Charlie Hustmyre - House of the Rising Sun

Fifteen minutes later another unmarked police car screeched to a stop beside the first. Carl Landry jumped out from behind the wheel and another detective climbed out of the passenger seat. They pulled Tony Zello out from the backseat. Ray noticed he wasn’t wearing handcuffs.

Landry handed Tony a legal-size sheet of paper. Ray recognized it as a search warrant. One of the detectives grabbed a set of keys from inside the booth. Then they all walked toward the back of the lot. Tony managed to look cocky despite his beat-to-shit face. He limped along with the cops.

Landry didn’t waste time. He started with the trunk. Even from across the street, Ray could see the detective’s face light up. He pulled the bag out of the trunk and opened it, the bag with a murder weapon and $50,000 cash inside it, the same bag that had Tony Zello’s name printed on the luggage tag.

Tony started backing away and shaking his head. Two detectives shoved him against his own car and handcuffed him behind his back. He kept shaking his head, yelling something Ray couldn’t make out.

Ray watched the cops photograph the car and the inside of the trunk. They put the Smith. 40 caliber into a plastic evidence bag, preserving it for prints. They bagged the cash, too. Landry was never far from the money, Ray noticed. He must be worried that some of it might disappear.

Ray waved to the bartender for another beer.

Half an hour later, Ray walked to Jenny’s apartment. Her car wasn’t parked on the street. He rang the buzzer anyway.

No answer.

He stuck a cigarette between his lips and walked away. Reaching for his lighter, he remembered he didn’t have one. He had been using Tony Zello’s gold-plated “Z” lighter, which was now no doubt in police custody.

Ray put the Lucky Strike back into the almost full pack and was just about to slip it into his pocket when he passed a trash can on the sidewalk. He stopped. A slogan painted on the side of the square trash can said DON’T TRASH NEW ORLEANS.

Ray looked at the pack of cigarettes in his hand. He looked at the trash can. Then he reread the slogan. He had been smoking since high school. What had it done for him? Jenny had said something important. Something Ray was sure was true.

People can change.

Ray threw the pack of Lucky Strikes into the garbage.

Ray woke up at two o’clock the next afternoon. He was at the Doubletree, a high-rise hotel off Canal Street, a block from the casino. It was a big step up from the dump on Chef Menteur Highway. Here they put a free newspaper in front of your room in the morning and mints on your pillow at night.

The newspaper headline screamed: MOB BOSSES, BROTHERS, GUNNED DOWN! CARLOS AND VINCENT MESSINA KILLED. REPUTED MOB SOLDIER ARRESTED, CHARGED WITH MURDERS.

Ray switched on the TV. CNN and Fox News were running with the story. Updates linked the murders of the Messina brothers to two more bodies discovered in the New Orleans suburb of Kenner, where another reputed Messina soldier had been found dead, along with his wife.

Ray called Jenny a few times, but she didn’t answer.

He called Carl Landry.

“If you’re looking for a reward,” Landry said, “you’re not getting one.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“So talk.”

“In person.”

“I don’t have time.”

Ray had expected that. “Landry, I just gave you the biggest arrest of your career. You’re on all the cable news channels doing the perp walk with Tony. You owe me a few minutes.”

They met in the bar at the Sheraton, across the street from the Doubletree. Ray didn’t want Landry to know where he was staying. Ray had a Jameson on the rocks. Landry had a glass of water with a slice of lemon.

“Does it bother you,” Ray said, “that Jimmy LaGrange is still a cop?”

Landry took a sip of his lemon water. When he put his glass down, he said, “Why, does it bother you?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe it bothers me, too,” Landry said.

“You said he had immunity.”

Landry nodded.

“What kind of immunity?” Ray asked.

“Anything he admitted to got written up and everyone signed off on it. No one can touch him for anything on the list, and it’s a long list.”

“That’s some deal.”

“He went way back,” Landry said. “Even before he was in Vice. When the feds tell you that if you admit to it, you can’t ever be prosecuted for it, it’s in your best interest to dig deep.”

Ray took a sip of whiskey. “How about murder, was that part of the deal?”

Landry’s eyes widened. “No, that wasn’t covered.”

“He strangled a girl in the Rose Motel.”

For several seconds, Landry didn’t say anything. Just stared across the bar at the rows of liquor bottles. “That must have been his favorite hangout.”

Ray nodded. “I pulled him out of there a few times.”

“When did it happen?”

“Two years before I got arrested.”

Landry sipped his water. “How do you know about it?”

“Jimmy told me.”

“That was seven years ago. Without a body you don’t have a case.”

“I know where she is.”

“What?”

“Saint Louis Number Three.”

The detective frowned. “You think a judge is going to let us exhume her on your word?”

“She’s never been buried. At least not officially.”

“I’m listening.”

“She’s in the Underwood family tomb, but she’s not an Underwood.”

“I think you better explain that.”

Ray slid more whiskey down his throat. “She’s right behind the Third District station.”

“I know where Saint Louis Number Three is,” Landry said, his impatience showing.

“No, I mean the tomb. The Underwoods are right behind the station, just across the fence from the back parking lot.”

“LaGrange told you right where he hid the body.”

Ray drained the rest of his drink in one gulp. To make this work, Ray had to be willing to go all the way. “No,” he said. “I helped him put her there.”

The detective pushed his glass away and sat up straight. “Then I’m going to have to advise you of your rights.”

Ray leaned close to Landry, his voice sharp. “Who do you want, Carl? An ex-cop and ex-con because I didn’t report it, or do you want an active-duty cop who strangled a teenage girl?”

Carl Landry shook his head. “Accessory after the fact is a felony that could violate your parole.”

Straight-arrow, by-the-book motherfucker. “Without me, you got nothing.”

“I can dig her up,” Landry said. “LaGrange will crack in ten minutes. He’ll probably put the whole thing on you. He’s done it before.”

“The deal Jimmy made with the feds sticks in your craw, doesn’t it? You had to watch your father go to prison while a piece of shit like Jimmy LaGrange went free and got to stay on the job.”

Landry’s face turned red. He grabbed the front of Ray’s shirt and pulled the two of them together. With their faces only inches apart, he said, “My father is none of your fucking business.” Spittle flew from the detective’s lips and struck Ray in the face. “You’re a fucking scumbag, and I’m not working any deals with you.”

So Landry wasn’t always in control. He had a dark side after all. Ray pushed the detective’s hands away. “After he killed her, he called me in a panic and I helped him get rid of the girl’s body.”

“So you’re admitting to being an accessory.”

Ray nodded. “But accessory after the fact carries a seven-year statute of limitations.”

Landry’s face hardened. His lips pressed together so tightly his mouth looked like a red line.

“You just can’t help it, can you?” Ray asked.