“Damn.”
“It’s worse. They’re Nazi loot.”
“Fuck.”
“Which means they had to come over when Albert owned the Vault. Not his father.”
“Unless Claire’s playing us.”
“According to the Silvers Vault, she signed that card but never stepped inside the vault until she went in with us. Gotta go. The FBI’s here.”
Beau gets their attention, tells Juanita and Jordan about it, then asks Jordan what Customs and the airline said.
“About what?”
“The fuckin’ countess.”
“I know.” Big smile. “Edna Schwandorf, Countess Isenburg, did not enter the US at the airport. She came in on cruise ship Emerald of the Seas, Royal Caribbean line.”
Beau to Juanita – “Is that cruise ship you took?”
She shakes her head. “Norwegian Voyager. Different cruise line.”
Back to Jordan, Beau asks, “How many other foreign nationals came through with the countess?”
“Plenty.” Jordan pulls out his notes. “We got 8 Chinese, 8 Japanese, 3 South Africans, 6 British, 8 French, 8 Italians, 9 Canadians, 2 Mexicans, 2 Brazilians, 1 Swiss.” He looks up. “And 2 Germans, counting the countess. Both boarded at Cozumel. I’m about to go over to the German sub-Consulate again. And why didn’t you tell me Juanita isn’t Mexican?”
Juanita covers her eyes with a hand.
“Who the fuck said she was Mexican?” Beau grins.
“She straightened me out. Half-Cuban, Half-Costa Rican. Did you know she met someone on her cruise?”
What? Damn. Why didn’t she mention it to me? For the last year Beau and Juanita have been close as partners should be. Friends tells friends what’s up in their love life. Even cops. Especially cops who have few, if any, friends without badges.
Beau waits for Juanita to look his way. “Who is he? More importantly. Where’s he from?”
“New Orleans.” says Juanita. “Met him at a midnight singles mixer. Skinny dip party in the adult pool.”
She’s getting good at keeping her face serious.
Jordan chides in, “So he got to check out your good parts and you got to check out his junk before he got you drunk and whipped it out on you.”
“Is that how you operate?”
“Hell, yeah. I never show a sober woman my shortcomings.”
Oh, no. There’s a crack in Juanita’s face. Almost a smile.
“And he got to see your goodies all wet and slithery. Didn’t he?”
She looks at Beau who says, “Who told you to tell a skinny dip joke?”
“Who says I’m joking?” She gets up with her empty coffee cup.
Jordan goes, “You fornicating with me?”
“I would never do that.”
“I don’t mean having sex with me.”
She shuts her eyes. “I know.” And walks out.
Jordan calls after her, “What was the name of your cruise ship? I gotta go cruising.” He smiles at Beau. “You think she’s serious?”
No. But I could be wrong.
“What you waiting for?”
“Huh?”
“The German consul.”
Jordan stands. “Sub-Consul. I’ll go see Herr Schikendudorfenberger.”
“That’s his name?”
“Something like that.”
Alizée sings to Beau again and he sees the call is from Emilie Deslonde from Silvers.
“I didn’t know if I should call you first or 911.”
“What happened?”
“A man in an Armani suit put a gun to my head and made me open the D’Loup Vault. He handcuffed me to a table and searched the place. He’s been gone an hour. I need to review our security procedures.”
Mother fucker keeps a step ahead of me.
EMILIE DESLONDE TRIED to convince the robber the vault was like a bank safe deposit box. It needed two keys to get in but he told her he’d worked in banks for years and knows there’s an override and assured her she’d open the vault or he’d blow her brains out. He put a bullet into the top of her desk. She points to the hole and a pair of handcuffs next to it.
“No one heard?”
Deslonde takes out a hairbrush and brushes her hair. Beau and Juanita stand in her office with her. Two NOPD patrol officers stand just inside the door, ready to take the initial report.
“Apparently not. My assistant was at lunch and the guards downstairs. Told you I need to review our security procedures.”
Deslonde sits and types on the white keyboard in front of an enormous computer screen, silver with a glowing white Apple Computers emblem and dictates a description of the man Beau and Juanita write in their notes – white male, late 30s, dark blond hair, blue eyes, 5’10’, 200 pounds, 1 inch scar on the left side of his chin, wearing a silver-blue Armani suit with a black tie and a silver Rolex watch. The handgun was a Glock 42.
Could be the man in front of Claire’s house.
She nods them over to see her screen where a smaller, thinner version of Beau’s 9mm baby Glock without the mottled finish, slowly rotates.
“A .380. Carries 6 in the magazine, 1 in the chamber obviously. Slimline subcompact.” She points to the screen. Her fingernails are painted a pale purple. “Super-concealable.”
Juanita points to something on the screen. “It’s not available in the US yet.”
Wait’ll Mr. ATF Jordan gets a load of this.
The Glock site says it’s only available in Austria, Germany and Switzerland.
“The man spoke with a German accent only I think he’s Swiss.” Deslonde switches program and they see an image of the man coming into the Vault Center, walks up to the guard and the guard picks up a phone.
“He called me. The man claimed to be from Banque Suisse. That’s in Bern, Switzerland. He sounded Swiss to me.”
“You can tell?”
The video shows the man in the elevator then walking toward Deslonde’s office. They shake hands and she leads him inside and he pulls his gun from a tiny holster at the small of his back and when she turns he steps up and presses it against her head. They talk for a couple minutes before he puts a bullet into the top of her desk. She takes him to the vault. He pulls on blue surgical gloves, pulls out a pair of handcuffs and cuffs her to the leg of one of the metal tables bolted to the floor. He takes her phone away and spends the next fifteen minutes searching the place, tossing jewelry around. Takes nothing except her cell phone which he tosses in a trash can outside the vault after he closes her inside and leaves the building, waving to the guards on his way out.
“He couldn’t lock me in and eventually, when our guard who supposed to make rounds every nine minutes heard me yelling.”
She punches more buttons and snapshots of the man’s face pop up. She finds two good ones.
“Right outside the vault. As I opened it.”
Damn good pictures. Can even see the little scar next to the man’s chin.
“Can you email me the video and these snapshots?”
She nods. “You’re email address is on your card, I remember.”
“I don’t see any bandages on his hands,” Beau tells Juanita.
“Bandages? Not none anywhere.”
“So why do you think he’s Swiss?” Juanita asks. “He said he was from there?”
“I vacation in Saint Moritz, ski there every winter. Meet lots of Germans and Swiss and this man’s Swiss.” She looks at Beau. “Do you ski?”
“Tried water skiing once to impress a girl. Ran over an alligator. Never went again.”
Juanita states the obvious. “He never touched anything without the gloves.”
Beau looks at the handcuffs, takes out his pen and turns them over, sees it’s the Dutch brand LIPS, waves the younger of the two officers over.
“When the crime lab shows up, have them dust the cuffs and take it into evidence. And get the bullet outta the desk.”
He notices the officer’s name is Piazza.
He ass
ures Deslonde the officers will write a good report and if she needs better security she can call Mystery, Inc. Puts Jodie’s work number on another of his cards.
“They do security consulting beside PI work.”
On their way out he stops in front of the other officer, grabs Juanita’s arm, nods to the other officers man name tag. Peperone.
“Peperone – Piazza. Wish Claire could see this team.”
“LET’s GO TO the Royal Caribbean Cruise Line office,” Juanita says as they step outside. “Everyone gets photographed and issued a photo ID to go on a cruise. Didn’t Jordi say a Swiss disembarked along, along with two Germans. We’ll get pictures of the French and Italians too.”
“Good thinking.” They climb into the blue SUV and he adds, “Partner.”
She sticks out her tongue.
At least, Beau thinks, we’ll get a good picture of the fuckin’ countess.
Then again, sometimes long shots pay off and this one does.
LATER, THEY MEET Jordan back at the office to put the picture from the cruise line on a BOLO for the lone Swiss guy who disembarked. Fritz Erik Reinach of Zurich, Switzerland. He’s 39, 5’10”, 195 pounds, blond hair and blue eyes with a small scar on the left side of his chin.
“You’re a pretty good witness,” Beau tells Deslonde when he calls her to thank her again for the quick pick on the photo lineup they put together. “He’s 39.” He gives her the man’s name and tells her they’ll email her the BOLO flyer with his picture soon as it’s ready.
“That was fast work. You work that fast with women?”
“I’ll ask my girlfriend.”
“Oh, you have one of those.”
“Ever hear of the painting NUDE IN RED?”
“No.”
“Check it out online. Artist Pablo Cortez website. My girlfriend was the model.”
Now begins the steps to locate this fuckin’ Fritz Erik Reinach. Aileen brings in color prints of the BOLOs of Reinach and the countess.
“Can you take him with you?” Juanita says as the three head out.
Jordan takes out his earbuds. “Enough with the soundtrack. I got work to do. Who am I riding with? And why can’t I drive?”
Beau to Juanita – “He’s all yours.”
THE NUDE IN RED model lies on the sofa with a cold compress over her eyes. Jessie’s in a white T-shirt and cutoffs. Stella stands on the back of the sofa and looks Beau.
“That smells great.”
“Roast beef muffulettas,” Beau says.
Stella goes, “Arowl. Arowl.”
Stefi comes in with Scamp. She’s in a white T-shirt and cutoffs as well.
“My mother, Lady Macbeth, gave us both migraines.”
“It’s not a migraine.” Jessie’s voice sounds scratchy. “It’s just an old fashioned Italian-mother headache.”
Beau reaches behind his back and pulls his obsidian knife from its sheath at the small of his back. He raises it, shows off the volcanic rock blade, honed to a razor-sharp edge that could slice through the toughest buffalo hide.
“Want me to talk to her?”
Stefi reaches for it. “Can I borrow that?”
It’s not a traditional Italian muffuletta with salami and olive salad. It’s actually a roast beef sandwich on a 12-inch round muffuletta bun and has to be eaten with a bib because of the gravy. Picked it up at Jeanfreau’s Market along with steak fries. The muff’s cut into quarters and Jessie and Stefi can only eat one quarter while Beau eats a half. He brought three muffs home, put two in the fridge.
“Do you want to hear what caused our headaches?” goes Stefi.
“No.”
Jessie’s eyes play with Beau’s and she has that look that later tonight –
He asks how her day went and she tells him about an online video conference with bankers in Japan, who are early risers.
“They’re coming in a few weeks. They want to know if I can have someone take them to Bourbon Street.”
“Pawn ‘em off on Stan.”
Jessie can only imagine. Stan-the-man Smith, ex-NOPD, now an attorney/private eye, the greatest police officer in the history of NOPD, just ask him. The only man she knows whose been banned from Grand Cayman, all Walmarts, Disneyworld, Greenland, Bermuda and Saint Lolita, where he never made it pass the airport.
Who the fuck gets banned from frozen-ass Greenland?
Beau’s smiling now.
Jessie says, “Wait’ll Claire gets a load of Stan-the-man.”
Stefi asks, “Who is Stan-the-man?”
Jessie and Beau answer at the same time – “You don’t wanna know.”
Scamp decides climbing up Beau’s leg is the quickest route to roast beef.
Later – Jessie locks the bedroom door and curls a finger at Beau.
“Come over and strip me. With your teeth.”
FOUR HOURS INTO their futile search for the countess and the Swiss guy, Beau gets a phone call from Thomas James Madison, Director of ECON COM.
“The State Department is sending two specialists Monday. You are their point of contact.”
Beau rolls his eyes, tells him OK, watches Juanita show the pictures of the fugitives to the old woman in the house at the end of the block from Albert’s place.
“Don’t you want to know what kind of specialists?”
“What? Stolen Nazi art?”
“You got it. I’ll email you their information.”
Juanita walks back to the sidewalk, pulls off her sunglasses and looks at the dark clouds moving in from the lake. Jordan crosses the street to them.
“I hate it when someone tells me to have a blessed day.”
Lightning flashes in the distance, followed by a roll of thunder and Beau leads them back to their cars, parked in front of the chief’s house.
Jordan’s not finished. “Have a blessed day. What? Without them saying it, would my day not be blessed? What if I don’t want a blessed day? What if I’ve had 126 blessed days in a row and I’m want a sinful day? What if I want wine, women and song – bad songs – country music? White boys howling about cheating women. Hillbilly girls crying about broken hearts. What if I want to eat little chocolate donuts and watch porn? Now I can’t because I’m blessed. The internet porn goddess will tell me to come back tomorrow because I’m having a blessed day. I tell you, it’s too much pressure. Which makes me re-think my usual greeting – ‘Have a nice day, man.’ What if he’s had 126 nice days in a row and just wants a funky day, full of rain, lightning, thunder, women skirts flying up in the wind kinda day? Then I go say have a nice day and there’s no rain, no lightning or thunder and plants die from lack of water and no one will EVER know what that hot girl is wearing under that short red skirt. I tell you. It’s too much pressure.”
Just as they reach the SUVs, the rain starts.
Beau to Juanita – “For God’s sake. Take him with you.” He climbs into the blue SUV.
She’s got no choice. Jordan’s got the keys and she climbs in, wipes the rain from her face.
“Too much pressure,” Jordan says.
“Is that how your mind works?”
“Pretty much.”
Before they pull away in the separate SUVs, Beau’s radio goes, “CIU 2 to CIU 1.”
Juanita calling.
“Go ahead.”
“What now?”
“Let’s go to the airport and catch any cabbies we missed.”
Needless to say, with so many independent cab companies, many who work out of their cars, the best place to find them is the airport. Tomorrow, when the cruise ships start loading up, Juanita and her partner will be there.
Before they reach the Earhart Expressway, the SUVs are moving through high water and Beau calls Juanita on the radio.
“10-22. Rain delay.”
“10-4.”
Beau turns into the neutral ground to back track to Claiborne to get home.
“Call me tomorrow when y’all are done or get something.”
“You’re not coming
?”
“I got another lead.”
He puts his radio down and pulls out his cell before Alizée starts singing, doesn’t have to look at the screen to know it’s Juanita.
“Another lead?”
“Gonna track down the grass cutter.”
“Sounds like a two man job. Jordan can handle the airport.”
“Nice try.”
Both know it’s the other way around.
“Yeah. Yeah.”
Before he hangs up, he reminds her to not work late. She has a date with the guy from her cruise, as if she doesn’t remember. He takes Claiborne all the way to Carrollton to double back to St. Charles and home, pulls over in front of an old wooden Creole townhouse sandwiched between a large Mexican restaurant and a Regions Bank. The large sign out front reads: Chinese Food. A simple sign with good food inside.
He calls Jessie. “Better get home before it floods, Babe.”
“Already here. Contemplating supper.”
“I’m sitting in front of Chinese Food.”
“I love you.”
THE NEXT MORNING Beau catches the grass cutter at home as the man’s waiting for the sun to dry the grass from the monsoon that went on until almost midnight last night. Calvin Young fills his riding lawnmower from a 5 gallon can as it sits on the low trailer behind his red Ford pickup. Young’s around 50, almost 6 feet tall, thick bodied with light brown skin and short black hair. He wears denim overalls and black army boots. Beau wears a sky blue T-shirt with a black NOPD star-and-crescent badge in front and black 511s with his plainclothesmen duty belt with handcuffs, pepper spray and extra magazines in cases along his left side, his obsidian knife in its sheath at the small of his back and gold badge clipped to the belt in front of his holster and Glock on his right hip.
Young looks up as Beau arrives, his eyes moving to the badge and his hands shake as the can empties. He looks down as he puts it in the back of his truck.
“What year’s your pickup?”
“1966. Short-bed.” Young wipes his hands on a red rag, doesn’t look up.
“Prytania Street. You cut two lawns next to one another. Miss Féroce and Mr. D’Loup.”
The Great Beau Page 13
