The Righteous Cut, page 19
“Yeah, and I sent two more over there.”
“Then tell some of them to park their asses in the back yard. I want to know the minute she returns, you hear me?”
“Yeah, sure, Whit. I—I’m sorry as hell—”
“You’re goddamned right you are. If anything happens to her, I’ll roast you over a slow fire.” He slammed the telephone down into the cradle, sat there drumming his fingers on the desk as he waited for his temper to cool. Finally he got up and strode to the reception area. He found it empty but for Catherine Landau.
“Where’s Meredith?” he asked.
The older secretary looked up from a brief she was typing and peered at him over the rims of her spectacles. “She asked to go home. She wasn’t feeling well.”
Richards frowned. “Not feeling well?”
Catherine slowly turned her head back to the brief she was typing. “No. She, ah, she said she’d been experiencing spells of, uh, nausea for the past week or ten days. She thinks she, ah, might be coming down with…with something.” She paused to push her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “She, uh, asked me not to mention it to you, but—but it seems to be getting, uh, worse.”
As Catherine’s conversation dribbled to an abrupt conclusion, she quickly resumed her work, her fingers flying over the keys as she concentrated rather pointedly on the document she was typing. Richards stood there watching her when it finally hit him: Merry was pregnant. He felt himself go cold all over. Christ almighty, he’d thought she was taking precautions against that.
He turned and walked quietly back to his office, where he closed the door and sank into a chair. This was just the evidence of infidelity Georgia needed to take him to court and ream him out. He groaned aloud. He grabbed the receiver to his internal phone and jerkily dialed the two digits of Rob Langdon’s office. It rang twice but it was Catherine who answered. “Are you trying to reach Mr. Langdon? He got a call earlier and left.”
Richards blinked uncertainly. “A call? Who from?”
“He didn’t say, just that it was urgent he take care of something.”
“Oh. Certainly. No matter.” He quietly put the receiver back into the cradle and leaned back in his chair feeling tired and off balance. He had only a moment to indulge the feeling before a knock sounded at the door. It opened before he could tell whoever it was to go away.
Frank Casey and Guthrie stood there. Casey led the way into the office without giving the councilman time to say anything. Guthrie shut the door behind them.
“What the hell do you want?” Richards demanded. “I told you to keep your nose out of my business.”
“I’m sorry to tell you, councilman, but the evidence suggests that your business is now my business.”
“I’m warning you, Casey—”
“Put a sock in it,” Casey interrupted. “You’re pretty slick, Richards, but even the slickest crook finally steps in the wrong patch.”
“I’ll have your badge, you sonofabitch.”
“Not so fast, councilman,” the red-haired detective replied in a calm, even tone. “What you want or don’t want is immaterial at this stage. We’re here in conjunction with what I’m sure will be a far-reaching investigation into civic corruption and murder.”
Richards’ face flushed bright red. His hands bunched into fists as he shot to his feet. “God damn you, I’ll have the sheriff send deputies to throw you out on your asses.”
“No,” Casey said mildly. “You won’t. There’s a half-dozen uniformed officers stationed outside with orders to stop anyone who tries to come in here.” He paused, took off his hat. “Those officers are men Sheriff Marrero fired after you bought the election for him. They have a certain distaste for sheriff’s uniforms, if you get my drift.”
Richards stood there with his mouth open, his fury making him speechless.
Casey took a seat in one of the expensive leather armchairs in front of Richards’ desk and leisurely crossed his legs. “Have a seat, councilman. We’ve got a lot to talk about. For starts there’s Pete Carson.”
The blood drained from Richards’ face. “What are you talking about?”
“Pete Carson. Your half-brother. The man you most likely framed for the murder of Charles Francis Tarkington.”
Richards sank slowly into his chair, his eyes suddenly lusterless, like a man stunned by a sock full of wet sand.
“You’ve had a very bad week, councilman,” Casey continued. “Two people you depended on are both dead, your daughter kidnapped, several of your operations knocked over, probably with significant loss of money…it’s focused a lot of attention on your office that I’m sure you’d rather do without. You’ve made it worse by trying to cover it up.”
Richards licked his lips. “I got nothing to say.”
Casey shrugged. “Fine. I like to talk to a man who doesn’t want to talk. You see, the police aren’t masterminds. We plod, we trip over our own shoes, but we notice things, we make reports, and we keep files on everything. And we’ve always got people around with long memories, like this character. Say hello to Lieutenant Ben Guthrie from the Gang Intelligence Squad.”
Guthrie gave Richards a two-finger salute off his hat brim, but Richards’ eyes were still fixed on Casey.
“Lieutenant Guthrie, working on a tip, discovered your relationship to Carson. Another tip sent us back to the Tarkington case file, which reminded us that Carson was the prime suspect. He did a neat job of faking his death, neat enough to fool the rural police up in Minnesota, but not quite neat enough to convince us.”
“You can’t prove anything.” Richards’ voice was hollow.
Casey grinned humorlessly. “Are you sure? Once we lay your relationship with Carson beside the death of Tarkington and your subsequent purchase of the Tarkington sugar refinery at a below-market cost in front of the district attorney, I’ll bet my pension that he’ll order a full investigation. Once he does, I’ll bet Guthrie’s pension that we find other interesting associations, with more dirty money changing hands before it ends up in your pocket.
“The newspapers will have a field day,” Casey continued. “And my guess is that once you’re on the ropes, people you’ve swindled and extorted money from will come out of the woodwork like cockroaches in a house fire. Even if we can’t convict you, you’ll be ruined politically, and I happen to think that’d be a good thing all by itself.” Casey got up and put on his hat, tugging the brim low over his eyes. “I wouldn’t blame you if you tried to skip town, but if you do, I’ll arrest you on a material witness warrant. My men at the railroad depots and the airport will be notified to be on the lookout for you from now on.” He turned to leave, but paused at the door. “You might as well give Carson what he wants because he won’t keep it long. His mugshot is in every radio car by now, and we’ll get him too before it’s all over. Have a good evening, councilman.”
Casey opened the door, giving Guthrie time to favor Richards with an amiable grin and a gunman’s salute. As the door closed, Richards snatched up his telephone receiver, then slowly put it back. With Langdon out of the office, there was no one to call.
***
The sight of the knife under the dresser was enough to reenergize Jessica. She fiddled with it until she understood the mechanism, then closed it and shoved it under the mattress. Within minutes she had repaired her underwear as best she could and lay down on the bed. Her watch told her it was late, but not late enough to attempt an escape.
She found that she wasn’t tired. She’d been through a lot that day, but she recognized a resiliency in herself she hadn’t known was there. She realized she had a good three hours before anyone would visit her again with food. She pulled her tool from under the mattress and walked to the closet. It was the work of a moment to push open the trap and pull herself through the opening. Her adrenaline was flowing again, and she felt stronger than ever.
Working her way across the rafters to the louver was like revisiting familiar ground. She felt the muscles in her legs respond as she stretched them from beam to beam.
When she reached the louver, she could see through the slits that the sun was low in the sky. She heard the cries of egrets and gulls somewhere nearby, and it suggested to her that she might be near water, perhaps Lake Pontchartrain. She slipped the strip of steel from inside one of her brassiere straps and set to work on the last obstacle to removing the louver altogether.
She’d worked her way through half of the ridge of wood holding the louver in place when she felt it begin to slip. She caught it in time to keep it from crashing out onto the roof. Finding that she had the strength to lift it, she carefully brought it inside the attic and propped it against the wall. A cool breeze swept through the opening, drying the sweat on her body, as she looked out on freedom. Twenty-five yards across the field lay a patch of woods.
The sound of geese came to her through the opening as she stared out at the field. As she watched, she saw the V-shaped formations flying toward her. Geese flew south, which meant she was looking more or less due north. If she’d guessed right, Lake Pontchartrain was somewhere beyond those trees. If she could get to the lake, there would be people to the east and the west, including the Coast Guard at West End and a police district substation at Milneburg.
Turning reluctantly away from the opening, she stepped cautiously back over the rafters to the trap. Five minutes later she was dressed in her school uniform. There was nothing to do now but wait, and hope for enough luck to see her to the grove of trees after she escaped the house. She’d never thought very much about luck before. How much was enough when you were betting your life?
***
Joey Parmalee’s Studebaker rolled into Treme late that afternoon and stopped across the street from King Arboneau’s grocery store. Pushing open the driver’s door, Joey painfully pulled himself out to the sidewalk. Smoke from his cigarette curled lazily past a face that was a rainbow of red, purple, and yellow. He held his right arm stiffly against his body, barely able to tolerate moving. He limped across to the grocery entrance.
The girl named Gabrielle saw him when he was halfway down the aisle to the butcher shop. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Joey? What happened? Was you in an accident? Oh, you poor thing.” She ran around the refrigerated meat display counter and put an arm around his waist to help him.
“Knock it off,” he said gruffly. “I ain’t dyin’ or nothin’. I gotta see the King.”
She put a soft, cool hand on his wounded face, made him sit down on a stool. “Just a minute, okay? Just stay here.” She turned and ran up the stairs.
Joey sat there, dragging on the cigarette but finding small pleasure in it. Every bone in his body ached. He lost track of time, and perhaps consciousness, as well. The next thing he knew, he was looking up into a pair of fierce, impenetrable eyes.
“What are you doin’ here? What happened to you?”
Joey was shaken by the violence of the old man’s questions. It took him a minute to find his voice. “He—he’s double-crossin’ you, Mr. Arboneau.”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“I—I heard him. Carson. He was on the phone, talkin’ to Richards. Makin’ some kinda deal with ’im. He’s gonna cut you out. Johnny’s in it with ’im.”
Joey’s revelation seemed to have no effect on Arboneau. “They do this to you?”
“Yeah. Caught me listenin’. They left me for dead out back of the house.”
“Why would your own brother try to kill you?” Arboneau affected no attitude of surprise or disbelief. It was clear he was simply trying to get the story clear in his mind.
Joey painfully shifted his body. “My brother.” He made a rude noise. “He ain’t got no love for me. He kicked me around the whole time I was growin’ up.” He sneered as he looked back at the old man. “Johnny’s sick of bein’ nobody. He wants to be a big shot bad, bad enough to do anything, Mr. Arboneau. Carson’s promised him his own territory once him and Richards has squared things.”
The news shook Arboneau, but he maintained a sternly stoic visage. He had gotten into this to humble Richards and take back what Richards had stolen from him. He had known that Carson and Richards were half-brothers, but Carson’s hatred had seemed too great to be undone by any appeal to kinship or financial gain. Perhaps blood was thicker than water after all.
As he silently stroked his chin, another voice came into his mind, the voice of his silent partner in this deal. The partner who, from the beginning, had been pushing for a redress beyond mere money and territorial power. He turned back to Joey. “Boy, I’m gonna let you stay here on the quiet. Stay in your room until I say different, hear me? I got some thinkin’ to do.”
Joey smiled painfully, but there was a glint in his eye that was both hopeful and sardonic. “Yes, sir. Glad to be workin’ with you, Mr. Arboneau.”
Arboneau said nothing, watching as Gabrielle helped Joey from the room. He had experience enough to know a jackal when he saw one, but he reluctantly admitted that a toothless old lion might find a use for a jackal. When he was alone, he pulled his telephone to him and asked the operator for an Uptown number. It rang several times before the owner picked up.
“Yes?” the soft voice said.
“You’re going to get what you wanted after all,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
Arboneau told Joey Parmalee’s story in a flat, bitter voice, leaving out nothing.
“I could say I told you so,” the soft, husky voice said. “But there’s no time. We need to get someone out of the way first.”
“I’ll see to it,” the old man said.
***
Farrell left Targo with the sense that he at least had a direction in which to go. But he wanted more. The Parmalees weren’t leaders, they were followers. Somebody had brought them into this caper, but who? Surely not Carson. Johnny had been an aspiring boxer eleven years ago, and Joey would have been a mere child. That meant there had to be a middleman, but who? He was certain of Neil Gaudain’s innocence, but that left the three others he’d talked to, and perhaps some he had not discovered.
He was startled by the sound of sirens overtaking him. He pulled to the curb to let the ambulance pass, then continued on his way. Before he’d gone another block, he had to make way for two police cars. He heard other sirens ahead of him, too. Led by his curiosity, he drove in the direction of the excitement. He came to an intersection where he saw the ambulance at the curb and several police cars around it. A man lay on the sidewalk. Near his out-flung hand Farrell saw a revolver lying. He pulled to the curb, cut the engine, then made his way to the crowd of curious bystanders.
“Cripes,” a man said loudly. “I ain’t heard so many guns go off since I was in the Argonne back in Seventeen.”
“Who is it?” someone demanded urgently. “You see it?”
A large man in a bow-tie and shirtsleeves left a nearby tavern, pushing his way to the center of the crowd. He stopped suddenly with his hands on the shoulders of the men in front of him. His mouth opened in shock. “Aw, God, it’s Monaghan. Doctor, is he okay? Is he gonna make it?”
Farrell couldn’t hear the reply, but he saw the bartender’s shoulders slump. He watched as the man turned slowly and stumbled back out of the crowd. Farrell worked his way through the tangle until he reached the bartender’s elbow. “Excuse me, you a friend of Monaghan’s?”
The man turned, his face stiff with shock. “What?”
“Monaghan. Are you a friend of his?”
He nodded. “We were partners in this joint here.”
“Had he said anything about being in trouble with anybody lately? Or maybe had he run into an old enemy? Look, it’s important.”
The bartender heard the urgency in Farrell’s voice and stared at him for a moment. “No. Fletch kept his nose clean. He’d of told me if there was any trouble.”
“Sure of that?”
The man nodded. “Sure enough. What’s it to you?”
“I think somebody just made a big mistake because he’s scared.” He paused, frowning. “I’m sorry about Monaghan. He was all right.” He turned to leave before the bartender could engage him in further conversation.
As he walked to his car he considered the possibility that someone with an old grudge against Monaghan could have chosen today to pay off the score, but Farrell doubted it. What made more sense was that Richards had decided to hit anyone who could possibly be connected to the kidnapping of his daughter and the murder of his cohorts. It was a desperate move, and a stupid one. If Carson got wind of this, he might go underground, taking the girl with him.
He reached his car and paused. Once again he felt that strange presence nearby. He looked around, spotting the old Chevrolet wagon a block down. At the sight of it, the urge to confront a real enemy became too much to resist. The skin over his cheekbones grew taut and his eyes took on a hungry look. He walked toward the old car, unbuttoning his jacket. When he reached back on his hip for the Luger, the driver cut the wheels hard and sent the station wagon in the opposite direction. As Farrell watched him go, it took all of his willpower not to empty his gun at the retreating car.
He felt heat simmering in his blood as he returned to his car, gunned the engine into life, then tore away with a shriek of tortured rubber.
Chapter 15
It was dark when Farrell pulled into the parking area behind his club. He took the metal stairs two at a time in his haste to get to a telephone. He’d already entered and walked halfway across the kitchen floor when he recognized instinctively that he wasn’t alone. Acting on some wordless mental cue, his right hand drew and leveled the Luger as he stepped suddenly into the living room.
“You won’t need that for me,” Georgia said. She sat on the sofa with her shoes off and legs tucked up under her. She put a cigarette into her mouth and drew on it until the tip glowed bright red.
