An Evil Shadow - A Val Bosanquet Mystery



  Other books from AJ Davidson

  Non-fiction

  Kidnapped

  Defamed!

  Fiction

  Death Sentence – A Val Bosanquet Mystery

  Moon on the Bayou – A Val Bosanquet Mystery

  Sandman – A Val Bosanquet Mystery

  Churchill’s Queen

  Wounded Tiger

  Piwko’s Proof

  Paper Ghosts

  Decoys

  AN EVIL SHADOW

  By

  AJ Davidson

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  An Evil Shadow

  Copyright © 2010 by AJ Davidson

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  To Shannon

  CHAPTER ONE

  New Orleans 2003

  Donny Jackson turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door and entered the apartment, then used his foot to hook the door shut behind him. His hands were full. In one, he carried a medium-sized Samsonite case and a plastic bag containing a box of smuggled duty-free Cuban cigars, in the other his keys and a bunch of mail that had accumulated during his latest trip to Vietnam.

  The temperature inside was just a few degrees from being chilly and he could hear the ceiling fan rotating slowly. For once, the building's super had remembered to turn the power back on for his return. He used an elbow to flick on the lights.

  It felt good to be home. If you could call an apartment, he saw for less than two months out of every twelve home. There had been times when he felt it was nothing more than a five-room closet; a place to store his clothes and his MP3 player. Still, it wouldn’t be for much longer. If all went to plan then he had only three more weeks before he had his hands on more money than he had dreamed possible in his wildest fantasy. He would never have to work another day in his life. No more long-haul flights in cramped, tourist class seats. No more cheap, flea-ridden hotels in fourth-world countries. No more having to take orders from a bunch of pricks.

  Setting down the case and the cigars, he quickly sorted through his mail. Predictably, all were circulars addressed to the occupier of apartment 36. Donny was meticulous about keeping his name off mailing lists, and the apartment was leased under a corporate name, by the firm that employed him. But it took more than that to defeat the marketing men.

  He had expected to receive a card from his mother. It had been his birthday the previous day. Celebrated by the devouring of a Big Mac and a strawberry shake in a Hanoi McDonalds. His forty-second birthday and she hadn’t missed one yet. He went through the envelopes again in case he had overlooked it. Nope, nothing there. A little disillusioned, he threw the mail on the chrome and smoked-glass coffee table. He would trash them later.

  Shaking off his jacket, he draped it over the back of a chair and slipped his feet out of his penny loafers. He sniffed at an armpit and screwed up his face. Boy, could he use a shower. He moved across the room to his MP3 player and selected a Garth Brooks album, turning up the volume. The music would help him unwind while he showered. Installing a remote speaker on the bathroom wall was his only contribution to the apartment’s fixtures and fittings.

  Jackson walked into the bedroom and through to the bathroom. He swung open the glass door of the stall and turned on the water. It would take a few moments to reach the temperature he liked. Studying his face in the mirror, he considered shaving, but since he would need another shave in the morning, what was the point? He screwed the top off a bottle of mouthwash, took a hefty swig, and started to gargle away the taste of airline food.

  As he lowered his head to spit in the sink, he caught a face reflected in the mirror. A mountain of a man with skin as shiny and black as an eggplant, his long hair hanging down in braids tied off with red and blue ribbon. Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe adorned the front of his short-sleeved shirt. The man grinned wickedly, displaying a solid gold bicuspid.

  Jackson knew the dental work only too well. Gilett and he had worked together on countless occasions and Jackson had considered him an ally. The man’s unannounced manifestation in his bathroom suggested that he had been wrong.

  The stiletto blade in his hand confirmed it.

  Jackson twisted around and spat a stream of mouthwash straight into the man’s eyes. Momentarily blinded, Gilett’s stabbing thrust veered off course slightly and deflected against a collarbone instead of severing Jackson’s spine as intended. Locking his hands together, Jackson clubbed his attacker, catching him off balance. He followed up by grabbing a handful of hair and slamming the man’s head against the Spanish tiles on the bathroom wall.

  He seized hold of Gilett’s right wrist. It felt as hard and rigid as a baseball bat. There was no way he could match Gilett for strength. He made a claw of his other hand and raked his eyes. Gilett caught his arm and pushed it away before he had inflicted any real damage.

  They wrestled for dominance, grunting with effort, their feet slipping on the marble floor. A cloud of steam enveloped them as Garth Brooks started into Friends in Low Places.

  Gilett’s cannonball of a head was inches from Jackson’s. Close enough for him to catch the heavy sour stench of rum on his breath. Jackson tried to sink his teeth into a cheek. Gilett pulled away and butted him.

  His nose bone cracked and blinded him with pain. Blood poured into his mouth and resistance started to drain from him. With only seconds to live, all he could think about was how he should have anticipated something like this. Jackson, how dumb can you be?

  Drawing on the last of his reserves, he brought his knee up into the black man’s groin and was rewarded with a grunt and a slight loosening of the grip on his arm.

  It was enough. He grabbed another handful of hair, jerking Gilett’s head backward to expose his throat.

  Jackson rose on his toes and sank his teeth into the vulnerable larynx. He felt the crack as a bridge of bone and cartilage gave way.

  The two men twisted around and stumbled. Gilett’s head cracked against the toilet. The stiletto went skidding across the floor. Jackson stretched for it.

  Gilett’s hand reached it first and he turned and sank the blade into the fleshy part of Jackson’s thigh. His body went rigid and he screamed in agony, but the pain brought renewed strength and he drove a fist into Gilett’s damaged throat. Gilett let go the knife to protect his damaged larynx.

  Jackson used the rim of the sink to haul himself off the floor, the knife protruding from his leg like some evil, black leech. He limped into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed.

  Above the music, Jackson caught the gagging sounds of his former ally fighting for breath. A cold fury exploded deep inside him. Fuck them and their treachery! Damned if he was going to make it easy for those cocksuckers.

  Jackson gingerly touched the hilt of the knife and a wave of dizzy pain swept through him. He had seconds before Gilett would recover and come at him again.

  Removing the knife would give him a weapon, but he was already in poor sha
pe and could pass out from the effort. Even if he remained conscious, he was far from certain that a knife would be enough of an advantage.

  He could make a run for it, but how far could he get with a knife in his leg, blood pouring from his nose and a gash in his shoulder?

  His living room? The door of his apartment? If he could get that far, he could make the elevator. He might make even make it to his car. At least then, he would have a chance.

  He ran.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Val Bosanquet knew right off that his brother intended to ask a favor of him, and a big one at that.

  The phone call earlier that Sunday morning had taken Val by surprise — it had been two years since they had last spoken, twice that since they had met face to face — but the venue and the timing of the meeting intrigued him enough to agree to his brother's request.

  He knew that Marcus's only possible reason for suggesting Jackson Square was the fond associations the place held for them both. Memories of other Sunday mornings long ago back when they were kids. Of their mother attending mass in St Louis Cathedral, while the three men in her life waited outside in the square. Their father would find a shaded bench to read the sports section, while Marcus and Val played at soldiers, their marching feet raising clouds of dust on what had once been the parade ground of the New Orleans Militia.

  When mass was over, they would walk through Pirate’s Alley, find a table at a banquette cafe and order chocolate and beignets. It was a cherished memory from a childhood that had little to commend it, but one that Marcus was not beyond invoking when it suited him.

  The cathedral bells starting to peal snapped Val’s thoughts back to the present and he quickly scanned the square. Little had changed. Swarms of rubbernecking tourists, clutching complimentary street maps in front of them like divining rods, were passing through on their way to the French Quarter, pausing briefly to admire the art hung along the wrought-iron railings. Outside the park, tired mules stood between the shafts of their buggies, flicking their tails at the pestering flies. A white-faced mime artist performed her routine in front of a group of twenty camera-festooned Japanese conventioneers.

  Val had arrived early, knowing that Marcus would show up dead on time. They were both creatures of habit.

  He picked him out the moment he entered the park. Catalog Man. Two years spent in Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar had left a deep impression on Marcus. He brought back an affection for a dress style peculiarly British.

  Acknowledging that he lacked any sense of taste, he would order entire wardrobes out of the mail-order catalogs of London stores, replicating exactly the outfits that caught his eye. Today he was wearing cricket whites, with the sleeves of a pullover draped over his shoulders and knotted loosely at the front of his chest. A cricket cap finished off the ensemble. Val allowed himself a sardonic smile. His brother, Dean of the Creative Arts faculty at the University of New Orleans, might not have attracted much attention on campus, but in the middle of Jackson Square ...

  He sat on the bench next to Val.

  “It’s been much too long. How are things with you, Valentino?”

  Val flinched. Marcus was the one person who still insisted on using his full name.

  “Pretty good.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Marcus, tell me what I’m doing here? Has it anything to do with Angie?”

  Angie — Val still couldn’t speak her name without experiencing hollowness deep inside — was, technically, still his wife. Four years previously, she had left him to move in with his brother. Too devout a Catholic to contemplate divorce, yet possessing a wickedly dark sense of humor, she reveled in the ambiguity created by her married name corresponding with that of her new partner. Val had wondered on occasions if Angie and he would have been together still had he been an only son.

  “Leave Angie out of it,” Marcus said. “I’m here to offer you a job.”

  “I have a job.”

  “I mean a real job. One with a future. Designing and manufacturing illuminated signs for carnival floats is hardly what you’d call a long-term prospect.”

  “It suits me.” Val wondered how Marcus had come to know of his latest entrepreneurial venture. There had been several ignominious failures in the first couple of years, but this time he had struck gold. Val and a few other members of the Black Cat carnival krewe had formed a company to cash in on the mother of all parties that was millennium year. Business had been good and the company was still turning over a good profit three years later.

  It was evident from Marcus’s troubled expression that he was having difficulty coming up with the right words to finish saying what he had started. To gain a few seconds, he shifted his gaze to an Oriental man asking a passing stranger to take a photograph of his group. By the time they had moved on, Marcus was ready to continue.

  “The campus police chief is retiring — ill health. A stroke has left his right arm and leg paralyzed. The post will be advertised this week, but with the new semester only two weeks away, we need to find a replacement fast. I want you to apply. I can’t promise anything, but my endorsement would carry a lot of weight.”

  “No thanks. I gave up being a cop four years ago.”

  “Don’t say that. Once a cop, always a cop. It’s in your blood.”

  “Maybe it’s slipped your mind, but I left the department voluntarily.”

  A puzzled expression clouded Marcus’s face. “I never understood what possessed you to resign. The youngest homicide detective lieutenant in the history of the New Orleans PD; the most decorated; a clear-up rate that kept you on the front-pages and made you the mayor’s favorite son. Then one day, out of the blue, you just turn your back and walk away.”

  “I had my reasons.”

  “Sure you did. That damned perverseness of yours right up there at the top of the list. You’ve always taken after Dad.”

  Val felt a cold hand tighten around his heart. People say you only remember the good times, but what if there are times so bad you can never obliterate them? Their father had been prone to sudden, irrational bouts of violence, during which he would beat his two sons black and blue. These moods came on without warning, and usually without any grounds. Afterward he would be guilt-ridden and beg their forgiveness. Marcus never gave it, but for Val, the time it took for the hurt to dissipate grew shorter with each attack until, eventually, he became inured to it.

  Marcus was still speaking. “... cursed with the same insane compulsion to mess up anything that could be good for you.”

  “And you’re starting to sound like Angie,” Val said, standing up. He hadn’t articulated the reason for his decision to anyone, not even fully to himself. There were unexplored depths to some men’s psyche that were best left that way.

  “You may have turned your back on the one thing you were ever any good at, but don’t try telling me you don’t miss it.”

  “If so,” Val snarled, “do you seriously believe that pushing paper across a desk and busting freshmen for smoking cannabis would compensate?”

  “There’s considerably more to it than that. You would be your own boss, answerable to nobody. A rent-free apartment comes as part of the package. The money’s good, and you would be able to transfer your PD annuity fund into the university’s. I happen to know you haven’t vested it yet, so another few years of contributions and you could retire on full pension.”

  “You’ve obviously done your homework. Shame you wasted your time. Give the job to the assistant chief,” Val said, turning to walk away.

  “Don’t go. I’m not through explaining.”

  “I’m through listening.”

  “You promised me ten minutes,” Marcus said, raising his voice for the first time.

  Val twisted around and gave him a hard stare. “Then cut out the bullshit and tell me the truth. Since when did you give a damn what I do? Is this some sort of scam Angie’s lawyers have come up with so they can shaft me some more?”
>
  Marcus stood up and placed a hand on his brother’s arm.

  “Do you remember a young girl called Marie Duval?”

  “A Haitian Creole who did a Lizzie Borden on her mother. At the time of the killing she was six weeks shy of her tenth birthday.”

  “You were the primary investigating officer.”

  It was Val’s turn to be baffled. What possible interest could Marcus have in a killing that had taken place ten years before? “There wasn’t a whole lot of investigating required. What’s it to you?”

  “Duval’s applied to the university to study Caribbean Art. We’ve accepted her. She scored over fifteen hundred on her SATs.”

  Like some dumb kid brother, Val said the first thing that came into his head. “And you want my opinion as to whether she’s likely to kill again?”

  “Not really. Professionals have already assured us that she poses a minimal risk. A condition of her acceptance by the university was her consenting to undergo psychiatric testing. The reports say that she is a gifted artist, well balanced and mature for her age — an ambitious young woman. Apparently her mother was a manbo — a voodoo priestess — who had been planning to initiate Marie. The child was locked up for nine days without food or water and was forcibly subjected to a series of barbaric voodoo rites and trials. The culminating test was for Marie’s right hand to be plunged into a pot of scalding water. If she was deserving of manbo status, her spirits would protect her, and her hand would suffer no harm. Marie genuinely believed she would fail the test and, in a weakened state, terrified and fearing for her life, she attacked her mother. She was acting in self-defense. If you ask me, the mother was the truly dangerous one.”

  Val shrugged. It was much the same story as Duval’s attorney had laid on him ten years before. Like any street-weary cop, he gave little credence to bizarre defenses and had heard his share of weird ones. Yet he had been reluctant to totally discount Duval’s. His investigation into the Duval killing was the second time he had come up against the Art of Darkness. His first was as a rookie whose beat included a notorious Iberville housing project, plagued with petty crime the PD were powerless to do anything about. Then one day an oungan, a voodoo priest, stepped in and the word went out that there was to be an end to the vandalism, muggings and burglaries. The oungan was held in awe and was reputed to practice with both hands — magic and sorcery. Within a week, it was safe to walk the streets at night. It had been difficult for Val to remain cynical when confronted with results like that.