Odd Partners

by Mystery Writers of America

  Marty squinted. “Why does that matter?”

  “I’ll get to that. Second, the boss didn’t kill your brother for nine months after the theft, then shot him as soon as Kokopelli Insurance paid off Maureen Littleton. Very suspicious. I was pretty sure I knew what was going on, but I needed some information from Ms. Littleton.”

  Willie was getting interested and sat up straight. “What kind of info, bro?”

  “The amount of the payout. That wasn’t released to the public.” Willie and Marty just blinked. “The O’Keeffe was only insured for about a nickel on the dollar, maybe less. But if the painting had been stolen when it was in the possession of the museum, or during its transfer back to Maureen Littleton’s house, the museum’s insurance would have covered it at more or less current value.”

  Tom paused, but the others only blinked at him. “Okay, final point. Whoever pays off the insurance claim then owns the painting. They can do what they want with it. So, Kokopelli Insurance, owned by Raymond Schubert, now owns it. You can bet the farm that in a very short time, that painting will mysteriously reappear with a cover story about having turned up in a garage sale or something. Raymond Schubert will get his photo in the papers as he trots over to Sotheby’s, auctions it off for ten or twenty million, and what do you know? His business is solvent again, probably with a few million to spare. Understand now?”

  The blinking ceased, and Marty even grinned.

  * * *

  —

  Fifteen minutes later, Tom led his small team into Espresso Junction. Tony was none too happy about a potential shootout in his coffee shop. “Not to worry, Tony. I don’t figure the bullets will fly. We just need to scare this asshole enough that he bolts. I figure we can pressure him into a confession before the cops show up. You can be a witness.”

  Tony snorted. “I won’t witness much from the floor behind the counter. You’ll owe me after this one.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll buy all my coffee beans exclusively from you.”

  “You already do.”

  Three rows of folding chairs faced a microphone in the shop’s left rear corner. The walls were lined with local art for sale. A small table to the left of the mike sported a stack of about a dozen books with matching covers. They were copies of a new southwestern mystery by a local writer, but Tom rotated the stack until the spines faced away from the seating. He placed a couple of menus atop the pile to hide the front cover.

  The crowd was sparse, as planned. By two-thirty there were eight people scattered among the chairs. Two silver-haired ladies in jeans and hiking shirts were chatting in the front row. A kid in black with multiple piercings and earbuds was furiously working a phone with his thumbs. One of the baristas took a seat in the back row next to Tony, and two men Tom recognized as regular coffee hounds folded their newspapers and grabbed seats toward stage left.

  The eighth person was a man who looked about fifty, and wore a leather jacket over a checked dress shirt. He sat in the last row in the seat closest to the front door and had a small satchel on his lap. Had to be Schubert. Tom figured Schubert would leave right after the signing and then tail Marty to a lonely spot for the hit.

  Willie was leaning against the wall near the door. He flipped his right index finger at the man in the leather jacket. Tom gave a single nod and walked to the mike.

  “Thanks for coming, everyone. I’d like to introduce our visiting author, Mr. Martin Corbin.” He extended his left arm in the general direction of Marty. Two or three people clapped. Tom’s right hand was wrapped around the handle of the revolver in the pocket of his windbreaker. “There has been a slight change in the program this afternoon. The theft of Georgia O’Keeffe’s beautiful painting caused quite a sensation in these parts. Rather than have Mr. Corbin simply describe the events, we’ve arranged to have a representative of the FBI Art Crime Team preside over a genuine sting operation. That would be me.” Tom flashed a realistic, but phony, copy of his old FBI badge. “Everyone please move calmly to the sides of the room while I take Mr. Schubert into custody.”

  Schubert bolted from his chair like a cat exiting a hot griddle, but as he spun for the door, Willie felled him with a short right to the solar plexus. Schubert collapsed and rolled onto his back. Willie knelt beside the gasping insurance man and held a blunt combat knife to his throat. Nobody screamed. Four of the other attendees were frantically taking pictures with their phones. The first cop car arrived in five minutes.

  * * *

  —

  Another half hour passed before Tom could cool off the cops, wave goodbye to Mr. Schubert, and lead his two comrades back to the office. He poured a round of Jameson doubles. Willie lurched to his feet and proposed a toast. “To a long life, Marty.”

  Marty sank into a sad smile. “A longer one, at least. But what happens now?” He turned to Tom.

  “Not sure, but here’s a guess. Schubert is facing a first-degree-murder rap, but he’ll weasel his way into a plea bargain. I don’t know where he’s got the O’Keeffe stashed, but if it’s hidden well enough, he can toss in that chip to try and sweeten his deal. Besides, murder trials are expensive, and this is a poor state. So maybe his lawyer will try to get him murder two.”

  Tom paused and scratched the side of his head. “As for the painting, once Schubert confesses to the theft, he won’t own it anymore. Ownership will revert to Maureen Littleton, so it will return to a wall in her beautiful house. Kokopelli Insurance will belly up, and nobody will care.” Tom frowned. “Of course, this means we’ll get no commission. Maureen didn’t hire us, after all.”

  “What will happen to me?” Marty was sagging in his chair and staring into his still-full glass.

  Tom felt a twinge of guilt. “Sorry. No cash for you either. But there’s a bright side.”

  “How could there be?” Marty sounded forlorn, but he couldn’t hide a twinge of hope.

  “There isn’t any hard evidence that you participated in the theft of the painting. Schubert didn’t hire you and had never met you until today. He only suspected you because of a comment made by your late cousin, Alex. So, Maureen has her painting. The cops have their murderer, but no case against you. They may drop by your house a couple of times and growl, but you’ll walk.”

  Tom stood up, walked over to Marty, and stuck out his hand. “Good working with you, Marty. If you get tired of Uber, give me a call. Though I warn you, we miss a lot of paydays.”

  Marty stood and took Tom’s hand. “I could do worse. And don’t worry about me. I’ll get by. It’s good to feel like an almost honest man again.” He nodded at Willie as he left.

  * * *

  —

  One week later, a long, rectangular package arrived at the McNaul Brothers office. Tom opened it carefully. The box contained a dozen long-stemmed roses and a note in an envelope. He searched the package and envelope, but found no check. The note was from Maureen Littleton: “Tom, darling, I’m eternally grateful for your help in recovering my gorgeous painting, and I’d like to thank you. Please join me for dinner at my home tomorrow evening. Shall we say eight? Don’t worry. It will be catered.

  “By the way, I may need your services. I seem to be missing a small piece of art from my guest bedroom. I had a small sketch by O’Keeffe on the wall above the bookcase. I’m sure it was there a couple of weeks ago.”

  From Four till Late

  A Nick Travers Story

  ACE ATKINS

  “Sorry about the hour, Nick,” Luther Jones said. “Considering the situation, the police couldn’t do much but nod and act like they give a damn.”

  “You don’t think they give a damn?”

  “In New Orleans?” Jones said. “Shit. When’s that ever happened?”

  Nick shrugged, standing in the lobby of The Roosevelt hotel with Jones, head of hotel security, right by the old “mystery clock.” The marble clock stood ten feet high, wit
h an onyx base and a bronze woman holding a scepter in her hand. The scepter swung in a continuous circular motion, seemingly without effort. A plaque at the base read it had been displayed at the Paris Exhibition in 1867.

  “Where’s the girl’s mother?” Nick said.

  “In her room,” Jones said. “The father was drunk as hell and passed right out.”

  Jones had on a size 50 Long blue blazer with a silver security pin. He was big and black and had a deep voice that sounded a lot like the guy on the Arby’s commercials who advertised that they Have the Meats. When he and Nick had played for the Saints, Jones made up a key part of the defensive line, an almost impenetrable front.

  “How old is the girl?”

  “Seventeen,” Jones said. “Met up with some friends and never got home. Momma called those friends and they said she left them in a bar in the Quarter after midnight.”

  Nick had known Luther Jones for almost twenty-five years. They’d been through two-a-days, three seasons with fans wearing paper sacks on their heads, and a rough transition into regular life after pro ball. Jones had gone into work for a security firm and Nick had gone back to school, a master’s in Southern Studies and now some teaching at Tulane. Sometimes he ran favors for friends, tracking down lost items and lost people. Jones called him from time to time for important guests. Pretty much all VIPs.

  “I’ll call her mother,” Jones said. “Her name is Kendall Bogardus.”

  “That’s mighty Southern of her.”

  “High-dollar folks from Oxford, Mississippi,” Jones said. “Rolled into town Friday and checked in to one of the Astoria suites. Little girl’s name is Kaitlyn. Also with a K. Just watched the security footage of her leaving the hotel. Looks as if the young lady changed her attire after dinner with her parents. Wearing a dress about as big as a cocktail napkin.”

  Jones walked to the valet desk and picked up the house phone. Nick wandered deeper into the long, wide-open expanse of marble and brass. The floors displayed intricate patterns of marble inlay, mosaics of bright colors. He felt a little shabby in his threadbare Levi’s, white T, black leather jacket, and black cowboy boots. He hadn’t had time to shave or comb his long, graying hair, a little Jack Daniel’s still on his breath after playing a gig at the Maple Leaf.

  “Mrs. Bogardus will be right down,” Jones said. “The daddy’s a pudgy dude with beady little eyes and no chin. The kind that wears a seersucker suit and a bow tie. Has a lot of money and wants you to damn-well know it.”

  “One of those,” Nick said.

  “Yeah,” Jones said. “You know all those motherfuckers.”

  “Sure,” Nick said. “Wish I didn’t.”

  “The girl posted some stuff on Instagram at a karaoke bar on Bourbon. Left her friends after midnight. Said she was walking back to the hotel.”

  “Maybe she met a new friend?”

  “The girl’s friends are in contact with Momma,” Jones said. “They say that ain’t the case. She was alone.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yep,” Jones said. “The Roosevelt would be mighty grateful if you’d go and do your thing, man.”

  “Sure,” Nick said, looking at his watch. “Just remind me what I do again?”

  “Stir up shit,” Jones said. “Find folks.”

  “Oh yeah,” Nick said. “That’s right.”

  * * *

  —

  Kendall Bogardus was a tallish woman with blond bobbed hair, lots of makeup especially thick around the eyes, and long fingernails painted bright red. She wore a short black silk romper, cut low to show off a lot of cleavage and riding high to show off a pair of muscular legs. Her calf muscles flexed as she walked in some incredibly high black suede shoes, smelling like the inside of Neiman Marcus and wearing enough gold and diamonds to fill a jeweler’s window. The clothes, the hair, the shoes seemed to be more suited for a woman half her age. But what the hell did Nick know? His Levi’s were older than the missing girl.

  “This makes me so damn mad,” Kendall said, following Nick down Bourbon Street, neon shimmering in the puddles. Strippers stood outside clubs in kimonos, smoking cigarettes and looking tired. “This was supposed to be a relaxing family weekend. Dinner at Commander’s, shopping at Canal Place, and then we finally got reservations at Pêche. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get reservations there?”

  “About as fancy as I go is a crawfish po’boy at Domilise’s.”

  “Well, it’s hard,” she said. “We had a wonderful dinner until Brantley had one too many cocktails and made an ass of himself. Kept sending back the fish. And there was nothing wrong with the fish. The fish was fucking perfection. That’s what really got us off the rails. Kaitlyn hates when he drinks. He gets so damn cocky. She’d about had enough of his bullshit, and took an Uber to meet friends.”

  “When was that?”

  “About eight. I’m so embarrassed about this I could just spit,” she said. “Having to call down to the concierge and ask for help finding our daughter. This isn’t like leaving my purse at some restaurant or getting tickets to a Pelicans game. That big black man called the police, and they made me feel so silly.”

  “Luther Jones,” Nick said. “His name is Luther Jones.”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “Of course. The police told me that young people often get into mischief in the Quarter, implying that Kaitlyn shacked up with some boy she just met.”

  “That does happen,” Nick said. “Occasionally.”

  “Oh no,” she said. “Not my daughter. And if she’d decided to stay out late, she would’ve texted me. Oh God. What am I doing? Walking down Bourbon Street in the darkest part of the night with some strange man I just met.”

  “I’m not that strange,” he said. “Odd. But never strange.”

  “This is such a damn nightmare,” she said, taking long strides in those high shoes. “This place is so horrible. I haven’t been down here since college.”

  “I haven’t been on Bourbon Street since before Katrina,” Nick said. “Only reason I come to the Quarter is to visit a little blues bar on Conti.”

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “Most of my life.”

  “And you were here for the storm?”

  “Of course.”

  “And?”

  “It was worse than you heard,” Nick said. “Although this part was high and dry.”

  “My husband loves New Orleans,” she said. “He comes down here all the time on business. He says he loves the food, the bars, and the casinos. Loves the Saints and the Pelicans. He entertains a lot of clients.”

  “And what does your husband do?”

  “Medical supplies,” she said. “Don’t ask me any more than that. I really don’t know. Brantley makes money. That’s what he’s good at. The only thing he’s good at. I really don’t ask a lot of questions. We moved to Oxford last year from Jackson. Better schools and less crime. Jackson has become way too urban. Kaitlyn had a tough time readjusting. I was hoping seeing some old friends would help her.”

  “She knows people down here?”

  “Friends on spring break.”

  They weaved in and out of the Bourbon Street scene, through the drunks and cigarette smoke and flashing neon and pounding dance music. Strip clubs, puke bars, and dirty little dance clubs. Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club, Barely Legal, Déjà Vu, Crawdaddy’s, Chris Owens Club, Pat O’Brien’s. People were dancing, fighting, screaming, and laughing. Every bit of human emotion could be found in a single block at any point in time.

  “When was the last time you heard from Kaitlyn?” he said.

  “A little after eleven,” she said. “I thought she was coming home early. She said she was tired and bored out of her skull. We were supposed to have breakfast at Brennan’s tomorrow. She adores the bananas foster. But that’s all shot to hell now. My husband is catatoni
c, my teen daughter is missing, and I’m about to break my neck walking in these damn heels.”

  “I’d be happy to carry you on my back.”

  Kendall smiled at him. She had little crow’s feet around her eyes and would probably be much prettier when she scrubbed all that makeup off.

  A skinny black man wearing no shirt and missing most of his front teeth tried to whistle at her but only made a whooshing sound from his open mouth. “Damn, Momma,” he said. “You got some of dat junk in dat trunk.”

  He offered her a hit from a pint bottle of Aristocrat Vodka. They walked past, Nick pointing ahead to the karaoke bar where Kaitlyn’s friends had last seen her. He checked his watch.

  It was a quarter after four and the party was still going strong.

  * * *

  —

  Nick showed the bar’s bouncer a pic of Kaitlyn from her mother’s iPhone.

  “Yeah,” the bouncer said. “She was here. Hard to miss that little bitty dress, showing all that skin.”

  Kendall shot the bouncer a hard look and then turned back to Nick. The bouncer was slightly larger than Luther, with biceps larger than Nick’s thighs. His shirt read SECURITY, as if there was any question about it.

  “Damn good body,” the bouncer said. “She was singing ‘Party in the U.S.A.’ with some friends. You know that old Miley joint? They were hot as hell. Some dude was doing body shots off her tits.”

  Kendall walked up to the big man and tried to shove him. She would’ve had a better chance trying to move the Superdome. Nick tilted his head toward her and looked up at the bouncer. “The girl’s mother.”

  “And she’s seventeen,” Kendall said.

  “Looked eighteen to me,” the bouncer said, smirking.