Sasha kicked the air, “Dang, dang. I don’t like goin’ to Mambo’s.”
Dakin smiled so wide it looked like her spider tattoo on her cheek had crawled up to her eye.
Spicey pleaded to Sasha. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Stone Carson’s contact at the Chicago Board of Trade called him back.
“You were right. Yesterday New Orleans contact wanted you dead.”
Stone repeated, “Yesterday?”
“Yeah. Today they want you back. Real bad. It seems somebody at street level messed up real bad. It’s going to take a professional cleanup crew. You and Acer can name your price.”
“Interesting.”
Stone prepared to shower. He smiled to himself as he thought of Roger Dance. Dance will be furious that he so easily breached the FBI’s security at the Senator’s house. Stone sang the Beach Boy’s ‘Key Largo’ in the shower. It made him think of the Bahamas. The water from the shower head pounded his face as he imagined the FBI’s panic to locate the Senator’s family before Thursday’s vote. He had contracted very good men. The FBI didn’t stand a chance.
Mason Dooley answered his cell phone and pulled his car over to hear what Bromley was saying. He hoped he had heard wrong. “You want me to shoot who?”
Dooley blurted, “You guys are out of control! You sure you can have me do this shit and keep me out of jail?” Dooley closed his eyes and lowered his voice. “I’m getting worried. You don’t give me time to think.”
Bromley responded, “You’re not being paid to think.” Bromley confessed, “Look, I do what I’m told, you have to do the same. Don’t make any mistakes on this one. I haven’t figured out what we’re going to do about the judge yet.”
Dooley drove with his portable police light flashing on his personal car. Bromley transferred the GPS locator feed and Dooley quickly located his target’s car. Dooley waited until they crossed Highway 90 and pulled the target over to the shoulder. Dooley walked up to the window, asked for registration and shot him as he reached for his glove box.
Dooley returned to his car, removed the police light from his dash and pulled back into traffic. His heart was pounding. He had never just walked up and shot someone before in broad daylight on a busy highway. Especially someone this important. It was surprisingly easy.
Steven Marks, Senior Assistant Attorney General, was fighting for his life in his car alongside Highway 10. The blood from the bullet wound in his head clouded his vision as he dialed 911. His last conscious thought was, of course…. a dirty cop.
Wednesday 12:30 pm
Roger and Paul discussed Cat while they waited for their lunch order to go was filled.
Paul asked, “Has he ever been married? Kids?”
Roger answered, “Cat told me once that by the time he decided to settle down, all the women he had dated had married other people. I thought a few years ago I’d get an invitation to a wedding but I guess it didn’t happen. He’s a good lookin’ guy so he doesn’t have trouble getting women. He probably just hasn’t made time for it.” Roger paid for their lunches and he and Paul drove toward Cat’s house.
Roger added, “You know a lot of people don’t know that Cat came from a large family. Seven kids, I think. His mom died in the last childbirth and his dad had a heart attack when Cat was still in high school. Cat was the oldest and basically raised them all.” Roger chuckled, “He said that’s when he really got his training as a prosecutor, raising his siblings. With seven kids, somebody is always guilty of something. He worked his way through high school, college, and law school. He also helped each of his siblings go to college.”
Paul looked out the window, “Sounds like he’s earned some time for himself.”
“I don’t know that he’ll ever have the time. He is the top litigator and the Department of Justice considers him to be in his prime. They will use him up if he’s not careful.”
Paul looked at Roger, “Seems you and I had that conversation a year ago. Now you’re with Kim. See how life is?”
Roger smiled, “So what’s taking you so long?”
Paul laughed, “I need to grow up first.”
Roger and Paul arrived at Cat’s and presented him with jambalaya.
Cat moaned as he tasted the first spoonful, “Right here is why I’ll never leave New Orleans.”
Roger and Paul ate their lunch with him. Paul got up to get something to drink. “You have any tea or anything?”
Cat gingerly got up and Roger noticed some blood spotting on Cat’s shirt. “Cat, you’re bleeding.”
Cat looked down and sighed. “It’s just a cut from a boot. Couple of stitches. No big deal.”
Roger thought about Cat being beaten by a group of teens with bats. He was lucky to be alive, and lucky he was found. Roger watched Cat help Paul prepare the tea. “You’re moving pretty slow. Are you sure you’re up for company?”
Paul held up the two cards that were on Cat’s counter. “Look at this. He’s got phone numbers of two nurses right here.”
Cat smiled and walked back, “Yeah, I’m fine. In fact, you’re my second set of company today.”
Roger’s phone went off and he excused himself to the other side of the room. When he came back, Paul could tell from Roger’s expression that something was wrong.
Paul asked, “What?”
“That was Thor. He just got word that Steven Marks, from Cat’s office, was shot. He’s been taken to the hospital.”
Cat went pale. “He just left here. Not thirty minutes ago.”
Abram and Jackson watched Betty Sue disappear down the dirt drive. They stood staring at the three large garbage bags of dead chickens. Abram was still shaking with fear. Jackson was physically sick and ran to the edge of the woods to puke.
Jackson walked back, “We already got flies startin’ to swarm. Can’t believe we paid fifty bucks for this.” Jackson kicked one of the bags.
Abram took a deep breath, “That be cheap if we never see those two again. You see the crazy eyes on that Claude? That dude’s not right.” Abram shivered and offered, “I can call ol’ Daryl down the way and see if he wants these chickens. Just give ‘em to him?”
Jackson nodded yes. He couldn’t get the vision of Claude choppin’ all those chickens in his house, out of his mind. Crazy fool said he must have got tired of feedin’ ‘em. Didn’t really know why he did it. Dang, that be a whole new shade of crazy.
Abram interrupted Jackson’s thoughts, “Daryl says he’ll come by in a bit and get ‘em. Thank God.”
Jackson and Abram walked back to the office. Jackson mumbled, “Hope the rest of this day goes better than this.”
The Director of the FBI saw he had a call waiting from the Solicitor General. He noted that Dan was returning his call quickly, as he had promised. The Director switched his phone to secure mode and answered, “Dan, have you found anything?”
The Solicitor General paused, “I’ve found out how damn hard it is to get a straight answer around here. Don’t worry, I’m not letting this go. Okay, first, Mr. Ward Bromley. Special Investigator for Justice, stationed in New Orleans, twenty three years seniority. I am looking at about four inches of violations and supervisory concerns in his file. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why this guy is still with us.”
“Secondly, Stone Carson and Acer Noland. Nobody here admits to knowing anything about them. I had security techs put tracers on any incoming inquiries on either of those names. After I asked about them, they each received two hits: one from here and one from the New Orleans U.S. Attorney General’s office. Somebody here had to call somebody there and they didn’t waste any time.”
The Director of the FBI stated the obvious, “Somebody in your house wants to know everything you’re interested in. You do have a problem.”
“Yes, I do.”
The FBI Director cleared his throat, “I don’t know if this is related or not, but Steven Marks, Senior Assistant Attorney General, Fraud Division, was just shot in his car a
fter visiting with Sabastian Delacroix. My agent tells me Cat is looking into the Jarvis murder case again.”
“Cat’s looking into what? That case is eight years old. What the hell is going on, Jim?”
The Director of the FBI brought the Solicitor General up to speed on Senator Welsh’s situation. Both men agreed that the Senate vote on Thursday at noon was their obvious deadline.
“Like I said, my team is on it. Let’s keep these lines open.”
“Of course.” The Solicitor General hung up and rested his head in his hands. Did he really know so little about his own people? He had a short list of names his IT security man had given him. One of these people was calling the shots for the machine, at least those pertinent to New Orleans.
The Solicitor General called his counterpart at NSA. “These are our people. One of them is bad and we have no time. I want to know who. Look for a New Orleans connection.”
Izzy rode her bike to Otis’s Grocery and leaned her bike against the siding. She worried a policeman might drive by and see her. She waited until a woman with two children walked up to the door and she walked in with them. While Otis took their order, Izzy looked for the bleach. Izzy kept glancing toward Otis. She couldn’t help herself. Otis looked at her. Izzy’s stomach fisted in fear. She should have stayed invisible. She thought of putting the bleach back on the shelf and running out of the store.
The woman and her children left the store. The tinkling of the bells at the door stopped and the big room fell silent. Izzy slowly walked to the counter and took out her treasure bag. Otis said, “Well there is my smart, little friend. How are you today?”
He sounded friendly. Izzy relaxed, just a little, and answered, “Fine. How are you?”
Otis pretended to be troubled. “You know, I’ve been better. I’ve too much work to do and nobody to help me. I wish I could find someone to sweep.”
Izzy stated, “I sweep real good. Ms. Nelson lets me sweep all the time.”
Otis carefully asked, “Are you sure your Grandma would approve of you having a real job? You’re very young.”
Izzy didn’t want to lie to Otis. Her face became very serious. Otis felt his heart breaking. “My grandma says work is good for the soul.”
Otis nodded, “Yes, it is. Well, sounds like we have a deal. I’m going to need your address and a phone number, so I can call you when it’s time for you to work.” Otis held his breath.
Izzy thought for a minute, “I can give you a phone number, but it isn’t mine. It belongs to my friend.”
Otis put a pen and piece of paper on the counter, “That’ll work just as well.”
Izzy took out the piece of paper Ed had written his phone number on and copied it down. She put the paper back in her treasure bag and said, “It would best if I didn’t start work until tomorrow. I’m very busy today.”
“I see you have a big bottle of bleach. You must be cleaning?”
Izzy smiled, “My friend is not so good at laundry.”
Izzy paid and left the store. Otis watched her pedal away and looked at the number she had written. It looked familiar. He checked the contacts in his phone. Izzy had given him Ed Meyer’s number.
How in the world had those two connected? Otis certainly couldn’t call Catahoula and tell him where Izzy was staying. Otis sighed. It seemed he just didn’t know Ed anymore. What was Ed thinking?
Marla waited at the diner, nervously glancing at her watch. Gayla said the food was good and it was close to work. This investigative reporter stuff was nerve-racking. Marla watched Gayla pull her car into a spot right in front and walk in.
Gayla squealed as they hugged, “Girl! You are a sight for sore eyes.”
Marla stepped back, “You have lost a lot of weight. You look fantastic.”
“Don’t I know it. Had to buy all new clothes though. This hasn’t been cheap.”
Marla lifted a menu and handed one to Gayla, “We better order fast, this place is gettin’ busy. Neither one of us gets an hour lunch.”
After the waiter took their order, Gayla leaned forward and whispered, “So, who is this mystery cop you’ve set your eyes on?”
Marla smiled, “Mason Dooley.”
All expression left Gayla’s face. “You’re shittin’ me. Of all the men in New Orleans? He’s scum, Marla. Good lookin’ scum, but scum.”
Marla tried to look hurt. “No. Really?”
Gayla snapped her napkin and put it on her lap. “I don’t know how he keeps his job. Word is somebody looks out for his butt. I’ve seen good people get fired for complaining about him! Even the Chief lets him do what he wants. He doesn’t answer to anybody.”
“You don’t say. He must work the night shift. I see him all over in the daytime.”
Gayla huffed, “I hear he wants to get top spot on SWAT. All I got to say is look out. You give somebody like him a title like that and a machine gun…” she stuffed a cracker in her mouth. “Last year a woman charged him with rape. It almost got him, too.”
Marla asked, “What happened?”
“Poor thing was found dead right in her own house. Home invasion, I think.”
Marla twirled her straw in her fingers, “Pretty lucky for Mason.”
Gayla looked over her fork, “Yeah. Real lucky.”
The waiter brought their bills and Marla grabbed them both, “This is my treat. I asked you to lunch.”
Gayla smiled and then quickly frowned, “Oh, no. Speak of the devil.” She pointed out the window where Mason Dooley had parked and was standing next to his car.
Suddenly he lifted his long sleeved t-shirt off and tossed it through the driver window. He leaned into the back seat, grabbed another shirt and put it on. Gayla chuckled, “Well, at least we got a show.”
Marla nodded and said, “You go on now. We’ll have to do this again soon.”
Marla watched Gayla pull away and Mason walk into the diner. He sat at the counter and placed an order. Marla kept thinking about that shirt. She wondered if Reuben had Mason’s DNA yet?
Marla left a twenty on the table with their bills and walked across the street. She glanced in both directions and then grabbed the shirt lying on Mason’s driver’s seat. She walked as fast as she could to her car, started it up and pulled away from the curb. It took three blocks before her heart was beating at a normal pace.
Once she parked back at work, she opened the bunched shirt and gasped. There were blood splatters all over the right sleeve and around the neck. Mason didn’t look hurt. She had wanted Mason’s DNA. She had a sinking feeling she had someone else’s DNA, too.
Mason Dooley took a sip of his coffee when the waiter came over. “Hey, some chick just stole a shirt from your car over there.”
Dooley jumped up and ran to the door. He couldn’t see anyone on the street, but a blue Prius was darting away. Mason went back in to the waiter, “What’d she look like?”
The waiter was petrified, “Just a lady. Nothin’ special.”
Dooley grabbed the waiter’s shirt at the neck and made a fist, “She pay with a card?”
The waiter shook his head and then said, “She ate with that lady works with you. Gayla.”
Dooley slammed a five on the counter and mumbled thanks. He got in his car, saw the shirt was gone and cursed. He slammed his palms on the steering wheel and raced back to the station. That shirt was covered in Steven Marks’s blood.
Dooley stomped over to Gayla’s desk and slammed his hand so hard she jumped.
“Who did you have lunch with?” Dooley’s veins were throbbing in his neck. Gayla was petrified. Nathan Cottard came around the corner in time to see Dooley push Gala’s chair away from her desk, with her on it. He had leaned over her and was pointing his finger an inch from her face.
“I asked who you had lunch with!” Dooley’s face was beet red. Some of his buddies started to walk over.
Cottard pushed through the onlookers and grabbed Dooley’s shoulder. He pulled Dooley back. “What’s your problem? Back off!”
Dooley pulled his arm back. He made a fist and held it. He dropped his arm and said, “This is none of your concern, Cottard. Take a hike.”
“I’ll take one when you calm down.”
Dooley pointed at Gayla. “Her little lunch friend stole a shirt from my car!”
Cottard laughed, “So? They’re department issued, get another one.”
Dooley scowled, “It was my personal shirt. Doesn’t matter, the point is her friend is a thief and I want her name.”
Gayla had been wildly trying to come up with a lie that might work. She sure didn’t want to unleash Dooley on Marla. Gayla cleared her throat and said, “I sat with a lady at lunch that I didn’t know. Women do that. We liked each other’s shoes.”
Cottard put his hand out. “There. Don’t ya feel stupid? You owe Gayla an apology.”
Dooley glared at Gayla. He wasn’t buyin’ it. “You tell this stranger lady I’ll find her.”
Gayla took a deep breath as Dooley stomped off. She thanked Cottard and dialed Marla. “Girl, you got yourself some big trouble.”
Dooley drove back to the diner and insisted they give him their security videos for both in the diner and out at the street. He drove home to study them. He had to find that shirt. Dooley sat in front of his monitor waiting for the mystery woman and Gayla to meet. Finally he recognized Gayla walk in the door and hug the mystery woman. Some stranger. Dooley got angrier the longer he watched. They not only knew each other, they appeared to be friends. Gayla had even pointed to Dooley through the front window.
Dooley watched himself from the street video remove his shirt. He watched that woman walk over to his car and take the shirt out. She ran to the blue Prius and took off. Dooley backed up the video, hit stop and wrote down the plate number.
He hissed, “Look out, bitch.”
Catahoula: Shallow End Gals (A Shallow End Gals Book 4) Page 14
