Casting Bones

by Don Bruns

  On the surface, Richard Garrett was a man who oozed confidence. He’d picked up his father’s sense of business, adding a quick decisiveness that almost always led to new avenues of profit for the growing oil firm. On the surface, Garrett was a force to be reckoned with. Someone who’s wrath could bring down titans, destroy years of building, and often did.

  On the surface, Garrett’s magnanimous generosity cemented his contribution to the community and even people who had never met him had heard about the amazing work he’d done with Habitat for Humanity, the Cure and Wounded Warriors.

  Beneath the surface, Garrett ran scared. The bluff and bravado of other titans of industry, captains of commerce and business gurus might fool most people, but Richard Garrett was always looking over his shoulder, assuming that someone else was going to figure him out, take over, do a better job and kick him to the curb. His band of handlers worked their magic and he’d never been uncovered, but damn. This wasn’t a good time to have that facade fall apart. And he needed to immediately stem the tide.

  He sat down on a street bench and watched the traffic go by. Pedestrian and vehicle alike oblivious to the biggest dilemma he’d ever faced. Someone, either the law or a citizen, had evidence that he was involved in a murder. Involved, hell. They may know he was the killer.

  Grabbing his cell phone he punched in two numbers, and the voice on the other end answered immediately.

  ‘Hey, Mr Garrett. What can I do for you?’

  ‘There’s a guy, short, black, wears a sport coat, in the Quarter. Pickpocket.’

  ‘There are dozens of pickpockets in the Quarter, Mr Garrett. Pick pockets, apple pickers …’

  ‘Apple pickers?’

  ‘Guys who steal cell phones.’

  At least he hadn’t taken that.

  ‘There’s one short black guy who has my American Express card. I want my wallet, my driver’s license and that card and I want him. Am I clear?’

  ‘On it, Mr G.’

  ‘You’d damned well better be.’

  Garrett stared at his phone for a second then made a second call.

  He could hear the phone ring, one, two, three and four times. Finally—

  ‘Joseph, your ex-wife is a liability.’

  Garrett could almost feel Joseph Cordray’s gut clench.

  ‘Garrett?’

  ‘Are you going to deal with this?’

  There was a hesitation on the other end. A long hesitation.

  ‘She can be a bitch. But a liability?’ Cordray asked.

  ‘I’ve got somebody inside and they say the cops are thinking the Krewe may be involved. And,’ he hesitated, ‘me. You tell me who else would figure that out. It’s your wife.’

  ‘Hell, you’ve been seeing her. Maybe you let something slip.’

  ‘Listen, Joseph, I may have made a mistake in using her services, but I never …’

  ‘So, what do you want me to do? Have a talk with her?’ Cordray asked.

  Garrett was silent for a moment. He’d acted on impulse and probably should have thought the call through before making it.

  ‘I know now I never should have used her as an intermediary.’

  ‘You think? I only warned you about twenty times,’ Cordray said. ‘Sometimes you don’t listen, Richard.’

  ‘Don’t lecture me, my friend. I’ll admit it was a mistake. My father swore by her mother when he made buying and selling decisions. I’m sure you’ll admit he did quite well.’

  ‘Your father and Clotille Trouville were of a different time, Richard. And you and I have stepped over some boundaries. We’re in uncharted waters here. You should have left the past be the past.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘She’s psychic, Richard. Maybe more than even her mother. One of the reasons I left her.’

  Garrett cracked a smile. Joseph Cordray couldn’t deal with the fact that his wife, the Voodoo Queen Solange Cordray, was aware of his numerous affairs. He suspected that she’d put a hex on several of them. Some serious shit. One of the ladies had walked into traffic; another one had put a pistol to her head and pulled the trigger. Another reason that Garrett should have been leery of the woman. But she seemed to be so intuitive. Everything she did seemed to work some sort of magic.

  ‘Well, Richard, there’s one more thing I should tell you,’ Cordray sounded cautious. ‘I have someone who keeps an eye on her. Don’t take that any further, OK?’

  ‘Follows her? You’re her ex-husband. Isn’t that a little creepy?’

  ‘I like to know what she’s doing. Where she goes. Solange usually works at that place where her mom lives down by the river, and when she’s not there she’s in that shop where she does her business. You’ve been there. The place she casts her spells.’

  Garrett had been there. Probably one too many times, and deep down he knew that was a big part of the problem.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Several times in the last week she’s been seeing a certain cop.’

  Garrett took a deep breath.

  ‘Seeing? Like dating?’

  ‘I don’t think so. If they were dating, I’d know. Trust me. My guy is pretty thorough. They don’t arrive together and they don’t leave together. It’s a meeting over coffee, beer and I guess a pizza one time. Anyway, this cop, Quentin Archer, he’s the lead on Lerner’s murder, but I didn’t seriously think—’

  ‘Jesus. You didn’t tell me this? She’s talking to a lead detective on the Lerner case and you decide to keep that quiet? What the fuck is wrong with you?’

  ‘What the fuck is wrong with me? You had a relationship with her, for God’s sake. And you were well aware she is my ex-wife. Ex.’

  ‘I asked her for advice, damn it. My father asked her mother for advice. I’d hardly call that a relationship.’

  ‘Listen, Garrett, Solange should have been left out of this entire process. You call me and say “are you going to deal with this”?’

  There was a long silence from the other end of the phone line.

  ‘You seriously don’t know where she’s coming from?’

  ‘She could come from anywhere. Solange is a wild card. She’s capable of anything. You take it from there.’

  Garrett heard the connection go dead.

  Where the hell was his wallet? Where the hell was Solange Cordray? And what did she know?

  His well-connected world, his stature in the community as a player, his entire front was falling apart. His desire to exceed his current wealth, build his power base, to go beyond anything his old man had dreamed of, this was what drove him. And maybe he’d pushed this just a little too far.

  And maybe this witch, this voodoo lady, this seer, this soothsayer, maybe she was gumming up the works. She’d given him insight, helped with several spells and yet since he’d been using her, things had gone to hell. Three judges had become liabilities. Three judges had been eliminated. So maybe what he’d perceived as psychic intervention had been psychic interference. Maybe she was causing the problems. Maybe it was intentional. Maybe it was seriously time to eliminate the spirit. The voodoo practitioner.

  If you eliminated the intermediary, then there was no connection to the spiritual world, right? If you cut off the connection, there was no connection. Events could happen without interference. Events would end with a logical conclusion. There would be no prejudice from outside sources. No spirits, no voodoo, no magic. It seemed like the perfect answer.

  53

  Garrett’s phone rang and he glanced at the number, hoping one of his questions had been answered.

  ‘Pickpocket’s name is Samuel Jackson.’

  ‘You’ve got him? Got the wallet and my card?’

  ‘One thing at a time, boss. We don’t have him but we know who he is. Hangs out at a place called CC’s Community Coffee House on Royal.’

  ‘Can you get him?’

  ‘Eventually.’

  ‘There is no eventually. That’s bullshit. Get him now and get my wallet back.’

  ‘What
do you want to do with him?’

  ‘Do I have to spell it out? Finish the transaction.’

  ‘We’ll get it done, boss.’

  ‘Get the card. Get the wallet. Get my ID. Understand?’

  Garrett terminated the call, shaking his head. What was this ‘boss’ shit? It should be Mr Garrett. He distrusted anyone who called him ‘boss’. Hell, he distrusted almost everyone. Those who worked for him, those who didn’t. Those who threw themselves at him and those who hated him.

  Let the team deal with Samuel Jackson. They could find this street punk, get the wallet and deal with him. But he knew where to find Solange Cordray and he also knew the woman had no fear for herself. None. She feared for others, her clients, her mother, maybe even this lead cop, but she’d never exhibited any fear for herself. Which left her wide open. Vulnerable. In no way defensive. He could walk up to her, greet her, stick a knife in her and she would probably never see it coming. And that was his advantage. He was going to have to kill her. Immediately. If you want something done, do it yourself.

  The Cordray lady could see dark clouds for her clients. She could forecast evil, see signs of failure for others, but in the times he’d interacted with her, she never watched out for herself. Her selflessness, her concern for her fellow man, it would be the death of her. Garrett had penetrated her shield. He knew exactly how to break her down. And she needed to be dealt with. Right now.

  He reached the Bentley, opened the door and slid into the sleek interior. His own private cockpit, his cocoon, the soft buttery leather seats, the wood-grained dash panel and Sirius radio with its array of choices. For a very brief moment he wanted the old relationship with Solange Cordray back. He wanted to know that his problems had been solved. He wanted to be certain that the pressure would ease, that all evidence leading back to the Krewe, back to him, had been eliminated.

  He wanted to go to his spiritual leader and have her confirm his salvation. But that ship had sailed.

  He sat there for the better part of half an hour, in the quiet, wrapped in his own luxury. He never even turned on the radio. He’d always imagined that he could skate on anything they threw at him, but he knew that if they eventually caught up with him, he’d probably kill himself. He was too big to fail. And if failure was an eventuality, then he’d end it all.

  Finally, Richard Garrett stepped back out of the luxurious sedan and gazed down the street. Cordray’s store, shop, boutique, place of worship, was two blocks away. No reason to park the car in front of the business. He could walk it. And, with any luck, she would be there. If so, the deed could be done. And if she wasn’t available, he’d drive down to Water’s Edge Care Center and wait for her to get off.

  Where there was a will, there was a way and the sooner he got rid of the fortune teller, the soothsayer, the better off he was going to be.

  54

  The old man from the bayou parked his bike near a lamp post and padlocked the chain. He’d had a bike stolen from the Quarter before and he’d spent more money this time to get an Xterra chain, one that no one with regular bolt clippers could cut. No one. The chain was almost as tough as he was.

  He’d been to Clotille Trouville’s store once before. Possibly he’d violated the spiritual sanctity in that place. Possibly he had caused the gods and spirits to become angry. He’d introduced a very physical presence there. Maybe, just maybe, he’d had something to do with Clotille’s slow descent into chaos. Whatever it was, he swore he would never go back. The memories were too strong. The memories of her and what had happened.

  More often, she had come to him. The comfortable woman with the wide smile and good news. Always good news. She’d speak of the changing weather, or the positive economic forecast. She would glow about results she’d had with his herbs, spices, and magical ingredients. And it had gone from there. Friends. More than friends. And then the night at her shop. A clandestine meeting that ended with carnal knowledge. A night of passion that was filled with lust, a crazed aura that neither of them ever dreamed they were capable of. He dreamed about it for months after. Years. Nothing ever so intense had ever been a part of his life.

  Then she disappeared. Vanished. He made some inquiries but no one knew where she’d gone. He became a hermit, seldom venturing beyond his swamp.

  It was months before he saw her again, and one day she walked into his clearing, smiled at him and sat down for a meal. And although she was friendly, there was a distance that he could not breach or understand and the relationship was never the same. Within a couple of years she started bringing the girl with her, the shy one who hid behind her mother’s long colorful skirts and peaked out at him. She was a beauty even then. Dark hair, long eyelashes and a nose that turned at the tip. He could tell from first glance she was going to be trouble.

  And that girl was in trouble. Right now. He sensed it, felt it, knew it. Matebo had thrown the bones, stirred the leaves and prayed to the highest authority. There was no doubt in his mind that Solange was a target.

  It could be the cop, although there seemed to be an attraction there. It could be someone involved with the murder of the judges. The image wasn’t clear, but he needed to be there. To protect her, and truth be told, he needed to see her mother. Matebo knew he had to visit with Clotille Trouville one last time. He needed to know if he was the father of her child.

  In her incapacitated state, could she communicate with him? The lady of mystical wisdom who had been stripped of all her senses? Voodoo was a strange medicine. A mixture of faith and mysticism, and Clotille was a mambo, a priestess, who could read the elements. In her prime she had been among the best and Matebo hoped that inside the shell of this woman there still stirred the spirit that remembered the voodoo ways. Maybe she could communicate with him. Maybe she could converse or give him a sign that would affirm his suspicion.

  Anywhere else the old man would have drawn attention, the long gray hair, braided and hanging down his back. His dark brown leather vest hung over a naked, shriveled chest; his thin legs were covered by white cotton slacks that fell loosely from his waist. Alligator skin sandals, footwear that he had fashioned himself from a fresh kill, and a bracelet of feathers made from a hawk that had tried to steal a small rabbit he had killed. In New Orleans, in the French Quarter, he was almost normal. Almost.

  Walking down the sidewalk he shook his head, embarrassed by the cheap bars and tourist stops that populated the street. They reinforced his need to hide in the swamps, to live in the bayou and cease communication with the normal people of the Big Easy. If it was even reasonable to call them normal.

  A throng of Mid-Western tourists crowded the sidewalk, and he had to walk into the street to avoid their celebrations. Hooting and crowing they laughed at him as he passed by.

  Concentrating on his mission, he thought about his talk with Solange. If she was stubborn like her mother and refused to listen to his advice, then the next step was to kidnap her. Hold her hostage in his home in the bayou.

  When the danger had passed, when he felt that things were back to normal, whatever normal was, he would release her to continue with her life, but Matebo was certain he was put on this earth to protect this woman. And right now she was in danger. Extreme danger. There was absolutely no question about it.

  Matebo approached the shop, hoping she’d listen to reason.

  Glancing across the street, he saw the man in the gray slacks, white shirt and blue necktie loosely knotted around his neck. The stranger was observing him, never taking his eyes off him. Matebo was aware that he stuck out in public, but this guy’s stare was a little too intense.

  There was something sinister about the man, but the swamp man couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  55

  Archer’s phone rang as he was driving and he answered.

  ‘Detective Q, it’s Mike.’

  His favorite bartender.

  ‘Another report. The man Gandal last saw before he was killed. It was the oil tycoon Mr Richard Garrett.’
/>   Confirmed.

  ‘A contact saw them together. There seemed to be an argument. My contact says that the two of them were going back and forth. But they left together. So, my contact says they were a duo until one of them was killed. And we both know who that was.’

  ‘Thanks, Mike. We’ve got a similar story.’ The black AmEx card was privileged information. He’d kept it, stashing it in his back pocket, waiting for a chance to use the piece of plastic as evidence.

  ‘Not done yet, ami. This Jonathon Gandal, the victim, has recently been seen with a Sam Campari, a low-rent borderline mobster who does dirty jobs for some of the Big Easy’s connected citizens.’

  ‘People have strange friends, Mike.’

  ‘Ah, but this guy has been meeting frequently with our Jonathon Gandal. As I said, recently. Right around the time that the judges were being murdered. Trust me Q, these meetings have some gravitas.’

  Stepping from the wheezing Chevy, wiping sweat from his brow, Archer walked away without locking the car, half hoping someone would actually steal the clunker and maybe he could upgrade to some drug dealer’s repo’d Lincoln or Cadillac.

  ‘This Campari, he’s not the kind of guy that Richard Garrett would personally want to meet with?’ Archer asked the question.

  ‘I wouldn’t think so. Jesus, Garrett works on a reputation as a wholesome son of a bitch, but I’m sure some of his employees would say different. By my accounts, Garrett has used other people to do almost all of his dirty work. That’s why I wouldn’t think Garrett would want to get blood on his hands, but he’s apparently done that,’ Mike said. ‘We’re pretty sure he killed Jonathon Gandal.’

  Archer heard the word ‘we’. He wondered what Mike had. An entire team of investigators?

  ‘Maybe Garrett had run out of people he could trust.’ Archer was getting to that point, too, wondering who he could trust. Family, the Detroit cops, and now his sergeant and his partner. Neither of the latter wanted to pursue Garrett. But to be truthful, he didn’t trust either of them. Sullivan and Strand hadn’t shown any support for his ideas this entire case; hell, ever since he’d gotten there. Maybe Garrett had the same problem with his staff. Whatever he was involved with, he had to make it happen himself. There was no one left that he could trust. No one else to do the dirty work.