Where The Devil Won't Go: A Lucas Peyroux Novel (22 page)

Chapter 36

After leaving Harry Winslow in a nervous
stupor, I stopped at my in-laws where my wife and daughter were still holed up
due to the press camped out on our front lawn. So far, the Public Affairs
Officer gave a press conference stating that the car bomb was under
investigation, but that wouldn’t satisfy them. Let those vultures sit in front
of my empty house. Captain Dobson had assigned a squad car to my in-law’s house
just in case.

Heather and Alicia were sitting at the
kitchen table with her parents Carl and Ruth. A thick, circular rug lay under
their feet and a stained glass fixture hung above. There was barely any room
between them and the walls.

“Why is your main priority to investigate
this man?” Heather chastised. “We almost died.”

“Because it’s not going to end. If we
don’t find Cozy, they’ll kill her.”

Carl and Ruth stayed quiet, probably
having given Heather their opinion earlier. Carl’s hand rested on his wife’s
wrist. They held their tongue, but they had never been shy about sharing their
opinion of me, or my job.

Heather stayed calm for Alicia’s sake.
“Do you love your job more than us?”

I grabbed a nearby bar stool as I was the
only one standing. “How can you ask me that? That bomb was a scare tactic.”

“Well, we’re scared.” Heather pounded the
table.

“This isn’t about my job or my love for
my family. This is about humans being treated as animals in a network so
powerful that the FBI looks the other way. They are taking other parent’s
daughters that’s Alicia’s age.”

“Don’t you dare mention her name in the
same breath as those people.” She grabbed Alicia’s hands. “Jesus, Lucas.”

“As far as they know, I’m not
investigating their operation anymore. There won’t be a reason to retaliate.”
After a bout of silence, I spoke again. “I’m going into the station. I’ll keep
you updated.” I leaned in and gave my wife and daughter a kiss, but I felt it
wasn’t welcomed.

#

As I came into the station, Tara had just
finished tapping on her keyboard and then ran to the printer. “How’s the
family?”

“Hanging in there.”

“I can’t imagine. Don’t worry, we’ll find
those bastards.”

“What you got there?” I pointed at the
laser in her hand.

“I think I got something on Apex.”

“Tell me.” I sat down, considering a
meeting with Chance.

“There’s an Apex Industries that’s an
importer-exporter of clothes, alcohol, and other shit. They run the Claiborne Container
Terminal on the river.”

“Trouble is, I have to put my family into
protective custody just to ask any questions.” I looked over the laser.

“I’m with you, either way.”

“I know. Giving up goes against every
fiber of my being.”

“So, what do we think of Apex?” Tara flicked
the laser while in his hands.

“That freight dock would be a perfect
front for trafficking. Do they bring in the women for Harry’s parties or does
Harry supply women for export? Does Raymond sell one or two of his strippers to
make some extra cash? Haley could have been one that fought back. That video
she made had other bodies with her.”

“Corporate offices for Apex Industries
are
guess
where?”

“Spring-Love Square?
Probably
above Winslow’s offices.
The problem here is that we’d have to catch
them in transport. Once we ask the first question, they’ll shut it all down and
then plant another bomb.”

“This is your call, Lucas.”

“Heather and Alicia are with her parents
and two cops are sitting outside. They lost the element of surprise. It’s late.
Let’s go home and look into Apex tomorrow and see how this plays out.”

Tara grabbed her purse and a man’s voice
boomed from the doorway. “I wouldn’t do that, Lucas.”

“Chance.”

My friend approached in jeans and a
powder blue collared shirt. “I came as soon as I heard about the car bomb. The
news stations are going on and on about mob hits and terrorist strikes.
How’s
Heather and Alicia?”

“They’re good. What do you mean, you
wouldn’t go to Apex?”

Tara came to my side. “What business is
it of yours, Mr. Mayor?”

“These are very powerful people with
everything to lose.”

“Chance, I love you more than my real
brother, but your friggin’ picture is hanging up in Raymond Corondelet’s office.
You are the last person to be telling me how to handle this investigation.”

“You think I had something to do with
this?”

“The bombing of my wife’s car? No, but
you’re in a position to know things that you would never tell me. The
corruption runs so rampant, how can you be the mayor and not know the players?”

“What I know is the type of people they
are. They’re ruthless and power-hungry and will destroy anyone in their path. All
small-time, local politicians start out wanting to do good things, but as we rise,
we all reach a level where we either play ball or stop rising up the ladder.
Check your soul at the door kind of shit. I’m still clean. I haven’t been asked
to play ball yet.”

“Will you, if that gets you governor?”

He turned away from me. “I honestly can’t
answer that question right now. Harry Winslow is my campaign manager and he’s
lining up contributors. If they’re dirty, put them away for life, but I have
nothing to do with their business practices.”

“Winslow is dirty. He practically told me
how dirty he is. You have to get out now, Chance. If you’re not a part of it.”

“Then, let’s you and me go talk to Harry
again. Put the Apex thing on hold for now.”

Tara spoke, “I can find out who the
employees are. Maybe we can isolate one and limit the damage.”

I nodded. “That’s worth considering.”

“As it is, you’re disobeying Captain
Dobson’s direct orders and interfering with a Federal investigation.”

“It’s a fake investigation, Chance.”

“Fake or not, the Bureau is involved.”

“So fire me.”

“Come on. Let’s go to Harry’s and the
three of us will hash this out.”

#

We took separate cars to Harry’s home. I
pulled behind Chance’s Towncar in the circular, bricked drive. Chance got out
of the car while on his cell phone at the same time as his driver. He hung up
as we started for the door.

“Wait here,” he told his driver, who
immediately got out a smoke.

The humid air filled my lungs, making
them heavy. Chance unbuttoned the top of his collar as if that would get him to
relax. He rang the bell.

His wife answered in shorts and a heavy
plaid shirt. “Chance?
And you
.”

“Sorry about that, Mrs. Winslow.” I bowed
my head.

“Are you kidding? If my car blew up, I’d
want Harry to be as passionate about finding the answers. Not that I know what
information Harry would have.”

“He knows people.”

“Well, Harry has to be the most popular
man in New Orleans today.”

“Why do you say that?” Chance took a
step, but hesitated.

“Oh, where are my manners. Come on in. I
just put the boys to bed.” They entered the kitchen. “First Detective Peyroux
here busts into the house and has some kind of serious conversation with Harry
and then two FBI agents show up on my door step.”

“The Feds?” I asked.

“Yes. At least they said they were. Two
large, rough looking men.”

“They show identification?”

“No. Harry said to let them in. They went
into his study for fifteen minutes and then left. Harry hasn’t come out since.
Do you know what’s going on?” Her expression switched to concern.

“I can’t imagine.” Chance touched her
arm. “We came over because we need to talk.”

She headed towards the study, but I
stopped her abruptly. “No, wait. Maybe I should go in.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Wait here.” Chance calmed her down.

I stopped at the door and knocked on the
heavy, wood door. “Harry?”

No answer.

“I’m coming in, Harry.”

Chance and I entered to see Harry slumped
over his desk as if he fell asleep while working. I rushed to his side,
noticing an empty pharmacy bottle by his hand with a few pills scattered about.
Harry didn’t have a pulse.

“Oh, God.” Came from the doorway.

Mrs. Winslow, with her hands over her
mouth, faltered backwards.

“Call 9-1-1.” Chance yelled.

She ran down the hall and Chance wiped
his forehead. I searched the desk, finding a note under his other hand. It
simply said
I’m so sorry
.

Chance’s shock was real. “Do you think he
really killed himself? Or those FBI
agents…?”

“You know what I think.” I searched the
room for some magical evidence as Chance wiped his hands on his thighs in panic.
The shelves were all in order, his desk clean. The drawers in his desk had
legal pads, invoices and bills. A display of Mardi
Gras
memorabilia caught my eye. He must have caught a coconut from the Zulu parade
for he past thirty years, although they’re not allowed to throw them anymore.

I glanced in his garbage can. It was
completely clean except for one tiny, balled up piece of paper. I reached in
and uncurled it. It was a business card on thick stock.

“What have you got there?” Chance asked.

“A business card from LaPlace on Bourbon.
Mark Alexander, proprietor.” The initials M.A. were seared on my brain.

 
“Harry hires LaPlace to cater his parties – used to. He
knew Mark Alexander pretty well.” Chance finally looked to be getting his
senses back.

I put the card in my pocket. We left the home
office and trotted into the living room where Mrs. Winslow paced while on the
phone. She put the cell against her shoulder with tears falling down her
cheeks. “Police are coming.”

“I have to leave,” I said.

“We both have to leave,” Chance added.

“My husband just committed suicide! Where
are you going?” Here wild eyes darted between us. Her arms spread as if to stop
us.

I held my hand up. “I’m so sorry. Tell
the police that I’ll make a statement later. I can’t explain, but I have to go.
I’m sorry.”

Chance followed, shutting the front door.
He yelled to me in the driveway. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the station. I just can’t be
here. I’m not supposed to be investigating him, remember?”

“You’re going to talk to Mark Alexander.”
He stopped at his car. The driver had the engine running already.

“Were are
you
going?” I asked to deflect his accusation while opening my car
door.

Chance sighed, looking back at the house.
“Alexander does his books on Sunday nights. He’s probably at the restaurant
right now.” Chance pursed his lips as if he had seen my future.

#

“Your hostess brought us through the
kitchen.” I fully entered Alexander’s office with Tara at my side after
climbing a flight of stairs. “Quite amazing.”

“The kitchen is the heart of the
restaurant. Its gotta beat properly.” His accent was New Orleans, but didn’t
flow naturally, like he had learned it. Alexander continued to stand, waiting
for Tara and I to take our places opposite his desk. His greased hairline
retreated towards the back of his head, but his European goods looks more than
compensated. However, close up, I could tell he had the remnants of large
abnormality that covered most of his forehead.

Tara eased into a chair made of twisted
white pipes with a flat square to sit on, more suited to be a work of art. I
maneuvered into the chair’s cousin, the same pipes twisted into a letter ‘A’.
They were sturdier than they looked.

“Interesting chairs,” I commented.

“I bought them from an art student at
UNO. Form and function.”

“You support a lot of the arts and
charities around New Orleans.”

Alexander shrugged. “Least I can do for
the city that has given me so much.”

“Thanks for taking our questions.” Tara
said.

Mark Alexander tilted a gracious nod with
smiling eyes. “My scar,” he said after noticing my eyes shifting.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. An unfortunate accident with a
deep fryer in my youth.”

“Ouch. Lucky you weren’t blinded.”

“True dat.”

“Do you know this man, Harry Winslow?” I
put a picture on his desk taken at a fundraiser we found on the Internet.

He glossed over the picture. “Obviously,
I do. He insists I call him Harry, but we’re business associates, not friends.
I’ve been to a couple of his functions, as I like to dabble in politics.
Sometimes it helps my business. I catered some of those functions.”