The first place he visited was a washout. So was the second. He moved on to a zydeco joint. It stank of flat beer and stale smoke. The customers paid him little heed as he nursed a Canadian Club and ginger at the bar. He hadn’t long to wait until he spotted who held the concession. The bartender handed three customers a complimentary book of matches each as he set down their drinks. Two of them already had cigarettes lit, their lighters squared neatly on top of their cigarette packets.
Val called him over.
“I’m looking for a friend of mine.”
The man eyeballed him. “A guy like you has no friends.”
“His name’s Logjam. Have you seen him recently?”
The bartender wiped the zinc counter with a sponge cloth. “Never heard of him. Does he come in here?”
Val set his shield on the bar. “Have you a light?” he asked.
The bartender wasn’t fazed. He picked up the leather wallet and pretended to have trouble making out the lettering.
“Bit out of your jurisdiction,” he said finally.
“Must be your lucky night then.”
“Guess so.” The bartender closed the wallet and handed it back to Val.
“Being a cop is more a state of mind,” Val said, pressing the bartender’s hand against the surface of the bar by bending his middle finger back on itself. “See what I mean.”
The man blinked rapidly. “He hasn’t been around for a while.”
Val exerted extra pressure. “Where do I find him?”
“Try the Perfumed River. Vietnamese restaurant on Calliope. Don’t tell him who sent you.”
Val released his grip and left.
MacLean’s steak was just the way he liked it. Prime Texas beef, cut thick, and shown the inside of a hot skillet just long enough to seal the exterior. It was the first meal he had truly enjoyed in over a month. The British had turned pussy when it came to eating beef and his chef had stocked the yacht’s galley with French meat. Not that theirs was any better. No wonder all the women he met in Paris looked as though the Allies had just liberated them from Belsen.
Couldn’t fault their wine though. He had bought two dozen crates of Chateau Rothschild ‘83 while in Paris and had made Moncoeur a gift of one of them. The guy had the good sense to serve a couple of bottles at dinner.
He rubbed his mouth with a napkin as he studied Moncoeur across the table. Was the old man turning pussy on him too?
“You’re suggesting that we go ahead and pay the cocksucker fifteen million dollars?” he boomed. “No fucking way. Not one red cent. Jesus, he stood to clear five as it was.”
Moncoeur remained perfectly composed. He took a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket, unfolded it and pushed it across the table. “My sentiments exactly, until the latest fax arrived, shortly before six this evening. Sent from a public telephone jack point at the airport this time. He’s upped his demand an extra five million because of what happened to his parents.”
MacLean read it carefully. He always made it a habit never to rush a document. It was a practice that had paid handsome dividends over the years. Not that there was much to read in this case. The threat was concise and exact. The consequences too appalling to contemplate. Enough to have him reaching inside his jacket for his acid pills. He slipped one into his mouth and read the fax again.
“I see your point,” MacLean said as he chewed. Two small patches of white appeared high on his cheeks. “Maybe we should be grateful that an extra five million is all he’s asking. How the hell did Jackson come by this information?”
“He’s obviously considerably more resourceful than we took him for. And he knows that moving the deadline up twenty-four hours greatly reduces our chances of finding the sonofabitch first.”
“Smart doesn’t begin to say it.” MacLean waved the sheet of paper in the air. “He doesn’t mention how he wants the additional five million to be paid.”
“Presumably the same way. Canadian Treasury Bills.”
“What does Kellerman have to say about this?” MacLean was very aware of the need for secrecy, but it complicated the decision making. It had been eight years since they had all been in a room together.
“He doesn’t know about it yet. I’m certain he’ll agree that to pay up is our only realistic option.”
“So be it. I’ll notify our banks to transfer the Treasury Bills first thing tomorrow.”
“Why are you smiling? I don’t see any humor in this.”
“I do. Twenty million is one hell of a tab for a steak and a bottle of wine. Without even a quick fuck thrown in.”
Moncoeur grinned, but was clearly irritated. MacLean enjoyed disturbing his sense of propriety with deliberate displays of uncouthness. He went on. “I wonder what his plans for collection are. The handover is when an extortionist is most vulnerable. It would nearly be worth parting with twenty million just to be given a chance to put a bullet in him.”
The phone in Clements’s office rang at exactly seven-thirty. He allowed it to ring five times before picking up. He brought it slowly to his ear, but didn’t say anything.
“Troy Pollack here. You found the package?”
“Yes.” Clements’s answer was barely audible.
“Now you’ve had time to think about it, I’m sure you see the sense in cooperating. That is what you have decided?”
Clements had managed to replace his son’s picture in its frame before his wife noticed its absence. He had hidden the money in a kit bag at the bottom of his office locker. “Yes.”
“Wonderful news. I’m sure your son will sire several fine grandchildren for you. If the first’s a boy, they should call him John, don’t you think?”
“What is it you want?”
“Just what I told you earlier. Information on what Bosanquet is working on. Who he’s been talking to, where he goes, what’s his next move? I want to know if he has eggs for breakfast, which side of the bed he sleeps on.”
“He doesn’t confide in me; he plays it close to his chest. So far he’s told me practically nothing.”
“Then you’re going have to find a way to make him open up.”
“There’s one thing ...”
“Spit it out.”
“He’s been running some names through the criminal database. But they might not be what you want.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Clements unfolded the printout. “There are four names: Howard Woods, a drug dealer; Bobby Deal, a known associate; Roland Galen; and Philip Lausaux, a charity organizer.”
“Galen, what had the computer to say about him?”
“He’s a struck-off medical doctor who was caught running an illegal abortion clinic.”
“What address do they have for him?”
Clements picked up a change of tone in the man’s voice. Galen must mean something to him. ‘Nothing current on him. Deal is dead.”
“What about Woods?”
“Nothing current on him either.”
“I’ll phone you again in the morning,” the caller said abruptly and hung up.
Clements sat with the receiver in his hand for a long time. His stomach was nauseous and his bowels felt liquid. Eventually his eyes focused on the computer printout still lying on the desk and he replaced the phone.
He wasn’t thinking straight and almost missed seeing it. His caller hadn’t asked for the details of the fourth man, the charity organizer.
The Perfumed River was a new restaurant. The three-dimensional dragon that entwined itself around the front window still had a recently applied freshness to its red lacquer. Inside, black and gold dominated. The wooden tables had been sprayed gold, the walls and silk screens were predominantly black. The plates were black with a gilt border.
The staff had pulled the drapes and the floating candle lights on each table did little to alleviate the gloom. A restaurant for troglodytes. Val mustn’t have been the only one to feel that way because business was slow, though the to-go trade seem
ed brisk.
He took a stool at the bar and ordered a drink. A pretty Vietnamese girl in a clinging midnight-blue silk dress handed him a menu and went back to taking orders. She wrote them on a pink pad. Roughly one in four she scribbled on a white pad. Those customers paid for their orders up front.
Val rose and walked through a beaded curtain, down a short corridor and straight past the door of the men’s room. An emergency exit opened out into a small courtyard. The air smelt strongly of damp cardboard and stale cooking oil. Bars of light from the kitchens shuttered window made a pattern on the cobbles. Having come from the restaurant, his eyes were already acclimatized to darkness. He could hear the chatter of the Vietnamese staff as they went about their duties. As he was considering what way to play it, the kitchen door opened and a male Caucasian walked out with a mug of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Before the door swung shut behind him, Val saw that the man was Howard Woods. He was dressed in a white T-shirt and black pants, and was unaware that Val was observing him. He sat on the bottom step of the fire escape to enjoy his smoke.
“Logjam?” Val asked from the shadows.
Woods came out of the blocks like Carl Lewis. He hurled the coffee cup at Val, dropped the cigarette and fled back into the kitchen. Val started after him. The stone cobbles were slick with oil and water. He slipped and sliced his knee on a broken beer bottle. Cursing, he scrambled to his feet. His trousers were torn and his leg was bleeding. When he put weight on it, it was as though someone had tried to wrench off his kneecap. He hobbled the few yards to the kitchen door.
The bright glare inside the kitchen blinded him for a second. He screwed his eyes up and caught the back of Logjam as he careened through the swing doors leading to the restaurant. The heat from the stoves was incredible. No wonder Logjam had felt the need to cool off in the courtyard. None of the cooks, the kitchen porters, or the waiters made the slightest move to obstruct Val on his way through.
Logjam was on the street and sprinting towards Lee Circle. With his car parked two streets away, Val had no option but to hobble after him. He collided into a middle-aged man and his wife. They simultaneously yelled ‘Fuck you!’ after him.
His quarry darted across the street, weaving and dodging through the traffic, then along the neutral ground of the streetcar’s tracks. A car’s fender brushed Val’s injured leg as he attempted to follow. He had to pull up to prevent the next vehicle hitting him square on.
It was useless. Logjam was too far in front.
A redheaded woman leading a small dog on an extendable leash stepped out of an art gallery. Logjam didn’t have time to swerve. His legs entangled in the nylon and he went down hard. The dog’s efforts to pull away deployed another few yards of the leash, and wrapped it around Logjam’s feet like Christmas ribbon. With fresh enthusiasm, Val rejoined the chase.
There was a yelp from the dog when Logjam landed a kick in its ribs. The woman screamed and let go of the leash. Val was fifty feet away. His leg was killing him, but he was going to make it.
He threw himself on top of Logjam. The dealer grunted as all the impact knocked the wind out of his lungs. Val grabbed a length of leash, wrapped it around his throat and pulled on it hard. The dog was barking furiously and trying to sink its teeth into Val’s leg.
“Howard Woods?” Val breathed into his ear.
The man was too winded to answer. His lips were turning blue and his eyes were bulging. The woman was making grabs for her dog.
Val slackened his grip.
“Okay! Okay! I give up,” Logjam yelled as soon as he had sucked in some air. “You don’t have to fucking strangle me.”
“I want to know where to find Roland Galen?”
“Roland who?”
Val tightened the leash. “Galen. I’m told you’re his pharmacist of choice.”
Logjam couldn’t speak. He nodded his head furiously. Val let him have some air.
“Jesus! All you had to do was ask.”
The enraged dog sank its teeth into Val’s injured knee. He screeched in agony, jerked his leg away, and released his grip on Logjam. Val grabbed the animal by the neck and pulled it off. The woman started to rain blows down on him with her purse.
Logjam fired an elbow into Val’s crotch. Then another into his throat. It was Val’s turn to turn blue.
The drug-dealer scrambled to his feet and landed a couple of kicks into Val’s ribs. Then he noticed the blood on his trouser leg and switched his efforts in that direction, all the time urgently unraveling the leash.
Val rolled across the sidewalk and curled up in a ball. Logjam gave him one last kick, and then took off in the direction of Lee Circle. The woman pressed a button to retract the leash, picked up her pet, and scuttled off.
The words of a song playing on a bar’s jukebox reached Val. He knew the tune. An old Leadbelly song.
He picked himself up and started to grin. The people on the sidewalk locked at him uneasily and moved away.
He hobbled back to the restaurant and went through to the kitchen. He asked the staff a few questions, but got nothing but a shaking of heads and rapid Vietnamese babble.
Val’s cell phone rang as he was pulling his car alongside the curb in front of his house. His leg was throbbing and he was in a foul mood.
He unfolded the phone. It was Larson.
“Bad news, amigo. Just got word that Gilett’s FRAPH buddies have sprung him. They used shotguns to shred the tires on the ambulance that was transporting him to Tulane. It flipped over, sideswiped a couple of cars and came to rest against a levee. They freed Gilett and scrammed.”
Swell, Val thought. The perfect way to end a perfect evening.
“Thanks for letting me know,” he said. “When did it happen?”
“Mid-day. It’s not customary for FRAPH to risk men springing their troops from custody. Gilett must mean a lot to them?”
“What does the FBI have to say about that?”
“No comment.”
“No surprise.”
“Two agents and a paramedic riding in the ambulance were badly knocked about.”
“I know how they feel.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Look on the bright side. Gilett may have bought it in the crash.”
Val doubted it. He had almost certainly been wrapped in blankets and strapped to a gurney, which in turn the paramedic would have fastened down securely for the trip. Val couldn’t think of any better way to survive a crash.
“Any luck on Jackson?” Larson asked.
“Only bad. Goodnight.”
Val climbed from his car and pulled himself up the steps to his front door. His leg had a date with an ice pack.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Val made sure to time his arrival at the radio station for a full quarter hour before Harry Nolan began his morning radio show to Haiti’s tenth district. Nolan was clearly surprised to see Val again. They talked in the studio as the broadcaster prepared for his show.
Nolan read the message that Val had hand-written on a sheet of copy paper. It was a personal appeal, made by the police officer involved in the FRAPH incident in St Francis and mentioning Val by name, for anyone who had known Valerie Duval in Haiti to come forward. They were to call Val’s cell phone number.
The broadcaster put the sheet down. His expression wasn’t one of enthusiasm.
“I did warn you about going up against FRAPH — not that you paid me the slightest bit of notice. Are you sure you want your name to go out on this?”
“Positive. When you’ve a tiger by the tail, you might as well give it a good hard twist. Though I’m concerned about any backlash against yourself or the radio station.”
“Forget it. We’ve been a thorn in FRAPH’s side that long, another jab won’t make any difference. Why the renewed interest in Valerie Duval?”
“I don’t know exactly. All I do know is that her daughter didn’t kill her, but an NOPD officer did, who then went on to
work for Arena Victory. I’m hoping a lead on why she was killed will help connect the two.”
“Okay, I’ll broadcast it. But your chances of a response will improve greatly if I ask our listeners to ring the radio station. There’s lot of very nervous Haitians out there. They trust me.”
Val nodded thoughtfully. “That means hanging around here for a couple of hours.”
“I know our coffee stinks, but it won’t kill you.”
“It’s just that I have a pretty tight schedule mapped out for today.”
Nolan indicated the message. “I’ll make sure this goes out right at the head of the show. Maybe you’ll get lucky and somebody will call in before very long.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Nolan glanced at the wall clock. It was almost time to start his show. “It’s no big deal. Anything that puts a rocket up Arena Victory’s backside is fine by me. You know that their CEO is back in town? MacLean has his yacht moored on the Riverwalk ready for Thursday night’s flotation jamboree.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“What planet are you living on? MacLean’s guesting on every radio show, every TV show, headlining every paper. He’s a one-man public relations machine.”
“I have a few questions of my own for him,” Val said, already wondering what strategy he should adopt with MacLean.
Nolan started to arrange a stack of newssheets spread untidily around his console. “It’s time for me to go to work. Treat yourself to some of our coffee and take a seat in the foyer. I’ll wave you in if there’s any calls.”
John Clements had been sitting in his car parked across the street from the Assist Haiti headquarters since shortly after eight o’clock that morning. He wished it could have been earlier, but he hadn’t dared leave the station until Pollack called. He didn’t want him phoning his house and his wife answering; she had developed mild angina the previous year. Pollack seemed indifferent to news of the watch which Bosanquet had ordered on his brother’s house, though Clements thought he sensed an increase in interest when he mentioned that Angie Bosanquet, though separated, was still married to Val Bosanquet.