The Auction House Page 20

  “I appreciate your services as a nurse, but I have a job to do, too,” he said, taking the items from her hand. He walked back to his car and entered the information into his computer.

  Kate pounded on the sternwheel. “Where’s Mario when I need him?” Then she laughed at herself. “Oh yeah, broke up with him years ago.”

  The officer sat watching the screen, waiting for an all clear on her information. As expected, he found everything in order. The officer made a phone call.

  “Detective DeLuca, this is Officer Shawn Davis.”

  “Good morning, Officer Davis,” Mario replied.

  “I have Kate Fontenot stopped on Saint Charles Avenue.”

  “Good,” he said. “You know the drill, don’t do anything more or less than what we discussed. Just detain Kate until I call back. Even if you have to take her downtown.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer said. “You’re going to cover for me if she makes a complaint. I have nothing to charge her with or reason to take her to the station.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got your back,” Mario said and disconnected the call.”

  Mario drove behind the caravan of blacked-out SUVs. The first stop was the warehouse Mario pointed out in the meeting where he and Avery watched the U-Haul pull out. The vehicles split up, blocking each end of the street. An army of officers stormed the warehouse.

  The bottom floor had several cars parked; a Honda and a couple of white Ford van. Mario wasn’t sure how many law enforcement agents stormed the building, but they split up, some taking the stairs and others on the freight elevator, lead by Ralph Barnes of the FBI. He was the only person Mario knew. They arrived on the second floor.

  With guns drawn, the double doors lead to a large room exposing rows of sewing machines. Fast at work, women and men hunched over their devices, fingers carefully running seams up fabrics.

  The left wall displayed a nightclub scene. People were dancing, standing at a bar, a singer on stage with a microphone in hand, a blackjack table, and a row of slot machines. A painted door read The Cotton Club.

  “Stop working!” the agent shouted over the noise. One by one, the sewing machines stopped. “Who’s in charge?”

  An older man and woman sat overlooking the work from the back of the room. The man came forward. The woman remained seated in an overstuffed chair.

  “Officer?” the man asked. “What is this all about?”

  “We’re going to search the building,” Agent Barnes said, then motioned for the other to swarm the floor. The floor wasn’t that large, with the main room, a few offices, and two bathrooms.

  “What’s your name, sir?” Agent Barnes asked.

  He gave his name with a heavy accent as Marko Filipovic.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Yugoslavia,” he replied.

  “What do you make here?”

  “Custom drapes.”

  A voice shouted out, “Clear.”

  Agent Barnes looked perplexed. The place was nothing more than a place filled with workers sewing. His men stood guns in hand but now pointed down.

  “Mario?” Barnes asked, pulling him to the side. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Sir, this is the place the money originated.”

  “Are you sure?” Barnes gave a stare down. “Or was this the offload place?”

  Howard watched over the workers. His eyes scanned left to right, then down each row. Then he strolled the aisle and asked their names. To him, they sounded like American’s and all local. One lady he made eye contact with showed fear. Her face red, her eyes watery, and a hand that shook. It was more than the kind of fear from seeing a group of police with guns.

  “You okay?” Howard asked.

  The woman was barely capable of speaking and nodded her head up and down.

  Mario walked the room. At the back hung finished products on a rod. He felt the fabric with his fingers. The woman in the chair watched Mario as he approached. Her eyes shifted several times to Howard and back to him.

  “What’s your name, madam?”

  She hesitated and pulled a blanket draped on her lap to her waist. “I’m Marko’s wife.”

  “Mrs. Filipovic,” Mario said, stepping closer. “You have a first name?”

  “Anya,” she said. “Anya Filipovic.”

  “Marko Filipovic is clean.” Agent Barnes shouted to Mario. “We’ll run the wife.”

  Howard continued to walk the floor. His eyes flashed back to the nervous woman. She never made eye contact keeping her head buried.

  Anya sat quiet and answered only two questions from Mario. Both of which were short and sharp. Somewhat of an attitude, he thought. But they did barge in their place of business and stop production.

  “What’s the process?” Mario asked Anya. “Who do you sell to?”

  “Custom order,” she replied.

  “Walk me through the process.”

  “We go to people’s houses and take measurements. They pick out fabrics. The ladies cut and sew—that’s it. We wrap in plastic and install.”

  Mario gave a nod of his head. He felt the plastic sleeves the drapes were in on a table. Next to them was a roll of shrink-wrap. “What is this used for?”

  “Keep the bundles together,” she said. “During transport.”

  Mario gave another nod.

  “Mission abort,” Agent Barnes shouted. “The wife is clean.”

  The officers piled out the front entrance. The sewing machines started, and within seconds, everyone was back to normal.

  In the garage, Mario, Howard, and Agent Barnes met.

  “This is a big problem,” Barnes said.

  “I know,” Mario replied. “But something is not right.”

  “A woman in there is scared,” Howard pointed out.

  “How would you feel if you were a working man and a team of cops rushed in with guns staring you down,” Barnes shot back.

  “The shrink-wrap bothers me,” Mario said. “It’s the same grade I cut the money open on the airplane.”

  Barnes shook his head. “Come on, Mario. Shrink-wrap comes in several grades at any hardware store.”

  Howard and Mario convinced the team to stay in the garage while they went back up.

  The detectives made a surprise visit. They found everything the same the two owners sitting in the back and everyone fast at work. The lady Howard had watched was missing. Then a door opened from the lady’s room, and she walked out. On the way, Howard met her before taking her seat. With her back to the couple, she whispered, “The Cotton Club.”

  Howard focused on the painting but had no clue what The Cotton Club had to do with anything. With both arms stretched out, he felt the wall for seams. “Nothing,” he said to himself.

  Mario approached the couple but passed them up. Then he made a quick turn, pulling his Glock from the holster and aiming at them.

  “Take your hands from under the blanket, Anya,” Mario demanded.

  She shouted in a foreign language, but neither Mario nor Howard understood.

  A man at a sewing machine pulled a weapon and got off two rounds and missed Mario. Howard drew and took the man out. Mario stepped to the side just in time when the woman pulled the trigger of a shotgun she had under the blanket.

  The team of agents ran up the flight of stairs and got the place secured. The couple was cuffed but remained in the room. Agent Barnes called for a medic.

  “Make that a wagon,” Howard said, checking the pulse of the man on the floor. “He’s dead.”

  He approached the woman now in tears and did his best to calm her down. “What’s with The Cotton Club?” She told him to pull the lever on the third slot machine. “How in the hell can I do that?”

  “Do it, the third one. I got here early one morning and saw Mr. Filipovic push the handle up,” she said as tears flowed. “It went up—has to come down.”

  Howard approached and looked at the painted slot machines, and it looked normal to the eye. He felt each handle a
nd the third one he pulled down.

  “What the hell?” Howard exclaimed, watching the wall open. He looked inside. “Gentlemen, we have a winner!” he shouted.

  The wall opened to an area housing a large laser printer and an old printing press. The most valuable thing were the plates to make the counterfeit money and a pallet of paper made of cotton and linen fibers, the quality was as good as what the federal government uses.

  “How did you know the money was fake?” Agent Barnes asked.

  “I wasn’t a hundred percent sure,” Mario answered. “Either way, counterfeit or real somebody would have to explain why millions of dollars were on a private plane.”

  “Good catch.” Barnes gave a nod.

  “Thanks, but put in a word to my boss. She’s not that thrilled with me right now.

  A two-car team followed the detectives’ vehicle to One River Place. They emerged on the property like it was a battlefield. The SUVs blocked the fancy condo community ramp to the valet parking area. The man that usually met the driver and parked their cars was tucked down behind the key box until the heavily armed men were well inside the building.

  Mario led them to Dezmond at the concierge desk, who suddenly turned three shades whiter than a moment ago.

  “Take us to Roland Rockford condo,” Mario said.

  “Yes, sir,” were the words Dezmond’s lips formed, but nothing came out.

  On the top floor, the elevator doors open. The officers with guns fully stretched in front of them walked the hallway quietly. Three men stood on each side of Roland’s front door but away from the peephole’s visibility.

  Mario whispered in Dezmond’s ear, and he acted.

  Knocking on the door, he put on his cheery voice. “Mr. Rockford, I have some packages for you.” He struck the door with two quick hits.

  “He’s on the move,” Mario said. The sound of footsteps was getting closer.

  The door opened. “What do you have, Dezmond?”

  When the door opened wide enough, the tactical team took over. Agent Barnes read Roland his rights and another officer handcuffed him.

  Down the hallway to the elevator then through the lobby, Roland Rockford did the walk of shame. He was held by Agent Barnes and Mario at the curb before being placed in a vehicle.

  The camera clicks ran rapidly. “Thank you, Detective DeLuca,” shouted Glenn Macy of the Big Easy Voice with Roxy standing near.

  “I never forget my friends,” Mario said, giving Glenn a wink. “Here’s your exclusive.”

  “Thank you, thank you, Mario. You’re the best,” Roxy said, fully dressed as if she was ready to go on stage.

  Agent Barnes gave Mario a side glance. “Quite the fan club, Detective,” he said as he lowered Roland into a car.

  Mario watched the car hauling Roland off to jail pull away. He could only imagine what the headline for the Big Easy Voice would read. Probably something like A rich boy born with a golden spoon in his mouth —runs out of luck.

  It was time for Mario to make the call he dreaded but had to be made. He dialed officer Shawn Davis.

  “Officer Davis,” he said, answering. “Of course, Detective, give me a second.” The officer walked over to Kate’s car, still pulled to the side on Saint Charles Avenue. The little makeup she had on was melted and streaked with tears. He handed Kate the phone.

  “Hello,” she said hesitantly. Her eyes shifted to Officer Shawn Davis. “Mario! You got to help me,” she cried.

  “Kate, listen carefully. Go home, do not go to Roland’s condo,” Mario paused, knowing she wouldn’t take the news very well. “He’s been arrested.”

  “For what?” she shot back. “Mario, what did you do?”

  “Kate, I did all I could to help you and Roland.”

  “Help me!”

  Mario held his composure. “Kate, go home and call Eli Winston. Just tell him the Fed’s arrested Roland. He’ll know what to do.”

  The phone went silent. Then Shawn spoke, “Detective, I’m going to have her car towed and drive her home. She’s in no condition—”

  “Thanks, Shawn. I owe you one.”

  Mario and Howard followed the two cars carrying the tactical team. The last stop, the auction house. Simon Kade had been under surveillance since he left his apartment and walked to Rockford’s Estate Galleries.

  On the way, Howard took the opportunity to call Julie Wong not sure she’d even answer. She did. “Julie?”

  “My hero, Howard,” she said as music played in the background.

  “Sounds like a party.”

  “No, sitting beachside, soaking up the sun and a little steel drum music.”

  “Enjoy yourself,” Howard said. “Word of advice, stay out of the UK, especially London. The dogs are on the run.” He knew she’d understand.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Cops will give up in three months. Not sure how long it will take for Heinz’s closest friends to give up.”

  “There die-hards, probably never,” she said. “Thanks for the heads up.”

  “Still in the islands?” he asked.

  “Let’s just say every week I’m in a different bathing suit on a different island.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Howard said and disconnected the call. For a second, he envied her but knew life on the run wasn’t worth living regardless of how much money you had.

  “Am I supposed to play like I didn’t hear that conversation?” Mario asked as they pulled curbside at the auction house. “Howard, you tipped off an international suspect.”

  “I just told her to stay away from the UK. Their beaches suck.” He gave a side-glance. “What’s wrong with that?”

  Two undercover cops roamed the display room checking items getting ready to go up for auction—their eyes focused on Simon.

  One undercover officer got a heads up on his earpiece. “10-4,” he whispered into his microphone. Giving his partner a heads up, they moved in closer to Simon.

  One guy bumped into Simon’s back. He excused himself then detained Simon with a question on an item.

  A voice came through his earpiece. “Ten seconds.”

  The undercover cop pulled his weapon and stuck it in Simon’s back. “Don’t move.”

  “What kind of fool are you?” Simon asked. “I have cameras everywhere. How far do you think you’ll get.”

  “Turn around,” the cop said, pulling him by his arm. “He’s all yours.” Pushing Simon into the hands of four officers with weapons pointed.

  “Hello, Simon,” Mario said. “I told you we’d meet again—you’re under arrest.”

  Jennifer Gray started to exit the back door and ran into the police covering all the exits. She was handcuffed and arrested, too.

  Chapter 37

  Mario and Howard walked out of police headquarters proud. Chief Parks recommended both detectives having certificates in their files as significant contributors to the Secret Service and FBI to the takedown of an international counterfeit ring. They got full credit for Roland Rockford’s arrest and fall of the auction house.

  Out of all the arrests made that day, the only person let out on bond was Jennifer Gray. She was smart and lawyered up. Her attorney immediately made a deal with the fed’s, and she would testify against her boss and make restitution for her scam against Hattie Plauche.

  “Lunch?” Mario asked as they walked down the steps of the Broad Street police station.

  “You buying?” Howard asked, giving a side-glance. “Commander’s Palace?”

  “Wherever you want,” Mario said. “I’m charging it to the city anyway. The mayor’s paying this bill. By the way, whatever happened to you and Monique?”

  “She went back to Belle Garden in Port of Spain.”

  Mario shot him a look. “Without a fight?”

  Howard laughed. “Once I showed her a picture of my wife and kids, she couldn’t get on the plane quick enough.”

  Mario stopped Howard before getting in the car. “Wife and kids? You’re married?”
>
  “Oh hell no,” he replied. “It’s always good to take a picture with a friend and her kids—never know when you want to get out of a relationship.”

  The End

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  AUTHOR’S NOTE

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  Vito Zuppardo is the author of 14 novels, all of which are set in his history-filled hometown of New Orleans. He started writing and released his first novel, Alluring Lady Luck, in 2010 after having spent 25 years in the casino business.

  In 2011 Tales of Lady Luck, another well-received book based on real events, dug deeper into the characters found on exclusive VIP lists, high-stakes gaming party jets, and in casinos around the world.

  After the success of his first two novels, Vito turned his attention to writing thrillers and the first novel in his first series, True Blue Detective, was a hit. A spinoff series call Voodoo Lucy soon followed.

  Vito was born and raised in New Orleans and moved to Baton Rouge after Hurricane Katrina. It's his life adventures that make his books fun to read and his characters stand out.

  Life is truly what you make of it.

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  Chapter One

  Present Day

  The French Quarter never slept. Jazz music wafted out of clubs until the first sign of morning, to be replaced by the much less agreeable clanks and screeches of a garbage truck picking up trash in the alleyway that separated Bourbon and Royal. One side of the alley was lined with trash cans from some of the hottest nightclubs on Bourbon Street, the other with mostly boxes from the art galleries that faced Royal Street. The sanitation truck was a block away, and with a hydraulic whine, the truck crushed cans, bottles, and boxes into its steel belly.