Night Watchman (The Tubby Dubonnet Series Book 8) (14 page)

Cherrylynn jumped into her Civic and, under a canopy of pink crape myrtles, she bumped out onto the street. Where could she go to kill a few hours? One of her girlfriends was in Atlanta for the weekend, and the other one wouldn’t be up this early on a Saturday. Might as well go to the office where there was Wi-Fi and parking. On the way she could drop off Tubby’s decibel register at Raisin’s girlfriend’s house.

* * *

Also on Saturday, before lunch, Jason Boaz went to Confession. His church had a new priest. He was a young guy whom Jason hoped he could relate to on a contemporary and worldly basis.

The penitent had to bide his time in the pews until a blue-haired woman finally emerged from the confessional, looking chastened and tired. There is nothing that woman could possibly need to confess, he thought to himself, but perhaps he was wrong. As soon as the light turned green, he hurried up the aisle and into the box.

Through the grill, he could make out the faint features of the priest.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, my last confession was two years ago,” he began.

“All right, my son, have you denied your faith?”

“Not at all, Father.” He would never do that.

“Have you profaned the use of God’s name in your speech?”

“Not very often, Father.”

“How about honoring Sundays?”

“Guilty, Father.”

“Sexual thoughts about someone to whom you are not married?”

“Yes, Father. I know that’s wrong. I mean, I guess. Whatever. But what I want to confess to is that think I may be killing somebody.”

“That’s very serious. In what sense do you mean that?”

“In the literal sense, Father. You see, I’ve built a miniature explosive device, which I’ve given to a man, and it’s set to go off and kill him under certain circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“Loud music. Actually, any very loud noise. You see…” and here Jason prattled on for a few minutes about how the device worked.

The priest let him talk until he wound down.

“Why did you do this?” the clergyman finally asked.

“It’s a long story,” Jason said, wanting to rush through this part, “but I was told to do it by some people that, frankly, I’m very afraid of.”

“Do you mean to say that you fear for your life?”

“Yes, I do,” Jason said earnestly.

“Well, you’ll just have to trust that the Lord will protect you. But you know that you absolutely have to stop this thing from blowing up.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He knew this would be the answer.

“Good, because if you don’t intend to call it off, I may have to tell the police about this Confession.”

Jason was astounded. “I thought this was private!” he exclaimed.

“There’s an exception to everything,” the young priest said.

“That certainly settles it then. I’ll get in touch with the man as soon as I walk out of the church and tell him to drown that phone in the sink.”

“You will have to take the consequences of this act as your penance. What else do you wish to confess?”

“I guess that’s about it,” Jason said.

“All right. Do your penance and you will be absolved. Go forth and sin no more.”

“For His word endures forever,” Jason mumbled as he hastened away.

But he couldn’t reach Tubby on the phone. The lawyer was at that moment out of cell phone range, riding a horse over the hills of St. Tammany Parish.

* * *

Cherrylynn leafed through the small file she had created on Mr. Dubonnet’s strange interest in the old shooting. She knew that her boss’s conversation with the policeman whose father had originally investigated the matter, Detective Kronke, had failed to produce anything useful. But maybe she could use her feminine smarts to make something happen.

There was that handwritten name on a piece of paper found in the old police records— Bert Haggarty— and there was the scribbled impression of the name Carlos Pancera. She knew that Flowers, Tubby’s private detective, was already making inquiries about Pancera. The possibility that she might cross paths with this investigator was very enticing, yet Tubby might not like her to be interfering. But what about this Haggarty? The note said “Indiana” beside his name, so she started there.

It was amazing how many oddball possibilities Google offered for that name. Scores, maybe hundreds. She thought about going into Westlaw but, at fifty-nine dollars per individual profile, Mr. Dubonnet would have a cow. She searched for the big cities in Indiana, since personally she couldn’t name any, and then ran through the White Pages available for Indianapolis, Bloomington, Evansville, etc. That gave her nearly two hundred more Haggarties, but only one Bert, and he was in Fort Wayne. Of course Bert may have been the name of the victim, or the victim’s now-deceased parent, or Bert might live in the country and not be in the city directories, or he might not have a phone, or… the chances were poor that this one name could be her guy. And what was she supposed to say when she called him? “Sir, do you know anything about a boy that got shot in New Orleans forty years ago?”

Why not? All it took was nosiness and nerve, and she had both. She called the number. A man’s voice said, “Hello?”

“My name is Cherrylynn Resilio. I work for a lawyer in New Orleans. Do you possibly have any connection with a shooting that occurred in this city in or about the 1970s?”

“What did you say?”

She repeated her question.

“Of course not. What are you selling?”

“I’m not selling anything.”

“Well, quit bothering people. I’m in the middle of changing diapers.”

“So sorry…” was all she got out before the line went dead.

I guess I could do that two hundred more times, she thought, but that would be no fun. What if Bert Haggarty had moved to Minnesota or Montana, which in Cherrylynn’s recollection were the states next to Indiana. The exercise was pointless.

Back to Carlos Pancera? She consulted Google again and had much better luck. He had been on the Board of the Latin American Cultural Society and had attended a gala given by Caribbean Freedom touted as a “Cuba Libre and Lime Night,” music by Bodega Brass, tickets $250. He was an elder of the St. Agapius Catholic Church. He had received an honorary degree from Loyola University in recognition of his contributions to cultural understanding, presented by the Dean of the College of Social Sciences.

Now that was an interesting lead. Cherrylynn was taking a course on “The Politics of Rock and Roll” in that very department and her teacher, a young assistant professor named Mister Prima, possibly had a crush on her. They addressed him as “Mister,” but his first name was Oliver. He gave all the students his home number.

“Oh, hi, Cherrylynn.” Her name must have popped up on his phone since she had called him once before about a reading assignment.

He said he didn’t mind talking to her on a Saturday, and, yes, he knew who Pancera was. There was a lot to the man’s story, more than could be covered on the phone, and anyway Oliver was busy at the moment.

But, as it turned out, he would be free later. He was in fact in his office all day, catching up on some research. He could see her in the evening, on campus. She was so satisfied with this outcome that she hummed a tune to herself while checking her hair in a pocket mirror.

She was on a roll. She figured that Officer Sandoval would not be working today, since the Police Records office was undoubtedly closed, but she did have his cell number.

“Yeah?” His voice was as brusque as she remembered it. Just like a cop should sound.

“Hi, Officer. This is Tubby Dubonnet’s assistant, Cherrylynn?”

“Yeah?” he said again, but his voice seemed to soften a little.

“I did appreciate your finding that old file for us, but there really wasn’t much in it.”

“You got all there was.”

“I don’t suppose there is anyplace else you could look?”

“Not a chance. I don’t know much about how records were kept back then. I was just a young man myself.”

“One of the names in the report was Carlos Pancera. Is it possible that there would be some material about him?”

“I don’t know the man.”

“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting that you did. I just wondered if you might look.”

“You think I’m a librarian for a living? I’m a cop, and right now I’m frying catfish for a bunch of people.”

“I know you’re a policeman, and I know you are stuck in a job below your skills, but if there is any way you can help me I’d be really grateful.”

“Maybe,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll look on Monday.”

“Thank you so much. Shall I spell the name?”

“No. I got it. Bye.” He hung up.

Professor Prima’s office was on the second floor of the Academic Building, and it wasn’t big. He was sitting behind a very neat desk reading a small red book, which for no reason Cherrylynn thought might be poetry, while listening to soft Baroque music on the radio. His little window looked out upon a towering palm tree.

“Ah, Miss Resilio,” he began. The professor was thin and metro in all ways. He was meticulously clean-shaven, and his black hair was neatly combed above his ears. He had on a loose-fitting blue Northface V-neck sweater, which revealed the hint of a silver necklace on his chest.

“Hi, Oliver,” she said, sitting down. “Thanks for taking time to see me.”

“I keep office hours almost every day, though I think you are the first student I’ve ever seen on a Saturday. Did you say you were interested in Señor Pancera?”

“Yes. I saw that he got an honorary degree here last year, and I thought maybe you could tell me something about him.”

“Why the interest?” The professor closed his red book and swiveled around in his chair to put it in the bookcase built below the window. Cherrylynn thought he had surprisingly broad shoulders for a thin man and a college teacher at that. Maybe he had a personal trainer.

“His name came up in a case my boss, Tubby Dubonnet, is working on. He’s a lawyer downtown.”

“Don’t guess I know him.” Mister Prima spun back around. He gave her a bright smile. “Does the case have anything to do with Cuba?”

“Not that I know of. I think it is a homicide that happened a long time ago. Carlos Pancera probably had nothing to do with it. His name was just written on the inside of a file.”

“Really.” The professor inspected his fingers. “Pancera is a prominent Cuban refugee who has been very generous to the Catholic church and to this university. In fact, he is a big contributor to our department.”

“How does he make his living?”

“I think he owns real estate.”

“So, nothing shady in his background?”

“Nothing has ever been proven though years ago there were lots of myths and rumors about him— about our entire refugee community in fact.”

“What sort of rumors?” Cherrylynn loved rumors.

“They’ve all been debunked, but do you know who Lee Harvey Oswald was?”

“Of course. The man who assassinated President Kennedy.”

“Exactly. Did you know he lived in New Orleans?”

“I may have heard that, but I don’t really remember. I wasn’t born then.”

“Naturally not. I wasn’t either, but it is an important part of American history.”

Chagrined, Cherrylynn lowered her eyes.

“While he was here in New Orleans,” Prima continued, “he was active in what was called ‘The Fair Play for Cuba Committee.’ Some people speculated that, if indeed Oswald killed the president, his motive may have been his outrage over the Bay of Pigs fiasco. Kennedy launched the CIA-sponsored invasion force, which angered the pro-Castro people. Then Kennedy failed to support the attack, which lost us the best chance to overthrow Castro. Of course, Oswald may have had other motives. He spent two years in the Soviet Union and was married a Russian woman, so his true thinking is quite murky.”

“What does that have to do with Mister Pancera?”

“Probably nothing, except that if Oswald had any supporters or financial backers, one might speculate that those sponsors could possibly have been found in a community passionate about Cuba, including the anti-Castro community.”

“Wow.”

“Yes, but that theory, in fact all theories, were rejected by the Warren Commission.”

Cherrylynn did not know what the Warren Commission was, but that didn’t matter. “So, it’s not true?” she asked.

Mister Prima shrugged. “A lot of those Bay of Pigs fighters came from New Orleans, and a number of businessmen in this city paid good money to flight-train the Bay of Pigs pilots in Central America. They even provided an airfield in Nicaragua. I’m just saying there were a lot of serious hombres with military experience and violent attitudes in our fair city in those days. Their anger at being abandoned by the federal government got blended together with their hatred of the Civil Rights movement, which many of our local New Orleans community leaders believed to be Communist-led. There was fury and bloodlust aplenty in that period, and it wasn’t even below the surface. It was the philosophy of the people who counted.”

“I had no idea.” To Cherrylynn, New Orleans had always been totally about fun.

“Oh yes,” the professor continued. “I’ve written a paper about it.”

“And Carlos Pancera was involved in all of that?”

“He was young then, but he came from a big family. He did write some incendiary articles for the Latin newspapers. Yet I’d say he has never been much of a public figure. He asserted his influence mostly behind the scenes.”

“Why did he get an honorary degree?”

“Pancera has been a great friend to our institution, and what I have just told you is all ancient history.”

“Did these radical groups have names?”

“Yes, there was the Free Cuba Committee, as I said. There was also the Junior Anti-Communist League, though that sounds better in Spanish. There were the Defenders of Free Enterprise, and the Anti-Socialist Alliance. Quite a few groups actually, though I’d say their membership probably overlapped considerably.”

He was almost drowned out by sirens blaring outside on St. Charles Avenue. It took a minute before they wound down. Cherrylynn used the time to scribble down the names the professor had just given her.