Stifling a yawn, he squirmed about in the seat trying to get comfortable. He was tired and badly needed to urinate. On the seat next to him was an old copy of The Times-Picayune that had a picture of Lausaux handing a set of car-keys to a wealthy Haitian businessman. He had watched staff arrive for work, then a steady stream of callers after the office had opened, but so far there had been no sign of Lausaux. Maybe he was wasting his time. It may simply have been an oversight of Pollack’s not to inquire about Lausaux. Clements figured that he could spend his time better by following Bosanquet; then at least he would have something to give Pollack the next time he called.
Now he had crossed the line, Clements knew there was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect his son.
The two hours when the show was on the air ticked by excruciatingly slowly for Val. His Haitian Creole was basic and after the first ten minutes he gave up trying to follow Nolan’s smooth-flowing chatter, though he registered the DJ mentioning his name every quarter hour.
He flicked through several six-month-old magazines that someone had left around the front office. Then talked to the teenager operating the switchboard for a while and made a couple of telephone calls. He risked another cup of coffee and breakfasted on a jelly doughnut that the teenager offered him.
Each time the phone rang he looked up optimistically, but none of the calls were for him.
Nolan emerged from his studio after the show and shrugged his shoulders.
“No luck,” he said. “Though sometimes it takes a while. Do you want the request broadcast again tomorrow?”
Val shook his head. “A response would have been a bonus, but it doesn’t mean that the message hasn’t reached the ears it was intended for.”
They shook hands. Val promised to let Nolan have the full story first, if there was one to be told.
He left the radio station and walked around to the parking lot at the rear of the building. It was a cool morning, the limpid air was less humid than usual for the time of year, the sky bright blue and almost cloudless.
Two men riding trail bikes drove into the parking lot, throwing a cloud of dust and grit up into the air behind them, the cacophonous motors deafening. They started to circle Val cutting him off from his car. Both men carried machetes and were trailing the tips of them on the ground. Their circling closed in on Val. He stood his ground.
They pulled up on either side of him and raised their machetes like Calvary soldiers of the old west, their faces hidden behind the visors of their helmets. The skin on their hands was ebony black.
“Bosanquet’?” The one on the right had to shout to make himself heard above the clamor of the bikes. His voice had a heavy Haitian accent.
Val swallowed hard. “You know my name. What about yours?”
The men ignored his demand. “You been asking questions about Valerie Duval?”
Tires squealed as a plain dark-blue panel van hurtled into the parking lot and braked sharply to a stop beside them. The rear doors were flung open. Inside was a third man, a motor cycle helmet obscuring his face. From his build, Val reckoned that he was considerably older than the bikers.
“Get in. You’re going for a ride,” he shouted.
The bikers switched off the motors and flipped the rests down. They shouldered the machetes as though on parade. Val jumped up into the back of the van and they leapt in after him. They slammed the doors shut and the van sped off.
The light in the rear of the van was poor. There was a Plexiglas window in the roof sprayed with a coating of white paint. They searched him and relieved him of the Beretta. Val had to grab hold of the van’s side to stop himself from falling. He braced his legs as the van took a wide right turn.
The man who had ridden with the van said, “Why are you asking questions about Valerie Duval?” His voice was hard and intimidating.
“She was murdered. I want to find out why.”
“That was ten years ago. Why the interest now?”
Val found the heat inside the van stifling. “I believe there’s a connection between her murder and recent murders committed by members of FRAPH.”
“They didn’t kill her. She was one of them.”
“So everybody keeps telling me. But there has to something more which links them.”
The man didn’t answer. All Val could see was his own reflection in the three visors.
“What do you need to know?” the older man asked eventually. The menace had gone from his voice. It appeared he had come to a decision about Val’s probity.
“The motive for Valerie Duval’s death?”
“Money. Macoute money.”
“What money? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Duval had no money.”
The biker on Val’s left raised his visor. Clean-shaven, with dark-green eyes, he appeared to be in his early twenties. Val didn’t recognize him.
“The Tonton Macoute money. The seven million dollars Duval’s husband smuggled out of Haiti.”
“News to me,’ Val said. “Duval was living in poverty when she was killed.”
The older man spoke again. “The Macoute had been looting Haiti for years. Baby Doc was finished and they knew it. They stole, accepted brides, defrauded the army, extorted, whatever, to lay their hands on every cent they could. They even relieved Baby Doc of some of the funds he had stashed. Duval’s husband organized the transfer of funds to New Orleans. Only one slight problem, he was one of the first that they killed after Baby Doc boarded a flight to France. The seven million was never accounted for.”
The van came abruptly to a stop. Val had found his absolute motive. All he needed to do now was to survive long enough to make use of it. “What do you want from me?”
The older man swung open the doors of the van and light flooded in. They were back in the radio station’s parking lot. The bikers jumped from the van, straddled their machines, and kicked them into life. Val stepped down. The man tossed Val his gun and pulled the doors shut as the van moved off.
The bikers saluted him with their machetes, wheeled around, and sped away, their rear wheels churning up clouds of dust.
Val opened his car door and sat down. He took several deep breaths and held tightly on to the steering wheel. Once his knees felt solid again he turned the key in the ignition and pointed the car towards the airport.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lausaux was supervising the loading of a cargo aircraft at the New Orleans Moisant airport. A consignment of tinned formula milk and disposable diapers destined for Cite Soleil. It was a regular shipment, flown to the island once a month. Assist Haiti’s storage facility was on the perimeter of the cargo compound, the far side of the airport from the passenger terminals. He was wearing a hard hat and was checking off a list on a clipboard. The frown that flashed onto Lausaux’s face when he saw Val walking towards him was quickly replaced with a welcoming smile.
“Chief Bosanquet. You’ve come to see for yourself what happens to the money we raise?”
Val took a step sideways as a forklift truck bearing a loaded pallet reversed past him. It pushed its way through the transparent heavy plastic fronds hanging in front of the warehouse’s main exit.
“Your office told me I could find you here.”
Lausaux raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I came straight to the airport this morning. What can be so important to bring you all the way out here?”
“Is there some place quiet we could talk?”
“I’m very busy right now.”
“It’s important.”
Lausaux stuck his ballpoint into his breast pocket. “The manager’s office. Follow me.”
Val followed Lausaux up a flight of steel stairs to a small elevated office constructed in the upper corner of the warehouse. Windows on two walls gave a bird’s eye view of the activity below. Lausaux closed the door behind them. They had the place to themselves.
“This is our main collection and forwarding depot” he explained. “I like to drop in every now and again unannounced to ens
ure that pilfering is kept to a minimum. Now what can I do for you?”
“I want to discuss Marie Duval’s tuition funding.”
Lausaux’s eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t aware she had reversed her decision. Again.”
“She hasn’t as yet, though I’m hoping to persuade her to do so. If I could reassure her that her sponsorship is still available, it would be a step in the right direction.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. I have already reassigned the funds originally set aside. When Miss Duval spoke to me on Friday, she sounded resolute.”
“Surely you could put your hands on alternate funds? What about using some of the cash raised at the auction?”
“No. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. It wasn’t just a question of finance when I made the decision to back Miss Duval. I had to call in a great many favors. Do you honestly believe any university would have offered her a place without significant input from people in high office?”
“I appreciate what you’re saying, but ---”
Lausaux’s voice turned icy. “She has caused considerable distress to some of the most influential people in Louisiana.”
“They would be vindicated if she were to take up her place. You would be vindicated.”
“It’s too late. She has damaged my credibility with these people. Nobody does that.”
Val was silent for a few moments, then asked, ‘There’s one thing I don’t quite get. If you had to call in so many favors, why did you agree to back Duval in the first place? What was in it for you?”
Lausaux’s mouth tightened. He opened the door of the small office. “I have a lot of work to be getting on with. Good day, Chief Bosanquet.”
“Did you know Duval’s father was smuggling large amounts of money out of Haiti before he was killed?”
“No. How could I? My involvement with Haiti started only when Assist Haiti came into existence in eighty-nine. Good day, Chief Bosanquet.”
Val clattered down the metal steps and walked towards the warehouse’s exit. The obduracy of Lausaux’s refusal to reconsider Duval’s funding had taken him by surprise. Didn’t Lausaux realize he was cutting off his nose to spite his face? The guy had serious trouble coping with reality.
He recalled what Richard Bickford had told him about Lausaux. The man doesn’t do anything without a damn good reason. So what precisely had provoked Lausaux’s change of mind?
As Val drove back into the city on the airline highway, a convoy of coaches transporting conventioneers from the airport to the city hotels overtook his car. A dozen traffic cops, blue strobes flashing on their Harleys, escorted the speeding convoy. The mayor’s latest initiative to help sell his city.
Val unfolded his cell phone and called the sheriff’s office in St Francis parish. He was in luck: the sheriff was at his desk.
“I hear the FBI lost their no claim discount.”
The sheriff laughed. “Ain’t that the truth? The only thing the FBI can hold on to is their dicks. Take some advice from an old coonass and keep your head down. Our Mister Gilett ain’t the forgiving type.”
“I’ve started carrying a gun. It holds sixteen rounds.”
“You may need them all. What can I do for you?”
“Have you done any checking into the Jacksons’s finances?”
“Now why would I want to do that? I already know who killed them and why.”
“Because you’re a wily old coonass.”
He laughed again. “Maybe I am at that.”
“So you would know if the Jacksons withdrew a sizeable amount from their savings account about a month ago?”
“Depends what you call sizeable?”
Val had no idea of the current cost of college tuition fees, though he’d imagine that an art student’s fees would come in less expensive than a science or engineering student’s. “Thirty-five thousand dollars,” he guessed.
“Bit more than that. The Jacksons withdrew fifty thousand in cash five weeks ago. It cleaned out most of the lump sum Roy had received from the power company when he retired. Any idea where it went?”
Yeah, Val said to himself. To help make up for something done ten years ago. “I’ll get back to you when I know for sure.”
Jean Moncoeur was the next name on his list. Val crossed Bayou St John on the Robert E. Lee Boulevard and headed north along Paris Avenue onto the concrete paving of Lake Shore Drive. He pulled up at the gates of the Moncoeur mansion and pressed the button on the security panel. Staring straight into the lens of the camera, he announced his name and the purpose of his visit — an interview with Jean Moncoeur. After a few moments, a voice instructed him to drive up to the house. The gates started to silently roll open.
A truck was parked at the side of the driveway about halfway along. It belonged to a firm of contract caterers who handled most of the big-money party arrangements for the Lake Pontchartrain houses. A squad of men in bamboo pith helmets was erecting an all-white tent. Two Afghan hounds loped over the grass, getting in the way and tangling the ropes. Moncoeur must have a celebration planned, Val thought, though not the high profile spree that MacLean was hosting.
A bulky bodyguard met Val at the main entrance to the house: one of the two gorillas who had accompanied Moncoeur to the charity auction. A man in tracksuit bottoms and a running vest was polishing the Bentley which Moncoeur had bought that night.
“Mister Moncoeur is having coffee on the terrace. He would like you to join him. Follow me and I’ll take you there.”
Val fell into step behind the bodyguard. The house’s exterior belied its furnishings. Moncoeur had stuffed it with antique furniture from the Napoleonic era, hand-woven Persian rugs, and a collection of eighteenth and early nineteenth-century portraits in heavy, ornate gilt frames. He recognized one of Dessalines, the first black governor of Haiti. Quite a rarity, Val thought. Dessalines had been assassinated two years after taking power. A mob had dragged his mutilated body through the streets and left it to rot, until a lunatic woman gathered up the pieces and buried them.
Moncoeur was dressed in immaculate tropical whites. He was thin but appeared healthy enough. He was cradling an all-white fighting cock.
“Chief Bosanquet, please join me for coffee.”
Val sat down opposite him while the bodyguard sorted out a cup and saucer and poured the coffee. He placed it on the glass-topped table in front of Val.
“Help yourself to cream and sugar,” Moncoeur said. “Unfortunately my doctor denies me their simple gratification.”
After the radio station’s, Val was looking forward to some drinkable coffee. He wasn’t disappointed.
“Would you care for some cognac with it?”
“No, this is fine. It’s very good.”
“Thank you. The beans are from my estates in Haiti. I don’t grow them commercially, purely for my own use.” Moncoeur stroked the neck feathers of the cock. “What do you think of Makandal? Isn’t he a splendid fellow?”
Val didn’t agree. The cropped comb, plucked lower neck — to deprive its opponent of a hold — and sharpened spurs made it grotesque. “I’m not fond of birds.”
“What a shame. The gamecock is one of the noblest of creatures. Makandal is a purebred Rajah. I permit no one else to handle him. He is natural killer. Let me demonstrate.”
The bodyguard unfastened a bamboo cage that was sitting on the flagstones at the edge of the terrace. An ebony-black gamecock strutted out, its unplucked neck feathers already sitting up in a ruff. Moncoeur placed Makandal on the ground.
“The black cock is a Cuban. They’re strong, but no match for a Rajah. Breeding will always triumph in the end.”
Especially when their opponent’s spurs are blunt, Val thought.
The birds circled warily for a minute, glaring at each other and making hissing sounds. the Cuban, perhaps realizing he was the underdog, made the first move and darted towards Makandal. They came together in a clash of feathers and pecking. Neither bird gained an advantage and they separated for an
other bout of circling. This time Makandal made the first maneuver, and after a couple of feigning movements, flew at the Cuban. They made contact like cartoon cats, rising into the air from the impact, their beaks and claws clicking as they fought.
It was over in no time. The all-black Cuban landed on his back and Makandal dispatched it with the efficiency of a slaughterhouse butcher. He ripped at his opponent’s throat with his sharpened spurs and opened deep gashes. Blood sprayed into the air, some of it staining the legs of Moncoeur’s white trousers.
Makandal had opened a wound in the Cubans chest. It beat its wings a few times then expired. Makandal raised his beak in the air and gave a victory crow.
“More coffee?’ Moncoeur asked.
“Not right now.”
“I take it this is not a social call. What can I do for you?”
“What connections do you have with FRAPH?” Val asked bluntly.
Moncoeur didn’t react. His turquoise eyes never shifted from Val’s face. “As little as I can possibly manage. In Haiti it is necessary to profess some support for them, but I have no great love for fascists. My father was killed in a Duvalier-inspired purge of mulattoes. Papa Doc manipulated the Haitian people in much the same way as Hitler did the German people. He declared the mulattoes the cancer within and made inflammatory speeches about preserving the purity of the Negro. Blamed the mulattoes for all Haiti’s economic woes. But history does repeat itself. As the Thousand-Year Reich is gone, so are the Duvaliers. FRAPH is an echo of Duvalierism and something I have no wish to encourage.”
“So you won’t have heard of Pierre Malen or Marcel Gilett?”
“Of course I’ve heard of them. Most of New Orleans has heard of them after what happened in St Francis.”
“What about Bill Trochan?”
Moncoeur raised his cup to his mouth and took sip of coffee. He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin before he answered.
“I don’t recognize the name.”
“He was an ex NOPD officer. He was murdered while searching for Donny Jackson.”
“Again, the name is not familiar to me.”
“Jackson was a son of the St Francis victims. He worked for Arena Victory. You have heard of them?”