by Don Bruns
Strand ignored the comment. ‘Seriously, I have never heard that Foster was the head of that Krewe. But you know, it sounds right. I can see it. He’s the kind of guy they would want. Someone with a lot of power. And believe me, he has, or had, a lot of power.’
‘So, if I can prove Foster has, or had, intimate knowledge of who is responsible for the murder of David Lerner, you’ll back me with an investigation?’
Strand looked him in the eye, then motioned him into the hall.
‘Look,’ he said in a hushed tone, ‘I don’t know if that’s strong enough. They want to charge Duvay week’s end, and I don’t think that’s going to change their minds.’
‘You won’t back me?’
Strand closed his eyes for a moment.
‘I’m not saying I do, but what if maybe I have certain relationships with certain people.’ He looked down at his shoes.
‘Certain relationships?’ He’d been suspicious from the day he’d met his partner. This was not really a surprise.
‘On the QT, OK?’
Archer nodded.
‘There are certain people in this community. Certain people. People that make things happen. And yes, there are certain opportunities. Damn it, Q, to make a city like New Orleans work, you have to bend some rules. I’m not admitting anything, but come on, man, you worked a hard-core city. Rules aren’t made for certain people. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Life isn’t fair, so sometimes you take advantage of it.’
‘All right.’ Archer nodded his head. ‘We all bend the rules a little, Strand. I’ve done it. But how far?’
‘Don’t be judgmental, my friend.’
‘I simply want to know where we stand, Detective.’ This was exactly what he didn’t need right now. Proof that he had a partner on the take. Archer just wanted to escape the entire system.
‘I said I may have business dealings, Q,’ Strand continued, his tone intense. ‘There are a lot of cops who have side ventures. Don’t play innocent with me, Archer. Look at what the fuck they’re paying us. As I said, you can’t live on that down here.’ His palms open, asking for understanding, maybe forgiveness.
Archer had known it all along. The guy was too greasy not to be getting it on the side. He’d hoped he was wrong but—
‘I don’t know who is or isn’t a member of this Krewe Charbonerrie. Really. But I’ve got reason to believe some of the people that I have business with …’ he hesitated, finally making eye contact with Archer, ‘people I may give some information to now and then, they would be very upset if they knew I was investigating that specific organization. So I stay away from them.’
‘So that’s the way it is?’
‘Yeah. That and they kill people, Q.’ The kid who had been bullied all of his life was cowering once again. ‘That’s exactly the way it is. And you need to chill. Come on, Q. I’ll deny I ever said this if you try to narc me, but here’s how it plays out. Listen carefully.’
Closing his eyes for a moment, shaking his head, Strand continued.
‘I have information, they need information. I know something, they may pay me a little to clue them in. That’s what it is, Archer. Sometimes I can help, you know? It doesn’t go any further than that. Come on, Mr High and Mighty. Tell me there wasn’t a lot of this going on in Detroit. Tell me you didn’t play that game once in a while. I know better. Detroit has the same power struggles as any big city. Not that I’m painting myself into a corner, but there are a lot of crooked cops in your city. I’m talking about serious corruption.’
Strand had hit the nail on the head. There had been a lot of it going on. Corrupt cops, side deals, vice, bribery. It was everywhere. Archer’s family was evidence. His blood family and his wife. Some were victims, and some of them were perpetrators. Archer nodded, breathing deeply, a cleansing breath, needed to settle himself in the current situation.
‘What’s the definition of crooked, Strand? Apparently it doesn’t involve selling information. To you, that’s not a crossed line.’
‘I’m a survivor, Q, I’m not that crooked.’
Archer played the hand he was dealt. He’d tried to put a Detroit cop in jail for major drug crimes and it had all backfired. He’d had to implicate his brothers. But with Denise’s death, he’d decided now was not the time to start another war. Later, not now.
‘So …’ Strand laced his fingers and rocked back on his heels. ‘You don’t have any proof about Foster or the Krewe. You have no motive. And some anonymous source is speaking about Rayland Foster, who can’t speak for himself from what you’ve told me. Does that really make any sense?’
Archer shook his head. It was a long shot at best.
‘A hunch,’ he said.
Strand again gave him a grim smile.
‘Well, listen, man, until it is much more than a hunch, don’t bring me in on it, OK? There’s a lot of things you don’t know, rookie. Don’t fuck it up for the rest of us. And if that’s all it is, some lame hunch, I suggest you should go in a different direction, because we are about to get fucked by the press tomorrow. And it just gets worse from that point on.’
24
The Italian Pie was a hole in the wall restaurant, a block and a half from the courthouse. Green tablecloths, wooden chairs with vinyl seats, and on the wall a flat-screen television broadcasting Fox News.
Archer looked up to see the newscaster announcing breaking news. The sensational murder of a local judge had made national news and they were about to cover the New Orleans mayor’s news conference. The mayor was first to speak about the dead judge, praising his work and calling for swift action. Then he introduced the Chief of Police. Archer couldn’t wait to hear what his boss had to say, though he had been warned by Sullivan that the department would not come out looking good. Maybe the chief could stave off some of the criticism.
The conference didn’t last long. All the chief announced was that they had a suspect in custody and expected to make an arrest by week’s end. Archer tuned out when the questions started. He knew they were looking in the wrong direction and he had only until week’s end to prove it.
The smell of fresh tomato, oregano, frying sausage and baking dough only stimulated his hunger and Archer approached the counter ordering a twelve-inch mushroom and pepperoni pizza. He wanted to see if it compared to Little Italy Pizzeria on 8 Mile Road in Detroit. Great food, and one of the places he and Denise had frequented, almost weekly. Closing his eyes for just a moment he saw her. Right beside him, a funny smile on her face.
When he turned around, the voodoo girl was sitting at a table by the door. The young lady seemed to appear and disappear at will.
‘Mrs Cordray.’
She smiled and he felt that same uneasiness he’d felt the first time he’d seen her. Somewhat tongue-tied, not quite sure what to say.
‘Detective Archer.’
Nodding, he said, ‘Are you following me, or do you and I just have the same taste in restaurants?’
She glanced around at her surroundings.
‘No,’ she frowned, ‘we do not have the same taste.’
And he thought about her ex-husband, a multimillionaire. Some guy who’d made a fortune from the misfortunes and misdeeds of others. Possibly she was more the Armand’s, Commander’s Palace, August kind of girl. Archer tended to go for the lower-class establishments. The food was usually greasy, but there was more of it, and it was a whole lot cheaper.
‘So then, you’re following me.’
She nodded as he walked over and sat down across from her, facing the door.
‘I needed to see you.’
He smiled. For whatever reason, she wanted to see him. This attractive, mysterious girl needed to see him. This might be a good thing.
‘Tell me something, Mrs Cordray. What are the worst things people ask you to do? If you are able to perform miracles, then …’
‘I perform nothing. I ask for the intervention of the spirits.’ A very stern tone to her voice.
‘What do
people ask? I don’t get it.’
‘Those who want serious help ask about their financial future, their romantic future, their own future. They ask about their health. However, there are those who ask to be fabulously wealthy. I don’t think that’s ever worked. And there are a surprising number of people who ask for a spell that will kill someone.’
‘Really?’ Archer actually wasn’t that surprised.
‘Really. If there is such a spell, I’m not aware of it. And if I were aware, I would refuse to use it.’
Archer nodded.
‘And there are people who ask about the outcome of a project. They ask whether they should attempt a business deal, or take a certain trip. Will an investment pay off? They want approval before they make an important decision.’
‘OK, you had to see me for what reason?’
‘Two reasons. I have a question for you, and you may not have the answer. This may involve something that happened without your knowledge.’
Intrigued, Archer leaned in.
‘Ask me.’
‘Two questions, actually.’
‘All right.’
‘Did you keep your gris gris bag?’
Archer leaned back abruptly. How could she know about last night? He was somewhat afraid of the next question.
‘I take that as a yes.’
Pushing her fingers through her thick hair, the girl smiled faintly, and Archer noticed the long eyelashes, the full lips and the dark, perfect complexion.
‘Detective Archer, is there a chance that something happened last night that put you in danger? Something that possibly threatened you with bodily harm? Something that the gris gris, with its spiritual charm, helped avert?’
Archer was silent, staring intently into her eyes. Unless she had been the one trying to break into his cottage last night, there was no way she could have known what happened. Unless …
‘Detective. As I said, you may not have been aware. It’s an unfair question. I believe that the gris gris may have helped stop a crime upon your person. I needed to know if that were the case.’
Archer took a deep breath. If he told her she was right, he was admitting belief in her voodoo cult. A crime upon his person. Hell, that could be anything. It could be a drunk on Bourbon Street, almost colliding with him. It could be that he drank too much and was almost mugged going home. Actually, he’d been robbed in broad daylight by one Samuel Jackson, without his drinking a single drop of alcohol. It wasn’t exactly uncommon in New Orleans. To answer, or not to answer. That was the question.
‘There was an incident.’
That faint smile appeared on her face again. He’d pleased her.
‘I was working last night, paperwork on the judge’s murder, and I believe someone tried to break into my cottage. They tried to …’ He hesitated, not wanting to tell her everything but compelled to bare his soul. ‘They tried to pry a window open. It was locked and they weren’t successful. Is that what you’re looking for?’
Archer spread his hands on the green tablecloth, and Solange Cordray reached across the table, her palms on top of his hands. The detective shivered internally, the chill traveling down his spine.
‘I felt it.’ She shuddered and he felt the tremor. ‘Was the gris gris bag nearby, Detective?’
It was the first time they’d had physical contact, and it was electric. The moment took his breath away and almost didn’t return it. He’d never felt that from a touch. Almost like a sexual experience, but deeper. He felt it in his inner person, as ridiculous as it sounded, and he found himself wanting to tell her more. Man up, Archer, man up.
‘The bag was one inch from where the person was prying. The window was locked. I’m not sure I can say that the gris gris bag had anything to do with it. It had to do with the fact that I had made sure the windows were locked.’
‘Believe what you want.’
For that brief moment, Archer believed in her. But the feverish blush subsided and she removed her hand.
‘And that’s why you followed me here?’ he asked.
‘For another reason as well.’
‘OK.’
‘You are taking my presence lightly, and I understand that. I told you the last time we met that I’ve had a lot of experience with people, especially people in positions of authority, who do not understand what I – what Ma and I do.’ Pausing, she closed her eyes. ‘What Ma did.’
Archer nodded, remembering the conversation vividly. Her mother had been held for a crime she hadn’t committed. It was a cop’s nightmare to arrest someone and have them convicted for something when they were totally innocent. Unless the person was a lowlife who deserved to be incarcerated for a number of reasons. He never wanted that thought to get out.
‘Detective, I know more than you think I do. I know about your wife and the trouble in Detroit, I know about—’
‘Oh, you do?’ At the mention of Denise, he stared at her, his defenses on high alert. ‘Well, it’s easy to find that information on a simple Google search.’ He was surprised at the vehemence of his response. ‘Don’t try to dazzle me with your voodoo connections or your spiritual presence regarding my wife.’ His voice was stern. ‘I can tell you some rather shocking things about yourself, and it comes from nothing but working the Internet.’
She took her hands off the table, turned her head, gave him a sideways glance and remained quiet.
‘You were married. To a Joseph Cordray. He is a finance guy who invested heavily in private prisons. One that’s not too far from here. Made a ton of money with this investment, and moved on to a wife even younger than you. If I dug hard enough, I’d probably discover that he was able to low ball any settlement you received. Guys like that usually have some pretty high-powered attorneys who make mincemeat out of people like you and me.’
Archer was immediately sorry he’d said anything at all. The girl had pushed his buttons and now he’d stepped in it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he continued, his usual filter dropped, ‘but to tell me about my problems, to bring up my deceased wife, it’s an easy find. Anyone with a rudimentary understanding of their computer can—’
‘Detective Archer, did your intruder use a knife?’
Archer froze. He knew it showed in his eyes, in his facial expression, and yet he was dumbfounded. How the hell could she know? Casting meaningless spells was one thing. Looking up information on the Internet, something else. Having proprietary information was out of the ball park. Especially information that could only be known to two people. The actual intruder and Archer. And she was so calm. So in command of the situation. He shivered again.
Finally able to speak, in a coarse, strained voice he said, ‘Why would you ask that question? Is it a guess?’
‘I had an epiphany.’
‘A what?’ He knew what the word meant, but he needed time to regroup.
‘I had a dream, Detective Archer. A very vivid dream.’
‘And you saw a knife?’ He didn’t want to believe.
‘Detective, I needed to know if I was going in the right direction. I am now convinced of it. I have more information on Krewe Charbonerrie. Do you want it or not?’
Compared to her, Archer was not in control. He’d never felt more out of control in his life. His head was spinning.
‘How do you know about the knife?’
‘Do you want the information or not?’
‘I do. I also want to know how you have intimate details regarding—’
‘I have been informed of the new Krewe leader’s name.’
He studied her. It wasn’t often that someone one-upped him like she had. Archer leaned over the table.
‘Rayland Foster? He told you?’
‘Detective Archer, I can’t explain how this information is transferred. The old man speaks to me, but he doesn’t talk. I’m not sure I understand it myself.’
‘Why does Foster want you to have this information?’
‘He has yet to share that with me. Maybe he wants to
right a wrong. I believe he has committed a lot of wrongs in his life.’
She remained calm, and he was taken with the softness of her eyes. Light brown, with a sadness he hadn’t noticed before.
‘So you believe you know the new head of Krewe Charbonerrie?’
‘I do. If I’m correct, he is my client.’
‘You really know the new leader of Krewe Charbonerrie? You do business with this man?’
‘This gentleman has asked me to intercede in a business proposition he’s involved with.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Damballa.’
‘Damn what?’
‘The supreme ruler. The voodoo snake god. Your ruler is Jesus. We worship Damballa.’
He was Catholic, not that it mattered much, but she seemed to know that. Archer tried to process the information. Never before had he dealt with emotions like this. She mystified him, humbled him, excited him more than anyone since Denise, and yet, in his white-bread culture, he couldn’t help type her as bat-shit crazy. There was no snake god. There was no voodoo culture. This sexy black girl had his mind spinning out of control. A snake-god-worshipping voodoo queen who had knowledge of the attempted break-in at his cottage. It was all too surreal.
‘During our conversations,’ she continued, ‘I simply intercede for him. I make sacrifices, supplications to the spirits that affect his work. I had no knowledge he was involved in the Krewe. He seemed to be pleased with what I offered, and twice he has asked me for advice on projects and investments. Nothing specific, mind you. The man is very guarded in his talks with me.’
This young lady, a witch doctor sorceress, was giving out financial advice to billionaires. And they were paying for it.
‘I did a Google search. I admit, Detective, that I don’t see all the answers in my mind. OK? He’s an entrepreneur. This gentleman, with whom I’ve consulted, for whom I have prayed, for whom I have gone to the spirits, is an oil tycoon. He owns over one hundred patents regarding new uses of oil.’
‘He’s obviously wealthy.’
‘Wealth? I know of no one who approaches his value.’
