The Perfect Crime (15 page)

CHAPTER 22

LAST WINTER, WHEN C.J. was driving around with one of those real estate booklets on the car seat looking for an apartment to rent, he fell in love right away with the duplex on Burthe. Smack on Riverbend, the place where the streetcar makes its only turn from St. Charles onto Carrollton, the area was New Orleans at its best. Just off the mansions on St. Charles near Tulane and Loyola Universities. Scattered for blocks around were arty little shops, dress designers and intimate tiny cabarets, along with the student bars and bookstores. Lines of students waited on street corners for the streetcar, while equal numbers got off.

“Charming,” he said to Amanda the first time he’d brought her to the apartment. “I like this area better than any place in town.
This
is New Orleans. No fucking tourists. Welure, some, just not the same ones you get in the Quarter. It’s...well...
charming.
” Amanda wasn’t the first girl he’d brought to the apartment, but it looked as though she’d certainly be the last.

He felt queasy, trying to sleep with Amanda’s dead body in the closet in the same room . It was hard enough to sleep as cold as it was. The air-conditioning was down as far as it would go to keep her corpse from smelling. He also slept with every blanket on in the place except the one he had thrown over Amanda’s rapidly decomposing body. He shuddered when he saw how white her skin had become.

When the doorbell rang on Thursday morning he almost jumped out of his skin. Still in bed at ten in the morning, though he’d awakened out of habit at six, he couldn’t force himself to get up. He lay with the covers pulled up to his chin, trying to consolidate his thoughts, trying to get it together for what he meant to do the following evening, but he couldn’t concentrate.

Still in his clothes to help keep him warm, he tiptoed to the front door and looked out through the peephole. Man! Fucking mailman. When he saw the uniform, at first he thought it was a cop coming to arrest him for killing Amanda and then he saw it was only a mailman. Stupid! he thought. No one knows about Amanda. He went to the door.

It was a special delivery. A signature was required for what turned out to be a bulky package from Sarah. Well, from her lawyer, William S. Bottoms, Jr., LL.D., Attorney-at-Law. Harvard grad. Lots of shit in raised black letters on the cover letter. He hated the button-down asshole with his black suits in the winter, his seersucker grays in the summer. His fucking fake Harvard speech when he said “idear” for idea. His ceaseless, boring fucking cocktail party stories about the prep master at Choate. C.J. laughed out loud. No more of those goddamned cocktail parties! No more sucking up to assholes with the I.Q. of a gerbil. Assholes with more money than they could ever get rid of if they stood at the door of a furnace shoveling it in all day long. Always standing around talking about fucking coming-out parties, which Mardi Gras balls were the best and which Krewes were for the nouveau riche and not worthy of anything but their disdain.

He gave the old man grudging credit. Sarah’s grandfather was good. There was no doubt in C.J.’s mind as to who was running the show. How’d he find out about this place so soon? Of course. He remembered Sarah’s mentioning it the night before. Maybe she
did
have a detective on him.

He opened the packet knowing what it was. The bitch sure didn’t waste any time. Yes. Notice of decree of divorcement, notice of dismissal from Derbigny State Bank and injunction against entering same. Some other shit that amounted to the same theme. He tossed it on the dresser.

Fucking old man Derbigny. Always fucking with him. He knew beyond any doubt that this wasn’t Sarah doing all this. It was her grandfather. Fucker thought he ran everything. Not this time.

Maybe he should light out. Call the pilot and tell him he wanted to leave a day early. Christ, there was a Cayman bank account with over a million dollars free and clear waiting for him. But, how far would a million dollars go in today’s world? In
his
world? No, he was going to be more than comfortable. He was going to be rich. All he had to do was wait one more day, keep his nerve and he’d be like one of those assholes at those cocktail parties, have more
dinero
than he could shovel in a lifetime. He knew the investments he’d put it into that would double his money. Metals. Copper, iron, zinc, stuff like that. Limited resource, growing demand--profits. That was the Midas formula.

He got back in bed still clothed, pulled up the covers and thought about the money he was going to make, at the same time wondering if he needed to stock up on Community Coffee. Every so often he gave a sniff to see if he could detect any aroma from the closet.

***

Veronica figured that if she didn’t get an answer this time she probably wouldn’t get another chance to try again until later on, after the after-work rush died down. A kazillion people were in the bar, blue-collar types for the most part with only a few suits sprinkled among the crowd, and the only good thing about Sally not being available to help out was that it was mostly beer and shots this crowd wanted. Anybody who yelled out anything that required a blender, she ignored and served the beer and shot Joes first. The women would be along in a little bit, she knew. Most of ‘em wanted to make an entrance, collect whistles. Damn that Sally! He knew to be at work this time of day. She was about to hang up when there was a click on the other end and a male voice said, “Yeah?”

Veronica shouted into the phone. “Fogarty!”

“Who’s this?”

“Veronica. Sally’s wife. Where the hell you been?”

Grady held the phone away from his ear. It was mid-morning and he must have slept ever since Whitney had dropped him off. She had offered to stay with him longer but he told her no, you have a job to take care of, and she’d finally acquiesced and left, promising to come over as soon as she was off at five.

“You don’t have to yell,” he said, bringing it closer, saying it in a friendly way.

“It’s loud in here. I can’t hear you. Listen, I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

“My brother died,” he said. “I was out last night most of the night.”

There was a silence. Then, “I’m sorry, Grady. That sucks.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “It sure does.”

“Well,
hell
!”

“Yeah, I know. What’d you call about?” He hoped it was something to do with Reader Kincaid. He was going to catch that fuck if it was the last thing he ever did. He was going to pay for his brother and pay in spades.

“Oh, yeah. Listen, they were here.”

“They?” He was pretty sure he knew who “they” were, at least he hoped he did.

“Eddie Delahousie and his friend Kincaid. I remember him. Bad customer, that one. I got their plates. Got you an address. Kincaid lives over in Algiers, across the river. Got a reputation as some half-ass master criminal. People think he’s a genius, something. I knew him as soon as he walked in the door. This guy’s something else, Fogarty, but I guess you knew that. Armed robbery, banks, supermarkets, stuff like that. He likes violence. I talked to a friend of mine downtown, he read me his rap sheet. Two suspicions of murder besides his father, but nothing ever proved. This guy’s a psycho. Enjoys killing. Loves to use a knife. He’s very creative with something sharp.”

“I know,” said Grady. “That’s what he used on Jack. That fits with everything I know about the guy. Thanks.”

“Who? Oh. Your brother. Yeah, well, this is a bad dude for sure. Listen, Fogarty--you want him pulled in? I got friends on the force that owe me favors. I can make a call, have him picked up, use a little persuasion, open him up. We got some good interrogators. Very professional. If he killed your brother, I know some guys who can get it out of him. You give me the word. We know how to take care of punks like that down here.”

Grady nixed that idea right away. He thought differentlyhis guy was too together to open up from a little hose job, no matter how expertly applied. He didn’t want the slightest mistake made in this. There was no way he was going to do something to cause this fuck to walk.

“What for? He hasn’t done anything we can pin on him. No. Let him go, see what he does. I want this guy cold. I don’t want him slipping through the cracks in the system. You got an address? I’ve been by Eddie Delahousie’s place, seen where he lives. I saw what you meant when you said it was drug central. I walked around, musta got offered every illegal substance there is, inside of two minutes by people coming out of apartments. That’s a zoo. Where’s the address you got on Kincaid? That’s a funny name, Reader.” He reached in his pocket for a pad and pen.

“That’s what he goes by. Does a lot of reading, I guess. Bad guys consider him an intellectual. Right. You know his real name’s Charles, but if you were to say Charles to him, he wouldn’t turn around. Last address we got on him is an old one, over in Algiers. I don’t think that’s where he lives. I’ll give it to you, but it’s two years old. These guys don’t stay in one place that long. I’ll do some checking though. Maybe I can turn up a current address.”

Grady didn’t write the Vallette street address down. It was the same one Marty had given him. He told her that and she said she was sorry. She’d try and see if she could get something more current.

“Where’s Sally? He there?”

“No. Son-of-a-bitch! You don’t know how to bartend, do you?” She laughed. “He called a while ago. He’s over to Bucktown, heard about a deal on some oysters over to Deannie’s. We serve free oysters on Thursdays. It’s our lagniappe. You like oysters, drop by. Sally’s got the best recipe for hot sauce you ever tasted. Better’n Commander’s Palace’s. He uses garlic butter, Tabasco, some other stuff. Burn the bark off your throat. Sally won’t be back until later. Try around seven. Keep me posted. You want any help, say it.” There was a brief silence. “And, hey. You want to stop by and try these oysters. You do, you’ll want to come down here to live. Listen, I got to go. This is getting ugly. You want to schlep some beer, play bartender for me, then stop on by. And, Grady?” She hesitated for a second. “Grady, I’m really sorry about your brother. Whatever we can do to help, just say the word.”

Grady thanked her and hung up. It was a great fraternity. Retired cops. Closest knit bunch in the world. He was beginning to see what Sally saw in his wife. She was a no-bullshit woman, the kind you liked on your side. He bet there was a whole bunch of criminals who used to cringe when they saw her heading their way.

Now. What to do. He could drive over to Algiers and ask around the neighborhoods to see if Kincaid was still in town, only he agreed with Veronica. Guys like this don’t stay in one place too long. No, a bird in the hand...he knew where Delahousie lived. Besides, with what he’d learned about Kincaid, it looked like Eddie Delahousie was only the hired hand, which meant he would be easier to keep track of. He was pretty sure that whatever Kincaid was up to, Delahousie was involved.

I’ll get this guy, Jack. I promise you.

He could see the two of them, working a case, Jack Fogarty the sharper of the two in some areas. Hell, to be honest, in a lot of areas.

“Don’t put yourself down,” he recalled Jack saying, right after the Boroni case, sitting in Friendly’s Tavern as they were hoisting a few celebratory brews. “You woulda got him sooner or later. I happened to remember our grandpap’s fishing technique and what sodium looked like. But he was done for, as soon’s theut you on the case. You’re a bulldog, Grady. A detail man. The best cops are detail men. Kind that pays attention to the little things. You would have made a good archeologist. You figure out how things are put together from practically nothing. It takes you a while longer, is all.”

Once in a while there was an argument, as if they were married or something. “Why don’t you go out, get a regular girlfriend, have a social life?”

“I
got
a social life, Jack.”

“Yeah, right. You pick up three different girls a week. Bar hoppers. You don’t even take ‘em out and buy ‘em dinner like they were regular girls.
That’s
your social life?”

“It’s none of your business, Jack. I don’t see your dance card filled. You and your goddamned electronics. If you were a woman I’d figure you for a remote controlled vibrator for your Friday nights! Besides, I’m a cop. You know what kind of women I meet? Not the kind you want to send flowers to or write poetry for. I’m lousy at poetry anyway.”

“Grady, my big, dumb, baby brother, I worry about you. Me, I’ve been married. Eighteen years. I’ve had my social life. I had a wonderful woman. I can’t top Sharon so I don’t try. But you. You’ve never been married. You need to meet a nice girl, settle down.”

An hour later, they were both drunk as losing pols on election day and laughing about the whole thing.

He smiled at the memory. Then, he thought of the last time he’d seen his brother alive, lying in a hospital bed, his brains scrambled, and the smile faded. And now he was gone.

He was still thinking about his brother when somebody knocked on his door.

“Whitney!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

She pushed by him, smiling.

“I had some sick days coming so I thought I’d stop by and see if you wanted to go grab some lunch. How are you doing?”

“Better,” he said, and he was. It still hurt like hell, but he had to go on. Sitting around mourning Jack wasn’t going to catch his killer.

She’d changed out of her work clothes into a simple yellow blouse and white slacks. Simple, but stunning. He closed the door and waved his hand at one of the motel room chairs.

“Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thanks. Actually, I just didn’t want to wait until tonight to see you again.” She blushed and looked away. “That’s pretty brazen, isn’t it.” Grady felt the heat in his own face and another kind of warmth in his body. She was saying, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, he was,” he said, and she seemed to believe him.

“I need to make a few calls,” he said. “You know, the funeral...” She nodded.