An Evil Shadow - A Val Bosanquet Mystery

  Irritation flashed across Moncoeur’s face. “Naturally, they have a plant on Haiti that employs several thousand islanders. What exactly is it you want from me? A list of everyone I am acquainted with?”

  “Just one more name. Have you ever met with Stuart MacLean, the CEO of Arena Victory?”

  “Frequently. I admire his business acumen and intend to invest substantially in Arena Victory.”

  Val pulled a puzzled face. “I was told that you already were one of the main stockholders.”

  “You are misinformed. My business interests are many and varied, but, as yet, I own no stock in Arena Victory.”

  “So MacLean has never discussed with you the extortion threats made against his company?”

  Moncoeur’s eyebrows shot up a little too far. Val had struck a nerve.

  “Certainly not. If such threats have been made, which I very much doubt, I’m sure the only people he would have discussed them with are the relevant law enforcement agencies. It would be in his interest to have the matter satisfactorily resolved as soon as possible. If it isn’t, and the flotation was to proceed, he would be leaving himself open to prosecution by the Securities Exchange Commission.”

  “But if the threat became public before the extortionist was caught, the percentage take up of the stock would be greatly reduced.”

  “It’s difficult to say. It would depend on the analysts’ appraisal of the stock. If they considered the flotation price equitable, then there might still be a full take-up. Extortion threats are not exactly uncommon in the business world. Have you further questions for me? I’m a guest in the US, and as such keen to assist the police in any way I can, but I really don’t see what help I can be to your investigations.”

  Val could think of a dozen questions at least. But without some hard evidence, there would be little point in putting them to Moncoeur. The man was an accomplished liar.

  “That about covers it,” Val said. “For now.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Lakefront campus was only a mile from Moncoeur’s house, so Val headed there next. The first full day of orientation week was in full swing and the campus had sprung to life. Groups of students were everywhere, familiarizing themselves with the geography of the campus, making new friends, checking out the sports facilities. For the first time in his life, Val regretted never trying for a college education. Marcus had been destined for an academic life from early on, but Val’s interest had been leaning more to the military until the night his father had launched his first attack on their mother.

  As usual, an innocuous incident had triggered his father’s fury. The family was finishing supper when Marcus reached across the table for a slice of bread and caught a glass of milk with his sleeve. Their mother mopped up the spill and poured another glass for Marcus. Without saying a word, their father closed his hand into a fist and punched her. She put a hand to her face and looked at him with uncomprehending eyes. He struck her repeatedly. She threw a tin of cookies at him. He kept on hitting her even as Val was phoning the police.

  By the time the patrol car arrived, their father had cooled down. Their mother was resting on her bed, with their father holding her hand and begging forgiveness. Marcus answered the door and he told the officers it was a false alarm — but they refused to leave without speaking to his mother. One glimpse of her bruised and bloodied face was enough. They threw the culprit against a wall and handcuffed him. The police had released him the next morning when their mother refused to press charges, but Val never forgot the look of fear in his father’s eyes as the cops had handcuffed him. Val knew from that instant that he was going to be a policeman. He would protect his mother and all the other mothers.

  There had been a phone call from Larson’s investigator friend at the Securities Exchange Commission. No message left. Val phoned him back, but he wasn’t available. A nasal-sounding secretary advised to call again sometime later in the afternoon. Val made a note of the number on the back of the dog-eared envelope that went everywhere with him since he’d been given the cell phone.

  Val’s next call was to the press office of Arena Victory. A cheery-voiced girl answered it. He posed as a journalist and requested details of Stuart MacLean’s itinerary for the rest of the day. The girl recited a list of engagements lined up for her boss. She offered to fax a copy through, but Val told her it wasn’t necessary.

  The last time Val had visited the Superdome was three years before and he hadn’t been there as a spectator. His company had won the contract to supply some of the stage illuminations for a Rolling Stones’ gig.

  He had heard all the technical facts about New Orleans’ largest landmark, and they never failed to impress him. Seating capacity for 76,000; 9,000 tons of climate-control equipment; that it was twenty-seven stories high. Home to the New Orleans Saints, it also hosted the Saturday games of Tulane University’s football team. Arena Victory supplied its sports footwear.

  Stuart MacLean was due to announce a new sponsorship deal with Tulane. The ceremony was to start at the Superdome at three o’clock. Two of the Saints’s biggest stars, who had attended and played for Tulane, were also to be present. Predictably, TV vans and press vehicles gathered in a throng in their reserved parking slots.

  Val flashed his shield at security and made for the raised platform in center field. The event designers had decorated the backdrop with Arena Victory’s logo and blow-up photographs of some of their products. It was immediately apparent from the blank faces of the Tulane football players and the seriously disgruntled press that MacLean was running late.

  Val took a seat at the halfway-line and prepared for a long wait. A high-school marching band sat in the club seats higher up, their instruments in the row behind them, the teenagers killing time joshing one another.

  Voices of guides echoed across the playing surface as they showed parties of tourists around the Superdome. The two giant Diamond Vision screens played a re­run of a Saints game. Predictably, it was a game where the Saints had come out on top.

  An hour crept by. More press arrived. The mood of the male journalists brightened considerably when a cheerleader team trooped out.

  The first signal of MacLean’s imminent arrival was when Jarvis Kraftson appeared in the stadium. Dressed in a pale blue suit, white shirt and yellow tie, he looked every inch the sharp executive going places. The bruise above his lip had almost faded. He walked straight over to the platform and chatted with the press, making apologies and smoothing things out. After that, he had a word with the student football players, and then headed to the sideline to wave down the band members. His gaze swept past Val to the musicians, then back to Val again. The confident manner evaporated.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m here to speak to your boss.”

  “That’s impossible. He’s on too tight a schedule.”

  Val shrugged. “Didn’t they warn you about being negative at MBA school? Nothing’s ever impossible. Set it up. Or would you rather I talked to the press? Let them know what I’ve found out about Arena Victory.”

  Kraftson held up a placatory hand. “I’ll see what I can do. Though it will have to be after the reception.”

  Val stood up.

  “I’ll be waiting for him in the mayor’s suite.”

  Val hung around the edge of the playing field until MacLean finally appeared. The crowd in front of the platform had swelled considerably by then. They weren’t disappointed; MacLean’s entrance was presidential, sitting in the back of a ’59 open-top Cadillac. The address system played the ‘Rampart Street Rag’ and MacLean waved and shook hands as the car moved slowly across the Astroturf. He was wearing a Tulane football jacket and an Arena Victory baseball cap.

  The car stopped in front of the platform and MacLean climbed up the steps, smiling and waving all the time. The marching band started into its musical routine and the six leggy cheerleaders strutted their stuff. MacLean grabbed a football and he adopted a throwing pose for the press photogra
phers.

  Val had seen enough. He headed for the mayor’s suite on the 300 Level.

  A paper cup of soda was the only thing MacLean brought with him when he showed up three-quarters of an hour later. Val wondered what explanation MacLean had given his people for deserting them. Roughly the same height as Val, MacLean had mid-length red hair and pale skin. He joined Val at the viewing window and stared down at the bright green carpet below. The crowd, the band and the players had dispersed and already workmen were dismantling the platform.

  MacLean shifted his gaze to Val. “I don’t much like the way you do things. Making threats and physically abusing a member of my senior management.”

  “It doesn’t keep me from sleeping nights.”

  MacLean took a drink from his paper cup. “Say your piece. I’m a busy man.”

  “Is Donny Jackson putting the bite on you and your partners?”

  “No. Why should you think that?”

  “Maybe he knows more than he should.”

  Two splashes of color appeared high on MacLean’s cheeks. “About what?”

  ‘The murder of Valerie Duval”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Jackson killed her, but you were party to it.”

  MacLean threw the contents of the paper cup into Val’s face.

  “You’re a small man, Bosanquet. And small men get walked on.” He stormed out of the box.

  By the time he made it back to his car, Val had worked himself into a foul mood. His shirt and jacket were damp and sticky. He had lost most of the afternoon waiting for thirty seconds with MacLean and a face full of Seven Up.

  Sorting through his pockets for a handkerchief, he came on the battered envelope with his phone numbers. That reminded him there was still a call he had to make. He found the number of the Securities Exchange Commission and tapped it into his cell phone.

  He made a request to speak with Mike Rankin. “It’s Val Bosanquet here,” he added.

  It took a few moments to be connected.

  “Val, it’s good of you to call me back. Sorry I wasn’t available the first time. How are things in the Big Sleazy?”

  “Much the same. Torrid and sordid.”

  “You want to see sordid, take a trip to Washington. Paul says you’re with the UNOPD.”

  “For now. Have you anything for me on Arena Victory?”

  “Are you kidding? That could take weeks, maybe months. I’ve just spent the whole summer proving end-proprietorship of a fraudulent shipping company. It was like unwrapping an onion. I had to peel my way through two hundred companies in fifteen countries, and each one brought tears to my eyes. No, Crescent City Holdings is the reason I called. I recognized the name straight off.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s an ethical investment company. Its sole stockholder is the archdiocese of New Orleans. Part of its portfolio is in property. They buy up old buildings and restore them. I’m involved with a Washington historical building preservation group and we’ve consulted with Crescent City Holdings. I can’t give you much more than that. Is it relevant?”

  “It could be. Do you have an address for the company?”

  Val heard paper rustling in the background.

  “Right here. I dug out some old correspondence when Paul Larson called me. The registered company address is Walmsley Avenue, the archdiocese office. The administrative address is 116 Ursulines Street.”

  Val scribbled it down on the back of the envelope.

  “Thanks.”

  With most offices having closed for the day, Val was able to find a parking spot on Ursulines right in front of the building where Crescent City Holdings had its administrative center. Val rang the security bell and was buzzed through the main door. A uniformed security man at the reception desk asked him his business.

  “I need to speak to somebody at Crescent City Holdings?”

  “They’ve all gone. Come back in the morning.”

  “You sure?’ Val took his shield out end showed it to the man. “It’s police business.”

  “Give me a moment. I think Monsignor Charbonnet may still be upstairs, though he might not answer the phone. He doesn’t like being disturbed. Gets through a lot of work when the office is quiet.”

  The man picked up a phone and pressed a button. More than a minute went by before Charbonnet answered. After a brief exchange, the security guard told Val to go up.

  “Second floor. Third office on the left.”

  Monsignor Charbonnet was in his mid-forties, silver-haired, and had skin burnt the color of mahogany by the sun. He brought Val into his office and offered him a seat. Charbonnet closed the cover of a file lying on his desk.

  Val showed him his shield and got straight to the point. “Have you heard of a Father Malcolm Kellerman?”

  “Sure, I know him well. Has this something to do with what happened to his sister and her husband?”

  Val nodded. “What sort of priest is Kellerman?”

  Charbonnet gave him a questioning glance. “Very dedicated. A quiet, unassuming man. Not at all the type you’d expect considering his background.”

  “What about his background?”

  “Kellerman came to the priesthood late in life. He was in his late thirties when he was ordained. Before that, he was an investment analyst with Salomon Brothers on Wall Street. He gave up a high six-figure income to take holy orders, though he still advises the archdiocese on its investments. That’s how come I know him well. He and the Archbishop meet on a regular basis. The Archbishop’s very committed to ethical investments and that was Kellerman’s specialty. It can be a bit of gray area, tricky to navigate a path through. You think you’ve bought in stock that’s green, and then you discover that the parent company manufactures land mines. Father Kellerman’s approach is that it’s best to invest in small companies, not listed, but with fresh ideas and plenty of potential. Buy in, make an acceptable profit, and sell out before too much of a good thing attracts predatory bids from the conglomerates.”

  “Sounds like a difficult way to make money.”

  Monsignor Charbonnet sighed “It is. Ethical investment comes with a high price-tag. I often wonder if it’s worth it. Maybe we would better advised to chase the big bucks. Think of all the extra good we could do if only we had more cash. That’s the dilemma facing the church. Without Father Kellerman, the archdiocese would be losing a packet on its ethical portfolio. He has a truly remarkable knack for spotting small companies with promise.”

  “Does Kellerman have a church?’

  “Yes. A very beautiful one as it happens. St. Dominic’s in the Irish Channel. He does a lot of good work with refugees and low-income families. Insisted on taking mass yesterday despite his personal tragedy.”

  “Crescent City Holdings owns some property in the Channel?”

  “Quite a lot. We buy up historical buildings with the intention of restoring them and leasing them out at rents people can afford. Sometimes it can take years. The demand for emergency accommodation rarely slackens, so often the restoration has to take second place to putting a roof over the heads of needful families.”

  “Do you own any property in the French Quarter?”

  “A little. Two nineteenth-century apartment houses, both of which have been restored.”

  “Exactly where in the quarter?”

  “One’s on Toulouse, the other’s on Basin Street, opposite the entrance to St Louis Cemetery Number One.”

  Val held out his hand. “Monsignor Charbonnet, you’ve been a big help. I’d appreciate if you could keep this between us for the moment.”

  Charbonnet appeared perplexed for a moment, but his eyes went back to the file on his desk. “Certainly. Anything you say.”

  It was six twenty-five when the switchboard operator buzzed through to Captain Clements’s office and announced that a Troy Pollack was on the line. Clements checked his watch and his insides turned to jelly. Why had Pollack broken his routine? Had Lausaux spotted him outside his off
ice? Though he didn’t know how. He had remained there until noon and Lausaux had failed to put in an appearance.

  “Put him through.”

  “Troy here.” Pollack’s voice sounded mean and harsh.

  “Why are you calling early? Has something happened?’

  “You tell me. What has our mutual friend Chief Bosanquet been up to?”

  Clements relaxed slightly. The timing of Pollack’s call didn’t seem to mean anything significant, probably intended to keep him off-balance. “He’s been out most of the day. He had a message to call back some guy on the Securities Exchange Commission in Washington.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know. I called his cell phone an hour ago, but it was in use.”

  “Didn’t you try again?”

  “I was intending to, but you phoned early.”

  “John, I’m very disappointed with you. You’re not keeping up your side of the deal. You’ve taken my money, but you’re not doing anything to earn it. Maybe it’s time I spoke to your wife.”

  “No! Please don’t call her. She hasn’t been well.”

  “What else can I do? We had a deal, but you’re not telling me what I want to hear.”

  “You’re asking too much of me. You can’t expect me to hound-dog Bosanquet and run the UNOPD at the same time. He would catch on immediately that something was up if I neglected my duties here.”

  There was no response for a few moments. The delay was like a hand twisting Clements’s gut.

  “Okay, I won’t disturb your wife this time. But I will in the morning if you mess me around anymore.”

  “I’ll do whatever you ask.”

  “That’s more like it. I want you to pull the guard on Marcus Bosanquet’s house.”

  Clements hesitated. “I can’t do that.”

  “John, tell me you didn’t say that. Of course you can do it. Make some excuse, but stand down those officers.”

  “Why? What are you going to do?”

  “That doesn’t concern you, though I guarantee there will be no repercussions for you. This time tomorrow you’ll be sitting behind the chief’s desk and you’ll never have to hear the name Troy Pollack again.”