“My word. This is marvelous pizza.” Dr. Fukoda takes another bite.
“Mama Guzzardi.” Jessie says. “A local treasure.”
“The red sauce is tangy and sweet and what type of meat is this?”
“Skunk,” Beau says.
Jordan coughs, can’t unswallow what he just swallowed. Fukoda just shrugs.
Jessie snickers. “It’s Andouille sausage.”
Beau explains, “Cajun sausage. Smoked pork, seasoned with red pepper, onions and other spices.”
The expert nods, turns to Beau and says, “So you used to doodle Judy Barlow?”
Jordan slaps Beau’s shoulder. “And Jessie over there too. The man’s my superhero.”
THE SUN’S ONLY been up a half hour when Beau and Jordan step up to the line at the new police firing range and fire their Glocks at human silhouette targets 25 yards away – 6 rounds from the right side of a wooden barricade – 6 rounds from the left side. They progress through the POST course to finish firing 60 rounds.
The scorer tells Beau, “114.” He tells Jordan, “116.”
This is their third time through the course with ammunition bought using one of the ECON COM credit cards.
Hillel Jordan blinks at his target, looks at Beau.
“I beat you again.”
Beau had shot a perfect 120 score the first time through but shot two points below Jordan on the next two rounds.
“Obviously, you’re better in this environment.” Beau starts picking up his shell casings.
“But I shot BETTER than you.” Jordan steps over. “No. You sandbagged me. To make me feel better.”
“No. There’s too much time to concentrate here on the range.”
Jordan picks up his casings, still glaring at Beau.
A frosty smile crosses Beau’s lips. “Knowing how to shoot and shooting aren’t the same. Especially when it’s a moving target. Especially when they’re shooting at you.”
“Tell me. I shot up my own car. Twice.”
“That’s why I brought you out here.” Beau nods to the target. “You can shoot.”
They move back up range, picking up more casings.
“Well, I feel better anyway.”
“Good. You haven’t shot any of your partners have you?”
“Real fuckin’ funny.” Jordan stands, “And what’s that fuckin’ smell?
“Swamp.” Beau points to his left. “Bayou Sauvage National Wildlife Refuge, a 22,770 acre living swamp within the city limits of New Orleans. That’s why we came early this morning, before the steam-bath.”
In the welcomed air-conditioning in the training house, the two break down their weapons and clean them and for the next half hour Beau explains his experimental model 9mm Glock 40 with its mottled finish, black and gray camouflage coloring. Pre-sighted by experts.
“Grips are a Kevlar-ceramic mix with pinion resin, a semi-adhesive. No matter how wet my hand gets, it won’t slip. Has recoil dampening. Very little kick, even with hydro-shock rounds.”
“It looks long than my 17.”
“Extended barrel. Eight point one-five inches.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“From our mutual friend. Linda. When ATF rearmed NOPD after Katrina. I have a matching subcompact. G40B Baby Glock.”
Jordan thinks about that a minute before –
“No woman ever gave me a gun. Much less two.”
“You’re not half French.”
A BLACK BIRD sits atop the sign above the Yellow Cab Company office, wide wooden garage painted blue, corner North Gayoso and Conti Streets. Garage bays stand open on either side, each with a yellow taxi jacked up. One has a mechanic under it. Beau stops, pulls off his Ray-Bans to look closely at the bird that looks back and goes, “Grooonk.”
“Don’t see many of them around here.”
“What? A crow?” says Jordan.
Beau puts his sunglasses back on.
“Raven. See the bill. Heavier and curved near the tip. The black feathers have that purple-blue gloss in bright light.”
Jordan looks at the bird again as Beau opens the building’s office door to a breath of cold air scented with lemon. A woman in her 40s sits at a desk behind a long counter. She wears a white polo shirt with a Yellow Cab logo on it, turns to them and Beau introduces himself and Jordan as he takes off his sunglasses again, explains what they need.
She grimaces, says she doesn’t know if she can help them.
Another woman steps in from a back office. Wearing a matching polo shirt and jeans, her long hair in a double ponytail.
Beau introduces himself again and this is Maxie, day manager.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” Beau gives her the D’Loup address. “We need to check your log for any stops there. Delivery and pickup. For the last year. If you say, ‘No’ I’ll we’ll seal off the place and get a search warrant and you won’t like the mess we’ll leave.”
Maxie, who’s nearing 50, with frizzy brown-gray hair, says, “Cops. Y’all shot my husband three years ago. Thank God. Whatever y’all want is OK.”
Jordan copies down the dates and times of the 11 trips between an address on Saint Charles Avenue and D’Loup’s place over the last two weeks. Only stops in the last year.
Maxine points to the Saint Charles address on her computer screen. “That’s the Creole Palm Court.”
Last transport was Monday at noon. On the day before, Sunday, there was a drop off at 7:35 a.m. and pick up at 8:15 a.m.
Sunday. The morning D’Loup died.
Monday at noon. The burglary was discovered Tuesday morning.
“Any name listed as to the fare?”
Maxie nods Beau over. She has one of the huge screens on her desk in her crowded office that smells of cheap perfume. She points to the name: Countess Isenburg.
“A countess?”
“Billy carried her most of the time. Polite woman. Foreigner.”
No, shit. Not many countesses in the US. Only royalty around here is Queen Latifa and that singer, Prince.
“Is Billy working today?”
It takes Billy Horton only a couple minutes to get back to the barn. Short, stocky and sporting a 1970’s wild afro hairstyle, Billy eagerly shakes their hands and goes, “Whadda y’all need?”
“Countess Isenburg,” was all Beau said and Billy talked for the next few minutes.
The countess was about 50, taller than Billy, probably 5’10”, thin, blond hair and blue eyes, always dressed up, stockings and high heels, lots of jewelry and she tipped well.
“She sounds German.”
“I think she is German.”
“Last time you took her to Prytania Street was Monday.”
“Yeah. That’s when she came out with the two paintings. Too big for the trunk so we put them in the backseat and she sat up front with me.”
“Paintings of what?”
“Cowboys and Indians.”
Jordan, who’s been writing in his notebook, takes a step back and cringes.
“He OK?”
“You just said a racial slur.” Jordan says.
“I did?” Billy takes a step away from Jordan, hands in his front pockets now.
“You see how she got in the place?” asks Beau.
“First week she rang the bell and waited for the old man to let her in. After that she had her own key.”
“Sunday morning. Kinda early 7:35.”
“I thought so too but she wasn’t there long.”
Beau knew that from the taxi register. Fare to D’Loup’s at 0735 and fare back to Saint Charles 0815.
“Ever see the old man except at the doorway?”
“Nope.”
“She ever take anything else from the house?”
“Not unless it was in her purse. She do something wrong?”
Beau shrugs.
“If she stole those painting, I had nothing to do with it.
Beau goes, “We know. Thanks for the help. Was the countess alway
s alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I hope she’s not in trouble. She’s an elegant lady.” Billy digs out his wallet, pulls a small sheet of paper from it. “I asked what was that perfume she wears and she wrote it down for me. Told me it was very expensive. French.” He shows Beau the note with one word – Minonette.
Beau gets Billy’s contact information, thanks him again, thanks Maxie and the other woman, leaves his card.
“Damn,” Jordan says when they leave a half hour later. “Never seen people that helpful. Especially the woman. With the police shooting her husband.”
“Some people need shooting.”
The raven stands atop their SUV, watches them approach.
Jordan stops and stares at the bird who stares at Beau.
“What are we waiting for?” goes Beau.
“Waiting for it to start talking. Say something about Edgar Allan Poe.”
Beau takes off his glasses again and the bird gives him a, “Grooonk. Grooonk.” Spreads its wings and flaps away, right over their heads and Beau feels feathers brush his forehead.
“Jesus!” goes Jordan. “That was close.”
Beau turns, putting on his sunglasses and watches the raven fly off, wondering why it touched him. His mother’s family would have an answer why the animal touched him. An omen?
They climb in the SUV and Beau says he knows the place.
“What place?” Jordan focuses the AC to his face.
“Creole Palm Court. Saint Charles Avenue and Melpomene. About nine blocks from D’Loup’s.”
THE WHITE MANSION at the uptown-lakeside corner of Saint Charles Avenue and Melpomene Street was once a family home, one of those big American houses built in the mid-19th Century. Lord knows what happened to the family who built it. Moved or died off. According to the brass plaque next to the front door, the Creole Palm Court Hotel has been in existence since 1912.
Laid out as most mansions are in New Orleans, the foyer is now used for the hotel’s front desk, the large staircase rising behind. Sitting room to the right of the foyer, dining room to the left, rooms upstairs, kitchen in the rear. A bored bellhop sits on a cushioned chair on one side of the lobby while an older man with carrot-red hair and matching beard, both cut short, stands behind the front desk.
Beau shows his credentials, says, “Please tell Countess Isenburg the police need to speak with her in the lobby.”
The man whose name tag reads – Elton – looks at Jordan, then back at Beau, then picks up the house phone and talks lowly into it. He pulls the receiver from his ear and says, “The countess would like to know what this is about.”
“It’s about we need to speak with her.”
He speaks lowly again, pulls the receiver from his ear and goes, “The countess insists on knowing your reason.”
Beau reaches over and pushes the receiver button down, hanging up on the countess.
“What room is she in?”
“I cannot divulge that information.”
Beau pulls out his radio and asks headquarters to send a second district unit to the Creole Palm. The bellhop gets up and heads to the door to help a couple come in, taking their suitcases. The couple – middle aged – step toward the front desk and Beau cuts them off.
“The place is closed for the moment. Y’all can go sit in the dining room or right over there.”
The man looks at Beau’s badge pinned to his belt. They opt for the dining room.
It takes ten minutes before two officers come in. Both big and black and unsmiling.
“Brooks,” Beau nods to the older of the two and points to Elton. “Watch that ass-hole while we go upstairs.”
“What you got?”
“A lack of cooperation.”
“Oh.” Brooks smiles. “We’ll watch red here.”
Beau nods for Jordan to follow to the stairs.
“What are you going to do?” Elton asks as he reaches for the phone. Officer Brooks grabs it first.
Beau starts backing up the stairs.
“We’re gonna pound on every door. Cause mischief and mayhem until we find the countess.”
Elton’s mouth opens but says nothing.
Beau goes, “What you gonna do? Call the police on us?”
“I’ll call your supervisor.”
“I don’t have one. I’m the Chief Inspector of the New Orleans Police Department, douche-bag.”
“She’s in Room 201. Second floor, in the front.”
Beau knocks on the door until it opens and a woman in a yellow dress, blond hair up in a bun, bright red lipstick and a pearl necklace, walks back into the room, leaving the door open.
“Come in, offizers.” A heavy German accent
She moves to a loveseat, sits, crosses her legs. High heels and stockings. She a pretty woman in her mid-40s, tall and slim.
Beau pulls out his notebook, looks at her and says, “Albert D’Loup.”
She looks at Jordan, then back at Beau. “What about Albert?”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Sunday. Has zomething happen to Albert? What type of offizers are you?”
“NOPD Critical Investigations Unit. I’m Chief Inspector Beau.” Beau looks at his notes. “What time Sunday?”
“In ze morning. Maybe 8 a.m. I go for coffee but he vas not feeling vell, so I go. I only stay a few minutes.” Her eyes search Beau’s. “You make me vorry now. I vent to Albert’s the following zay but he vas not there.”
“How did you get in?”
“In? I have key and Albert give me the combination to zee alarm.”
“How long have you known each other?”
The countess stands. “Have something happen to Albert?”
“You better sit back down. It isn’t good.”
The countess sits, her hand moving to her throat and Beau watches closely as he tells her Albert is dead. Her eyes grow wide then quickly fill with tears and she reaches for a box of Kleenex.
“How?” She sobs. “Vhen?”
“He suffered a heart attack Sunday. Right after you left.”
“No. No.” Her shoulders sink and she leans forward and cries louder. They wait and Beau notices the room smells like strawberries. Jordan snoops around the room. Besides the door to the hall, this front room has two other doors. Jordan moves to one, Beau the other.
She notices as they open the doors and peek in.
“You search for zomezing?”
Beau spots the Remingtons leaning against a far wall of a bedroom, a crate similar to the one that had carried the Renoir between them. Beau closes the door and turns back to the countess.
“You were at the D’Loup house Sunday morning, countess. What happened?”
“I told you. He vas unwell.”
“How long have you known Albert?”
She wipes tears from her face. “Long time. I come to America to see him at beginning of zis month.”
Beau puts pen to notebook again, sees Jordan already writing in his.
“What do you mean a ‘long time’?”
“We know one another since children.”
She starts to stand.
“How did you get those paintings in the other room?”
She stops. “Albert give zem to me.”
“After he died?”
She stands all the way now. “He give zem to me when I first come. I bring zem here to ship to Germany.”
“May I see your passport, Countess?”
“I call the German Counsel now.” She heads for the telephone. “I do not have to present passport to local police.”
Yes, you do – thinks Beau.
Jordan steps in her way, shows her his badge and credentials.
“I am an ATF special agent. US Department of Justice, ma’am. Your passport, please.” Jordan’s face looks sweaty again. He’s in another suit. Lord knows why.
She steps to her purse and pulls out her passport, then picks up the phone and calls a number from memory. She speak
s in German to whoever answers.
Her passport is German all right. Edna Greta Schwandorf, Countess Isenburg. She’s 49 years old, stands 5’10” with blue eyes and blond hair. She pulls the phone from her ear and says the Counsel wants to know if she’s being detained or taken into detention.
“No, ma’am.”
Beau takes photos of her passport with his iPhone, makes sure they come out and gives her passport back.
“The paintings,” he looks at her. “We’re taking them into evidence.”
“But Albert give zem to me.”
“You have that in writing?”
The countess squirms, says something in the phone and the two men go into the bedroom and pack up the paintings in the crate. She steps in as they start to carry out the crate.
“The Counsel wants your name and the name of your supervisor.”
They put the crate down and Beau digs out a business card, puts it on the bed.
“My supervisor? I answer directly to Superintendent Féroce.”
“Who?”
“The Chief of Police.”
They get the crate into the SUV and Beau calls Jessie.
“Gonna need to use your vault again, Babe.”
“My vault’s been getting more action from you than I have lately.”
“Yeah? Warm up your office sofa. I’ll be over in ten minutes.”
“Slow down, boy. I’ve got a meeting with a boardroom fulla bankers from Luxembourg in a twenty minutes.”
“I won’t take that long.”
She gives his the raspberry. “You’re taking my breath away.” She hangs up.
He pulls the SUV into traffic and calls Claire.
“We have your Remingtons. Can you meet us at the vault?”
JESSIE WEARS ONE of her short mini-dresses, dark green and fitted. It’s so short, when she stands she has to pull it down to cover the tops of the thigh high stockings she prefers to wear. Beau told her, when they first started out, how sexy it is to catch a flash of stocking top.
The vault’s open and she breezes up to Beau, pecks him on the lips and shows him how to shut the vault and spin the combination lock. She pretends she doesn’t notice Jordan hawking her out.
“The meeting’s upstairs.” She backs away. “Do I look like the kind of executive men all the way from Europe would mind meeting?” She does a slow, sexy pirouette, scoops her iPad off her desk.
The Great Beau Page 7
