The Righteous Cut (21 page)

***

Casey, Farrell, and Gabrielle were passing City Park when they heard from the Milneburg district radio cars. “We just missed them, Captain. Richards and Joey Parmalee are dead, but still warm enough to breathe. No sign of Carson, Johnny Parmalee, Arboneau, or the girl.”

“Roger, stand by,” Casey said. He cut his eyes at the frightened girl seated between them. “All right, Gabrielle, it's got to be Bucktown. Where?”

“Just past the docks where all them fishin' boats tie up,” she said in a dull voice. “There's a road leadin' to a cottage with screen porches. Daddy keeps a motorboat there.” She looked up at Farrell, feeling a chill come from the shadow obscuring his face. “Please don't kill 'em,” she whimpered. “I know they done bad, but please don't.”

Farrell's voice issued from some dark hollow place where light and hope had no place. “King's dealt the cards. He's got to play them now.”

Casey keyed his microphone as he turned into Robert E. Lee, gunning the engine toward West End. “This is Casey to all units. We believe Arboneau is headed to a house just west of the Bucktown docks. I'll get there ahead of you, so be on the lookout for us. Run silent, repeat, run silent.” As the other units rogered his message he floored the accelerator.

“They'll be hard to take in the open, particularly if they're already getting the boat underway,” Casey said. “They've got nothing to lose by fighting it out.”

“I'll distract them so you can flank them from the shore,” Farrell replied. “When they see me coming, in the open, chances are they'll make a lot of noise about killing Jessica. I'll do my best to keep them talking.”

“Or they'll use her as a shield so they can kill you,” Casey said. The words came from him in a tone of dispassion he didn't feel.

“I thought about that,” Farrell said. “If Jessica was just another girl, maybe I could hold back, play it safe.”

“Yes,” Casey said, finishing the thought. “But she's not just any girl.” He knew his son too well to think he'd hesitate when so much was at stake. He remembered too well the night Farrell had fought his way through a raging storm and into a dark house full of armed men when Casey's life had been in the balance. Pride and fear grew a lump in his throat, silencing him as he sent the police car hurtling through the rural darkness. Holy Mary, Mother of God, he thought. Pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our deaths.

***

The glow of a false dawn brightened the eastern sky as Cal Russell left Robert E. Lee Drive for the Old Hammond Highway. The smell of open water and decayed marine vegetation came to Jessica through the open car window. She was frightened, profoundly sad, but simmering beneath that was a rage festering. She didn't know what this evil old man planned for her, but the sight of her father's corpse had driven away any hope she had of surviving this.

Cal slowed the car as the Bucktown docks came into view. The sound of marl beneath the tires was eerily like the crunching of bones in a wolf's jaws. Arboneau grabbed Jessica by the arm and showed her his gun.

“Listen to me, girl. I've got a boat down here. We're going down there together and get into it. I'd be happy to keep you alive in case I need a hostage, but if you give me any trouble, I'll kill you.”

She stared back at him, glad he couldn't see the hatred she felt. “You're going to kill me anyway.”

“Maybe, but not yet.”

Cal brought the car to a stop alongside a weathered cottage with a broad screened porch. Arboneau shoved open his door and worked his ungainly body outside. He motioned with his gun for Jessica to follow him.

“That way.” He gestured toward the back.

With Cal in the lead, the trio continued around the side of the house into the back yard. A long pier jutted out into the inlet, beyond which lay the expanse of Lake Pontchartrain. The moon was low in the sky, creating the illusion of a long, glimmering path leading across the water to the horizon, a silvery road to nowhere.

As Cal ran to the end of the dock to start up the boat's engines, Jessica remembered other times at the lake, trips to the amusement park or the beach. Her dad had brought her here to cruise the lake in his Chris-Craft or to catch crabs. All gone now, down that empty silver road.

Jessica looked back the way they'd come, ignoring the hard circle of Arboneau's gun muzzle in her back. She was tired of this. She wasn't afraid to die anymore. Maybe it was time to push it to the finish here and now, where her mother could find what was left of her. Her hand brushed the pocket of her skirt, unexpectedly finding the lump of Joey Parmalee's knife. Her hand was in the pocket when something distracted her. A night bird maybe? No, there it is again.

A tall, unfamiliar man appeared at the foot of the dock. He walked with a casual, unhurried step that was somehow implacable. His hands hung loose at his sides, but the threat of violent action seemed implicit in his carriage. She stared at the place where his face should be, but only a hard gleam was visible.

“Arboneau. King Arboneau.”

Arboneau, distracted by Cal's preparations to make way, jerked about at the sound that crackled through the air at him. He looked about frantically, moving the muzzle of his gun like a diviner. “Who's there? Who's out there?”

“You remember me, King,” the shadowy figure said. “I'm the guy you told the long, sad story to, remember? About how you didn't know a thing about a kidnapping or any of the other trouble Whit Richards was having. I'm the one you told that you were nothing but a beaten old man who'd lost his nerve.”

“Farrell? Is that you, Farrell? You got it wrong. I didn't want to kill him. I was betrayed by people I trusted. I wanted to bleed him white, until he was nothing but a dried out husk like…like me.” Those last words were spoken wistfully, surprised that his life, which had once held such promise, as if could have come to so mean an end. “It was Carson. He lied to me. He lied.”

“None of that matters now, does it, King? You're the last man standing. Let the girl go and take your chances.”

“No. Never,” the old man cried. “Stay back or I'll kill her. I will, damn you, I will.”

Farrell's bitter laugh reached down the dock to where the old man stood, his knees shaking with terror. “No you won't, King. You push a button so people like Joey Parmalee and the four-eyed kid with the .22 can do your dirty work. You can't do it by yourself. You're a weak old man, remember?” Farrell's coarse jeer hurtled through the dark like a missile, rocking Arboneau's nerve. “Is that your killer in the boat, old man? If it is, he's in a fix. He can't get a clear shot at me from where he is, and he can't get to the dock without stopping my bullet.”

“Stay back,” Arboneau screamed. “I mean it.”

“Daddy King! Daddy King!” Handcuffed in the car, Gabrielle's wail of despair lanced through the night into the old man's heart. He looked down at Cal, who waited to do his bidding. Tel was dead, and King understood that he'd now led his substitute family to disaster just as certain.

Farrell saw the indecision in Arboneau and decided to press his luck to the breaking point. Unbuttoning his jacket he stepped onto the dock, advancing on Arboneau with a slow, steady tread. “You can't get past me, King, and you can't get anywhere in that boat. The Coast Guard's already on the way and they'll have the inlet blocked before you get there.”

Jessica had borne all of this stoically, but her face was no longer that of a teenage girl. Farrell looked at the set of her mouth, the pale hatred simmering in her eyes and he recognized an undefeated spirit. A shiver of fierce pride went through him. He blinked back tears he couldn't explain as he smiled at her.

“Jessica, my name's Wesley Farrell. I'm a friend of your mother's, and I'm going to take you home.”

“Then do it,” she yelled. “I'm goddamned sick of being pushed around.” As she spoke, a length of steel seemed to explode from her fist. She stabbed it down at Arboneau's leg with all her strength.

As the blade penetrated the fat of his thigh, the old man screamed, throwing his arms wide. Freed of his grasp, Jessica threw herself prone against the weathered planks.

As the girl pitched forward, the Luger appeared in Farrell's hand, jumping in his fist as though alive, illuminating the dock with flares of hot red light. Arboneau's body arched as the slugs ripped his chest. Casey, firing from the yard, hit Cal Russell in the neck as Farrell's last shot tore through the young man's skull. As the noise of the explosions died, Farrell was suddenly aware of the calm slapping of water against the dock pilings.

He walked down the dock to where Jessica lay, his heart thudding in his throat. She stirred as he reached her. He knelt down, placing a soft, tentative hand on her head. “Are you all right, Jess?”

She let him help her to her feet, looking past his shoulder to where the bodies lay. “No. I'll never be all right again. They killed my father.”

Farrell trembled as the word reached his ear. Its meaning was different to him now. He left his face blank, spoke to the girl in a cool, dispassionate voice. “I'm sorry, Jess. Really sorry.”

She looked up at him, staring as she reached up to touch his face with her fingers. The gesture was strangely familiar to him. “I don't know you. Why—how—?”

Gabrielle, freed from her shackles by Casey, rushed past them, sobbing. She knelt first beside Arboneau, who groaned loudly, shaking his head back and forth in pain. She looked past him to the edge of the dock, where she saw Cal for the first time. A strangled cry erupted from her as she went to the dead boy, cradling his ruined head in her lap. Her mouth hung open, but all the sounds of grief had been driven from her.

Sirens drove silence out of the fishing village, but Farrell didn't hear them as he looked down for the first time at the daughter he'd found. “C'mon, Jess. Your mother's in the hospital. She'll want to see you when she wakes up.” He cradled her arm in his and led her from the dock toward the house.

Sergeant Ray Snedegar and Inspector Grebb trailed Casey to the end of the dock where Gabrielle mourned the loss of her family. She'd taken Cal's glasses from his face and was running her fingers through his lank brown hair. She talked to him about something they'd done and asked if he remembered. Casey holstered his gun and held up his hand so the men behind him wouldn't intrude on the girl's grief.

“More work for the coroner,” Snedegar said.

“And we're less one crooked city councilman,” Grebb replied. “This kid with Arboneau?” he asked.

Casey silently reached down to pick up Cal's glasses and the .38 Harrington & Richardson revolver he'd carried. He put them into his pockets as he stared thoughtfully at the grisly tableau. “Looks like it. Better get the doctor to give this girl something to calm her down. We've got a lot of talking to do before the night's over.”

Epilogue

Sunday, December 7, 1941, 7:30 A.M.

Farrell pushed the doorbell button inside the expensive apartment building on Philip Street in the Garden District as Casey stifled a yawn.

“God, I'm getting too old for this job. You're liable to have to say the wedding vows for me this afternoon.”

Farrell squeezed his father's shoulder, grinning at him. “You're not getting off as easily as that. Brigid expects a wide-awake bridegroom, not a stand-in.” He pushed the button a second time.

The door opened a crack, revealing a sleepy blue eye. “Who's there?” a woman asked.

Casey showed his badge. “Police, Miss. May we come in?”

The eye opened wider. Hastily, Meredith Baker removed the burglar chain, and threw open the door. “What's the matter?” Her face wore a look of mild alarm.

As she stood in the door, Farrell took her in for the first time. Her short blonde hair, tousled with sleep, cupped the contours of her face like downy feathers. Her flawless skin glowed with health, setting off the cornflower blue eyes and soft pink lips. One kiss from that mouth, a man's brains would melt and dribble out of his ears.

Casey took off his hat as he walked through the door. He turned, his face sad, apologetic. “Miss Baker, I've got some news about Councilman Richards. It's—well, it's kind of tough. Maybe you should…sit down.”

Farrell closed the door very softly. Taking off his hat he walked past Meredith Baker to the little breakfast bar that separated the kitchenette from the living room.

Meredith lifted a hand to her mouth, the knuckles just brushing her soft lips. A mild tremor went through her body, just visible through the pale, pink negligee she wore. “W–Whit? Something's…happened to Whit?”

Casey's mouth stretched and pursed with the effort of what he must say. “I'm afraid he was killed last night.”

Her eyes blared as a long choking sob tore itself from her throat. Farrell quickly caught her as she sagged and helped her to a chair. She moaned like someone in the throes of death as Casey stood rigidly by, his eyes downcast. They remained like that for a while as the young woman sobbed uncontrollably.

“I'm sorry, Miss Baker. I'm truly sorry.”

Finally she raised her tear-streaked face to Casey. “How. How did he d-die?”

“He was murdered.”

Her mouth contorted, broke, contorted again. “Why?” The word was pitched high with her pain. “Why would anyone kill Whit?”

Casey sat down across from her, placing his hat on the coffee table. He took an envelope from his pocket and placed it on the table beside the hat. “It's a long story, but I'll give you the high spots. You'll pardon me for mentioning this, but it's well known you and Richards were having an affair.”

She held up her head, her eyes flashing. “We loved each other very much. We were going to be married.”

Casey nodded gravely. “That being the case, I suppose Mr. Richards let you in on the fact that he was a gangster, a corrupt politician who'd made millions through graft.”

Her pink lips quivered, stretched into a bitter line. “He was honest with me, about everything. He was a strong, powerful man who took what he wanted. He was no better or worse than other powerful men.”

Casey's mouth turned up at one corner. “You'll pardon me if I don't admire him to the extent you do. It was his own corruption that started this. Years ago he had a man named Tarkington killed. The reasons don't matter, but he arranged the murder and then framed his half-brother, a man named Pete Carson, for the crime. Carson escaped, faked his death, and disappeared.”

“I don't see why you're bothering me with all this,” she glared. “I just lost the man I love and all the dreams we shared. Can't you leave me alone?”

Casey waved a placating hand. “Just bear with me, miss. Sometime after the Tarkington murder, Councilman Richards had a run-in with a small-time gangster named King Arboneau. He used his political connections to ruin Arboneau, and later he had his son, Tel, murdered because Tel had threatened him. This would be about eight years ago.”

“You make it sound as though this town is crawling with gangsters and fiends,” she said harshly.

“We're no worse than most cities,” Casey said mildly. “But we're getting off the track. You see, Arboneau discovered Carson's whereabouts. Arboneau was too weak to tackle Richards on his own, so he tracked Carson to Seattle and convinced Carson to join him in making a power grab.

“This tickled Carson to death,” Casey continued. “He'd done all right for himself, but nothing like what Richards had done here. Carson's idea of true revenge was to get Richards under his thumb, use his contacts and organization, and rake the profits into his own pockets. It appears that Arboneau was in favor of that, too. After all, he'd been reduced to running a lot of penny-ante action in Treme.”

She got up from her chair, running her fingers through her hair as she walked to the kitchen. “I need some coffee. Would you like some? It's fresh.”

“Good idea,” Farrell said. “We've been up all night. Can I help you?”

She waved him back to his seat as she got cups, saucers, sugar and cream on a bamboo tray. “You seem to have it all figured out, then. This Carson and Arboneau are responsible for what happened.”

“In a sense,” Casey said. “They put things in motion, but they aren't really responsible for the way things turned out.”

“How so?” she asked, pouring coffee into the cups.

Casey rubbed his chin. “Carson and Arboneau had their eye on a goal, but somebody with a High Standard .22 automatic kept cropping up, getting in the way of that goal.”

She frowned, her eyes registering confusion. “I don't get you. I thought you said Arboneau was responsible for Whit's murder.”

Casey shook his head primly. “Neither Arboneau nor Carson were aware of it. Carson probably wasn't even in town when Jack Amsterdam was lured to a room by a prostitute and murdered, or when Butch Callahan was caught in front of the one place he felt safe and gunned down. Even if Carson heard about it, he didn't know what it meant to him.”

“It's funny the way the killer worked,” Farrell said, speaking for the first time. “Amsterdam and Callahan had been with Richards from the beginning. They had a hand in everything he did. The way they were killed, it's almost as though with each killing, the gunman was sending a message to Richards, warning him that his turn was coming.”

Meredith shivered, caught the edge of the counter. “This is so horrible—I don't see why I have to hear all this.”

“Bear with me, Miss Baker,” the detective said. “A police investigation is a complicated thing, particularly when it's about murder. And in spite of all the window dressing to the contrary, murder was what this was all about, from the beginning.”

She looked at him sharply. “Isn't that obvious? Whit's dead and so are all these other men.”

Casey shook his head slowly. “It wasn't obvious to Carson and Arboneau. Like the killer, they wanted revenge, but only the kind you can get from a man who's your prisoner. They wanted everything Richards had, but they needed for his organization to survive, and for that he and his top men had to remain alive, at least for a while.”

Farrell got up from his chair, took the tray of coffee things, and carried them to the coffee table. He gave his father a cup and took one for himself. Meredith seemed not to notice.

“The kidnapping of Jessica Richards was the tip-off that two games were going at once,” Casey said as he sipped his coffee. “She was leverage to get Richards to play ball. Richards played for time while he sent his men all over town looking for Carson, who by then had revealed himself. Richards was being torn in two pieces by then, his daughter kidnapped and Arboneau's men robbing his illegal gambling, prostitution, and narcotics operations. Within forty-eight hours, his whole empire had been disrupted.”

“Some of his men tried to hit back,” Farrell added, “but because they didn't know Arboneau was Carson's ally in the city, they wasted their strength striking out at the wrong men. They ended up getting killed or captured by the cops, leaving Whit completely isolated.”

Meredith took a napkin from a pile on the breakfast bar and blew her nose. “I can't believe it,” she whimpered. “He was so strong, so—alive.”

“He was pretty tough,” Farrell agreed. “But like every man, he had his weaknesses. His daughter was one of them. It's funny, though, that Carson made the choice he did.”

“What choice?” she asked from behind the napkin.

“Yesterday Whit's wife said something. It was something like ‘Whit's goofy in love with his secretary. If Carson had kidnapped her, Whit would give up everything he had.'” Farrell tugged thoughtfully at his earlobe. “Carson was a careful planner. His men knew just where and when to grab Jessica. But they could've grabbed you a lot easier, Miss Baker, with a lot less trouble.”

The hand holding her napkin fell to her side as she stared wide-eyed at him. “What a horrible thing to say.”

Casey sighed. “Horrible is the word, because the killings got nastier as the killer went along. Late yesterday Rob Langdon was lured away from the office and kidnapped.”

“Rob? Rob lured away? Do you mean to say—?”

“That's right, Miss Baker. It's safe to say that Langon was forced to tell Richards that the gang had you, too. I suspect he was killed to send a clear message to Richards.”

“Oh, Rob. Oh, God, no.”

“Yes. We found his body with Councilman Richards' in Bywater early this morning. Both shot with the same gun.” Casey got out his pipe and began to pack it. “Wes, why don't you give Miss Baker a cigarette. Some smoke would do us all good.” He put the stem in his mouth and applied a match to the bowl, puffing clouds of sweet smoke into the room as Farrell offered his cigarette case to the young woman. She took one, put it shakily to her mouth and held it for his light.

“It took us quite a while to get a line on this killer,” Casey continued. “Several witnesses described him as a slightly built young man who wore glasses. He was seen leaving the Bella Creole Hotel in the company of the prostitute who lured Jack Amsterdam to his death, and he was seen again outside Vesey's bar before Butch Callahan died.”

“He tried his hand with me, too,” Farrell said. “I was a little luckier, but he shot Georgia Richards trying to get me last night.” He inhaled a lungful of smoke, then blew it out in a big gust. “We tracked him to Bucktown last night where he and King Arboneau were making a getaway with Jessica Richards.”

Meredith took a shaky drag from the cigarette, let the smoke out jerkily. “Did—did you get him?”

Farrell nodded. “We got both of them. He won't be shooting anybody else.”

Her shoulders slumped as a sob escaped her chest. “Thank—thank God. At least Whit can rest in peace.”

“I doubt it,” Casey said. “I've been trying to imagine how he must've felt in the dark last night, down by the railroad crossing. He'd come there to get you back from Arboneau, Miss Baker. He was ready to give it all up to get you back. He must've loved you very much.” Casey took the pipe from the corner of his mouth and put it in an ashtray to cool. “I doubt a man can know peace when he stares into the back of a station wagon and sees the dearest thing in the world to him rise up from behind a corpse, point a gun, and shoot him twice. Hell can't be much worse than a disappointment like that.”

The cigarette fell from Meredith's fingers as her mouth dropped open. “Wha—what are you talking about? I was here—all night. Waiting for Whit.”

Casey picked up the envelope that lay beside his hat. Very slowly he opened it and shook out a photograph. He held it up so Meredith could see it. “This came from King Arboneau's house. It's a picture of his son, Tel, who was killed by Whit Richards eight years ago. The pretty girl beside him is his fiance, Linda Sue Mahoney. That's your name, isn't it?”

She stared at him, her face as still and impenetrable as a frozen lake. She said nothing.

“You're quite a girl, Miss Mahoney,” Casey said. “Men fall for you like pole-axed steers and do whatever you want. The trouble is they all end up dead.” He stood up. “You'd better get dressed. We've got to take you Downtown.”

Casey had only a second to dodge the coffee cup Linda Sue Mahoney threw at him. As her right hand moved in a blur to an open drawer, Farrell snatched a bolster from the chair beside him and snapped it backhanded at the woman. It hit her with surprising force, staggering her back against the stove. She tried to bring the .22 automatic back to bear, froze at the sight of the Luger trained on her. “I'll give you five seconds to decide whether you want to go on living,” Farrell said.

She stared into his eyes for the full five seconds before she let the pistol clatter to the floor. As Farrell kicked the pistol toward his father, she drew her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms about them, and slumped against the wall. “I should have made you kill me,” she said in a flat, toneless voice. “Everything that mattered for me died a long time ago.”

Casey picked up the murder weapon, then moved to Farrell's elbow. “Revenge for Tel was all you wanted, wasn't it?” Farrell said.

She nodded dumbly.

As Farrell stared down at her, he thought about Jessica and Georgia, and about second chances. The murderous fury that had driven him for the past twenty-four hours ebbed away, and he felt the stirrings of something he finally recognized as pity. “Let her go, Frank.”

Casey's head snapped around. “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

Farrell lowered his Luger as he turned to face his father. “What the hell has she done, when you add it all up? She wasn't in this for the money. She rubbed out some thieves, murderers, and political grafters, or gave us the excuse to do it. There's not a single body in the morgue that anybody will miss.”