Pegasus Descending: A Dave Robicheaux Novel (23 page)

Just before quitting time, I drove through the gates of the prison compound, the coils of razor wire atop the fences trembling with a silvery light. I hung my badge holder on my belt, checked my holstered .45 at the admissions counter, and asked that Monarch be brought out to an interview room.

When I began my career in law enforcement, walking a beat in the lower Magazine area with Clete Purcel, a career house creep who had pulled time twice in Arkansas, considered years ago to be the worst of the worst among American prison systems, told me he had learned character in jail. Because of my youth and inexperience, I thought his remark grandiose if not ridiculous. But like most cops, I came to respect the dues that a stand-up or “solid con” has to pay. For an individual to survive the system with his integrity and personal identity intact requires enormous amounts of physical courage, humility, wisdom about people, and the ability to eat pain without resenting oneself. The era of the redneck gunbull may have slipped into history, but the atavistic and sexual energies of people in captivity have not. Ask any fish what his first shower experience was like after he wised off to the wrong guy.

Lonnie Marceaux had said Monarch wasn’t particularly bright. He was wrong. Monarch had a wolf’s intelligence and could sniff weakness, fear, or strength in an adversary in the same way an animal does. And even though he acted the role of a smart-ass with me, in the can he showed respect to inmates and prison personnel alike. More important, he never violated a confidence and never ratted out another inmate, even if his silence cost him lockdown or isolation.

At least that had been his reputation before word reached the parish prison that Monarch was no longer an inner-city king but just another hump on a federal pad.

A turnkey walked him down a corridor to the interview room, Monarch outfitted in jailhouse orange. He was also draped in waist and leg chains.

“Why the traveling junkyard, Cap?” I said.

“District attorney’s orders,” the turnkey replied.

“I’d appreciate your unhooking him,” I said.

“Can’t do it, Streak. Holler on the gate when you’re done.”

After the turnkey was gone, Monarch sat down in a wood chair, his chains tinkling, his manacled hands locked against his torso. “This gonna take long? They serving supper in a few minutes,” he said.

“You in lockup?”

“Gen pop. Ain’t axed for lockup.”

“Some bad dudes in general pop.”

“Yeah, most of them use to work for me. Come on, Mr. Dee. You got better t’ings to do, ain’t you?”

“They’re about to put a homicide jacket on you, Monarch.”

“Like you ain’t part of it?”

“You have a violent history. Dusting a rich white boy wouldn’t be inconsistent with some of your past behavior.”

My statement was simplistic. In truth, I wanted him to contradict it.

“You talking about that drive-by on the dude who said he was gonna cook me in a pot?”

“He put up a kite on you, then got capped watering his grass.”

“He got capped ’cause he stepped on some dago’s dope so many times there wasn’t nothing left of it but baby laxative.”

“You burned down a police officer’s house.”

Monarch twisted a crick out of his neck, his chains clinking, his manacled hands rolling into balls at his sides. “There use to be a cop ’round here liked to run black girls in for soliciting, even when they wasn’t soliciting. Except they didn’t end up down at the jail. They ended up copping his stick in the back of his cruiser. So a fire broke out under his house one night. Too bad he wasn’t home.”

“Where’d you get the cut-down that was in your car?”

“You seen it?”

“Yeah, in an evidence locker.”

“Then you know more about it than I do, ’cause I ain’t never seen it and I ain’t got no idea how it got in my car. You a smart cop. The FBI was already jamming me. Why would I leave a sawed-off shotgun in my car?”

“You called Tony’s house and tried to extort money from him. Your prints were on the pay phone where the call was made. You set up a meet with Tony. Your voice has been identified.”

“I ain’t called nobody. I’m t’rew here. Tell the screw I’m ready to go eat. Y’all got a nigger in the box. Y’all ain’t gonna look for nobody else.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Where you been, man? I’m sitting here in chains. I ain’t did nothing. Whoever smoked that white boy is laughing at y’all.” He stood up from his chair. “On the gate!” he yelled, his love handles bunching over his waist chain.

I
N THE MORNING
I got lucky. Wally buzzed my phone and told me a kid by the name of J. J. Castille was in the waiting room and wanted to see me.

“Send him up,” I said.

“He’s got a package in his hand. He wouldn’t tell me what it was.”

“I know him. He’s okay.”

“He’s on his way.”

A moment later J.J. tapped on my glass and I motioned him inside. “You want to go fishing?” I asked.

“I got something here I thought you might want. I don’t know if it’s important or not. But I don’t feel good about a lot of things that have happened at the house. Anyway, here it is.” He set a rectangular object on my desk. It was wrapped in brown paper and taped down at the edges.

I told him to have a chair, then began unwrapping the paper.

“I work for room and board at the house, and I’m supposed to clean up all the junk and loose trash people leave behind at the end of each semester,” he said. “So I found a boxful of junk down in the basement, and that videocassette was in there. I started to throw it out, then I thought maybe somebody tossed it in there by mistake. So I stuck it in the VCR and watched a little bit of it. I’m probably wasting your time.”

“Let’s take a look,” I said.

We went downstairs to a small room that contained a computer, a fax and Xerox machine, and a television set that we used to view surveillance videos. I shoved J.J.’s cassette into the VCR. A collage of meaningless scenes appeared on the screen—a crowd of revelers at a sports bar, Mardi Gras floats, a kid mooning from an upstairs window, a wedding party emerging from a church, the bride in white, her face glowing with happiness.

I pushed the fast-forward button.

“Stop! Right there, back it up,” J.J. said.

I eased back to footage of a touch football game, then eased forward and froze the frame on a lawn party in progress. The St. Augustine grass was in full sun, live oaks and towering slash pines and a blue sky backdropping the dancers. From the lack of shadows, I guessed the video was shot close to noon.

“That’s her, isn’t it? Right in the middle,” J.J. said.

I pressed the play button and Yvonne Darbonne came to life on the screen. She was barefoot and dressed in a sleeveless blue tank top that exposed her bra straps, and a beige skirt that stretched tight high up on her rump as she raised herself on the balls of her feet and lifted her hands into the air. John Lee Hooker’s “Boom Boom” was playing in the background.

The lens swept across the crowd but quickly returned to Yvonne Darbonne. She looked absolutely beautiful—sensuous, innocent, filled with joy, in love with the world.

Then the music stopped, the camera swung across the tops of the trees, and for just a moment I heard a popping sound and the ringing of metal against metal, like a flag and chain blowing on an aluminum pole.

I reran the scene three times and wondered if the footage was of any value at all. She was not wearing the clothes she had died in. There was no time or date indicator attached to the footage, and to J.J.’s knowledge none of the guests he could identify was linked personally to Yvonne.

“I was right, huh, waste of time?” he said.

I stared at the image of Yvonne that I had frozen on the screen. Her eyes were closed, her pug nose lifted into the sunlight, her exposed shoulders red with fresh sunburn.

“It’s hard to tell, J.J. Can I keep this?”

“Sure, it was being thrown out.”

“Stay in touch. We’ll entertain the bass one of these days.”

But he didn’t get up from his chair. He picked at his nails, his brow furrowed. “There’s one other thing I didn’t tell you. I’m in premed, just like Tony was.”

“Yeah?”

“Tony had the tests for a bunch of my science classes, including the finals for chemistry. I think he got them from Slim. Tony offered to let me use his copy of an anatomy test. He said it wasn’t cheating. He said the test was just a study guide. But another guy told me Slim paid him to break into a file drawer in a professor’s office.”

“Were Slim and Tony selling the tests?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Okay, partner. Thanks for coming in.” But before he went out the door, I had one more question for him. “Did you use the help on the anatomy exam?”

“No, sir. I made a D on it,” he said, grinning self-effacingly.

I gave him the thumbs-up sign.

A few minutes later I called Koko Hebert at his office. “Was the Darbonne girl sunburned?” I asked.

“Why you want to know?”

“Because that’s my job.”

“No, your job is being a full-time compulsive-obsessive neurotic pain in the ass.”

“If you don’t like the way I do things, take it up with the sheriff or the D.A. I sympathize with your loss of a family member, Koko, but I’m not going to be the target of your anger anymore.”

The receiver was quiet for a long time. “Koko?” I said.

“I heard you. I’m pulling up her file. Yeah, there was a certain degree of erythema on her shoulders and the back of her neck. It probably occurred a few hours before her death.”

“But she was wearing a T-shirt at the time of her death, wasn’t she?”

“Right,” he said.

“Would the burn be more consistent with someone wearing a sleeveless tank top?”

“Probably.”

“I didn’t mean to be rough around the edges a minute ago,” I said.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“No, that’s it. I just—”

He hung up.

Chapter
13

C
LETE
P
URCEL WAS NOT
sleeping well these days. His shoulder ached where Lefty Raguza had driven a steel tool almost to the bone, and, worse, he could not think straight about Trish Klein, nor was he any longer sure about his own motivations in getting involved with her. Was he just an aging fool trying to regain his lost youth? Was she playing him? Were the sounds she made in bed manufactured?

Why would a woman with her looks, money, and education mess around with a disgraced ex-policeman who skated on the edges of alcoholism and criminality? The question implied an answer he hated to even think about. Was that exactly the kind of man she was looking for, or rather needed, to perpetrate a vendetta on Whitey Bruxal for her father’s murder?

Her retinue was made up of pretenders. The horse jockey ate hamburgers like potato chips. The prizefighter had sticks for wrists. The country songstress carried a tune like a piano falling down a stairwell. The Hollywood screenwriter admitted his only experience in the industry had consisted of running a film projector at a neighborhood theater in Skokie, Illinois. As grifters scamming casinos, they weren’t bad. But did they actually boost banks? The answer was probably yes. And that’s what disturbed Clete most.

He had known their kind back in the late 1960s. They came from traditional blue-collar and middle-income homes, and became imbued with a political or social cause that allowed them to justify criminal acts normally associated with Willie Sutton or Alvin Karpis. The irony lay in their level of success. Most criminals get nailed in the aftermath of their crimes, largely because of their lifestyles and their associations. But the sixties bunch was not composed of junkies, degenerate gamblers, whoremongers, or porn addicts, nor did they hang out with recidivists or network with professional fences and money launderers. Instead, they lived in the suburbs, felt no guilt whatsoever about their crimes, jogged five miles before breakfast, and considered themselves patriotic and decent. In custody, they didn’t attempt to defend their actions any more than they would have attempted to explain the nature of light to a blind man.

Clete sat on the side of his bed, his electric coffeepot bubbling on the counter in his small kitchen, the early sun glowing through the closed slats of his blinds. He knew Trish liked him, but that didn’t mean she loved him, nor did it mean she wouldn’t use him. He had learned in Vietnam there were three groups of people who got you killed—pencil pushers, amateurs, and idealists. Trish didn’t fit into the first category but she qualified for the other two. So far, his involvement with her had cost him a visit from the FBI, a stab wound in the shoulder, and possibly a warrant for the fire hose caper and bomb scare at the casino on Canal. How big a bounce was he willing to take in order to feel he was thirty again?

He ate four scrambled eggs and a slab of ham in his skivvies, shaved and showered, then dressed in a new suit, fitted on his porkpie hat, and went outside to greet the day.

The previous night he had pulled a vinyl cover over his Caddy to protect it from bird droppings. But someone had unhooked the elastic loops from the bumpers and folded back the cover in a neat stack on the ground, then had tiger-striped the paint job with acid. There was also a silver indentation the width and flat shape of a screwdriver tip under the gas flap, and Clete guessed the flap had been prized in order to pour sugar or sand into the tank.

He used his cell phone to call Triple A for a wrecker, then called me at the office. “I think Lefty Raguza paid me a visit last night,” he said, and described the condition of his car.

“You should have pressed assault charges against him when you had the chance, Clete,” I replied.

“You know how much business that fire hose situation probably cost the casino? I’ll be lucky if I don’t have to blow the state.”

It was pointless to argue with Clete. Besides, he was right. His history of mayhem and environmental destruction both inside and outside the New Orleans Police Department preempted any chance of his being presumed innocent in a conflict between Clete and a business enterprise that brought millions of tourist dollars into Orleans Parish. “You’ll need an investigative report for your insurance. I’ll send somebody out,” I said.