Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller Page 3

  “You had your coffee?” Fitch asked as he turned down the volume on his police scanner.

  “Yes,” Boucher said.

  “Then we’re off.”

  They headed out of town to Route 90, Chef Menteur Highway to Fort Pike. They pulled off at Lake Catherine Marina, where Fitch kept a 1978 thirty-eight-foot Chris Craft Commander. The boat was gassed up and ready. Coolers of bait and beer were waiting, as Fitch had requested of the marina staff. All that was left was to jump aboard and motor out. A large thermostat on the pier showed the temperature to be sixty degrees, which meant the day might get into the low seventies. That was tolerable. Boucher felt his frown soften into a more neutral expression. The air was fresh. The morning held promise.

  He studied his friend, remembering the first time he met Detective Roscoe Fitch. In the cop’s dank office with stains on the wall from bad plumbing, the air full of stale tobacco smoke, Fitch had sat with purple bags under his deep-set eyes, loose flesh hanging from his jowls. On this brisk morning, Fitch looked like he’d had a face-lift. It wasn’t a plastic surgeon’s knife; it was a new attitude.

  “What’s so bad about this?” Fitch asked as they made their way to Lake Borgne, past Gamblers Bend, then toward gulf waters. They watched the coastline in silence. Much of this area had been closed during the oil spill, rescue crews cleaning beaches, treating oil-soaked wildlife. “Some are saying the long-term damage won’t be as bad as originally feared.”

  “I’ve read contrary findings,” Boucher said. “Passing through these waters, I feel like a sea monster’s going to raise its ugly head out of the water and swallow us whole.”

  There was a sense of danger lurking, unseen, biding its time. The next disaster. But the dawn rising on the gulf was something to behold, the gray sky and morning mist turning a soft pink. The water was calm, and warmth soon followed the early light of day.

  “We haven’t talked in a while. What’s new with you?” Fitch said.

  “Not much. Malika’s pissed off at me because I had to cut our vacation short and leave her alone in Mexico when the president sent a fighter jet to take me to the White House so he could personally chew me out for wanting to leave the bench. Then I came home, went out for dinner, and killed some thug who was trying to rob me. By the way, what do we know about him, and what kind of a gun was he carrying? I’ve never seen one like it.”

  “His name was Tyrone Manley, in and out of jail so much you’d have thought we offered frequent-flier miles. Last known address was before Katrina, apparently homeless since then. He was just a common drug addict and street criminal. The pistol he carried, now, that’s more interesting. It was made in Romania for the Soviet army’s special forces in Afghanistan. It fires steel-core armor-piercing ammunition. A rifle caliber is bad news when it’s used in a handgun. Some call it a cop killer.”

  “That was the most lethal-looking handgun I’ve ever seen. How did a homeless drug addict get ahold of a weapon like that?”

  “That’s something I’d like to know. I’ve seen a couple of them before. We took down a Mexican narco last year. He had one. That gun is real popular with the cartels.”

  “You arrested a member of a Mexican cartel here in New Orleans?”

  “It’s not that surprising. They operate all over the States, keeping tabs on their market—and their money. They’ve got cells in Laredo, Dallas, and Houston, so I’ve been told, and some are saying they’re in Chicago. Not surprising that they show up on our doorstep from time to time. We’ve had a warrant out for one of the Mexican bosses here since before you were on the bench. So you flew supersonic to the White House. What did the president say?”

  “I can’t quit. If I do, he might not get another judicial appointment passed in the Senate.”

  “Makes sense. What else?”

  “I’m not to try any cases, just do whatever administrative work the other judges dump on me. He wants me to help with the disbursement of compensation from the oil-spill settlement.”

  “I like it,” Fitch said. “You’ll get fed up with all that shit, and after a while you’ll beg to serve in your full judicial capacity. Looking after all those folks damaged by the oil spill will probably arouse your compassion more than anything I can think of, and it will teach you the most important thing you need to know about being a judge: that it’s not about you. I think his idea is effin’ brilliant.”

  “Effin’?”

  “I’m trying to watch my language,” Fitch said.

  “I’ll be damned,” Boucher said. “You’ve met a woman.”

  Fitch turned and smiled sheepishly. “Yeah,” he said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Not much to tell. I was coming out of a grocery store. This woman parked next to me said I’d lost a hubcap, and I said, ‘Fuck.’ She took offense at my language. I apologized. Next thing, I was asking her if she wanted to have a cup of coffee, and she said yes, and we did. We’re having dinner Friday. She’s a middle-school principal. Name’s Helen.”

  Detective Fitch had lost his wife to Katrina and had spent the years since going through the motions of life. This simple meeting was a real breakthrough.

  “I think that’s great,” Boucher said.

  “It’s no big deal,” Fitch said, but they both knew different.

  The next hour passed with small talk. Though the sun was out, the horizon was hazy, creating the optical illusion that distances were greater than they actually were. Even in the broad expanse of the gulf, traffic could be heard long before it was seen. A ship was speeding toward them, seemingly on a collision course. Fitch grabbed the air horn he kept next to the wheel and gave three blasts. The ship changed course after coming close enough for them to recognize the logo of Dumont Industries on the bow.

  “We need traffic cops out here,” Fitch said.

  They were several miles out in the gulf when Fitch finally cut the engine. He joined Boucher in the second of the two fighting chairs on the aft deck. They baited their hooks and cast their lines. It was nearing midday, and the sun was high. Once they’d stopped moving, the water was like glass, so smooth that the mere plop of their baited hooks cast ripples.

  “Never seen it this smooth,” Fitch said, “especially this time of the year.”

  The two fighting chairs were complex pieces of new equipment that at first glance seemed to suit a dentist’s office rather than an older sport fishing boat. Fitch grabbed a couple of beers from the plastic cooler, popped them both, and handed one off. He set his rod in the center gimbal, holding it lightly in his free hand, more intent on his beer. “It don’t matter to me if we don’t catch a thing. I like being out on the open water.”

  “Yes,” Boucher admitted, “this was a good idea.”

  An hour later, they hadn’t had a single bite. Fitch rose and went back to the captain’s station and started the engine. They cruised, then tried another spot, chatting in low tones on the still waters about nothing in particular. It was pure escape. It was an affirmation of their friendship.

  “I think we’re going to have to chalk this up as a dry run,” Fitch said as the afternoon deepened. “You ready to call it a day?”

  “What’s that over there?” Boucher said.

  Fitch turned. “Where?”

  Boucher pointed off their starboard side. “Over there. Something’s floating on the surface.”

  Fitch squinted, then retrieved his binoculars. “Can’t quite see. Let’s check it out.” He started the engine and turned the boat about, slowing when he was about fifty feet from the object. Standing at the wheel, he had a better view. Fitch was frowning. He slowed even more, the engine barely above idle. “Looks like a floater,” he said. “Don’t know if you want to see this.”

  “Floater?”

  “A body. Shit. I can smell it.”

  “Remember your language.”

  “I’m warning you, Jock. A floating corpse is not a pretty sight.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  They
pulled alongside, and Fitch confirmed his sighting. He stepped down to the deck, reached into a storage compartment, and pulled out an armful of netting. “I use this to catch baitfish,” he said. “Hope it’s strong enough.” He went to the side, started to cast the net, then stepped back. “God, it is rank. That compartment.” He pointed without turning around. “There’s a blue tarp folded inside. Get it out and spread it on the deck right here.”

  Jock spread the tarp.

  “This thing touches my deck, I’ll never get the smell out,” Fitch said.

  He leaned over and tossed the net, walked the railing till he’d enclosed the corpse, then began pulling. Fitch pulled the body in, threw it on the spread tarp, covered it up, then gagged, leaned over the rail, and vomited. He had dry heaves as he started the engine. Opening the throttle wide, he grabbed his ship-to-shore radio mike, identifying his ship and asking that a coroner meet him at the marina. And someone from NOPD forensics.

  • • •

  “White male, mid-fifties,” the forensics expert said. As requested, a team had been waiting when Fitch returned to his slip. “This your case?”

  “Naw,” Fitch said. “Way out of my jurisdiction. But I did discover the body, so I imagine I’ll be asked some questions.”

  “I’m going to get it to the lab. Guess you want to rinse off your boat.”

  “You got that right.”

  Boucher and Fitch didn’t say much on the way home, just listened to the mellow jazz guitar of Pat Metheny on the radio. Boucher’s choice; it was fine with Fitch. They arrived at Boucher’s house. He got out of the car, then leaned back in. “You have a great time on Friday with that schoolteacher.”

  “She’s a principal. Anyway, I’ll be talking to you before then,” Fitch said.

  “About anything in particular?”

  “That body we just fished out of the gulf.”

  CHAPTER 4

  BOUCHER ARRIVED AT THE Hale Boggs Federal Building on Monday morning. He felt sorry for the security guard who had to give him the bad news that some higher-up coward didn’t have the courage to do himself.

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor, but your parking space has been reassigned.”

  Wow. A federal judge with no parking. They might as well have sent him to the gulag. The same hapless guard gave him a slip of paper. On it was the number of his new office. Boucher took it in stride. He’d been away, and jurisprudence went on. No doubt senior and retired judges from this and other districts had been called in as temporary replacements, had been assigned his office and his parking space. He was being punished, and they knew how to make it sting. He parked in the nearest public lot and addressed the attendant. “I’m Judge Boucher, and they don’t have a parking space in the federal building for me right now. I was wondering if you could—”

  “Keep a good spot open for you? Sure. No problem. I do that for a couple attorneys.”

  Who no doubt pay him well for the service, Boucher thought. They made a lot more money than a judge.

  He found his new office after some searching and discovered that, presumably, he’d also been given a new assistant. This assumption was based on the fact that there was a small desk in the outer office of his tiny windowless two-room suite. There was no one seated at it. His few personal possessions had been moved down from his former chambers, so he knew he was in the right place. Three hours later, his phone had not rung, and no one had knocked at his door. He went out for lunch. No one spoke to him in the hall or the elevator. The afternoon was the same. He figured the other judges needed time to determine what assignments they were going to give him. Maybe he’d be asked to negotiate plea arrangements; maybe draft motions. Perhaps he’d be asked to serve some of the functions of administrative law judges, like immigration matters, Social Security, and federal housing complaints. He sat alone in the charmless office, waiting and wondering what he’d be given to do and how much time his fellow jurists would need before calling on him. By midafternoon, he decided to give them all the time they wanted and left the federal complex.

  Angry and frustrated in equal measure, he was listening to a local radio station while he drove home. A commentator named Cal Fellows was taking calls and had struck a nerve. Citizens were complaining, mad as hell. Lives had been ruined. Businesses had been ruined. There were children to feed and clothe. There were mortgages to pay. Victims of the oil spill. Boucher made a promise to himself. Tomorrow would be more productive.

  His cell phone vibrated with an incoming call. It was Fitch. Boucher pulled into a gas station and answered.

  “The floater we fished out,” Fitch said, “could be a homicide. Blunt instrument to the back of the head; unconscious when he hit the water. The guy worked for Dumont Industries, one of those boats that almost ran us over. They reported him missing and presumed drowned about a week ago.”

  “Is there any commercial activity in this state that the Dumonts are not involved in?”

  “Nothing comes to mind,” Fitch said. “You doing okay?”

  “I’m being given the silent treatment by my judicial brethren. I’m switching gears tomorrow. I’m going to try to meet some of the victims of the oil spill. Anything on where the guy who accosted me got his gun?”

  “I got a call from someone at ATF about fifteen minutes after my first inquiry. He said they appreciated my help but they’d handle it. Remind you of anything?”

  “I don’t even want to go there,” Boucher said. He hung up.

  Later that afternoon, Cal Fellows received a surprising phone call at the radio station. The receptionist told him a federal judge was holding. A radio commentator, Cal couldn’t remember ever taking a call from a judge; in fact, he couldn’t remember ever speaking to one. He might have asked a news-related question of a jurist once or twice in his career but either was put off with a brusque “no comment” or was courteously but firmly told that judges did not discuss pending cases. But here was one calling him. On line two.

  “This is Cal Fellows.”

  “Mr. Fellows, this is District Judge Boucher. I was listening to your show earlier today about victims of the gulf oil spill.”

  Cal said nothing. Not a clue where this was going.

  “I was thinking I might talk to a few of these aggrieved persons to see if there is some way to help matters.”

  “Just a question of money,” Cal said. “More and sooner.”

  “Yes. Do you know of anyone who would talk to me?”

  “Some will talk to anyone who will listen. But I wouldn’t want to waste their time or yours.”

  “I would try to be sympathetic to their needs.”

  “Let me ask a couple of them,” Cal said. “If they agree, I’ll put you in contact. If anything comes of it, I want to be the first to know. I have a radio news talk show, remember.”

  “Fine. Here’s my home number. You call me or they can call me. I want to hear what they have to say. Thank you.”

  After hanging up, Cal stared at the paper in his hand. This was the home number of a federal judge? He dialed it and was stunned.

  “This is really Judge Boucher? I thought it might be a prank.”

  “This is really me. But please don’t give out this number over the air.”

  “I certainly won’t, Your Honor. Thank you for taking an interest in the matter.”

  “It’s not just me. I’m acting under orders of the president.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  • • •

  Though warm spells teased, spring had not arrived. Boucher tried to enjoy a tranquil moment in his courtyard, but a late-afternoon chill chased him inside. He berated himself for not thinking to make a grocery run earlier. He’d done no shopping since his return, and staples were low. There was nothing in the house for dinner. He didn’t feel like going out, then asked himself if he was cowed by the recent incident. That decided it. Out he went.

  Dinner was close to home and a pleasant meal. Companionship would have added to the flavor. Jock return
ed home, not as distracted as before, watching everyone who shared the sidewalk with him. He walked up the steps to his house, turned the key in the lock, and opened the door. A caller was leaving a recorded message on his answering machine.

  “Well, I’m not surprised to find no one there; guess it was too much to hope for. We’re getting used to nobody answering—”

  “Hello. This is Judge Boucher. Who is this?”

  “Ah, a real voice. I understand you want to help us, Judge.”

  “May I please know to whom I’m speaking?”

  “Fred Arcineaux is my name. You want to know how to help? Meet me tomorrow. You know where Pointe à la Hache is?”

  “Across the river from me, south of Gretna.”

  “Right. Come to my boat. Ask anyone for the Sans Souci. Everyone knows where it is. I’ll be on it. Come by anytime. I ain’t gonna be out workin’, that’s for sure.”

  He hung up. Boucher recognized in his voice a malady that frequently accompanied financial travail. The man was quite inebriated.

  • • •

  On his second day back at work, Judge Boucher found that at least his existence was now acknowledged. His new assistant was an older woman named Mildred French who, he noticed immediately, had a strong attachment to talcum powder. The scent was strong enough to create the illusion of a dainty white cloud dispersing as she rose to greet him and again when she sat down. She was delighted to be working for him, she said, and gave him her professional profile. She had been laboring in the catacombs of the bankruptcy filing room for twenty-five years and saw her posting to this small windowless suite not as a lateral move but as a promotion and recognition of her true worth. There was a small stack of files on her desk. The top one had a blue Post-it stuck to the corner with a handwritten note welcoming him back and asking for his help on the matter contained within. He recognized the signature of the district’s female judge, the opposite gender, as always, more inclined to courtesy than his own. Mildred followed him into his office, carrying the files, clutching them to her breast as if they were photo albums of her life’s most precious moments. She set them on his desk and smiled. He thanked her, and she returned to her station, turning in the doorway separating their work spaces for one last smile before closing the door. Boucher picked up the first file. It reeked of talcum powder.