Read Online Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) by David Fulmer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Fulmer
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neither seen nor heard anything from the Creole detective since he'd arrived back in New Orleans. As the weeks went by, he began to relax, thinking that the gossip about a weak copy of the former St. Cyr was true. But now here he was, back at his door, so he was about to find out for himself.
The desk sergeant appeared in the doorway of his office. "Fellow out there says he wants to talk to you," he stated.
Picot looked past the sergeant and at the visitor at the front desk. "Yeah? Talk to me about what?"
"That homicide out on Rampart Street."
"Is that so?" The lieutenant drummed his thick fingers on his desk blotter in an absent rhythm. Then he pushed his chair back and stood up.
Valentin had to wait while Picot made his gradual way across the room, stopping at most of the desks and several file cabinets. He understood it was the copper's lumpish way of reminding him where he was. Whatever business had brought St. Cyr to his door would have to wait until Lieutenant J. Picot was good and ready. The crude little maneuver was a feature of the uneasy truce between the two men.
They had already spent years crossing swords. Picot regarded the detective St. Cyr as a meddler and walking embarrassment for the New Orleans Police Department. For his part, Valentin thought Picot a bumbler at best, a cruel bully and sneak in his worst moments. Neither man cared for the other, though they had stopped shooting daggers from their eyes each time their paths crossed—which had been just often enough to keep their feud alive.
Theirs was an odder standoff with much at stake, because both men had African blood and yet managed to pass for white. The difference was that Valentin did not engage in convolutions to hide his black and Sicilian bloodlines, while Picot, if cornered, would deny the colored side of his family to his grave. Beyond that, though, they were bound together by darker secrets that neither one dared divulge.
Though they hadn't met in a year and a half, they didn't bother with a greeting. "What's this?" Picot inquired in a clipped voice, his face already pinched in sour petulance.
"I'm looking into the murder of John Benedict," Valentin said.
Picot took an idle moment to eye St. Cyr up and down. There was something different about him, like he wasn't all there. "Says who?" he asked.
"The family, by way of an alderman named Badel and their attorney, Mr. Delouche. And with Mr. Anderson's permission."
Picot let out a grunt of annoyance. He wouldn't dare defy such an array of authority, and they both knew it. "It's not our case," he said. "That's nigger town. Sixth Precinct."
"The victim was from Esplanade Ridge."
"That's right, he was!" The copper threw out his hands. "Does this look like that part of town to you?"
"I thought this office was handling all the homicides within the city limits," Valentin said quietly.
Picot grimaced; the detective had been reading the newspapers.
"The family wants someone besides the police to look into it, that's all," Valentin said, keeping his voice just shy of sheepish.
It worked. The lieutenant's muddy green eyes narrowed and his short spike of a nose twitched as if he was sniffing blood. This was not the St. Cyr he had known before. The Creole's former cold pride was nowhere in sight. He looked almost embarrassed to be there at the bidding of rich Americans. Picot glanced over his shoulder. The desk sergeant and two patrolmen were lounging nearby, too close for comfort. He came around the counter and headed out the door, crooking a finger for St. Cyr to follow him. Once out in the cavernous hallway, he produced a cigarillo. He hesitated for a moment, then took out another one and offered it to the Creole detective.
St. Cyr studied it, then put it into his pocket. "For later," he said.
The lieutenant dug for a pack of lucifers, snapped a flame, and puffed a small cloud. "All right, then," he said. "We figure this fellow likely went over there looking for something in one of
The desk sergeant appeared in the doorway of his office. "Fellow out there says he wants to talk to you," he stated.
Picot looked past the sergeant and at the visitor at the front desk. "Yeah? Talk to me about what?"
"That homicide out on Rampart Street."
"Is that so?" The lieutenant drummed his thick fingers on his desk blotter in an absent rhythm. Then he pushed his chair back and stood up.
Valentin had to wait while Picot made his gradual way across the room, stopping at most of the desks and several file cabinets. He understood it was the copper's lumpish way of reminding him where he was. Whatever business had brought St. Cyr to his door would have to wait until Lieutenant J. Picot was good and ready. The crude little maneuver was a feature of the uneasy truce between the two men.
They had already spent years crossing swords. Picot regarded the detective St. Cyr as a meddler and walking embarrassment for the New Orleans Police Department. For his part, Valentin thought Picot a bumbler at best, a cruel bully and sneak in his worst moments. Neither man cared for the other, though they had stopped shooting daggers from their eyes each time their paths crossed—which had been just often enough to keep their feud alive.
Theirs was an odder standoff with much at stake, because both men had African blood and yet managed to pass for white. The difference was that Valentin did not engage in convolutions to hide his black and Sicilian bloodlines, while Picot, if cornered, would deny the colored side of his family to his grave. Beyond that, though, they were bound together by darker secrets that neither one dared divulge.
Though they hadn't met in a year and a half, they didn't bother with a greeting. "What's this?" Picot inquired in a clipped voice, his face already pinched in sour petulance.
"I'm looking into the murder of John Benedict," Valentin said.
Picot took an idle moment to eye St. Cyr up and down. There was something different about him, like he wasn't all there. "Says who?" he asked.
"The family, by way of an alderman named Badel and their attorney, Mr. Delouche. And with Mr. Anderson's permission."
Picot let out a grunt of annoyance. He wouldn't dare defy such an array of authority, and they both knew it. "It's not our case," he said. "That's nigger town. Sixth Precinct."
"The victim was from Esplanade Ridge."
"That's right, he was!" The copper threw out his hands. "Does this look like that part of town to you?"
"I thought this office was handling all the homicides within the city limits," Valentin said quietly.
Picot grimaced; the detective had been reading the newspapers.
"The family wants someone besides the police to look into it, that's all," Valentin said, keeping his voice just shy of sheepish.
It worked. The lieutenant's muddy green eyes narrowed and his short spike of a nose twitched as if he was sniffing blood. This was not the St. Cyr he had known before. The Creole's former cold pride was nowhere in sight. He looked almost embarrassed to be there at the bidding of rich Americans. Picot glanced over his shoulder. The desk sergeant and two patrolmen were lounging nearby, too close for comfort. He came around the counter and headed out the door, crooking a finger for St. Cyr to follow him. Once out in the cavernous hallway, he produced a cigarillo. He hesitated for a moment, then took out another one and offered it to the Creole detective.
St. Cyr studied it, then put it into his pocket. "For later," he said.
The lieutenant dug for a pack of lucifers, snapped a flame, and puffed a small cloud. "All right, then," he said. "We figure this fellow likely went over there looking for something in one of
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