Read Online House of the Rising Sun by Chuck Hustmyre - Free Book Online Page A

Jimmy didn’t call him back. Ray decided to go in person.
    The New Orleans Police Department headquarters building is an ugly, 1960s-era, five-story block of cement and smoked glass that stands between the jail and municipal court. As Ray crossed the open plaza in front of the dilapidated building, he passed the dry, weed-choked memorial fountain and tried not to look at the memorial wall.
    Set in a corner of Sirgo Plaza, the fallen-officers memorial was the only modern edifice in the entire jail-court-police complex. The memorial wall was a seven-foot-tall pane of thick glass, surrounded by a rectangular concrete frame. Etched into the glass were the names of all of the New Orleans police officers who had been killed in the line of duty. When he was a rookie cop, Ray used to stop and stare at the glass wall. He would get choked up thinking about the fallen heroes whose names were inscribed there. This time he raced past it, too ashamed to look.
    Just inside the main door to headquarters, angled off to the left, was a security desk, almost always manned by a cop who was on light duty, usually one recovering from an injury. Two rope lines and a red carpet guided people to the security desk, but Ray slipped to the right as soon as he got inside. The officer on duty was busy with a couple of visitors and didn’t notice as Ray passed the elevator and glided toward the back stairs.
    On the third floor, Ray opened the door marked CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION BUREAU . A window made of bullet-resistant glasswas set in the wall of the tiny waiting room. There was a small circular talking device mounted in the window. It looked like some sort of aluminum speaker. No one was behind the window, so Ray rang the old-fashioned metal bell that sat on the ledge in front of the glass.
    Several seconds later, a fat female civilian support officer strolled up to the window. She stared at Ray for a second, giving him that bored civil-service look, then said, “Yeah?”
    â€œIs Detective LaGrange here?” Ray asked.
    She smacked a wad of gum a couple times while she looked him over. “Hold on,” she said as she turned and walked away.
    While he waited, Ray looked at the artwork on the waiting room walls. Cheap frames around police public awareness pictures. One was a stark black-and-white photo of a chalk outline drawn on the street where a body had fallen. A superimposed image in the lower right-hand corner showed a close-up shot of a young hand holding two rocks of crack cocaine. At the bottom of the poster, in big block letters, was the legend CRACK KILLS .
    Another framed picture showed kids on a playground. Printed at the bottom of the picture were the words CHILDREN SHOULD BE SEEN NOT HEARD , but a red line ran through the word
heard
, and printed over it in red letters, in what was supposed to look like handwritten graffiti, was the word
shot
. The detective office was a cheerful place to hang out.
    An electric solenoid buzzed. Ray turned to the window and saw the fat civil servant pointing to the door. He pushed it open just before the buzzing stopped and stepped inside the Detective Bureau. Detective Jimmy LaGrange was walking toward him. In his early forties, LaGrange was thicker around the middle and thinner on top than the last time Ray had seen him. He wore a shirt and tie and was slipping into a sport coat.
    â€œHey, Jimmy,” Ray said, and stuck out his hand.
    The detective brushed past him without taking it. “I figured it was you.” He pointed toward the door. “Outside.”
    The door hadn’t even closed behind Ray before LaGrange was through it. Ray turned and followed him out into the hall. As he caught up to the cop at the elevator, Ray asked, “What’s wrong, Jimmy? You don’t have time for an old friend?”
    The detective looked up and down the hall. They were alone. “What are you doing here?” he said in a loud whisper.
    The elevator door opened. Inside