The Betrayed, page 2
“But I thought… We had such a…” he babbled.
I began walking around the desk. Jacobs just stood there, looking at me like I had just sprouted wings and horns. I grabbed him gently, just above the elbow, and steered him toward the door.
“Now, normally I’d give you some bullshit about how I’d make my decision soon and you’d be hearing back from me, but we’re both hard men, am I right?”
“Uh… sure, yeah.”
I opened the door and turned him around to face me. I dusted off the shoulders of his suit jacket.
“Since we’re both hard men, I’m going to give it to you straight. You don’t have the right temperament for the job.”
“What?!” he exclaimed. “I handle assholes at the bar great, I’m the best bouncer they got—”
“You don’t have the right temperament for that job either, but that’s not my problem. Just know that I’m going to pass on hiring you.”
He looked at me, stunned, with only the sound of traffic coasting by on Palafox spoiling the silence. Then his face scrunched up and his eyes went hard, angry.
“Well you know what, you fucking tomahawk chucker, you can just—”
I leaned in, and he pulled back a little. “And if I ever step into a bar you are working,” I said softly, “you had better quit. Because I am going to be stone sober, and very, very belligerent.”
He looked up at all 325 pounds of me looming over him like a mountain, crooked nose showing I was no stranger to a scuffle. His eyes were still defiant, but now there was an undercurrent of fear. After a few moments, he backed away, turned, and, muttering, walked away.
The phone rang four, then five times. “Come on, Freddy, answer…” I muttered under my breath.
Captain Freddy Guidry ran the fourth district in New Orleans and was my mentor and best friend, not that I had many people vying for the title.
The phone picked up on the sixth ring, then there was a sound of the headset clattering off of something hard and banging against something else. In the background, I heard a muttered expletive, then a sound like a stack of papers landing on a table. There was a rattle as the phone was picked up again.
“Guidry,” came an annoyed voice.
“Freddy, this a bad time?”
“No worse than any other, Rev. How’s things in the cradle of naval aviation?”
“Good, actually. Maybe too good. Listen, Freddy, I am in bad need of some help, but I’ve been interviewing for three weeks now and I’ve got nothing. Not a single good candidate.”
“Whoa, wait. Do you mean to tell me business is going well enough that you are hiring?”
“Yep. Want a job?”
Freddy barked a laugh. “What, and give up my lovely corner-office view of the water tower? Can’t let a gem like that slip from my fingers. Besides, I’m way too close to retirement. Janet would murder me, and she was a detective’s wife for a while, so she’d probably get away with it.”
I snorted. “Just as well, I can’t afford you. I’ve been looking for interns, but I guess I may have to branch out and solicit licensed P.I.s. Problem is, I’ve got to be in two places at once starting next week, and I have no clue how I’m going to pull that off. You got any former cops, or even academy washouts you would recommend?”
Freddy was quiet for a moment.
“Freddy? You still there?”
“Yeah, Rev, just thinking. Listen, I met this P.I. last week, new to town. Helped us out on a murder, did great work. You want me to set up a meet, see if there’s mutual interest?”
I thought for a second. Whoever this was, they were probably out of my price range, but I had nothing else to do this weekend.
“Sure,” I said. “What can it hurt?”
I sat at a worn table in the Buck Forty-Nine Pancake and Steak House, waiting on Ms. Gordon to arrive. I asked how I would know her, and Freddy said she would know me, which was true enough: I stuck out everywhere.
I looked around the restaurant, searching for anyone who didn’t seem to belong. The only thing that caught my eye, as always, was the decor; Kitschy, cowboy-themed junk hung from the walls, looking about as out of place as an astronaut in a submarine.
The bell over the entrance jingled, and a lady stepped in. She was about five-foot-eight and had a trim, athletic figure. Her hair, raven black, fell in gentle curls around her face, framing her pale blue eyes. Dressed in a sharp, charcoal business suit and carrying a briefcase, she looked like a corporate exec.
She was striking, might have even been beautiful, once. Now, a scar traced its way from the edge of her right eye all the way to her chin, dimpling the skin on her cheek. She had expertly covered it with makeup, but that only did so much to hide the disfigurement.
Her eyes scanned the room efficiently, settling on me. As they did so, I felt a stirring inside I had not felt since my ex, Rebecca, had left me four years ago. I shifted uncomfortably, jamming it deep down.
The woman locked eyes with me, then padded up to my table with the grace of a jungle cat.
“Mr. Parata,” she said, smiling politely and extending a hand. She had a very slight Yankee accent. New Jersey, I thought.
I recovered my composure and rose, enveloping her tiny hand in my paw.
“You must be Ms. Gordon,” I said.
She shook, grip firm but not overcompensating, then pulled out her own chair and placed her briefcase on the floor.
A waitress came by with waters and asked if we were ready to eat. I ordered two bowls of red beans and rice and a fried catfish platter. She chose a salad with peppers and some kind of vinaigrette.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Parata. Freddy has told me so much about you.”
“Call me Rev, and you should know that Freddy is a goddamn liar.”
She smiled politely. “You can call me Rae, Rev. And Freddy only said good things.”
“Those are the lies,” I replied.
“Well, hopefully the part about you needing some help wasn’t a lie?”
“No, that part is true enough. He tells me you are a licensed P.I.?”
“Yep, just passed the Louisiana exam.”
I scrutinized her for a moment. Her eyes were direct, focused. She dressed like an executive, but moved like a dancer or martial artist. The way she had scanned the room was perfect, analyzing and discarding patron after patron before settling her gaze on me.
“Where did you learn the ropes?” I asked.
“California. Los Angeles firm named Big Time Investigations,” she said.
“Freddy says you helped him out with a homicide recently?”
She looked a little uncomfortable. “Well, I don’t know if I’d put it like that. I was shadowing a woman whose husband suspected she was cheating. She met with a man for dinner, but they got into an argument and left early. They went to his place, and I followed, surveilling the place with my Nikon and a huge telephoto lens. As the night went on, the argument got worse and worse until she tried to leave. That… was when he began strangling her.”
I shook my head sadly.
“I ran to the house and broke in, but by the time I did, she had passed. As I was examining her, I heard a gunshot. He was dead when I found him.”
“Your first homicide?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “I didn’t really know what to do. I just stood there for probably a minute, then ran to the bathroom and… you know. When I got a hold of myself, I called 911.”
I nodded sympathetically, motioned for her to continue.
“Captain Guidry met me after the detectives cleared me. Said he was old friends with the husband, my client, and wanted to thank me for trying to save his wife… even though I failed.”
She looked a little rattled after her tale, but your first homicide will do that to you. I wish I’d chosen to meet somewhere that served whiskey, I thought.
“You okay?” I asked.
She looked up at me, meeting my gaze. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks,” she said, smiling a little.
I nodded. “First one’s always rough. Good news is, all the rest of them are too.”
She laughed. “You are really selling it,” she said.
I shrugged. “The time to worry is when it doesn’t bother you anymore,” I said, serious.
She held my gaze for a bit, then nodded.
After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, our food arrived, and the waitress and I played a little game of ‘let’s rearrange everything on the table.’
Once the waitress had left, I dug in, clearing the first plate of red beans and rice without speaking. I looked up to find Rae staring at me in a cross between amusement and horror.
“Something wrong?” I asked after swallowing.
She arched an eyebrow. “I guess I’ve just never seen anyone inhale food like that.”
I shrugged. She certainly wasn't the first person to comment on my eating habits, but when you go into the Army nearing 300 pounds, they don’t give you much time to eat. Overweight ‘Cherries’ get put on the old Army diet in boot camp. You get jammed into the end of the chow line, so you get your food last, and when the first guy in your platoon finishes eating, you have to stand up and dump your food, no matter how much was left.
I was always at the back of the line.
I refocused on Rae. “So what are your skills, Rae? What would you say you’re best at?”
She sat her fork down and smiled. “Well, I’m pretty good with people. My father used to say I could sell wood to a forest. I also speak three languages, I’m pretty good at sneaking around, and I can lie my ass off.”
I cocked an eyebrow at this last statement. “So how much of that was true?”
“Most of it,” she said, and grinned impishly.
I gave her a polite smile, and then a ‘yeah, but seriously’ look.
She sobered. “My policy is to only lie to strangers. It takes too much work to lie to friends or colleagues. You have to keep a running tally of all the lies in your backlog. It’s exhausting.”
I nodded. I had come to a similar conclusion myself, and the job required the occasional lie. I looked her over with a critical eye.
“Can you take care of yourself?”
She stared back, eyes steely. “I do okay,” she said. “At least my sensei thinks so.”
“Which martial art?”
“Ju-Jitsu and Escrima.”
I whistled. “You aren’t fucking around,” I said.
“Not even a little,” she replied. “How about you, Rev? What do you bring to the table?”
I snorted with amusement. “You mean, besides the cases?”
She nodded, polite smile on her face.
I sat back in my chair and focused on her.
“Well, I know you’re Jewish, but probably not practicing. Specifically, I believe your people are Russian Jews, and you are from New Jersey, likely from Newark or some other large city because the Russian Jewish community is tight-knit and pretty urban.”
“You say you are an excellent liar and good with people, and you moved to California at some point in your youth. Kids don’t move to Cali without reason, and I’ve read your resume, so I know your Associate’s is from a community college. No one moves cross-country to go to a community college, and since you are attractive and a self-professed expert liar, I suspect you went to become an actress.”
She looked at me, eyes searching. “Only one flaw in your theory,” she said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Looking uncomfortable and a little angry, she pointed to the scar on her face. “No one would try breaking into acting with… this.”
I shrugged. “That happened after you moved. The surgeon did a good job, but I’ve seen my share of trauma scars. That one is no more than five years old, and you are in your early thirties. My bet is you moved to Cali in your early to mid-twenties, maybe had some minor success in the industry, then had an accident and had to make due, giving up on your dream.”
She looked at me, eyes reluctantly impressed, then gave a little golf clap.
“Pretty impressive, but I know how you got most of that. How did you figure out my family history?”
“You’re wearing a little Star of David pendant. It’s under your blouse, but it peeks out when you move. Despite that, you just ate a salad with real ham in it.”
She smiled. “Okay, fair enough. But what about the Russian part?”
I grinned. “That was mostly a guess. Your features are a little Slavic, and your accent is slight, but definitely Jersey. I know there’s a decent Russian Jew community in Jersey, and you said you spoke three languages. Would they happen to be English, Hebrew, and Russian?”
“They would,” she said, and I gave a mock bow of my head. “Okay, so you are pretty observant, but this isn’t a Sherlock Holmes novel, and that only gets you so far. What else you got?” she asked, raising a brow. “You know, other than being a meat mountain that devours buffets in a single gulp.”
I wasn’t sure if she was toying with me at the moment, or seriously interviewing me.
“Well… I’m a decent shot, I’m pretty capable in a tussle, I’m fairly good at research, and I’ve got good intuition. I’m also a trained scout and I know my way around outdoors. If that’s not enough, I spent a dozen years in the force, four of them in homicide, and I know how both the police and criminals work.”
“Finally,” I said, digging my fork back into my food, “I have contacts in Nola, both inside and outside of the force.”
She grinned at me. “I suspect you can be pretty intimidating when you want to be, too.”
I shrugged, swallowed, washed the food down. “That’s just a side effect of me being who I am. I scare people without even meaning to. It’s got its pluses and minuses.”
“I’m sure,” she said. “Okay, so what arrangement did you have in mind?”
I stared at her for a moment, thinking. “Well, I can’t afford to pay your full rate. Honestly, I was looking for an intern—that’s what I’m budgeted for—but I’m down to the wire and I need someone to run surveillance in Pensacola for me this week while I’m busy on another case here in Nola.”
“What’s the other case?”
I shrugged. “Missing homeless. Local church has hired me to look into it.”
“When do you start on that?”
“Monday.”
She nodded. “And when do you need to start the surveillance?”
“The client is going out of town Thursday and expects to be gone all weekend. Need to tail her husband for that period, or until we get enough evidence to satisfy her.”
She smiled. “I propose this: Let’s partner on these two cases. I’ll come help with the missing homeless folks for a few days, then I’ll switch off Thursday and do the surveillance while you stay on the case. That way, we can both observe the other and see what each of us truly brings to the table.”
I thought the offer over. “That sounds good, but it doesn’t help with my budget. What are you looking for as far as pay?”
She sat back in her chair. “Split the take,” she said.
I shook my head once. “No deal. I have the cases, and landing the cases, as I’m sure you know, is the hardest part of this job. Also, it’s my name on the door. I’m taking all the risk, reputation-wise. Seventy-thirty.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she chewed her bottom lip. “Sixty-forty,” she said, and immediately thrust out her hand.
I stared at it for a long moment. I was intrigued by this woman, but a small surge of unease went through me specifically because she was a woman. After some of the violent people I’d had to wade through, I was more than a little worried about her safety, martial artist or no.
That’s her problem, I thought to myself. She’s signing up for this, and she’s a big girl. Can’t go protecting grown adults from themselves.
“Sixty-forty after expenses,” I said.
She thought for a bit, then nodded. I reached my hand across the table and shook.
Chapter 3
Jerome
New Orleans, Louisiana: 9:22 AM, Monday, October 15th, 1984
“This is where Marcus used to stay,” Jerome said, his little arm pointing toward the statue of Andrew Jackson, which was surrounded by thick bushes and a waist-high steel fence.
I glanced around Jackson Square, noting the spike-topped fence that surrounded it and the the sign stating the gates would be locked at six PM
“How’d he manage that? Square closes before dark.”
Jerome shot me a side-eyed look. “We got our ways, big man.”
I sighed. “Gonna need more than that, kid.”
“I can’t be tellin’ you fools all our secrets,” he said, little eyes regarding me with suspicion.
Rae looked from me to Jerome and back again. Finally, she squatted down and stared the little man in the eyes.
“Jerome, how about if I promise to keep the big lug from spilling your secret?” she asked in a voice that dripped charm, her big blue eyes blinking at him like a doe out of a cartoon.
If Jerome had lighter skin, I imagined he’d be blushing.
“A’ight,” he said in a put-upon voice, “but you better not tell.” His eyes shot daggers at me.
“I promise,” I replied solemnly, holding back a grin.
He looked around conspiratorially, then jumped the fence and crawled under the bushes; his head popped up in a little clearing between the statue and the surrounding shrubbery. Then he crawled back out and rejoined us.
“He used to sneak back there before they locked up. That way, he was stuck in there all night, where no one could bother him.”
“Smart,” I said. “You stay with him?”
“Nope. I stay at the shelter on Poydras Street.”
“Why didn’t he sleep there?”
Jerome shrugged. “He did when it come rain. But the people at the shelter was always up in his business, trying to find out where his folks was.”
“He didn’t want to find his folks?”
“Fuck naw. He ran away from them fools. He hated ‘em.”
I shot a glance at Rae and saw the same concern in her eyes that I felt.
“How old was he?” Rae asked.
