Lost River (21 page)

"We have to," Valentin said, and explained about the body that was found there.

It was still early enough that few of the crib girls were working, and the ones that were hadn't started drinking or smoking or whiffing, so they didn't have the energy for more than a feeble "Hey, sweetheart ... Come on over here..."

Valentin and Each strolled along, stopping now and then to question one of the girls, dropping a Liberty quarter or two to help loosen a tongue. Except for their filthy flesh, information was all they had to barter, and the Creole detective had always found the Robertson Street banquette a good place to learn things he didn't know.

Not this time, though. It was true there had been a body, but no one knew the dead man and there had been no witnesses to his killing. There were some whiskey-laden whispers about more information for sale, but Valentin divined that the harlots were only angling for more coins. Before they left, he thought to put out the word that he was to be alerted if any gangs of white boys from the good side of town came around.

St. Cyr was on the prowl, and Captain J. Picot sent orders down the line for the officers in that precinct to report in. By early afternoon he knew that the Creole detective had spent a half hour at Mangetta's, sharing an early drink with the proprietor. He had been spotted some time later crossing over in the French Quarter with the kid who called himself Each.

Picot guessed that St. Cyr had visited Honore Jacob's place of business. Then came word that the pair had reappeared in Storyville, first stopping at the house on Liberty, then heading for the filthy bottom on Robertson Street, where they walked up and down the banquette, questioning the girls about the man found dead in one of the cribs.

The captain could see what St. Cyr was up to and accorded him a moment of grudging respect. The Creole hadn't forgotten his lessons and was building his investigation one careful piece at a time, leaving no stone unturned. If only Picot had a man as good. The only one who showed any promise was McKinney, and he was far too loose a cannon to be trusted. The day would come when that young officer would find himself without a badge. Picot would see to it personally.

He pushed that notion aside and fixed his attentions on the killings. The likelihood that Jacob had roused someone's wrath had not escaped him. If not, why dead bodies at four of his properties in the space of a week? Picot had never paid much attention to the landlord, other than to send a sergeant around when Jacob "forgot" to pass along his operating fee, the graft due the police precinct. The officer collecting would always relay how much Jacob complained, as if for some reason he should not have been required to offer a contribution to the men who protected him and his properties.

Gazing out the window, Picot grew inflamed, a more or less constant condition when St. Cyr was about. None of his detectives had any suspects or motives in the killings, not even McKinney, and he knew the Creole could break the case wide open in no time. Storyville had been St. Cyr's territory, and he knew it down to the last cobblestone. It would be another black eye for the police department if he ran this murdering bastard to the ground. Picot wondered again if St. Cyr had been put on earth to make him look bad.

He let out a sigh of frustration, a man who knew he couldn't match an adversary but still had to climb in the ring.

He turned away from the window and went to the office doorway. Detective Weeks sat at his desk, plunking laboriously on a shiny black Remington typing machine. Picot looked around the room.

"Where's McKinney?"

Weeks hit a key and stopped. "At the morgue, I believe."

"What's at the morgue?"

"A body that turned up in that crib on Robertson Street."

"Who sent him down there?"

Weeks looked at the captain. "Didn't you?" he said.

The morgue attendants exchanged an eye-rolling glance when McKinney stepped through the door. The cop had become a regular visitor, and every time he showed up, they found themselves working harder than they were used to, rolling gurneys in and out of the cold locker like valets attending to some Garden District matron who couldn't decide which dress to buy for the ball. McKinney wanted to see every male victim of violence brought in during the last twenty-four hours. Each one had to be checked top to toe, front and back, for any telltale cuts.

If they thought McKinney's visit was an annoyance, it got even worse when the door opened and a man of just under medium height with olive-tinged skin and cool gray eyes walked in, trailed by a short, skinny fellow with a faint trace of a mustache above his lips.

James McKinney looked up from the body with only minor surprise. "Mr. St. Cyr."

"Detective," Valentin said.

The attendants came to attention. They knew the name and the reputation.

Valentin ignored them and nodded toward the cadaver. "Who do we have here?"

McKinney said, "Body that was discovered in a crib on Robertson Street."

Valentin stepped up to the gurney and gave the victim a once-over, his eyes drawn immediately to the line on his face.

"Just like the other ones," McKinney murmured.

"Except that it's straight across."

"Does that mean anything?"

Valentin said, "I don't know." Though he had never been one for sharing information with the police, he felt he could trust this particular cop. With a glance over his shoulder, he said, "The crib where he was found was owned by Honore Jacob."

The officer raised an eyebrow. "He owns the properties where Defoor, Bolls, and Deveaux were killed, too."

"Seems someone has it in for that man," Valentin said.

McKinney kept his eyes on the corpse. "You got any idea who this fellow might be?"

"Not yet," Valentin said. "But I will soon enough." He knew McKinney was dying to ask how exactly he'd manage that but couldn't get up the nerve. For Valentin's part, he wasn't sure where the new detective's loyalties were lying at the moment and kept his own counsel.

As if he had read these thoughts, McKinney said, "You know Captain Picot would have me skinned if he knew I was talking to you."

"Well, no one's going to say anything about either one of us being here." He made sure it was loud enough for the two men in the corner to hear him.

They spent a few minutes more examining the body. Each hung back. He had seen enough dead people in the last few days. There was nothing new anyway, and no way of telling if he had been killed in the crib or placed there after the crime, and it didn't matter.

McKinney asked if he had visited the scene.

"I went by," Valentin said. "There was nothing. Just another crib."

He stepped away from the gurney to join Each near the door. Detective McKinney pulled the linen sheet over the victim's face and signaled the attendants that he was finished. The younger of the two stepped up and pushed the gurney into the cold locker.

Valentin addressed the other fellow. "No one's come to claim the body?"

"Not when I was here."

The Creole detective turned to McKinney. "And no missing persons reports?"

"None that fit him," McKinney said.

"Well, there was that one fellow."

The three men looked over at the junior attendant, who was standing in the locker doorway with one hand on the gurney.

"What's that?" Valentin said.

"Some fellow come by yesterday morning. He opened the door, but he didn't come in. He said, 'You got a body out of a crib in here?' And I said, 'We brought this one off Robertson Street.'"

The attendant glanced at his partner and received a hard look.

"Describe him," Valentin said.

"I really don't remember," the attendant said vaguely.

Valentin paused, then unwound from his slouch against the wall and walked over to the senior attendant. He went into his vest pocket for a Liberty dollar and handed it over.

"There's something there for both of you." He faced the other man. "Describe him."

The attendant waited for his partner to nod to say, "He was about my height. White man, but not pale. Red-faced, like he been out in the sun some. Dark hair. A mustache like this." He drew a curve over his lip from one jawline to the other. "Don't recall anything else."

"How was he dressed?"

"Regular clothes. Shirt and trousers. Oh, yeah, he wore spectacles."

Valentin waited to see if there was more. The attendant shrugged. "Thank you for the information," he said. He produced another half-dollar and flipped it through the air. "You don't tell anyone we were here. Understood?"

"No, sir, no one," the older attendant answered with a greasy grin that said he would probably do exactly the opposite.

The three men filed out the door, along the damp stone hallway, and up four steps into the cobbled alley. There, in the autumn sunlight, Valentin had a strange sense of stepping back into a role that he had played often before. It was comforting and troubling, all at the same time. Whether or not it was connected, he was feeling ravenous and thought about the restaurants in that neighborhood.

He wanted to ask McKinney to join them, but knew the policeman would have to decline. Still, he had an ally, all the better because the officer worked directly under Picot. He made a point of shaking McKinney's hand and saying, "Thank you," in a voice anyone within a hundred feet would have heard. Leaning closer, he said, "I'm going to have a man on every property that Honore Jacob owns. Starting tonight."

He released his grip. McKinney saluted with a finger to the brim of his hat, turned, and strolled out of the alley and onto Tulane Avenue.

Valentin looked at Each and said, "Where can we get a good dinner around here?"

The kid winked wisely and crooked a finger for the Creole detective to follow him.

They found a table at a diner on Common Street and ordered from the simple bill of fare.

Each said, "Guess that was a waste of time, then."

Valentin said, "Not really. Sometimes it's what you don't find out."

The kid's mustache twitched. "What's that mean?"

"I can say for sure that the victims don't matter. It has nothing to do with them, except bad luck to be in the killer's path. It has something to do with Jacob. But he says no one's got any kind of grudge against him."

"You believe that?"

Valentin said, "Not really. A landlord? I'm sure more than a few people ain't going to care for him."

"But you got no idea who it could be."

"I don't. Only that he doesn't care what he does. And that he's had good luck. But it doesn't matter. It's already gone too far. I have to stop him."

"How you going to do that?"

Valentin thought for a moment. "I'll have to set a trap."

Over plates of shrimp, boudin, chicken, and rice, the detective explained what he wanted to do and the part Each would play.

The kid puffed with self-importance, and Valentin once again entertained a moment of worry that he could be putting him in the path of a dangerous man. He had done it once before, and it was only by chance that things hadn't gone worse. In fact, Each—Beansoup, then—had come out of that bloody drama a hero. It had been, what? Six years ago? Seven? Valentin shook his head over the time that had slipped by.

Meanwhile, Each was thinking out loud as he ran down names of street Arabs he could call on for help. "Little Hand ... Boozoo ... Tony the Wop ... Black Jimmy..."

"Now, listen to me," Valentin said, taking a short pencil from his inside pocket, along with the list of Jacob's properties. Flipping the paper, he drew a quick map of Storyville, a grid of five vertical and six horizontal lines that defined a twenty-block square.

He placed a dot near Liberty Street between Conti and St. Louis, a second on Robertson, a third on Basin Street, and a last one on St. Louis past Villere. "These mark where the bodies were found." He studied it for a few seconds more, then drew X's at different locations. "So I want someone at these corners. They all need to stay in sight of each other, so that they can pass signals."

Each studied the drawing, his brow furrowing and thin mustache twitching some more.

"I'll have a man at Jacob's properties, just in case," Valentin said.