“I get the sense we’re already narrowing down the investigation to one suspect,” I said.
“Wrong. Right now we’re talking about a ‘person of interest,’ and his name happens to be Monarch Little. He’s in jail, too, and that’s where he needs to stay,” Lonnie said.
“I’ve just started to track the victim’s movements and whereabouts preceding his death,” I said. “I’ve talked on the phone to two of his fraternity brothers and I’m going to interview them in person at three o’clock. Evidently Tony Lujan went over to St. John’s Cathedral in Lafayette yesterday and talked to a priest, or at least was playing pitch-and-catch with him. The fraternity brothers said Tony was agitated and depressed and maybe wanted to unload his conscience about something.”
“Of course he was depressed. He was supposed to be in my office today and either take the fall for Crustacean Man or let his father go down for it.”
“Let me finish here, if I can,” I said, blinking to show I didn’t intend offense, that the problem was my own inability to speak succinctly and not Lonnie’s imperious attitude. “I also have the impression he was doing some weed and drinking. In other words, he was in an impaired state when he talked to the caller who identified himself as Monarch Little. The only semireliable witness we have in the moments leading up to Tony’s death is a part-time girlfriend by the name of Lydia Thibodaux. She says she talked to Monarch when he called Tony’s house to set up the meeting, but she gets pretty vague when it comes to actual voice identification. I have a sense—”
“Have you gotten the Lujans’ telephone records?” Lonnie interrupted.
“There were three calls to the house yesterday afternoon. One from a solicitor, one to confirm a pizza order, and one from a pay phone. The pay phone was—”
“I don’t think you’re reading me correctly, Dave. We’re going to examine every possible lead in this case, but it’s going to be done in an expeditious way, without any foot-dragging. I’m not going to let this turn into a racial issue, and everybody in this room knows that’s what’s going to happen if Monarch Little has his way. I’m not letting the do-gooders and the ACLU use us for their agenda, either.”
“Hear me out, Lonnie. Tony’s roommate was Slim Bruxal. So far I haven’t been able to find him. He was gone from the fraternity house yesterday and his father claims he hasn’t seen him since last week. Slim and some other fraternity kids followed Tony to St. John’s and found him playing pitch-and-catch with the priest. Before we start dropping the jailhouse on Monarch’s head, we need to get Slim Bruxal in here and find out what he was doing when Tony was killed.”
I could tell Lonnie didn’t like my bringing up Slim Bruxal’s name in front of Betsy Mossbacher, in all probability because he planned to launch his own investigation into Whitey Bruxal’s ties with racketeering and exclude the FBI.
“So haul his ass in here. But what you’re going to get from Slim Bruxal is shit and you know it,” Lonnie said.
“You’ll have to excuse me for being a bit dense, but can you explain to me why I’ve been invited here?” Betsy said.
“Professional courtesy, Agent Mossbacher,” Lonnie replied. “You were in the process of moving Monarch into Witness Protection. In my opinion, that process has become a moot issue. We’ll cooperate in every way we can with your investigation into racketeering inside the gaming industry, but right now we have a homicide to deal with. In case you’re interested, at age eighteen Monarch was probably involved in the shooting death of a man who was watering his lawn on Easter morning. He also set fire to the house of a city policeman.”
“That’s interesting. I wonder why he’s been on the street all this time,” she replied.
Lonnie grinned and glanced out the window, as though he were checking the weather. “You forced Monarch to file charges against the Bruxal boy in order to get at his father. That makes perfect sense. But now it looks like your confidential informant or whatever you want to call him has committed a homicide in an extortion attempt gone bad. So you’re going to have to go after Whitey Bruxal on your own, or at least without strings on Monarch Little. He’s our problem now and we’re going to handle him and it from now on out.”
He turned away from her and looked back at me and Helen. “I’d like to talk with both of you again by close of business today. Media are already all over this, and there’s at least one alternative newspaper in Lafayette that loves to throw matches at gasoline. We’re not going to let this turn into a gangbanger and race issue. This is not Los Angeles or New Orleans. Our tourism is booming and I plan to see that it stays that way. This is a good city. Our streets aren’t going to be turned into free-fire zones because of one black asshole and a spoiled white kid who probably ran over a homeless man and left him to die on the road.”
It was obvious he was proselytizing about local concerns in order to exclude Betsy Mossbacher from the conversation and encourage her to leave the meeting. But it didn’t work.
“No disrespect meant, Mr. Marceaux, but do you believe either the Bureau or the DOJ is going to change its policies because of anything said at this meeting?”
“I’m trying to be candid about our priorities, Agent Mossbacher. You and your people can do whatever you want. That’s how you usually operate anyway, isn’t it?”
Betsy Mossbacher got up from her chair, then reached down for her purse. Her bright, straw-colored hair was still damp on the tips and stuck to the back of her neck. “You don’t have your brand on that black kid’s backside. He’s still a confidential informant cooperating with a federal investigation, and he’d better be regarded as such by your office. In my opinion, you’re pushing your own investigators to come to conclusions they’re not ready to make. I’m going to take official note of all this, so don’t be surprised if you invite a civil rights beef you didn’t have before you called this meeting.”
Lonnie pinched his eyes and pretended to suppress a yawn. “I hear you. Glad you dropped by. Let me get the door for you,” he said, rising from his chair.
Then I witnessed one of those rare moments, in a male-dominated environment, when a woman can wrap herself in her own integrity and create an impregnable shield around herself. Lonnie had pulled open the door and was waiting for Betsy Mossbacher to leave, but she didn’t. Instead, she stood silently, five feet from the door’s threshold, waiting for his pantomime to end, her eyes focused into the hallway. He tried to wait her out, then realized he had been trapped into making a fool of himself.
He eased the door closed. “I beg your pardon, Agent Mossbacher,” he said, and returned to his desk.
“No problem,” she said. Then she opened the door for herself and closed it behind her.
I saw a tug at the corner of Helen Soileau’s mouth.
Lonnie cleared his throat and fiddled with a ballpoint pen on his desk. “I want to say something for the record. I believe Monarch did Bello Lujan’s boy. But I’m going to leave that determination up to y’all. That said, there’s obviously a much larger story at work here. Those federal agents wouldn’t take the time to spit on us if we were burning to death. They want Whitey Bruxal in a cage and maybe Bello Lujan, too. I suspect the Mossbacher woman is a closet liberal who wants to bring down this televangelical lobbyist Colin Alridge. It’s my position we don’t need the goddamn federal government to do any of the aforementioned. Bruxal has tried to bribe two or three people to get his video poker machines into Iberia Parish. That puts him in our jurisdiction. Y’all with me on this?”
“I haven’t thought it all through, Lonnie,” I said.
“Glad to see such a positive attitude. How about you, Helen?”
“To tell the truth, I think I should have been reading Mack’s report and the post on Tony Lujan rather than attending this meeting,” she said. “I’ll get back to you ASAP.”
It wasn’t the best of days for Lonnie Marceaux.