City of Secrets Page 20

  The EMT nods and says, “It’s just a cut. I’ll be finished in a second.”

  Merten turns to leave, turns back and snarls at me. “Gimme your car keys.”

  I dig them out of my pocket and toss them to Merten. “It’s in the police zone on St. Peter, next to the Cabildo.”

  Merten storms off. Jodie looks around, then looks back at me. “Wanna hear something funny?” She says it without expression.

  “I could use a chuckle.”

  The EMT dabs something on my cheek, then pulls a bandage out of his case.

  Jodie points around the alley and says, “They used to teach dueling here.”

  “What?”

  “Ever hear of the Code Duello? Dueling masters had fencing academies here on Exchange Alley back in the seventeen, eighteen hundreds. Affairs of honor and all that shit.”

  The EMT finishes and steps back to examine the bandage on my face, as if it’s a fuckin’ work of art.

  “You finished?” Jodie asks. The EMT nods.

  “Come on,” she tells me and leads the way out, leaving Gonzales to process the scene with the crime lab and Merten.

  Dueling, huh? I feel goose-bumps on my arms. Sometimes this city is un-fuckin-real.

  Bright television lights bathe us as we move through the crowd. I spot a black hand reach for me and see Batiste leaning over to tell me something. So I stop. He leans close and says, “Cassandra didn’t make it.”

  I fuckin’ knew that.

  Jodie turns and looks back just as a blonde reporter in a gold foil dress and spiked heels steps in front of me and sticks a microphone in my face.

  “Detective Beau. Did you kill another one?”

  I try moving around her so I don’t run her down on live TV.

  “Well, did you?” she asks.

  I give her a good, long, expressionless stare as I move past her.

  “How many is that, Detective Beau? Five?”

  Her name is Abby Grange, investigative reporter for Channel 4’s Eyewitness News. A pretty woman, Abby made her reputation by bursting into private offices with a camera crew and shoving a microphone in someone’s face, demanding responses to pointed questions. After all, it’s the people’s right to know.

  As I open the front passenger door of Jodie’s unmarked LTD, Abby calls out behind me, “Detective Beau, did you give this one a chance to surrender? Or did you execute him, like the last one?”

  I want to tell her she’s wrong. I’ve only shot four. But I know if I open my mouth, I’d just get into a ‘fuck you’ contest with her on videotape. So I shoot her a cold smile and climb into the LTD.

  I hear her say something to the camera about NOPD vigilante rule, so I roll the window down in time to hear her quote the old saying, “Kill a cop – you die.” As she berates me, calling me “judge, jury and self-appointed executioner” I roll the window back up.

  Jodie climbs behind the steering wheel and I tell her, “Know what that woman needs?”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “She needs a sense of humor.”

  “Nope,” Jodie says as she cranks up the engine. “She needs a good ass-whipping and I’m just the woman to do it.”

  Chapter 2

  They call it – the floating land

  Jodie looks up and asks one last question. “Is there anything you wish to add or delete from your statement?”

  “No.”

  She points to the wall clock behind me and says, “It is now 9:05 p.m. This statement is concluded.” She stands and turns off the video camera.

  “I sure hope it’s him,” she says.

  “You and me both.”

  She opens the door of the cramped interview room. “Good, the crime lab’s here.” She scoops up her notebook. “After he swabs you, go home.”

  I stand and stretch, then pick up the empty coffee mugs and follow Jodie into the squad room. Cluttered with government-issue, gray metal desks and matching chairs, the room smells of stale coffee and pine oil. She waves the crime lab tech forward and tells him, “I want Beau out of here before the animals arrive.”

  I have to smile. She’s right. All I need is the Detective Bureau circus ragging me. I put the coffee cups on the coffee table and stretch my hands out for the tech to swab. The tech, a wide-set man with horn-rimmed glasses, hands me my car keys. “Your lieutenant says it’s in the garage.”

  The tech quickly swabs my hands for a neutron activation test to verify if I indeed fired a weapon that evening – even though the closed-breech Glock was unlikely to register any antimony or barium. It’s standard operating procedure.

  “I’ll see you at the Superintendent’s Hearing,” Jodie says. “Nine sharp.”

  I toss my keys in the air and catch them without looking. “You think they’ll serve donuts with the coffee this time?”

  She blows a loose strand of hair from in front of her eyes and I know my lame joke is a dud.

  “Is the firearms examiner coming in early?” I ask.

  “No.” Jodie brushes her hair back with both hands now. “He works the day shift.” Her voice drawls out the words day shift, sarcastically.

  “Call me soon as they check the Python.”.

  Jodie sighs wearily.

  “From Exchange Alley. You remember?” I point to the bandage on my face.

  She looks at me for a long moment and I see something in her wide-set eyes. She blinks and tries to hide it, but I’d seen the pain. She turns away and shifts her weight from one leg to the other.

  “You better get outta here.”

  At thirty-seven, Jodie’s face is still void of age lines. And her yellow-blonde hair, as always, looks as fresh as if she’d just blow-dried it. The most solid homicide detective I know, Jodie can handle murder after murder, death after death, even dead children, with the precision of a master sleuth. Yet, every time I get into shit, she’s there and so is that look of pain in her hazel, cat eyes.

  “Go,” she says firmly, whirls and walks away and I catch a whiff of her perfume again.

  “See ya’ in the a.m.,” I tell her on my way out of the squad room.

  I manage to get my unmarked black Chevy Caprice out of the police garage, barely. The rain has returned with a vengeance. South White street is flooded again, so deep I have to creep up to Tulane Avenue, the water sloshing at the outside of my doors. Rain slams against the windshield.

  After a left on Tulane, I turn on the civilian radio and search for the weather channel near the top of the FM dial. I find it and discover, as I cross semi-flooded Jefferson Davis Parkway, that most of the streets in New Orleans are mini-canals.

  “Hey. Hey!” The weather man says, “Welcome to wetsville. New Orleans is under water – again.” He sounds like a bad impersonation of George Carlin’s hippie-dippie weatherman. Clearing his throat, the weatherman turns serious for a moment, listing the streets that are impassable.

  As the rain pummels my windshield, I slow down and remember the New Orleans History class I’d taken at LSU. The professor explained how the city was built in a place God never intended a city to be built, six feet below sea level, in the middle of a swamp, between a giant river and a huge lake. The French called it Le Flottant – the floating land.

  I stop for the red light at Carrollton Avenue. Two cars are flooded out to my left, sitting in the center of the street. The weatherman returns from a commercial with, “Hey. Hey! Welcome back to the only major American city built below sea level. Just look outside!”

  Then he explains that I-10 – the city’s major hurricane evacuation route – is closed at Metairie Road. The underpass beneath the railroad crossing is five feet under water and getting deeper. So I take a right on Carrollton and creep up to Canal Street where I take an illegal left turn. Canal Street is clear and I make good time up to City Park Avenue for a quick right followed by a quick left on Canal Boulevard, which is flooded. Hugging the left lane, nearest the high neutral ground, I move slowly all the way up to Robert E. Lee Boulevard, passing several
more cars stalled in deep water.

  My windshield wipers are on high, and I can barely see out the window as the torrent slams against the car. I feel the car float through the intersection of Canal and Robert E. Lee, then feel the tires rolling again. I barely make it over the West End hump to Hammond Highway, which is passable. So I punch the Caprice and hit the brakes several times to dry them on my way out of Orleans Parish.

  Crossing the small concrete bridge over the Seventeenth Street Canal into Jefferson Parish, I take the first right on Orpheum Avenue and slip into Bucktown. The canal is understandably high and the rain sprays the sailboats and pleasure boats moored to my right. With only a light wind, the canal is surprisingly calm.

  I look to the left. Flamingo’s Cafe appears to be still open, its pink neon sign on, and I feel a pang of hunger as I drive past. The cars parked in the oyster shell parking lot of the cafe have water up to the top of their tires already. I continue on to the narrow point of Bucktown that juts into Lake Pontchartrain and stop next to my houseboat. I look out the passenger side window and see my houseboat is riding the storm well; so are the houseboats on either side.

  Turning left, I drive the Caprice between two houses to the levee and gun the accelerator, sliding to a stop atop the tall earthen levee built to protect the city from the lake. The levee here on the Jefferson Parish side is much higher.

  A bolt of white-hot lightning flashes overhead illuminating the wide lake. Ghostly gray clouds hover over the black water that shimmers momentarily and looks like obsidian glass peppered by a million raindrops. The roll of thunder that follows causes the Caprice to shudder.

  Shoving my portable police radio into the back pocket of my jeans, I grab my keys and jump out. I’m drenched immediately, as if I’d fallen into a swimming pool. The rain is cold. I slip and nearly fall on my way down the grassy levee, but pick up a head of steam near the bottom and jog all the way to the gate of my houseboat.

  I fumble with the keys but manage to unlock the dead-bolt of the tall wrought-iron gate of my dock, the rain slapping me unmercifully. I make sure to re-lock the dead-bolt before crossing the narrow, wooden dock to Sad Lisa, checking the mooring as best I can before climbing aboard.

  As soon as I step on the covered deck, I wipe the rain from my face and arms, pull the radio from my back pocket and unlock the door to the main cabin. Two minutes later, I’m back on deck, a white towel wrapped around my waist, an ice-cold long neck Abita beer in my left hand, wet clothes in my right hand. I throw my jeans, tee-shirt and dress shirt over the deck chairs and prop the drenched Reeboks on the plastic seat of another chair. I take a deep swig of beer. It’s so cold my throat aches, the beer tasting bitter and sweet and wonderful. The rain picks up even more, hammering the covered deck’s tin roof. The air smells of grass and fish. A bolt of lightning flashes again, immediately followed by a loud clap of thunder that reverberates over the canal.

  Turning to go back in, I hear something – a cry or a moan. No, it’s a whimper coming from the dock. Peering through the rain, I’m about to go back in for a flashlight when lightning brightens the sky again. I see a small animal standing outside the wrought-iron gate for a moment, but the sky goes dark.

  So I go back in the cabin, climb into a pair of gym shorts, grab a black umbrella and a flashlight and go out to the gate with my keys. I turn the flashlight on and a puppy, still whimpering, takes a step away from the gate and looks up at me. Shivering, the puppy cries louder as the rain pelts it. I unlock the dead-bolt and open the gate. The puppy takes another step back.

  “Well, come on,” I say, swinging the gate wide.

  The puppy goes down on its belly and then rolls over in the wet grass.

  “Jesus!” I shove the flashlight under my arm, step out and scoop up the puppy, shoving it under my other arm. Wiggling and trying its best to lick my face, the puppy cries loudly as I try to lock the gate and keep the umbrella overhead. I manage to get the puppy, umbrella and flashlight inside the main cabin without dropping anything. After toweling off again, I dig out another towel for the shivering canine.

  I flip on Channel 4 to catch the ten o’clock news and sit with the puppy on the rug in front of the TV. The puppy squirms as I dry it. It nips at my hands when I lay it on its back on the rug to finish drying it, leaving it under the towel when I finish.

  Channel 4 News opens with shots of flooded streets. The pretty face of its newest anchor, a black woman with a slim face, wide brown eyes and bushy eye-brows, announces that this May flood is already worse than the infamous May floods of 1978 and 1995. And it’s still raining.

  The puppy finally disentangles itself from the towel, rolls on its back again and flails its paws at me. It’s a male. Under the bright living room lights I stand the puppy on its feet. It licks my hands frantically and I see it’s a Catahoula hound dog.

  “Son-of-gun. Where’d you come from, little guy?” It’s only a month or two old but already has the clear markings of the Catahoula, mottled coat of brown, black and gray, big floppy ears and trademark sky blue eyes.

  “I wonder if there are any coyotes out there, too.” The puppy gives me a goofy-eyed look. I’m batting zero with my lame jokes today. I stand and stretch.

  “You hungry?” I ask the puppy. “I’m hungry.” As I stand, the TV switches to a rain-soaked reporter standing on the Claiborne Avenue neutral ground, surrounded by flooded cars and exasperated drivers.

  I dig three frozen burgers out of the freezer, pop them into the microwave to defrost. Then I go into the bathroom to replace the wet bandage on my left cheek and run a brush though my thick, wet hair. I need a haircut again. So what’s new?

  The cut on my face is about an inch long in the center of my left cheek but not deep at all. It takes two Band-Aids to cover properly. When I step back into the kitchen, I find the puppy sitting in front of the microwave. Its little tail wags back and forth. I plop the three burgers into a frying pan and turn on the gas stove just as the TV switches to a scene in Metairie. Veterans Boulevard at Transcontinental is flooded. Streets in River Ridge are under three feet of water.

  “Jesus,” I tell the puppy. “River Ridge is high ground.” As if to answer, the anchor comes back on to explain how a storm front has stalled over the city, right atop River Ridge. Outside the houseboat the rain picks up.

  I pull two hamburger buns from the bread box and a fresh Abita beer from the refrigerator. As soon as the burgers are done, I break one up for the puppy and put it in a dish in front of the TV. I realize how hungry I am as soon as I start eating. The puppy wolfs down its burger with relish. Then I go grab a bag of tortilla chips out of the kitchen. Channel 4 takes a break from the great flood to report other news. They update the war.

  Jesus Christ, more American casualties. Then, a new wrinkle on the old O. J. Simpson Case. Fuckin’ lawyers. Finally, they report that a New Orleans police officer was shot and killed on Chartres Street earlier this evening. The alleged assailant was subsequently shot by police a short while later on Conti Street.

  “Exchange Alley,” I correct the T.V.

  They show a picture of Cassandra in uniform. I put the beer down. Then they go back to the flood.

  Abby Grange’s face finally comes on the tube a half hour later. Reporting from Arabi where a tornado has set down, Abby is as drenched as the puppy was when I found it. And it occurs to me that Abby’s cop-killer story, featuring John Raven Beau, has been buried under twenty inches of rain. I raise the Abita to her and finish it off.

  The puppy curls up next to my feet. I pick up the remote and flip off the TV and lean back in the easy chair. The rain taps on the roof of Sad Lisa like the steady beat of distant drums. I close my eyes and try not to feel lonesome, try not to think of home. I try breathing steadily, to lull myself to sleep. I don’t feel like climbing up into the loft to my bed, not with the weather like this outside.

  My mind wanders and I wonder if it’s raining back home in Cannes Bruleé. I remember watching the clouds build into h
uge gray mountains over the Gulf of Mexico and move in across Vermilion Bay, how the air would suddenly cool and the Spanish moss on the Cypress trees would dance in a southern wind that smelled of salt water and fish. Sheets of gray rain would sweep over the swamp to pound the land and drench the small villages like Cannes Bruleé and St. Justville and towns like Abbeville and New Iberia and even St. Martinville, where Evangeline is buried. Then the rain would go away. The coolness would vanish immediately and humidity, like steam from a pot of boiling rice, would bathe your face like a wet rag.

  Cannes Bruleé echoes in my mind with the sound of cicadas droning on summer evenings – fire flies and mosquito hawks dancing on moon-filled nights. I remember the sharp taste of filé gumbo, crawfish etouffee and bisque – the sound of my dead Cajun father laughing at the Dick Van Dyke Show and reruns of The Honeymooners on our old black and white Zenith TV.

  A clap of thunder shakes the houseboat. I open my eyes and the puppy looks up at me.

  “You know,” I tell the dog, “One day the water’s gonna wash this city away.”

  He pants at me.

  “I killed a man tonight.” My chest feels suddenly heavy.

  The Catahoula twists its head to the side and stares at me with clear, baby-blue eyes.

  “I killed another man tonight.”

  The puppy twists its head the other way, then puts its head back down. I close my eyes and lean back in the recliner and force my mind to think of nothing, to go blank. I breathe deeply, steadily, hoping for sleep.

  •

  “All right, pipe down!”

  Assistant Superintendent of Police Bob Kay, commanding the new and improved Cop Killer Task Force, stands at the front of the Detective Bureau squad room, his arms folded across his large chest. Kay waits patiently for the detectives to settle down. We’ve been talking about the great flood. One guy even brought fins and a snorkel. Sitting behind my gray metal desk, I look through the wall of windows to my left at the bright afternoon sun. The green tint, sprayed on the windows to filter the sun’s rays, has peeled away over the years, giving the windows a ragged look.