“Come on, Mario—every major news company has the story,” he said. “Who’s going to read the Big Easy Voice, when the majors are splashing the same story?”
“Because you have an exclusive.”
“What do you have?” Glenn’s voice intensified.
“Before we shot and killed Lorenzo Savino,” Mario chose his words carefully. “Lorenzo killed Issac Garza, a banker and money launderer who stole millions of dollars from Lorenzo’s Panama bank account.” That was something Mario failed to tell the chief in his report.
“This is huge. How can I thank you?”
“No need; friends take care of friends,” he said. Then sent Howard to pick him up.
Glenn and Roxy Blum were waiting on the porch when Howard arrived. “Time for a little celebration.” It was Tuesday afternoon, and the detectives knew where to find a party.
They all arrived simultaneously. Andrew, the gardener, sometimes doorman, escorted Glenn and Roxy in all her glamour through the building. Mario and Howard followed them into the dining room.
Mario shouted, “Is this Mojito Tuesday?” a standard cocktail featured on Tuesday afternoon at Riverside Inn.
Zack and Dave and their lady friends, Emma Lou and Pearl Ann, shouted back, “Yes!” to welcome Mario and Howard.
Drinks were served, and Roxy and the ladies boogied to some old tunes. She fit in and immediately bonded with Emma Lou and Pearl Ann.
Mario walked Zack and Dave to the middle of the floor, stopped the music, and got everyone’s attention. “Tomorrow’s headlines will not mention these two guys, but I want you to know they were a great assist in taking the Savino family down,” Mario held their hands up in the air. “Once a cop—always a cop!”
Chapter 31
The next morning major TV stations and newspapers each broke the same story on different angles. One featured a front-page title of “Mafia Taken Off The Streets Of New Orleans.” Other newsfeeds were more dramatic with opening statements like, “Mayor O’Keefe Cleans Up City.” Newspapers as far west as Baton Rouge followed the story, walking the readers down memory lane with pictures of Lorenzo’s father and grandfather were displayed. In-depth articles on their history of crime and family members still living out their lives in prison.
Mario read all the papers and watched the news reports. It was sickening how the mayor bolstered his involvement. You would have thought he stood next to Olivia when she emptied her clip into the gangsters. That was the way of life in the police department. The cops who took the risks and worked long hours on a case, and knew when the timing was right for the arrest, seldom got public recognition. Press conferences were opportunities for mayors and city officials to get face time and show the community they were on the job. Confirming or outright lying that they had a pulse on every significant crime resulted in a positive view to the public, as it strengthened their political careers. The platform was used to remind voters they were on top of their games as leaders and to remember this during re-election time.
Mario got wind of a morning TV talk show and tuned in at the station house with Truman and Howard just as the host introduced Glenn Macy, publisher of the Big Easy Voice.
His newspaper published the story about Issac Garza, and the interviewer pounded Glenn about how he got the exclusive story. As a professional, he responded, “It’s a private source and very accurate.” He explained the person had been correct twice and would continue to give truthful information that other news companies failed to seek. Glenn played it perfect for his benefit of telling the audience where they could get a copy of his paper, the Big Easy Voice. Then he talked about a phone conversation he had with a Panama bank executive, something that he would announce later. The TV host wasn’t getting the information she wanted—mainly his source—so she cut the discussion short.
Mario turned the TV off and gave a raised eyebrow look at Howard. “Maybe Glenn can chase this story down and make it believable.”
At the TV station, the host gave an off-camera plea to Glenn. “Help a fellow reporter,” she said. “Who’s your source?”
Glenn smiled and answered, “Subscribe, and you’ll be as informed as the public.”
An arm tugged on Glenn. A tall man dressed in a suit handed him a business card. “Next time you get information, call me. We’ll be exclusive for the airwaves, you the newspapers. I’ll pay top dollar—it’s a win-win.”
Glenn took the card from his hand. “I’ll keep you in mind,” then turned away saying, “Keep your checkbook near—I just might call.”
At the station house, Chief Parks asked Mario and Howard if they had time to join her. They gave head nods and followed. The three met in the chief’s office. She sat tapping a pen on the glass top occasional table. Mario and Howard sat across from her on a sofa. It was a casual conversation until the chief hit him with a question. “Why didn’t you tell me about Issac laundering money for Lorenzo?”
“We were not sure until the bust,” Mario said, keeping his eyes focused on her.
“And the fact he stole millions from Lorenzo?”
“It’s all in my report,” Mario said.
“Yeah, Mario,” her voice escalated, “buried on the fourth page of your report as additional information. A one-liner. How did you put it? Garza might have stolen some money from Lorenzo.”
Howard stuck up for his partner. “It was revealed. Not a big deal about how gangsters rip each other off.”
“Twelve million dollars!” she shouted. “Garza might have stolen some money? I call that a fucking boatload of money.”
“Chief, it has nothing to do with the case.” Mario steered her back to the subject.
“Who’s this Glenn guy making these claims?”
“I don’t know,” Mario said, giving Howard a side glance. “On TV he claimed he has a contact at the Panama bank; maybe the bank leaked the story.”
Things calmed down, and the chief agreed they had closed some critical murder cases, including the armored car robbery, and not a dime spent on Lorenzo’s trial.
“Did you see the paper this morning?” Mario asked.
“Yeah, they ran the pictures of Lorenzo’s grandfather,” Chief Parks said, obviously holding back tears. “The fucker who murdered my grandfather.”
“We need to get going,” Mario said.
“That asshole got everything he deserved.” With a smile, the chief nodded her head. “Thanks for not taking him in alive.”
“It was a pleasure,” Howard said.
Chapter 32
Later that night, Mario and Howard met for drinks at a hotel bar. They sat at a corner table away from everyone, but with a bird’s-eye view of the front door. The bar was picked for one reason, expensive drinks. Off-duty cops would never frequent a bar where most people sported a coat and tie. No happy hour was a deal breaker too. After the waiter delivered their drinks, Howard broke the ice. “So, what do you want to do with the money?”
“I don’t know,” Mario said, swirling an ice cube in his drink. “Let’s divide the money up and quit our jobs. Maybe move to the Bahamas?”
“If you quit,” Howard chuckled, “I might want to move farther away. Maybe China.”
They discussed options, but to stop working was not a choice. The worst suggestion came from Mario—to transfer the money back to Lorenzo’s account. The agency that seized the dough keeps it and can use it for future fights against drug dealers and international cartels. That was strictly for shock value, he had no intentions.
What started as a device to get back at Lorenzo and his crew who put hits out on Mario and Olivia had now turned into the perfect crime.
“For now, we sit on the money,” Mario said.
“I hope the story dies off soon,” Howard said.
“No, that was the idea behind giving Glenn the story,” Mario licked his lips. “He’ll dig up some shit, true or not doesn’t matter. Issac will be remembered as a dirty banker who ripped off the Colombian cartel’s money.”
�
�Yeah,” Howard drank up. “In a few days, the next big story will be the talk of the town.”
They had a few more drinks and discussed what the future might bring for their twelve million plus bonus. They both been on the job long enough to know you had to wash the money before using it. Mario’s background with Felipe Cruz’s drug family taught him a thing or two about how to be creative when moving drug money around. Felipe also stayed in the game too long.
There was no doubt that taking Lorenzo’s money as a get-back turned into more than Mario thought, but he kept telling himself he was not a bad cop.
Mario watched a man sitting at the bar. He fit in, dressed like a broker, banker, maybe even a jeweler at one of the Fairmont Hotel shops. Something bugged him about the guy.
“The man at the bar,” Mario said, “sitting alone.”
“What about him?” Howard sipped his drink, glancing that way.
“I feel he’s watching us.”
“Mario, he’s got his back to us.” Howard rolled his eyes.
“There. Did you see it?” Mario asked. “He took a sip of his drink, but his eyes lifted, looking in the mirror behind the bar—reflecting back to us.”
Howard marked it up as Mario being overworked on the last case and a little paranoid, more so than usual. Mario wanted to make a pass by the guy and check him out. Howard made a move by leaning over the counter, asking the bartender directions to the men’s room. He pointed, while Howard got a good look at the guy.
Returning to the table, Howard reported the guy just looked like he was nursing a cocktail after a hard day. One thing was odd. The guy was drinking out of a martini glass but held it with a napkin.
“What the fuck is that about?” Mario said, louder than most of the talk in the room.
Howard pointed out in the mirror the guy lifting his drink with a paper logo napkin around the stem.
“OCD?” Howard said.
“Yeah, OCD,” Mario laughed. “The germaphobe doesn’t want to touch the glass stem, but he’ll put his lips on the rim. Not likely.”
The waiter dropped the bill in a black plastic tray onto the table. Mario signed the bill, got up, and exited through a gold trimmed, glass revolving door found in most of the upscale hotel lobbies.
Howard stayed, clarifying that he was getting a nightcap and pulled up a stool at the end of the bar.
The napkin bugged Mario as he walked to his car, and then it hit him. Fingerprints. The asshole doesn’t want his prints on the glass.
The guy at the bar had exited and strolled the sidewalk past Mario. With a gun extended, he fired once and missed. He rushed toward Mario, and before he could fire another shot, Howard planted two bullets in the guy’s chest.
“Mario? You okay?” Howard shouted, as he ran toward the street side of his car.
“I’m okay,” Mario said, brushing himself off from taking a dive in the street.
Howard rolled the guy over and found a wallet, “Victor Gallo.”
“Lorenzo’s nephew?” Mario said. “Little Pete’s brother.”
“There are only two people in the Savino family not locked up.” Mario rested against the car. “Victor, the nephew, and sister-in-law Lina Savino.”
Howard dropped the wallet on the dead body. “Let’s pay Lena a visit.”
Chapter 33
Early the next morning, the detectives headed to the Savino compound in Mandeville. At the guardhouse entrance, one uniformed security guard armed with a handgun stepped to Mario’s window when he flashed his badge.
“Here to see Lena Savino.”
“Sorry, she’s not accepting guests.”
Howard got out of the passenger side of the car and walked toward the guard. “Didn’t my aunt tell you we were coming?”
The guard put a hand on his gun. “Stop there, big guy.” The guard relaxed for a second, “She didn’t—”
Howard swiftly coldcocked the guy. His knees buckled. Handcuffed to the iron gate entrance, he lay on the ground unconscious. Mario drove up to the main house. On the porch, stood two bodyguards, sipping their morning coffee, looking like they’d just got on the job.
The detectives stood in front with a smile.
“Can I help you?” one asked.
Howard stepped forward with his hand extended. “Didn’t my aunt tell you we were coming by this morning?” They shook hands. With one good jerk, Howard had the guy on the ground with his foot on his throat and a gun pointed at the other.
Mario smiled. “Amazing that Aunt Lena crap worked twice.”
“Can’t put a value on stupid,” Mario said, as he cuffed the two guys together around a post. Hitting one guy briefly with a stun gun, he said, “Open your mouth, and you’ll see how this feels on your ball sack.”
The men shook their heads from left to right. “No problem.”
They entered the house with guns drawn, following the sound of people talking in the rear of the house. Lena sat at the kitchen table, and the housekeeper stood at the stove frying bacon, when the detectives entered.
“Anyone else here?” Howard asked.
The housekeeper shook her head and said, “No.” He waved his gun. She took directions and fled out the back door.
“Now it’s just us three,” Mario said, sitting across from Lena.
“You think this is the first time a gun has been pointed at me?”
“No,” Mario said. “Might be the first time someone pulls the trigger.”
Mario asked nicely who ordered the hit on him. Lena laughed. Then he stood and pitched a plate across the room. His gun against her temple. “You think I won’t spread your brains across the room?” Mario shouted.
“You don’t have the balls to shoot.”
Squeezing the barrel to her head. “Don’t push me, bitch!” Mario screamed, walking around the room. “People like you tried to kill my fiancée, who ran her off to Paris, my friend Olivia, and now me!”
The smell of bacon burning came from the stove. “Mario, stand back,” Howard said, reaching for a thick oven mitt. He turned the stove off and carried the hot pan of bacon grease to the table. Mario held Lena’ hands across the table. The heat of the oil could be felt as Howard tilted the pan letting drops fall between her arms. The heat and splashes burned her. She tried to pull away, but Mario held tight.
“What the hell kind of cops are you?” she shouted.
Howard dropped a little more grease, splattering it around the table, but missing her arms. “The worst fucking cops you’ve ever come across.”
“Who ordered the hit?!” Mario shouted.
Her face wrinkled, nose flaring, and red marks were on her arms where the grease hit in three places. She showed that Savino anger. Mario looked at her. She was about to break. “Hell with her,” he motioned to Howard. “She wants to play tough. Well, so can I.”
Howard held the pan over her head with one hand and her hair up with the other. He looked at Mario. H couldn’t pour the grease and knew for sure Mario didn’t want him to.
“Last chance, bitch!” Mario said and walked out of the room.
Howard pulled her hair in an upward motion “Okay! My nephew,” Lena said. “He ordered the hit.” Howard released her hair and put the pan down.
Mario rushed back into the room. “Victor?”
“No,” Lena said, bowing her head down. “Joey Savino.”
Mario had no reason not to believe her. Joey was undoubtedly capable and next to run the family business. That meant Joey reached out from prison and carried out what Lorenzo started. He would also inherit the family fortune, less about twelve million dollars and whatever the feds seized.
Mario assured Lena he wouldn’t have let Howard pour the hot grease on her, but she was three seconds away from a bullet in her head. He clarified, “When you come after him, you better do the job. If not, he’ll hunt you down like a dog. Kill you—but respectfully. You won’t see it coming, and it’ll be quick.”
The detectives left Lena crying at the table. They w
alked out, collected their handcuffs on the front porch and at the gatehouse, and drove up to I-12 heading west.
On the drive, Mario called Warden Cameron Leblanc of the Louisiana State Prison. As always, he took Mario’s call and agreed to have Joey Savino waiting.
Two years earlier, Mario arranged for Joey to be one of the warden’s good old boys. It was better known as a comfortable life in prison for working on the warden’s farm within the prison compound. Free to roam the farm when doing minor task for the guards. Three great home-cooked meals a day, served at a real dining room table with dishes and not a prison tray. An afternoon beer and a few-times-a-month, conjugal visit from his wife, Sofia. It was the best life you could have in any prison.
Joey did a favor for Mario and eliminated Felipe Cruz in the prison population for kidnapping and attempting to kill his fiancée, Kate. It caused her to break off the wedding and run away to Paris. Joey had been living the good life—until now.
The detectives arrived, parked in the visitor area, and stored their weapons in the trunk of the car. They checked in with security and shortly later a prison guard drove them about two miles to the warden’s home.
Cameron Leblanc had been the warden for as long as Mario could remember. Even when he was in college, people talked about him in the justice system. He was a big man. As tall as Howard but with a big gut, and he needed suspenders to hold his pants up.
“Gentlemen.” Warden Leblanc greeted them on the front porch with a pitcher of lemonade. “Please, have a drink. We grow the lemons bigger than you can ever buy in a grocery.” He poured three glasses, and the detectives took a seat overlooking the garden, which the prisoners kept blooming all year.
“What’s this all about?” Warden Leblanc asked.
“Warden—” Mario started, until he was interrupted.
“Please, call me Cameron —we’re friends.”
“If I ask, will you put Joey Savino back in the regular prison population?” Mario said, then took a sip of the lemonade, raising his eyebrows when the sweetness hit his lips. “You’re right, it’s good.”
Vieux Carré Detective Page 18
