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A murder of import, page 2 "No, sir," J.J. replied. Fontenot, president of one of New Orleans' busiest import-export companies, had, two years before, assisted the district attorney in capturing and convicting a major drug dealer named Jimmy Plata. Plata, assuming that all men of wealth were businessmen first and moralists second, had floated the suggestion to Fontenot that the importing of heroin and cocaine might just be a bit more profitable than coffee and bananas. Fontenot had gone immediately to the district attorney, who constructed a clever scheme to send Plata to Angola, one of the country's least pleasant prisons. "Andrew Fontenot put a feather in my cap when I needed it," Garrison said. "I want whoever did this to pay hard." "I assume Plata is still breaking rock," J.J. said. "For the next 15 years," the district attorney assured him. "So you can scratch him off your list. That leaves you with only a million or so suspects." "Where'd the murder happen?" "In Fontenot's office. Your pal, Lt. Abadie, is already there, probably stepping on evidence as we speak." "I'm gone," J.J. said. ***** The Fontenot Building was on Royal Street, no more than seven blocks from Legendre's apartment. It was a three-story brick and concrete edifice, created by the dead man's great-grandfather, a genial robber baron who'd made millions trading with points south. Fontenot's suite of offices was on the third floor, which is where J.J. found Lt. Abadie talking with Dr. Macaluso of the coroner's office. The police lieutenant was about as happy to see J.J. as an errant child would be to see a stern parent. "Jeeze, Lejern," he whined in his Irish Channel-Brooklyn accent,"don't you have enough to do with them Mafia killin's, you gotta stick your nose in a simple murder like this?" "How simple is it?" Abadie called, "Officer Bordelon!" and a young man in plainclothes stepped forward from the collection of uniformed cops and technicians. "This is Detective Lejern from the D.A.'s office. You deal with him, huh? I gotta get back to the stiff's family." "Where’s Voire?" J.J. asked, looking around for Abadie's usual partner. "On sick leave," Abadie said as he made his exit. Officer Bordelon smiled and said, "Voire was tryin' to kill a rat in his backyard and shot himself in the foot. Wounded in the line of duty." J.J. stared at the young man and saw a wry grin that suggested the NOPD might finally have hired for brains. "O.K., officer, give me the run-down." Bordelon did it without having to consult his notepad. "At approximately 10 p.m. last night -- give or take an hour -- a person or persons unknown entered the private office of Andrew G. Fontenot and cracked his skull with a bronze statue. It took two blows. To the back of the head and to the side of the head. There wasn't much of a struggle, which suggests that Fontenot was surprised by the attack and subdued without a fight." "Someone he knew," J.J. said. "Knew and trusted," Officer Bordelon said. "Like a member of his family, maybe." "Why don't you show me the murder scene," J.J. said. Even with police lab technicians puttering about, the room had the comfortable look of a large den. Dark green walls, decorated by framed photographs of the ships that for over a century had transported Fontenot produce. Highly polished light wood cabinets containing books and objets d’art. Thick, pale green carpet. Soft leather furniture. An ancient cast iron safe was in one corner of the room, its open door exposing scattered envelopes and papers. An antique desk rested several feet from a mullioned window, positioned so that anyone seated at it would be facing the door, his back to the window and its view of tugboats slogging through the muddy Mississippi. Andrew Fontenot's small, thin body was sprawled on the carpet between his desk and the chair on which he’d been seated when attacked. Blood from the wound at the side of his head had filled one of his eye sockets. His mouth was open, as if he were about to scream. Rigor was in progress. J.J. was happy the building's air conditioner was on full force. He glanced at the bronze paperweight, in the shape of a bunch of bananas, that had been used to crack the man's skull. It was big enough to do the damage but not so large as to suggest the strength of the person wielding it. "Wiped clean," Bordelon said, reading his thoughts. "Anything missing from the safe?" J.J. asked. "You'll have to ask the lieutenant," Bordelon replied. "I wasn't there when he was doin' the interviewin'." "Lead me to him." A stenographer was just leaving as they entered what was apparently the board room of Fontenot Imports. Abadie was there with four other people, standing beside a handsome oak oval table. He paused and introduced J.J. to them in an awkward, hesitant manner. The attractive brunette, with a lovely though appropriately saddened face and the softest brown eyes J.J. could recall, turned out to be Louise Silver, Fontenot's private secretary. Abadie noted that she had discovered the body that morning when she arrived at the office. The broad-shouldered young man, who resembled a well-groomed weight-lifter, was Andrew Fontenot, Jr., son of the deceased, a senior at Tulane University. The pale blonde, fluttery woman in the dark dress who was dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes with a dainty kerchief was Marie Claire Fontenot, his widowed mother. That left the small, trim man in the charcoal pinstripe suit, whose angry countenance bore a remarkable similarity to the deceased: Harold Fontenot, his younger brother. "If you're through with your inane questions, lieutenant," Harold Fontenot said to Abadie, "there are things I must be doing. Arranging for the funeral. Notifying friends and, God knows, calming down customers. I have to get back to my office and start making calls before the damned papers spread the news all over hell and gone." "I'm finished, suh, but Detective Lejern might have a couple of questions of his own." "Oh, my God," Harold Fontenot moaned. "I don't have time for this." He turned to J.J. "Can't you just read his notes?" Abadie grinned at J.J. "Good question." J.J. stared at him. "You find out what the deceased was doing here so late last night?" Abadie's grin vanished. "He was working," the dead man's son replied. "Dad spent most of his life here. Maybe if he'd come home with us... " "Come with you?" J.J. asked. "You were here last night?" "I was here at about six," Andrew Fontenot, Jr., said. "We all were." J.J. looked at Abadie, who seemed surprised by the admission. "Any particular reason?" J.J. asked. "This is a family-owned corporation," Harold Fontenot said. "Marie Claire and young Andy are both voting members." "So you were here to vote on something?" J.J. asked. Andrew, Jr., looked at his uncle and said nothing. J.J. looked at the uncle, too, expectantly. "Is there a problem?" he asked. "No. No problem," Harold Fontenot replied waspishly. "My brother and I had... a slight disagreement." "Considerably more than that," the widow Fontenot said. "Now, Marie Claire, you know that --" "I know that you and Andy almost came to blows," she said coldly, her eyes no longer tearing. "It was... business," Harold Fontenot replied with a shrug. "What kinda business?" Lt. Abadie asked. Harold Fontenot hesitated before replying. His nephew didn't. "The kind of business dad didn't want." "I’m a li'l slow," the lieutenant said, annoyed that none of this had come out during his interrogation. "What kinda business would that be, egg-zackly?" Harold Fontenot glared at the lieutenant and said nothing. The widow said, "My husband was scrupulously honest. He... disapproved of one of Harold's negotiations." "There's nothing at all wrong with the deal. It's just that... it doesn't matter, we all agreed not to pursue it. Tomorrow, we return... " He paused and the color left his face. "My God, the bonds!" He headed toward the door, but officer Bordelon blocked the way. "The bonds," Harold Fontenot gasped and tried to push past him. Bordelon held fast. Abadie said, "Might as well let him go, son. See what's what." They all followed Harold Fontenot back to the crime scene. The importer fell on his knees before the safe. He reached out a hand and Abadie cautioned him. "Don’t touch nothin', Mr. Fontenot. The lab guys tell me the safe's been wiped clean, but still... " Fontenot stared at the open safe and cried out, "They’re gone!" The inside of the safe looked like a goat's nest to J.J. Envelopes had been torn open. An assortment of 20, 50 and hundred dollar bills were scattered, along with documents and what appeared to be stapled contracts. "Some bonds missing?" J.J. asked. Andy Fontenot nodded vigorously. "Worth one hundred thousand dollars. Payable to bearer." J.J. made a sound like "hmmm" and turned to find the secretary, Louise Silver, staring at him appraisingly. Her beauty was almost enough to make him forget why he was there. "You certain they're gone?" he asked. "They were in that envelope," Harold Fontenot said, pointing to one of what seemed like four identical manila envelopes, all torn open. "I know because Marie Claire spilled some of her coffee on the corner. See?" He pointed to a stain at the corner of the empty envelope. "The thief didn't take the money," Officer Bordelon said, pointing to the scattered cash. He just wanted the bonds." "Who knew about them bonds?" Abadie asked. "All of us," Mrs. Fontenot said. "Except Louise, of course." "Mr. Fontenot said he wouldn't need me at the meeting at six with his family," Louise Silver said. "Which was fine, because I had a dentist's appointment at five-thirty." "He said nothing to you about the bonds?" "No." J.J. turned to Harold Fontenot. "Who called the meeting?" "I did," Harold Fontenot replied. "The deal was large enough to require a vote of the members of the board." "Then your brother knew about the bonds earlier that day?" "No, he didn't. Andrew was an extremely conservative man. I didn't want him closing his mind before I could plead my case in person." "Maybe you'd better tell us exactly what this deal was," J.J. said. Harold Fontenot took a deep breath and let it out. He stared at the carpet as if he hoped it might fly him away from there. Young Andy Fontenot said, "My uncle wanted us to go into business with Fidel Castro." "Damn it, it wasn't like that all all," Harold Fontenot said. "I'm not a crook. I know full well of the embargo against trade with Cuba. The deal I made was for shipments of rice and corn to the Caymans." "Dad said that was a crock. Ninety percent of that shipment would wind up on Castro's table," Andy Fontenot shouted vehemently. "That's why you insisted on payments being made by bearer bonds." "The bonds were Mr. Cardoza's idea," Harold Fontenot said. "Who the heck is Cardoza?" Lt. Abadie wanted to know. He was informed that Emile Cardoza was the representative from the Cayman Islands who had arranged for the shipment. He had delivered the bearer bonds to Harold Fontenot the previous day, several hours before the family meeting, assuming that the deal was a fait accompli. "Maybe we should get him in here," J.J. said. "He's staying at the St. Charles," Harold Fontenot said, "but I don't understand what he has to do with my brother's murder. They didn't even meet." "We'll never know," J.J. said, "unless we talk with the gent." But, when Bordelon returned to the room ten minutes later, he reported that Cardoza had checked out of the hotel. The officer then called the Cayman Island number that Cardoza had given Harold Fontenot and it belonged to a hotel that had no knowledge whatsoever of Mr. Emile Cardoza. "That's impossible," Harold Fontenot sputtered. "He had credentials, identification, documents. He turned over one hundred thousand dollars worth of bearer bonds ..." J.J. stared at the apparently perplexed importer for a second or two, then surveyed the others in the room. "Well, lieutenant," he said to Abadie, "ready to make your arrest?" "Arrest?" Abadie squawked. "Arrest who?" J.J. was not surprised to see that Officer Bordelon had positioned himself behind the guilty party.
Dick Lochte is an author and a book columnist for the Los Angeles Times. His most recent mystery novel, featuring J.J. Legendre, is "The Neon Smile" (Simon & Schuster, Ivy paperback). He can be reached at dlock@ix.netcom.com |
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