Vieux Carré Detective

by Vito Zuppardo

  A shocker was when Ozzy said the money wire came from Tony Nazario’s account from a Panama bank. Everyone in the room looked confused until he cleared it up, with an outrageous explanation. While their lives seldom crossed in public, Ozzy and Tony were childhood thugs and good friends. Promised each other if they ever got life in prison, they would make sure the person never served a day in jail.

  It was Mario who asked for a break and got Howard in the corner to rehash.

  Mario went back to the table and asked, “Ozzy? I know you’re up in age, but you’re still going to prison until the day you die for killing Tony. What’s the difference if you go to jail or Tony?”

  “I understand, Detective. It was the best move for both of us. I got my brother’s care paid for as long as he lives. If there’s any money left, it goes to the facility to help other people. Tony got his wish. And me,” he paused, “I’ll be dead before my brother. I have stage four cancer too widespread throughout my body to tell you which organ is most affected. I will die of cancer, and soon. I was given a max of four months to live—that was twelve weeks ago. I’m living on borrowed time.”

  Chapter 24

  The traffic on Canal Street backed up in both directions, as always during the work week. Office workers were heading home, and hotel, hospital, restaurant, and bar workers were going to work for the night shift. Mario flipped his red and blue flashing lights on his dashboard and took to the center road marked Street Cars Only. All cops do it, especially the impatient ones like Mario.

  He took a left at Bourbon Street where he had to flash his lights and hit the siren a few times to make it down two blocks. People don’t respect cars or the street on Bourbon after six P.M. Two more right turns, and he was on Royal Street and stopped in front of the Hotel Monteleone. The Carousel Bar could be seen from street level, and it was packed. He left his dashboard lights blinking and flashed his badge at the doorman. Inside, with his shield held above his head, he walked quickly to the bartender’s station.

  The man, dressed in a white shirt, red tie, and red vest, widened his eyes when Mario flashed his gold shield in front of him. “Believe it or not, this is police business.”

  “Who you looking for?” the bartender asked, stopping what he was doing.

  “I need four Sazerac,” Mario said. “To go.”

  The bartender was new and got a more experienced person to fill the order. An older man stepped up. Mario had seen him before, bartenders move around a lot. Jump from bar to bar until they find the right fit.

  “Frank?” Mario said.

  “Detective,” Frank replied, with a smile.

  “You want four Sazeracs to go?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Mario, a Sazerac to go?” Frank said. “In a plastic cup, it’s going to taste like crap by the time you get where you’re going.”

  Frank looked around, then gave Mario a wink. “Hold on. I’ll fix you up.” He returned shortly with a box and placed it on the bar. When Mario offered to pay, Frank waved him off. “Official police work. On the house.” Mario threw him a twenty for a tip. Frank shouted over the evening crowd noise, “Thanks.”

  When Mario arrived at Orleans Care, he walked directly to Otis’s room and placed the box on the nightstand. Then he cleared away knick-knacks and tissue holders. The facility was alerted that police were coming through with several people. Mario went back out to the front. It was a sight to see. Howard led two police units with his limousine. Looked more like a presidential motorcade than a criminal escort. Two officers helped Ozzy out of the back seat of the first police unit. The shackles were taken off his feet, but the handcuffs remained.

  They strolled Ozzy down the hall. Nurses and doctors were rubbernecking to see the man in handcuffs. He sat in a chair next to his brother. Only Mario and Howard remained in the room. Mario opened the box, pulled out four old-fashioned glasses, and set them on a towel covering the nightstand. Frank had included a stainless-steel cocktail shaker, and from the ice bucket kept bedside, Mario filled the shaker. Adding brandy from a flute and the rest of the ingredients Frank told him about, he gave it a good shake. Mario watched Ozzy’s eyes. He’d look at the shaker, then look at his brother. There was enough for four drinks, and he poured the liquid evenly into each glass, added lemon peel and a sugar cube to each glass.

  Mario looked around. The officers were talking among themselves in the hallway. He unlocked Ozzy’s handcuffs, gave a nod of his head, and handed Ozzy and Howard a glass. He placed the fourth glass on the nightstand next to the bed.

  They all lifted their glasses and said, “To Otis,” then took a sip.

  Ozzy, with tears in his eyes, told Mario, “Thank you, and you don’t make a bad Sazerac either.”

  “It’s all Frank, the bartender,” Mario said. “I just mixed the drinks.”

  The three clinked their glasses and knocked back the rest of the drink. They gave Ozzy a minute with his brother. He held his hand, said goodbye, then drank Otis’s drink. His emotions got the best of him, and he sat back in the chair. Mario put the cuffs back on, and the officers were called to take Ozzy back to jail.

  “Thank you, Detectives,” he said to Mario and Howard, “for making this happen.”

  Mario seldom got emotional with any case. This guy had murdered people and lived on the wrong side of the law for most of his life, and yet Mario still felt some compassion for the old guy. It was crazy. To the end he’d stayed faithful to his brother and even though he killed his lifelong friend Tony, Ozzy remained loyal to him too.

  Mario waved the cops off, and he walked Ozzy to the car. The rookies followed closely behind with hands resting on their holsters. Mario shook his head. “You think the old guy is going to run?” Ozzy walked slowly, taking in every sight, and when he hit the outside daylight, he sucked in the fresh air. Mario could see in Ozzy’s face, he accepted what faced him in the coming days.

  “Ozzy,” Mario said, pulling his arm. “Give me one more thing?”

  “What’s that, Detective?”

  “Give me something on Lorenzo Savino.”

  Ozzy smiled, then paused. “Never liked the guy. Received everything on a silver platter. His father was a standup guy. Lorenzo? He’s a little prick.”

  “Got anything?” Mario asked. “Information that hurts him or his business operation.”

  Ozzy sat in the back seat of the car with his legs firmly on the ground. “If you want to hurt a wise guy,” he waved Mario closer, “don’t go after him for the people he killed, the scams, or any other crimes.”

  Mario stood looking down at the man, slowly sinking into the seat. “What? What do we go after?”

  “Follow the money. Find it, take it, and Lorenzo is crippled. He can’t pay for new drug shipments, murder for hire, probably has enough cash for one week of payroll, in a local bank.”

  “No shit, Ozzy. Law enforcement agencies have been looking for years,” Mario picked his legs up and placed them in the car. “Find the money, and he goes away for tax fraud.”

  “Not really,” Ozzy said. “You can never prove the money is Savino’s. That’s why they use international banks. No names, just numbers.”

  “Mario,” one cop said, “we need to get Ozzy back to the station.”

  “Let’s go,” Mario said. Throwing the other officer his keys. “I’m riding in the back with Ozzy. Call backup and have someone drive my car to the house.”

  For the fifteen-minute ride, Mario pumped Ozzy about Panama banking, where the rich thugs kept their money. Unfortunately, Ozzy wasn’t spilling anything to Mario, and the feds didn’t know about international banks. They arrived at the underground garage of the police station. News reporters flocked to the place. Mario pulled a white sheet from the trunk, one that police used to cover bodies on the street. He got Ozzy out the car and covered him with the sheet. Holding him tightly by the arm, Mario directed him behind an officer who led the way into the building. Once inside, Ozzy thanked Mario again for all he’d done.


  “Mario, it only takes seven numbers to transfer money,” Ozzy said. “Find Lorenzo’s numbers, and you’ll take him down.”

  Mario’s face showed disappointment; he’d hoped to get more specific information. He watched Ozzy stroll down the hall, escorted by the officers. Ozzy stopped and turned back.

  “Detective! Wise guys keep the numbers visible. They can’t afford to forget them, lose them in a fire, or misplace them. I know one guy who branded his cattle with the seven numbers, another hung the numbers over a barn, it didn’t mean anything to anyone but him.”

  “It’s that simple?” Mario shouted down the hall.

  “Yes, sir,” Ozzy could be heard, as he turned a corner in the hall. “They enjoy having it visible. It’s like a game to them.”

  A rookie cop pulled up with Mario’s unmarked car, and he called it a night. He promised Olivia he’d bring her dinner and picked up something to go from Venezia Restaurant. They sat around her dining room table with long-stem glasses, drinking wine and eating from containers. Back on the job only a few days, she filled Mario in on what was happening in her forensic department.

  “Oh, Tony Nazario,” she said. “He died of a single gunshot to the head.” She kept a straight face, if she could. Then laughed.

  “Real funny,” Mario said. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  They talked business mostly, and Mario filled her in on Ozzy’s thoughts regarding Lorenzo’s bank account. Familiar with international banking from an earlier career with the US Department of Justice, she had followed the money trails of deviant drug Lords of Colombia.

  “Panama’s banking laws are simple,” she said. “They protect the account holder, no names, date of birth, or address, just seven digits allows money to flow in and out of accounts. All you need is a computer and the account number.”

  “It’s that’s simple?” Mario asked.

  “It sure is,” she said.

  Mario shared the story of the man who branded his cattle with the account number. They wrote down the ways Lorenzo’s account numbers could be visual. The bank issued the account number, but it was limited how it could be used. A hacker couldn’t crack the code like a password for a computer, using dates of birth, street names, or even last names.

  “Other than branding it on a cow or a fence post,” Olivia said, drinking the last of her wine, “I can’t think of anything else.”

  It was late, and they both had early calls in the morning. After a quick cleanup of the dining room table, Mario kissed her on the cheek. Olivia stood at the door. Her hand slid down his shoulder to his forearm, not by accident. She had questioned what she should dress in, knowing Mario was coming over. Maybe something more revealing would have gotten his attention. Sadly, she conceded that Mario just wanted to be friends.

  The next morning before meeting with the chief for the daily update, Mario met Howard at CC’s Coffee House on Royal Street. A few blocks from the Eighth Police District station was just the place for a cup of blended beans and a pastry. Many people, noise, and good coffee. It was the distraction Mario needed not to be overheard when he filled Howard in on Ozzy’s thoughts about Lorenzo.

  If Ozzy was right about the numbers being visible and under their noses, there were minimal locations. Howard fetched the coffee and walking back, he stopped a few feet from Mario. “Renzo II.”

  “What?” Mario asked, with a puzzled look on his face.

  “The yacht—Renzo II. Boats have registration numbers visible on the outside.” Howard placed the coffee on the table. Then he opened one sugar packet and stirred his coffee with a spoon. He saw Mario in deep thought, giving it consideration. Mario reached for his new cell phone that the department had just issued. The minutes were expensive, so it could only be used for official police business.

  He called Olivia, an early arrival for work. She answered on the second ring. Olivia would check with the Coast Guard about how boat registration numbers are determined. Mario was sure it started with the letter LA, for Louisiana, followed by some numbers. Again, the detectives rattled their brains on how Lorenzo might get a specific number if that was the case.

  Arriving at police headquarters, Mario entered through the front lobby and Howard, like a burglar up a staircase, into a back entrance of the chief’s office.

  “You think I might be allowed through the front door one day?”

  “You think I like you creeping around?” the chief said. “Hopefully soon, this case will end for everyone.”

  Mario and Howard sat across from the chief’s desk. She thumbed through some reports. “So, we’re settled on Tony Nazario?”

  “Yeah, the old man signed off. It’s a closed case,” Mario said. “But we can’t rule out Lorenzo wanting to off Olivia.”

  “Why?” the chief fiddled with her pen on top of the folder.

  “Maybe if we put the word out, with Tony dead, we have no reason to look into the armored car heist.”

  “Mario, do what you have to,” Chief Parks said. “I can’t have a detail watching her too much longer.”

  An envelope was pushed toward Howard. “I want you to back up Mario on this pickup.”

  Howard looked inside. It was release papers for Billy Jean Ravis to appear in court. The Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women was in St. Gabriel, Louisiana, just east of Baton Rouge. Mario looked the papers over, flipped a page, and asked, “You think the judge is going to let her walk?”

  “On Gaspar Ricci’s word, no,” she said. “With the videotape of Lorenzo pulling the trigger and the gun? I don’t think the judge has a choice but to let her out.”

  Chief Parks went over the details firmly with the detectives. Prison officials were notified that during a random blood test, Billy Jean Ravis showed positive for the hepatitis B virus. The state health department ordered her out of a community where she could spread hepatitis to other inmates. The chief reinforced not to waver from that story that few people knew was a lie. It was merely to get Billy Jean out of jail before something leaked about the tape and got her killed. The jailbirds would just think she was hospitalized, and, in a few days, she’d be forgotten.

  Before Mario and Howard headed out for the one-hour drive to the prison, the chief surprised them with an odd question. “Do you have anything on Lorenzo that would put him behind bars before the feds arrest him on White Jerry’s murder?”

  “You want to keep this in-house?” Mario asked.

  “What I’ve been through with the Savino family, you’re damn right.”

  Mario caught Howard’s eyes burning a hole through him. He would not tell the chief they might have something the FBI didn’t and could break not only the case but all the businesses, drug trafficking, and money laundering. It was just too early to reveal the information. “I’ll see what I can do, Chief.”

  Before leaving the office, Mario’s cell phone rang. It was Olivia. The Coast Guard confirmed they oversaw issuing registration numbers. The theory that Lorenzo might incorporate his account number with the boat identification number was out the window.

  “Mario, this is a long shot, but I checked into Lorenzo’s pool of cars,” she said.

  “What is that going to prove?” Mario took a seat back at the table, got comfortable, and talked like he was alone in the chief’s office.

  “I ran several vehicles he owned with personalized license plates—a limo with BOSS-1, an SUV with BOSS-2. Mario, his Mercedes has a plate that reads 728H589.”

  “Olivia, all Louisiana plates have seven figures—numbers mixed with a letter.” Mario’s eyes roamed the room uninterested in Olivia’s finding—it had no merit.

  “Mario, listen to me. This is a personalized license plate,” Olivia said, her voice escalating for attention. “Lorenzo requested these numbers. Who would request a personalized license plate with random numbers? To the public, it just looks like a regular plate.”

  Mario tried to hide his emotions. Roaming the room was a dead giveaway when he was contemplating something impor
tant. He was not good at hiding his anxiety, and it got the best of him. “Good point, Olivia,” his eyes scanning back to the chief. “I’ll call you from the car, I need to pick up a prisoner.”

  As soon as Mario ended the call, the chief drilled him. Mario assured her it was just something they were working on and when it developed fully, he’d let her in on all the details.

  Mario filled Howard in on Olivia’s findings. They beat the topic to death for the one-hour drive and in the end still had no idea what the numbers meant. Short of asking Lorenzo directly, and even then, they wouldn’t get the correct answer.

  Mario flashed his shield to a guard when he first arrived on the grounds of the prison and placed it in his top pocket. With several checkpoints throughout the prison, he would need his police identification ready to show guards.

  The prison hospital was nothing more than a clinic for minor health problems. So far, the DA’s office had everything prepared for Billy Jean Ravis to be moved to a New Orleans hospital. She sat in a chair, waiting with leg shackles and an orange jumpsuit. Stamped across the back in black letters were “LCIW of St. Gabriel, LA,” identifying her as a prisoner, like the orange jumpsuit wasn’t a stone giveaway.

  “Mrs. Ravis,” Mario asked. She nodded her head, and he introduced Howard and himself.

  Mario stared, taken back by her flawless complexion, even without makeup. Short brownish hair, hazel eyes, tall, and thin. A beautiful woman wrongfully in prison. Looking for a better life, she had thought Lorenzo Savino was the answer. In Savino’s world, a person’s life expectancy was only if Lorenzo had a use for her.

  She was released in Mario’s custody in handcuffs and shackles. As she walked through the hallway, inmates wished her well. “Yo, Billy Jean,” an inmate shouted. “Watch your back. If you’re really sick, they won’t send two, fine-looking detectives to take you to a hospital.” Mario and Howard went through a door with their prisoner, and the voice could still be heard. “You’d be in a smelly, old, white van covered with bars, nothing but a rolling jail cell.”