Crescent City Detective

  Copyright © 2016 by Vito Zuppardo

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination.

  No part of the book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission.

  Personal Message from

  Vito Zuppardo:

  I love to write, and I love to hear from my readers. If you enjoyed this book or any of my others, send me an email, and I will personally respond. I love to hear from my readers. vito@vitozuppardobooks.com

  Thank You

  Books by Vito Zuppardo

  Alluring Lady Luck (2015)

  True Blue Detective (2016)

  Tales of Lady Luck (2016)

  Crescent City Detective (2017)

  www.vitozuppardobooks.com

  Crescent City Detective

  By Vito Zuppardo

  Published by Vito Zuppardo

  CHAPTER 1

  It was just before daybreak and the dark skyline over Lake Pontchartrain in New Orleans East just started to ease to a blue, pinkish color indicating today was going to be a beautiful day. Doctor Walter Ross stood in front of his car with a black box sitting at his feet, waiting to catch the first sight of his friend Amir’s jet coming from a distance over the lake. The plane would head directly for the north-south runway of the now secondary airport for New Orleans. The only use the airport got was television and radio news helicopters, some small military aircraft, and an occasional cargo plane flying in and out of the longstanding airfield. The location made it perfect to hand off harvested organs for transplant to his highest bidder, which had always been Amir.

  “They are three minutes out. You should see the aircraft over the lake now,” the attendant shouted from his small makeshift metal building that served as the ground operations office.

  “Thank you,” Dr. Ross yelled back as his eyes focused on the aircraft in the sky slowly descending over the lake.

  It didn’t take long for the super sleek Gulfstream VI to land on the short runway and taxi up to the fuel truck waiting to service them. He knew the drill—he waited by his car until someone from the aircraft came down the stairway with a suitcase in hand. A bag filled with two hundred thousand dollars was the going price for two freshly harvested organs. A man unknown to Dr. Ross followed Amir down the steps, carrying a brown leather bag over his shoulder. Amir handed the ground handler a wad of cash for the fuel and a bonus for his silence that a plane had landed for refueling that morning. The airport was open twenty-four hours a day, and of course, the control tower staffed at all times. Their responsibility was to keep a log of all airplane activity in and out of the airport, and the ground handler recorded all business on the field until the aircraft was once again airborne. In this case, the operations manager’s login report showed refueled, and pilots walked off the plane to stretch their legs. It was the usual process: Dr. Ross financially took care of the man at the field operations office, and Amir took care of the ground handler, the only other witness that could confirm some transaction occurred that morning.

  Dr. Ross still didn’t recognize the man carrying the leather bag as they approached him. “Good morning,” the doctor said, extending his hand to Amir.

  “Good morning, my friend,” Amir said, shaking his hand. “This is my associate, Myron. He will be your new contact.”

  “Myron, I look forward to working with you,” Dr. Ross said, shaking his hand and returning a slight bow of his head.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you finally,” Myron said.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your associate Jack. Was his death sudden?” Amir asked.

  Dr. Ross looked at Amir and remembered he never actually explained Jack’s death. “Yes, it was sudden.” If you call one single bullet to the head fired from a rooftop by an unknown assassin sudden. The doctor thought for a second then was snapped out of his trance by Amir’s voice.

  “We must go,” Amir said as he handed the doctor the leather bag.

  The black box passed to Myron after dusting off the bottom from the dirty airfield.

  “The clock is ticking. You have about five hours of life for these organs,” Dr. Ross said.

  “No worry, my friend, in a little more than an hour this jet will have us in the Bahamas. My recipient is waiting and prepped for surgery,” Amir said, walking towards the airplane.

  “Have a safe trip,” Dr. Ross said, holding tightly to his bag of cash.

  Amir stopped and turned back to the doctor. “Thank you. By the way, your friend Jack,

  his body parts got a good home.”

  “Jack was a good employee and a big part of my business.”

  Amir thought for a second, rubbing his face with his hand. “Then it’s only right his organs ended up on the black market.”

  “I always felt I should have put his organs on the National Transplant List. Not have his organs end up that way.”

  Amir smiled, showing his snow-white teeth. “My friend, it’s the business we have chosen, and you opted to sell it to the highest bidder—me.”

  “We must go,” Myron said, and he and Amir climbed the stairs and boarded. The stairs folded into the body of the aircraft, the engines sounded, the plane moved to the runway, and within seconds they were airborne. Their journey was successful once again.

  The doctor locked the leather bag in the trunk of his car and headed to the hospital for a normal day’s work—as normal as possible for a physician out of jail on bond and the principal suspect in trafficking human organs on the black market.

  CHAPTER 2

  Gretchen Parks was the Chief of Detectives for Orleans Parish, which had a population of over four hundred thousand people. She was preparing for her morning meeting and reviewing briefing notes at her desk.

  Parks was a twenty-year law enforcement agent who made her way up the political ladder to chief the old-fashioned way—by graduating with honors from Loyola University in criminal justice, starting at the bottom as a patrol officer and surpassing every expectation. Her superiors challenged her as she climbed her way to Chief of Detective. Overseeing hundreds of detectives, she made it clear from the beginning some two years ago she was capable, born for the job, and would not tolerate disrespect as a leader.

  She held a monogrammed compact mirror in one hand and touched up her lipstick with the other. Then she gave a quick check, making sure there were no remaining croissant crumbs in her teeth. Enough about you. Let’s catch some bad guys, she thought to herself, closing her compact.

  The morning update meeting went over the usual one hour the chief had planned. Each detective gave an update on their cases, somehow they always managed to wander from the topic, and that made the meeting run long. They were about to break when Mario DeLuca walked in the room. Mario was the detective that cracked the case and arrested two of the Cornerview Gang members and Dr. Walter Ross. After two months of trials, this morning the verdict was announced.

  “Good news, I hope?” the chief asked.

  Mario walked to a table in the corner of the room. It didn't take long for a few guys to clutter the makeshift refreshment area with coffee and muffins the chief brought in for her morning meeting. Sugar packets were lying around the table looking like more sugar got on the table then in their coffee cups. Mario emptied the last of the coffee into his cup. “Sorry to say the two Cornerview gang members only received thirty-six months."

  “Thirty-six months for Julian ‘Juice Boy’ and his asshole buddy? Is that all?” The chief repeated.

  Mario blew the coffee, trying to cool it
down. It was from the bottom of the pot and was scorching and still scalding even after putting it in a cup and adding cream. “Dr. Ross got off clean. The DA’s office pushed hard, but the doctor’s attorney had all the right answers. And, of course, the hospital sided with the good doctor. The king of the organ transplants looked as pure as the driven snow when his attorneys got to finish telling their side of the story.” Mario walked to the center of the room with his coffee in hand. “Their defense was the doctor was helping poor people in foreign countries that needed transplants. The district attorney’s office could never prove any money ever exchanged hands for the organs. The doctor was put on notice and charged a ten-thousand-dollar fine for not using the National Transplant list. We knew the murder charges were weak, and of course, they got dismissed.”

  “What a joke,” the chief said, picking up her folder and little sticky notes of reminders and dismissing the detectives from her meeting. One by one the detectives cleared the room and returned to their desk and daily duties. “Mario, I wouldn’t be too hard on myself if I were you. Thirty-six months will keep these guys off the street—and remember the other bad guys are all dead.”

  “Good point, Chief. I’m going to drive Juice Boy and his gang buddy up to the Baton Rouge Correctional Institute tomorrow.”

  The chief gave him a look. “Why? Let it go. Correctional officers can drive them.”

  “I know, but they need two cars, and I’m going to pump Juice Boy for the hour’s drive. With Raul dead, and Juice Boy in jail, there has to be someone next in line to run things for the Cornerview Gang, and I want to know,” Mario said, seeing a frown on the chief’s face as her head shook from side to side.

  Mario was a good detective, but he never took the judge’s decision as the final word unless they got twenty years or a death verdict. Going to court, he would do research better than most attorneys and listened carefully to every testimony, drawing his conclusion of who was the guilty person, and their justified sentence. Taking the two Cornerview gang members to the correctional institution was his way of gathering information and keeping notes until their release. He would even run up to Baton Rouge a few times over the next year just to check in with the parole board to see how the jailbirds were obeying the rules in the event of an early release.

  “Good morning, Truman,” Mario said, taking a seat at his desk across from his partner.

  “Top of the morning to you. I hear the doctor walked, and the other two got thirty-six months,” he said, looking over at Mario.

  Truman knew he was opening a can of worms just talking about the court case, and prepared for the outburst of Mario’s feelings regarding the New Orleans judicial system.

  “These old judges need to reach down and grab a pair and start putting these criminals away for a long time. The courts in this city have no idea what we go through in the streets. Crimes are up, and murder is on the rise. These bad guys do what they want, and some high-priced attorney gets them off or with a little slap on the wrist. Like thirty-six months.”

  Truman looked at him with a smile. He knew how to push Mario’s buttons, and crank-start his day. “Are you finished?”

  “Yes,” he said, looking down at all the messages on his desk. “I’m out for a few hours and all these calls came in?”

  “You’re much loved by the street rats of New Orleans,” Truman said without even looking up. “You put the word on the street wanting info on the Cornerview Gang. Now every homeless person living under the overpass wants their five bucks for some bullshit story they made up.”

  “Don't worry about my gutter rats, I know how to screen the crap from a possible lead.” Mario waved a pink paper phone message in his hand. “Why didn’t you tell me Kate called?”

  “Kate called,” Truman said with a smile.

  Mario’s phone had been off in court, and “Katie,” as her family liked to call her, left a message there too. Mario always felt the name “Katie” was too childish for a woman in her late twenties and called her by her birth name. He listened to the messages on his phone as he sorted out the handwritten notes on his desk in some priority. “Oh, crap! I just listened to Kate’s phone message,” Mario bellowed out. “She is excited about tonight and fishing where I’m taking her for dinner. Plus she has a surprise for me.”

  “What’s tonight?” Truman asked.

  “Our four-year anniversary of our first date and I forgot to make dinner reservations—crap. It’s only noon. I’ll find someplace nice,” Mario said, looking through his address book of freelance restaurant jobs he had worked. Knowing the owners of the most popular restaurants in New Orleans was a plus—he either worked for a private party or watched the front door during late-night closing. Either way, his New Orleans Police Detective badge got him a perfect table and the time he wanted at most restaurants.

  “Why don’t you just marry the woman? You might get a surprise from her a few times a week,” Truman said with a smirk on his face. Mario gave him the finger.

  Mario dialed Kate’s number but knew he would probably not get in touch with her since she was at work. Her move to Charity Hospital as a trauma nurse in the emergency room made it difficult to contact her during work hours. The trauma staff could handle anything from a drug overdose, gunshot, chemical plant mishaps, to anything in between. Sure enough, her voice message came on the phone.

  “Hi, Kate, I’ll pick you up at eight. Looking forward to dinner tonight and your surprise. Love you,” he said.

  Truman couldn’t hold back. “I love you. Isn’t that nice?”

  “Let's go—enough marriage advice from a person that only had two loves in his life.” Truman gave him a puzzled look. “Your mother and grandmother,” Mario said, laughing. “Come on, we have to go break the news to Zack Nelson.”

  ***

  An unmarked police car pulled up in front of Riverside Inn. The red and blue lights were blinking, and a quick hit of the siren was followed by a microphone blaring, “Back away from the curb, sir.”

  Out front cleaning the brick walkway was Andrew, the full-time house gardener, and handyman. He was trying to sweep the leaves, but the wind was working against him. He looked at the police car and smiled at Mario and Truman.

  “Good morning, Detective,” Andrew said, stopping his challenge to overcome the wind.

  Mario tipped his head slightly in response. “Good morning, Andrew, are you still growing that good pot?”

  “You know it, sir,” Andrew said with a little grin.

  Mario and Truman climbed the five steps to the landing of the house and stopped. “Is

  he a grower?” Truman asked.

  “I think for his personal use,” Mario said. “What he has been through, I would be on heavier drugs than pot.”

  “Good morning,” Mario and Truman repeated to each person they came in contact with as they walked down the hallway of Riverside Inn, an adult housing community.

  They knew exactly where to find Zack Nelson at ten in the morning. Their daily routine seldom changed most days and nights. At ten in the morning, he and Dave would be heading to the garden area to read the newspaper. They only had about an hour before the sun would be lifting over the trees, shining directly on their faces. That made it difficult to read with the sun blaring at you, and sometimes it would get too hot. Of course, there were many other areas they could move to, but the garden bench Andrew set up for them was the perfect spot and personal to all of them. The morning newspaper reading was more like a debate, for they seldom agreed on any topic.

  “I knew I’d find you out here,” Mario said, greeting Dave and Zack with a handshake as he spotted them on the bench.

  Truman smiled and bade them a good morning and expressed how great the garden area looked. He made small talk, waiting for Mario to break the news to them.

  “Cut the crap. Tell Andrew how much you like his garden when you see him. How was court today?” Zack said, getting to the point of their visit.

  Mario came out with it quick. �
�The judge ruled this morning, and the doctor walked.”

  “I expected his high-powered attorneys and political connections to overrule truth and justice. What about the gang members?” Zack questioned.

  “Thirty-six months,” Mario shot right back to him.

  Zack crumpled the newspaper, trying to hold back his frustration, something he was never good at. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “They’d just as soon put them on the street today. Thirty-six months? They know the system and will play model prisoners for what, fourteen months, and get out early,” Dave said, showing his dissatisfaction.

  Mario couldn’t look at them and looked every place but into their eyes. “Maybe as early as ten months.”

  Andrew made his way back to the garden area. He was involved in this as much as any of them. The police had little proof that Dr. Ross had killed Andrew and Zack’s wives, injecting them purposely to give them a heart attack while they were under the doctor’s care at Riverside Inn. In their eyes, he was a killer and trafficking human body parts for big money in foreign countries. Dr. Ross was responsible—he ordered the kill, and Jack, his trusted associate, did all the dirty work. Jack’s death was the result of a standoff with the police, but they all knew the good doctor was involved and should have gone to prison too.

  “I know you all are disappointed, but these two criminals are off the streets,” Mario said.

  Zack stood up. “Come on, Mario. For how long?”

  “Long enough for them to screw up in prison and get a longer sentence.” Mario did his little walking back and forth, trying to find the right words to say. “There is another problem. The chief is pushing to locate the shooter. The person that made two difficult shots from some rooftop that killed Raul and Jack.”