Vieux Carré Detective

by Vito Zuppardo

  “Okay! What do you want?” Patrick shouted.

  “The night the cop’s drink was drugged, who waited on her?”

  Patrick thought for a second. “We both did. Me and Manny. We split tips and serve everyone at the bar.”

  Mario pressed his foot deeper into his crotch. “What was the guy’s name who ordered the lady cop the last drink?”

  Patrick squirmed in the seat; Mario applied more pressure. “I don’t know. Manny must have served him.”

  “Likely answer,” Mario said, pushing his foot deeper into Patrick.

  “I swear,” he shouted in a high-pitched voice.

  The pressure from the heel of Mario’s shoe got his attention. Patrick would have given the guy up had he seen him. “One more thing; let’s take a look at the cameras in the bar,” Mario said, helping him off the chair

  “I told the cops,” he answered back quickly. “There are two focused on the register. All the owner cares about is if the money gets in the register, not who gave us the money.”

  “I want a copy anyway,” Mario said, pushing him into a makeshift surveillance room with some Radio Shack monitors hanging from the corner wall.

  Mario waited for the manager to copy the tape, based on the time frame when Olivia drank at the bar, and produce a phone number and address for Manny. He questioned a few more employees and was directed to a hallway where he found Manny Ruiz’s picture on the Employee of the Month wall.

  The bar manager gave Mario the requested information. Then Mario took Manny’s picture off the wall. “I don’t think you’re going to need this,” he said taking the picture and handing the frame to the manager.

  Mario looked over at the bar. A lady bartender was sucking up the conversation and looking at him oddly. He gave her a head nod and walked to her. “Did you see the lady cop the other night?”

  “No, sir. But I know Manny—he’s a bad dude,” she said, then bent over to wash glasses.

  “How so?” Mario asked, getting a little closer.

  “A couple of guys come in twice a week. He slips them some cash, and they drink free.”

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” Mario said, using his usual pet name when he wanted something out of a female witness.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” she said. “I work here during my off time from school, and I see things that don’t look right.”

  “Manny hands these guys money and free drinks? Why?”

  “One day, by mistake, I picked up their empty glasses,” she said, then pulled back when the manager walked through the back of the bar.

  Mario jumped in and said, “So, what school do you go to?”

  “Loyola University,” she replied, as proud as a peacock.

  Mario knew he’d hooked her as a friend. “I graduated from Loyola—criminal law.”

  Nicole’s eyes sparkled. “Is that bullshit?”

  Mario showed his Loyola ring and went into some particulars of the college, and she became a believer and most of all relaxed.

  When the manager walked away, she opened up and went into more details. Under Manny’s friend’s napkin were three packs of what she thought was cocaine in small, plastic packets. She left the glasses and drugs and walked away.

  Mario left her a little shaken but not before he got her information to follow up.

  Mario sat in his car and made a few phone calls. Then got a return call. The one he’d been waiting on, an update on Olivia. She had been moved from ICU to a room, a good sign she’d pull through. Before swinging over to Mercy Hospital, he wanted to pay Manny a visit.

  Mario studied the address the manager gave him on Manny. It was an easy drive through City Park, and he came out the other side in an upscale area called Lake Vista. The streets were named after birds—Manny’s house was on Swallow Street. He parked his police cruiser and took the brick path to the front door. The neighborhood was quiet, and the houses looked out of a bartender’s league. He gave him the benefit of the doubt that maybe he lived with his parents but leaned more to heavily involved in selling drugs. The doorbell rang once, he waited and heard no movement, so he tried again just as the door opened. A black lady answered. She was the real deal, dressed in a black dress, white apron, and scarf on her head—a typical maid outfit.

  “May I help you?” She identified herself as the housekeeper.

  Mario asked for Manny without showing his identification. It wasn’t necessary. The maid directed him around back to a guesthouse. After pumping her with questions and confirming Manny from the bar picture, he learned that Manny was a friend of the family, taking care of the garden and pool for living quarters. The homeowners were in Europe, and she had just come on duty. Many people come and go through the back entrance. She didn’t know if he was home.

  The story the maid gave added up about how Manny was living in such a mansion-style home, but Nicole’s remarks made him approach the guesthouse with caution. He knocked on the door once, then again, but there was no answer. He shook the door handle—it was locked. There was one window on the side over the pool pump and equipment. He stood on the pump and got a glimpse of someone’s feet extended on a coffee table. Shoes off, bare legs, maybe wearing shorts. Mario went back to the main house, and the maid handed over a key.

  Mario gave another knock at the door and identified himself as a police officer. There was no response, so he opened the door with the maid’s key. Manny was sitting on the sofa, the TV running some old Western movie. His legs were propped on the coffee table and, as expected, in shorts. Not anticipated were Manny’s eyes, locked wide open staring motionless at the television. A slight tilt of his head exposed two bullets in the back of his head.

  Mario called the crime scene unit over his radio, then used the house phone and called Chief Parks on her private line.

  “Chief, I’m taking over Olivia’s case,” he said.

  “Slow down, Mario,” she spoke with some resentment of him making such a bold move. “That’s my call. Besides you work homicide.”

  “That’s my point. Olivia’s case is now a homicide. The guy who slipped the drugs in her drink just got offed. A professional job—two to the back of the head.”

  “Holy shit. I’ll need details.”

  “I’m on my way,” Mario said. “I’ve got info on the dead guy’s connection to Olivia.”

  Chapter 4

  A shiny black limousine pulled into a parking garage on Iberville Street. The car backed into its reserved space on the ground floor. Howard Blitz got between the brick wall and the limo and popped the trunk. Stripping off his black suit, folding it neatly, he placed a shoulder holster and two guns on top. Then he dressed in blue jeans, a T-shirt, and a Saints ball cap, looking like any tourist. Making his way down Pirate Alley to Royal Street, he walked in the front door of the Vieux Carré Eighth Police District station. It’s a process when summoned by Mario and Chief Parks, his direct supervisors and the few people who knew he was an undercover cop driving a limousine.

  The elevator to the basement seldom used by cops brought him to the meeting place. Howard towered over Mario, who wasn’t short by any means, but Howard, standing at six foot six, could dwarf anyone.

  “What’s so important?”

  “Are we interrupting your golf game?” Mario asked.

  “You sound jealous.”

  “You’re damn right,” Mario said. “Golf on the highest priced membership course in the city and cruising the lake in Lorenzo Savino’s boat.”

  “At ten million dollars,” Howard raised his eyebrows, “it’s called a yacht.”

  Chief Parks looked at Howard and said, “Yeah, he’s jealous.” Then they laughed it off and got to business.

  Mario laid out the facts about the bartender taking two bullets to the back of his head, a real professional job. Manny had to know the killer, showing no signs of a struggle and sitting on his sofa in what looked like the start of a relaxing conversation.

  “What do you need from me?” Howard asked. “I
’m close enough to Lorenzo to ask if he offed this guy.”

  “No—take a long way around. Pump Little Pete,” Mario said. “If the Savino family is involved with Manny’s murder, his nephew, Little Pete Gallo, knows.”

  “Why would Lorenzo want Olivia dead?” Howard walked the room, something he picked up from Mario over the years when thinking out a situation. “Why don’t you come out on the yacht and we’ll double-team him. You spent a lot of time convincing him you’re a dirty cop.”

  “I don’t have time. The body count is mounting at the Eighth Police District,” Mario said, walking to the elevator. “Lorenzo knew Olivia worked legal cases for the forensic department. We didn’t hide it when she joined the party on his boat last summer.”

  “She was my guest,” Howard said. “Not a dirty cop.”

  “Still doesn’t add up,” Mario said, and pushed the button for the elevator. “I’ll wait for Lorenzo to call me. It’s too obvious if I approach him.”

  “How about you?” Chief Parks said to Howard.

  “Lorenzo still thinks I’m a limo driver,” he said, “with connections to a dirty cop.”

  “Well, let’s keep it that way,” the chief nodded. Her voice turned to irritated. “I want this asshole behind bars, until death do us part.”

  “We know, Chief,” Howard and Mario said simultaneously.

  The elevator door opened; the three took the ride to the first floor. Mario distracted the cops closest to the front door by introducing the chief to some rookies and allowing Howard to walk out unnoticed.

  Mario drove west to visit one of three people who owned a Cadillac with a plate ending in N 901 in the New Orleans area. He pulled up in front of a small, shotgun house on Paris Avenue in an area called Gentilly. Sitting in the drive was a dark-blue Cadillac. This car had accidents written all over it but was an early year model and had seen better days. Mario passed on this one just from the age, damage, and rust growing on the chrome bumper.

  A radio call came from Truman. He had worked on calling Cadillac dealerships and a few collision centers. A hit came from a Cadillac paint shop in the Central Business District. A shop manager said a man came in that morning wanting a bumper sprayed and would pay extra for a quick job. Said he was driving drunk and hit a pole. He needed the car fixed before his wife returned home from visiting her mother in Alabama the next morning.

  Mario wasn’t far away and followed up the tip. This was something he wanted to see for himself. He was directed to Gary in the body shop after arriving at the dealership. The front of the business was clean and welcoming, but the farther he walked through buildings and rear doors into a yard stockpiled with wrecked cars, it looked more like a junkyard.

  “Gary?” Mario said to a man who approached him wearing a white jumpsuit with hundreds of dried paint splatters in multiple colors.

  “Yes, I’m Gary,” he said. “You’re here about that Cadillac DeVille?”

  Gary directed Mario to the garage where the Cadillac was being prepared for painting. “The guy didn’t want to wait for me to disassemble the bumper—he said tape it and paint.”

  “Is that normal?” Mario asked.

  “For a Cadillac—owners usually want a first-class job,” he said. “And that requires disassembling and painting the entire bumper. It’s not normal.”

  Mario got the guy to hold up on the paint job and then called for a black and white unit. The license plate matched the last four digits. There were no registration papers in the car glovebox, and the trunk was cleaned out. Gary said the man dropped three hundred cash in the palm of his hand, more than enough to cover the job and told him to keep it off the record.

  Mario hit Truman up on the radio. With the full license plate number, Truman checked the Louisiana database for the owner’s name. The car was registered to Paul Castalone on Hayne Boulevard in New Orleans East. An odd place for a Cadillac owner to live among mostly fishing camps, but he wasn’t judging.

  The black and white showed up, and two uniform cops got instructions from Mario. “These guys can work, as long as they don’t leave your eyesight, and if anyone uses the phone shoot him,” Mario said, giving the officers a wink. “I don’t want anyone contacting Paul before I get to talk to him.” The officers gave a head nod and ordered the men back to work.

  Mario was on Hayne Boulevard when he received a call from Truman. Paul Castalone had a rap sheet for extortion and was sentenced to five years for torching his defunct nightclub. He served only two years, helped by his scumbag attorney, known for getting the bad guys a reduced sentence.

  Lake Pontchartrain was held back by an enormous levee. Steps were running from the street up to the camps on the other side. Mario parked across the street and walked the steps, all eighty-four, if his count was correct. Standing at the top of the mound, fishing camps lined the edge of the water. On a bright day, he could see the shoreline on the other side of the lake, but not today. Fog hung over the lake that day. There might be a glimpse of boats fifty yards out until the sun came out.

  Mario walked the pier leading to the camp when he heard a gunshot. It was common for people to rabbit hunt on the other side of the levee. He just wasn’t sure what direction the shot came from—front or back of him. Then another shot rang out. This time he was confident the sound came from inside the camp. Dropping to the wooden walkway, he reached for his radio and called for police backup. A minute later, the sound of a motorboat ran full speed across the lake. He got a view of a white powerboat cutting through the water, then lost it in the fog.

  Backup arrived, and a team of police approached from the pier behind riot shields and from the water by Harbor Police. The front door, knocked down with a battering ram, allowed cops to flood the room. Paul Castalone was dead in a chair. He departed this world the same as Manny.

  “Looks like some kind of hit,” the officer in charge told Mario.

  “It’s called cleaning up a botched hit,” Mario’s nose flared. “Olivia Johansson, contract.”

  “Who’s got the balls to put a contract out on a cop?” the officer asked. “A forensic female cop at that?”

  “I’ve got a good idea who,” Mario said. “It’s time for me to take a cruise on Lorenzo Savino’s yacht.”

  Chapter 5

  Howard Blitz stayed true to his friends, and Ben Stein was someone he would never forget and be grateful to for as long as he lived. Howard, much younger, looked up to Ben, his mentor through life. To him, Ben was an American hero. Arriving in the United States as an immigrant, he made it the old-fashioned way, working hard for every penny he earned. He had a beautiful wife, thriving businesses, and power within the community. Ben and his wife, Gloria, were the closest thing Howard had to a family. Gloria’s home now was an Alzheimer’s facility. After fifty-two years of marriage, Ben lived alone, other than housekeepers, in a luxury condo at One River Place.

  Life was good to Benny and Gloria financially, no doubt he was one of the most successful businessowners in the city, as an investment banker, with car washes, loan companies, new car dealerships, and a limousine company known for having the largest fleet in the city. Stein Limousine Services was the very company Howard worked for at an early age and now sported one of Benny’s limos as an undercover cop.

  Financially, they were rock solid, but personally, life had dealt Ben and Gloria a lousy hand. Miscarriages, sicknesses, and the blow that took all reasons to live was the death of their only child, a son only twenty-four-years-old. Howard didn’t think life could get any worse for Benny. Until this morning, when the housekeeper of thirty-five years found Benny slumped over in a chair, dead of an apparent heart attack.

  Howard was the only person who could deliver such heartbreaking news and have a shot at Gloria understanding the tragedy in her scrambled mind. Gloria Stein had the best of care and accommodations, but it was little comfort for the illness she was battling.

  Howard would make the third attempt to explain Ben’s death and hoped it would penetrate Gloria�
�s fragile mind. It would dismiss Mario’s obligation that he made to the few remaining family members at the funeral two weeks earlier.

  Howard entered Orleans Care Facility through the rear door and bypassed the receptionist, going directly to the dining room. It was 12:45 P.M., and he was sure Gloria was still moving food around her lunch plate.

  “What’s going on, Ms. Gloria?” Howard cheerfully said. Her personal aide, Alma, shot him a look. He knew the signal—Gloria’s having a bad day. All days were terrible, just some were worse than others. Howard was about to escalate her day from terrible to horrendous.

  “Benny, is that you?” Gloria said. “Come kiss your mother.”

  Any time a male visited Gloria, she always thought it was her son, Benny Jr., who died thirty years earlier.

  “No, Gloria. This is your friend, Howard,” Alma said.

  Gloria gave Howard a look, saying, “Who?”

  Over the next fifteen minutes, Howard tried to keep Gloria’s attention focused on her husband’s death. He thought he made headway.

  Then Gloria blurted out, “Oh, that’s okay. Ben’s just on a business trip; he’ll check in with me soon.” She said it with a smile and with such conviction, he almost believed her. Her fragile body barely sat up without the help of Alma. “You know this hotel is expensive. Ben has to work for us to afford such a luxury lifestyle; he’ll be back soon.”

  From across the room, Virginia Hoffmann Nazario, another Alzheimer’s care patient little better off then Gloria, intervened. “Don’t worry, Gloria, if you need money, my Tony can help,” she said. “He has bags of money from a robbery.”

  Howard didn’t want to be noticeable but had to look at the woman.

  Her aide quickly intervened. “Now, Ms. Virginia, you’re talking silly.” She turned to Howard. “Don’t mind her.”

  “She talks about her husband, Tony, often,” Alma told Howard.