Paul stared at the bomb remains near the door and the bag on the credenza. “Why plant evidence to trap someone and then risk blowing it up before it’s found?”
“The design of this blast was targeted for the door. There was no intention of damaging evidence. Or whoever set the bomb wasn’t aware of the evidence. I think Stone has two problems. Someone wants him to take the fall for the Senator and someone else, who didn’t know about the setup, wants him dead.” Roger’s eyebrows went up, “Unless the bomb was for us.”
Paul answered, “He’s going to lawyer up and we’re going to have to turn him loose. We’ve got nothing.”
Roger and Paul made their way back to their car and headed for the field office. Roger moaned, “God, I hate to do this but I think we need Mathew Core. He can find out who knows this guy.”
Core owned a security company the FBI contracted with for a variety of services. A tight leash was on Core in light of his history. He knew all of the wrong people. Roger had helped him re-establish himself with the government and put his family back together. Asking Core to help might put him in the gray area of the law again.
Paul responded, “Core can get us information we would have to wait days for if we go through the proper channels.” Paul understood Roger’s reluctance. “You know the rest of them do it.”
Roger was sure the Director would assist them if the other agencies complained. “The techs reported that Stone’s alias, Michael Williamson, is a registered DBA. That makes it legal for business purposes. What little there is of a bio says he is a Harvard graduate living off inherited money. Pays taxes, spends his time traveling.” Roger glanced at Paul. “You’re right. We have nothing. Except proof he was set up.”
When they reached the field office Roger excused himself to call Core. He sent him what they had and asked him to search every database available to find out something on Stone. Core had answered, “I have to admit that I’m a little worried to hear you are back in New Orleans. You seem to find smoke and fire before the match is struck. I still have codes to enter NSA and CIA. I also have a buddy at DOJ. How much do you want?”
Roger answered, “I know you have access left from the old days. Don’t go there. We have to be very careful about what lines we might cross. I will stand with you, but I have to trust your judgment.” Roger exhaled, “I mean this Mathew, if you feel like you are risking your future with Lisa and Jamie, don’t do it. There are always ways to catch guys like this. Understood?”
Mathew Core glanced toward his living room where Lisa and Jamie were putting the finishing touches on their redecorating project. They had Mathew moving the furniture around for an hour trying to make a larger craft corner.
Mathew answered, “I’m in full agreement. I’ll not risk what I have ever again. Give me an hour or so to come up with something. I’ll call.”
Roger replaced his phone in his pocket and answered Paul’s inquisitive stare. “He’ll help and he’s going to be careful.”
Paul had gotten them each a cup of coffee and sat across from Roger at the desk. “Stone Carson is in an interrogation room. Hasn’t asked for a lawyer yet.”
Roger twisted slowly in his chair, “He won’t until he hears what we have.” Roger sighed, “We can hold him seventy two hours, but I think I’d rather not. I think we tell him he has two enemies: one that wants to frame him for the Senator and one that wants him dead. We’ll watch what he does. We can offer him protection, which he’ll refuse.”
“So we wish him well and send him on his way?”
“I want to chat first, but yeah.”
Mathew Core rinsed out his glass and walked in the living room. “If you two divas are finished torturing me, I’m going to run in to work for a while.”
Lisa tilted her head, “You haven’t gone back to work at night in quite a while.” Lisa patted Jamie on the head and walked over to Mathew.
“Roger’s in town and needs me to get him some information.”
Lisa smiled as she pointed her finger at Mathew, “You tell Roger I expect him to keep you safe.”
Jamie yelled over from her new craft corner, “Dad? Can you remember to bring me home some more paper?”
“You got it.”
Jamie looked up, “Dad? I’m thinking I should learn to play the violin. I think if you would pay for my lessons it would be good for my cognitive thinking. You know, improve memory function.” Jamie looked back to her drawing.
Mathew looked at Lisa and raised his eyebrows. He whispered, “Cognitive thinking? Where does she get this stuff? She’s seven years old.”
Jamie answered, “Internet Dad. You really need to read more.”
Lisa chuckled at Mathew’s expression and kissed him goodbye. She gave his hand a little squeeze. He knew she worried he would slip back to his old life of espionage and government secrets. It would take time to earn her trust back completely.
Mathew stood next to Jamie, “Do I get a hug?”
Jamie’s face expanded with a toothy smile, “I always have hugs for you. If the violin lessons are too expensive I have other ideas.”
Mathew smiled, “I’m sure you do.”
Mathew Core arrived at his office, located in the heart of the French Quarter, and started booting up his servers. He entered the data from the phone transmission Roger had sent earlier and stared at the face of Stone Carson.
“Let’s find out who you really are.”
Cat placed a call to the establishment ‘Dirty Secrets’ and asked to speak to Dillard Boggs. The girl who answered sounded like a teenager and claimed Mr. Boggs wasn’t taking calls. Cat asked if Mr. Boggs was actually there. The girl answered with a snicker, “Oh he’s here alright. Just not a good time to talk on the phone, if you know what I mean?”
Cat assured her he understood and hung up. He looked up the address for the bar and saw it was in the Quarter, on Bourbon Street. Few people that live in New Orleans bother with the Quarter. It is designed to give tourists the shocking, vile, drunken experience vacation they paid for. Cat grabbed his briefcase, said goodnight to Martha, and headed for the French Quarter. If he was lucky, Boggs would be available to talk to by the time he got there.
On the way he tried to piece together a scenario that would fit his evidence. Whoever did kill Molly also had to know Mason Dooley, the cop in Ed’s video. It was also possible that Dooley shot Molly. It wouldn’t be surprising if Dooley and Boggs might be acquainted.
Cat searched for ten minutes to find a parking spot within reasonable walking distance. With his briefcase and jacket locked in his car, he maneuvered his way through the crowd to Dirty Secrets. The posters on the front windows boasted promises of the pleasures that lie within. It was definitely a raunchy establishment. Cat wasn’t a prude but he had never understood the popularity of such places.
Cat stood inside the door for a moment so his eyes could adjust to the darkness. The music was grinding, gritty and blaring. His senses were being attacked by odors of food, booze and bodies. Cat was acutely aware his white shirt and tie was not standard attire. He smirked as several patrons headed out a back exit after spotting him. He knew he looked like the law.
A tall blonde stepped in close to him, her voice raspy and flirtatious. “Honey, I can get you the best table in the house, you just wait a minute.”
Cat considered this wasn’t a woman. “I want to speak with Dillard Boggs. Is he here?”
The blonde leaned back and looked him over, “You sure you don’t want a special table first?” A big toothy smile revealed at least four missing teeth.
“Mr. Boggs please. Tell him I’d prefer not to wait.” Cat gave the blond his card which had the DOJ gold seal over his name. That worked. The blonde sputtered and told Cat to sit over in the corner, where a large overstuffed booth with a reserved sign waited.
Cat caught himself scanning the seat for a clean spot. He sat with his back to the corner and with full view of the activities and people within. As Cat glanced around the room, he chuckled
to himself that there was a whole world out there he had insulated himself from. It was one thing to read about different lifestyles on court papers and quite another to see them firsthand. He watched the stripper on stage perform for a row of fat, drunken men.
Cat thought the girl looked very young, and strangely detached. He wondered what she was really thinking as the men jeered and the music throbbed. She may be a single mom, thinking about what she would feed the kids. Maybe she was a law student, paying her way through college. One thing was clear. Dillard Boggs wouldn’t know her story, or care. She was making him money, and that was the name of the game.
A short, fat, red faced man walked from behind a curtain and straight over to Cat’s booth. He held out his hand to shake and Cat reluctantly shook hands with him. Dillard Boggs had beady little blue eyes that darted about the room and rarely focused on who he was speaking to. Boggs was staring at the stage and asked, “So what does the law want with me now?”
Cat answered, “I want to know where you were the night Molly Jarvis was murdered.”
Boggs practically choked on the drink he was sipping. “Molly Jarvis? Hell, how long ago was that? I don’t know what I was doing last Friday? Do you?”
Cat found Dillard Boggs repulsive. Glancing around the establishment Cat could easily see why Molly had felt so passionate about closing it down. Even the Quarter should have some limits. If Boggs wanted Molly dead, he need not search any farther than his own clientele to find someone to hire for the dirty deed.
Cat asked, “Is there anything in your financials or your personal background you want to explain before I review them?”
Boggs paled. “Why you lookin’ to me on this? You guys got your man years ago. Done. End of story. Ain’t there enough crime in New Orleans to keep you busy?”
Cat answered, “Molly Jarvis was determined to close you down.”
“Who isn’t? Look around, Mr. Delacroix. These fine patrons will always find a place to go, and hopefully, I’ll own it. She was a nuisance all right, but not worth goin’ to jail for.” Boggs pointed to a young woman on the stage that was nearly completely stripped. “Now, that’s almost worth goin’ to jail for.”
Boggs had no alibi he could remember but promised to look back in his old records. Boggs claimed the government had taught him to keep track of every time he took a piss. He was sure he would come up with something.
Cat left ‘Dirty Secrets’ and walked back to his car. The last time he had been in the Quarter was last year when Jacqueline had been in town on business. They had dated on and off for a couple of years and finally gave up. They cared for each other but never had the time to see if it could become more. She also had a demanding career that required constant international travel. It just seemed too much work.
Cat smiled at his memory of their night in the Quarter. Jacqueline had twisted her mouth and asked, “How can you live in such a vile place?” They had spent the next two days in his house and she returned to Paris. Months ago he received a birthday greeting from her. His birthday was still a month away.
Cat unlocked the door to his townhouse, tossed his briefcase on the table and walked into the kitchen. He washed his hands and forearms twice after spending time at Dirty Secrets. He opened his fridge door and stared at the empty shelves. He thought he had bought some groceries a while ago. Guess not. Cat promised himself to make an effort to get a real life soon. At forty two he wasn’t getting any younger.
He poured a splash of scotch over a couple of ice cubes and stood by his recliner. As he looked around the room, it struck him how sterile it looked. A staged model home had more personality. He saw no proof he lived here. But he did.
His eyes moved over to his briefcase. His mind began telling the story of Pandora’s Box. He took a sip of scotch and walked over to the table. He would work an hour or so, get a sandwich somewhere and find that alley. He wanted to see for himself where Edward Meyer stood that night. He wanted to see the street cam over Otis Grocery.
Somebody shot Molly Jarvis three times when she answered the door eight years ago. Somebody scooped the heart and will to live from William Jarvis that night, too. Cat unzipped his briefcase and pulled the folder Reuben had given him to the center of the table. Cat held up the first picture in Reuben’s file. Mason Dooley, the cop, talking to someone in a black sedan. The next photo showed the same scene, but from a different angle. The license plate identified the car as belonging to the government. Mason Dooley was in uniform. The third photo showed the same sedan parked at the Justice building in a spot reserved for William Jarvis.
Cat finished the scotch and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. There was seldom anything he was sure about in the beginning of a case. In this case, there was one glaring absolute; it was going to get ugly.
Claude and Earl started their second bowls of jambalaya just as a guy walked in the door hysterically laughing. He pointed at them, “Who in their right mind would steal that piece of shit truck you two drive?” The guy grabbed the corner of the bar and held his forearm against his stomach as he bent over laughing.
Claude and Earl just watched him with their spoons frozen in the air and their mouths open.
The guy continued after he caught his breath, “Couple o’ punks just took that truck of yours. Be bouncing down the road pert near regular speed considerin’ them tires you ride.”
Claude and Earl jumped up and ran for the door. Sure as shit, the truck was gone. Claude’s face froze in a look of terror. Earl pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Mason? Uh, got us a problem. Gonna need your help, quick.”
Tuesday 8:00 pm
Ellen had told us to visit Spicey and help with whatever project she was involved in. When we arrived at the Voodoo shop, Sasha was locking the doors and Spicey was counting the money in the register.
Teresa pointed to a flyer lying on the counter near Spicey. It was a colorful announcement that the Woodstock Reunion was next week. Teresa looked at Mary, “Do you think we are supposed to help with this Woodstock thing?”
Mary started singing Hendrix’s ‘Foxy Lady’. I was in shock. Show tunes? Yes. Mary had them all covered. Jimi Hendrix?
Linda pointed at me, “Look at Vicki’s face.”
Mary stopped singing. “What? You think I don’t know about Woodstock? I’ll be in charge of music.”
Just then Sasha said, “You best get some more love potion mixed up for Woodstock. I bet they decide to get more.”
Spicey laughed as she put the register money in her bank bag. “If all them peoples gonna be as old as those two we be needin’ a lot of port a potties.”
Sasha giggled, “Or diapers!”
Teresa looked at Linda, “I don’t think this is what Ellen wants us doing.”
Just then Mary screamed.
Dakin had pressed her face to the window and was tapping on the glass with her long fingernails.
Sasha put her hand on her chest, “You best tell your new little friend there to quit scarin’ the bejesus out of me!”
Spicey grabbed the front door keys and let Dakin in.
Teresa’s eyebrows went up and she looked at Mary who was hiding behind a rack of long dresses.
Linda said, “Mary, they can’t see us, get back over here.”
I thought Mary had a good idea.
Dakin pointed her long black fingernail at Spicey, “I want you two with me at the cemetery tonight. I have a ritual to draw the evil into the open.”
Sasha put her hands on her hips. “First, I don’t like the sounds of invitin’ evil to join us. Second, any ritual you want to do, we can do right here. No need disturbin’ the dead. Ain’t that right Spicey?”
Spicey was in total agreement with Sasha and added, “Dakin, I said I’d do what I could to help you. Let’s just say that the ‘evil’ you be wantin’ to show up, really does. Then what? I got nothin’ but healin’ potions.”
Dakin looked thoughtful. “I know the Spirits look out for you. If you are in danger from evil, the
y might come to help.”
Spicey straightened up her shoulders and pointed back at Dakin. “That’s your plan? Put me in danger with evil and hope my Spirits show up?”
Teresa looked at us and said, “I bet this is our assignment. Somehow we have to let Spicey know we are here and that we can help.”
Talk about bad plans. I sputtered, “Whoa there, sister. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t had any class on fighting evil yet.” I looked at Linda. She usually recognized when I was making a good point.
Linda glanced at Mary who was shaking her head in micro movements so Teresa wouldn’t see. Linda looked at Teresa and then back at us. Uh, oh. I know what’s coming next.
Linda said, “We aren’t here on vacation. Ellen did say we would be helping Spicey, so I think Teresa is right.” Dang.
Teresa rubbed her hands together. “Yes! Okay, how do we let Spicey know we are here? Ellen said she can see us if we will it.”
“Wait!” This was me. “Ellen also said Spicey is fragile, so we shouldn’t shock her.” Too late. Teresa had concentrated so hard on Spicey seeing us, it happened.
Spicey grabbed the Woodstock flyer and started fanning herself while she stepped backwards to sit on Sasha’s stool. We were sort of floating near the ceiling over the door and Spicey pointed to us. Dakin and Sasha both whipped around and looked. They couldn’t see anything. I grabbed a dress from the rack and threw it over me so they could see. Sasha fainted.
Mary frowned at me, “That wasn’t your best idea.”
Mason Dooley listened to Earl explain how their truck, with a dead judge in the back, was stolen while they stopped for jambalaya. Mason couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He happened to be standing at a homicide scene with three other police units and the coroner on the way. He couldn’t leave a murder scene to chase down a stolen truck. He couldn’t report it stolen.
Mason hissed through clenched teeth, “You get that truck back now. I don’t care how. I can’t help you.” Mason wiped his forehead straight back leaving his hair standing straight up. He walked over to his patrol car and saw his reflection in the window glass. These idiots were driving him mad. Mason combed his hair back down and tried to control his anger. “Did anyone see who took it?”
Catahoula: Shallow End Gals (A Shallow End Gals Book 4) Page 7
