CHAPTER 24
Milo and Goleman exchanged cards and Goleman extracted a promise from Milo to let him know “once you’ve solved it.”
As we watched him barrel away, Milo said, “Optimism of the righteous.” We returned to his office, where he called Delano Hardy’s home number in Ladera Heights.
Milo’s initial partner at West L.A., Hardy had retired a few months ago. The department’s logic back then was a pairing of outsiders: gay D with black D. The partnership had worked well until Del’s wife pressured him not to spend his days with “someone like that.”
That same wife answered.
“Martha, it’s Milo. Del around?”
“Milo, how nice.” Her voice was Karo syrup. “He’s out gardening. How’ve
“Great, Martha.”
“Well, that’s
“The usual, Martha.”
“That’s really good, Milo. Hold on.”
Del came on. “What’s the occasion?”
“High intrigue in New Orleans. You garden?”
“Yeah, right. I’m weeding her flower beds, big-time fun,” said Hardy. “The old country, huh?” He’d moved to California as a teen but had grown up in one of the parishes swept away by Katrina. The division had passed around the hat for some of his relatives. I kicked in a couple hundred bucks, received a personal call from Del. I’m sure he did the same in response to Milo’s thousand-dollar donation.
“So what can I help you with, Big Guy?”
Milo explained about Qeesha D’Embo and a scary cop named Clyde.
Hardy said, “Only connection I might conceivably still have is Uncle Ray-not my real uncle, my godfather Ray Lhermitte, did patrol with Daddy, worked his way up to captain. But he’s a lot older than us kids, Milo. For all I know he’s passed.”
“This point, I’ll take anything, D.H. Got a number for him?”
“Hold on, I’ll go find it. You want, I can prime the pump by calling him first.”
“Thanks.”
“I should be thanking you,” said Hardy.
“For what?”
“Letting me pretend I’m half useful. This retirement business is like dying on your feet.”
Eighteen minutes later, a call came in from Commander Raymond Delongpre Lhermitte (Retired). In a bass voice that alternated between rasp and molasses, Lhermitte said, “Tell me why you need this, son.”
Milo obliged.
“Okay,” said Lhermitte. “You present your case well. Problem is, we’ve been dealing with some pretty bad corruption issues here. Hurricane agitated it, the waters are still roiling, and even though I’m off the job I have no desire to stir up more.”
“Me neither, sir.”
“But you’re working a whodunit so to hell with anything else.”
“That’s true.”
“As it should be,” said Lhermitte. “Fact is, I shouldn’t even care, I’m growing orchids and shooting nutria for sport, but I can’t break the bonds. To the department as well as to my beautiful, crazy city. Never found a better place to live but sometimes it seems we’ve irritated the Almighty.”
“Gotta be rough,” said Milo.
“So,” said Lhermitte, “this girl was one of the fire survivors? That was a bad one, started in a hotel and took down an entire block of old wood buildings. What was that name again?”
“Qeesha D’Embo.”
“Sounds African-phony to me, son. No, afraid I’m not aware of anyone by that name.”
“Wouldn’t expect you to know everyone, sir.”
“I know a lot of people,” said Lhermitte. “Including Clyde Bordelon.”
“A cop?”
“Unfortunately, son. Ugly piece of psychology, I’d like to think the regs we got in place now he’d never have gotten hired. But who knows, nothing’s perfect.”
“He’s still on the force?”
“No, he’s lying under dirt. Shot with his own poorly maintained service gun in the backyard of his own poorly maintained house.”
“When?”
“Coupla years ago. Still an open case.”
“Any suspects?”
“Too many suspects, son. Nasty individual that he was.”
“What kind of nasty?”
“Clyde was what’s known as an individual of loose morals. By that I don’t mean transgressions of a sexual nature, though if you told me Clyde had congress with a herd of cocaine-blinded goats I wouldn’t gasp in amazement because bottom line, the man was amoral, rules just didn’t apply to him. But the sins the
“Any of them stand out?”
“A girl,” said Lhermitte. “A dancer, not a church-girl. But her name wasn’t Qeesha, it was Charlene Rae Chambers.”
“By dancer-”
“I mean stripper. Her stage name was CoCo. Like the dress designer. Pretty little thing, not one of ours, she was a Yankee, came up from somewhere in New York to work the pole at the Deuces Wild. One of Clyde’s favorite after-hour spots. After she started there it became his only after-hour spot.”
“Obsessed?”
“You could say that.”
“Why was she the prime?” said Milo.
“Because she was the last person seen with Clyde when he was alive and talk was he’d stalked her, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Despite her claim of being bothered, witnesses have her getting into his car that night and riding away. It took a while for our detectives to talk to her. So many suspects and all. By the time they reached her it was too late for a GSR and she had an alibi. Clyde took her straight home, she showered and slept for eight hours. Her roommate, another dancer, verified it.”
“Not exactly ironclad.”
“Oh, there’s a good chance she did it,” said Lhermitte. “Or had someone else do it for her. Matter of fact, I’d bet on her being responsible. Two days after she was interviewed, she was gone, no forwarding.”
“I’d like to send you a picture of Qeesha-”
“Then you’d have to do it by what my grand-babies call snail mail. Got no computer, no fax machine, only one phone in the house, a rotary, as old as me, made of Bakelite. Tell you what, though, I’ll make a call and see if someone still on the job can help you.”
“Appreciate it, sir. Did Charlene actually live in the fire zone?”
“Don’t know if she did or she didn’t,” said Lhermitte. “I’ll ask about that, too.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Pleasure’s all mine.”
By the time a New Orleans detective named Mark Montecino had emailed asking for Milo’s fax number, Milo had already pulled up two NCIC mug shots of Charlene Rae Chambers, female black, brown and brown, five four,
