Vieux Carré Detective

by Vito Zuppardo

  Mario had heard she was a sharp, young attorney who worked as a prosecutor in Shreveport. The word around the office was that she came to New Orleans for the experience with her eyes on Washington, DC.

  Leah was a tall, well-built woman. Mario knew her as an aggressive, star basketball player in college and knew she’d be intimidating in a courtroom. Leah said they were reviewing the Gaspar Ricci videotape of Lorenzo Savino shooting and killing Jerry Ginn.

  She proudly boasted about her conversation convincing Gaspar to have his attorney deliver the VHS tape to her office. Consideration for immunity was solely on seeing Lorenzo pull the trigger and kill White Jerry.

  Mario glanced at the chief. A slight smile came over her face. “Impressed, Detective?”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Very much so, Madam Chief.”

  A clerk turned the lights down and hit play on the VCR, then left the room. The picture was a little fuzzy, but they could see Billy Jean Ravis walk into the liquor store. She stood in front of a wire cage that White Jerry used as a checkout counter.

  “Well secured for a liquor store,” Leah said.

  “That’s because it’s a stash house for his drugs,” the chief shot back.

  The tape got vaguer when White Jerry leaned into the wire cage, like he was trying to understand what Billy Jean said.

  “Here he comes,” Mario said, as the film showed someone coming in the door.

  “Can you make out Lorenzo?” Howard asked.

  Leah pressed pause on the VCR. “How old is this tape?”

  “Hell, Billy Jean has served eight years. Took about a year to get to court,” Chief Parks said. “Got to be nine or ten years old.”

  “No sound and a fuzzy picture,” Leah said. “That’s going to be a problem in court.” She pressed the play button.

  The video got darker and fuzzy. Seeing what looked like a hand holding something, then a flash appeared. It was questionable if it was a gunshot. You could make out Lorenzo, and he held something in his hand. Another flash and White Jerry fell forward and reached for what might have been a weapon, although it never came into view. Then a second flash came, knocking Jerry to the floor.

  The clerk was called back into the room, and he turned the lights up. Removing the tape from the VCR, he placed it in an evidence bag and gave it to Leah. The cart carrying the VCR was removed, and the door closed.

  No one said a word, eyes wondered at one another. Leah broke the silence. “The best we have is Billy Jean is clearly not around when Jerry falls. She’ll get out of prison. Lorenzo wouldn’t even go to trial based on what I saw.”

  “No real proof that Lorenzo shot White Jerry,” the chief added.

  “I’d like to get that tape to Olivia’s office.” Mario’s frustration came through in his voice. “She has some excellent technical equipment and people who might improve the quality of the picture.”

  “I’ll do that, Detective,” Leah replied. “First, I need to show the district attorney and get a few more eyes on Billy Jean’s innocence before the quality of the tape worsens.”

  “This is a lucky day for Billy Jean Ravis,” Howard said.

  Mario pounded the table. “And once again, nothing sticks to put Lorenzo away.”

  Howard felt a vibration in his coat and reached for his mobile pager. He looked at what was once a crystal-clear, plastic cover showing the message. It’s been dropped, scraped, and left in a hot car, for sure has seen better days but still readable. He glanced at the message, then his watch. Giving a head motion to Mario, he sticks the pager back in his pocket. Mario shoots him a look and nods his head.

  “I believe we all are heading in the same direction,” Mario said, standing and reaching for Leah’s hand. They shook hands with a smile. “Please, let me know when the tape is available for my crew to view and possibly doctor up.”

  Mario stands in the hall, while Howard heads for a payphone and makes a call. While talking, he gives Mario a hand gesture to come closer. “I’ll be there,” Howard said, and hung up the phone.

  “I have a code-red pickup,” Howard said.

  “I thought when Ben Stein died, so did your job.”

  “No! The company is still operating. It’s the perfect cover to keep a watchful eye on Lorenzo. I get a lot of information driving him and his people around.”

  “Tell me the code red isn’t Julie Wong?”

  Howard looked down with a smirk on his face. “Okay, it’s not Julie Wong.”

  “You asshole!” Mario shot back. “She’s a borderline assassin.”

  “Nothing borderline about her; I think she’s the real deal,” Howard said. “I’ve seen her in action. She’s not our target to take down.”

  “For now,” Mario said. “But one day.”

  “Let’s go,” Howard walked. “It looks like Julie has another job with Lorenzo.”

  Mario pulled Howard’s arm. “How so?”

  “Dispatch said to pick her up at the airport and deliver to Lorenzo’s yacht this afternoon.”

  “We need to let the chief know.”

  “No,” Howard said. “There is nothing in my reports about Julie Wong.” He stopped and looked Mario in the eye. “No need to shine a light on her.”

  Mario watched Howard’s facial muscles twitch for the longest time. He was not sure what Howard’s involvement was, but for now he’d honor his request.

  Chapter 14

  The limousine was back at the barn, a building that Ben Stein owned and which housed his limo company, a fleet of high-end limousines and expensive cars. The building, initially a barn built for horse and carriages in the late 1800s, still had one section with mud floors. A modern-day tack room kept horses and donkeys fitted with harnesses and necessary parts to keep the wagons rolling. The donkeys and carts pulled tourists through the streets of the French Quarter with tour guides pointing out buildings and places of interest. Donkeys and carts were housed at the barn.

  In a modernized part of the building, workers washed and polished cars. Howard’s limo was next for detail while he freshened up for his code-red pickup.

  He speculated, but never knew for sure, how Ben earned high-profile, international customers who flew in on private jets and never stayed more than one night. Howard’s job was to protect these clients while they were in the city, from the time they stepped foot off the plane until they were back aboard—no exceptions.

  Ben, the only person who knew Howard worked undercover, knew more about his past than anyone. Ben introduced Howard to Gretchen Parks, an investigator from another country with enough credentials to qualify for a temporary assignment. The perfect fit, as he worked as a limo driver undercover. The operation was so successful in taking down criminals, Howard remained on provisional status and continued as a limousine driver who penetrated gangs and helped take down the most violent criminals running the city.

  When Ben passed away, Howard had mixed emotions of sadness and relief. Ben was like the father he never had and gave him opportunities he could have never achieved on his own.

  His recommendation didn’t come without benefit for Ben and his businesses, but that was their secret. With Ben dead, so was Howard’s past.

  The limousine and Howard were ready for his code-red pickup. The car sat at the edge of the street, glistening in the sun. One of the detail guys opened the driver’s door for Howard, like he was a celebrity. “She’s all ready,” he said, touching up a few spots on the windshield.

  “Great job,” Howard said, taking a seat. One deep breath was all he needed to give a thumbs-up that the air freshener scent wasn’t overpowering. An excellent choice, he thought. New car leather scent worked with any overpowering cologne or perfume that customers might have splashed on their entire body. Some people feel more is better, but that’s not always the case.

  Howard took I-10 west. He was ahead of the rush-hour traffic by about an hour, and it made a difference. He preferred to sit and wait for his client on the tarmac, rather than sit in bumper-to-bumper
traffic.

  The order was a simple pickup of the client to transport and swing back in six hours and deliver back to the aircraft, hopefully with no one getting killed. That’s why Howard was called—he was the best at fulfilling the order. The destination was never revealed until the client arrived, for security reasons.

  The guard at the entrance of General Aviation, where all the private jets land, raised the gatehouse black and white, wood, painted arm blocking the road.

  “She’s ten minutes out,” the guard said. Howard gave him a hand wave and pulled around, parking the limo in a position to watch the landing.

  He saw the plane break through the clouds and descended like a bird, floating slowly to the ground. The sound of the brakes couldn’t be heard, but a dark cloud of smoke could be seen as the plane rolled down the runway. The engines were loud, as the jet pulled onto the tarmac. By the time Howard got the limousine in front of the electric stairs coming from the belly of the plane, the engines were cut and so was the noise. Howard opened the console and placed a gun in a holster strapped to each side of him, then got out, slipping his arms through his black Brooks Brothers coat.

  Waiting at the rear door of the limo for his client to come down the steps, Howard gazed at the plane and wondered as always, What business justifies a twenty-million-dollar aircraft.

  Julie Wong, dressed to a T, strolled down the steps, like a model on a runway at a Fifth Avenue showing of the latest styles. Howard greeted her. A handshake and a smile were all she ever offered, a woman of few words.

  A man at the edge of the steps handed her a small leather bag. Howard reached to assist; Julie jerked her arm back. “I have it, but thank you.”

  The limo pulled away from the aircraft, secured by armed guards until she returned. The vehicle drove back through the black and white barricade. The arm stayed in the up position for exiting vehicles.

  Julie sat in the back seat, talking on a little fancy cell phone. Howard observed. She always had the latest technology, even before it hit the states. When she ended the call, she asked, “Do you remember that jewelry store off the highway, the one we stopped at maybe a year ago?”

  “I know the one,” Howard replied.

  “Let’s stop there first,” she said, adjusting the leather bag at her feet. “Then we’ll head to the New Orleans Yacht Club at West End.”

  Howard’s eyes opened wider and even an eyebrow raised. He shot a look at her from the rearview mirror. “Not a problem.”

  “Take your time, I’m early,” she said, looking into a jeweled compact, touching up her lipstick. “Don’t want to be the first to the party.”

  “A party at the Yacht Club.” Howard anticipated the answer.

  She rechecked herself again in the compact mirror, “I’m not fond of boats, but this one is big. You barely feel it cutting through the water.”

  “Is that so?” Howard replied.

  Everything terrible ran through Howard’s mind. Lorenzo didn’t invite Julie Wong just to cruise around a murky lake. Something was going down.

  Howard entered the ramp of I-10 and headed east into the heart of the city. Off the first exit, he took a right into a pothole strip shopping center, where the only other stores were a convenience store and a dry cleaners. Not the prestige location you would expect to find a jewelry store. There was no fancy sign or manicured landscaping, just the name on the glass doors in black lettering and a nasty parking lot.

  “That’s the place,” Julie said, pointing to the name on the door.

  Howard opened the rear car door. Julie stood, then reached back for the leather bag. She strolled into the jewelry store. Howard followed, with an eye on Julie and looking for a phone. Ruling out a payphone on the outside of the building, he reached for a phone sitting on the glass showcase, undoubtedly an owner’s business line. With Julie’s back to him, his fingers punched in a phone number. Mario answered on the second ring.

  “CI,” he opened with, their code for critical information, which meant to listen and don’t ask questions, and he might hang up without warning. “Julie Wong will be on Lorenzo’s yacht this afternoon,” he whispered. “Not good—be prepared.” He hung up the phone.

  The call was short and to the point. Howard had worked with Mario long enough to know he got the drift and would arrive at the yacht ready to handle any possible problem.

  Howard got close enough to Julie to hear her say, “Good job. We got the wire.”

  “I told you to have faith,” the man said. Howard studied his face, tagged him as Jewish, maybe born in Israel. The man spoke broken English but interjected essential words in Hebrew, which Julie understood and answered. It also was one of the four languages that Howard spoke.

  Based on the Hebrew conversation, the jeweler said, “Give me six weeks to unload these.”

  It was the first time Howard had seen Julie show any emotion. She smiled and replied in Hebrew, “That quick?”

  Chapter 15

  Mario had checked in with Olivia earlier. Being cooped up for a few days and feeling better, she jumped at the opportunity to join Mario on Lorenzo’s yacht. He brought her up to date on Brandon Asher, the bartender, and Alton Simmons, from the record room. None of it was pleasing to her, but it was something she needed to know.

  Mario knocked on her front door, like it was a date. They both knew it was business, and they made each other look good at a party. When they arrived at the New Orleans Yacht Club, there was a line for valet parking. Mario pulled his police cruiser in front of the line and parked to the side. An attendant questioned him, and Mario flashed his badge and continued walking up the incline ramp to the entrance.

  As expected, Lorenzo Savino showed off his wealth with an all-out event. Spectacular lighting was streaming from the bow to stern. Lights were blinking different colors. Men and women serving drinks were wearing white pants and polo shirts with “Renzo II” embroidered in gold thread on the left, front pocket. A string quartet dressed in white tuxedos played welcoming music as the guests arrived.

  Lorenzo took every opportunity to let people know that was the name of his yacht. Renzo II was etched in gold on the mirror behind the bar. His way of impressing people was showing off his wealth and gaudy decorating choices. The young and naïve guests walked around in a daze, pointing out expensive paintings, solid silver trays, and other things they could never afford. The people who did business with Lorenzo knew how he made his money. Wet one’s beak as he often did, and bankers, politicians, and businessowners became his friends and advocates. To his face, they clarified he was their hero, making tons of money for them.

  Mario and Olivia strolled the deck, observing people, just the rich ones he recognized. The standout creeps who lived in mansions on St. Charles Avenue. The ones he arrested in their careers, only to walk, helped by some flamboyant, camera-loving attorney. He exchanged a pleasant gesture with a fake smile and kept walking.

  A man Mario knew as Giovani Esposito, at least the court records showed that was his birth name, gazed at Mario as he passed with piercing eyes just like he had in court before he walked out a free man. He was holding the arm of a woman half his age, beautiful, tall, and hair flowing in the front to one side, drawing viewer’s eyes to her oversize cleavage.

  “Detective?” The man drew first blood. “Working detail tonight?”

  Mario composed himself and gave a simple answer. “No, I’m an invited guest.”

  Giovani pulled the woman closer. He smiled and whispered in her ear. She giggled.

  Olivia felt the tension and sensed Mario was about to respond viciously. “Let it go.”

  With his gut turning and his heart wanting to rip into the guy, Mario gave them a pearly white smile and said, “Enjoy your evening.”

  “Take your little tin badge and keep walking,” Giovani said stoned-face, pulling the woman closer.

  Mario sidestepped away, then stopped. “Giovani. Tell your wife and kids hello for me.” Mario smiled. He couldn’t let it go. “You know! T
he woman you beat on most weekends.”

  “You fucking asshole,” Giovani shouted back.

  Mario took Olivia’s hand and walked away. “What a shit show this boat ride is going to be, even bigger than I expected.”

  They planted themselves at the edge of the bar in a position Mario could see from every angle, including reflections from the bar’s decorative mirror.

  The first sight of Howard came when he walked behind Julie as the crowded floor opened for her to make her presence. It was like the parting of the sea. She took the opportunity to strut herself gracefully toward Lorenzo, making sure everyone saw her. Howard’s code red was half complete, he got her to the destination unharmed.

  While Julie was occupied, Howard joined Mario and Olivia at the bar. A Jack Daniel’s and water preordered by Mario anticipated a quick fix for Howard’s tension.

  “What is this about?” Mario asked.

  “I have no clue,” Howard said, then wrapped his hand around the glass, taking a long taste. “I was floored when she gave me the directions here. Are you set?” Howard asked, while scanning the room at most of the low-life invitees but keeping Lorenzo in focus.

  Mario nodded his head and strolled down a spiral staircase; Howard followed. They were met at the bottom by a man heading up with a tray of champagne.

  The waiter made eye contact and with a well-mannered voice said, “Gentlemen, the party is limited to the main deck.”

  “We’re meeting Lorenzo in his office,” Mario said. “He’s on his way down.”

  The waiter smiled. “Very well. A glass of champs?”

  “We’ll pass,” Mario said, and they continued walking.

  Howard stood midway down a narrow hallway, while Mario eased himself into Lorenzo’s office. The room was mostly dark, except for a porthole window and spotlights over two picture frames. He navigated the room, then decided the best places for surveillance microphones were in a pencil cup on the desk and across the room under a coffee table in front of a sofa. With the push of his thumb, the mic stayed in place by the tacky substance on the back.