Storm Damage Read online

  Storm Damage

  A Cliff Saint James Novel

  Ed Kovacs

  The Phoenix Group

  Los Angeles & Bangkok

  Table of Contents

  PRAISE FOR ED KOVACS

  BOOKS BY ED KOVACS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT ED KOVACS

  COPYRIGHT

  PRAISE FOR ED KOVACS

  For Good Junk:

  “…the scenes of New Orleans are rich and real. Kovacs hopeless, elegiac vision of the city is touching, and his quick studies of hidden landmarks like the outré bar in the French Quarter that calls itself Pravda, and Pampy’s, a purveyor of soul food to politicians, are written with true affection and terrific humor.” –THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW

  “Powerful prose that evokes a city still struggling to recover its infrastructure and identity elevates this well beyond most other contemporary PI novels.” –PUBLISHER’S WEEKLY, BOXED, STARRED REVIEW

  *****

  For Storm Damage:

  “A sleeper here, a beautiful spin on hard-boiled fiction, and it’s all done with style and energy.”— BOOKLIST

  “Kovacs noir take on the thriller will hook readers.”—ASSOCIATED PRESS

  “Kovacs is a vivid addition to the thriller genre.” —STEVE BERRY, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  “Kovacs writes like a master.” —GAYLE LYNDS, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  “Highly recommended.”—JONATHAN MABERRY, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  *****

  For The Russian Bride:

  “This is a thriller packed so full of action, it leaves readers breathless. Kovacs does an incredible job at being technically accurate and easy to understand, so readers of all levels are engaged throughout. A must-read for fans of fast-paced stories that don’t let you go till the very end.”—RT BOOK REVIEWS

  “Brisk, easy-to-read thriller” – PUBLISHER’S WEEKLY

  “Quick, entertaining action.” – KIRKUS REVIEWS

  *****

  For Burnt Black:

  “The vibrant description of occult doings mixes well with the movements of the earthbound characters, making this Cliff and Honey’s best outing to date.” —KIRKUS REVIEWS

  “The rough around the edges locale will be catnip to some readers, like myself. The book has more twists and turns than the streets and back alleys of New Orleans.”—CRIMINAL ELEMENT

  *****

  For Unseen Forces:

  “A spellbinding thriller that will keep you riveted well past midnight.”— THE ST. LOUIS POST-DISPATCH

  “A real page-turner rivaling The Da Vinci Code.”—PHENOMENA MAGAZINE

  “A taut, suspenseful story that keeps the reader riveted until the very end.”—MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW

  “Terrific debut novel that deserves to be on the bestseller lists.”—THE DAILY GRAIL

  “I couldn’t wait to get back to it after I put it down.”—MAJOR PAUL SMITH, AUTHOR OF “READING THE ENEMY'S MIND

  *****

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  Please visit his Website at http://www.edkovacs.com. Follow him on Facebook and Twitter and Goodreads.

  BOOKS BY ED KOVACS

  Unseen Forces

  Storm Damage

  Good Junk

  Burnt Black

  The Russian Bride

  Locked Down

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Most of the locations in this book are real and well worth a visit. Change, however, is inevitable; businesses close and new ones open in their place. Thanks in advance to my readers for understanding that while the majority of locations in this book as of the time of this writing are real, a few others are purely fictional.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Five months and nineteen days into the New Normal of New Orleans, she walked into what was left of my dojo and casually flicked back her long, dark hair as she took in the mess of reconstruction, distracting me just enough so my right block sank too low and my student’s rocketing left hook caught me square, breaking my nose yet again, spinning my head and dropping me hard onto the fight cage mat.

  I’ve always had a high tolerance for pain, but since my marriage broke up two years ago, I’d hardly been able to feel anything. Lack of feeling comes in handy when you’ve just been knocked on your ass, literally and in other ways.

  As I sprawled there staring up at the disintegrating blue tarp that covered the huge gap where my roof should have been, I remembered the last time I’d seen the young Asian-American woman: at the murder scene of her father, Tiki Hut Sam, the last homicide before a Category Five hurricane wiped out my adopted city.

  What was her name again? She had found the body, a body that we’d been forced to leave in place as we retreated from a fury we’d greatly underestimated.

  And now she has just strolled into my place, unannounced. Not that there was anyone to announce her. I was lucky to have a front door.

  She looked even better than I recalled; late twenties, slender, with creamy-fresh skin, but her name didn’t come. It should have, even though we’d never really met, at least not under normal circumstances. I’d known her dad pretty well and he had bragged her up more than once and shown me photos of her. Her father, Sam Siu, had been the Chief Building Inspector of the City of New Orleans during the scandal-plagued administration of Mayor Marlin Duplessis. Sam also had owned the Tiki Hut, kind of a low-rent Trader Vic’s, a tacky Polynesian-themed bar where the power elite of City Hall could drink and scheme in privacy or, if they chose, rub elbows with visiting pro-athletes, Hollywood actors in town on a production, or the retro-arty crowd, which seemed to revel in the cheesy palm thatch, year-round Christmas lights, electric blue drinks in oversized glasses, and a jukebox that still spun Elvis singing Blue Hawaii on 45 vinyl.

  The night the Storm hit was the last time I’d seen the Tiki Hut. I’d answered my last radio call ever that night, my final night as a cop. I’d had four hours left until 10-7—end of shift—and the end of my eight-year law enforcement career with the New Orleans Police Department. I’d resigned for good reasons, but Fate made my last day on the thin blue line a true day of reckoning for many other people than me, none more so than Tiki Hut Sam.

  When the radio call crackled, “Signal Twenty-nine U, unclassified death, possible Thirty, at forty-eight hundred Toulouse,” I recognized the address right away, since I’d spent plenty of time in the Hut. So I ignored the mad-dog wind screaming through the trees, the terrified city already devolving into chaos as the stubborn hunkered down and the opportunists sought opportunity, and drove straight for the scene of the crime.

  Not doing what I was supposed to do had been something of a theme
during my tenure at the department. In fact, I’d just completed a last minute unauthorized banzai run to give a friend’s grandfather a .357 revolver out in Lakeview. The old guy would need the piece if looters showed up.

  Having done that, and continuing my cowboy leitmotif, I responded to a homicide call far outside of my district. Citywide curfew had kicked in at 1800, two hours previous, phones and radios still worked and we had a break in the rain bands. Brute blasts of heavy, moist air bounced the traffic lights on North Carrollton up and down like piñatas trying to avoid the stick as I made a wild left turn onto Orleans Avenue. Since the winds blew steady at over sixty miles per hour, we were in a mandatory citywide lockdown; all officers were supposed to be hunkered down at their District HQs or other designated staging areas for storm duty. So I wasn’t surprised to be the only uniform to show as I rolled up to the Tiki Hut. A single detective’s unit sat parked askew, and I knew instantly whom it belonged to by the dent in the driver’s door, a dent I had personally installed after learning that Detective Sgt. Dice McCarty was screwing my ex-wife.

  As I got out of my unit, I powered up my concealed digital video recorder—something I did with almost any encounter, at least since the Chief had made it his mission to get me fired. The pinhole cam was hidden in a lapel pin. A separate voice-activated digital audio recorder connected to an ink-pen mike in my front shirt pocket.

  The electricity was still on inside the bar and the first thing I saw was Sam’s daughter alone at a table, trying to get a cell signal for her smart phone and sobbing as she spoke Vietnamese to no one in particular. I knew the bar’s layout well and crossed the gray concrete floor toward the open door leading to Sam’s office and living quarters.

  Sgt. McCarty sat at Sam’s desk checking out Sam’s laptop as I entered. Dice looked tall, even sitting down. He had been a decent cornerback for the LSU football team back in his day, before the gambling and drinking problems and the straight-Fs got him kicked out with a one-way ticket to UNO, the University of New Orleans. He had big rough hands, the reddish enlarged nose of someone who drank and fought too much, bloodshot blue eyes under tossed sandy hair and couldn’t whisper if he wanted to. He glanced at me with a look like I had caused him a gas bubble, then barked, like he was calling out a defensive formation in a loud and unfriendly stadium, “Don’t touch nothing, we’ll be outta here in a second.”

  It was then I saw the body of a man on the floor. Naked except for a green bath towel around the waist. Blood pooled around the head, which angled awkwardly to the side.

  “Jesus.” I stepped closer, careful to avoid any blood spatter, bone and gray matter. A metallic whiff of blood invaded my nose. “Gunshot wound to the back of the head. Face blown away. Had to be a large caliber slug, don’t you think?”

  “Just put Sam’s kid in my unit,” said Dice. “I’m taking her downtown.”

  “What about the coroner, the crime scene techs?” I eyed the lividity, trying to roughly calculate a time of death. Rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet, I figured the corpse was four or five hours fresh.

  “Nobody’s coming out in this. We’re about to get hammered by a Cat Five hurricane, case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “You know the regs. Coroner’s office has to respond to a death, especially a homicide.”

  “State of Emergency’s been declared, Saint James. The rules are out the window.”

  I stood up and faced him. “This isn’t some stiff on the levee. That might be Sam Siu down there on the floor, but I can’t positively ID this body, and I knew Sam well. If it is Sam, then this is big.”

  Dice started to argue, but I cut him off.

  “Sam was Chief Building Inspector for the city under Mayor Duplessis. They were cronies. Duplessis is under investigation by the FBI.”

  “That FBI shit’s a rumor.”

  “Like hell. This is a murder scene. We can’t just walk away.”

  “Look, ace, power’s out at the coroner’s office and the backup generators ain’t working over there. I’m hearing two- thirds of the coroner’s staff evacuated with their families and ain’t reporting for duty. The coroner’s assistants that are there, they can’t get the damn electric gate open, so they couldn’t roll a vehicle if they wanted to. EMS ain’t rolling, FD ain’t rolling, nobody’s rolling. You and me ain’t even supposed to be here.”

  “Have you gathered any evidence, taken photos? Is Sam’s wallet here, his keys?” I scanned the room.

  “Car keys are here, but I didn’t see no wallet.”

  “Look, the safe is open.” Sam had a heavy safe bolted to the concrete floor. The door hung wide open, the inside empty.

  As I moved toward the safe, Dice closed whatever window he’d been viewing on Sam’s laptop and stood up to his full 6’4” height.

  “Look, man, I know you want to play detective. And hey, I knew Sam, too, all right? I liked him. But nobody else is coming and we need to book, ASAP.”

  “If we need to book ASAP, what the hell are you doing on Sam’s laptop? Checking in with your sports bookie to see if he’ll extend you some credit?”

  Dice flushed red. I knew he wanted to hit me, and I knew he knew better than to try.

  “CSI’ll deal with this after the storm’s passed. It ain’t going to matter much to old Sam here.”

  “Yeah? Well, in case you forgot, this is a bar. Who will stop the looters from coming in here and trashing this place after they steal everything?”

  Dice didn’t have an answer, and when you can’t destroy the message, go after the messenger. “You seem pretty stressed-out for a guy who resigned from the department and is working his last shift,” he said, with a somewhat mocking tone. “Or maybe you’re just bugged because I’m sleeping with your ex-wife.”

  I gave him a look I usually reserve for sub-humans. “You want to have that conversation, save it for when we’re off duty, and not at a murder scene.” I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing just how much I hated him or how much I still loved my ex-wife. The divorce ate at my soul; I’d simply been unable to let go of Sharon. I glanced down at the body. “Sam— if that’s really Sam down there—deserves for us to do it the right way, not the Southeast Louisiana way. We could at least put him in a body bag and take him to the morgue ourselves.”

  “We ain’t moving the corpse.” A crashing sound from out on the street was accompanied by the building shuddering and creaking from a massive explosion of whining wind. Dice looked to the ceiling.

  “Did you bother to check the security cams?” His look told me he hadn’t. I crossed past him and entered a small room about the size of a walk-in closet.

  A half dozen black-and-white CCTV monitors showed views of the exterior of the front and back doors, and four different views from inside the bar. One monitor revealed Sam’s daughter still sitting in the next room.

  Sam had recorded onto DVDs. Racks of plastic disk cases, all neatly labeled and catalogued, cramped the cluttered room.

  “The cameras are running, but the recorder’s not recording.”

  Dice squeezed in behind me. “Maybe the disc is still there.” He slipped on a purple latex glove and gingerly pressed the edge of the eject button, so as not to smear a possible print. The loader opened but held no DVD.

  “Look,” I said, pointing to some empty racks. “Someone took all the security DVDs going back about a year or so.”

  Dice sighed. There would be no easy ID of the killer or killers. “Yeah, and that would be a lot of discs.”

  I nodded. “The killer knew he or she had been recorded and went to a lot of trouble to remove the evidence. This was pre-meditated.”

  My police radio crackled; dispatch instructed us in no uncertain terms to 10-19, return to station, “Right damn now,” as the female dispatcher put it. The rain had kicked in again, and the winds were hitting seventy-five miles per hour.

  We locked the door to Sam’s office. Sam’s daughter, still weepy and stunned, didn’t want to ride with Dice but agreed to fol
low him in her car to give a statement at headquarters. There, we assured her, she could take shelter until the hurricane passed. She locked up the bar—I didn’t see any signs of forced entry to the front door—and we ran to our vehicles through needles of horizontal rain. Branches, roof shingles and trash tore at us, flechettes of detritus, advance scouts of a massive army of debris that was about to rise up over thousands of square miles.

  Dice peeled out, with Sam’s daughter directly behind, me following. I veered to narrowly avoid a falling tree limb, and figured that the night was going to get interesting fast. It did, much sooner than I anticipated, because at the next corner Sam’s daughter hung a sharp left and screeched off into the darkness as Dice drove on imperviously.

  I recall seriously considering following her, then changing my mind. A few more hours and I would no longer be a cop, and already my wipers couldn’t keep up with the rain as the devil wind buffeted my patrol unit and the assault on my city began in earnest.

  “Good luck,” I’d said aloud to Sam Siu’s daughter as she fled into some unfolding chasm of her own making.

  Now, she stood in my dojo at the edge of the octagonal fight cage, the wire mesh screened-in ring that the looters had been too lazy to dismantle and steal, looking at me as I lay inert on the mat. Another, far less attractive face entered my field of vision, that of my MMA—mixed-martial-arts—student Kendall “The Killer Creole” Bullard. Kendall used cheap peroxide to color his nappy hair something resembling blonde. His fat nose looked worse than mine—not an easy feat—thanks to years of taking beatings, and his caramel skin tone bespoke his Creole lineage.

  Sam’s daughter glanced through the wire mesh to Kendall. He looked back at her, then back at me.