NCIS New Orleans, page 5
“Nothing wrong with giving someone another chance. What’s he look like? Is he a big guy?”
“Definitely,” she said. “He works out in the hotel weight room sometimes. Huge arms, big shoulders. Strong.”
Pride pulled over next to a weed-choked empty lot and retrieved a small spiral-bound notebook and a pen from the center console. “Make my day, Rose. Tell me you have an address for him.”
“If I’d known you were that easy to please, I’d have called as soon as I heard you were divorced, Dwayne. He’s in the Fourth. You ready?”
“Give it to me.”
She read him an address near Conti and North White. He read it back to be sure he had it right, then thanked her for her help. Next, he called Sonja. She and Lasalle were still in Tremé—just leaving Alpuente’s rental, she said.
“I’m on my way,” Pride said. “You and Chris are closer than I am. Head over and pick up Melancon, if he’s home, and I’ll meet you there.”
“Got it,” Sonja said. “See you soon.” She was already relaying the message to Lasalle when Pride ended the call. He put his Explorer in gear and swung left on Bienville, shooting between two sections of the wide sarcophagus sea that formed the St. Louis Cemetery, and toward the lake as fast as conditions allowed.
Maybe they could wrap this up in a hurry. Open and shut—he liked cases like that. He slowed briefly for a child in the street, then, when the way ahead was clear, he stepped on the gas.
* * *
“It’s one of those shotgun houses,” Sonja said. She was looking at the satellite view on her phone while Lasalle drove. They’d already put on their wireless radios—the coils from the earpiece always bugged her, but when the action was hot she was able to set that dislike aside in favor of clear communication. Both wore navy blue caps with NCIS printed in white above the peak. “I’ll take the front and you take the back.”
“Or I’ll take the front,” Lasalle said. “City mice are used to back alleys, right?”
Sonja laughed. “I don’t mind the alley,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to accidentally get some dust on your shoes.”
“Deal. Alley’s all yours.”
“Deal,” Sonja echoed.
“There it is,” Lasalle said. “There’s not much to it.”
He was right. The house looked like it might have been red once, but wind and weather had stripped the paint down to a wan, sickly pale pink. High-water marks could still be seen on the walls, remnants of Katrina. It was, as she had suggested, a shotgun house, long and narrow, with only a single window on the long side. In the front, four concrete steps led to a plain wooden door. Off to its left, the shutters were folded open and a window was cracked a few inches wide.
“Smell that?” Lasalle asked as they approached the house.
Sonja nodded. The singular, sweet aroma of pot had been plenty familiar even before her law enforcement career had begun, and she’d been exposed to it many times since. “Probable cause?”
“Smells like it to me,” Lasalle said.
She and Lasalle had worked together so long that no more words were needed. She drew her Glock and raced around to the back of the house. There was only one window here, so she hurried to the far side. Here she found a second door and a couple of windows. “Go,” she said softly into her microphone.
An instant later, she heard Lasalle’s voice. “NCIS!” he called, pounding on the door. “Open up!”
At the same time, she twisted the knob on the side door. It turned easily and she yanked it open. “Federal agents!” she cried as she bulled her way inside.
“Gilbert Melancon, you’re under arrest!” Lasalle shouted.
Sonja had entered a kitchen that might have last been cleaned sometime around the close of the Civil War, from the looks of it. She waded through newspapers and food wrappers and pizza cartons, glad they weren’t trying to sneak up on anyone.
Over her own noise, she heard the distinctive scraping and squealing sounds of someone scrambling out a window. “Side window!” she shouted.
“We got a rabbit!” Lasalle called at the same moment.
Sonja reversed course, went out the door, and darted toward the back and around the house. She was there in seconds, but Melancon was already in the wind. The house was in the middle of the block, so he might have gone around the house next door in either direction—down the alley or toward the street.
Then Lasalle raced up from the street side. “You see him?” he asked.
“No.” She pointed up the alley. “Had to go that way.”
Before he could answer, a dog started barking furiously, a few houses away. Lasalle flashed her a grin. “Oh, it’s on,” he said. “It’s on like Donkey Kong.”
“You cut him off,” Sonja said. “I’ll run him down.”
Lasalle gave her a nod and dashed off toward his truck. Sonja tore down the alley and across the street. More dogs started to bark, though Sonja couldn’t tell if that meant they’d seen or sensed Melancon, or were simply reacting to the first dog. Lasalle’s truck roared down the street, and his voice came in her ear. “See him yet?”
“No,” she replied. Then she spotted a garbage can spinning away from a tall, wooden fence. The can teetered and tipped over, spilling trash into the alley. “Yes,” she amended. “Well, not him, but he just used a garbage can to jump a fence. Yellow house, a third of the way up this block.”
“I see it.”
Sonja reached the house. The fence was too tall to jump—Melancon had momentum going for him when he hit the garbage can, but if she stopped to right it, she would lose that advantage. Instead, she vaulted a waist-high chain-link fence around the yard next door.
Which was, it turned out, where the first dog lived.
It was a brindle mastiff, an enormous creature with a head that looked as big as a lion’s. It had paused its barking, maybe trying to determine whether the interloper it had heard was still a threat, and appeared momentarily confused at the appearance of a second one—this time on its own turf. It didn’t spend long making up its mind, though—it charged at Sonja, all slavering jaws and gnashing teeth.
Her Glock was already in her hand. She didn’t want to shoot somebody’s dog, but its charge was too fast; she wouldn’t be able to get back over the fence in time to save herself. As it was, even a bullet wouldn’t save her from the dog’s initial impact. She raised the gun, but the dog’s powerful legs were already launching it into the air. It hurtled toward her—
—and reached the end of its chain.
The animal’s eyes bulged in seeming surprise as its forward motion came to a sudden halt in mid-air. It dropped to the grass—freshly cut, Sonja noted; the whole yard was immaculately groomed—and immediately started pawing the earth, trying to advance toward her.
“Good doggie,” Sonja said. Animals weren’t her favorite things to begin with, and ones that clearly wanted to devour her ranked even lower on her list. Especially if they were truly capable of it, as this one might have been. “Nice doggie. Stay.”
The dog had no intention of staying. She’d already wasted valuable time, though, during which Melancon was putting more distance between himself and her. She gauged the length of its chain, measured against the width of the yard, and determined that there was a narrow strip on the far right that the dog couldn’t reach.
She hoped.
It was a chance she had to take.
She raced over to that side. Her movement riled the dog all over again, and it charged, snapping and growling. For a terrible moment Sonja thought she’d miscalculated, but again, the beast drew up short. It pulled and pulled, and she saw the stake to which it was affixed give a little. The stake was steel, screwed into the ground, with a ring that the chain connected to. It didn’t look like it would take much to tug it out.
“Stay!” she said again, her tone commanding. “Sit!”
The dog stayed, but not by choice. It did not sit.
Sonja sprinted for the front gate. The yard Melancon had entered was on the far side of this one—the dog’s side—so even if there had been a way to scale the fence on that side, she wouldn’t be able to.
She let herself out through the gate and closed it behind her. The realization occurred to her that the dog would surely be able to vault this low fence. Maybe the chain wasn’t the only thing keeping it in. If she had a dog of that size and apparent ferocity, she’d make sure it was well trained. Given the appearance of the house and yard, the occupants were conscientious citizens.
Anyway, she told herself that was probably the case, because she didn’t want to have to worry about the thing breaking free and chasing her down now that she’d left its property.
When she reached the street, Melancon was nowhere to be seen. Lasalle was a block further down, still in his truck. Sonja realized her earpiece had come out of her ear during the confrontation with Cujo.
“Chris,” she said. “Where’s Melancon?”
“There you are!” he replied. “I’ve been calling and calling.”
“Sorry, lost my earpiece for a minute.”
“You were gone a long time.”
“Long story,” she said. “Do you have his twenty?”
“Ducked into another yard, toward St. Louis and the Greenway. I’m heading over there.”
“On my way,” Sonja said. “See you there.”
“You betcha,” Lasalle said. “Woof!”
7
Knowing Lasalle and Sonja were going to pick up Melancon, Pride had turned on his radio, so he had heard the whole thing, including Sonja’s encounter with what sounded like a big, angry dog. He was almost to the scene, but now he changed course, making a hard, screeching right on Dorgenois, jetting over two blocks, then cranking the wheel to the left. His tires left rubber on the road as he skidded into the turn on St. Louis, and then he was racing northwest parallel to the Lafitte Greenway.
Beyond Dupre, he saw someone emerge from between houses in the middle of the block. It was a big man, African American, wearing a Saints jersey and black dress pants, barefoot and moving fast. Had to be Melancon. Pride accelerated, then stomped on the brakes. The SUV fishtailed to a halt, and Pride threw it in park and jumped out.
“Melancon!” he shouted. “NCIS! Freeze!”
The man kept going, heading for the greenway. Pride was a little ahead of him, though, and he ran forward, angling to intercept him. Melancon shot him a worried glance and altered his course. The Orleans Relief Canal, the low fence across from it, and the broad swath of grass that made up the greenway itself were between Melancon and the industrial neighborhood on the far side.
The canal was too wide to jump, but concrete beams spanned the distance. Melancon jumped onto one, and his momentum nearly carried him over the side and down. He corrected his balance and kept going.
Pride stepped onto the beam. It seemed very narrow indeed, and he was reminded of gymnasts on balance beams, doing flips and spins with what seemed like suicidal nonchalance.
Behind him, brakes screeched and a car door opened. Lasalle’s voice rang out. “Melancon, there’s nowhere to go! Give it up.”
Sonja’s voice came next. “Keep going, Gilbert. I’ll gladly shoot your ass off that little beam.”
Melancon paused and looked down at the water below him. “Think hard about it, Gilbert,” Pride said. “How well can you swim? People drown in there. You might get away from us, but you also might never come out.”
Melancon turned toward him, wearing a sheepish grin. He was a good-looking young man, not much more than a kid, really. His expression was that of someone who had just figured out he was in way over his head. “Who’d y’all say you were again?”
“NCIS,” Pride said. He held out a hand toward Melancon. “Come on.”
“NCIS? What’s that?”
“Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Come on, Gilbert. Give me your hand. It’s not safe here.”
Melancon broke out into a broad, sunny smile. “Oh, okay, see, you got the wrong guy. I ain’t in the Navy.”
Pride took two cautious steps closer. “I know you’re not, Gilbert. But Edouard Alpuente was.”
At the mention of Alpuente’s name, Melancon’s smile vanished and he took a step to the side.
And off the beam.
Pride lunged and caught him. Melancon was heavy, though, and his weight and momentum threatened to pull them both into the canal. Pride shifted his weight back, knowing that if he lost his grip or Melancon broke free, he’d go over backward and be in for a swim.
Then Lasalle’s hands were on him, steadying them both. “Easy, everybody,” Lasalle said. “Let’s just move carefully back over to dry ground. All together, now. All at once. Okay?”
“You good, Gilbert?” Pride asked.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m cool.”
“Here we go.”
Step by slow, careful step, they made their way to the end of the concrete beam and onto the grass. At the last moment, Melancon lost his balance again. He waved his arms to try to recapture it, and as Lasalle reached for him, Melancon’s flailing hand knocked his NCIS cap off his head. Lasalle tried to catch it, but too late; it fluttered into the canal and was quickly whisked away by the current.
“Is that what they mean by ‘Roll Tide’?” Sonja needled.
“You’re funny,” Lasalle said, watching it drift out of sight. He’d heard just about every joke possible about his alma mater, and most of them left him cold. He was proud of his school and its vaunted football team. Some people gave him a hard time when they found out he’d worn the costume of Big Al, the team’s elephant mascot, but he had actually enjoyed those days. Also, it turned out the mascot got to spend more time with the cheerleaders than the players did, and that was a bonus. “I think it’s what they mean by ‘easy come, easy go.’”
* * *
“See, thing is, I didn’t know y’all were police,” Melancon said. They were back at headquarters, in the interrogation room. Pride and Sonja sat on one side of the big table. Melancon sat opposite them, facing the two-way mirror. “I had, like, a stressful morning, you feel me? So I was enjoyin’ a bowl and then somebody crashes into my crib hollerin’ about NICS or whatever. ’Course I booked.”
“NCIS,” Sonja reminded him. “And I distinctly announced us as ‘federal agents.’”
“Yeah, well, that don’t sound the same as police to me.”
“Maybe you need to get out more,” she said. “Broaden your horizons. You’re in a lot of trouble here, and adding a resisting arrest charge isn’t going to help you out of it.”
“Let’s talk about Lt. Alpuente,” Pride said. “You got him a room at the hotel under a phony name. Why?”
Melancon blinked a few times and let his gaze wander from Pride to Sonja and back. “We old friends,” he replied. “Grew up together, down in Shell Beach. Moms and me moved to New Orleans when I was ten, but Eddie and me still stayed in touch. He asked if there was anything I could do, so I moved him to the top of the wait list and comped him the room. That against the law?”
“Your employer might frown on it, but that’s between the two of you. My question is, why the alias?”
“That’s what he asked for. I asked him why, and he just said he needed to disappear for a few days. Said the best way to disappear was in a crowd.”
“That’s true sometimes,” Sonja said. “But maybe not so much in a crowd where everybody’s taking pictures on a smartphone.”
“He almost never left the room while he was there,” Melancon said. “I tried to see him one day, knocked on his door, and he just told me to stay away from him. So I did.”
“Did you see him this morning?” Pride asked.
“Only after—you know. When they brought him down, I recognized him right off. I freaked. Figured I was fired for sure, and maybe worse. So I took off, boogied on home. I was just smokin’ a little, trying to mellow out after seein’…” He swallowed hard, and his eyes brimmed with tears. “…seein’ him like that.”
“So you’re saying you have no idea how or why he took a dive off his balcony?” Sonja pressed. “You didn’t see him at all today until after he was dead?”
“Eddie was my boy!” Melancon slammed his palm down on the tabletop. Then he seemed to ratchet his emotions down a few notches. He sniffled and knuckled his eyes. “No way I would have hurt him, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. Or let anyone else do it.”
“Let’s take a break,” Pride said. He was afraid that pushing Melancon more would just shut him down, when what he needed was for the young man to open up further. “Do you want something to drink, Gilbert?”
Melancon cracked a smile. “Like a Huge Ass Beer?”
“Like some water, a cup of coffee—”
“Chicory?”
A man after Pride’s own heart. “What other kind is there?”
“Never mind, I’ll take a col’ drink.”
“What kind?”
“Coke, RC, whatever you got.”
“Be right back,” Pride said. “Come on, Sonja.”
Pride loved the squad room. The thought struck him as he headed for the kitchen, Sonja following behind. On warm days, its brick walls seemed to release the sweet, dry aroma of the horses and hay that had been kept here in years gone by. It had, for a while, been a bittersweet place for him; moving into his apartment upstairs had been a painful acknowledgement that his marriage to Linda had failed, after twenty-three years. In those early days, every brick in the place, every stick of furniture, every picture or poster or electronic device had seemed to be taunting him, telling him that the most important commitment he had ever made had turned out to be worthless.
Gradually, though, he had reoriented his thinking. His marriage had not, he told himself, been a failure. They’d had plenty of good years, more than many people got. They’d brought Laurel into the world, and no union that accomplished such a feat could be considered unworthy. He hadn’t been ready to give up, but after trying unsuccessfully to get him into couples therapy, Linda had decided that the cord needed to be cut. Linda had moved on, and so had he, eventually reaching a place of peace with the decision. Sometimes the things that hurt the most were for the best.
