Night Watchman

* * *

The two bins ended up at Tubby’s home, which the lawyer deemed the most secure location immediately available.

He searched in his mind for the name of any history scholar he might know, and came up empty. So he called the Dean of the Tulane Law School and asked him to whom he ought to speak about an important collection of Louisiana documents urgently needing preservation.

He got the name of a Dr. Sternwick, who was in charge of one of the university Library departments, and he called the man right away. Getting a voicemail, Tubby left his name and number, dropping the Dean’s name liberally.

Then he took a quick shower.

Peggy O’Flarity had said she might stop in for a glass of wine before driving back to the Northshore, and he had a lot to tell her.

* * *

The morning paper brought the news that Carlos Pancera had died from what appeared to be a self–inflicted gunshot. He was described as “a prominent Latin American civic leader.”

Had the disappearance of his files pushed Pancera over the edge? Tubby wondered about that, and also whether someone might have found it expedient to eliminate him. Pancera was survived by a big family.

During the day, Tubby had been leafing through the bins, and Peggy, who had changed her plans and stayed with him, brought coffee. She entertained herself tending to Tubby’s bruises, answering emails, and reading the news on her laptop.

“Look at this,” she interrupted early in the afternoon, plunking her screen in front of Tubby.

An obituary was posted in the online version of the paper. The reference to “self-inflicted wound” had been deleted entirely. The service was going to be held next Sunday at the St. Agapius Church. It would be performed by ‘Father Escobar (ret)’.

“This priest,” Tubby said. “I see him talked about in the minutes. Let me read you something.” He located one folder from the pile. “October 15, 1963,” he read. “It says: ‘The Special Mission to Texas is underway.’ Could they be talking about killing the President? And at the end it says: ‘Our work was blessed by the Night Watchman.’ ”

“And you think… what?” she asked.

“It’s plain,” Tubby said. “Who else would give the benediction but a priest? I think I’ve found the ‘Night Watchman!’ ”

XXIX

Peggy left later that afternoon. She had children coming in the morning to ride the horses and she had to get ready for them. Tubby regretted her departure. He had enjoyed their unexpected night together, in his house, and appreciated her concern for his injuries. Now the place felt empty. He looked around the kitchen and found that the refrigerator was also empty. Making a quick mental list of things he needed to pick at Langensteins, he grabbed his keys.

While locking the front door, he noticed a silver Chevy Impala parked under the live oak tree shading the curb. His own car was in the driveway, but as he walked toward it, the driver’s door of the Impala opened and out stepped Detective, or retired detective, Kronke.

Tubby turned to face him and dropped his ring of keys into his pocket to free up his hands. Kronke, ever the cop, marched in like he owned the place and planted himself less than a foot away from the homeowner’s shoe tips. Kronke was shorter and rounder than Tubby, but he had a lot of muscle mass packed under his blazer. He was bald and red-faced. He had the remains of a fat cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth.

“You got a lot of nerve,” he said to Tubby, punching out the words.

“What the heck are you talking about?” the lawyer asked, his butt braced against the door of his Camaro.

“Walking around like you ain’t got a care in the world. You ain’t forgot where you was two nights ago have you?”

Tubby wasn’t sure what Kronke knew or didn’t know, so he just said, “What’s it to you?”

“I’m asking the questions.” Kronke pointed a finger as if to prod the lawyer in the stomach but stopped, maybe sensing Tubby balling up his fists. “Tell me how you killed Rick Sandoval.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How’d you pull that off?”

“I want you to get the hell off my property.”

“Listen to me, you dumb shit. Your days are numbered and that number is going to get a lot smaller if you cause any more trouble for the Pancera family.”

“What’s it to you? I thought it was your father who investigated the Parker kid’s murder.”

“You happen to be messing with my friends.”

“So you were in the group, too? What did they call you? The ‘Cop’s Kid’?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“How about Sandoval? You called him ‘Security,’ right?”

“He’s never been anything but an FBI snitch,” Kronke grunted.

That shut Tubby up.

“You got it?” Kronke mocked him. “You killed a government man.”

“Did I save you the trouble?” Tubby whispered.

Kronke’s grin was mean. “That’s something you can worry about at night, Dubo

“You mean friends like their priest, Escobar?”

“Him, especially,” Kronke growled, edging forward until their chests almost touched.

“What was his job in the group? Father Confessor?”

“You’re a shithead.” His breath was in Tubby’s face.

“Did they call him the ‘Night Watchman’?”

“Now you’re going too far.” Kronke reached into his jacket as if going for a shoulder pistol, but Tubby’s fist caught him in the jaw.

Kronke stumbled back and came up with a gun, but not before Tubby drew down on him with his own .45.

Panting deeply, the lawyer still managed to get out, “I’m entitled to shoot to kill anyone who threatens me on my property. You know that, old man?”

Kronke straightened up and carefully re-holstered his pistol. He felt his jaw, then spat onto the driveway near Tubby’s shoe. He gri

One of Tubby’s neighbors came out on her front porch to see who was causing trouble, and Tubby promptly hid his weapon. He got behind the wheel, still shaking.

Once he remembered what he was doing, he drove off to the grocery store.

* * *

The next morning, while Tubby’s new girlfriend was giving horse rides to happy children in some better place, Tubby was pulled away from his second cup of coffee by the ringing house phone.

He didn’t recognize the voice that asked for Mr. Dubo

“My name is Victor Argueta. I’m a policeman. I’ve been investigating the shooting of an officer named Ireanous Babineaux.”

“I thought that was being handled by Internal Affairs. Is that you?”

“So you knew Babineaux?”

“Yes. He was my client.”

“That’s what I gathered.”

“Really? How?”

“From his text messages. I downloaded them off his phone.”

“Great initiative,” Tubby said.

“Not really. It’s not very hard.”

“It’s impressive that you thought to do it.”

“Not all cops are stupid, Mister Dubo

“Sorry. I’ve just had some bad experiences in the last few days with members of the force.”

“Understood. Did one of those happen to be Archie Alonzo?”

“The head of your union?”

“The head of the union, yeah.”

“No. I’ve never met him. Why do you ask?”

“There was a text from Alonzo that could be interpreted as a threat to Babineaux.”

“They weren’t on the best of terms. Alonzo claimed that my client broke his jaw.”

“That’s right. Your client did, in fact, break his jaw. That could be reason enough to kill a man, don’t you think?”

“Could be. Or to have him killed. Is that what happened?”

“I don’t know. How about Rick Sandoval?”

“The cop who got blown up? What about him?”

“Babineaux sent him a text, asking him to help you find some documents.”