CHAPTER ELEVEN
Val’s face-to-face with his secretive early-morning
caller was to take place inside the church on the corner of Rampart and Conti,
not far from the entrance to St Louis Cemetery No. 1. The men who drove him
there refused to answer any of his questions. They sat in stony-faced silence,
staring straight ahead, the muscles in the backs of their necks bulging over
their shirt collars like swollen inner tubes.
At the main door of the church he was told to enter,
take a seat near the front and wait. They didn’t follow him inside.
The interior of the church was cool and unlit. What
illumination there was came from the street lights outside and a faint yellow
glow from a few burning votive candles. The smell of incense and beeswax polish
hung in the air. The sound of his footsteps on the stone slabs seemed
excessively loud to Val as he walked down the aisle. He had been in the church
a half dozen times before, mainly for hatching, matching and dispatching
services. It housed a shrine of St Jude — the saint of impossible causes. A
saint close to the heart of all policemen.
Val entered a pew and sat down. Lifting a bible out of
the shelf in front of him, he ran a thumb along its fore-edge, then replaced
it. He never felt entirely at ease inside a church. The prevailing sense of
good intent was too alien to what he encountered on the streets. He looked
around self-consciously. The wooden statue of Christ nailed to the cross was
too life-like for his taste, the gore too real. The Madonna’s expression in an
oil painting a little too serene.
The door of the sacristy at the left rear side of the
church opened and a man emerged. Only five six or five seven, he was
silver-haired, slim and wiry. He moved delicately, with small unhurried steps.
Val couldn’t make out the color of his eyes. He was wearing a short-sleeved
black shirt with a priest’s collar. Kneeling in front of the altar, he crossed
himself. His lips moved as he mouthed a silent prayer. When he was through
praying, he walked over and placed two votive candles on the metal rack and lit
them.
He slid into the pew in front of Val.
“I appreciate you coming,” he said. It was the same
voice that Val had heard on the phone.
“Then make it worth my while.”
“My name is Malcolm Kellerman. Rita Jackson was my
sister.”
“I can see the resemblance. I’m sorry that your
sister's dead. I wish I could have done something to prevent it.”
“The sheriff told me what happened. He called to let
me know how exactly my sister and her husband died. He wanted me to hear it
from a friend.”
Neither of them said anything for a few moments. Val
was the first to break the silence. “This is not your church.”
“No, though it once was — some years ago. I came here
when I first left the seminary. I thought it prudent that we meet someplace
that FRAPH would be unlikely to have staked out. I can’t believe they intend me
any harm, but, as you can see, I’ve taken some precautions.”
“Bill Trochan was killed near here.”
The expression of sorrow on the priest’s face
intensified. “May God have mercy on his soul. I watched a television news
report of his murder. Bill knew I was Donny’s uncle; we met years ago when my
nephew was still in the police department. He came to see me and said that you
were looking for Donny. I lied and told him that I hadn’t spoken to Donny in
years. I knew what sort of trouble Trochan could make for himself searching for
my nephew, and yet I didn’t try to stop him. When I heard that he had been
killed, I made a solemn promise to God that I wouldn’t stand by and allow the
same thing to happen again.”
Val nodded somberly, but one anonymous, obscure phone
call was hardly what he would have described as going out on a limb. “What
exactly have FRAPH got against your nephew?”
The priest’s eyes bored into Val’s. “Don’t play games
with me. We both know who killed Valerie Duval. The daughter must have told
you. Am I right?”
Val nodded. “Yes, but who told you?”
Kellerman wrung his hands tightly, making the flesh
under his fingers go white. “Just under a week ago Donny came to me desperate
for my help. He was clearly frightened and had no one else to turn to. He
needed money, clothes, a razor, but couldn’t go back to his apartment. It was
obvious that he was on the run. I promised to help him all I could, but only if
he told me the truth. He admitted to the killing of Valerie Duval.”
“Did he say why?”
“She was blackmailing his father. My brother-in-law
was an honest working man and never had much in the way of savings. He offered
her support for the child, but she wanted more than that.”
“Where’s Donny now?”
The priest allowed his head to dip. “I don’t know. I
wish I did. I was hoping that you might, that maybe my sister or her husband
had said something before they were killed.”
“They didn’t. Where did Danny go after he left you?”
“He was hiding out on a quarter boat belonging to an
old friend of mine who holds a contract to ferry supplies out to the Gulf rigs.
But when I tried to contact him over his parents’ death, I was told he had gone
ashore. He’ll have heard about Roy and Rita by now, and he won’t rest until he
takes his revenge. I want the killing to end.”
“Have the cops spoken to you?”
“Yes, they’ve been to interview me. Just routine
questioning they said. I didn’t tell them anything. They’ll never find him. Not
if he doesn’t want to be found. Who can evade the police procedural net better
than an ex-policeman?”
“What do you want from me?”
Kellerman lifted his head. One side was in deep
shadow, giving his face the appearance of a cheap Mardi Gras mask. “The Duval
girl will listen to you.”
When hell freezes over, Val thought.
The priest went on. “Maybe it you were to ask her, she
could intercede with FRAPH on Donny’s behalf.”
“Why would she do that? Besides, I’m responsible for
the death of a fellow islander of hers and the wounding of another, both almost
certainly members of FRAPH.”
“Her parents were killed, and now Donny’s have been
too. She’s had her revenge. More killing isn’t going to solve anything. If we
were to work together to find Donny, maybe I could talk with him to convince
him to give himself up without further bloodshed.”
“Who will he go after? Who sent those FRAPH goons to
your sister’s house?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t mess me around. They were following orders.”
The priest looked incredulous. “Duval must have a
contact with the FRAPH hierarchy. At one time her mother would have had a lot
of sway with the Tonton Macoute.”
“She denies it.”
The priest’s tone became insistent. “Other than his
parents, no one else knew about Donny’s involvement. It
has
to be her. Ask her again.”
“Okay, I guess it’s worth a try.”
“Are you a religious man?”
“No”
“That’s a shame. I find that prayer can be a great
comfort in times like this.”
“My mother spent twenty years on her knees praying while
my father gambled, and beat on her. It didn’t bring me much comfort.”
“Nevertheless I shall pray for
you.” The priest stood up and took a slip of paper from his
pocket. “The men who brought you here will drive you home. Here’s my private
number. Please ring me it you learn anything. Anything at all.”
Val rose, slipped the card into the breast pocket of
his shirt, and left.
Outside, the two men were leaning against the side of
the sedan, in exactly the same pose as when Val had first
peered out his window. One of them pushed himself off the car and
opened the door for him. They didn’t speak.
Malcolm Kellerman sat down again in the pew and
waited. He heard the sound of the car pulling away. Slumping backwards against
the wooden seat, he let his head tilt back. The sacristy door opened and Jean
Moncoeur entered the main body of the church. He walked over to the priest.
“What does he know?” he asked sharply.
“Almost nothing. We have nothing to fear from
Bosanquet.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s been twice to AV’s
corporate headquarters asking questions and throwing his weight around. Don’t
tell me he knows nothing.”
“Duval has told him that it was my nephew who killed
her mother. He has no idea why.”
“Maybe he suspects it.”
“I don’t see how?”
“Your brother-in-law may have said something before he
died.”
“Bosanquet says not.”
Moncoeur directed an icy stare back at him. “And you
believe him?”
“He told the sheriff the same thing. Believe me,
Bosanquet is like a blindfolded man fumbling around in the dark.”
Moncoeur did not appear convinced. “I hope it was
worth the risk.”
So did Kellerman, but then he had more to fear than
the others.
“Bosanquet would have gotten around to me sooner or
later. He would have recognized my voice. It was better we talk here and under my
terms. If he had any lingering doubts why Donny has disappeared, they’re gone.”
“What time does MacLean arrive?”
“Two-thirty.”
Moncoeur made a clicking sound with his teeth. “Why
can’t he fly like any normal person? He could have been here a week ago it he
had taken a plane. I was expected back in New York by now. I shouldn’t have to
handle this by myself.”
Kellerman nodded sycophantically, eager to channel
Moncoeur’s fury in another direction. “You did everything right. Bosanquet
should have been gator bait by now. What the hell was Gilett playing at? What
if he talks?”
"He won’t. I’ve already been in contact with
FRAPH and they’ve assured me that they’re taking care of it. Meanwhile,
locating and disposing of your nephew has to remain our primary objective. But
first I want him to suffer. A lot. Wasn’t five million dollars enough for the
greedy sonofabitch?”
“Time is running out. We have a little less than
sixty-two hours left to the deadline. Maybe we should reconsider? Let him have
the fifteen million.”
“What good would it do? Once he knows we’re prepared
to pay, he isn’t going to be stop at fifteen.”
Kellerman knew Moncoeur was right. None of them would
be safe until his nephew was silenced for good. “What do you want me to do?”
“Play everything exactly as normal. We need to sit
tight and wait for him to surface. He can’t stay hidden for long, not without
assistance.”
“I have church volunteers checking hotels, motels and
guest houses. They’ve been told that his parents have been killed and other
members of his family are trying to contact him. We’ve even put the word out
amongst the homeless. We’ll find him.”
“We’d better.” Moncoeur’s face turned red as the first
ray of dawn light struck a stained-glass window.
“Forget about using any FRAPH troops for now; the
police and FBI will be crawling all over them,” Kellerman advised.
Moncoeur had no problem with that. He’d rather do
business any day with muscle paid for in cash. With politically motivated
thugs, you were never quite sure who was in charge.
Val’s escorts were as uncommunicative on the ride home
as they had been on the drive to the church. That suited him fine. He needed
time to think.
Malcolm Kellerman had lied to him, of that he was
certain. He had also deliberately attempted to mislead. The priest knew more
than he was telling. Something that might explain why a God-fearing couple, as
the sheriff had described the Jacksons, did not keep a single picture of Father
Malcolm Kellerman displayed on their sideboard.
There was also the anomaly that Val himself had
overlooked when he had torn into Marie in front of Angie. If Valerie Duval had
had as much influence as both he and Malcolm Kellerman had hypothesized, then
what were she and her daughter doing living hand to mouth in a ramshackle of a
lean-to?
Maybe he owed Marie Duval an apology.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Val walked through the front door of the First
District Police Headquarters shortly before eight on Sunday morning. He
identified himself to the duty sergeant who permitted him to go unaccompanied
up the familiar staircase to Chief Larson’s second floor office. He stifled a
yawn at the top of the stairs. Another few hours’ sleep wouldn’t have gone
amiss.
He had expected to find Larson still at his desk
because the previous night was often one of the busiest for the homicide squad.
Two detectives, their faces haggard, were leaving Larson’s office as he
arrived.
“You saved me a trip out to the campus,” Larson said,
waving Val in and directing him towards a chair. “Coffee?”
“Thanks. Black, one sugar.”
Larson poured two beakers of coffee and stirred
creamer into one and sugar into the other. He handed Val his, then parked an
ample haunch on a corner of his desk.
“That was some stunt you pulled in St Francis. Who the
hell do you think you are? Bruce Willis.”
“Things got a bit out of hand.”
“That’s one way to describe it. I took a call from the
FBI early this morning, subject matter being you.”
Val had been anticipating some sort of reaction from
the federal authorities. You don’t shoot it out with two foreign nationals,
suspected of acts of terrorism, without attracting their attention.
“How come they didn’t approach me directly?”
“You know they don’t work like that.”
Only too well, Val thought. When a FBI investigation
places a police officer in the spotlight, however indirectly, the agents
automatically assume he’s corrupt. They would talk to him when they were good
and ready. But some benefit could have come from their involvement. “Have they
made positive ID on the Haitians?”
“Yep. The one in custody is Marcel Gilett; his
ill-fated compatriot, one Pierre Malen. Neither completely unknown to our
friends in the sharp suits. Apparently they’ve wanted to interview Gilett for
some time over the kidnapping and execution of a Haitian army deserter. They’re
having him transferred to the Tulane Medical Center.”
“I know one parish sheriff who won’t be thrilled at
that.”
Larson drank from his beaker. “Maybe when they’re
through with him, I’ll be given a crack. God only knows how many investigations
I could close the book on.”
“I’m pretty sure it was Gilett who killed Trochan. He
was carrying a stiletto blade and seemed to know how to use it.”
Larson rolled his eyes. “Did you have to go and shoot
him twice? What if he doesn’t make it?”
Val smiled apologetically. “He had a fifty-six inch
chest and had a Remington pump in his hand. Discussion would have been wasted
on him.”
“Let’s hope for your sake the FBI will see it the same
way. If he dies, they’ll nail your ass to the sidewalk just to give themselves something
to do. You could save yourself a lot of grief if you were to return to the
department. I know the Commissioner has no objections.”
Light broke inside Val’s head. “So that’s what was
bringing you to the campus?”
Larson held up his hands. “Guilty as charged. Keep
playing the maverick investigator the way you have been and you’re going to
wind up dead. We know how to lay on a pretty classy funeral.”
“It’s tough saying no to such an attractive offer, but
I’m going have to pass.”
Larson shrugged. “I don’t give up easy, and I still
haven’t forgiven you for that bullshit story about Jackson and his poker
school.”
Val smiled. “I need a favor.”
“If it was anybody else but you saying that, I’d take
it as a bad joke. What is it you want?”
It took a while for Val to explain the direction his
findings was guiding him. Larson listened carefully. Val covered Jackson’s
dubious assignments with Arena Victory and that firm’s probable involvement in
the relocation of the Artibonite Valley farmers; how Moncoeur had bought up
their land for a song; Duval’s accusation of Jackson, and the possibility that
they shared the same father.
“Have you told Duval whose genes she could be carrying
in her blood?” Larson broke in.
“No, and I don’t intend to. She’s been through a lot and
I can’t see what good it would serve.”
“Maybe more than you think. Most of what you’ve told
me is either circumstantial or supposition. Duval could be holding something
back that would clinch it. The disclosure of her kinship might persuade her to
talk.”
“I can’t see it helping.”
“Whatever the motive for her mother being killed, it
has to the key to the whole damned thing.”
“I agree, but I’m positive she’s not aware of it.”
“Then your only option is to find Jackson before FRAPH
stroke Moncoeur does. They must want him bad. Any idea why?”
Val swept a shock of hair back from his forehead. “How
does one-point-five billion dollars sound?”
Larson whistled and raised his eyebrows. “Like an
awful lot of money.”
“That’s what Arena Victory’s stockholders stand to
make when the company is floated next Friday. I think Donny Jackson might be
threatening to expose some of the company’s less savory corporate practices to
the financial press if they don't cut him in for a share. Any hint of a scandal
or a skeleton in the cupboard at this stage would have a disastrous effect on
the take-up of the stock. The flotation would flop. It could finish the
company.”
“Don’t be so sure. Wall Street doesn’t let a little
thing like murder or exploitation get in the way of making money. Who is behind
AV?”
Six years previously Larson had investigated the
apparent suicide of a junk bond dealer who had flown in to New Orleans from New
York for New Year celebrations. He had been able to establish that the man’s
death was murder and, with the help of a friend, had untangled the financial
complexities to show motive. The killer had been the dealer’s lawyer, who was
now spending his days lodging appeals from a cell on Angola’s death row.
“That’s the favor I need from you. I could get
sidetracked trying to unearth the current investors, with no guarantee of
success. The flotation underwriters will provide me with a list of the
registered stockholders if I ask for it, but it’s my guess that they would be
nothing more than holding companies with addresses in the Caymans and the
Antilles. You still have that contact in the Securities and Exchange
Commission? I could use some specialist know-how.”
“Yeah, sounds right up his street. There’s nothing he
likes better than a legitimate excuse to stick his nose into offshore
companies. I’ll give him a call. Who do you have your money on?”
Val thought about it for a few moments. “Moncoeur for
one, and a few of his Haitian buddies. MacLean, Arena Victory’s CEO. Lausaux
could be in on it too. Those three were the unholy trinity involved in the hog
debacle. They may have pulled similar stunts in India and Vietnam. It worked
once, why not a second and a third time? They could have taken on new partners
as they needed to. While he’s at it, ask your friend to check out a company
called Crescent City Holdings. It’s the company that owns the building where
Valerie Duval was killed.”
Larson stood up and went behind his desk. We scribbled
a few notes on a pad. “Jackson might know the principals behind AV. That’s one
more good reason for getting to him first.”
Val weighed up the pros and cons of telling Larson
about Malcolm Kellerman. So far Larson had expressed no interest in officially
reopening the Duval investigation, mainly, Val believed, because there was only
Marie Duval’s word for what really happened. Producing correlative testimony,
albeit hearsay, could change that. Val decided to hold back, at least until he
could determine the priest’s agenda in trying to mislead him. “That’s about the
height of it. I owe you one.”
“I know.” Larson grinned. “May the Prophet continue to
smile on you.”
John Clements was in his kitchen, helping his wife
fill the dishwasher, when the phone rang. They had just cleared the kitchen
table after breakfasting with their son and his fiancée. His wife was closest,
so she picked up the phone.
The call was for her husband. She handed him the
receiver and went back to stacking the dishwasher.
“Clements here.”
“Good morning, John. I’m ringing to say how shocked I
was when I heard that the university had appointed Val Bosanquet, Chief of
Campus Police. That job should have been yours.”
“Who’s speaking?” Clements instinctively realized the
call meant trouble.
“Just a concerned citizen who has left a parcel for
you in your yard. It’s in your barbecue. A little something to compensate for
the reprehensible manner in which the university has treated you.”
Clements turned his back to his wife. “What do you
want?”
“The same as you. We both want to see Bosanquet taken
down a peg or two. I can be of some assistance.”
“I don’t want any part of this.”
“Before you hang up, think of your wife. And what
about your son and his beautiful fiancée? I hear he’s getting married next
month. It would be a pity if something were to happen to spoil their big day.”
Clements’s wife closed the door of the dishwasher and
switched it on. She walked past him, displaying no inquisitiveness about the
call. We could hear her walk upstairs. “What do you went from me?”
“I’ll be telephoning you twice a day. Seven-thirty in
the morning and seven-thirty in the evening. Don’t bother trying to trace the
calls; it would be time wasted. I’ll use the name Troy Pollack. All you have to
do is tell me what Bosanquet is up to. Where’s he been, whom he has been
talking to. I’ll take care of the rest. In no time at all you’ll be Chief and
there be another package left someplace for you to find. You can’t lose.”
“I won’t be bought.”
“John, you already have been. The parcel in your
barbecue doesn’t have a sender’s address on it. It’s yours now and I don’t much
care what you do with it. Hold on to it and throw your son and his bride one
hell of a wedding celebration, or turn it in. Either way, you remain in my
debt.”
“Go to hell.”
“Don’t be so hasty. Think about it, John. Will your
son’s fiancée still want to marry a man after I have him gelded? Will your wife
still consider your loyalty to Bosanquet honorable on the morning she opens a
parcel containing her son’s balls? I could have them mounted as earrings for
her. Do we understand each other? Let me know your answer at seven-thirty.”
Clements set the receiver down as though it was made
of crystal. He rested his head against the cold tiles of the wall and struggled
to keep his knees from buckling.
He had no idea how long he remained like that.
Later, he opened the back door of the house and
crossed the yard to the gas barbecue. The parcel had been wrapped in plain
brown paper and Scotch-taped to the underside of the metal lid. Sitting in his
car, in the privacy of his garage, he opened it. He found a photograph of his
son and five thick bundles of hundred dollar bills. He recognized the picture;
it was the one that his wife kept on top of the piano in a mother-of-pearl
frame.
He counted one of the bundles. Ten thousand dollars.
Times five. Fifty-thousand dollars in used, non-consecutive notes.
Lee Stone was not at home when Val called at his
house. His wife told him he could find her husband at a golf driving-range out
near the airport. They had bought it when he had retired from the police
department, she explained. Turned out to be a great investment, though she saw
less of him now than when he was in uniform.
Val had considered asking Larson to provide him with a
list of arrests that Jackson had made during his time as a cop, in particular
those who had walked. Even better, he then realized, would be the names of
those who Jackson had never given a ride in the back seat of his patrol car. The
one man who could give him that information was NOPD Sergeant Lee Stone,
Retired.
His quarry was encased in a wire cage on top of the
lawn tractor he was driving across the flat, grass-covered range, towing a
contraption to collect golf balls. One of his assistants went to wave him in
and told Val to wait next to a practice sand trap.
Stone had been Jackson’s sergeant for most of his time
at the Garden District Station. He pulled up beside Val and gave him a friendly
smile of recognition. He was black and had a scar that ran the length of his
jaw. Stone told rookies that it was a knife wound, but in reality he had
crashed through a plate-glass window one night when he was bombed.
“Good to see you again,” Stone shouted above the throb
of the diesel motor. He was dressed in sky-blue shorts and a navy-blue polo
shirt. He didn’t appear to have aged a single day since Val had last seen him.