The Righteous Cut (3 page)

“She's still here,” Marcel replied brightly. “She's developed a real taste for big city life, so I guess she's here to stay. Savanna come back with you?”

“Yeah, she was getting homesick for the people at her club and her friends. So how are things here?”

“I think we need to hire an accountant.”

“An accountant? Things must be good.”

“You better believe it. Margaret Wilde's doing a fantastic job with the lounge across the river, and we've had a banner year with our other businesses, too. The down side is that, with you gone, I'm the only person on the payroll who can handle the books. I'm running from one operation to the other to cover things and I'm beat.”

“Damn, I'm sorry, kid. We'll hire one this week, then. I haven't had time to call anyone else yet. How are they?”

“Well, Israel Daggett and his wife are expecting a baby in April. Jake Broussard said he wanted to see you when you got in. And I think your dad's getting younger by the day.”

Farrell laughed. “Well, a guy doesn't get married every week. I can hardly wait to see him.”

“He may be busy this week with other stuff besides his wedding,” Marcel replied. “I just got word that Jack Amsterdam was murdered last night.”

“Murdered how?”

“Shot in a fleabag hotel, supposedly by a call girl.” Marcel paused for a moment. “He was Councilman Whit Richards' right-hand man, wasn't he?”

Farrell's mouth hardened and his eyes glittered strangely. “Look, I'll call you again later after we're settled in.”

“Great. Glad you're back, Wes.”

“Same here.” Farrell put the receiver back into the cradle. As he looked up, he saw Savanna standing in the bedroom door, shaking her long dark brown hair loose to her shoulders. She wore nothing but a diamond-studded platinum wristwatch that Farrell had given her for her thirty-third birthday. The stones winked and flashed against the deep brown of her skin.

“I was thinkin' of taking a nap. Would you like to come help me?” she asked.

“What if I'm not sleepy?” he asked.

She chuckled. “I bet we can fix that.”

As he walked toward her, loosening his tie, he had a fleeting thought about the city councilman named Richards, feeling a coal of anger that he'd thought long extinguished begin to glow again. He grabbed Savanna around her bare waist and kissed her fiercely, forcing the anger back into the box where he'd kept it hidden for almost twenty years.

***

In the classrooms at venerable Sacred Heart Academy on St. Charles Avenue, the voices of the nuns quickened as they tried to get one more point across to their pupils before the 2:00 bell rang. Some were still talking, raising their voices to make themselves heard above the bustle and clatter of girls moving to their final class of the day.

Out on the grounds, an older girl walked purposefully across the campus toward her job in the headmistress's office. Sister Rosary was a peppery old thing who had let her know early in their association that she disapproved of tardiness more than any other human fault.

The girl was tall and slender with legs and shoulders that hinted at an athletic prowess. Long, dark red hair framed her pale olive face. Her cool green eyes missed nothing as she walked. She used her last free moments thinking about the freshman Christmas dance being held at Tulane University in another ten days. An old playmate, Joel Martins, had invited her to be his date, and she reveled in the knowledge. It was evidence that she was no longer just a kid, but on the cusp of womanhood.

She'd never been invited to a formal dance before, and her mind was full of ideas about the kind of dress and shoes and gloves she might wear, if she had enough money left in her clothing budget. It was suddenly hard to think about school and her job in the office.

As she entered a deserted cloister, her thoughts were briefly distracted by a moving shadow in the dim outdoor corridor. She stopped short, her breath caught in her throat. A young Negro stepped from behind a column, and she let out a nervous laugh. “Skeeter, you scared me half to death. What are you doing there?”

The young custodian grinned nervously. “Just fixin' somethin', Miss Jessica. Always somethin' needin' fixin' around here.”

Jessica frowned as she studied the young man. His complexion, normally a healthy brown, had turned sickly gray. “Is—is something the matter, Skeeter? You don't look well. If there's—” Before she could complete the sentence, a rough wool blanket was thrown over her head and she felt herself lifted bodily from the ground. She shrieked and kicked out, but the cry was muffled and her effort to escape was checked by the overwhelming strength of her captor. Her arms pinioned to her sides, she felt herself thrown bodily over a broad shoulder as she was carried away.

Unwilling to give up even now, she thrashed and kicked, yelling as loudly as she could. Her captor stopped abruptly and spoke. His voice was deep, businesslike, but strangely lacking in menace.

“Girl, listen and listen good. No amount of kickin' and fussin' is gonna help, and it might get you hurt. You ain't big enough to hurt me anyhow, so just save your strength. We ain't out to hurt you.”

Before she could reply, they were moving again. As frightened as she was, the man's obvious care in carrying her was strangely reassuring and kept her from panicking. She heard the squeak of metal hinges and realized they were going out the rear of the campus where they could disappear into the neighborhood unseen. Then she heard a familiar voice call out.

“You there—Skeeter—what's goin' on? Who you got in that blanket, man?”

Skeeter replied, his voice low and urgent. “Go 'way, Butterbean. Shut up and get outa here.”

“Get lost, nigger,” a new voice said. Jessica thought she heard a trill of apprehension beneath the bluster of it.

Butterbean became more truculent. “Hey, man, put that gal down.” There followed the sounds of struggle, then a hard blow followed by a strangled gasp and the thud of something hitting the ground. A terrible silence followed, then came the voice of her captor, bitter with regret.

“You Goddamn fool. You didn't have to do that.”

“No,” the new voice said. “I coulda let him run off knowin' all of our faces. Like hell.” The new voice was angry, resentful now, but still that trill of fear ran beneath the anger.

“Shut up,” the first man commanded. “Let's get outa here.”

It dawned on Jessica that the senior custodian, Butterbean Glasgo, was dead. The understanding was so overpowering that she felt faint. She heard the creak and groan of a door or hatch being jerked open, then the man laid her gently down on a hard, lumpy surface. As the hatch closed with a hollow thump, she realized she was in the trunk of a car. Despair settled over her and her mind went blank. She didn't hear the engine start or feel the car move down the street.

***

A man in a shabby room somewhere in the middle of the city stared at old framed photo that he tenderly held in a rough, thick-fingered hand. He stared at it quietly, his mind somewhere back in the past. As he sat there, the telephone began to ring. It rang three times before he set the photo down on the table and picked up the receiver. “Yeah?” The voice was that of the man Pete Carson had spoken to the night before.

“Is Carson here yet?” The voice was soft, muffled, but recognizable to the man in the shabby room.

“He arrived last night. He told me to turn the Parmalee brothers loose. I expect they've made the snatch by now.”

“Good,” the voice said. “Any time now Richards will be getting the news.”

“I wish I could be there to see his face.” The man paused for a moment. “Carson asked if there was any message for him.”

“Tell him I'll get in touch with him when the time's right. I've got to get moving,” the muffled voice said.

“Fine. We'll talk later.” His thick-fingered hand put the receiver quietly back into its cradle.

Chapter 3

Skeeter looked across the rear of the blue Chrysler at Joey Parmalee's knife. Sweat leaked from under the band of his hat down his face. “Please boss, I won't say nothin'. Lemme go home and I'll forget I ever seen you.”

“Like Hell,” Joey said. His confidence had returned with Butterbean's death. He was cocky, confident.

“Get in the back seat with Joey, man,” Johnny Parmalee snapped. “The longer we stand here, the more likely somebody's gonna notice us.”

Joey looked at his older brother with the hard, bright light of murder in his pale blue eyes. “You and me are gonna have words before long, know that?”

“Get in the Goddamn car,” Johnny hissed. “Or I'll leave you here.”

Skeeter piled into the back, grateful for the reprieve. Joey got in beside him, the knife still in his hand. He looked at Skeeter as though he were a bug he planned to stomp. As the sedan moved up Cadiz Street, Skeeter tried not to think of the look of sick terror in Butterbean Glasgo's eyes as the knife plunged into his chest.

Johnny drove in stolid silence, smoothly working the wheel and gears. At Claiborne, they headed Downtown, sticking to the speed limit like law-abiding citizens. Joey watched Skeeter, playing with the switchblade with a relentless monotony that had Skeeter close to screaming.

Joey checked his watch, his face impatient. “Man, you think you could hurry the fuck up? I got a place to go to.”

Johnny laughed in his throat. “Oh, yeah? What's her name, pretty boy?”

“The fuck's it to you what her name is?”

“I already know her name,” Johnny replied. “I seen her, too. You can sure pick 'em, li'l brother.” He laughed mirthlessly.

Joey snapped open the knife again, waved it in the air. “Keep pushin' it, man, keep pushin' it. This girl ain't some twist you can talk about. Gabby's a lady, get me?”

“Yeah, man,” Johnny said. “I get you. Keep your pants on. We'll be there in time enough for you to make your date.”

“I was supposed to see her last night,” Joey grumbled. “Always some fuckin' shit goin' on to mess me over.”

At the corner of Thalia, two teenaged boys in a Model A Ford roadster spurted wildly into traffic, just missing the Chrysler and two other cars. With movements too rapid to calculate, Johnny's foot hit the brake as his thick hands wrenched the steering wheel into a skid that left the sedan rocking on its springs.

Skeeter, his nerves on a knife-edge, saw his chance and took it. As the Chrysler heaved against its suspension, Skeeter popped the door open and rolled out into the street. Like a rubber ball he bounced to his feet and sped through traffic into the adjoining neighborhood.

“Stop, you Goddamn sonofabitch!” Joey jerked a long-barreled gun with target sights from under his arm and aimed it through the open door. Once again Johnny's reflexes exploded, his hand grabbing his brother's revolver around the cylinder, immobilizing it.

“Put it away,” Johnny said in a low rumble.

“Goddamn it—” Joey sounded petulant, like a kid told he couldn't go out to play.

“Put it away, or I'll break your fuckin' hand off. He ain't gonna get far.” As he felt Joey relax his grip, Johnny pulled the gun from his hand.

Joey hissed, rubbing his wounded hand. “How do you know how fuckin' far he's gonna get?”

“I know he'll run to a friend, a relation, or a woman, and it won't be hard to find out who them people are.”

“How the hell you know how easy it'll be? He's a nigger. Who knows where they crawl to?”

“I know a man who can find him—and shut him up, too,” Johnny replied easily. “Now sit tight and keep quiet. We gotta get the gal to the hideout and then we've got more work to do.” He quickly put the car into motion as automobiles behind them began to honk irritably at the tangle blocking the street.

***

Israel Daggett stood over the corpse of Butterbean Glasgo with his hands shoved deeply into his pockets. He said nothing as he inspected the scene.

“Poor old Butterbean,” Sam Andrews said somberly. “I used to go to Sunday School with him when we were kids.” He pulled the blanket off the body and studied the wound. “Single knife wound, right under the breastbone. Butterbean prob'ly didn't even make a sound dyin'.”

“Nothing anybody could hear.” Daggett squatted down opposite his partner and began going through the dead man's pockets. “Wallet, pencil, keys, pocket knife. No big money.” He noticed that both of Glasgo's hands were clenched tightly. “Looks like he was fighting, or about to fight.” He rotated the man's wrists, saw something caught in the left fist. “What's this?”

Andrews held the wrist as Daggett pried the fingers open. A piece of shiny metal rested in the pale brown palm. “What the hell's that? Looks like a li'l bitty horn.”

“A clarinet,” Daggett replied. “It's a tie clasp shaped like a clarinet.” He picked it up at the ends and studied it. “This is a nice piece of goods. Twenty-four carat gold with enamel trim and diamond chips. Got a maker's name stamped on it.”

Andrews held an evidence envelope so Daggett could drop it in. “Maybe somebody at headquarters can find out where this came from.”

Daggett stood up and rubbed his chin. “Probably surprised them as they were going out the gate.”

“Could be they had to kill him for another reason,” a voice behind them said. Daggett turned to see Inspector Matt Grebb approaching from the direction of the school.

“What's that, Inspector?”

“We got another custodial worker missing,” Grebb replied. “Kid named Skeeter Longbaugh. The head nun says he called in sick this morning. He's one of only five people with keys to the gates.”

“What makes you figure him for this?” Daggett asked.

“We tried to reach him on his home telephone. No answer. You'd better see if you can run him down.”

Daggett didn't like Grebb insinuating that the missing Negro was involved in the crime when there was no direct evidence, but he kept that to himself. It was one of the daily compromises he made as he worked with and for white cops. “Got a description?”

“The kid's twenty years old, five-nine, weight about one thirty-five, slender build. Skin, dark brown, hair, black, worn thick, eyes, brown. He rents half of a double at twelve-seventeen D'Hemecourt Street.”

“Okay, Inspector. We're on it.” They left the scene and drove out Napoleon Avenue, heading west on Claiborne until they reached Carrollton. Ten minutes later they turned into D'Hemecourt.

“Don't look like nobody's home,” Andrews said.

“Let's try the other side of the double.” Daggett knocked on the door and a few seconds later the door opened. An attractive light-brown woman of about forty-five stood behind the screen. “Yes?”

“Police officers, ma'am. Are you the owner of the house?”

She looked mildly flustered. “Oh. Well, yes. I'm Mrs. Coretta Ivy. Is something wrong?”

“We hope not, but we're looking for Skeeter Longbaugh.”

“Dear me, he might be ill. He normally leaves for work at 7:00, but his car's in the shed behind the house.”

Daggett jerked his chin at Andrews. “Take the rear. I'll see if I can raise him.” He gave Andrews a couple of minutes to get around back, then he knocked loudly on the door several times. “Mr. Longbaugh, it's the police. Open up please.” He pounded some more. When no answer came, he looked into the anxious face of the owner. “Have you got a key, ma'am? I'd like to make sure he's all right.”

She reached into the pocket of her dress and brought out a small ring with two keys on it. Singling out the proper key, she handed it to him. It was the work of only a moment to unlatch the door and push it open. “Mr. Longbaugh? It's the police. Answer if you're in there.”

“Ain't nobody here, Iz,” Andrews called from the kitchen. “Back door was unlocked. Car parked in the shed.”

Daggett walked through the house, taking in the rumpled bed, the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. “Looks like he just sleeps here—when he sleeps.” He led Andrews back to the front porch where the lady waited.

“Nobody home, Mrs. Ivy.”

“Do you think something's happened to him?”

Daggett shook his head. “I don't know. Do you know if he has any close friends or a girlfriend?”

She put a finger to her chin as she thought. “No, not that I noticed. I speak to him just about every day and he seems like a happy-go-lucky youngster. Rather good looking.” She smiled fondly. “I see him out with quite a lot of young girls. He never brings them here, of course. I made that clear to him at the beginning. He's been a good tenant. Never any trouble, always on time with his rent.”

Daggett reached into his vest pocket and removed a white card. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Ivy. If you see or hear from Mr. Longbaugh, would you please call us? It's really important that we speak to him.”

She took the card, trying not to look worried. “Of course, officer. I do hope he's not in any trouble.”

Daggett nodded. “We hope so, too. Good morning.”

“Think she's a li'l sweet on him, herself?” Andrews asked when they were back in the car.

“She's just the motherly type. She didn't seem jealous of all his girlfriends.”

“He sounds kinda girl-crazy to me, Iz.” Andrews face took on a worried expression. “Girl crazy and a kidnapped white gal make a bad combination. He could be one of these fools who's just burnin' up to lay down with a white woman.”

Daggett shook his head vigorously. “Uh-uh. Let's give him the benefit of the doubt until we can find him.”

Andrews shrugged. “Sorry. Imagination run off.”

“That's the trouble with this job. Even before you know what a suspect looks like, you automatically think the worst. We got to find him and get to the truth. It might be all the chance he's got.”

***

When it became clear who the kidnapped girl was, Casey sent a radio car to pull Whitman Richards out of council chambers and drive him to his Coliseum Street home. Casey himself greeted the city councilman at the door.

“What do you know so far?” Richards demanded.

“Almost nothing,” Casey replied. “Her books were found scattered about the cloister near the headmistress's office. A custodian was found stabbed to death near a rear gate.”

“If you don't know anything, then why the hell are you standing around my living room?” Richards demanded. “Get the hell out on the street and find her, Goddamnit.”

“I've got teams of detectives canvassing the neighborhood around the school and a dozen radio cars are tracking down the leads as they come in. In the meantime, we need you here to wait for the ransom demand.”

“Of all the fucking bullshit,” Richards exclaimed. “I can get thirty private detectives out on the street in less than half an hour. Maybe that's something I should do.”

“Stop acting like a fool, Whitman.” A strikingly beautiful red-haired woman of about forty stepped into the foyer. Her eyes flashed with barely repressed anger. “Give me a moment with my husband, Captain.”

Casey withdrew, stepping onto the front porch. When they were alone, the woman looked at her husband with frank dislike. “If I were you, I wouldn't take it out on the police. They're the ones trying to clean up your mess.”

He favored her with a blunt expression that matched her own. “I don't know what you're talking about, Georgia. I don't know anything more than what we just heard.”

Her beautiful mouth hardened and her eyes struck sparks. “Who did you double-cross this time, Whit? Or is this some stunt you're pulling for your own reasons?”

The accusation momentarily silenced Richards. “Why are you so sure this is about me? We're worth three and a half million. Isn't that reason enough for a kidnapper?”

She folded her arms under her bosom and shook her head. “I'd feel better if that's all it was. I just have an uncomfortable feeling that this is somebody you knifed in the back.” She came closer to him, lowering her voice. “If anything happens to Jess and it's your fault, I'll kill you, Whit. I swear I'll kill you.” She turned on her heel and left him with his hands bunched impotently at his sides.

An hour went by, during which Richards paced up and down the hall, staring out the upstairs windows. He was passing the study door for the fiftieth time when the phone bell cut the tense silence like a razor going through ripe fruit. Forcing himself to maintain his poise, he entered the room, picked up the receiver and spoke into it with studied nonchalance. “Whitman Richards here.”

“Well, how nice to catch you at home, Councilman,” a man said. “Not spending the afternoon at the office?”

Richards listened to the voice, thought he heard something familiar there. “What is it you want?”

The voice laughed as detectives frantically bent over their wiretap equipment, whispering and gesturing to one another. “That's what I like about you, Rico. All business, right?”

At the sound of the nickname, Richards stiffened. No one had called him “Rico” in a very long time. He swallowed, his face frozen with dread. “That's what this is about, isn't it? You want to conduct some business?”

“Right. I have your daughter, and you want her back.”

Richards forced himself to listen carefully. He understood now. “What do you want in exchange for her?”

“It's not going to be so easy as that. We'll have to see what you think the kid's worth.”

Richards' stomach went into free fall and he closed his eyes as he fought to keep his equilibrium. “I see. Well, if it's money you want, I'll need to know how much.”

“We'll talk again later, when the cops aren't listening.” He hung up, taking Richards by surprise.

Casey looked at the wire men and saw from bitter head shakes that they hadn't gotten what they needed. He swore under his breath as he turned to the city councilman. “Well, it looks like he wants to play cat and mouse with you. Try to keep him on the phone a bit longer next time.”