Chapter 6
Mitch returned to police headquarters in record time, but when the elevator doors opened for him, two detectives almost ran him over as they emerged, obviously in a hurry.
He dodged out of their way and then, with the impulse of a lemming, fell into step with them as they headed for the employee exit. “Where’s the fire?”
“No fire, but two bodies found in Bayou Coeur.”
Barbara Nix was a tall, slender thirty-something, a workout fanatic, and an energetic detective.
Soon after John took over the CAP unit, she had applied for a job.
Her experience had been limited to smaller police departments, but she’d impressed John, he’d hired her, and she had proven herself to be a valuable asset.
“One male, one female,” she continued as they wove their way through the corridors. “Discovered by a trio of fishermen. Obvious foul play.”
Mitch knew that bayou well. Years back, he and John had dragged out of its sluggish waters the body of an undercover DEA agent named Randy Nelson with whom Mitch had worked. “What about the fishermen?”
“Old geezers,” Nix said. “They’re not suspects.”
“That bayou is outside the city’s jurisdiction.”
“Right,” Nix’s partner said, speaking for the first time.
Ed Lear was a veteran investigator who was methodical to the point of being plodding.
Nix had spontaneous tendencies; Lear kept a rein on them.
Their approaches to solving crimes complemented each other.
“Sheriff’s office is handling the investigation, but they asked us to take a look. ”
“Who’s the lead?”
“Glenn Darcy.”
Mitch knew the detective well. Their investigations often overlapped. Mitch got to the exit door ahead of the other two and pressed the bar to open it for them. “How come Darcy asked for help?”
Nix answered, “No ID found on either body. Thought we might recognize them.”
“Manner of death?”
Maintaining her ground-eating stride, Nix called back to him over her shoulder. “All we’ve been told so far is that it’s nasty.”
As Mitch watched them go, he had to tamp down the rush of adrenaline he experienced whenever action was called for. His heart rate kicked up. His gut drew taut.
Even as a kid, he’d been attracted to danger. His mother used to say of him, “It’s like he’s got a fire bell inside his head.”
After Angela’s death, danger’s allure had lessened, but every once in a while, like now, he felt its tug and envied the two detectives who were off to investigate a nasty crime scene.
He wondered what Dylan Reede would make of that aspect of his psyche.
He returned to the elevator, then, to expend some adrenaline, opted to jog up the three flights of stairs.
As he entered the CAP unit, he saw that the meeting he was supposed to attend had already commenced in John’s office.
He removed his sport jacket and tossed it onto his desk chair, never breaking stride until he reached the closed office door.
He pushed it open and went in, interrupting John as he was saying, “… then once we’ve completed this initial training, the superintendent proposed that we conduct periodic refresher courses. The goal here is to keep those guards in a continual state of preparedness.”
John had formed a task force of four patrol officers with Mitch serving as their overseer.
They were charged with training school security guards how to respond to an active shooter situation.
For several weeks they had been conducting workshops.
John had called this meeting to get a progress report.
Before continuing, he looked over at Mitch, who’d propped himself against the wall because all the chairs had already been taken. Of course everyone in the crowded office knew about their rift, which made for palpable tension.
“Sorry I’m late,” Mitch said. “I ran into Nix and Lear on their way out. They told me about the bodies found in Bayou Coeur.”
“Darcy’s on it.”
That’s all John said about that topic before asking each of the officers in the group for a status report on their particular workshop. Mitch was saved for last.
Since all the officers’ input had been positive, he didn’t want to dilute their optimism for the success of the project.
He said, “Without question these guards are dedicated to keeping their campuses, the kids, and faculty safe. Based on what you’ve said here, it sounds like they’re quick studies.
” He smiled and gave a thumbs-up. “We’re making headway. ”
“Pleased to hear it,” John said. “I can go back to the super with a positive report.” He adjourned the meeting. When they began to file out, he asked Mitch to stay. “Close the door.” Mitch did, but remained standing.
“What’s on your mind?” John asked.
“About this training program?”
“Your feedback sounded rehearsed.”
“It was.”
“And I sensed a silent but at the end of it.”
Mitch folded his arms and looked down at the floor. “It’s a noble endeavor. The superintendent doesn’t want Auclair put on the map with a school shooting. Nobody wants that. But there are obstacles to this training program.”
“Let’s hear them.”
Mitch absently pulled on his earlobe, trying to think of a way to explain his reservations. “Manners. Trust. Naivety. Those are obstacles.” He brought his gaze back up. “Please don’t get me wrong here, John. I’m not putting these school guards down, but they’re not looking for… They’re… too…”
He grimaced, thought about it, then started over.
“Maybe this’ll illustrate what I’m talking about.
In one of the workshops I conducted myself, I mixed up photos of actual school shooters with some of the worst of the worst criminals serving time in Angola, and asked the class to pick out the shooters. ”
John must have gathered what was coming. He dragged his hand down his face. “How bad was it?”
“Eighty percent in favor of the badasses. The guards would have missed anyone in the twenty percent bracket, whether he had walked in off the street or was a student at the school.
“So what I see as a problem is that, as passionate as these people are about protecting school kids, we’re asking them to act instinctually on an instinct they don’t have.
You and I were born with it. That’s why we do what we do and why we’re good at it.
” He spread his arms at his sides in a helpless gesture.
“I don’t think you can teach or instill the instinct to look past what’s obvious and detect what isn’t. ”
Roland Malone tore a chunk of garlic bread off the loaf and dipped it into the buttery shrimp scampi, one of his restaurant’s specialties and a personal favorite of his.
Ristorante Italiano remained dark and atmospheric even in daytime.
He had designed it to be conducive to clandestine business meetings and illicit romantic trysts, and he’d engaged in both over the years.
But he preferred to eat alone, and he usually took his main meal during the lull between lunch and dinner when there were few other diners.
Blocks away, the noisy streets of the French Quarter teemed with sweaty tourists. Neon signs flashed enticements to wickedness. Saxophone-heavy jazz blared from the open doorways of murky bars.
But in Ristorante Italiano, the tables were occupied mostly by regulars, candlelight flickered on snow white tablecloths, and the playlist that was softly piped through speakers in the ceiling was exclusively Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett.
Almost forty years ago, when he’d escaped the Bronx with fresh blood on his hands, his Irish father was lying dead on the kitchen floor, and his Italian mother was weeping and wailing in her native tongue over the catastrophic turn her son’s fate had taken.
His uncles on his mother’s side, who’d considered the murder of the abusive drunk a blessing, had impressed upon Roland that this was farewell, that he could never return to New York.
He never had. He’d never seen his mother again.
But when he fled, he’d brought with him not only her rosary beads and fear of hellfire, but also her recipes. After making a name for himself in New Orleans’s underworld by doing “favors” for the criminal elite, he’d asked one grateful client to bankroll a restaurant.
“A nice place where people with taste and discretion can meet, eat, drink wine, talk business. You know.” The concept that the “you know” implied had appealed to the investor, who was a lecherous and corrupt city councilman.
There was only one succulent shrimp remaining in his dish when Roland’s cell phone vibrated near his glass of excellent Brunello. Knowing it was the awaited return call from Oz, he picked up immediately.
Oz said, “I couldn’t talk when you called. I was in a heated meeting.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Not really. A nuisance, a gnat. Now tell me some good news.”
“The skimmer and his bitch are done and done,” Roland said. “I did the girl first and made him watch.”
“Did he beg for her life?”
“Hell, no. He begged for his.”
Oz laughed and asked for gory details, which Roland provided. Oz wanted to know if the bodies had been discovered.
“Yes, but the cops are scrambling to identify them. Watch the news tonight. It’s sure to be the lead story.” Roland waggled his right-hand fingers near the flame of the candle, admiring how it turned the red stone in his ring the same color as the Tuscan vintage he was drinking.
“What about the stockpile he stole from me?” Oz asked.
“Recovered by the new guy I told you about.”
“The one from El Paso?”
“You can call him that. He’s using it as a nickname. Anyway, he hand-counted all ten grand out to me. I put it in the slush fund.”
“Fine,” Oz said. Then, “Listen, I don’t want anything to go wrong this week.”
Roland had been lifting his wineglass to take a sip, but at the abrupt change of topic, he set it back down. “I don’t want anything to go wrong at any time. What’s special about this week?”
“Just make certain that you’re on standby.”
“I’m always on standby.”
But, as though he hadn’t spoken, Oz said, “In case something comes up and we have to move fast.”
“Sure. But you want to tell me what—”
“No. It’s tentative. I’ll tell you on an as-needed basis.”
Roland didn’t like it, but he trusted Oz to inform him of whatever the sensitive matter was when he was good and ready. “Okay.”
“Any update on Haskell?”
Roland had been expecting Oz to ask about the bad-penny detective, and he’d dreaded it. He covered his uneasiness with a soft belch. “The Adler issue took precedence. But Haskell is on my radar.”
Oz grunted approval, then lapsed into one of his thoughtful stretches. Roland picked up the last shrimp, ate it, and was licking his fingers when Oz said, “The heated meeting I mentioned was with my ad man. He’s trying to talk me into changing my slogan.”
“What the fuck?”
“Right? He said it’s ‘tired.’”
“Fire the stupid jerk,” Roland said. “He’s lousy. You don’t want to mess with your slogan. You are the King of Cash.”