The Auction House Page 10

  The cashier handed Jennifer an envelope. “Mrs. Hattie, I have your check,” she said, waving it in her hand. She tried to gain control from Mario’s highjacking of her customer. “Let’s go, sweetie.” She smiled at the detectives as she walked Hattie of out the building.

  Mario waited for them to get out the door then asked Howard, “Got plans for dinner?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, you do now,” Mario said with a grin. “We’re meeting my new friend Hattie for dinner.”

  “Perfect, I was looking for a reason to cancel my date tonight with Monique.”

  Mario laughed. “She still wants to stay with you while looking for an apartment?”

  “Worse,” he said, running his hand across with a frown. “Monique stopped looking—she wants to move in with me.”

  Chapter 19

  Howard arrived at the condo to find Mario dressed in his Brook Brothers sport coat and an open collar shirt.

  “Don’t ask,” Howard said as he stepped into the room with a garment bag over his shoulder and a sourpuss expression on his face.

  “You mean why didn’t you get dressed at your apartment?” Mario asked, then chuckled since he received a phone call earlier of Howard’s situation. “How can a woman staying with you throw you out of your place?”

  Howard went to the bedroom and changed. He shouted back, “I tried to find a gentle way to describe why I was canceling the date, but Monique didn’t give me a chance.

  “And what might that be?” Mario asked. He’d seen what came out of Howard’s uncensored mouth when talking to a woman.

  “She had a dress in her hand, one she planned to wear tonight. I said, it looks nice, but I’m busy with police business—we’ll have to reschedule.”

  “Oh, that had to go over big,” Mario said, taking a seat on the sofa.

  Howard came out of the room, holding a blue V-neck sweater, his favorite color. “As I walked out of my apartment, she slammed the door behind me,” he said, slipping the sweater over his head. One look at Mario and they both cracked up. “‘Reschedule?’ she yelled. ‘We didn’t have an appointment—we had a date.’ I heard her shouting even after the elevator doors closed.”

  “My friend, you should run,” Mario said. “She’s high maintenance.”

  Howard fixed his collar in the mirror. “She was to go home to Belle Garden in Trinidad tomorrow. She screwed up the relationship. As long as she came in for a week and went back home everything was fine.”

  “Women,” Mario said. “Maybe that’s why you’re not married.”

  Howard gave a slight tilt to his head. “I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

  “Let’s go—you’re worse than a woman.” Mario opened the door. “You checked the sweater out three times in the mirror.”

  “I’m ready if opportunity knocks. Monique is on her way out.”

  “Keep telling yourself that,” Mario said and pressed the elevator button.

  The detectives arrived at the Crystal Palace on Washington Avenue on time. The neighborhood was mostly residential housing, except for the corner where the Palace took up a half block. It had changed over forty years from Mario’s description from when he was a child. The Garden District homes on the block were now run down and made the Crystal Palace look out of place. Still a five-star restaurant and a place tourists and locals flocked, the Palace had produced many top chefs that had since moved on to open their own restaurants.

  They were met at the front podium by an attractive woman. The hostess’s wandering eyes made it obvious she noticed Howard. He picked up on it quickly as Mario asked for Harriet Plauche.

  The lady smiled. “She’s not here yet, but I’ll take you to her table.” She accompanied them to a booth overlooking the restaurant. The heavy tufted red leather seating was spotless and recently waxed by the shine. A slight touch of the woman’s hand pressed across Howard’s arm. “I’m sure she’ll be here soon.”

  Mario thanked her and asked her name.

  “Monique,” she replied.

  Howard’s head did a double take. “You’re not from Trinidad?”

  The blonde haired, blue-eyed woman obviously wasn’t from that part of the world. She answered with a broad smile. “No, but I’d love to go there.” Then gave a squeeze to Howard’s arm and walked away.

  Before slipping into the booth, Howard raised an eyebrow Mario’s way. “See? And you said I took too long in the mirror.”

  “You’re like a dog in heat,” Mario said.

  “My Monique is on her way out.” He made a goofy grin. “I have to start interviewing a replacement.”

  “You change girlfriends like you change shirts,” Mario said, giving off a cheeky grin.

  Howard immediately described his lifestyle as an assassin, which hadn’t changed just because he was now a cop. “I don’t have girlfriends, nor am I looking for a wife, or a house with a white picket fence, and a bunch of rug rats running around. I have acquaintances, no family, and everything I own is disposable.”

  Mario had heard the preaching before, and while it was sad to hear, he knew Howard was sincere. He’d said many times his lifestyle and profession had no room for love and family. Besides, one day he’d be taken out by a bullet, and the last thing he wanted to do was leave a widow behind and kids for someone else to raise. The tense depressing conversation halted.

  “Gentlemen,” Monique, the hostess, said with Hattie at her arm. Standing in front of the booth, she announced her like royalty. “Mrs. Harriet Plauche.”

  Mario and Howard stood, greeting her with a handshake. Hattie gave a glance to the women at other tables, making sure they noticed her. It was the grand entrance she’d grown to love when her husband was alive. He used to escort her around the restaurant before taking their seat, introducing wives of his private men’s club buddies to her, but those days were long gone.

  Before Hattie could get settled in her seat, a waiter came by and placed a silver bucket with an iced-down bottle of champagne.

  “Mrs. Plauche,” he said. “So lovely to see you this evening.”

  Mario shot Howard a side glimpse—he was impressed. A few employees of the fancy Garden District restaurant remembered Hattie from the old days. Hattie was no fool. She picked up on Mario’s shifting eyes.

  “Years ago, the owner of the Crystal Palace ran into financial difficulties,” she said.

  They were interrupted by the waiter, who placed long-stem glasses in front of everyone and poured the champagne. Then he wished them well and backed away from the table.

  “As I said, the owner had a problem,” Hattie continued. “My husband invested some money, and in return, he became a non-working partner.”

  Howard was intrigued. “He received a piece of the profit?”

  “No, in return, this booth was ours twice a week for life,” Hattie smiled. “That’s why when you asked for a private conversation, I thought of this place. I haven’t had a reason to bring anyone here in months.”

  Mario whispered as if Hattie wasn’t there, “The rich amaze me—so creative.”

  “Oh, honey, I never considered myself rich.”

  “Mrs. Hattie,” Mario said, “I once got a free Po-boy when I purchased the sixth one. My dear, you’re rich and took the freebie food to a new level.”

  They sipped champagne, and Hattie told stories of her younger days, sometimes losing her train of thought, causing Mario to gently remind her where she left off.

  Mario waited for the waiter to take the dinner order before asking questions. While she wasn’t a suspect or witness, he needed to make her comfortable enough to open up. The opportunity came, and Mario thanked her for taking the time to meet and at such a beautiful restaurant. He glanced to Howard then patted Hattie’s hand

  “Let me ask a question, Mrs. Hattie.”

  Howard did what he did best—observe and study her as she replied to Mario’s questions without hesitation. She talked fast for an older woman, and at times her southern draw
l played tricks on Howard’s ears.

  Mario dug as deep as possible without sounding like a cop drilling a suspect about her first encounter with Jennifer Gray. She explained Jennifer was taking pictures of houses in her area, claiming she blew them up, framed, and sold the images to art galleries. She had an interest in southern architecture, mostly doors, shutters, and millwork.

  Hattie took the last sip of champagne and motioned for Mario to pour another for her. He did, and the meeting with Jennifer continued. Hattie believed the photography at first until she invited her into the house for tea. Jennifer became more interested in the furniture and personal items as well as her lifestyle. Hattie felt she used Jennifer to sell off some assets she hadn’t used in years. Toying with the idea of moving to a new luxury assistant living high-rise on Saint Charles Avenue, it was an opportunity when Jennifer came knocking.

  “I was using her—I didn’t care about a fee,” Hattie said.

  Hattie reached for the long-stemmed crystal champagne glass and stopped. “There is something about Jennifer that bothers me,” she said. “My housekeeper Thelma pointed out every time Jennifer came in the house, a piece of silver went missing. We have cameras on her now, and I’ll keep using her talent to get me top dollar for my furniture.”

  Mario gave a nod to Howard and could only imagine he was thinking the same—she’s a sharp old gal and nobody’s fool.

  “Gentlemen, I was educated at Newcomb College,” Hattie said with pride. “An all-girls college—one of the first.”

  When asked if they heard of Newcomb, Mario gave a gesture. “Isn’t it part of Tulane University?”

  “It is now—not when I went there.” Hattie sipped the bubbly again. “My point is, I’m well-educated, born into money, married money, and my father taught me one thing.” She paused.

  Howard and Mario, fascinated by her story, bent an ear her way.

  “Don’t stop now, Hattie,” Mario said with a hand motion.

  “My father told me the rich didn’t get rich by being stupid.” She knocked back the rest of the champagne and placed the glass on the table. “Jennifer’s up to no good and talks too much. I listen.” Hattie paused again. “I remember every contradictory word she says. She thinks she’s using me, but I’m in control.”

  “Mrs. Hattie, I think you and I are going to get along good—very good,” Mario said, giving a pat to her hand.

  The dinner arrived on a silver cart and was placed in front of everyone. The conversation continued with Hattie telling stories of the number of people and companies that tried to take advantage of her husband when he was alive—all because they were wealthy.

  Her family donated money to schools, underprivileged groups, put on fundraisers at her home, and raised hundreds of thousands of dollars over the years. Still, some tried to take advantage of the Plauche family fortune.

  Hattie agreed to keep Mario informed of her meetings with Jennifer. He had no cause to poke into Jennifer Gray’s world, but something didn’t feel right, and Hattie felt the same.

  Chapter 20

  The next morning, Mario slipped in the back door and went up the fire escape stairs of the old building that had been turned into the Eighth District Precinct. Paperwork would have to wait, and so would phone calls as he shuffled the messages in time order. His cell phone vibrated on the desk, and the screen showed it was Howard.

  “Are you on your way?”

  “Ten minutes,” Howard replied. “I just drop Monique off at a hotel.”

  “What’s up?” Mario dug for some gossip.

  “She’s moving out—said she might pass on the job opportunity and go back home.”

  “It’s a gift,” Mario shot back.

  “I hope so—don’t need her lingering in the city.” Howard’s frustration showed. “I want her out of my life, and Trinidad might not be far enough away.”

  They agreed to meet at Café Beignet next door. Mario broke the news that an unexpected guest would be joining them—Avery had some research results on Julie’s connection to the case. Howard drilled him again on dealing with the younger woman whose father was from old money and well politically connected.

  “You’re dealing with fire,” he stressed. “Avery’s father’s connections will bust you to foot patrol.”

  Mario gave his usual, “I’ve been there before—just have to invest in comfortable shoes.”

  The call ended, and Mario headed down the back stairs to the café.

  Entering the café, he spotted Avery at a garden table when his cell phone vibrated on his belt. Weaving through tables and the morning crowd, he answered,

  “Detective DeLuca.”

  “Mario,” Margaret said with the background noise of slot machines humming and casino music. “Never Wong was pulled from the poker table by security.”

  Before Mario could ask why—she cut him off.

  “Two men intercepted him, and security just handed him over.”

  Mario gave Avery a wave of his phone and rushed out, hoping she’d understand what he meant. There wasn’t time to explain. In full stride, he ran to his car a half a block up Royal Street with the phone to his ear.

  “They loaded him in a black SUV on the Saint Peters side of the building.”

  “Thanks, Margaret,” Mario said and ended the call.

  With his dashboard light flashing red and blue, he hit the siren as he approached Canal Street. If Mario was correct, he would intercept the black SUV at the corner of Saint Peters and Canal. As he weaved in and out of traffic, his mind wandered, Is there anything other than black SUVs?

  A text from Margaret caused him to pull to the curb when he saw the picture she texted. Margaret did a great job producing the license plate’s image. Mario was sure the license plate belonged to an FBI vehicle—he flipped the flashing lights off and turned the car around.

  On his way back to the café, Mario tried to call Julie several times, but there was no answer. He arrived at the café and met up with Howard, who took a seat with Avery. The aroma of coffee and Beignets awaited the detective. Mario took a sip of coffee, allowing his heart rate time to adjust.

  “The Feds scooped up Jin Wong,” Mario said, placing the coffee cup on the table.

  “What about Julie?” Howard took out his cell phone.

  “Not answering,” Mario said.

  Howard pressed number six on his speed dial for Julie. The phone rang on Howard’s end then went dead.

  A text to Howard’s phone immediately came back from Julie. He peeked at it then his eyes shifted from Mario to Avery.

  “What is it?” Mario asked.

  Again, his eyes went to Avery. She knew the drill and took her purse and went to the lady’s room.

  “Ambush,” Howard said. “Julie’s on a mission.”

  Mario gave a quick answer, saying he thought she was on a mission when her jet landed. Howard gave the military meaning, which assassins picked up on as code. “Ambush means she’s on a surprise attack.”

  “What the hell?” Mario asked and went in for a second Beignet.

  Before Howard could respond, a text came over their phones simultaneously from Chief Parks directing them to the Hale Boggs federal building.

  Howard shook his head. “This has Julie’s name written all over it.”

  “Not possible,” Mario said. “She can’t possibly think she can take on the Feds.”

  “Oh, yes,” Howard reinforced. “I can only hope Julie doesn’t leave bodies behind.”

  The detectives rushed out and went into a full sprint to Mario’s car.

  Avery returned to an empty table with twenty dollars on top of the bill, which more than covered the order and a sizeable tip. She headed back to her cubicle at the Eighth District.

  The FBI offices occupied the federal building’s ground floor, taking up the entire block of Poydras Street. Mario’s car turned the corner and came to a squealing halt in front of a massive gathering of police and federal agents blocking the street with high-powered rifles
.

  With his white-knuckled hands tightly held to the steering wheel, Mario gave Howard a glance. “You’re right—this has Julie written all over it. This time I’ll arrest and prosecute her to the full extent of the law.”

  Howard laughed. “First, you have to catch her—and good luck with that.”

  He pounded the wheel. “Howard, this is serious—she’s going to jail.”

  “I’m serious, too—you have no idea what Julie’s capable of.” Howard pulled the door handle and got out.

  The detectives approached the heavily armored men, dressed in suits, others in jeans with FBI logo shirts. With his badge over his head, Mario asked for the commander in charge. The barricade of humans opened enough for Mario and Howard to slip through.

  An agent pointed out a tall, lean, bald man standing curbside. “Special Agent in Charge is Ralph Barnes.”

  Howard looked straight ahead, keeping pace with Mario. “Can our luck get any worse? Of all the damn agents in charge.”

  “Agent Barnes,” Mario said with his hand extended.

  “So, we meet again,” Agent Barnes said, shaking hands. “What can I help you with?”

  “Chief Parks sent us over to handle the investigation.” The words came out of Mario’s mouth, not knowing why they were even there.

  “It’s an FBI case. We’ll handle it,” Barnes said, standing tall on a nine-inch curb.

  Howard stepped up to his level and looked down at Agent Barnes. “Sir, we’re here to help. Let’s not have a pissing contest. What happened?”

  Barnes explained what the detectives knew but hoped to handle themselves before Julie intercepted the FBI car. He described how one agent had driven while the other was in the passenger seat with Jin Wong handcuffed in the backseat. The vehicle parked curbside, and within seconds, someone approached the passenger side of the car.

  Agent Barnes’s eyes shifted to the car and shouted out, “Where are the cutters?”

  One man shouted back, “We’re cutting them out now.”