Death and Rain

Death and Rain

D. A. Ratliff

A Detective Elijah Boone Mystery

The outer rain bands arrived overnight as forecasted, and by dawn, water covered the streets of New Orleans. Reaching Lafayette Park, I parked where a patrol officer directed me. Before I exited the SUV, I slipped on nitrile gloves while my hands were dry, pulled the hood of my raincoat over my head, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the deluge.

Water up to the curb sloshed around my Wellies. Yes, Wellies. I rarely tell anyone, but I am addicted to British murder mysteries and often wonder what DCI Barnaby would do. So, I treated myself to a pair of authentic British Wellies. Agatha would be proud.

"Eli."

I turned to the sound of my name and stifled a laugh at the image walking toward me.

My partner, Hank Guidry, wore a fluorescent yellow rain suit—overalls, jacket, hat, and boots. I wondered if anyone issued an APB on Big Bird because I'd found him. Hank stopped in front of me. I nearly lost it when I realized he'd clipped his badge to the jacket—Detective Big Bird, but I thought better of saying it.

"Sorry, took me a bit to get here. I was helping my cousin Blake secure his boat. No charters for the next few days, 'till this freaking storm goes through." He looked over my shoulder. "Who's the vic?"

"I don't know. Dispatch told me that Captain Lourdes said for us to get down here yesterday. Let's find out."

An enterprising officer had draped the body with a clear plastic tarp to prevent what little evidence remained present from washing off. As noted on her name badge, Officer Turner nodded as we approached. "Hope this is okay, Detective, but the rain was awful when we spotted the body."

"Good thinking, Turner. Best we can do under the circumstances. When did you discover the body?"

"About five-forty a.m., sir. My partner and I were checking reports of an abandoned car a few blocks over. Water's pretty high there. We headed this way to recheck the park because we saw a homeless guy walking around here earlier, and we wanted to make sure he hadn't stopped here. We wanted to get him someplace dry. As we turned the corner, we saw the body. Thought at first it was the homeless guy, but turned out it wasn't."

"Got an ID?"

She nodded and handed me an evidence bag containing a wallet opened to the driver's license. The name sent a rush of adrenaline through me. I gave the wallet to Hank, who grunted. "Oh, crap, this is going to be a circus."

"Phone?"

"We didn't find one."

We stood as rain cascaded down the statue of Benjamin Franklin and pooled on the sidewalk around the body of New Orleans Councilman Casper Winehouse. The crass, overbearing, blowhard—let me rephrase that—the wonderful, upstanding man of the people had a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

The medical examiner and the Crime Scene Unit vans arrived simultaneously. The ME, Dr. Drew Myers, was new and all business or just as miserable in the rain as we were. Because of the tall buildings around us, we were somewhat sheltered from the wind but not the incessant rain. CSU set up a tent around the body, and Hank and I wasted no time crowding inside. Myers frowned but said nothing.

A CSU tech carefully removed the plastic tarp from the body, and Myers checked the liver temp. He huffed. "Rough estimate—anytime between midnight and four a.m. He's not in full rigor yet. I'll try to get a better time when I get him on the slab and can check the weather stats."

"Cause of death?"

Myers raised his eyes without raising his head, flashing a slightly disdainful look in my direction. "Looks like a large caliber bullet to the head." He raised the body a bit and checked the back of his head. "Nothing, a penetrating wound. Bullet must have lost a lot of momentum getting through this thick skull and couldn't get out. Also, he didn't die here. Liver mortis pattern is inconsistent with his current position."

Hank chuckled at the thick skull comment, and I shook my head at him not to say anything. I wasn't sure if the doctor was commenting on the thick skull or Winehouse's stubbornness. Time for us to get out of here and let these people do their jobs. "Doctor Myers, give me a heads up when you plan on doing the autopsy. I want to be there." He nodded and kept working.

Hank's circus observation proved to be true. When we left the tent, we saw several local news trucks had arrived. Despite a tropical storm in the vicinity, the murder of a NOLA councilman was big news, especially one who made a point of stirring up considerable controversy. They were getting pushy, and Hank and I were about to walk over to get them under control when a black SUV with Chief of Police stenciled on the door pulled up, and an officer got out.

"Detective Boone, the Superintendent would like to speak with you." He opened the rear driver's side door.

Hank muttered. "Ooh... called to the principal's office." I side-eyed him, and he grinned. "I'll take care of the press."

Superintendent Grace Mitchell, the chief of the New Orleans police, had been on the job for a month. Her credentials were impeccable, and in her last city, she drastically reduced the murder rate. That might put me out of a job, but I could live with that, and so could a lot of other people.

I slipped into the back seat of the SUV. "Sorry for being so wet, ma'am."

"No worries, Detective Boone, I think we'll be wet all day. And you know what they say, nothing is certain but death and taxes—and rain in New Orleans. Let's dispense with the niceties as we both know who each other is. I know it's early times in this case, but what do you know?"

"Very early times, ma'am. You are aware of the victim's name?"

"Yes, apparently, an enterprising reporter was monitoring the police radio, and we got a call from the night news editor at one of the TV stations."

"Patrol discovered the body at five-forty a.m. while searching for a homeless man they spotted earlier. They checked the body's ID and discovered it was Councilman Winehouse."

"Detective, you should note that the good councilman opposed my hire, but I promise, I have an alibi."

"Yes, ma'am. However, consider yourself on the suspect list." I said that jokingly and then realized I had just joked about my ultimate boss to her face. I held my breath for a few seconds before she burst out laughing.

"Believe me, Boone. I've been on worst lists. Now, what can you tell me about his death."

"Penetrating gunshot wound to the forehead, large caliber. ME tentatively puts time of death between midnight and 4 a.m. Other than that, we have nothing. We will be checking CCV cameras in the area, and someone has to tell his family."

"I've called the mayor. He will make the notification, and I’ll go with him. You can interview the family later today. With this storm, we are stretched too thin as it is now. Whatever assignments you and your partner had for today's storm, forget them. Stay on this case as best you can under the circumstances. Bring in any of your team you need. The weather service tells us this storm is turning, and we may take a stronger hit.” She handed me a business card with her initials and a phone number. "This is my private cell phone number. Continue to update Captain Lourdes, but I want personal updates from you. Thank you, Detective Boone."

I had been summarily dismissed and found myself standing in the rain as the SUV sped away, splash fanning the streets. I had one word to describe Superintendent Mitchell—formidable.

~~~

By eight a.m., Hank and I were at the station, drinking copious amounts of coffee to get warm. It might be July in New Orleans, but the storm had dropped the temperature twenty degrees, and we felt the chill.

"Hank, let's get Cardi here. She's at city hall monitoring the storm. Where did Brenner and Rodriguez end up?"

"District Seven, still shorthanded there, and with the NASA facility, they wanted coverage."

"Call them back, too."

Around eleven, Alfonso Maderia, a media forensics technician, texted me that he had CCV footage from the morning crime scene. Hank and I went to the media room to view the video. When we arrived, we found him watching a weather update.

"Sorry, detectives, but my grandmother refuses to leave her home and is in a flood zone. Trying to keep an eye out so my brother can get her if it gets bad."

"Not a problem, Al. You take care of her. What's the latest?"

"Storm is strengthening. The forecasters speculated it could reach hurricane level close to landfall, but it is turning more toward us. Crazy, that storm front from the west is dumping rain, and then this."

Hank nodded. "Yeah, the constant rain is from the regular storm, and now the feeder bands are from the tropical storm. Hope the Cajun Navy shows up."

I nodded. "They will. One of my neighbors is a member. I heard him leave about four a.m., probably to get his airboat ready. So, what have you got, Al?"

"Not much, very little traffic, and a couple of cameras in the area are out because of the rain. But I did get this from the Federal Building security cams."

He clicked the mouse, and an image of the park appeared. We could barely see the illuminated Franklin statue through the rain. A few seconds later, a dark van appeared with headlights off and stopped, blocking our view of the statue. Within seconds, it sped off, leaving behind the councilman's body.

Al pointed to the screen. "Time stamp is five-twenty-seven a.m."

Hank grunted. "Any other views"

"No." He scrubbed through the video to show the arriving patrol car. We watched as the officers checked the body, and while her partner returned to the squad to call it in, Turner secured the body with the plastic tarp.

"I have all the footage until the last cop left, but you were there for most of it."

"Any way to get the tag from the van?"

"There’s a glimpse of a license plate, but I'm not sure if I can enhance it. Even with a couple of streetlamps, very dark and heavy rain."

"See what you can do. Thanks, Al."

We headed back to the squad room, and my phone rang—the superintendent.

I answered, and she wasted little time. "Boone, you may interview Mrs. Winehouse at one p.m. She wants her priest with her. She did not appear heartbroken when informed about her husband's murder, nor did her teenage children. Decide when the time is right to push her. She is hiding something. Report back to me when you finish."

She hung up.

I recounted her message to Hank. "Eli, I like this superintendent."

"She is no-nonsense. I like her too. Okay, if we are going to be at the Winehouse residence at 1 p.m. and it's eleven-thirty now, let’s go now and stop by Mama's. I want to check on her. The Winehouse place is only a few blocks away."

"Can we eat?"

I laughed. Hank was always hungry. "If she's open, we can eat."

The ordinarily busy Magazine Street was anything but busy today. The flooding wasn't bad here, but a squall line reached us as we stepped out of the SUV. I doubted it would be long before that changed if the rain continued, and it would.

Mama Leone's restaurant was open, but only a shopkeeper down the street and a regular were inside. Mateo, Mama's brother, greeted us warmly.

"Eli, Hank, come in. Let us get you some food on such a nasty day."

We quickly agreed and sat at our favorite table in front, facing the door. Since the day gunmen entered the restaurant, killing and injuring so many diners, I always faced the door. I glanced at the small brass plate attached to the wall by the doorframe, which had the date — nothing else— engraved on it as a memorandum to those who suffered that day.

Mateo brought coffee and sat with us. "We told the staff to stay home, as we didn't expect too many customers. So, it's just Mama and me. Tomas is on a cruise with his future in-laws. We made Spaghetti Bolognese and Sicilian Meatball soup. Which would you like, or you can have both."

We settled on the soup and hearty Italian bread. Leone and Mateo joined us. These people were family, and I convinced them to close the restaurant and go home. We left with a cooler full of leftover food and an Italian Cream Cake.

The heavy rain from the tropical storm had subsided a bit, but we had road ponding to contend with on the way to meet Charlotte Winehouse. Frank had wisely changed his yellow rain suit for a black police-issued raincoat.

I teased him. "No more glow-in-the-dark rain gear?

He chuckled. "Believe me, came in handy. I stayed dry helping tie that boat off." He tapped the armrest. "There are so many reasons Winehouse could cause someone to want him dead—the people whose houses are in the path of his community and shopping center. I saw Rollins from the drug task force last weekend at our kids' baseball game. Winehouse was there, glad-handing as always, but most of the crowd wanted nothing to do with him. Rollins said he was at an FBI organized crime meeting, updating local PDs. Winehouse's name came up."

"Tied to organized crime?"

"Not directly. Rollins said the FBI is investigating the developer and his company as mob connected."

"Mitchell thinks the good widow is hiding something. We need to find out what."

The Winehouse property was one of the nicest houses in the Garden District. Like most, it was narrow but quite deep. An ornate brick fence encircled the front yard, and a wrought iron front and driveway gate gave the place an elegant charm. We dashed for the front porch and removed our rain gear. Hank rang the doorbell.

Charlotte Winehouse opened the door. She was tall and thin, with angular features and the haughty expression of old money disturbed by the peasants. She sighed. "The police. Punctual, at least." She gestured for us to come inside.

The house was impeccable, tastefully decorated, and classically understated—not what I had expected from the home of the flamboyant, neon-tied, plaid-suited real estate broker Casper Winehouse. Charlotte led us into a large den at the back of the house, where a man in a thousand-dollar suit and a priest waited.

She sat and told us. "Introduce yourselves."

We did, and the priest responded, "I am Father Marino. Forgive me for wearing casual clothes, but the call came very early. I rushed over in the storm. I did manage to grab these.” He showed us a rosary and a stole.

The suit spoke with considerable annoyance in his voice. "I am Mrs. Winehouse's attorney, Norman Tate. As you must realize, this is an exceedingly difficult time for the family. They have lost their husband, and father, and we have lost a good friend. We ask that you keep your questions brief."

"Mr. Tate. A citizen of New Orleans is dead… murdered. It is my responsibility to ask whatever questions I need to ask in order to find his killer."

I didn't give him time to respond but turned my attention to Charlotte. "When did you last see your husband, Mrs. Winehouse?"

"He left for breakfast with a couple of his realtors. I believe he had a council committee meeting in the morning. I have no idea about the rest of his day. He stopped by to change clothes around six, as he had a dinner engagement at seven."

"With who?

"I have no idea. I don't bother with his business dealings. He mentioned someone interested in leasing space at the center. He said Jacque Bernard, the real estate agent leasing the center, would be there."

"Where was dinner?"

"The Marquise Club. His home away from home."

"He didn't come home last night?"

"I have no idea. We sleep in separate rooms. I was asleep from ten-thirty until the mayor rang the doorbell this morning at seven a.m."

"Did your husband mention any threats or disagreements he might have with anyone?"

"My husband was a conduit for controversy. Always meddling in local issues and making someone mad. He had a penchant for being a complete jerk. So, I suspect the list of who would love to do him harm is long."

"Are you on that list, Mrs. Winehouse?

Tate interjected. "That is an inappropriate question, Detective."

I gave him my best thin-lipped smile. "In a murder investigation, there are no inappropriate questions, as I am sure you know from Criminal Law 101." I turned back to the widow.

"What was your relationship with your husband?'

"We were married. I stopped loving him a long time ago. I was tired of his philandering and his receptionist of the week. However, I have two children and decided not to put them through a messy divorce until they are older."

"Can anyone confirm you were here all night?"

Tate's eyebrows shot up at the question, but he kept quiet. She shrugged. “My children were in their rooms for most of the night. I last spoke to them around nine-thirty when they came to the kitchen for a snack."

"Where are your children? Boy and girl, I understand.?"

"Yes, they are twins, Lance and Magdaline. They are not here. I sent them to their aunt's house to keep them from this circus that Casper created."

“Aunt’s name? I will need to speak to them."

She glanced at Tate and then Father Marino before she answered. "Her name is Elizabeth Marson. If you must, I will bring them home later, but I insist Norman be present."

Norman gave her an almost imperceptible nod, but I noticed. I suspected Norman was in control.

"If you don't mind, we would like to see his office, if he has one here and his bedroom."

"I do mind...." She stopped when Norman raised his hand.

"Charlotte, this is routine. Let them search."

Father Marino rose. "Gentlemen, let me show you to his bedroom. His office is just off that room."

The bedroom contrasted with the rest of the house. While tastefully decorated, Casper was far from neat. He left clothes tossed about, and piles of yachting magazines covered the floor by the bed. Father Marino appeared embarrassed.

"Cas was not a tidy man. He lived life to the fullest but was private and hated the housekeeper in his room. She was allowed to clean once a week when he was here."

Hank slipped on his gloves and picked up a couple of magazines. "Father, were you friends with Winehouse or only serving as their priest?"

"Oh, friends, for a long time. He was a man who lived life quite large but still held on to his faith. His office is through that doorway. I will leave you to your search."

I tugged on my gloves. "Let's get this done."

We left the house an hour later with a computer, a few files, and an old-fashioned business card holder. Tate was unhappy about our taking the items but had Charlotte sign the receipt for what we removed.

As we pulled away, I had a very uneasy feeling. Something was wrong. “Hank, call Cardi and tell her to start checking out Lawyer Tate, Farther Marino, and Winehouse Realty, all his agents, listing, and talk to staff. Have Brenner run the Winehouse’s financials. I want everything he can find, and get Rodriguez to check out The Marquise Club. I want to know the owner and everything about that club.”

"Something is fishy here, Eli."

"I have the same feeling. The superintendent was right. Charlotte Winehouse is hiding something."

"Yeah, she's a bit too icy. Almost get the impression she is scared."

"But what is she scared about?"

He shrugged, and I mimicked him. No idea, but we were going to find out.

~~~

Before returning to headquarters, we stopped by the Marquise Club. If you were passing by, you wouldn’t know the large structure was a club, not a private home. Only a tiny bronze plaque beside the front door revealed its name. A larger-than-expected parking area was behind the building, with two cars parked. I had heard the owners bought the house, razed it, turned most of the land into a parking lot, and built a small lap pool and exercise room in the remaining area.

The rain had let up a bit, but I parked right in front of the rear entrance because I could. The heavy oak door chimed as it opened, and we stepped inside. There was a small reception area, so we waited. A young man in an expensive suit appeared, immediately raising an eyebrow, and spoke in a British accent.

“I’m sorry, this is a private club, members only.”

Hank and I displayed our badges simultaneously as if we had choreographed the move. The young man looked at us with greater disdain. “We have no need for the police.”

“Who is in charge here?”

“Mr. Bertram is here, but he is busy.”

Hank stood very straight and squared his shoulders, becoming an imposing figure. The young man reacted by slightly moving back. “I’ll see if he has time to see you.”

As he disappeared, Hank relaxed. “Too bad you weren’t wearing the yellow rain suit. He’d be more intimidated.”

Hank snarled. “Funny man.”

Our new friend returned with an older but equally well-dressed man. “I’m Edgar Bertram. Why are you here?”

“I am sure you know why. A member, Casper Winehouse, is dead. We have questions about his visit to the club last night.”

“I am sorry, we do not divulge that information. The members’ activities are confidential.”

Hank pointed to the desk, where a leather-bound ledger was open. “Do guests have to sign in when they come in?”

“None of your concern.”

I had enough. “It is our concern. We need to know if Winehouse was here and who he met with. You can cooperate with our request, or we will get a warrant.”

Anger raged on Bertram’s face. “Then I suggest you try and get a warrant. Please leave.”

Back in the SUV, Hank was seething. “He just suggested no judge will sign off on a warrant.”

“He probably thinks he’s right, but I know one judge who will.”

As we drove back to headquarters, I called Judge Janice Harper. She is no-nonsense and hates the good ole boy network. She will sign the warrant.

By the time we walked into the squad room, she had. I sent Brenner and Rodriguez to pick up the warrant, and once in hand, they would serve it accompanied by uniformed officers.

While they were gone, Cardi filled us in on what Paul uncovered about the Winehouse’s financials. “Casper Winehouse has less than two-hundred and seventy thousand dollars in his personal and savings accounts. He has a stock portfolio worth about three hundred thousand. Charlotte Winehouse is loaded. The house and cars, except for the car he drove, the two vacation houses in Nantucket and one on Key Biscayne in Florida, where she keeps a sixty-foot yacht and an extensive stock portfolio, are all in her name. Total package is twenty-nine million and change.”

“Well, that’s interesting.”

Hank whistled. “She didn’t seem to like him much.”

“Does he have any debt?”

Cardi shook her head. “Other than a car loan and the lease on the building where his real estate office is nothing on the books. He does have a line of credit of five million, and I called the bank to see if his wife secured the loan. The bank security officer told me she was not a guarantor on the loan. He wouldn’t tell me what Winehouse put up as collateral but did tell me Winehouse has a safety deposit box. I have applied for a warrant for all his account information and the box.”

“Kids?

“Sixteen-year-old twins, Lance and Magdaline. They attend the very private Académie Douée. I called the Academy, no answer. It’s closed for the storm. The twins have a joint private Facebook page. No other information on them other than mentions of plays they were in for the Children’s Community Theater.”

“They are supposed to be at their aunt’s. Hank got her name and that of the cook and housekeeper. See if you can talk to them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any update on the storm?”

“It’s likely to strengthen and move closer to us. Forecast is for landfall in Mississippi, so we will be on the clean side, but could still be nasty. I wondered why the mayor had activated the full Emergency Operations Center, and the director told me that this was a rehearsal for much worse storms. They’ve changed a lot of protocols.”

“Makes sense. We need to prepare. Okay, see what else you can find.”

“Eli,” Hank motioned to me, “ME just texted. He’s starting the autopsy in twenty minutes.”

“Let’s go.”

~~~

We returned to the station three hours later with more questions than answers. Hank sank into his chair and laid his head on the desk. “Eli, I hate those things. “

“This one wasn’t as messy as some, and we learned something. “Cardi, Paul, Ray, come over here.“

I gave them the autopsy findings. “Winehouse suffered a penetrating gunshot wound to the central forehead. The recovered round was a 9 mm, which penetrated his forehead, bounced off the back of the skull, and did considerable damage, including a large hematoma, which we expected from the autopsy. The ME also discovered that his hands were bound, and he had numerous premortem bruises on his torso.”

Rey whistled lowly. “So, he was tortured before he died. The question is why?”

“Exactly. What have you learned from the club’s records?

Paul Brenner responded. “Just getting into them. But we did confirm Winehouse signed in at six-fifty-two. The real estate agent Mrs. Winehouse mentioned arrived shortly after him.” He continued to peruse the guest ledger, then looked at me. “That attorney, Norman Tate, signed in at six-ten pm.”

Hank looked at me. “A fact the good attorney failed to mention.”

“Maybe he didn’t see Winehouse there.”

Paul shook his head. “It was already raining hard by then, only twelve members signed in last night and were gone by nine pm. I doubt there was any way he could miss them.”

I tapped my desk with the pen I was holding. “So, Tate withheld information. Somehow, I am not surprised. We need to talk to him.”

Cardi’s phone rang while they were talking about the Marquise members. “Talking to anyone is going to have to wait. The storm is strengthening to a low Cat 1. Landfall is expected to be east of us near Biloxi, which will put us on the clean side of the storm. The mayor has ordered a curfew until seven am tomorrow morning but is reserving a decision on first responders depending on weather conditions.”

Ray Rodriguez groaned. “I guess we eat from the vending machines as long as the power is on.”

Hank laughed. “You’re in luck. Mama Leone took care of us. Ray, with me. Time to warm up dinner.”

~~~

As we enjoyed Mama’s cooking, I asked Cardi what she had found on Tate and the priest. She shrugged. “Not as much as I liked. Tate’s law firm site shows he was born in Chicago and attended the University of Illinois Law School. He worked in a firm in Chicago until three years ago when he left and opened a firm here. “

“Find out why he left Chicago?”

“Have a call into the firm’s managing partner but no response. I did find out that they represented Martin Amato in his extortion trial.”

Hank whistled. “The same guy who went on trial for a councilman’s murder? It was all over national news.”

Brenner responded. “I’m from Chicago, and I remember my dad talking about that case. He said everyone believed Amato had the councilman killed. The jury deadlocked, and my dad figured Amato tampered with the jury.”

I looked at my team and knew they thought what I did. Could this be connected? “Paul, get info on that case and see if Amato has any ties to New Orleans. You know I don't believe in coincidence. Cardi, what about the priest?”

“He is the associate pastor at Our Lady of Peace. He’s been there since 2018, runs youth programs, and is the choir director. I haven’t spoken to Father Jordan yet. He is apparently at Touro hospital with a sick parishioner.”

Rodriguez smiled. “Are you talking about Father Vincent Marino?” Cardi nodded. “We call him Father Vinnie. He’s a great guy. My grandparents knew him when he was a little boy in Luquillo.”

The hairs on my neck prickled, and I glanced at Hank, whose expression gave his thoughts away. He was thinking the same thing as I was. Something was amiss. “Ray, Father Marino is Puerto Rican?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Describe him.”

“He’s about five feet eight inches, around thirty-five, dark hair, brown eyes.”

Again, Hank and I glanced at each other. “Get me a photo of him.”

Cardi’s fingers flew over her keyboard, and within seconds, she cast her screen onto the large wall monitor. I looked at Ray. “This is Father Marino?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there any other priest named Marino in the New Orleans diocese? “

Again, Cardi’s finger flew across her keyboard. She shook her head. “No.”

“Then the man we met today is about six feet tall, has brown hair, blue eyes, and is around fifty. He is not Father Marino.”

I had a bad feeling about this. “Get me as much info on Amato as possible... any connection to the community project... including the developer, and get me more on Tate. One of you, check out the sister, Elizabeth Marson. Find out where she lives, and as soon as we can get a squad car on the streets, I want those kids picked up. We consider them in eminent danger until we figure out what’s happening.”

~~~

The squall lines from the storm intensified as the storm grew closer, and the eye appeared to be coming ashore around four a.m. somewhere west of Biloxi. Power remained on in most of New Orleans, so I was thankful for that. I sent Hank to the locker room at about eleven pm, where there was a cot, to get some sleep. He’d been up since three am helping with his cousin’s charter boat. Cardi napped in the captain’s office on his comfortable leather couch.

Wind and rain bands had started pushing water off Lake Pontchartrain, but so far, the levees were holding, and the canals were draining without overflowing. Heavy rain pelted the window beside my desk, making me drowsy, but I couldn’t afford to sleep. Mitchell’s observation about Charlotte Winehouse kept rattling in my head. No doubt she had not told us the truth. Why use the name Father Marino for the man with them? “

I needed to find out where Marino was today. Ray was asleep, and Paul was reviewing something on his computer. I scoffed. Stop delegating and make the call yourself. I called Touro first on the chance Father Jordan was still there. The operator paged him, and I was surprised that he answered. I introduced myself, apologized for the hour, and asked if he knew where Father Marino was.

“I haven’t seen Father Marino since last night. He did leave word that he was going to visit the Winehouse family after we heard the terrible news. They are active members of the church, and we share their grief. I am at the hospital with my family. My mother had emergency heart surgery, so I have had little dealings with the church today. Is there a problem?”

“No, we spoke with him earlier at Mrs. Winehouse’s home, and I had some follow-up questions.”

“Terrible thing to befall a family. I have his cell number. Would you like it?’

I said yes, I would, and wished his mother well as I hung up. I dialed Marino’s number, but there was no answer. This was not unusual at this time of night but surprising for a priest not to be available to his flock. It was still a couple of hours until landfall, and there was nothing more we could do. Exhaustion washed over me, and I couldn’t stay awake. I put my feet on the desk, slid down my chair, and fell asleep in seconds.

~~~

I woke with a start as a clap of thunder reverberated through the squad room. I glanced at the wall clock. It was just after four am, and the wind howled. I looked out the window to see branches on the trees bending and flailing from the wind. When I turned around, Paul approached me with a cup of coffee.

“Glad you are awake. We have new info but wanted to let you sleep.”

I took a sip of coffee and shook off the cobwebs. “What did you find out?”

Cardi piped up. “A lot, Eli. For one, I couldn’t find the sister living in New Orleans, so I expanded the search to surrounding cities. Nothing. I tracked her down. She lives in Los Angeles, Brentwood, to be exact. Her husband is a big wig with a production studio.”

“Then the kids are not with her.”

“No. You were right. They’re in danger. And that’s not all. Paul?”

“Sir, the development company for the community and shopping center is TFG Properties out of Phoenix. Dominic Lombardy is the owner. However, based on the incorporation records, he owns only forty percent of the company.”

From Paul’s raised eyebrow, I knew he’d struck gold. “Don’t tell me.”

Paul chuckled. “I gotta tell you, sir. Amato Construction of Chicago.is wholly owned by Martin Amato and run by his son, Davin. I decided to look back through the Marquise ledger and guess whose name I found.”

“Davin Amato.”

“That’s why you have the shiniest gold shield, sir. Davin Amato visited the club three times, but Winehouse was only there twice when he was. He was there the night Winehouse was killed.”

“One of you go wake Hank up. I have a call to make.”

Ray volunteered. “I’ll go. He likes me, but I can outrun him if he’s unhappy about waking up.”

I pulled the card with Superintendent Mitchell’s private number from my wallet and made the call from Captain Lourdes’ office. It was four-twenty am, but I was pretty sure Michell was awake.

She answered quickly and directly. “I assume you have news?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I told her what my team had uncovered, and to her credit, she listened without interrupting me. When I finished, I heard her take a deep breath before she spoke.

“Detective, I have been on the job in New Orleans for thirty-seven days. As you may know, my previous positions have been as the chief of police in Syracuse, Boston, and, most recently, Chicago. I’m quite familiar with Martin Amato.”

“And likely, ma’am, why Winehouse opposed your hiring.”

She laughed softly. “No doubt. This man is ruthless. He cares nothing for the people he uses to get what he wants and wants everything. Not on my watch and not in this city.”

“I have been told that the FBI is investigating TFG Properties for mob connections. This all fits.”

“Boone, I need to talk to the FBI before proceeding. I know the head agent on the task force. I’m giving you carte blanche to do what you need to do. SWAT and any needed resources are yours, but do nothing until I talk to the FBI. Charlotte Winehouse is hiding something, and I agree her kids are in danger, and that takes priority. But I also do not want our actions to impact an FBI investigation. Let’s plan now, and once this damn storm gets out of the way, we'll take care of business.”

I returned to the squad room. We had work to do.

~~~

The sun rose just after six, and the parish roads department, the fire department, and Entergy, the power company, immediately began to assess conditions. Dennis Duncan, commander of the SWAT unit I requested, sat across from me, having coffee and vending machine pastries.

“Eli, I don’t like the idea of you and Hank going in alone.”

“If it’s just Winehouse and the priest, it will be fine.”

Denny fumed for a second. Then his eyes widened slightly. “I have an idea.”

By six-thirty, we had permission to begin our operation. SWAT units were staged near the house but out of sight. Hank, the team, and I waited in a SWAT command unit for Denny’s plan to start the operation. A fire department ladder truck blocked our vehicle from the house.

We watched three SWAT officers, one in a Delta Utilities uniform and two officers in NOFD turnout gear, approach the Winehouse residence. The officer in the Delta uniform was wearing a live camera, and he rang the doorbell.

Charlotte Winehouse came to the door, still wearing the same clothes as yesterday morning. Her exhaustion was evident in her demeanor. Her dilatated pupils and stilted speech conveyed fear.

“Yes? What do... do you want?”

“Ma’am, sorry for the early hour, but we have reports of a gas leak in the neighborhood after the storm, and we are checking all houses. I see you are a Delta customer. I’d like to check the connections to your stove, furnace, and the main outside.”

She was shaking and glanced over her shoulder toward the man pretending to be Father Marino. He smiled. “Forgive us, gentlemen. Mrs. Winehouse’s husband died unexpectedly yesterday morning, and I stayed with her so she would not be alone during the storm. Please, come in and check what you need.”

The officer thanked them and followed Winehouse and the man to the kitchen. The officer pretended to check the oven for leaks but made sure the camera on his hard hat swept the entire area.

Returning to the living room, he continued to look around, covering his actions. “Lovely home, ma’am. The artwork is nice. So sorry for your loss.”

Winehouse thanked him, and they left. They walked around to the back of the house to check the main gas meter, then returned to the sidewalk and walked out of sight of the house. They doubled back to the command vehicle.

The “Delta” officer reported. “That is one scared woman, and the suspect wouldn’t leave her alone with us. We detected no sign of anyone else in the house.”

Denny nodded. “Good job. Guys.” He turned toward me. “Once the unit is in place, I’ll give you the go-ahead. Got your vests on?”

Hank laughed. “Yeah, but you can’t tell under this rain gear.”

“Camera working?” The tech in the van replied that both video and audio were good. “Okay, from this second on, I’m in command. Get in place.”

Cardi was with Hank and me. We felt a woman with us wouldn’t be as threatening. We waited as the SWAT team took positions around the house, and we walked to the front door on Denny's order. Hank rang the doorbell.

This woman was scared if the wideness of her eyes indicated her fear. “Detective, I... why are you here?”

“We just had a few more questions. May we come in?”

She swallowed, but ‘Father Marino’ stepped in. “Of course.” He led us to the living room. We are happy to help. I see you have a new face.”

Cardi nodded. “I’m Detective Cardia Fleming.”

I sensed the phony priest knew we were on to him. He gestured to the couch. "Why don’t we sit down?”

Time to stop playing. Hank was standing near the doorway so he could watch the stairs. Cardi had inched closer to Charlotte Winehouse. Her role was to get the victim out of the way.

“No, I think not. Mrs. Winehouse, where are your children?”

She gasped, but her captor quickly said. “They are at her sister’s house. We told you.”

“Her sister Elizabeth lives in LA, Brentwood, to be exact. Would you like the address? I don’t think two teens made it to LA in twenty-four hours in this storm. Where are they?”

I had to give him credit. He didn’t give up. He calmly explained. “The fact is we were scared the children were in danger. I sent them to a sanctuary where they would be safe.“

“Mrs. Winehouse, you know this isn’t Father Marino?

She whimpered but gave me a slight nod.

I turned to him. “Who are you, and where are the twins?”

Thank goodness the next few minutes were on tape because they passed in an instant or a lifetime. The suspect reached for Winehouse, but Cardi pulled her away, and they ducked behind the couch. The man pulled a gun from his coat jacket and aimed it at me.

“You just had to meddle, didn’t you? Now let the bitch go, and I won’t kill you. We will walk out of here, and you live.“

Hank moved, and the suspect swung the gun in his direction. I threw my body across the room, slamming into the man as I heard the doors burst open and the words I learned to love that day.

“SWAT, don’t move.”

Within seconds, a SWAT officer pulled me off the floor while two others secured the suspect. I heard one officer call Code 4, meaning SWAT controlled the scene. I did a mental check—Hank was beside me and fine. Where was Cardi?

“Cardi,”

“Here. We’re okay.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Officers were helping Cardi and Charlotte to their feet.

Charlotte Winehouse was frantic. “They took my kids. I don’t know where they are.” She stopped and looked toward the kitchen. “They hurt Father Vinny.” She pointed to the suspect. “He hit him over the head, and Father just dropped. He was bleeding.”

Cardi turned to Charlotte to look at her. “Where is Father Marino?”

“They put him in the laundry room.”

Hank and two SWAT officers headed to check while I turned to the suspect. One of the officers was patting him down. “Tell me your name.”

“I’m not telling you anything.”

The officer offered me a wallet. I grabbed gloves from my pocket and slipped them on before taking it.

“Well, Mister Jeremy Lusitano, Chicago. Put him in a chair.” Not so gently, the officers complied. I turned toward Brenner and Rodiguez, who had entered, and handed them the wallet. “Run this guy. I’m going to talk to Winehouse.”

As I started to leave, Hank rushed in. “Father Marino is alive. He has a nasty head wound, but he’s regained consciousness. Called for Fire Rescue.” As he spoke, firefighters with med kits came in. Ray asked if he could help with the priest. I said yes, as that kept Frank with me.

We headed for the garden room where Cardi had taken Winehouse. Charlotte nearly jumped out of her seat.

“Father Vinny?”

I sat beside her. “He regained consciousness, and paramedics are on their way.”

She looked relieved but grabbed my forearm. “My children? I can’t lose my children.”

“We are doing everything we can to find them. I need you to tell me what happened yesterday morning.”

Winehouse’s hands trembled wildly, and she grasped them together to control her nerves. Cardi spoke to her in a soothing voice. “Charlotte, you need to take a breath, remain calm, and tell us everything from the beginning.”

She struggled but did what Cardi asked. “I woke up and heard noises in the house. I looked at the clock on the nightstand, and it was four-twenty. As I started to get up, the door burst open, and a man who posed as Father Vinny came in. He grabbed me and told me to be quiet, or I’d suffer the same fate as my husband.

I heard my children scream and tried to fight him off, but he hit me in the stomach. Two other men were with him, and they took all of us downstairs. They tied us up and said they were waiting for someone.”

“Charlotte, have you seen any of these men before?”

“No, never. The man who showed up. Cas mentioned him before, but we never met.”

“Norman Tate?”

“Yes, claimed he was Cas’s attorney, but he wasn’t.” She shuddered. “He didn’t tell us at first that Cas was dead. He kept asking us where Cas had hidden the book. I didn’t know what he was talking about. They started searching the house, and Tate kept telling them to put everything back as they found it because the cops would likely show up at some point.”

“When did Father Marion arrive? How did he know about your husband?”

“Just before six am. He’s the youth counselor at the church. One of the kids got into trouble, and he was at the police station. He heard one of the officers say Casper was dead, and he rushed here to be with us. He’s close to my kids. I didn’t know until then. The kids became hysterical, and Father Vinny demanded to know why these men were here. That’s when that one bastard hit him, and they tied him up and stuck him in the laundry room.”

“The mayor and Superintendent said you were quite unemotional when they came to notify you.”

“You would do as told, Detective, if they had threatened to kill you and your children, and you knew they had already killed your husband. We were able to pull it off because, in my youth, I fancied myself an actress. I lived in LA with my sister but eventually decided I’d rather be in New Orleans. I took acting lessons while there, and my kids do now. They want to be actors. I told them when the police came to act indifferent as if their dad’s death meant nothing to them. But I threw you a clue when you asked where the kids were.”

“Your sister’s name, and you hoped we would find out she was in LA.” She nodded, and I nodded back. “That and Detective Rodriguez knew who the real Father Vinny was, and we realized the man we met was not him.”

“But my children are still missing.”

“We’ll find them,” Cardi reassured her, but her glance at me was clear. Would we?

“Charlotte, what do you ....”

Brenner entered. “We might have something.”

Leaving Cardi with Charlotte Winehouse, Hank and I followed Brenner to the dining room.

“Sir, Lusitano did eight years in Illinois for aggravated assault and terroristic threatening, and a company called Port Traders popped up in an online search for Jeremy Lusitano. I dug a little deeper, and he’s one of four owners of warehouse space on 2319 Tchoupitoulas Street near the port. One of the other owners is Dominic Lombardy of TFG Properties. That might be where they are keeping the kids.”

“Get eyes on that building now.”

“Ahead of you, already done.”

“Good man.” I spun around. “Hank, find Denny. I need to call Mitchell.”

I stepped out onto the porch and called the Superintendent. She was straight to the point. “What’s happening.”

I gave her the rundown and told her what we knew about Jeremy Lusitano and the warehouse. She told me to sit tight and she would call me back. I paced. Five minutes later, she did.

“Eli, FBI Special Agent Jack Trainor is heading to you. He informed me that the FBI had had that warehouse under surveillance for several months but could never tie it to Amato. They are willing to raid the warehouse now. He is assembling a hostage rescue team to work with NOPD SWAT, assuming the children are there. You and Trainor are running this operation jointly. I won’t have them take the glory after we connect the dots on their case. Let me know when those kids are safe.”

I went inside—time to have a chat with Jeremy Lusitano.

Cardi had gone upstairs with Charlotte so she could take a shower and change clothes after her ordeal. I was glad because I didn’t plan on being nice, and she had enough turmoil to deal with.

Two SWAT officers guarded Lusitano. I asked them to bring him into the kitchen. They were not exactly gentle when they sat him down on a bar stool.

“I’m giving you one chance here. You are facing several charges here, four counts of kidnapping unlawful detainment, and if anything happens to those kids, well, the consequences are not what you want to face. Tell me where those kids are.”

Lusitano sat up straight, a lip curled and stared me in the eye. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Then let me tell you something. We know who you are associated with and that you or one of your buddies killed Casper Winehouse. When we run ballistics on your gun, will we find it was the gun that killed him?” He squirmed. “If it’s your gun, it’s first-degree murder and, hello, the death penalty in Louisianna. And that will mean a long time on death row.”

I noted he was chewing the inside of his cheek and grew quiet. “What did Casper have that you wanted so badly?” I leaned in. “Something you wanted, so you tortured and then killed him when he wouldn’t tell you. Something you tormented and kidnapped a woman and her children and beat up a priest over. What?”

I uttered the last word loudly, and he reacted, startled. “You going to take the rap for someone, Lusitano? Who?”

“I’m not taking the rap for anyone.”

I scoffed. “No, just for your own crimes.”

“Man, what’s a few years in a crummy prison in the swamp? I’ve done worse.”

“Eight years for aggravated assault and terroristic threatening? That’s not a short time. I can guarantee you twenty or more in Louisiana.”

"Piece of cake.”

"Glad you feel that way, but Louisiana won’t have much chance to keep you. The FBI is preparing to raid the warehouse on Tchoupitoulas Street.” That got his attention. “And we know who owns that building with you, and we can tie the entire operation back to Martin Amato. So, I think you will be a long-time guest of Club Fed.”

Lusitano had never been this close to Federal custody. Amato had paid off enough officials to protect them, but that protection was over, and he knew it from his wide-eyed, blank expression.

“I’m going to ask one more time. Are the Winehouse kids there?”

His hands handcuffed and clenched the entire time we talked, went limp, and he dropped his head, unwilling to look at me. He knew he was defeated.

“I take that as a yes.”

He muttered without looking up. “I want a lawyer.”

I pulled one of the SWAT officers out of Lusitano’s hearing range. “He needs to take a long route to booking. Flood waters must have interfered with a quick trip.” The officer nodded and gave me a thumbs-up.

A few minutes later, the FBI arrived. Agent Trainor shook my hand. “Detective, we have been waiting for a break. You gave it to us. Agents in Chicago are poised to raid Amato’s office, home, businesses, and TFG Properties in Phoenix. Those plans have been in place for a long time. All we needed was a go. Our Hostage Rescue Unit is meeting with your SWAT commander now.”

Rodriguez interrupted. “Eli, I just got a call from ballistics. Captain Duncan had Lusitano’s gun taken to the forensics lab after I signed the evidence bag, and Superintendent Mitchell ordered a rush on identification. Ballistics is not prepared to sign off until more testing is completed, but they say it’s ninety percent certain Lusitano’s gun fired the shot that killed Winehouse.”

Trainor smiled. “We got him, and now we need to get the rest.”

~~~

I fumed a bit as SWAT and the FBI HRU prepared to breach the one-story brick building. It’s tough to watch others do the work. Once again, I sat in a van watching the action, but it was an FBI command center vehicle this time. Hank and the rest of my squad sat in a cruiser just behind us.

The FBI hostage rescue unit took the lead, with Duncan’s SWAT team following them in. Trainor ordered them in. They used the battering ram, and as they disappeared inside, I held my breath, not sure I took in air until I heard the Code Four given.

In between, we heard the officers and agents shouting for people to drop their weapons and rounds of gunfire. I will never forget those few minutes which burned into my memory. Thankfully, no agents were injured, but one suspect inside died. We rushed into the building when we heard that the scene was secure.

I made a beeline to Duncan. “Did you find them?”

“Yeah, they’re fine. In that storage room on the left.”

We ran to the room. SWAT officers were untying them. They had been bound together and then to a pipe in the room. They looked toward Cardi, and Magdaline started crying, reaching out for Cardi.

Cardi knelt beside her and hugged her. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. We’ve got you.”

Lance looked at me. “Mom... is Mom okay?”

For a second, I fought back emotion but managed to answer. “Your mom is fine and waiting for you.”

Cardi stayed with the kids and rode with them in the ambulance to the hospital. Hank called the house and had an officer take Charlotte to Tulane Medical Center’s ER. Then, along with Agent Trainor, we also left for the ER.

When we arrived, Charlotte Winehouse was with her children. She came into the hallway to speak to us.

“How are they?”

“Detective, thanks to you, all of you, they are alive—scared but alive. But you need to hear something. My phone was still upstairs, and I only grabbed it when I was getting my purse to come here. A few minutes ago, I noticed I had a message from Cas.” She clicked on the voice message.

“Charlotte, I’m in trouble. I found out something about the men backing the center, and it’s not good. I took a notebook and now realize that what I had was damming evidence against some powerful people. If I don’t make it, look in the magazines. I ripped the pages out and hid them there. Just in case, I’m hiding my phone here in the club, so they don’t find it on me and find this message. That should protect you. Look, I know you stopped loving me long ago, and with good reason, but I still care about you, even if it’s not love. But I love Lance and Maggie with all my heart. If something happens to me, you tell them that—tell them I love them always. Gotta go. I’m at the club meeting them for dinner, but I think they know I took the file. Whatever happens, sorry for all I put you through. Goodbye.”

Tears ran down Charlotte Winehouse’s face as she handed me the phone. “I didn’t love him. Not sure I ever did, but he gave me these two great kids and I will forever be grateful to him for that. You need to know he skirted ethics often, loved a good deal, even when it was not the right thing to do, and slept with every woman he could. He was boisterous and crass, but he wasn’t a criminal, and he wouldn’t have been part of anything that was.”

~~~

As we headed for the car, Hank sent Brenner and Rodriguez back to the Marquise Club to find the phone. When we arrived at the Winehouse residence, we gloved up and started searching through the tall stacks of yachting magazines. Page by page, we found the contents of the notebook.

Agent Trainor sat on the floor as he read through the pages, shaking his head. “This is everything we needed to put Martin Amato and his syndicate away for a long time. Names, dates, bank accounts, contacts, companies. This is pure gold.” He stood and put out his hand towards me. I took it, and he shook my hand. “The work you and your detectives did to put this together is exemplary, and we couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks to all of you.”

~~~

Hank, Cardi, Brenner, Rodriguez, and I were leaving the station ten days later to attend Casper Winehouse’s funeral. The FBI had delayed releasing the body, which delayed the funeral. Charlotte Winehouse and her children asked us to attend, so we agreed. I was about to get into the SUV when the Superintendent’s car pulled up beside us. The driver stepped out and opened the back door as he spoke.

“Superintendent Mitchell would like you to accompany her to the funeral.”

I heard Hank snicker and whisper, “Teacher’s pet,” but I ignored him and complied.

“Detective, I thought this would be a good time to fill you in on what is happening with the FBI Amato case. The notebook belonged to Norman Tate. According to the Marquise Club manager, Tate was somewhat inebriated and left the book in the cigar room. Winehouse volunteered to take it to him. That was two days before he died. At least he had the presence of mind to protect the information and let his wife know where it was.”

“What’s next?”

“A federal grand jury has been seated in Chicago and will be asked to return indictments against Amato and his associates. Here, I am sure you are aware that DA Landru had charged Lusitano with murder, kidnapping, and other assorted crimes, and she has also brought Norman Tate before a grand jury, along with the men at the warehouse. You will also be happy to know that the good people at the Marquise Club are falling all over themselves to cooperate.” Mitchell gave me a sly nod of the head. “Why, they had no idea they were dealing with criminals.”

“They say that now. Landru notified me that I would be testifying before the grand jury. I also got a call from the Federal prosecutor in Chicago, so I will probably have to testify there, too.”

“Whatever you need to do, consider it approved. Just have Captain Lourdes inform my office.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You did good, Detective Boone—you and your team. I will admit that when the major crimes unit structure was first introduced, it took me a while to appreciate it. I always felt it diverted valuable assets, such as detectives, from general crime. However, after seeing your department in action, I am convinced this is the best approach for high-profile and major crimes.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Ah, there’s the church. Before we part, I have a question. My son and family are coming for a visit. My daughter-in-law is Italian and suspects that in the Cajun food capital of the world, there are no good Italian restaurants. Do you know of a good authentic Italian restaurant here?”

I grinned. I was about to score more brownie points with the boss and Mama Leone. “Yes, ma’am. As a matter of fact, I do.”

…