On the porcelain vanity, Carson saw the mate to the earring he had picked up at Buddy’s office, the same one she had worn to the museum event. He considered the question. “No. I think it’s a matter of security. Peace of mind.” He envisioned this same diminutive woman raising a gun to kill a man who had watched her grow up. Lawry had known that the murder was a two-person job and probably suspected the second player.
“Does the same go for you?”
“No. For me, it’s a matter of honor.”
In the mirror, he saw her reflection shoot him a withering glance. “Honor,” she spat. “That’s an interesting term for it.”
Carson shrugged. “I only pursue those who have proven themselves dishonorable.”
His bullet penetrated the back of her skull, and she crumpled to the floor.
Twenty-five minutes later, he was heading north on I-90, crossing the huge expanse of Lake Pontchartrain. He dialed his client from a disposable cell phone.
“It’s done.”
Silence. Just before Carson hung up, believing the conversation over, the man spoke.
“Thank you. I trust you collected the stolen cash as the remainder of your fee?”
“I haven’t counted it, but I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Excellent. Our business is concluded.”
The line went dead.
Carson rolled down the passenger-side window and tossed the cell phone, along with the spent shell casings, into the water.
He calculated the distance between New Orleans and Gatesville. Then he activated the Bluetooth device linked to his personal phone and dialed home.
His angel answered on the third ring. Once more, Carson found himself wondering how a relationship between father and daughter could go so wrong as to justify his latest assignment.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, sweetheart. I’ll be home to tuck you in tonight.”
The raven and the wolf
by O’Neil De Noux
New Orleans, Louisiana
It’s all over the Channel 4 Eyewitness News at 10 p.m. — police officer killed in her home.
I Images of cops standing outside an apartment building fill my TV screen, flashing blue and red lights illuminating the powder-blue N.O.P.D. uniform shirts. I spot my former partner’s yellow-blond hair as Detective Jodie Kintyre moves through the crowd and into the building. Jodie wears another of her skirt-suits, this one tan.
The camera pans to several cops crying, turning their heads away from the camera as the television news anchor explains, “The body of Fifth District police officer Kimberly Champagne was found this evening in her Tchoupitoulas Street apartment after she failed to show up for roll call.”
Jesus Christ! I let out a long breath and, “Motha fuck!”
“The tragic killing of the popular officer is particularly heart-wrenching to the rank and file. Officer Champagne, a recent graduate of the police academy, was a rookie with a promising career ahead of her.” A police ID picture of a smiling brunette with wide eyes comes on the screen as the anchor goes on to explain how Kimberly Champagne went to Sacred Heart Academy before attending Tulane University where she majored in Sociology.
I lift the bottle of Abita beer to my lips and finish it off. It’s taking all my strength to keep from jumping out of the chair, grabbing my weapon, badge, and radio, and racing to the scene. I’m off duty and maybe it’s my Lakota heritage (Sioux, as the white man calls us) that knows better than to go looking for trouble. It’ll find me on its own. Or maybe it’s the Cajun half of me that knows not to volunteer. Volunteers are from Tennessee, not south Louisiana.
I get up slowly to grab another Abita and sit back in the easy chair and wait for the sports to come on. Waves lap against the side of my houseboat and I hear the guttural noise of a big outboard as some boat slips away from Buck-town out into Lake Pontchartrain. Sad Lisa rises slightly then gently settles as the waves subside, and I close my eyes for a moment and hear it again, in my mind. “... cop killed...”
A summer breeze flows through an open porthole of my houseboat carrying in the familiar scent of salt water. I can’t stop my heart from racing no matter how hard I try.
Trouble is waiting for me the following morning as I walk into the detective bureau in the visage of my lieutenant’s dark brown, scowling face. Dennis Merten, all six feet, 250 pounds, stands with his arms folded across his chest. He wears his usual black suit, narrow black tie loosened. He hasn’t even had time to take off his jacket.
“Detective John Raven Beau,” Merten calls out. “Just the man I’m looking for.”
He growls as I approach. “I need you on Tchoupitoulas. Assist the evening watch with a canvass. A cop was killed last night.”
“I know. Mind if I look over the dailies?” I’d like to know more about the case than what was on the damn news.
Merten walks away, snapping back at me, “Just don’t take all fuckin’ morning.” Then he stops and says, “I’m surprised you didn’t go barreling over there last night.”
“I’m on the day shift, remember?”
“’Bout time you learned that.” Always in a good mood, that man.
Climbing from my unmarked Chevy Caprice, I leave my suit coat hanging in the backseat and reach in for my portable radio, note pad, and pen. I wear my black suit today, with a light gray tie. My hair is freshly cut and shorter than usual. It’s still as dark brown as when I was a kid. My 5 o’clock shadow is in check with a close shave this morning.
A better description of me would mention I’m six-two and lean. An ex-girlfriend says my eyes are the color of dark sand. She also says I have a hawk nose and look like a raptor at times, a bird of prey.
I stare at the apartment house that was on TV last night. It’s a redbrick building, old, a warehouse converted into condos. This entire area has been reclaimed — hulking buildings turned into apartment houses or small delis, coffee shops, a Kinko’s at the corner of Julia Street.
Two marked police cars are parked directly in front of the building. I spot two uniforms standing down the street and one outside the front door of the place with Jodie, in a light yellow blouse and black slacks this morning. Her blond hair, freshly blow-dried as always, is longer than usual, a page-boy cut.
I tug up my pants as I start across the street. Must be losing weight, my stainless steel 9mm Beretta 92F, in its nylon holster on my right hip, weighs down my belt more than usual. Jodie nods at me as I approach and I recognize another familiar face. The uniformed cop smiles weakly at me and pushes a wild strand of dark brown hair from her face.
I met Officer Juanita Cruz a couple months ago at Charity Hospital when I worked the murder case we call Shoot Me I’m Late — a case she helped me solve. Wasn’t much to it. Guy had his buddy shoot him in the leg so he wouldn’t get in trouble with his domineering girlfriend for being late again for a date, only the guy died.
I’m about to ask what a Fifth District officer is doing downtown, but when a cop’s killed, we all come out like the cavalry (may not be a very good analogy from a man whose ancestors wiped out Custer at Little Big Horn).
“Hold this,” I say to Juanita, handing her my radio as I unfasten my belt and tighten it up a loop. That’s better. Juanita’s chocolate-brown eyes are wide and I wink. She looks as if she’s lost weight too. She still wears her hair back in a bun, like most women in uniform do. As I recall, she’s twenty-five, a good five years younger than me.