The Righteous Cut (22 page)

“Are you insane? Did you get a rap on the skull that knocked your brains out?”

“No,” Farrell said, sliding the Luger back into his waistband. “But maybe something knocked some in. You got the murder weapon there, and you've got witnesses that think Cal Russell killed Amsterdam and Callahan. Everybody who could contradict that is dead except for Gabrielle, and she's not going to talk, particularly if you tell her that her freedom depends on keeping her mouth shut. Besides,” he said, with a sardonic edge growing in his voice, “if you let Miss Mahoney go, think of the paperwork you'll save. As of now the case is wrapped up, and you'll get to your wedding on time.”

Linda Sue Mahoney had stopped crying. She looked up at Farrell, her mouth hanging open.

Casey looked at Farrell, at Linda Sue, then at Farrell again, his mouth wrinkling with impatience. “Damn you,” he growled at his son. “Miss Baker, I don't know why I'm doing this, but I'm going to walk out of here. I want you out of this city within twenty-four hours, you understand?”

Linda Sue Mahoney nodded dumbly as she allowed Farrell to pull her to her feet.

“Let's go get some breakfast, Frank.” He touched two fingers to the brim of his hat and smiled at the young woman. “Merry Christmas, baby, and a Happy New Year.” He took his father by the arm and pulled him out of the apartment. By the time they were back in Casey's police cruiser, Linda Sue Mahoney was packing her bags.

***

At five-thirty that evening, the newly married couple sat in the bride's apartment with Farrell listening to a network radio broadcast from New York City. Marcel was late, but Savanna had already called to say she was on the way. She had given Farrell a dubious look when he'd delivered the invitation, but as Farrell expected, Savanna's adventurous nature elicited an acceptance.

“I still don't get how you figured out that Cal Russell wasn't the one who murdered all those men,” Brigid said as she handed Casey a fresh drink.

“Well, I'd seen the photo in Arboneau's living room,” Casey replied, “and that had my mind working, but it was seeing Gabrielle with Russell's corpse that told me we didn't have the right man.”

“All right, Sherlock, tell us the secret,” she said.

“The witness who'd seen Gabrielle and the killer leaving the Bella Creole said that they were walking apart, stiffly, not touching. Gabrielle had just been through a pretty terrible thing, and Cal was like a brother to her. She'd likely have clung to him for comfort of some kind. When she saw him dead at the dock, she went to him, put his bloody head in her lap. When we got her back to the station and settled her down, she was ready to talk.”

“So Gabrielle was the mysterious call girl at the Bella Creole Hotel.”

Casey smiled. “Very good, my dear. But she didn't go willingly. Meredith forced her to borrow some of Russell's clothing and then took her down to the hotel where Jack Amsterdam liked to meet his ladies of the evening. Meredith kept the disguise to use on Callahan the next afternoon.”

“I'm still not clear why she started off with those two men. Why not just kill Richards?” Brigid asked.

Casey shook his head. “People's minds get twisted up after so many years of hating. She'd spent a long time trolling for back-alley gossip, and had learned it was Callahan who had lured Tel Arboneau to Vesey's bar with an offer to betray Richards. He got Tel drunk, then he and Amsterdam killed him before leaving his car where the train could broadside it.” Casey paused to take a sip of scotch. “I think, too, she wanted to take everything that Richards had before she killed him. She got Langdon to leave the office, ostensibly to get a prescription for nausea from the drug store. She had already told him she was pregnant with Richards' child, and had asked him for his help. It was a simple matter to take him prisoner and force him to lure Richards to his death.”

“Did I understand that Arboneau helped her kill Richards?” she asked.

Farrell yawned and stretched. “That part of the story is a little confusing to us, even now. It sounds like Joey Parmalee had a falling out with Carson, then went to Arboneau and told him Carson was pulling a double cross with Richards. It was just enough to make him do what Meredith had been after him to do all along.”

Brigid laughed. “This Meredith must be quite a girl.”

“She's a knockout,” Farrell agreed. “And she spread it around. It wasn't just money or revenge that lured Carson back from Seattle. She had remained with Arboneau for years, keeping Tel alive in his mind, never letting him forget what Richards had done to them. The old man talked quite a bit before he died. I think he was a little in love with her, too.”

“A real black widow,” Brigid said. “Everybody who loved her got it in the neck.”

“All except Carson and Johnny Parmalee,” Casey agreed. “We've got the FBI and the United States Marshal's men looking for them, but Carson's good. We might never get either of them.”

“Have you had a chance to see Georgia?” Casey asked as Brigid excused herself for a moment.

“She was so weak that they wouldn't let me stay very long,” he replied. “But she was alert enough to know everything was all right.” He paused to take a sip of his drink. “She took Whit's death harder than I thought. Maybe he meant something to her after all.”

“Women are funny creatures, Wes,” Brigid said as she returned from the kitchen. “We have an infinite capacity to love a man and hate his guts at the same time.”

Casey patted her hand. “Contrary is what you are, but you're still adorable.”

The doorbell rang and Farrell went to open it. Savanna, dressed in an elegant purple suit and wide-brimmed lavender hat, stood in the doorway, her expression a little stiff, but with a strangely eager look in her eye. He smiled, took her by the arm, and brought her inside to where Casey and Brigid stood waiting.

“Savanna Beaulieu, this is the new Mrs. Casey,” he said.

“Call me Bridy,” Brigid said. She held out a hand, and Savanna, after a brief hesitation, grasped it warmly.

“Out in the parishes they call me Rosalie. Savanna's just a nickname I picked up somewhere.”

“How about some scotch?” Casey asked, holding out a highball glass.

Savanna looked at him gratefully as she took the glass. “Perfect timing, Captain.”

Somehow the happy mood and blending of personalities overcame the strangeness of the circumstances. Marcel arrived with a bouquet of flowers, and within a half-hour the five were talking easily over plates of cold cuts and cold salads. Casey was telling the newcomers about King Arboneau's conspiracy when the bell rang yet again. Brigid answered and found Jessica Richards standing in the hall.

“Is Mr. Farrell here?” the girl asked.

“You're Jessica, aren't you?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Come in, honey. We're having a little party.”

Jessica blushed. “I didn't mean to intrude. I can talk to him tomorrow.”

Brigid waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. Come in and have a sandwich with us. We're celebrating my wedding day, so all comers are welcome.”

“Oh. Congratulations.” She held out a hand to the older woman.

From his vantage point across the room, Farrell had seen the girl and stood up. Savanna, seated beside him, saw Jessica's face and uttered a low whistle. “Holy Mother of God, she's the spit image of you.”

Brigid led Jessica into the living room and introduced everyone. Jessica recognized immediately that in this group of brown and white people there had to be a story. She wondered if she could stay long enough to get to hear it.

Farrell took her by the hand and led her into a corner of the room. “You look pretty good for having been locked up for almost three days.” He sat her in a vacant chair and gave her some ginger ale. “Your mother's doing all right?”

Jessica nodded. “I think so. She's pretty tough.”

Farrell laughed softly. “Yeah, she is that.”

“She—she said some things to me a while ago. She said I should—get to know you. Do you know why?”

Farrell sat on an ottoman and took her hand in his. “Maybe she's woozy from the anesthesia. Talk to her again later. See what she says. People say a lot of funny things when they're doped up.”

She looked at their intertwined hands. “You risked your life for me last night. I still don't understand why. My mother said—” She looked into his eyes, searching for an answer to her questions.

He rubbed his thumb lightly over her hand, not hearing the noise of the radio and the others laughing and talking behind him, as though he and Jessica were in another place entirely. “Your mother and I were pretty close a long time ago. It's kind of a long story to explain just how we knew each other.” He shot her a quick look. “Life's kind of complicated sometimes. Maybe—” He was trying to think of how to proceed when he heard a sudden tense undertone in the voices behind him and the sound of the radio being turned up. He turned his head and heard the anxious voice of the network announcer come through the speaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Robert Trout speaking to you from CBS Radio headquarters in New York with a special bulletin. Sources in the Hawaiian Islands have begun to report to us that the American naval, army and air corps bases there have been attacked by aircraft of the Imperial Japanese Navy. Many of the reports are unconfirmed at this point, but what we do know is that there has been considerable destruction and loss of life. That is all we know at this point, but we will continue to interrupt regular programming this evening as new information comes in. We now return you to our regularly scheduled program.”

“Dear God,” Brigid said, her voice hushed. “What does it all mean?”

Casey looked up from where he stood at the radio, his face gone slack. “I think it means things are going to be different from now on.”

Jessica looked at Farrell, her eyes trusting him. “I see what you mean.”

***

12:30 A.M., Monday, December 8th, 1941 on U.S. Highway 90

Easter Coupé opened his eyes and felt the sensation of motion. He blinked, wondering if he were dead and on his way through the dark to Hell.

“He's awake,” a man's voice said beside him.

“Hey, man, how you feelin'?” It was another man's voice.

A soft light switched on, momentarily blinding him. After a moment of blinking, things became more distinct. The first thing he saw was an unfamiliar colored man looking down at him. He grinned at Coupé. “'Bout time you woke up. I was gettin' lonesome here in the dark.”

Coupé was certain now that he must be dead. “Where am I? Who are you?”

“They call me Lonnie,” the man said. “Mr. Blessey's up front drivin' the hearse.”

“Hearse? If I ain't dead, what the hell am I doin' in a hearse?”

The scrawny old man laughed from the driver's seat.

“Man, you are one lucky motha-fuckah. All the people in New Orleans you go to kill, you pick the one boy who's gonna feel sorry for you after.”

Coupé shook his head, trying to clear it. “Man, what the fuck's goin' on? How'd I get out of the hospital?”

“You can thank Skeeter. After he got your suitcase fulla money from the railroad depot, he got in touch with a gal name of Patience Delachaise. Seems the gal didn't want no part of your money 'less some of it was used to help you out. When Skeeter found you was too bad hurt for the cops to bother guardin' you, he called me and we got some people together. We come in dressed like undertakers, covered you up with sheets, and wheeled you right outa there.” He cackled delightedly. “Right now, you done passed Sulphur, Louisiana. By sunup, you'll be in Houston, in the Fifth Ward somewheres. Got some friends there who'll take care of you 'til you back on your feet again.”

“And you doin' all this outa the goodness of your heart, that right?” Coupé asked.

“No, fool. Skeeter give me five grand to get you out. I'd of left you for the hangman, but for five thou I'll bust Capone outa Alcatraz. Oh—he give me a thousand to give back to you, so's you'll have a stake.”

Coupé rubbed his face, his mind whirling. “Damn.”

“Got one more thing for you, too,” the old man said.

“What's that?”

“Got the address of that Patience Delachaise, in Lake Charles. Said when you was all right again, to write her. Said she'd like to see you again for some damn reason. Women. I swear, you can't understand nothin' about 'em.”

Coupé felt a smile grow on his face. “No. Reckon you can't.”

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