by David Lyons
Curly leaned back in his chair as if changing position could add comfort to the government-issue furniture. “Reason I came by, I was just at Dumont Industries over in Houma. Decedent was their employee. Met with the personnel director, he was cooperative; then I happened to meet a seaman who was on board when the fellow went over. He definitely did not want to talk to me about it. I got this feeling.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah. So I was wondering if maybe something did happen on that ship. Maybe the guy did get one upside the head, and maybe the ME’s got a reason for wanting to play it down. I know who Dumont Industries is, and the ‘dysfunctionality’ you guys are catching shit for ain’t exactly a singular phenomenon in this state.”
A folded copy of the Times-Picayune was on Fitch’s desk. He pushed it toward the man sitting across from him. “Take that,” he said. “Check out the employment section. Guy thinking like you is going to be looking for a new job soon.”
Curly ignored him, staring unblinking over Fitch’s head.
Fitch sighed. “Well, if there’s no talking sense into you, what I’d do, if it were my case”—Curly leaned forward—“I’d get that cooperative personnel director to tell me when the ship will be back in port, and when it docks, I’d interview every man on board before they can go anywhere. If I still had that ‘feeling’ after talking to a couple of them, I’d get some tech guys to go over the ship as a possible crime scene. After doing all that, I’d buy me a small ranch in Montana, ’cause I’d sure be throwing away my chances for a peaceful retirement in Louisiana.”
Curly took the business card out of his coat pocket and made the call from his cell phone. “Mr. Matthews, this is Trooper Freeman. Can you tell me when that ship is going to be back in port? I want to interview the captain and crew. Tomorrow? Great, I’m going to bring an investigative team to go through the vessel. Shouldn’t take too long. But if we find something, I’ve got to tell you that we may have to keep the ship in port. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you, sir, your cooperation is appreciated.”
“I wouldn’t have told him you’d arrest the ship,” Fitch said, “even though they know you can.”
“Arrest the ship?”
“Maritime law term. Means the same for ships as it does for suspects. That ship is a huge investment, and it doesn’t make money sitting at a pier. You’ve given them a reason not to like you very much, and you’re still just trying to confirm your ‘feeling.’ ”
Curly nodded and stood up. “You’ve been helpful, Detective.”
“Say hi to your dad for me.”
Fitch stared at the back of Curly Freeman’s shiny bald dome as he left the office, shaking his head at the impertinence of youth while blessing the courage of the father passed down to the son.
• • •
Curly Freeman used his cell for half the journey on his drive back to Baton Rouge. He set up a team to accompany him to Houma for the interviews and the possible arrest of the ship. Otherwise, it was an uneventful drive. His lunch was still with him when he reached the Baton Rouge city limits. He didn’t feel like dinner or going home to his empty apartment. He thought of the invitation extended earlier in the day. Maybe the woman’s sister sang at cocktail hour.
The bar was genre Louisiana icehouse, on a back road nestled alongside the Mississippi. As he pulled into the gravel parking lot, he hoped the seminal 1920s Jelly Roll Morton composition “King Porter Stomp” was the establishment’s namesake and that the singer included songs from that era in her repertoire. Turned out the barman/owner’s name was Porter, and he had crowned himself king when, as a younger man, he’d tried his hand at vocalizing.
“She don’t come on for another hour, but you’re welcome to have a drink and wait,” he said, as if there were some other purpose for a bar.
Freeman took a beer to the jukebox and studied its offerings. Jackpot. From the twenties through the fifties, it was a jazz collection to match his own. Remastered box sets offered rare early recordings of the greats: Morton, Hines, Armstrong, the big bands. He was fishing in his pocket for some money when the owner came up to him.
“Just got a call. You met Ruth’s sister today, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Music’s on me. Make your selection. It’s a pretty good group.”
“It is that.”
Curly consumed three beers while waiting, and another six listening to the chanteuse. It was close to midnight when Curly finally called for the check. He dropped fifty dollars in the woman’s tip jar. Though she reminded him more of Dinah Washington than Billie Holiday, she’d sung a dozen of his requests and performed them well. But he was wobbly and would be up early in the morning.
The parking lot was dark, the only light coming from the neon name over the door. Freeman got in his car, checked his cell, and turned it off. He started the car and turned to look into the black void behind him, his backup lights adding no illumination as he did a reverse U. His headlights pointed toward the road, and he headed home. The road was narrow, dark, and winding, and he’d been drinking. He reduced his speed to a crawl. He was humming “King Porter Stomp” when the lights of another car came up behind him. The damn fool began riding his tail with brights on, though there was plenty of room to pass on the deserted blacktop. Freeman adjusted his rearview mirror to reflect the blinding beams back into the idiot’s eyes. He reached for his warning lights, and then another glare hit him from the front, this car appearing out of nowhere and aiming at a head-on collision. He slammed on the brakes and the car behind him scrunched into his rear bumper. The driver in front hit him full-force. The air bag exploded and pushed his chin back like a roundhouse punch to the jaw. He was jolted, rattled, and all that beer sloshed in his belly. He puked all over himself and gasped for air, grabbing his neck with both hands in a vain attempt to clear his constricted throat. Unable to draw breath, he lost consciousness.
Freeman’s door was jammed shut, and when it was finally wrenched open, he was bent over the steering wheel, his air bag having deflated almost immediately after being deployed. The man reached in, grabbed the trooper’s arm, and pulled him out, laying him on the road. He bent down and looked at eyes staring up at him, felt the neck for a pulse, then pulled out his cell phone and punched numbers. “Boss,” he said, “we got a problem.”
“What is it?”
“We sandwiched the guy, you know? Front and rear. Not much more than fender benders. I thought it would soften him up, maybe knock him out, but the guy’s gone.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“I mean he’s fucking dead! Maybe he had a heart attack or somethin’.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. What do you want us to do?”
“Any traffic?”
“Ain’t seen a single car.”
There was a sigh on the other end, then crisp commands. “Leave him and his car just as they are. Wipe off anything you touched and get out of there now. Drive to the warehouse and park in the back.”
“Okay, we’re going.”
Two crumpled cars left the scene of the accident. In the big house on Saint Charles Avenue, a single light in the upstairs bedroom was extinguished.
• • •
The Russian gunrunner was known in his small professional circle as Clean Hands, and it was not a physical description. In the tight world of illicit arms dealers, he would not do business with just anyone; he demanded pedigree. He had refused to sell arms to Saddam Hussein, but he did sell them to King Hussein of Jordan, who then turned around and resold the very same weapons in a more circuitous route to the Iraqi leader. Islamic extremists from Nigeria had been clients. The pirates of Somalia had not. With expertise in fraudulent end-user certificates and forged shipping documents, he had an enviable network of intermediaries who were above suspicion and never questioned. No illegal trades implicated him. His hands remained clean.
It was coincidence that the shipment was being sent air freight from
an oil-producing region of Turkmenistan and that the contents were labeled OIL DRILLING PIPE AND EQUIPMENT and that they were being sent to an oil-producing region of the United States. The actual contents had nothing to do with the hydrocarbon industry. The cargo’s forged shipping documents were printed in the Cyrillic, Roman, and Arabic alphabets. Even Hanyu Pinyin, the adopted alphabet of the People’s Republic of China, was represented on the otherwise nondescript papers. To be sure, drill pipe was found in abundance in Hazar, the small town on the Caspian Sea where transit originated. Used pipe was even stacked up on the shoreline and used as a makeshift seawall, corroding, staining the waters and pitiful beaches of the stark outpost, but there was no drill pipe in the containers loaded aboard the aging transport plane.
Hazar, Turkmenistan, was a collection point for weapons because of its location and its malleable, dependable bureaucracy—one of the cheapest to bribe on the global trail of the illicit arms trade. Here were gathered consignments of AK-47 assault rifles, rocket launchers and mortars, and large-caliber military hardware of every size and description. These were purchased from remote corners of Russia, from Afghanistan and Pakistan, from China, even from Israel, though Hebrew script was not represented on the bogus documents of transit.
The plane was heavy with freight, the weather not promising, but that did not deter the captain or his copilot. Neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor dark of night would stay these couriers from their appointed rounds. The compensation at the end of the trip was enough to overcome fear. A few such runs could set a man up for life, and both members of the crew were looking forward to joining their pilot predecessors as owners of newly purchased condos on the beaches of Marbella, where they would live out their days in sun-drenched luxury and leisure. The flight plan called for them to land at the small airport in Belgium before dawn. There they would collect their cash and be sleeping in a five-star hotel by this time tomorrow in the European capital of their choice while someone else flew the final leg of the journey.
The plane left Bruges, Belgium, late that afternoon, an unusual departure time for westbound flights, but not without reason. Its arrival would be in the dead of night, that being more suitable for offloading contraband cargo. The flight plan stated New Orleans as the destination, but Houma was its target, and the minor correction would be made at the last minute. Air traffic control had been taken care of. Everything was in order. Logistics of this magnitude were expensive and time frames short. Only one representative was needed from each of the numerous federal agencies involved in an international arrival, but once these essential persons were in place, there was no going back. Plans could not be changed just because a green state trooper had decided to stick his nose where it didn’t belong.
CHAPTER 8
ROYAL STREET ART-AND-ANTIQUE WALKS, called “strolls,” had become a much favored event in the French Quarter, with each one surpassing the previous. Local chefs were invited to prepare specialties, and they upped their game with each occasion. Wines offered for tasting were premium choices. Admission tickets weren’t cheap but sold out quickly. It was a fun crowd that created not a carnival atmosphere—Mardi Gras too recent for that to be desired—but more like a lively auction without the competitive bidding. Good food and wine inspired lookers to browse the shops, and more than a few were buyers. Boucher walked the aisles of M. S. Rau, a nearly hundred-year-old antique emporium. He stopped to admire a nineteenth-century campaign desk.
“They didn’t have much of a concept of portability back then, did they? I pity the poor soul who had to haul that around at a capricious officer’s whim.”
The speaker standing beside him was not an employee; that was obvious from his cashmere sport jacket and Italian loafers. He held a glass of wine, in contravention of numerous signs prohibiting food or drink anywhere near the antiques.
“I was thinking,” the man continued, “I’ve got just the place for it—unless you’re interested, of course.” He offered a handshake. “I’m Ray Dumont.”
“Jock Boucher.”
“You’re Judge Boucher?”
“I am, and I know who you are, Mr. Dumont. Yours is one of the oldest and most revered families in New Orleans.”
“Luck of the draw. I had an ancestor who arrived early. He was probably on the run and didn’t have the fare for the next leg of his journey.” Dumont looked around. “I’d like to introduce you to Mrs. Dumont, but she’s wandered off again. That could cost me.” He smiled. “I hope you won’t mind if I go find her.”
“Not at all,” Jock said.
“And you’re not interested in this campaign desk?”
Jock shook his head.
“Then I’m going to buy it. Maybe you’d like to come see it at our house one evening. I know Elise would enjoy meeting you. We know most of your colleagues, Judge Boucher. Look for an invitation soon.” He waved and was off in a flash, still holding the glass.
It was late when Boucher got home from the art walk, at least late to be getting a call on his cell—unless it was coming from a time zone two hours earlier, he thought hopefully.
“Malika?”
“Hi, Jock. Sorry to be calling so late, but I’m going to finish my L.A. business, and I want to come see you. I was thinking Friday. Is that all right?”
“That would be wonderful.”
“Good. I’ll text you the flight and time when I have it. I’ve got to run. See you soon. Okay?”
He smiled. It was a high note to end the day.
Next morning, Boucher arrived at his office to find flat carts with boxes of files parked in the hallway right outside his door. Business was picking up. Mildred was on the elevator just behind his.
“I guess I won’t need this after all,” she said, holding the romance paperback she had brought to pass the time. “Shall we get to work, Your Honor?” She was positively gleeful, and her attitude was infectious.
“That’s what the taxpayers expect of us,” he said, opening the door for her and hefting the first box of files.
By midday, they had cleared everything out of the hall, and Mildred had devised her own filing system utilizing the cardboard boxes, which now lined the walls of his office.
“I’m guessing you want to show them you can make do with just what they’ve given you,” Mildred said.
“How did you know that?”
“I know men.”
She was right. He would ask for nothing. He’d show them, or rather, the two of them would. The diminutive matron took control, telling him what to pick up and where to set it down. The vignette of the two would have been more comical only if he had been wearing his judicial robe as she ordered him about. The phone rang and gave him a needed break from her commands.
“It’s a Mr. Arcineaux for you,” she said.
Boucher’s eyebrows rose involuntarily, and he heaved a sigh. He took the phone. “Mr. Arcineaux. How are you today? No, I haven’t. Yes, I plan to. Actually, I was talking to the owner of the company just last night. Uh, no, not about your case specifically, it was our first meeting, but it’s a start. Yes, I will. Of course. Thank you, Mr. Arcineaux.”
Mildred stared at him. “Judge, there was about as much truth in your voice just then as there are cat claws in a snow cone. Was that one of those fishermen hurt by the oil spill that you’re supposed to be trying to help?”
He looked around, longing for a window, anywhere he could look out and avoid meeting her piercing eyes. “I really was with the owner of the company last night, who—”
She raised her right hand. “Do you swear?”
He felt two feet tall. “I haven’t had time yet to—”
Again she held up her hand. “Then we need to work harder to give you the time you need to help them. You can’t lie to the poor man. You’re a judge.”
Blessed relief came with another phone call. Two so close together were notable after days of solitude in the makeshift office.
“It’s Detective Fitch,” Mildred said, handing him the pho
ne and getting in one final remonstrative glance.
“Hey,” Fitch said. “Sorry to call you at the office, but something’s bothering me, and I was wondering when we might talk.”
“We can talk now,” Boucher said, grateful for a diversion. He smiled at Mildred. She read the sign and returned to her own desk, closing the door. “What’s up?”
“I had a visit yesterday from the son of a friend of mine. State trooper investigating the body we found.”
“Yes?”
“I sort of advised him to interview the crew of the boat the dead guy was on; to keep the ship in port, if he had to, till he was satisfied. I wish I hadn’t done that.”
“Why?”
“I got a call from the father a few minutes ago. His son didn’t show up for work this morning. He and his unmarked squad car are missing. Hasn’t checked in or anything. The father’s worried. He remembered he’d told his boy to pay me a call.”
This was turnabout: Fitch seeking reassurance from him. “I know what you’d be telling me,” Boucher said. “You’d be saying it’s too early to be concerned and that there’s probably a logical explanation.”
“I would never waste such drivel on someone I respect,” Fitch said. “The kid was going to organize a tech team to go over the ship and interview the crew. Instead, he’s missing, and I feel responsible because he did just what I told him to do. I thought you of all people would understand. I’m feeling like shit. He was a good kid.”
“Was? You’re jumping to that conclusion already? Fitch, the guy might have been in an accident and is lying in a hospital somewhere. Maybe he found the love of his life, packed in his job, and flew to Tahiti. Fact is, Detective, it’s too soon to be assuming what you’re assuming, and that is exactly what you’d be saying to me if this situation were reversed.”
“Kid said he had a feeling. Now I’ve got a feeling. It’s not a good one.”
“Do you know where he was going after he left you?”
“Home to Baton Rouge. I spoke with his lieutenant. He was in constant communication with them on the drive back. He must have gone somewhere last night and found trouble. And no, no one has any idea where that might have been.”
