Long Shadows: A Mystery Thriller (Winton Chevalier Book 1)

by John Oakes

  Julius shook his head and laughed. “Jesus, man. I get it. You’re welcome.”

  “A fancy hooker too,” Winton added. “The ones who stay at the Radisson by the airport.”

  “You know all about the hookers, then?”

  “Long story.”

  Winton finished his drink and ordered another, along with some ice for Julius.

  “So, uh.” Julius adjusted his visor. “You wanna talk about who put you in that trunk?”

  Winton accepted his fresh drink from the barman with a nod of thanks and brooded over the amber liquid like a wizard peering into a crystal ball. The answer was simple. So, why was it difficult to utter? Winton knew why. Because if he said it, he’d have to put the pieces together. There was no avoiding it anymore.

  “I dunno, man,” Winton said.

  “Sure you do,” Julius said.

  “Maybe I do.” Winton drank and set the glass back down, wobbling on its base. “Maybe I do, and I don’t want to. Maybe I just wanna get back to the people who need me.”

  Julius nodded slowly. “That’s a thing you can do. You got a wife? Kids?”

  “Wife. Baby’s on the way.”

  “Nothing’s wrong making sure that got put first.”

  Winton realized his fingers were trembling on the table. He squeezed them into a tight fist that couldn’t quite sit still. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared in my life, man.” Winton swallowed hard and his eyes grew hot. His elation fell away, and the terror latched back onto him.

  Julius finished his drink.

  “I’m sorry if I’m keeping you,” Winton said. “Jesus, I must look like—”

  “You look all right.” Julius leaned in, shoulders looming larger as he did so. “You look like a man who needs to make a decision.” He reached out and clasped his warm hand over Winton’s trembling fist. “I know a little something about that too.”

  Winton set his jaw, feeling strength from this strange man, something to help hold the icy fear in his heart at bay. “I’ve always thought that fear was useful,” Winton said. “It taught you to be smart. To avoid trouble.”

  “That’s one school of thought.” Julius leaned back with his fists on the table. “Then again, maybe fear is a motherfucker.”

  Winton nodded, fists still clenched on the table. He looked over his right shoulder out a window. West, toward his wife and his new house, toward the resort, his true home with his truest friends. With the full knowledge of what he was risking, Winton looked east, toward New Orleans, toward Elgin and the Cajun, toward Remus.

  Toward Lucas.

  Winton tossed his drink back and pushed his glass the center of the table like a gambler betting his last stack of chips. “You know the way to Baton Rouge?”

  NINE

  The late winter day grew unseasonably warm, so they drove along the highway with the windows half down. Julius reclined in his seat, one hand resting lazily on the wheel. “They tell you that the skills you learn in the Army are going to get you a job when you get out. But that’s worth about as much as all the Army’s promises. We’re supposed to be able to go to the VA, too.” He glanced at Winton. “Well, I can tell you I’m carrying around a mess of knowledge about helicopter maintenance that ain’t gonna do me any good, and scar tissue in my shoulder that ain’t gonna remove itself.”

  “I know a thing or two about nagging injuries,” Winton said. “Now that I have the money, I’m going to the best orthopedic surgeon in Houston. She says when we’re all done, I won’t have any limp.”

  Julius smirked. “I thought you were just walking like a pimp.”

  “You know that’s right.”

  They drove past farms until they crossed the Mississippi and got on I-10 north, the main drag between New Orleans and the capital. From there Winton could navigate to their destination using the route in Lucas’ phone. The surroundings changed from farms to rows of leafless elm trees and the outlines of huge chemical plants near the river.

  “It’s not all bad,” Julius said. “Once I realized the government didn’t give two shriveled shits, it dawned on me real hard that I wasn’t gonna do much better than cab driver. Nah, not for me, man. I realized I had to look after my own self. I scrimped and saved and bought me a duplex. Just a little thing, two beds, one bath each, but that rent money started adding up. So I scrimped and saved and bought a house. Me and my cousin, we turned that into four apartments. Quite a bit of work and hassle, but what else am I gonna do?”

  “That’s awesome. A self-made man. I can’t even claim that for myself.”

  “My dream is to get comfortable enough that I can flip houses, but not like normal. Usually when you do that, it’s just taking advantage of price differentials. Then you fix it up and better off people move in than the folks that left. Gentrification, they call it.”

  “That much I do know,” Winton said. “I have a degree in urban planning. About as useful as knowing helicopter maintenance most of the time.”

  “Gentrification. What it really means is whiter-fication.”

  “Often true.”

  “But see, what if someone else helped offset the cost of the materials and labor?”

  “Like a charity?”

  Julius smiled. “Like a TV show.”

  “Oh.” The idea bounced around in his mind. “Okay. Like those fix-it-up shows that constantly play on HGTV. Those creepy tall twins.”

  “Exactly. Those are my boys. Don’t hate on the Scott brothers. But there ain’t ever been a brother on HGTV. Know what I’m saying?”

  “You’d be like the Jackie Robinson of home improvement.”

  “Damn right. Make New Orleans a better place. Help teach upper middle class, white TV watchers about renovating a house. And make them feel the warm fuzzies at the end.”

  “Combining aspirational TV viewing with white guilt?” Winton’s mouth fell open. “My god, man. You’re an evil genius.”

  Julius flashed a wry grin.

  They were getting close to Baton Rouge. Winton directed them off the interstate. They meandered through residential streets into a neighborhood where the lots grew larger and more secluded by rough iron fencing, overgrown vines and runners, and lush old trees.

  “I think this is it.”

  Julius braked to a stop before an open gateway straddled by two blockish pillars and an iron archway.

  “Go in, I guess?” Winton said.

  Julius rolled his car forward onto chunky gravel, and a long driveway stretched out before them. It meandered around a stand of live oaks, then straight toward a circle drive before a stately, but not huge, brick home. It appeared newly built but with some antebellum charm.

  “I thought it’d be bigger, set way back here like some old plantation house.” Julius craned his neck to look out the windshield.

  Winton spotted a black SUV parked at the edge of the circle drive in front of a three car garage with doors closed. “Hard to say if anyone’s home.”

  “Doubt it. Look.” Julius pointed. Up a steep flight of stone steps sat a brown door with black iron accents. A single strand of police tape hung from one side of the door frame straight down to the welcome mat.

  “A crime scene,” Winton said.

  “I think we’re someplace we’re not supposed to be.”

  Winton gave Julius a look. “Did you think we were heading up here for waffle cones?”

  Julius rolled his eyes and they both got out.

  “What if someone’s in there right now?” Julius shut his door and took a tentative step. “The tape’s pulled off. Maybe someone went in.” He pointed at the SUV.

  Winton set his jaw to one side. “Nah. What are the chances they’d be here right now?”

  They trudged up the steps and tried the door. Winton was hoping it’d be open, perhaps to ease the comings and goings of any investigators, but alas it was not. “Guess no one’s here,” he said.

  “Guess I gotta shove your ass through a window again,” Julius said.

&nbs
p; “Bet they didn’t teach you that in helicopter school.”

  Turned out it wasn’t necessary. The sliding glass door on the patio opened up with the lightest shove, coasting to its fully open position.

  “Hello?” Julius called out. “Anyone home?”

  Winton looked up at him, palms out.

  “What? I don’t wanna get shot.” Julius called out again. “Hello. Don’t wanna alarm anybody. Especially any trigger-happy white people.”

  “So much for stealth,” Winton muttered.

  But when no one called back or appeared, Winton was glad to lower his guard a little.

  “First thing. Who lives here?” Winton asked. “I’m gonna find some mail.”

  “I’ll have a look around.” Julius warily poked his head into the formal dining room then disappeared. Winton turned the other way off the main hall into the large kitchen. An island took up the middle of the room with pots and pans all hanging from a suspended rack above it. He passed through without noticing anything helpful and crossed a hallway to another door, finding himself in the rear corner of the house. Arched windows let in lots of natural light and tall bookshelves lined the walls. This was some sort of office or study.

  The big hardwood desk had atop it the hallmarks of real work being done, like a tableau of an active occupation frozen in a moment of time. There were rolls of blueprints, legal forms, financial books. Winton decided it was all too cluttered to have been a useful work space. He had to wonder if the police had pulled these items out to examine them for evidence. Winton looked them over, taking immediate interest in one large chart that displayed the stretch of river between New Orleans and Baton Rouge, titled “Port of South Louisiana.” Notations had been made at certain points of interest, but Winton couldn’t make out the scribblings and didn’t know if he cared.

  He rifled through documents until he found something with a name on it.

  “Chrisos Maroulis.”

  No computer, only unplugged USB cords, a keyboard and mouse: evidence that the computer itself had been taken.

  Julius found him in the study and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You’re gonna wanna see this.”

  Winton followed him to a solarium on the second floor. Inside, a domed glass atrium was supported by criss-crossing rafters. All around the circular room, glass umbrella doors let light in, keeping the room much warmer than the outside air.

  “A sun-worshiper,” Winton said, glancing about. He pointed to the crime scene tape torn away at the entrance. “Did you do that?”

  “Nah.”

  “What’s so special about this room?” Winton asked, stepping inside. “None of the others are taped off.”

  “I think whoever lived here lived alone. Judging by the bathroom, that is. A man. Had monogramed towels and robes. CSM.”

  “Chrisos Maroulis,” Winton said. “That makes sense.”

  Winton toured the room, noting the cabana lounge chairs, yoga mats, exercise balls and a collection of free weights. “Part work, part relaxation,” he said to himself.

  “Here it is.” Julius looked down at his phone. “Chrisos Maroulis, seventy-one, found dead in his home Saturday evening by apparent suicide.” He looked up, lip curling in disgust, then back to his phone. “While details are still forthcoming, the Baton Rouge Police Department is processing the scene. The Greek-American shipping magnate has no known offspring, nor was he currently married. It is unclear at this time where the Maroulis fortune will go.” Julius furled a hand. “Yadda, yadda…”

  Winton grimaced, showing his teeth. “Aww, the crime scene tape. You think Maroulis did it in here?” He looked up to the rafters.

  “Good place for it, I guess.” Julius also looked up. “Plenty of room to dangle.”

  “Was he sick or something? Seventy-year-old millionaires aren’t your prime demographic for self-harm.”

  “Doesn’t say. But this article is from two days ago. I could see if there’s anything more current.”

  “Why on earth did Lucas come here?” Winton asked. “I guess we know who pulled down the police tape.”

  “You sure he came here?” Julius said. “He did the search on his phone, but it doesn’t mean he came.”

  Winton didn’t have a ready answer for that. “Well, if he did come, it was because he knew something about Maroulis. Maybe he was looking for something. Maybe he wanted to make sure it was a suicide.”

  “Your brother is missing,” Julius said. “And his fellow cops locked you in a trunk. The cops are involved somehow. Makes sense if they took Lucas.”

  Winton stroked his stubbly chin. “But they were still looking for him, too. I think they wanted to prevent me from finding him first.”

  “If they’re still looking, then at least your bother isn’t caught.”

  Julius was making a logical attempt at optimism, but it didn’t make Winton feel any better. The cops could have Lucas and still want something else. “Another thing. These two cops that took me, they did it because I searched Lucas’ cruiser before they got back to it. They’d missed something when they brought it back. Something Captain Remus wanted.”

  “And now they think your brother has it.”

  Winton snapped his fingers. “Of course. They were the ones who messed up Lucas’ apartment,” Winton said. “You don’t do that to a place if you’re just looking for someone.”

  “But some thing,” Julius added.

  “Something they didn’t find it in the cruiser.” Winton did a slow turn. “Maybe something Lucas took from here.”

  “But man.” Julius put his face in his hands, swiped them down and steepled his fingers under his chin. “I just don’t get why your bro would care about this Maroulis guy.”

  Winton didn’t understand it either. “Let’s keep searching, then.”

  The house had been picked over. Every drawer, every closet had been torn through. Cushions had been slashed and reseated, cut-side down.

  “We ain’t talking about a routine investigation here,” Julius said. “This was a sloppy job.”

  Winton spotted an out building through a window. “There’s more storage out there.”

  They walked down the garden steps into the rear yard which fronted on an arm of bayou water. Maybe a stream system meandering through reeds and sparse willows. As they approached the shed, Winton noted it was much older than the main home. The closer they got, the more odd and deceptively large the building was, with its sagging roof and mossy stone walls.

  Winton pulled the iron door handle, but the door didn’t budge. Only one old door, but there was a single window to either side, glass so warped and drooping it couldn’t be considered translucent anymore. The first window was so swollen in its frame, it couldn’t have been opened in a decade or more. Shards of broken glass lay beneath the other window.

  “Shit. There you go,” Julius said.

  “What do you see?” Winton walked carefully across the glass to the window sill, but couldn’t peer over. A strange sound grew louder, like the buzzing of the bayou on a hot summer night.

  “I dunno.” Julius loomed above him, scanning the dark space. “Ah, hell.”

  The smell hit Winton’s nostrils a second later, pungent and sickly sweet. Something dead and rotting. The loud buzzing of the bayou was coming from inside the shed.

  Both men coughed. Julius spat repeatedly. “Gonna have to burn these clothes.”

  Winton waved a hand. “Gimme your jacket then.”

  Julius took it off, and Winton threw it over the window sill. Julius cursed. “I guess we know how this works.”

  Julius hoisted him from behind and Winton stepped through the window with a hand clamped over his mouth. A wobbly desk covered in more broken glass supported his weight, enough that he could get down to the floor without falling. He was swarmed with insects, mostly flies, battering into him from all sides like a groom being pelted with rice. He leapt for the door, unlocked it and tumbled out onto the grass, gasping for breath.

  Some of
the insects dispersed out the door, but most stayed to feast on whatever dead thing lay inside.

  “You see what was in there?” Julius offered him a hand up.

  “Just glanced. Wasn’t a dead person I’m pretty sure.” Peering back through the door, Winton noticed how much of the space was taken up with small drawers and compartments. Some had been locked, some not, but every single one of them had been wrenched or bashed open.

  “Lucas didn’t do this.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s not destructive like this. His are sins of omission and unreliability more often than not. He’s flaky, not harmful.”

  Julius had his red t-shirt pulled over his nose and a hand clamped over it. “But these cops looking for him…” Julius said in an equally nasal and knowing manner.

  “Don’t exactly take surgical care,” Winton said. “Right.”

  The picture formed a little more in Winton’s mind. “Reckon I need to find out who these cops are and what they’re looking for. And who the hell is this Remus guy, really?”

  “Is there a point in going in there? It’s already been ransacked.” Julius swatted at the flies buzzing about him.

  “No stone left unturned.” Winton pulled his sweatshirt over his nose and stepped inside. It felt bigger now that he moved slowly, taking in every detail. He pulled out Lucas’ phone and turned on the flashlight. Illuminating each compartment, Winton surveyed the scene. He found dried plant matter, herbs, roots. There were books in what Winton recognized as Greek and Latin. Papers and parchments were scattered about with indecipherable writing, some very old and weathered, some college ruled, torn from a store-bought notebook. There were earrings, necklaces, rings, but where precious stones might normally go, these held bones and beads, carved into different shapes with symbols on them.

  Claws, skins, dried berries. Dried corpses of whole frogs and lizards and fishes. The contents of the building began to tell a tale of potions and sorcery. This wasn’t just a storage space, though. The other end of the shed had a raised platform, and on the bowed wall behind it, old paint depicted a scene no longer visible. The floors were a darker shade than the walls or ceiling. They were caked in layer upon layer of dried blood, gone black as tar.