“Was he still with AV?”
“You best ask him when you find him. Though I reckon
so, going by the slick suit he had on and the way he was throwing money around
like he was some sort of big shot. The guy’s been an asshole all his life.”
“You sore at him for not fixing you up with a job with
AV?”
Trochan took another pull on his cigarette. “Luck of
the draw. We both had moonlighting details when we were wearing blue. Same
race, different ponies. The nag I backed didn’t last the course, while
Jackson’s long shot romped home for him.”
“When did he first start working with AV?”
“Must be close to ten years now. Why don’t you have
them put you in contact with Jackson.”
“I asked. They aren’t keen on cooperating. How do you
feel about doing some legwork for me? Pick up a couple of Franklins for
yourself.”
Trochan rubbed a hand over the bristle on his jaw.
“Running Jackson down? Does he know you’re after him?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do you want him to know?”
“Do what you have to do. It’ll be okay with me.”
“Okay, I’ll give it a shot. Give me a number where I
can reach you.”
Val took out a pen and searched around for some paper.
Trochan held out his arm for him to write on. That way, he said, he would
always be sure to have it on him.
When he had finished writing, Val said, “Aren’t you
interested in why I want to talk to Jackson?”
Trochan gave him a melancholy stare. “What do I care?
A man who can be bought for a lousy couple hundred dollars isn’t going to be
picky. You knew that; it’s why you’re here.”
There were two messages waiting on Val’s answering
machine when he reached home. The first was from Marcus. Val’s appointment as
the new UNOPD Chief was confirmed and he was expected at the university’s
station house first thing Tuesday morning to complete the formalities. A press
conference to announce Duval’s university place would be arranged for the
following morning.
The second message was from Angie. She had called to
say how delighted she was that Marcus and Val were on speaking terms at long
last, and asked when she would meet him again. There was still something she
had to talk to him about. She ended her message by saying that Duval sent her
sincerest thanks and that she would be staying with them until the freshman
orientation week commenced in six days’ time.
Val made a bunch of calls to cancel his credit cards
and to notify his bank of the loss of his ATM card. After that, he pulled the
cap off a bottle of Dos Equis beer and went and sat on the wood decking in his
yard to watch the setting sun fill the western sky.
Mother Nature had pulled out all the stops. For the
best part of an hour, it seemed the whole world was going up in flames.
CHAPTER SIX
Val felt ambivalent about carrying a shield again,
especially that of Chief. On the one hand he despised himself for going back,
however temporarily; to a job he had sworn he was through with. On the plus
side, being involved in an investigation once more brought the familiar surge
of energy that charged his mind and allowed him to focus with a relentlessness
that nothing else had ever come close to matching. And that troubled him.
The weight of the hand-sewn, shiny-with-age leather
wallet which held the shield was the one tangible of his first twenty-four
hours in the job. Tuesday had passed in a blur of frantic activity. His picture
had been taken, he’d been finger-printed, sworn in, and issued with the shield.
A cell phone
under protest
, a beeper, and a parking permit
for his car’s windshield were signed for by Val. The sergeant in charge of the
gun safe took it personally when Val declined the standard issue .38 Ruger
revolver.
All that had been quickly followed by an introduction
to some of the troops. Each UNOPD officer had undergone his or her training at
a police academy and was empowered to make arrests, by city, parish, and state
commissions. Then Val was briefed on the two main security systems operated for
the students’ safety —
the blue-light
telephones and the escort-request service. Both briefings were rushed through
in indecent haste, as though Marcus had spread the word that Val could change
his mind before the ink was dry on his appointment.
Under him, Val had one captain, four lieutenants,
eight sergeants, six detectives, and seventy-eight uniform officers. Thirty
part-time auxiliaries — mainly police cadets could also be called on when extra
manpower was required, most commonly for the policing of events at the
University’s Lakefront Arena. He was ultimately responsible for twelve patrol
cars, six motorcycles, twenty-five mountain bikes, one station house and one
lock-up.
The previous year’s crime figures showed that larceny
came tops, followed by liquor and drug violations, burglary, aggravated
assault, and date rape. A female final-year Bienville Hall student had killed
herself in her car and a member of the science faculty had absconded with two
hundred and fifty grand. He was traced to Mexico City, but there had been no
request for extradition. The man had already blown the money, and the
university didn’t need the bad press.
Val was sitting at his desk in his new office,
familiarizing himself with the duty roster while he waited for Captain John
Clements to show up. Clements had called in earlier and asked to meet with Val
at ten o’clock, one hour before the press conference was due to commence. Val
felt he already knew what Clements wanted to talk about. What police captain
wouldn’t feel bitter about a former lieutenant leap-froging into the chief’s
job?
The office door was open, but Clements rapped the
glass panel before entering. He was wearing full uniform and was carrying his
peaked cap. A tall broad-shouldered man, he had salt and pepper hair and an
officious bearing. Ten years older than Val, Clements had been a campus cop for
twenty-eight years. The previous chief had assessed him as an efficient and
competent officer, though, reading between the lines, Val judged that
Clements’s promotions had been earned more from time-served than inspired
police work. He wouldn’t have lasted a day in the Desire housing project. He
was the sort of officer who would have been in the running for commissioner by
now if he had been in the NOPD.
The few minutes they had spent together the day before
had been awkward for both of them. Clements’s grim expression did not hold out
much promise that this meeting was going to be any easier.
Val stood up and gave him the keys of the Chief of
Police vehicle.
“I want the standard rookie tour of the lakefront
campus. We can talk in the car.”
Clements opened his mouth to speak, then thought
better and closed it. He pulled on his cap with a determined tug.
The UNOPD captain started the tour by pointing out
that the creative arts building where Duval would be spending most of her time
was directly opposite the station house. They turned left and drove past a
clump of stucco accommodation blocks known as Lafitte village. The University
of New Orleans was essentially a commuter campus, but there were some
facilities for out of town students. During the vacations the rooms were rented
out as lodgings for tourists traveling on a shoestring budget. With the new
semester about to start, most of the buildings were deserted. Clements took a
left at the engineering block and drove past the building that housed the
performing arts faculty.
Val had often listened to Marcus bitching about how
the UNO had to exist under the shadow of the more academically distinguished
Tulane University. It seemed to be coping just fine.
“I’m sorry we didn’t have longer to talk yesterday,
John,” Val said. “Things were a bit hectic.”
“That’s okay, Chief Bosanquet. I understand.”
“Chief’ will do just fine. I’ve been reading your
department record. You’re a first-rate officer and an excellent administrator.”
Clements dipped his head. “It’s kind of you to say
so.”
“I’ll be frank with you. You probably regard my
appointment as some sort of nepotistic, political move. And you would be
absolutely right. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had your resignation already
typed out and signed. We both know who should be sitting behind the Chief’s
desk.”
Clements shifted uneasily. “It had crossed my mind. I
can appreciate the university had to do what they thought was best — under the
circumstances — but that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach.”
“It’s not a job I wanted, nor is it a job I intend
holding down for very long. What I need in the interim is for you to put all
thought of resigning out of your head and take over the day to day running of
the UNOPD. I’m not trying to shirk my responsibility. I’ll be there if you need
me, but I don’t envisage spending much time behind a desk. If you do as I ask,
then you have my word that immediately the dust has settled over Duval, I’m out
of here.”
Clements’s face brightened. “You’ve got it.”
“Good, now drop me outside the old library. It’s time
to perform for the press.”
The press conference was to be held on the second
floor of the library. The university boasted two libraries. The Earl K. Long
library was a vast concrete and pillared edifice that had about as much
character as a slab of marzipan. The old library was an ivy-clad, redbrick
Victorian building that had originally been built as a fever hospital.
It had been Marcus’s idea to host the conference
there. The book stacks that lined the walls contained some of the university’s
most valuable texts and he thought they might help create the right ambience,
one of gentle academe, slightly embarrassed at finding itself being intruded
upon. Oxford was never far from his mind.
Facing the press were Val and Marcus; Philip Lausaux,
in his role as project director of the Assist Haiti charity; and Duval herself.
Although the twenty or so journalists were local, they were all stringers for
the nationals and any one of them could guarantee nationwide coverage for a
story if they felt it was warranted. It was Marcus’s fervent hope that they
would see it as a strictly local issue — of little interest outside the Gulf
States.
Marcus started the ball rolling by giving the
assembled journalists a potted history of Marie Duval, starting with the death
of her father and brother and her arrival in the US as a refugee, moving on to
the manslaughter of her mother, and finishing with a resume of her academic
achievements. He then switched tactics and went on the offensive.
“Marie Duval committed a heinous crime, of that there
is no doubt. A crime provoked by fiendish mistreatment at the hands of her
mother — abuse that we can’t begin to imagine. She did not try to deny her
crime or escape retribution; she accepted her punishment and benefited from it.
Yet — and it does us no credit — when Miss Duval sought a college education,
she turned to out-of-state universities in the mistaken belief that she would
encounter greater tolerance. But those universities closed their doors on her.
The University of New Orleans will not deny an education to anyone who seeks
it. Ladies and gentlemen of the press, may I present our newest student, Miss
Marie Duval."
The room erupted in noise and bright light as motor
drives started to whir and flash guns fired. In response to the photographers’
demands, Duval took a few cautious steps towards the front row. She was nervous
and appeared overwhelmed at finding herself the center of so much attention.
Questions were being fired at her, but she refused to be drawn. Marcus had
cautioned her to let him answer on her behalf.
When the furor died down, Marcus gallantly escorted
Duval back to her seat, then returned to the microphones.
“I’ll take your questions one at a time.”
A journalist from
The
Times-Picayune
was the first to be given an opportunity to speak.
“Miss Duval claimed that she was provoked into killing
her mother. How can you be certain that the same won’t happen when she has an
essay marked down? Will a C minus put the lives of the teaching staff at risk?”
“I consider it a contemptible trivialization to
compare brutal and systematic child abuse to objective academic grading.”
Cool it, Marcus, Val thought, as he watched the
journalist scowl; don’t get their hackles up.
A girl from Driftwood, the university’s student
newspaper, was next in line to ask a question. “How will Miss Duval find the
money to pay her tuition?”
Marcus explained that the Assist Haiti charity was
funding her studies and introduced Philip Lausaux. That brought on a barrage of
probing questions about why a charity, ostensibly created to provide aid within
Haiti, would deem it appropriate to foot the bill for Duval’s college
education.
Lausaux responded to their quizzing competently enough
until a journalist asked him how he expected Duval’s studies in Caribbean art
to put food in Haitian bellies. Anger flared briefly across Lausaux’s face and
he said tersely that it was his charity’s avowed aim to feed Haitian minds as
well as their stomachs. The mood amongst the journalists was turning
increasingly ugly when Dawkins, a widely read columnist with the
New Orleans Magazine
, raised the
circumstances of Val’s appointment.
“My congratulations to the university’s new Police
Chief on his appointment. Isn’t he the former New Orleans Police Department
detective responsible for Miss Duval’s arrest ten years ago?”
Marcus assured the columnist that those were the
facts.
Dawkins wasn’t through.
“I would like to ask the Chief what circumstances led
to him being offered the job and what reasons he had for accepting? Have they
anything to do with Miss Duval not being as rehabilitated as the Dean would
have us believe?”
Val joined Marcus at the rostrum. He leaned into the
microphones. “It was not a decision I reached easily. My immediate response was
to decline the post, but a personal appeal from Miss Duval had me reverse that
decision. Seventeen years service with the New Orleans Police Department has
provided me with some insight into the hostility and threats she will
encounter.”
“Surely,” Dawkins said, “you mean the threat she
poses?”
“No, that is not what I mean. Miss Duval is black. Her
mother and she were illegal immigrants to this country. She is a young
attractive female and a non-Christian. Threats will be made against her by
white supremacists, the KKK, the Bible-Belters and a lot of testosterone-loaded
young men. Confronted with obstacles like those, how many of us would take the
easy way out and keep our heads well below the parapet? Marie Duval is an
exceptionally courageous girl who deserves all the support she can be given. I
will do my best to see that no harm befalls her. All you present have a chance
to play your part by resisting the impulse to sensationalize the university’s
decision to accept Miss Duval. We all know the extremists we have on our
streets. Let’s not give them something to freak out over.”
The mood of the journalists lightened and Val could
sense an undercurrent of consensus sweep the room. One female journalist got to
her feet and applauded. They fired a few more questions at him, but without the
ferocity of before.
Marcus seized on a pause in the propitative
questioning to call an end to the press conference. He thanked the journalists
for coming and told them that they could pick up a press release at the back of
the room. Then he ushered the participants of the panel into an annex to give the
journalists time to disperse. Angie was holding a tray with a glass of chilled
white wine for each of them. She took Duval aside and started a spirited
conversation with her.