House of the Rising Sun (15 page)

The two former partners sat on opposite sides of a picnic table. Ray said, “What'd you find out?”

LaGrange slung his attaché case onto the table. He pulled out a thick manila folder. From inside the folder, he slipped a computer printout of at least a dozen pages and slid it across the table to Ray. “Scooby's rap sheet associates.”

Ray flipped through the list of everyone Michael Salazaar had ever been arrested with in New Orleans. He started to count the names.

“Fourteen,” LaGrange said. “I highlighted the ones who got picked up with him for felonies.”

“Thanks,” Ray said.

He studied the printout. Under each name was a section containing basic identifying information, including race, sex, date of birth, and last known address. Nine were highlighted in yellow. Below the identification section was a list of charges.

“Scooby had a lot of friends,” Ray said. He eyed the folder in LaGrange's hands. “What else have you got?”

“Rap sheets on his nine felony friends. I knew you were going to ask for them.”

“Good thinking,” Ray said, reaching across the table.

LaGrange put a hand on top of the folder. “This is it, Ray. I can't help you anymore. You're getting too deep into this shit, and I've got to think about my family.”

Ray stared at him. “I've got no choice.”

“You told me that before,” LaGrange said. “What do you mean?”

Ray told LaGrange about what had happened in Shorty's parking lot, about the squirt gun filled with piss, about the real gun, and about the threat.

LaGrange said, “Why you?”

Ray shrugged. “They say it's because I used to be a cop, but I think there's more to it.”

“Like what?”

“Tony is an ambitious bastard. Best I can figure, he doesn't want to risk ruining his career. If this crew has already blown town, or they spent the money, or anything else happens that's not according to plan, Tony wants a fall guy.”

“And you're it?”

Ray nodded.

“And if you do happen to find them?” LaGrange said.

“Tony takes the credit.”

LaGrange slid the folder across the table. “Same old Tony Zello,” he said. “Trying to have it both ways, just like always.”

Inside the folder were ten stapled computer printouts. Ray glanced at the first page of each and saw that at the top was a name, followed by the same identifying data as the rap sheet associates printout, then the total number of arrests. Printed below were the details of each arrest.

Scooby's rap sheet was on top. The date of his last arrest was
only three months ago, when he had been picked up for simple possession of heroin. The charges had been dismissed. A brief entry gave the reason as improper search. More important to Ray was the section describing marks, scars, and tattoos that was updated after each arrest. Scooby's sheet listed several tattoos, but no spiderweb on his hand. Ray moved on.

He scanned the first page of each stack, looking at the names and physical descriptions, specifically for the spiderweb tattoo. Two of the rap sheet owners were black. Ray put them aside. He hit pay dirt on number five.

Dylan Sylvester—the name sounded familiar—white male, twenty-eight years old. Among the tattoos listed was a spiderweb on the back of his right hand. An image popped into Ray's mind of a tall guy, on the skinny side, with a shaved head.

The arrests were listed in reverse chronological order, with the most recent on top. Sylvester's first two were for DWI and simple battery. But two years ago he had been picked up for possession with intent to distribute crack and possession of a firearm during a drug-trafficking crime. Both charges had been dismissed, with no reason listed.

Ray flipped through the pages. There was an almost four-year stretch between the drug and gun arrest and the next most recent bust, for armed robbery. The disposition section showed Sylvester had pled guilty to the robbery and had drawn a ten-year sentence. With good time and an overcrowded prison system, he could have been out in three.

Then an arrest nine years ago jumped off the page at Ray. He found out why he thought he knew Dylan Sylvester. The charge was simple robbery, the location was in the French Quarter, the arresting officers were Ray Shane and Kurt Fitzpatrick.

Across the picnic table, LaGrange slurped coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Ray said, “You remember this guy?”

“Who?”

“Dylan Sylvester.”

LaGrange cocked his head back for a few seconds, like he was thinking about it, then looked at Ray. “I saw his name, but it didn't sound familiar. Why?”

Ray tapped the physical description. “He's got the tattoo.”

LaGrange shrugged. “Big deal. So do a hundred other guys.”

“But I know this guy,” Ray said. “Kurt and I arrested him nine years ago.”

“For what?”

Ray flicked his finger against the page in front of him. “Says simple robbery.” He thought back, trying to pull up the details. “Way I remember it, though, a tourist got robbed at gunpoint. A district car put out a description of the perp. Half an hour later me and Fitz see this skinhead asshole strolling down Bourbon Street. He matched the description the vic gave, so we grabbed him. We found the vic's wallet on him but not the gun.”

“He stashed it,” LaGrange said, “in case he got caught.”

“That's what we figured. We did a show-up, and the victim ID'd the guy, but with no gun the most we could charge him with was simple robbery.”

“He get convicted?”

Ray shook his head. “D.A. dismissed it when the victim—he was from somewhere up north, Chicago, Detroit, something like that—didn't show up for court.”

“Tourists never show up.”

Ray nodded, acknowledging something that had made working French Quarter robberies so frustrating.

“You think it's him?” LaGrange asked.

“I know it's him.”

“If they were wearing masks, how can you be so sure?”

“Because I don't believe in coincidences.”

“What are you talking about?”

Ray laid Dylan Sylvester's and Michael Salazaar's rap sheets side by side, then flipped through them until he found what
he was looking for. He laid a finger down on one arrest from each sheet. “They were together two years ago on a crack and gun arrest.” He turned the pages of each record, looking for something else. “And when Dylan was doing his D.O.C. time for armed robbery . . .”

“Yeah?” LaGrange said, sounding almost interested enough to be a detective.

Ray ran his finger down Salazaar's rap sheet until he found the right entry. “Scooby was also doing state time.”

“What for?”

“Possession with intent to distribute cocaine.” He tapped the page with his finger. “How much do you want to bet they did their time together?”

“That doesn't mean they got together and robbed you the other night.”

LaGrange had never been too bright. It was kind of scary thinking he was in the Crime Analysis Section. “There's more.”

“What?” LaGrange asked.

“All you've got to do is complete the circle.” Ray raised one hand and flicked up his index finger. “The other night at the House, an asshole with a spiderweb tattoo on his hand tried to shoot me in the head with a Smith & Wesson forty-caliber pistol.” He held up his second finger. “Winky sold that same gun to a guy named Scooby.” Third finger, “Scooby was butt-buddies with Dylan Sylvester.” Fourth finger, “Dylan Sylvester is an armed robber.” The thumb, “Dylan has a spiderweb tattoo on his right hand.”

“It's all circumstantial, you got no direct—”

“I'm not going to court,” Ray said. “This is between me and them.”

LaGrange raised his eyebrows. “You sure about that?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said you don't believe in coincidences.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You're pretty sure you've identified two members of the crew, right?”

Ray nodded.

“Are you going to tell the Guidos you know them?”

Ray shook his head. “I arrested these guys years ago. It's not like we were drinking buddies.”

“You don't think there's a connection?”

Something unseen had been tugging at the back of Ray's mind. Now it was starting to come into focus, but he didn't want it to. “What connection?”

“Four guys hit the place and you knew two of them.”

“I told you—”

LaGrange held up his hand. “Okay, you don't know them but you've got a past with them. Then right after the robbery, one of them gets whacked standing in his front yard. You see anything funny about that?”

Ray shrugged. “I don't know.” But that out-of-focus thing that had been tugging at him was getting clearer by the second.

“Then it's just a coincidence,” LaGrange said.

“Maybe.”

“Then why don't you tell the Eye-talians about it?”

“I doubt they believe in coincidences either,” Ray said. “I'd end up hanging from a meat hook.”

“You were a good cop, Ray, so think about it. What do you figure the odds are that two guys you arrested several years ago would get together with two other assholes and pull a job at the place where you work, just when you happen to be standing at the front door, which is somewhere you normally can't even be found?”

Suddenly Ray had a headache. He pressed his fingers against his temples, feeling the need for a cigarette. “I don't know.”

“What do you
think?
” LaGrange insisted.

Head throbbing, Ray turned the possibilities over in his mind
but couldn't come up with an answer that made sense. There was only one thing he was sure about. “I still don't believe in coincidences.”

Tony barged into Vinnie's office.

Vinnie sat behind his desk, the telephone stuck in his ear. He glared at Tony. “You ever hear of knocking?”

Tony stopped halfway between the door and Vinnie's desk, feeling like a kid caught with a girlie magazine. “You want me to go back outside and knock?”

Vinnie gave him a look, one that was supposed to be intimidating, but it looked more stupid than scary, kind of like he had just bitten into a lemon. After a couple seconds of the lemon look, Vinnie waved to a chair. “Much use as you are, I should put you back out on the street collecting the vig.”

Vinnie spent the next fifteen minutes on the phone. Tony knew his boss was dragging it out to make him wait, the last five minutes talking about where's the best place to get authentic southern Italian food. Finally, Vinnie hung up. He squeezed his forehead like he was fighting a migraine.

Tony said, “What's going on?”

“Shit, that's what's going on, nothing but shit.” He pointed to the phone. “Motherfucker right there. That guy uptown. The one who's got some of our video poker machines in his place . . . what's his fucking name?”

“You talking about George?”

“George, that's it. I'm talking to him for an hour, I can't remember his name. Anyway, George's brother got arrested last night for banging a sixteen-year-old.”

“How old is his brother?”

“How do I know how old his brother is? I don't even know how old George is.”

“I mean, is his brother a kid?”

Vinnie shook his head. “No, he's a grown man. George said his brother has got a teenage kid himself.” Vinnie leaned back in his chair. “What a fucking pervert.”

“Boy or a girl?”

“What?”

“Was George's brother screwing a teenage girl, or was he screwing a boy?”

Vinnie shook his head. “What difference does it make?”

“Some of these girls,” Tony said, “they can doll themselves up to look a lot older than they are. I could see how the guy might have got himself into a situation.”

“Are you some kind of perv, too?”

“I'm just saying . . . What does he want anyway?”

“What do you think? For me to get his brother out of jail.”

“Why does he think you can get his brother out on a sex beef? That shit hits the newspaper, forget about it.”

“These guys, they seen too many movies. They think we got more power than we actually do. I had the power everybody thinks I got, I'd get shit done just like that.” Vinnie snapped his fingers.

“So what are you going to do?”

Vinnie shrugged. “I don't know. The poker machines in George's place, they're worth a grand a week. I got to make it look like I'm doing something just to keep him happy.”

“Like what?”

Vinnie waved his hand in the air. “I don't know. I'll come up with something. Tell me about Ray Shane, what's he found out?”

This is what Tony had been waiting for. He didn't give a shit about George or his pervert brother, didn't care if he had gotten caught with a girl, a boy, or a dog. Ray Shane and the robbery were what concerned him. Vinnie was funny, though. Tony had to let him think things were his idea.