Artist Read Free Page A

paperwork. Crime scene reports, the paperwork from the autopsy, notes from Adan and Brooks and Weaver all had to be tied together, the DA notified. Adan sat across the room, his feet up on the desk while he banged away on a typewriter. An hour after sitting down , Dupond had what he thought was enough to get Clive at least charged. Convicted probably, maybe, who knew? A good lawyer and a liberal judge could put him back on the street in forty-eight hours where Clive could pick right back up where he started, maybe change his territory or even run off to bigger cities and bigger deals. Dupond just let it slide. His job was to catch the bad guy, to orchestrate the hunt and seal things up as best he could. Worrying about the rest of the system was useless and could drive any reasonable man crazy if he let it.
    He was stuffing paper into a folder when Alton Reed stuck his head in the door. Reed was beefy, a good looking blonde man with heavy shoulders and the whitest teeth of anyone in the department, which went over well when he was holding press conference. He was also the head of Homicide and an aspiring politician. He had come up through patrol, earned a law degree at night, and was tagged as a future candidate for mayor by some of the local Republicans, who were fighting to gain ground in a Democratic state and an even more Democratic city.
    “Sooner or later,” Reed was fond of saying, “Even the welfare people and the bleeding heart liberals will get tired of not being able to walk through the French quarter without getting robbed or shot. When that happens they’ll want a strong and experienced law enforcement guy running the city.” He would flash his teeth at his audience when he said it, usually to a group of coffee wired cops, raise his hands in peace signs like Richard Nixon, and finish with “Guess who they’ll want?” He was also fond of beignets liberally sprinkled with powdered sugar and Dup ond could see a light dusting of white powder on his jacket sleeve.
    “Get your partner here and head out to the Lakefront. Jennie has the address.” Reed said. Jennie was his secretary, a former patrol officer, one of the first woman patrol officers in the city. She’d been a good one until she ran across a domestic dispute gone bad, really bad, when she’d gone out the window of a third story housing project window grappling with a drunk husband. The husband had gone out too, hit the ground first and cushioned her fall. He died, Jennie took desk duty rather than injury retirement so she could still carry a gun. She ran the office, doling out assignments, while Reed concentrated on looking good and smiling a lot for the camera.
    “What’s up?” Dupond asked, already picking up his jacket.
    “That’s for you to tell me. Pat rol got a call from some girl, wanting us to check on her friend. They showed up, found the girl dead, and the uniform called in saying we need to get out there. Simpson and Nye are tied up with a shooting on Benefit, Slaughter and Peroncel are off kissing the ass of the current mayor. Who, I may add, is down ten points in the polls. That leaves you and Emile, who right now is scuffing up the top of a desk I don’t have the budget to replace. Call me when you’re done. I might even answer. Or better yet, write it up and I’ll read it tomorrow.”
    “Come on Alton, we just made a major bust of a drug dealer and wanton killer of innocent folks on the street,” Adan said. “Send somebody else.”
    “I would if I had heard you,” Reed said from down the hall. “But I must have already been gone before you started talking.”
     
     
     
       Hard packed earth made up the trail, rolling through pine and scrub brush and scattered oak. Not quite flat, it offered enough dips and extended roots to make a runner pay close attention or risk a twisted ankle. During the summer, the place was thick with bugs and moisture laden air blowing in from Lake Ponchartrain, carrying the smell of