without being flashy, but he rarely thought outside the box. The kid, Cash, was the one he worried about. Smart and efficient, dogged like Lucier but with technical talents older cops hadn’t honed. If he was digging, he’d eventually find out about MaryAnn. Without Lucier, the others wouldn’t pursue different tacks, but Cash would. He was capable of adding more than two plus two; he was skilled in higher mathematics.

  A car driving into the driveway caught his attention. A stocky man got out. Cell to his ear, he walked to the door. Craven saw a quick flash of Rickett when it opened, confirming what he’d suspected. A few minutes later, Rickett left. As soon as he was out of sight, Craven also left. He’d come back later to take care of business.

  He called his office. “Anyone looking for me, Lissie?”

  “No, sir. All’s quiet.

  “I have one more stop to make.”

  “Okey-doke.”

  “Call if you need me.”

  Craven barely noticed anything on his drive across town, his thoughts deep in Baton Rouge and his baby girl. He’d been so full of hope, so wanting to be the best cop ever. Things didn’t work out quite the way he’d planned. Though his second wife knew, he’d never spoken of MaryAnn to anyone else, never spoken of the tragedy that colored the way he thought about life.

  He pulled into the parking lot of St. Catherine’s Living Center, the best place near enough for him to visit. They’d cared for MaryAnn for nineteen years. His nerves were shot, legs dragging as if burdened with hundred-pound weights. After pushing through the double doors, the coolness inside snapped him out of his reminiscences but did nothing to lift the despondency.

  “Nice day, isn’t it, sir?” the lady at the desk asked.

  A different woman sat at the desk today. Working here must take a toll on one’s disposition. He glanced at her nametag. “Yes, Barbara. Lovely day.”

  He approached the psychologist standing near the front desk. “How is she today, Doctor?”

  The woman smiled. “The same.”

  Their stiff back-and-forth exchange never varied no matter who he asked, the doctor or attendant or the janitor. ‘How is she today?’ ‘The same.’ Did he expect by some miracle she’d be normal? No, but it seemed right to ask.

  “She’s in there,” the doctor said, pointing to the recreation room.

  He smiled back and strode into the large room populated by the denizens of the facility, young, old, and in-between.

  He located MaryAnn immediately. Her long blonde hair set her apart from the others. He’d been so in love with the child from the moment of her birth. To look at her, one would never know she was incapable of anything more than incoherent noises. She possessed a childlike purity and was so beautiful she took his breath away.

  At twenty-three, she should be married with children of her own.

  Instead, she spent her days looking at picture books for babies or she slipped into a quiet world that had room only for her. She smiled at him, smiled at everyone, but she knew him only as the man who brought her candy and read her stories.

  He spoke the same words as always. “Hello, MaryAnn. I’m your daddy.”

  She peered into his eyes with such innocence, as if trying to understand what he was saying. Big blue eyes with long lashes. Every time she looked at him, his rage surfaced until he thought he would burst. Then he pictured every man he’d killed, every picture of the men the others killed ― because he made them photograph the bodies ― and the rage changed into a perverse contentment. He regretted killing none of the guilty, and every visit reinforced why he had.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Are you okay?” the doctor asked.

  S
tartled from his reverie, he nodded. Tears fell onto his cheeks. Though the accident had happened nineteen years ago, Craven had never been able to put the incident behind him. Rather than bury the pain, the path he’d taken brought it along with him.

  “Yes and no, as always.”

  The doctor squeezed his shoulder. “I know,” and she sauntered away.

  He held up the dark chocolate MaryAnn loved, and she opened her mouth like a fledgling eager to be fed. He placed a small piece on her tongue, and she flipped it inside her mouth. He followed that piece with another, and another. After, he took the picture book and pointed to the animals, calling out their names. Fifteen minutes later, when MaryAnn lost interest, he got up to leave. As he walked out of the room, he could have sworn he heard a soft voice say ‘Daddy,’ but when he turned, she sat staring out the window, lost in her other world.

  On the way back to the district, he thought back on the night of the accident, something he’d done every day since. If only his wife had made sure the buckle of the car seat was fastened properly, or the driver had downed one less bourbon and left five minutes earlier. But his wife didn’t check, and the drunk had one too many. And nothing would change what happened.

  If only.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Out of the Deep, Dark Funk

  Beecher, ensconced in Lucier’s chair, got hold of Rickett early in the evening. “I need to see you, and I need to see our friend.”

  “I can’t get away right now. What’s up?”

  “Cash made a discovery. It’s important.”

  “Give me an hour,” Rickett said.

  An hour was a long time when the news was this important, but Beecher couldn’t expect Rickett to break cover. Not until they had Craven under arrest, and even then. Beecher assumed Rickett would be “transferred” again, and that would be the end of him. Beecher realized he now accepted Cash’s judgment that his captain was the leader of the avengers, and he’d ordered those murders.

  Beecher understood both Craven’s and Chenault’s motives ― exacting revenge on those who’d destroyed their lives. How could Chenault not want to kill his father after watching him bludgeon his mother to death? Beecher would have felt the same way. And Craven. His daughter would never be the same because of a drunk and the judge who let him walk. How that must have torn him raw from the inside.

  But why all the other murders? Surely they knew they could never right every wrongful death or verdict. The law wasn’t perfect. He wondered how Craven and Chenault connected. What event in the lives of Hodge, Michel, Feldman, and maybe others lured them into the cabal that transformed good cops into vengeful killers?

  He was about to dig into their files when Rickett called.

  “Better if we’re not seen together,” Rickett said. “I’ll meet you at the railing in Woldenberg Park. Ten minutes?”

  “No, meet me in the parking lot. You need to take me to see our friend, now.”

  “He’s still not ―”

  “I don’t care,” Beecher said. “It’s important.”

  “In ten,” Rickett replied. “I’ll drive.”

  Damn doctor wanted him to lose weight, he’d walk the few blocks. Grumbling, Beecher grabbed his coat off the back of his chair and left.

  Hoofing it down the street, huffing and puffing, he realized how out of shape he was. Not that he didn’t know, but he didn’t want to know. His wife had changed his diet, and now his damn pants were loose, which meant he’d have to buy new clothes. He hated clothes shopping. He hated dieting. He hated walking. He also hated the thought of having a heart attack and dying, leaving Adele alone to face the world.

  Rickett sat in his car at the entrance to the lot. Beecher got in.

  “We think our man is Craven,” he blurted out.

  Rickett just stared at him, slack-jawed. “You’re serious?”

  “As the heart attack I’m about to have from walking here.”

  “How? Why?”

  Beecher explained everything Cash found in his research.

  “Jesus. I expected Lightner, maybe, or even Goizueta, but not Craven. I would have put money on anyone but him.”

  “How do you think we all feel? He’s been a good boss.” Beecher mopped the sweat off his face with a handkerchief. “Ernie won’t believe it. I’m still having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that my boss is a serial killer. One part of me hopes we’re wrong. I couldn’t imagine he’d ever hurt one of his men, but he damn near killed Ernie and did a number on me. Diana too. I don’t understand. Drugging his lieutenant to the point of addiction. Jeez, you think you know someone. He’s the goddamn monster hiding under the bed.”

  “Has Cash found anything else that connects Craven to the revenge murders or to Chenault, Hodge, and the others?”

  “Not conclusively,” Beecher admitted.

  “Then we’re still dealing with assumptions without irrefutable evidence that he’s involved, aren’t we? As far as his daughter’s case, someone entirely divorced from any personal connection could have taken the law into his own hands.”

  “You and I know that’s not the case. Funny how all the others are dead, and Craven is the only one left.”

  “That we know of.”

  Beecher snorted. “Do you think he’s guilty or don’t you?”

  “From what you told me, it sounds entirely plausible. But if I’m going to put my cover on the line, I have to make damn sure we’ve got the right guy. Any personal motives that would incite the others into committing murder?”

  “No, but I’ll say this: after years of being on the street, seeing what I’ve seen, I can’t say the idea of knocking off a few asswipes hasn’t entered my mind. Haven’t you ever felt that way?”

  “Couple of child abuse cases were a real temptation.”

  Beecher nodded, looked around. “Where we going? You’re driving in circles.”

  Rickett made another right turn and checked the mirrors again. “I thought I had a tail this morning. I want to make sure I don’t have one now. I checked my car for a tracking device and didn’t find any.”

  “Did you see who it was?”

  “No. Dark sedan. He stayed back far enough that I couldn’t tell the make. Anyway, I lost him.”

  Beecher turned around to look out the back window. After a minute of turns, he said, “No one’s following us. I’m sure.”

  * * * * *

  Lucier knew he was on the mend when hunger pangs rumbled in his stomach a few hours later. Walt’s soup didn’t smell so bad now. Also, for the first time in days, maybe a week or more, his thoughts were on something other than himself. He’d been so wrapped up in his physical hell that nothing else had mattered.

  “Think I’ll have a bowl of soup.”

  “You’re coming out of this, Ernie,” Walt said.

  Diana reached over and caressed his cheek. “There’s even a sparkle in your eyes.”

  Her concern brought a smile to his lips. “I’m not a hundred percent, but I’m going to live.”

  “Detective Beecher insisted on seeing you,” Walt said. “Kohl’s bringing him over now. Seems all hell’s broken loose.”

  “What do you mean?” Lucier asked.

  “Don’t know. Just that something important has happened.”

  Lucier got up, steadied himself against the table until a wave of dizziness passed. Time for him to leave this place, to get back to his district, to be a cop again. Had Beecher and his team identified who was responsible for the rash of murders? Had they found who shot him full of drugs? That was the only way Diana could leave the safe house. The last man standing, the boss, knew her touch might unmask him. Then again, maybe not.

  Walt’s phone beeped. “Kohl’s at the door.”

  Lucier dashed into the bathroom, not to be sick but to freshen up. He splashed water on his face and studied the gaunt image staring back at him in the mirror. He bet he’d lost ten pounds. Well, nothing he could do. He stepped into the entry where Rickett and Beecher
were talking to Walt.

  When Beecher saw him, he hesitated briefly, then pulled Lucier into a bear hug. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Or a sight to make your eyes sore,” Lucier countered. “How’re ya doing, Sam?”

  “Better’n you,” Beecher said.

  Lucier swiped his hand across his forehead. “You don’t know the half of it.” He pointed to Beecher’s eye. “Shiner, I see. Looks sore.”

  “I’ve had worse.”

  “You are looking better,” Rickett said, “which means you must be feeling better.”

  “No place to go but up.”

  “How you doing, psychic girl?” Beecher said to Diana.

  Diana gave the big man a hug. “Good. Ready to leave this place.” She turned to Walt. “No offense.”

  “None taken. I’ll leave you guys to talk. I’ve got a ton of paperwork waiting in my office.”

  Beecher’s impatient manner led Lucier to the recliner while the two men and Diana took other seats in the living room. “What is it, Sam?”

  “I have some news you won’t believe.”

  “Who,” Lucier asked, anticipating the answer.

  “Craven, almost a hundred percent.”

  The name hit Lucier hard, like a wrecking ball. His head spun, and his almost settled stomach roared up again. “No. Not Jack Craven. Anyone but him.”

  “I didn’t peg him either,” Rickett said.

  “There has to be some mistake.”

  “We don’t think so, Ernie. Here’s what we have.”

  For the next quarter hour, Beecher reviewed everything Cash had unearthed, plus recounted the deaths of Hodge and Michel.

  “Both Hodge and Michel?” Lucier covered his face with his hands and shook his head. “I don’t believe this. Craven never once mentioned a daughter from a first marriage. Hell, he never mentioned a first marriage.”

  “He’s kept that part of his life secret.”

  Lucier closed his eyes, conjuring up the time in that bedroom with the barred windows. “Craven wasn’t one of the men who drugged me. I’m sure. I was whacked out, but I’d have recognized his eyes. One time I thought I recognized someone, then the shit hit my brain, and I went to never-never land.”