The Plank

The Plank

D. A. Ratliff

A Detective Elijah Boone Mystery

The resounding thud of the car door slamming in the dead of night satisfied him. He leaned against the front right fender, lit a cigarette, and waited. It was five minutes until midnight, and he was about to come into a lot of money. He blew out a smoke ring and watched it float toward the streetlight, which cast a brighter light than he liked for such meetings. He wasn’t too worried. Lakeshore Drive was so deserted at night that not even the cops drove through. The location offered what he needed—privacy.

He puffed on his cigarette and chuckled. The cops thought he was an upstanding citizen and a community pillar. He loved letting them believe that when, in fact, he ran the largest crime syndicate in the city. New Orleans was his town, and he owned nearly every important person there. Each had a weakness—drugs, sex, or gambling—and he provided them with their fun, becoming his perfect marks. Blackmail was his favorite game.

The glare of approaching headlights caught his attention, and he tossed the cigarette aside. The car pulled in beside his, and his most recent blackmail victim exited his vehicle. The man had a taste for prostitutes, but the last one he was with died under suspicious circumstances. Mess with one of his girls, and the dude had to pay up.

He crossed his arms and grinned as the man approached, letting his mark speak first. “You pompous pig, you didn’t bring any of your boys to beat me up.”

“Nah, just want my money, and I’ll forget you got carried away and strangled my girl.”

“You underestimated me, punk, but most people do. You should’ve brought backup—I did.”

Two men appeared from behind the car, and one shoved a six-inch blade into his chest. As he took his last breath, his ‘mark’ leaned over him. “Looks like your business is now mine.”

He kicked the now lifeless face until it was bloody and misshapen. “You know what to do with this scum, boys. Send a message. There’s a new man in town.”

~~~

The locals called it “The Plank.” The Parrish commissioners called it the Lakeshore Pier. I called it a crime scene.

When I rolled up to the newly constructed pier reaching out into Lake Pontchartrain, the eastern sky was that funny lavender color with yellow streaks. Four cruisers and a forensics van were already on the scene. As I exited my SUV, my partner Hank Guidry pulled into the next parking space. Hank was carrying two cups of coffee. He earned a gold star for today.

“What have we got, Eli?”

I took the coffee he offered. “You know as much as I do. Guy showed up to do some early morning fishing and found a pretty gory scene at the end of the pier.”

“How gory?”

“Body’s been gutted and about a kilo of cocaine sprinkled in the cavity.” My skin crawled. “Great way to start the morning.”

Forensic tech stopped us and handed us shoe covers. The sky lightened with each step we took toward the pier’s circular tip, where a crime scene technician took photos of the corpse while the ME bagged his hands.

I approached the male body lying on his back in the center of the pier’s end. I’ve worked gruesome murders and accidents in my time, but this was brutal. Someone had cut him from sternum to groin, and his insides were where they should not be—inches from my blue booty-enclosed feet.

“Detectives.” Julia Marrow, Medical Examiner, greeted us. “What are you guys doing here? This is District Three in case you made a wrong turn.”

“I wish, but Hank and I pull special duty on Major Crimes occasionally, and this be the time. The chief knows the pier is special to the mayor, so he assigned us to work the case.”

“Lucky you.”

I scoffed. “What’ve we got, Julia?”

“A mess.”

Hank took a quick peek and grimaced. “Eli, I’m gonna talk to the witness.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Boone, somebody didn’t like this guy. Not only was he cut open, but it looks as if they spread his organs a bit, not a natural spill pattern if you will.”

“Any ID?”

“No, pockets were clean, no wallet, no phone, keys. And his face is too battered to be recognizable.”

“What from?”

“From the wounds, looks like kicks with a boot.”

“And the white stuff?”

“Cocaine and quite pure. A lot of blow to leave behind.”

“Making a point, I think. Time of death?”

“Hard to tell. We usually go by internal temp, but this…” she flicked her hand toward the body. “Internal is now external. I took the liver temperature, but I’ll have to factor in ambient temperature, which I will do after returning to the lab.”

“Best guess?”

“Eli, it will only be a guess… but based on lividity and level of rigor mortis, I would say anywhere from midnight to four a.m. And I’m betting closer to midnight.”

“Best we can do. You about done here?”

“Close. We need to secure the body before lifting. Need to…”

“Plastic wrap him?”

She stared at me for a second before chuckling. “You are far too droll this early in the morning.”

I left her to her gory duty and joined Hank. The witness, a local guy who had come to fish off the pier, appeared shaken and offered little information. We reached the sidewalk as a uniformed officer approached.

“Detective, canvassing the area, we found blood in one of the nearby parking places. Marked it and heading to get a CST now.”

“Good work.” I turned to Hank. “Stay here. I will check in with Captain Lourdes and find out why this is a major crime case.”

~~~

Captain Lourdes sat back in his chair. “This one’s tricky, Boone. You’re well aware of the hype around this pier. Mayor Cormier wanted a big project to mark his legacy, and now, two weeks after the grand opening, a gruesome murder. Cormier called Superintendent Hendriks after someone in his office notified him of the crime before we knew—gotta have contacts in 9-1-1 dispatch. He insisted Major Crimes take the case, but we were up to our noses with cases, and with District Three shorthanded, Hendriks wanted you.”

“Thanks for the favors.”

Lourdes laughed. “What I’m here for, Detective. So, it’s true there was a kilo of cocaine on the body?”

I nodded. “He’d been flayed open and well-seasoned. ME confirmed cocaine.”

“Drug war?”

“I don’t know, Captain. If it is, this is an opening salvo.” Before the captain answered, my phone rang—the ME. I listened, then ended the call.

“We have an ID on the victim. Reggie Crane.”

The captain had a one-word answer, and it wasn’t pretty.

~~~

We were working out of the Major Crimes unit at main headquarters. Hank returned from the crime scene and plopped down across from me.

“Are you kidding me? Reggie Crane? Could it be a higher profile?”

“No, not unless it was the mayor or a Saints player.”

“Crane runs that center for underprivileged youth?”

“Yeah, and we need to go to the Community Center he founded and talk to the people there.”

Crane had located the New Orleans Community Development Center in the Lower Garden District. We found black bunting and a wreath on the door when we arrived. A tearful receptionist took us to meet the director, Marcus Monroe.

“Please, have a seat. We’re in shock here, but we'll do our best to answer your questions.”

“How did you learn of Crane’s death?”

“A reporter called here about an hour ago. We’d called Deacon Crane all morning, but he never answered.”

“Deacon?”

“Detective Guidry, Reggie Crane called the Center his church, and he was the deacon.”

“Any idea who could have wanted him dead?”

Monroe looked at me as if I had sinned. He shook his head. “No, no, no… no one. Everyone loved the man. He’d turned hundreds of kids into good citizens, got them back in school, got them off drugs. We have tutors, activities, and sports here. Who would want to hurt him?”

I decided to ask him about the cocaine to see his reaction. “Do you know why we found cocaine thrown on his body?”

Monroe’s mouth fell open, eyes darting from me to Hank and back. “What? I don’t have any idea. Why would someone do that?”

I believed him. I asked him to show us around, and we talked with the staff as they prepared for the afternoon. All seemed stunned, and their grief genuine. As we left, school buses were pulling up. Monroe explained. “The school board helps us. We provide the drivers. They let us use old buses. We pick kids up at school, bring them here, and then take them home. Most of their parents work long hours, so we keep the kids here where they’re safe.”

Hank tugged on the black bunting. “You got this up in a hurry.”

Monroe’s shoulders slumped. “Detective, we’ve had a lot of successes here, but we’ve lost too many kids along the way. This bunting has gotten plenty of use.”

We hadn’t eaten all day and were only a few blocks from Mama Leone’s restaurant on Magazine. As always, Mama was happy to feed us. We were almost through stuffing our faces with calzones when Captain Lourdes called and ordered us back to headquarters. Mama sent us on our way with six homemade cannoli, which we had eaten before we got to the station.

Captain Lourdes was waiting along with Captain Dwayne Waterson from Vice. I figured he must have an angle on the cocaine dumped on the body. Captain made the introductions, and Waterson took over.

“What I’m about to tell you is for your ears only. NOPD is working with the FBI and DEA on a huge drug-smuggling ring out of South Louisiana. We believe the drugs are coming in up the Lafourche Bayou and other waterways, offloaded, and distributed across the US. We also believe that Reggie Crane was the mastermind of the operation—drugs, gambling, and prostitution rings.”

Hank’s reaction was an audible gasp. My reaction remained internal but just as shocked. “You say you believe. You don’t have proof?”

Waterson scoffed. “We thought we did. An informant gave us some tantalizing info, but he turned up dead, floating in Lafourche Bayou.”

I remained incredulous. Crane was a pillar of the community, but I wasn’t so naïve to think that meant anything. “You’re suggesting a drug war, then?”

“Yes, Detective Boone, that’s what we think is happening.” He frowned, giving me a hesitant nod. “The problem is, we can’t get any proof. It’s frustrating because the informant also told us Crane was into blackmail. We’re hoping one of his victims might come forward, but that’s not likely.”

“Hard to believe, considering this man’s reputation for doing good in the community. But virtuous deeds can hide bad things.”

“Yes, Boone, they can. We’d like you to report any information you uncover to Captain Lourdes or me—no one else. If we get lucky, we’ll blow this open.”

~~~

The trouble was, there was nothing to blow open. We had nowhere to go, with no security cams or CTV at the pier and no trace evidence. A month passed, and a parish-wide celebration was held for Reginald Charles Crane, the man who rescued the young and oppressed members of the community. His jazz funeral, led by Mayor Leon Cormier through the French Quarter, had a larger crowd than a Mardi Gras Krewe parade, with the second line full of young adults who attended the programs at the center. I found it difficult to reconcile the celebrated Reggie with the man Waterson portrayed—a drug dealer and pimp. But the world was full of surprises.

It was a surprise when Lourdes called to inform us that someone had used Reggie Crane’s credit card at a gas station in Metairie. A Jefferson Parish deputy rolled on the alert and, with a description of the car, located it parked at a local bar. Hank and I headed there. The deputy met us down the block in sight of the bar.

“He’s still in there, Deputy?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve got another unit watching the alley, so he can’t flee out the back door.”

“Good, let’s go get this guy.”

The arrest proved easier than expected, as the dude was drunk. The deputy transported him to the JPSO, and once he sobered up, we got the pesky jurisdiction matter settled. Hank and I took one Billy Jabot back to NOPD. It didn’t take long for Jabot to spill his guts. I called Waterson.

“Boone, you’re telling me Jabot saw a man named Frank Davenport throw Crane’s wallet and cell phone away, and he retrieved it.”

“Yes, sir. He said Davenport was in the same bar, bragging that they had done a big job and were rolling in cash. Jabot saw him throw the wallet and phone into the dumpster, so he fished them out. He spent roughly eight hundred dollars in cash he found in the wallet, and since he was broke, he decided to use the credit card.”

“Boone, you spent any time in vice?”

“No, sir, not at all.”

“Any undercover work?”

“Yes, sir, a bit with the bunco unit when I was first on the force.”

“Good. Because I have an idea.”

~~~

Waterson’s idea wasn’t my favorite, but the FBI bought into it as well, and the next thing I knew, I was undercover as a drug dealer from California who was moving in on the New Orleans scene. With Jabot safely tucked away in FBI custody so he couldn’t rat me out, I quietly moved into a luxury condo in New Orleans, and for the next few weeks, I threw the FBI’s money around as I cozied up to the seedier side of New Orleans. Not my thing. Give me a good old-fashioned murder any day. Drugs and hookers made me nervous.

It didn’t take long to get the word out that I was a player. I spent a lot of time in that bar in Metairie and made contact with Frank Davenport. Grease the palms well enough, and loyalty is exchangeable or appears that way. I had hoped to ruffle a few feathers, and after two months, word came that the new boss in New Orleans wanted to talk to the wannabe new boss—maybe strike a deal. Did I expect a double-cross? Yes. Was I glad the FBI put a wire on me? Yes, because this double-cross was a doozy.

Davenport was along to be my ‘backup,’ but I didn’t believe he was on my side for a minute. I had been under tight scrutiny for forty-eight hours with no opportunity to communicate with my FBI contact. I hoped they were listening.

Where we met should have been a surprise, but it wasn’t. It was one in the morning, and we pulled into a parking spot next to the Lakeshore Pier. What’s that saying? What goes around comes around? Not sure I like that proverb.

“Who are we meeting, Frank?”

“You’ll find out.”

I glanced around, hoping I had backup. My best bet was the park shelter across the street, and I wondered if that was where Frank Davenport and his crony had hidden out before killing Reggie Crane. Frank never admitted to being involved, but Jabot claimed he had. I didn’t trust Davenport one bit.

My pulse quickened as headlights appeared in the distance. It was showtime. A black SUV pulled up, and the driver got out, then opened the back door. Who stepped out was a shock, but I kept my face stoic as the man approached.

“Well, well, so you’re the man who wants to take over New Orleans. California not big enough for you?”

“Nah, just had a hankering for gumbo and a little action. Heard there’s business for the taking here.”

“Sorry, but you’re wrong.”

“Not from where I’m standing. I’ve been asking around. You only have a tenuous hold on the drug pipeline, and I understand the Mexican cartel is nipping at your heels.”

“No one’s nipping at anything. Now you have two choices—get the hell out of my town or die. Take your pick. Me, I’d prefer to kill you.”

Frank took a step toward me, but I didn’t move. “Just like you killed Reggie Crane?”

His eyes widened. “I didn’t kill Reggie. He was a loved figure here. Why would I do that?”

“To take over his business—drugs, gambling, prostitutes, and all that money.”

“Got it all figured out, don’t you? Well, I didn’t kill Reggie.”

“No, you had it done, same thing. How about we make a deal, and I won’t tell anyone what happened.”

He threw his head back in laughter. “Do you know who I am? You think anyone would believe you?”

“I know who you are. Doesn’t change the fact that you killed the last man running the show. Gonna make me walk the plank like you did him?”

“Yeah, I had him killed. Fool was trying to blackmail me because one of his girls died when she was with me. What I did with that whore was my business. I paid for her. So, I thought, I’ll take over his operation. There are a few loose ends to clear up, and you’re one of them. Frank, Jimmy, take care of this bastard.”

Jimmy pulled a gun from his jacket as Frank grabbed my arm. I spun, twisting Frank’s arm behind him, his body in front of me. With no clear target, Jimmy started to rush us when the sound of tires screeching filled the air, and floodlights blinded us. A yell of “FBI. Put down your weapons” was music to my ears. The cavalry, better known as the FBI, had hidden behind the shelter and acted just in time.

The man we were after bolted in fear and ran onto the pier. I ran after him.

“Stop, it’s over.” He kept running. I followed, pulling my weapon from the holster on my lower back.

He reached the circular end of the pier and stopped. “Shouldn’t have left him here. Should have thrown him in the lake.”

“Mayor Cormier, I am Detective Boone of the NOPD, and I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Reginald Crane.” Hank and several FBI agents surrounded us—it was over.

~~~

The media was abuzz twenty-four/seven for two weeks with the scandals involving Mayor Cormier and Reggie Crane. Hank and I escaped the relentless media at headquarters to have dinner at Mama Leone’s.

I twirled my fork in a plate of Spaghetti Pomodoro, letting the aroma of garlic take me to the Tuscan countryside. I chuckled. I've never been to Tuscany, but I imagine it would be nice. Hank, who had served with the FBI task force, was regaling Mama and Uncle Matteo with the details he could divulge. One good thing was that the FBI cleared Marcus Monroe and the center of any involvement in Crane’s criminal actions, and the city vowed to continue funding the center.

It would take a long time for New Orleans to get past the betrayal of two men who we should have been able to trust. For now, I’m going to think about Tuscany.