head out. She was about twenty-five, skinny, with shoulder-length brown hair. Ray pegged her as an ex-junkie, probably with a kid she was trying to take care of. “Who you looking for?” she said.
There was no sense lying to her. “I’m looking for Dylan.”
She shook her head. “He moved out.”
Another dead end. “You know where he went?”
The girl looked him up and down. “You a cop?”
“Just a friend.”
“You’ll have to ask the manager. He might have left a forwarding address or something.”
“Where’s the manager?”
“Apartment fourteen,” she said.
“How long ago did he move out?”
“Last month sometime. Right after all them cars got broke into.”
“Thanks,” Ray said. He headed toward apartment fourteen.
Ray told the manager Sylvester had rented a TV and was three months behind on the payments. “I’m supposed to get the TV back or get the money,” he said.
The fiftysomething manager sat at a round table in her kitchen with one elbow propped on the chipped Formica top, a cigarette burning between her fingers. She wore a threadbare pink housecoat. Between drags on her cigarette, she said, “He still owes me two months’ rent.”
“You got any idea where he went?”
She shook her head and pursed her lips for another drag. Then she stopped and snapped her fingers. “One time, right after all that trouble we had with them kids breaking into the cars, he told me he was going to move out to the East, to one of those complexes that has security.” She traced a circle on the table with one yellowed fingertip. “One with a security fence and a guard.
Never before had Ray realized how many apartment complexes there were in New Orleans East. He started his search just past the high-rise, the bridge that arches high over the Industrial Canal. He cruised up and down Morrison Avenue, then searched along the major cross streets, then finally rolled down the interstate service roads.
What he was looking for was Dylan Sylvester’s car, described in the burglary report as a blue Buick four-door, and registered to a woman named Belinda Sylvester, born twenty years before Dylan. Ray figured Belinda was Sylvester’s mother. No self-respecting crook ever put a car in his own name.
Cruising apartment parking lots, looking for the blue Buick, Ray had time to think about coincidences, about how he didn’t believe in them, and about the odds of all this happening by chance.
Salazaar and Sylvester knew each other. They had been arrested together and had once served time in the joint together. And Ray had arrested both of them. There was nothing really unusual in two butt-buddy scumbags like that getting together to pull off a job. That could be a coincidence.
But where Ray quit believing it was a coincidence was the point where Salazaar and Sylvester got together with two other mopes to rob the Rising Sun, the place where Ray-the cop who had arrested them both-just happened to work.
Then there was the incredible timing: the four masked gunmen showing up while Hector was taking a leak, and just when Ray was watching the door, the one time he had done that since he started working at the House. Ray was no math whiz, but he knew enough to know that the odds of all that happening by chance were very slim, like winning-the-Powerball slim.
Then there were the dead bodies. Michael Salazaar, aka Scooby, standing outside his apartment, gunned down in a drive-by shooting. Hector disappearing right after the robbery. Tony having to hunt for him, finding him hiding out in a shit motel. Hector still trying to run. Tony-moron that he was-shooting the only witness they had.
Ray realized someone had to be setting him up. But who? Just among those working inside the House, there were twenty or thirty possibilities, and those were just the people who didn’t like him. With three hundred grand involved, it could easily be someone Ray didn’t even know, someone just using him for convenience.
As Ray rolled through the streets of New Orleans East, an idea wormed its way into his brain that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. What if the person who set up the robbery knew Ray was going to get the job of looking for the shooters? What if giving him the job was part of the plan, the part that made him look like he was covering up the fact that he was the inside man?
And who gave him the job? Who forced it on him? Who insisted that since he was an ex-cop he was the best man for it? Who had motive, means, and opportunity? Who was the most inside man of all?
Vinnie Messina.
Tony Zello kept looking at his watch as he paced up and down in front of Fausto’s Italian Restaurant on Dumaine Street. It was eight o’clock.
Never trust a cop, not even to be on time.
A few minutes later he saw Jimmy LaGrange two blocks away, strolling up the street, wearing an off-the-rack department store coat and tie. Tony waved for him to hurry up, but LaGrange just kept ambling along.
When the detective finally reached him, Tony tapped his Rolex. “You’re fucking late.”
“I got held up.”
“He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” He grabbed LaGrange’s elbow and tried to steer him toward the front door.
LaGrange jerked his arm away. “I don’t like meeting gangsters in public. Why couldn’t we handle this over the phone?”
Tony softened his tone a little. He needed this to go smooth. “He wants to meet you in person.” Then he draped an arm over LaGrange’s shoulders. “Don’t worry so much. Everything’s gonna work out fine, you’ll see.”
As they stepped into the restaurant, LaGrange said, “Is this going to get me back on the payroll?”
Tony nodded, not saying what was really on his mind, thinking how it was always the same with cops. They only cared about one thing-money. No wonder they were called pigs. Respect, honor, and loyalty were concepts that meant nothing to them.
“And you’re going to take care of my problem with Shane?” LaGrange asked.
“Yeah, yeah,” Tony said. “I’m gonna take care of everything, but don’t bother Mr. Messina with that mundane crap.”
LaGrange scanned the restaurant. He looked nervous. Tony ran his hand up and down the detective’s back, feeling for a wire. He didn’t find one. He asked LaGrange, “What’s wrong?”
“I told you, I don’t like meeting in public,” LaGrange said. He pushed Tony’s arm away. “And I don’t like being felt up by a fucking queer. You want to know if I’m wearing a wire, ask me.”
Tony stopped and grabbed the cop’s tie, pulling them face-to-face. “You want to remember where you are, and who you’re talking to. If you got a problem”-he pointed to the door-“you can carry your sorry ass back outside.”
LaGrange took a deep breath. “I don’t have a problem.”
They walked on.
Vinnie Messina, dressed in a dark suit and tie, sat at a table in the back of Fausto’s. A couple of trifold rattan screens separated his table from the rest of the diners and provided an air of privacy. Rocco and a thug named Joey sat on either side of him.
Tony pointed to an empty chair opposite Vinnie and gave LaGrange a nudge. “Have a seat.” The detective sat down and Tony slid into the chair next to him. Baskets of garlic bread and two bottles of wine were already on the table. Tony poured himself a glass. He hoped the cop was smarter than he looked, hoped he would phrase everything just right. After a sip of wine, Tony looked at Vinnie. “Mr. Messina, I’d like to introduce you to somebody.” He nodded to the detective. “This is Detective Jimmy LaGrange.”
Vinnie stared at LaGrange. Then he glanced at Tony. “Is he clean?”
Tony nodded.
Vinnie gnawed a hunk of bread. He took his time, washing the bread down with a gulp of wine. Then he wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. When he finished, he tossed the napkin on the table. A waiter hovering nearby jumped in to pick it up and replaced it with a fresh folded one. As soon as the waiter had stepped out of the way, Vinnie said to LaGrange, “I hear you got something to tell me.”
