AHMM, April 2009 Read online

  Copyright © 2009 Steven Gore

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  Fiction: PRICE TAG ATTACHED by O'Neil De Noux and Kent Westmoreland

  * * * *

  Jorge Mascarenhas

  * * * *

  Burleigh Drummond knew something was wrong.

  A glance at his antique Patek Philippe watch declared the time was approaching midnight, yet the front door to Le Petit Antique Shop was ajar. No one in the French Quarter left their doors unlocked at night, much less open. Reasoning discretion was the smarter part of valor, he parked his Porsche Carrera on a side street, then walked up a narrow alley that ran along the side of the shop's building.

  Still believing in discretion he pushed front door open with his foot and stepped inside; his elbow nudged the door shut. The soles of his Italian shoes struck the hardwood floor and echoed against the shop's fourteen-foot ceiling. After his eyes adjusted to the dark, Drummond cupped his hands and called Hal Dean Wilson's name. A feline whimper careened through the silent building.

  A solitary golden glow beckoned Drummond to the rear of the shop; he followed the light to Wilson's office. The antique dealer sat upright in a Louis XV chair behind a matching desk, his palms lying flat against the green marble top. A yellow banker's lamp illuminated his face. Wilson stared with wide open eyes, but could see nothing. Probably because of the knife lodged in his chest. Judging from the ornate hilt, the murder weapon was a kaiken, a Japanese dagger from the Shin Shinto period. Worth about a grand, according to the still-attached price tag.

  Wilson's untimely demise had complicated what was to have been a relatively simple, albeit quasilegal, transaction—the purchase, or more accurately repurchase, of a stolen marble heart.

  The likelihood of the heart being on the premises was about the same as the New Orleans City Council being honest, but Drummond would have been remiss to leave without searching. He pulled a pair of disposable latex gloves from his suit jacket, then rummaged both floors of the building. On the second floor a damaged Fleming Provincial armoire contained two vases, several statues, and urns that once resided in New Orleans cemeteries, but not the purloined heart.

  A black cat, the one who'd probably whimpered earlier, peeked out at Drummond from behind the armoire as he stepped away. Its yellow eyes seemed to glow, and for a moment Drummond thought of Edgar Allan Poe. But that cat had only one eye.

  After twenty minutes of futile effort, Drummond decided he had pushed his luck enough and left through a side door that led to the alley. He glanced up and down the street. The coast is clear, he thought. How he loved cliches.

  "Hey you. Stop!” a man's voice grunted. In the dark doorway of a T-shirt shop stood a man about fifty, wearing a dirty long gray coat. He stumbled toward Drummond with his arms outstretched. An Army knapsack hung from his right arm.

  Being spotted at a crime scene was never a good thing.

  "Hey, buddy. You got some money for an old soldier?” The garbled words rolled in his mouth like colliding marbles. Drummond handed the homeless man three twenties. Life had treated him more than fairly, and he was willing to share with those who hadn't been so fortunate.

  As he drove uptown to his Greek Revival house, Drummond thought about his dilemma—the missing heart. Without its return he wouldn't collect his paycheck, a necessity. Being Burleigh Drummond was expensive.

  Wilson was more or less a solid citizen, so the police investigation would look at every angle of his life and possibly find the heart. Drummond parked the Porsche at a K & B drugstore next to a pay phone. Being a civic-minded citizen, he reported the murder, first to the newspaper city desk and ten minutes later to 911.

  Drummond could make the investigation work for him. When fate gives you lemons, make lemonade. God, did he love those cliches.

  * * * *

  Seated behind her gray metal, government-issue desk, Jodie Kintyre took off her beige suit jacket, draped it across the back of her gray metal chair, and pulled her 9mm Smith & Wesson Model 669 out of its shoulder holster. She slipped her weapon into her briefcase and ran her fingers through her hair. Freshly cut, her pageboy was shorter than normal. At thirty, her blonde hair still needed no touch-ups. It was as yellow gold as it was when she was a little girl and wore it long to her waist.

  Jodie turned to watch the crime lab technician dust the murder weapon for fingerprints. Standing over a blotter on the desk next to Jodie's, Officer Johnny Small, who stood six-three, announced, “Couple smudges here."

  "What's the price on the tag?” Jodie asked, opening her notebook.

  "One thousand dollars.” Small let out a high-pitched whistle.

  He put the knife on the desk blotter and carefully picked up the knife's curved sheath and dusted it.

  "More smudges and,” Small paused for emphasis, “two decent latents."

  Good, Jodie thought, nothing like a good fingerprint.

  As Small spread fingerprint tape over the latents to carefully lift them, Jodie picked up the videotape from the crime scene and walked over to the nineteen inch Sony Trinitron TV, on loan from the Burglary Division. The TV was stolen property that should have been in the police evidence room. She inserted the tape into the Zenith video recorder, also on loan from Burglary, and watched the grainy image of the interior of Le Petit Antique Shop come into focus—somewhat.

  * * * *

  Jodie had spotted the surveillance camera just inside the door of the antique shop when they were processing the crime scene. It provided a wide-angle view of the store. She touched the rewind button and zipped past the part where she and her partner entered. Detective Paul Snowood, the case officer of this particular murder, looked ridiculous, as usual, in his white Stetson, rawhide-fringe shirt, brown denims, and snakeskin cowboy boots.

  She came to the part where the two uniformed officers entered, one with his weapon drawn. She kept rewinding until the man in the long gray coat entered. Pressing the play button, Jodie folded her arms across her chest and watched the man enter, look around for a moment before continuing through the store, looking around until he reached the back room where they'd found the body. The camera showed the doorway, but not inside the room.

  The man in the long gray coat paused a moment in the doorway, then went in quickly. He was still in there when the two uniformed officers entered. They found the man standing over the body.

  Jodie stopped the tape, pressed REWIND, and let it go to the beginning. It was an hour-long tape that retaped over and over again. She pressed PLAY again and watched the empty antique shop with its glass cases and walls lined with paintings, pictures, and even a wooden airplane propeller.

  Backing away from the TV, Jodie went to her desk, pulled out her black coffee mug, and moved to the coffee table. She poured herself a cup of strong coffee, added cream and two packets of Equal, stirred, and took a sip. It was hot, at least.

  On her way back to her desk, she watched another man enter the antique shop. Well dressed in an expensive-looking suit, the man was in his late twenties. He looked around and obviously called out. He even put a hand next to his mouth. He continued through the store. Reaching the rear door, he stopped in the doorway but didn't go in. Jodie moved closer to the TV to watch this man search the antique shop before leaving. He was kind enough to look up so she got a good view of his face. Nice looking. Very nice looking.

  She timed the tape and ten minutes later the man in the long gray coat entered.

  What did the good-looking man see in the back room?

  The body, of course.

  Jodie removed the tape. As she arrived back at her desk, Johnny Small announced he was finished. He didn't have to tell her, but told her anyway that he'd have the fingerprints classified and compared.

  A few minutes later, just as Jodie was finishing her notes, Paul Snowood burst from the small interview room next to the coffee pot. Twirling his Stetson, Snowood announced, “Another one bites the dust!"

  The man in the long coat, hands cuffed behind his ba
ck, came slowly out of the interview room. Snowood told him to stand next to the wall.

  When Snowood arrived at his desk, across from Jodie's, she had to ask, “He copped?"

  "All but.” Snowood opened his briefcase and put his portable tape recorder inside. “Sumbitch's got a rap sheet six pages long. He's on parole for manslaughter."

  As Snowood started back for his prisoner, Jodie raised a finger and said, “There might be problem."

  "No problem, little lady. I'm gonna book this bastard and then I'm off to the badlands."

  Snowood's vacation started as soon as he got off. He'd ‘splained it to her a dozen times how he and his little lady were going to the badlands of Arizona, to a little ‘one-horse’ town called Whispering Gulch. Might have been New Mexico.

  "What about all the loot?"

  Snowood came back leading his murderer by the arm.

  "I'll sort it out when I get back."

  "Fine by me.” Jodie had enough work to do without trying to identify the owners of the statues and urns that had obviously been lifted from some New Orleans cemeteries—all found in Le Petit Antiques.

  When Snowood stopped, she knew she was in trouble. He turned and gave her a hangdog look, then asked if she'd handle the postmortem for him. “Pa-leeze!"

  Sure, why not? Autopsies were so much fun.

  Jodie shooed her partner away, agreeing to attend the autopsy of his case, anything to get rid of him and his arrestee as quickly as possible. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, thinking this was why they called Snowood “Country Ass."

  They'd been partners for only three months and she was sure she'd go insane if he kept sniffing her, like a damn dog, and calling her a filly and telling her all she needed was a good man or a well-made recliner.

  She heard the door of the squad room open but didn't hear footsteps, so she opened her eyes and saw the nice-looking man from the video standing just in the doorway.

  The man raised his right hand and said, “I'm looking for Detective Snowood."

  He didn't have a visitor's pass, but that wasn't surprising. Few visitors did.

  Jodie waved him over. She reached into her briefcase, withdrew her weapon, and slid it back in its holster. Standing as he approached, she told him she was Snowood's partner. The words almost stuck in her throat.

  "I have some information for Detective Snowood.” The man's dark brown eyes stared intently into hers.

  "What about?"

  "About the murder last night at Le Petit Antiques."

  Jodie extended her hand and told him her name.

  "Hi, I'm Burleigh Drummond,” he said as he shook her hand.

  So this is what he looks like, Jodie thought. What's he called? Not a P.I., but a “fixer,” a problem solver. She'd heard it several times from big shot New Orleanians, “Burleigh Drummond is fixing the situation for me."

  She didn't expect Drummond to be so young and so good looking.

  The man sat in Snowood's chair. Jodie immediately noticed his Patek Philippe watch and expensive, handmade lace-up, Italian shoes. She waited for him to continue and he didn't disappoint her.

  "I read in the morning paper that the owner of Le Petit was murdered last night. I have reason to believe he was in possession of marble statues stolen from cemeteries."

  "How do you know this?"

  Carefully, Burleigh Drummond explained how word was “on the street” that Hal Dean Wilson was trafficking in loot stolen from several of New Orleans's world-famous aboveground cemeteries. Not naming his client, Burleigh went on to describe one particular piece, a heart of Grecian marble.

  "We didn't find anything like that at the crime scene,” Jodie said as she carefully watched Burleigh's eyes. “You didn't either, when you searched the place, did you?"

  His face didn't react, no flinch, no tick, but she saw something in his eyes, a slight movement of the pupils. Pointing to the videotape next to her briefcase, Jodie told him where she's secured that particular tape.

  Nodding slowly, Burleigh let out a long breath.

  "You must have seen I didn't enter the back room."

  Jodie nodded.

  "He was dead when I got there. The knife was buried to the hilt in his chest."

  Which meant Wilson was dead before Snowood's arrestee entered.

  Jodie narrowed her cat-eyes and said, “We have some talking to do, mister."

  "I'm always willing to cooperate with the authorities, Detective Jodie."

  "Detective Kintyre."

  * * * *

  Burleigh Drummond had enough experience with law enforcement to know they generally weren't stupid, regardless of the image Hollywood foisted on the world. His instinct told him this officer was extremely sharp, so he'd cooperate with her. Up to a point. Besides, Detective Jodie was hot.

  "I was having drinks with friends at Whiskey Blue,” Drummond began his tale. “Have you been there?” He was normally less reticent about asking a woman out. But then he usually didn't ask out women who were proficient in the use of a nightstick.

  He waited for her to answer. She stared at him. Crestfallen, he continued: “I was approached and told that Hal Dean Wilson had a statue he wanted to sell and I was asked to buy it; the price was already agreed upon. I called Wilson. We arranged a time and place. When I got there he was dead. It's that simple."

  "You expect me to believe a smart operator like you knowingly agreed to buy stolen merchandise? That kind of activity could get you an orange jumpsuit. I can't see you being in that, but the image appeals to me."

  "That's funny. I was just imagining you in your uniform.” Actually, he was imagining her wearing only her gun belt, but saw no advantage in being that candid.

  "Don't change the subject. Why would you receive stolen merchandise?"

  "I was buying it back for the owner. That's not against the law. It's not even unethical. Though not too bright on the part of the owner."

  That was true.

  "Why wouldn't the owner go to the police and get his marble heart back for free and the thief arrested?"

  "The owner could be a woman. You said his."

  The detective frowned. “Answer the question."

  "I suggested the police but was told if the police became involved the object in question would get tagged as evidence and returned to the owner when the trial was over—a year or two in the future. That's assuming the statue didn't disappear from the NOPD evidence room through corruption or, more likely, incompetence. Please keep in mind those views are not my own."

  While what he said was true, he didn't tell all. The rest would have revealed the identity of his client. The missing statue, a heart carved from Grecian marble, had been stolen about a week before. A photograph appeared in the newspaper; a Tulane University art professor theorized the statue had been carved by a seventeenth-century Italian artist and estimated the value at two hundred fifty thousand dollars. CNN and Time magazine became interested in the theft. Drummond's client didn't want his (or her) business in the street. Rich people have peculiar ideas about themselves and their privacy. Drummond's willingness and, more importantly, his ability to satisfy those peculiarities ensured him a comfortable lifestyle.

  "I want to talk to your client to confirm your story."

  "I can't reveal the name. Professional ethics. Client privilege. You know stuff like that."

  "This is a murder case. Private detectives don't have that kind of privilege. And I'm not even sure you're a licensed private detective."

  Drummond smiled. “The state of Louisiana has issued me a license. My federal and state tax returns validate that claim."

  With patience absent from her voice, she repeated herself. “This is a murder case. Private detectives don't have that kind of privilege."

  The point where Drummond had to lie to Detective Jodie had arrived. Fortunately, he was up for the job. “An attorney retained me for this job.” He didn't insult her intelligence by explaining to her the attorney's privilege extended to him
; she already knew that.

  "What's the attorney's name? I'll need to check that out."

  "Let's do it now.” Drummond reached into his jacket and removed his cell phone and pressed a preset number.

  "Give me the name. I'll do the dialing. And the talking.” All traces of patience had vanished from her voice.

  Drummond knew Detective Jodie was hip to him. The client had hired Drummond directly, and not at a nightclub, which didn't provide any confidentiality. Fortunately, Drummond had foreseen this imbroglio and planned for it.

  "Leonard Roose is the attorney."

  She nodded. Roose was a partner at one of the old-line firms.

  Jodie looked up the number and dialed it from her desk phone. She identified herself and asked for Roose; the receptionist said he was unavailable. Drummond motioned for Jodie to hand him the handset; she did.

  "Marie, this is Burleigh Drummond. Please tell Leonard I'm with the detective and we would like to speak with him."

  "Sure, Burr. No problem."

  Drummond flipped his palms upward. A crinkle formed across Detective Jodie's brow. For some reason Drummond thought the crinkle was sexy.

  The receptionist transferred and the lawyer greeted them.

  Drummond passed the phone to the detective, who took over. “I'm here with Burleigh Drummond. He says you retained him to retrieve some stolen merchandise for a client.” She paused and waited for Roose to talk.

  The lawyer laughed. “Burr, surely, didn't use the word stolen. The object in question is missing, not stolen. My office retained Burr to pick up the object and pay a finder's fee. Nothing illegal there."

  "Until the finder was murdered and Mr. Drummond was videotaped at the crime scene."

  "I didn't know that. Still, Burr has committed no crime and the transaction was legal."

  "I'll need to talk to your client about the object."

  "I'll check with my client and get back with you."

  Drummond could tell she didn't like what Roose had to say, but she couldn't do much about it.

  "Thank you. In the meantime, Mr. Drummond and I have a lot to talk about."

  * * * *