“That went better than I dared hope for,” Marcus said,
smiling broadly at Val and Lausaux. “I think we can expect a fair hearing from
them.”
“You have your brother to thank for that, Marcus,”
Lausaux said.
“Yes, yes indeed. Will you excuse me for a few
moments? There’s something I have to attend to. I’ll be right back,” Marcus
said, then left.
Lausaux patted Val on the back. “You gave the
reporters an opportunity to feel good about themselves, and believe me, that is
not something they get to do all that often. I didn’t expect such deftness of
touch from a police officer.”
Lausaux was Louisiana Creole, though his accent owed
more to Cambridge, Massachusetts than to New Orleans. He was mocha-colored,
with a thin, arrogant nose, angular cheekbones and a high forehead. He wore a
suit that could only have been cut in London's Savile Row and which no doubt
had attracted Marcus’s envy. Val found his patronizing attitude offensive.
“I did only what you do every day,” he said, allowing
some edge into his voice. “Isn’t that how a successful charity operates? In
return for their, relatively speaking, pitiful contributions, the wealthy are
allowed to feel virtuous. You massage their egos and give them the oxygen of
favorable publicity. And after some creative bookkeeping, it ends up costing
them nothing.”
Lausaux’s eyes zeroed in on Val as though he was
seeing him for the first time. “How candid of you. It’s intriguing to meet a
man
with the gall to criticize our
methods, while totally bereft of all scruples over his brother’s canvassing on
his behalf. If I had a couple more like you on staff, my job at Assist Haiti
would be a great deal easier.”
Angie and Duval joined them. They were too keyed-up to
notice that they had stepped between two combatants.
“Thank you, Val” Angie leaned into him and gave him a
peck on the cheek. “For everything.”
“What is it you have to tell me?” Val said softly.
Angie blushed slightly. “Not now, not here.”
Lausaux picked up on it and raised an eyebrow a
fraction. He turned to Duval and said, “Chief Bosanquet and I have been
discussing how a charity operates. Perhaps you can persuade him to be my guest
this evening on the Natchez. He’ll have an opportunity to see at firsthand how
we raise the bulk of our income and learn something of our plans for its
distribution.”
“Is that okay with you?” Duval asked Val. “Assist
Haiti is holding a charity auction during an evening river cruise. One of my
paintings has been entered. I’d love
you to be there.”
Lausaux smiled and said, “The Natchez will depart from
Poydras Street Wharf at seven. Once we have our guests on the river, nobody’s
allowed off the boat until they’ve bought something.”
It didn’t sound like the sort of event where Jackson
would put in an appearance, but it was clear that Duval wanted Val there.
“I would be happy to join you. As long as you bear in
mind that a police officer’s wages don’t stretch to works of art.”
Captain Clements entered the room, his face bleak. He
indicated that he wanted a word with Val in private. They stepped into the
corridor.
“I’ve had an urgent call from Chief of Detectives
Larson. He wants you to meet him at St Louis Cemetery Number One. An ex-cop has
been found with a knife in his back. Some guy called Trochan.”
The St Louis cemeteries No. I and No. 2 are referred
to by New Orleanians as the Cities of the Dead. A high water table prevents below
ground burials, so the coffins were simply placed in position on the surface and
the tombs built around them: row after row of concrete Wendy houses arranged
along strips of St Antoine grass.
Tourists flock to the cemeteries during daylight
hours, but after dark they belong to the city's malefactors. Come the new day,
it wasn’t unusual for the body count to have risen by one or more. The homicide
detectives got to spend a lot of time amongst the marble.
Larson was made Chief of Detectives a month after Val
resigned from the police department. A couple of the detectives had called him
with invitations to a celebratory beer fest that the homicide squad was
throwing for Larson, but he told them he wouldn’t be coming along. He would
have felt as out of place as George W. Bush at a spelling bee.
He left his car on Conti and crossed to the main Basin
Street entrance. Larson wasn’t hard to find. He and a bunch of assorted crime
scene personnel were huddled around a large tomb just inside the cemetery
gates. Val had worked with most of them at one time or another.
The tomb was very grand, marble, with sculptured
angels, and intricate wrought-iron railings.
A crumpled figure was lying face down on the ground
between the railings and the walls of the tomb. A trickle of blood stained the
St Antoine grass.
Larson detached himself from the huddle and walked
over. He held out a packet of Juicy Fruit gum. Val shook his head. Larson
unwrapped the foil with one hand and slipped a stick in his mouth.
“Chief Bosanquet,” he said. “Hope you’re not expecting
me to salute.”
Val ignored his jibe. “How was Trochan killed?”
Larson worked the gum for a couple of seconds before
he answered. “Skillfully. A stiletto blade into his spinal cord at the base of
the skull, severing the cord. Quick, and with very little blood. He wouldn’t
have had time to think about dying.”
“Any leads?”
“Just the one. He had your phone number written on his
arm. One of the detectives called the phone company.”
They walked over to the tomb. The assembled officers
opened up and let them through. Trochan was wearing a short-sleeved guayabera
shirt. His arm had fallen through the railings and the numbers, written in
ballpoint, were as clear as a tattoo.
“He’s been dead no less than eight hours, no more than
twelve. He had five dollars and change on him, but this was no mugging that
went wrong.” Larson nodded at the medical examiner, who unrolled a body bag and
laid it out on the path in front of the tomb. He was whistling Michael
Jackson’s Thriller.
It was apparent that everything that could be
accomplished at the scene had already been done, and Larson had purposefully
delayed the body’s removal until Val had had a chance to view it.
“Tell me why Trochan had your number written on his
arm?” Larson asked when the body was removed. His earlier affability had
evaporated and he was all business.
“I wrote it there. He was doing some legwork for me.”
“What sort of legwork?”
“He was trying to run down Donny Jackson. I needed to
talk with him.”
“That ass-wipe. I heard he landed a job with some sportswear
firm. He not with them any longer?”
“No. He was fired.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me? What were you and
Jackson going to talk about?”
Val had known Larson was bound to ask, so he’d dreamt
up an answer for him on the way to the cemetery.
“At the start of each semester he runs a poker school
on campus. Every night during the first week. Cleans out a lot of freshmen. I
wanted him to know that this semester he's going have to find someplace else to
play.”
“You expect me to believe that Trochan took a knife in
the back because you wanted to break up a card game?”
“No. I’m telling you why he had my number on his arm.
I doubt if his killing has anything to do with Jackson. They were patrol
partners for years. Neither of them would have chosen to meet here.”
They had to move back against the iron railings to
allow the gurney to pass.
“Something must have brought him here,” Larson said.
“He was too savvy to risk this place alone after dark unless he had to.”
“Maybe he didn’t come alone.”
“Safety in numbers.” Larson worked his gum slowly and
gave Val a searching look. The sun was shining directly in his face but Val
kept his gaze steady. He heard a mocking bird call out from the branches of a
live oak further into the cemetery. Larson knew that Val was holding out on
him, but he also knew that there was not a thing he could do about it.
He broke eye contact when he spat the gum into the
grass. “You’d best be running back to the campus. I’ll be sure to pass your
message on to Jackson when we find him.”
Val turned and started to walk back down the path.
Larson called out. “Bosanquet, you ever feel the need to be a real cop again,
give me a call. I still have your shield in my desk.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
By the time Val arrived, there were no fewer than a
dozen immaculate limousines lined upon Poydras Street Wharf waiting to
discharge their well-heeled passengers. The Assist Haiti fund-raiser had
attracted a great many of Louisiana society’s great and good. The favorable
treatment that the Duval story had received on radio and television would have
helped boost the attendance.
The steamboat Natchez stole the show from the
expensively turned-out guests. A three-deck stern-wheeler, she was the last of
the genuine article still steaming the river. All white, apart from her twin
funnels, she resembled an intricately iced wedding cake. The steam organ on her
top deck was blasting out a version of the ‘Saints’. A steady stream of guests
was walking up the suspended bow gangway. Val took his turn in the flow.
Philip Lausaux was greeting each guest as they stepped
onto the wooden deck. He was dressed in a white silk tuxedo and was flanked by
two stunning Haitian girls in national dress handing out glasses of champagne.
Delighted to have you with us, Chief Bosanquet. Miss
Duval is already on board. I believe she’s on the top deck. Lausaux treated Val
to an obsequious smile, then dismissed him abruptly as he directed his effusive
charm towards a couple coming up behind. Val guessed his wallet mustn’t have
been fat enough.
He found Duval keeping cool next to an ice sculpture —
Assist Haiti spelt out in two-foot high letters — and watching a jazz trio set
up. She was wearing a white dress that accentuated her slim waist and long
legs. She had on some sort of cloche hat, also in white. He complimented her on
her appearance.
“Just don’t let me spill anything. Angie lent me the
dress, and the hat has to go back in the morning.”
He was hoping for a few minutes alone with her, to
break the news that, on disembarking from the riverboat, she was to be the
subject of a twenty-four-hour guard. Val was assigning three campus police
officers, working shifts, to protect her. He felt bad about telling her. She
was bound to question the need for such a precaution and he would have no
option but to fuel her anxiety with his report of Trochan’s murder. She was too
bright a kid to bluff.
Marcus and Angie joined them, forcing Val to postpone
his talk with Duval. His estranged wife was looking more dazzling than usual
and blended in with the more glamorous guests as though she had been
genetically engineered for that very purpose. Marcus had excelled himself by
choosing to wear a vividly striped rowing blazer and a spotted bow tie. A
waiter offered canapés from a silver salver.
“Have many parents have called to arrange transfers
for their kids?” Val asked Marcus as soon as the waiter had moved on.
“Only three so far. Two changed their minds when they
were told that Marie would not be rooming in the student accommodation. The
faculty senate is ecstatic with the low-key attitude the media adopted. So is
the Chancellor.”
“Have you seen Marie’s painting,” Angie broke in. “It
really is something special.”
When Val said that he hadn’t, Angie insisted that they
go below to the salon to admire it. As they were descending the steep
staircase, the boat started to shudder and Val could hear the slapping of the
paddle wheel against the water.
The goods to be auctioned were arrayed along the
length of the inside wall of the salon — at least, those small enough to be
brought on board. Photographs of the larger lots were displayed on gilded
easels. A silver Bentley Turbo and a forty-eight-foot sailboat took pride of
place. The auctioneer for the night was a twice Oscar-nominated New Orleans
actor whom Val had once arrested for possession of narcotics. Camcorders would
relay pictures to close-circuit screens all around the boat, so nobody would
miss the chance to bid.
Marie Duval’s picture was mounted against the
varnished wall of the salon. It was a depiction of the rush-roofed barracoon
slave quarters of an eighteenth-century sugar plantation in Haiti. Her
background colors were somber and thickly applied — her human figures
stick-like and primitive. The pain and suffering of the slaves were visible in
every brush stroke; it seemed she was trying to contrast the picayune impotency
of the slaves to the might and resources of their white masters. There was a
lot of misery on the canvas. One thing was certain: it wasn’t a picture that
would ever find its way onto a calendar.
A voice Val recognized called out his name. He turned
around and saw the grinning face of Professor Richard Bickford. There was no
need to introduce him to Marcus and Angie: he had tenure at the University of
New Orleans. Duval and Bickford swapped names and shook hands.
Subsequent to their first meeting ten years before,
Bickford had sent Val a copy of his completed paper on law enforcement
subcultures. Val had called him to argue a couple of points and, at his
suggestion, they had met to discuss them over a drink. Rather a lot of drinks
as it turned out. From that night they were good friends, even though they
might not come across each other for months at a time.
Bickford held up his champagne glass and stuck out his
tongue. “What do you say we give this horse’s piss a miss and go find a real
drink?”
Val pulled a long face. “And miss the auction?”
“There’s a cash bar on the bottom deck. Can you think
of a better way to make our charitable donations?”
They left the others estimating how much each lot
would fetch and went in search of a decent drink.
The lounge bar was done out in mahogany and brass with
yellowing antique river charts and nautical knots displayed on the oak
paneling. Bickford insisted on buying the first drink to celebrate Val’s
appointment as Chief.
“Hail to the Chief,” he said, clinking his glass
against Val’s.
“I didn’t think this type of event would have
interested you,” Val said, after he had taken his first swallow.
“Philip Lausaux invited me. I can’t abide the man, but
he funded a post-graduate departmental research project in Haiti and if I
genuflect deeply enough and often enough, he may come up with more cash.”
“What sort of research?”
“Zombism.”
Val didn’t hide his surprise. “The living dead? What possible
use could that be to Lausaux?”
“He wanted it discredited. The islanders are said to
be ninety percent Catholic, one hundred percent Voodoo. The oungans wield an
immense amount of sway — to the extent that Zombies are officially recognized
in Haitian law — and anything which disparages their influence is a step in the
right direction. Unfortunately, we weren’t a lot of help to him.”
“How come?”
“Rather than discrediting Zombism, our field workers
validated it. Or rather, they uncovered how the scam works. The oungans use
Zombi juice: a cocktail of extracts from the liver of the puffer fish and the
sap of the manchineel tree. The story is that the recipe was tested and
perfected on the Duvaliers’s political opponents in Dessalines barracks —
right, across the plaza from the National Palace. Pharmacologists say its
composition is similar to tetrodotoxin, a powerful neurotoxin. When the Zombi
juice is administered by an oungan, usually surreptitiously in a glass of
taffia — the local hooch — the victims experience pins and needles in their
extremities, then hypothermia and severe catalepsy or muscular atrophy,
symptoms which would, under cursory medical examination, be indicative of that
person having deceased. Soon after, the oungan, who just happens to be passing,
appears, administers an antidote, calls down a few lwas and puts on a show of
resurrection. Powerful stuff.”
“And if no antidote is given?”
“The victim will succumb within twenty-four hours,
from respiratory failure.”
Bickford drained his glass. He asked the barman to
repeat the order. “When an islander is ‘resurrected’, he belongs to the oungan.
The priest owns his soul and the Zombi becomes his slave. To prevent that
happening, the bodies of the recently deceased — especially if they are young —
will be beheaded by well-meaning relatives. God knows how many mistakes have
been made. People in comas, oungan Zombi targets.”
Val felt a deep need to lighten the mood, so he asked
his friend if he had found time to fit in some rock-climbing over the summer.
The skin on the backs of his hands had the texture of old, sun-dried leather.
“Spent a couple of weeks in Montana. It’s getting
harder to talk other rock-jocks into climbing with me
.
Most of my generation has given it up and the youngsters wouldn’t
be seen dead with an old-timer like me.”
A buzz swept around the bar when a well-groomed
mulatto entered, accompanied by two mean-faced bodyguards. Val estimated the
man to be in his early seventies. His skin was the color of the copper
arthritis bracelet he was wearing on his right wrist. His eyes were an intense
turquoise, common amongst mulattoes. They sat down at a circular table that had
been reserved and, after a few moments, Philip Lausaux joined them.
Lausaux crooked a finger at a waiter, who produced a
silver salver loaded with a bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket. The waiter
opened the bottle expertly and poured two glasses of the vintage champagne. The
elderly man’s eyes swept the bar and, for a fleeting moment, fixed on Val. His
mouth tightened in a thin smile.
Bickford nudged Val with an elbow. “No domestic
champagne for him. That’s where the big money will come from tonight, and that
toad, Lausaux, knows it.”
“Who is he?”
“Jean Moncoeur, one of Haiti’s haute bourgeoisie. He
and others like him are the principal reason Haiti has remained the poorest
country in the Western Hemisphere. Their families are members of a Catholic
oligarchy that has dominated the Haitian economy for two hundred years. The
Duvaliers were part of it, though more by marriage than birth. They use the
army, the Tonton Macoute, Voodoo, whatever, to keep control. And Washington
stands back and does damn all about it.”
“It doesn’t sound as though he’s on your Christmas
card list.”
Bickford ordered another drink. “I spent two summers
doing fieldwork on Haiti. Christ, what a screwed-up country. During the time I
was there, Assist Haiti was pioneering a scheme to help the peasant farmers of
the Artibonite Valley become self-supporting. The reasoning behind it was sound
enough: reduce the rural families’ dependence on handouts by introducing a
livestock scheme whereby they could become financially independent.” Bickford
shook himself. “Let’s drop it and concentrate on our own charitable work here
at the bar. I tend to lose my objectivity when I start on about Haiti. It would
bore you rigid.”
“No, I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”
Bickford rolled his eyes. “Okay, you’ve asked for it.
Just don’t say you weren’t warned.” He flipped his ponytail off his collar.
“The peasant farmers on Haiti used to rear hogs. They were one of the mainstays
of the subsistence economy until Washington insisted that a compulsory cull be
imposed to prevent a swine fever epidemic spreading to the US. Seventy-eight
was a bad year for Haiti; Hurricane Christine hit and wasted two-thirds of the
island.
“The charity’s plan was to reintroduce hog farming.
They helped set up and fund a marketing commission that would guarantee the
price for an adult animal. Assist Haiti would supply the young hogs and enough
additional fodder to rear them to market size — the disease-resistant hogs they
imported from the US were incapable of surviving solely on the fodder the
peasants could grow. Their diet needed to be supplemented with expensive US
grain. Initially the farmers were reluctant to take a gamble, but the first
year was such a success for those who did, the next year Haiti went hog mad.
That was when I arrived. Every square yard of ground had one of those damned
hogs on it.”
“What went wrong? Some new more-virulent strain of
swine fever wipe out the stock?”
Bickford threw a mean look towards the table where
Moncoeur was seated. “Nope. He and the rest of the cronies had the Haitian
government introduce a ban on the import of US grain. Damn hogs couldn’t
survive without the grain supplement and started to deteriorate. There was
nothing the marketing commission could do; it couldn’t be expected to guarantee
prices when there was nothing to sell. The peasant farmers faced ruin and
starvation. There was a chance that, given time, the hogs would adapt to a
wholly Haitian diet, but with no money coming in the peasants had no option but
to slaughter the hogs. Even that wasn’t enough: their stomachs couldn’t handle
a high-protein diet. They needed money to buy vegetables and rice. They had to
sell their land to survive. No prizes for guessing who bought most of it, and
at knock down prices.”
“Moncoeur and his cronies.”
“Right first time, pal.”
“Couldn’t Assist Haiti have supported the peasant
farmers until the hogs adapted?”