Don Pendleton: Shadow Hunt

Smythe pulled one hand out of his crossed arms and pointed a stubby finger at Bolan.

“Marshal Cooper, this is New Orleans and down here we do things a bit differently. We don’t rush things that we shouldn’t rush, and this is one of them. Since Katrina, about all we’ve dealt with is the Feds, and most of ’em couldn’t find their ass with two hands, a flashlight and a map.”

Despite the man’s attitude, Bolan could tell that Smythe was nervous about something. So he simply sighed and nodded.

“It’s your town,” he said. “What do you have in mind?”

“That’s smart, Marshal Cooper. Why don’t we meet around seven over at Mosca’s? I’ll have more for you then.”

“Where might that be?”

“Oh, you’ll have found it by seven. It’s practically famous. Just ask around, and you’ll find it.”

A discreet knock on the door interrupted Smythe, and the secretary stuck her head in the door when he called out, “Enter.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir, but Chief Lacroix is here to see you,” she said.

A heavily muscled man in a police uniform pushed past her. “Jeezus pleezus, Sally, since when do I need an announcement?”

He stopped as he crossed the threshold and spotted Bolan. “I apologize, Trenton,” he said. “I had no idea you were in a meeting.”

Bolan stood and moved away from the two men. The officer’s name tag revealed that his first name was Duke, and more than anything else, he radiated danger. The soldier wanted room to maneuver in the event he had to make a quick exit. New Orleans had a reputation for being corrupt, especially the police department, and while he wasn’t yet sure who was involved in Rio’s disappearance, he’d wager his favorite Desert Eagle that at least someone from the police department was involved. And Smythe obviously knew more than he was letting on.

The way Lacroix ignored Smythe told Bolan a great deal about who had the upper hand in their relationship. “Who’s this now, Trenton?”

“Matt Cooper,” Smythe said. “A U.S. marshal.”

“Is that so?” Lacroix asked. “What brings you to the DA’s office, Marshal?”

“I’m here investigating the disappearance of another marshal,” Bolan replied evenly. Lacroix was dangerous—Bolan felt that as clearly as he’d feel it from a water moccasin.

“It’s common courtesy for you boys to check in with the locals before you conduct any investigation in someone else’s jurisdiction. I’m sick of you federales thinkin’ you can come in here as pretty as you please without a little common courtesy.”

“Oh, you were next on my list,” Bolan said. “As soon as I was done here.”

“Is that so?” Lacroix said, using the same expression of doubt again. “What’s the name of your missing marshal? I haven’t heard of anything coming our way, and we usually get a flash alert on those kinds of things.”

“He was off-duty,” Smythe offered. “Supposedly, he was down here on vacation, but he’s gone missing.”

“Huh,” the police chief said. “Sounds like you’re wasting your time, Marshal Cooper. He probably hooked up with some sweet thing and is taking a couple of extra days. A few hours with a Cajun woman and a little home brew can make any man forget his duties. You should go on back and tell your superiors to lighten up a little. Boy’ll show back up when he sobers up.”

Lacroix rested his hand suggestively on his gun belt. Just close enough to his sidearm to make a point, but not close enough to give offense.

“Is that an order?” Bolan asked.

“Nah, just a friendly suggestion.”

“I think I’ll hang around for a couple of days. After all, he may need a little assistance finding his way back home. Gentlemen.”

Bolan blatantly turned his back on them and walked out the door.

AFTER BOLAN LEFT, Smythe moved to the phone on the desk.

“What the hell was that?” Lacroix barked.

“It’s not like I invited him, Duke,” he replied. “He just showed up here. I’m calling Mr. Costello right away. I can handle this.”

“You’re an idiot,” Lacroix said. “He’s here looking for Jack Rio. Did he tell you that? I haven’t been informed about a formal investigation into his death, which means they’re either keeping it below the radar or it’s personal for this guy. I’d almost rather it was a covert operation. Personal matters can get messy.”

“Yeah, that’s who he’s looking for,” he said. “What of it? We can take care of him just like we did Rio.”

Lacroix shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Something about that man sets me off. I wouldn’t go underestimating him.”

“You worry too much,” Smythe said, picking up the phone.

“And you don’t worry enough,” the police chief said, moving to the door. “I’m going to look into this.”

“You do that,” Smythe said, dialing the phone number from memory. It rang several times before a smooth voice answered.

“Mr. Costello’s residence,” Victor Salerno said.

“Vic, it’s Trenton.”

“I’ve told you not to call me Vic, Smythe. Now what the hell do you want?” he asked. “Mr. Costello is busy.”

“He’s not too busy for this,” he snapped. “Put him on.”

“You’ve got a big mouth for a little man,” Salerno replied. “Really big.”

“Look, I just had a U.S. marshal in here looking for Rio, and he’s not just going to walk away, so maybe you’d like to stop commenting on my big mouth and put the boss on.”

There was a long silence, then Salerno said, “Hold on, little man.”

There was the sound of muffled words, then, “Mr. Smythe,” Costello said as he came on the line. “I understand we have a small problem.”

“I don’t know how big the problem is,” he said, then filled him in on his meeting with the U.S. marshal.

“And what did you tell him?” Costello asked.

“I told him to meet me at seven at Mosca’s,” Smythe said. In the background, he could hear the faint, painful moaning of someone—likely Jack Rio—being tortured.

“That will do nicely,” Costello said. “I’ll send along a welcoming committee and the problem will be solved. Good day, Mr. Smythe.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Thank you.” He hung up the phone and sat down heavily. Things were going too far, too fast. Sooner or later, they’d all get caught and go to prison or worse.

And he agreed with Duke Lacroix. There was something about that man Cooper that gave him the willies. Smythe sat back down at his computer and went to his online banking. Maybe it was time to start thinking about moving some money.

In cities famous for their food, New Orleans stood out. But Mosca’s wasn’t just a well-known restaurant, it was a tradition meant to be celebrated, like Mardis Gras. At least that’s what the waitress at the bistro told Bolan when he stopped in for a cup of coffee to go. While many restaurants were reputed for excellent food and service, only a few were esteemed for their ability to keep secrets. “If you want to talk about taking over the world, you go to Mosca’s,” she said, handing him his coffee.

While Bolan had no interest in taking over the world, a restaurant with that kind of reputation would certainly be online. He’d returned to his hotel room, locked the door and booted up his computer on the tiny desk that was as scarred as he was. Using a secure log-on, Bolan was able to find Mosca’s website, several other mentions online, and, with a little clever manipulation learned from the Farm’s computer genius Aaron Kurtzman, a back door into a set of FBI files on the Matranga Family itself.

According to the files, the Matrangas had been operating in New Orleans since at least the 1880s, but had virtually disappeared since the death of Carlos Marcello in 1993. Marcello had used Mosca’s as the epicenter of his empire, having meets there for everything from personal meals to planning killings. Mosca’s reputation of good food, incredibly discreet service and no questions asked had outlasted even the Mafia.