Charlie Hustmyre - House of the Rising Sun

During those five hours, the door to Dylan Sylvester’s apartment didn’t open once. At one o’clock in the afternoon, bored out of his skull and light-headed from the booze, Ray decided to try the direct approach.

He had it all worked out in his head. Sylvester would answer the door, and Ray, since he had no gun, would take him down hard and frisk him for weapons. Then he would secure Sylvester with something. Too bad he didn’t have a pair of handcuffs.

But what if there were other people in the apartment? No problem. He knew how to deal with that.

From inside the glove box he grabbed a sap, a flat, eight-inch-long strip of hardened leather, shaped like a spoon and filled with lead at the wide end. It was an old-time piece of police equipment, not even legal when Ray had been on the job. He hefted the twelve-ounce sap in his hand. Anyone inside the apartment who interfered would get smacked down hard.

Sylvester’s apartment was on the first floor. During his surveillance, Ray had seen people coming and going from different apartments all morning, mostly one at a time, with no heavy foot traffic in and out. It didn’t look like anyone was selling dope from the building. As he climbed out of his car, Ray slipped the sap into his back pocket and walked up to Sylvester’s door.

He wasn’t sure what to expect, but was pretty certain there was going to be trouble. Nervous sweat dripped from his armpits as he tapped on the door. A long time ago he had learned that if you want people to answer the door, especially criminals, you don’t pound on it like the police, you knock softly.

Seconds later, the door sprang opened. The quickness of the response from inside the apartment caught Ray a little off guard. He was reaching for his sap when he found himself looking at a five-foot-tall Vietnamese woman. Behind her, a pack of kids ran in circles and yapped. She didn’t speak much English, and Ray didn’t speak any Vietnamese. It took five minutes, but through a combination of pidgin English and hand signs Ray found out that no one named Dylan Sylvester-or anyone with a spiderweb tattoo-lived in the apartment. The woman and her kids had been there six months, and the address on Dylan’s rap sheet was dated almost a year ago.

Half a day wasted, Ray thought as he trudged down the ramp into the parking lot under police headquarters. After the fiasco at the apartment, he had gone home, left a phone message for Jimmy LaGrange, kicked back a couple stiff drinks, then stretched out on his bed.

When he woke up at four o’clock, LaGrange hadn’t called, so Ray decided to go see him in person. The basement parking lot was packed with cars, but Ray found the one he was looking for, a beat-up Dodge with a kid seat in the back. LaGrange’s personal car. It was like the ex-Vice cop had said, he was a detective in name only, stuck in the Crime Analysis Section, working nine to five, with no take-home car.

At twenty minutes past five, LaGrange was part of a slow trickle of day-watch employees stumbling out of the building through the double fire doors next to the property room. As LaGrange unlocked his car, Ray slipped up behind him. “You’re late.”

The detective spun around. “What the fuck-”

“I figured you were the type to leave early so I’ve been sitting here since a quarter to five.”

LaGrange put a hand to his chest. “Christ, you nearly gave me a heart attack. What do you want?”

“I left you a message.”

The detective opened his car door and flung his attache across to the passenger seat. He looked over his shoulder at Ray as he slid behind the steering wheel. “That’s because we got nothing to talk about.”

Ray pointed to the baby seat. “What did you say you had, a boy or a girl?”

LaGrange pushed the key into the ignition and cranked the motor. “A little girl.”

Ray stood just inside the driver’s door, one hand on the roof, the other on top of the door frame. “I need a better address on Sylvester.”

LaGrange tried to pull the door closed but couldn’t, not with Ray standing in the way and refusing to budge. “I can’t help you anymore. I told you I’m through.”

“How old is she?”

LaGrange looked confused. “What?”

With a nod toward the empty kid seat in the back of the Dodge, Ray said, “Your daughter, how old is she?”

“Three.” Suspicion clouded LaGrange’s face. “Why?”

Ray stood silent for several seconds, just staring at his old partner. Then he said, “I’d hate for her to grow up without her daddy.”

LaGrange’s face turned hard and his eyes narrowed. He let go of the steering wheel with his right hand and edged it toward the service pistol holstered on his hip. “What are you talking about?”

All you had to do was talk about a man’s kid, mention the little brat in just the right context, the guy got upset. “I need one more favor,” Ray said. “Then I’ll leave you alone.”

“I asked you a question,” LaGrange said, his right hand hidden by his side.

“Don’t blow a gasket,” Ray said, pointing in the direction of LaGrange’s concealed right hand. “I doubt you could get that piece out in time anyway. And even if you did, what are you going to do, shoot me?”

“If I have to,” LaGrange said.

“Why? I’m unarmed. I’m your ex-partner. All we’re doing is talking about old times.”

“You threatened my family.”

Ray shook his head. “No I didn’t. I was just talking about the good old days. You remember the good old days, don’t you? Back when we ran the French Quarter, back when we did all that crazy shit, all that illegal shit. But the federal government says I’ve paid for my sins. How about you, Jimmy, you paid for your sins yet?”

LaGrange eased his hand away from his gun. “The statute of limitations has run on everything we did. Nobody can touch me.”

Ray leaned closer. “Not on everything.”

LaGrange swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “What do you mean?”

“There’s no statute on murder.”

LaGrange was quiet. Then he wiped his hand across his mouth. “I never murdered anybody.”

They stared at each other in silence. Finally, LaGrange looked away.

“The Rose Motel,” Ray said. “Room fifteen.”

Right in front of Ray’s eyes, Jimmy LaGrange deflated like an old tire that had sprung a leak. “That was an accident.”

“You accidentally strangled her?”

“I was drunk,” LaGrange said as beads of sweat popped out on his lily-white forehead. “I don’t even remember what happened.”

“I remember what happened, and I remember where her body is buried.”

LaGrange’s breathing sounded labored. He was having trouble catching his breath. “You helped me put her there.”

“How old was she, fifteen?”

“She was a junkie whore.” LaGrange got his breathing under control. “There’s no evidence. It’s just your word against mine, and you’re a convicted felon.”

Ray shook his head. “You’re wrong, Jimmy. There’s plenty of evidence. They’ll start with the body. It’s just bones now, but bones can tell a story. Then there’s the motel register. I’m sure they keep the old registers in storage somewhere.”

The detective’s face went slack.

“You didn’t use your real name, did you?” Ray said, his tone mocking. He was enjoying watching his old partner squirm. “Even if you didn’t, the handwriting will give you away. Amazing what those lab guys can do, isn’t it?” Ray snapped his fingers, as if he had just thought of something important. “Hey, you think they keep phone records from that far back? Because I was wondering if she ever called you at home?” Ray watched a drop of sweat roll down the side of LaGrange’s face. “There sure are a lot of little loose ends, aren’t there?”