Anderson said. "Give the daughter what she wants and finish this so the poor man can rest in peace."
Anderson now seemed vaguely irritated, and Valentin considered reminding him that it was his idea to get involved in it in the first place. He decided that wouldn't be received well at all and went back to work.
Picot's officers had it all wrapped up by nine o'clock that night. First they canvassed the neighborhood until they found Caroline West, then shut her down and braced her until she told them about the red-haired Negro. They fanned out up and down the saloons along Rampart Street, asking after anyone who fit the description. They soon narrowed it down to two suspects. The first one, who went by the moniker Little Chink because of the Asian cast of his features, proved to be elsewhere. That left a half-breed Cherokee who called himself Ten Penny due to the copper tinge of his skin. His true name was Thomas Lee, and he was known as one of those ne'er-do-wells who lived off petty thefts and would sell a friend for a Liberty dollar, if he'd had a friend to sell. Some time back he had earned pocket money by snitching to the police, until it was discovered that at least half the information he was selling was false. Now he made his way by begging, stealing, and scavenging. He was so ragged, dirty, and foul smelling that he was no longer permitted in even the lowest dives on Rampart Street.
The coppers found Ten Penny in an alley off Willow Street where he had built a lean-to of discarded packing crates. He was cooking hot whiskey over an open fire when they kicked the boards of the shack apart and dragged him out by his kinky hair. Within the hour he had been carried downtown to Parish Prison and duly charged with the murder of John Louis Benedict.
FIVE
It was late morning and Valentin was just settling down with his coffee when Frank came in from the store, a cup in one hand and a copy of Saturday's
Daily Picayune
in the other.
"What was the name of that fellow got murdered on Rampart Street?" he said.
Valentin lowered his own cup. "John Benedict. Why?"
Mangetta dropped the newspaper onto the table. "It says here they caught the fellow that killed him."
When Valentin got to the end of the piece, he put the paper aside and said, "I need to use the telephone."
A phone call interrupted Lieutenant Picot's lunch, but what he heard destroyed his appetite, anyway.
He made it from his house on Bell Street to Parish Prison in twenty furious minutes and raced down the two flights of steps to the basement, moving as fast as his thick legs would propel him without him breaking his neck. He came blustering along the hallway that led to the colored section. At the anteroom where the jailer had his desk, he found St. Cyr slouched against the wall in an insolent posture that set his blood to stewing.
"What's this?" he demanded of the jailer.
"He's got permission."
"Permission from who?"
The jailer held out a sheet of paper. Picot snatched it away and read down, his mouth settling into a hard line. His muddy eyes flicked at St. Cyr. "Jesus Christ!" he muttered. "What are you doing here?"
Valentin said, "I'm working this case, Lieutenant. And you made an arrest."
"That's right, we did!" Picot barked. "It's what we do when we find guilty parties. And this one's guilty as hell."
"Has he confessed?"
"He will soon enough."
"Did you find the weapon?"
"It's likely at the bottom of the damn river. I don't have to explain this to you." Picot gave Valentin a resentful look. "You just can't keep your nose out of our business, can you? You want to know if he did it? He did. We're going to put this one away. You'll be out of a job, but we're doing the family a
favor
here, goddamnit! This one's over and done."
Valentin kept his expression flat, ignoring Picot's bluster. He knew what was going on. When he was a copper, he had heard the same routine a hundred times. Once a suspect had been picked, there was an answer for
Anderson now seemed vaguely irritated, and Valentin considered reminding him that it was his idea to get involved in it in the first place. He decided that wouldn't be received well at all and went back to work.
Picot's officers had it all wrapped up by nine o'clock that night. First they canvassed the neighborhood until they found Caroline West, then shut her down and braced her until she told them about the red-haired Negro. They fanned out up and down the saloons along Rampart Street, asking after anyone who fit the description. They soon narrowed it down to two suspects. The first one, who went by the moniker Little Chink because of the Asian cast of his features, proved to be elsewhere. That left a half-breed Cherokee who called himself Ten Penny due to the copper tinge of his skin. His true name was Thomas Lee, and he was known as one of those ne'er-do-wells who lived off petty thefts and would sell a friend for a Liberty dollar, if he'd had a friend to sell. Some time back he had earned pocket money by snitching to the police, until it was discovered that at least half the information he was selling was false. Now he made his way by begging, stealing, and scavenging. He was so ragged, dirty, and foul smelling that he was no longer permitted in even the lowest dives on Rampart Street.
The coppers found Ten Penny in an alley off Willow Street where he had built a lean-to of discarded packing crates. He was cooking hot whiskey over an open fire when they kicked the boards of the shack apart and dragged him out by his kinky hair. Within the hour he had been carried downtown to Parish Prison and duly charged with the murder of John Louis Benedict.
FIVE
It was late morning and Valentin was just settling down with his coffee when Frank came in from the store, a cup in one hand and a copy of Saturday's
Daily Picayune
in the other.
"What was the name of that fellow got murdered on Rampart Street?" he said.
Valentin lowered his own cup. "John Benedict. Why?"
Mangetta dropped the newspaper onto the table. "It says here they caught the fellow that killed him."
When Valentin got to the end of the piece, he put the paper aside and said, "I need to use the telephone."
A phone call interrupted Lieutenant Picot's lunch, but what he heard destroyed his appetite, anyway.
He made it from his house on Bell Street to Parish Prison in twenty furious minutes and raced down the two flights of steps to the basement, moving as fast as his thick legs would propel him without him breaking his neck. He came blustering along the hallway that led to the colored section. At the anteroom where the jailer had his desk, he found St. Cyr slouched against the wall in an insolent posture that set his blood to stewing.
"What's this?" he demanded of the jailer.
"He's got permission."
"Permission from who?"
The jailer held out a sheet of paper. Picot snatched it away and read down, his mouth settling into a hard line. His muddy eyes flicked at St. Cyr. "Jesus Christ!" he muttered. "What are you doing here?"
Valentin said, "I'm working this case, Lieutenant. And you made an arrest."
"That's right, we did!" Picot barked. "It's what we do when we find guilty parties. And this one's guilty as hell."
"Has he confessed?"
"He will soon enough."
"Did you find the weapon?"
"It's likely at the bottom of the damn river. I don't have to explain this to you." Picot gave Valentin a resentful look. "You just can't keep your nose out of our business, can you? You want to know if he did it? He did. We're going to put this one away. You'll be out of a job, but we're doing the family a
favor
here, goddamnit! This one's over and done."
Valentin kept his expression flat, ignoring Picot's bluster. He knew what was going on. When he was a copper, he had heard the same routine a hundred times. Once a suspect had been picked, there was an answer for
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