AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Brandon waited by his car outside the station, nodding as Callan approached. Despite Callan’s jeans and t-shirt, Brandon wore a button-down shirt and tie.
“Ready to go knock some heads, partner?” Brandon grinned.
Callan clapped him on the back. “Let’s go dig up some dirt.”
Sliding into the passenger seat as Brandon took the wheel, Callan felt grateful to have a good friend at his side during this crucial case.
Their first stop—Rousseau’s, a seedy bar on the fringe of the French Quarter. Per the latest intel, it was a regular haunt of Vincent Garofalo and his mob cronies. If anyone had insight into Garofalo’s final days, it would be the shady patrons here. Brandon pulled the car up a block away to avoid direct notice. Callan tucked his badge into his jacket. No need to spook people right away.
Stepping inside the dim interior, Callan coughed at the cloying combination of stale beer and cigar smoke. Rousseau’s attracted an unsavory crowd, to put it mildly, even this early in the afternoon. Grizzled drunks sat at the bar while glassy-eyed regulars occupied the corner booths. Loud rock music blared from an ancient jukebox. Definitely not an upscale hangout.
Brandon grabbed a stool, and Callan did, too.
The beefy bald bartender eyed them warily. “Haven’t seen you two around here before. You looking for something specific?”
Callan trod carefully, shaking his head slightly. “Just hoping to have a chat with some of your regulars, that’s all. Someone from Garofalo’s,” He subtly slid a twenty-dollar bill across the bar. “Maybe you can point me toward the right folks to talk to?”
The bartender palmed the cash and glanced around the room. “See those two guys in the back booth? White tank tops. They’re usually here mornings. Pals of… who you’re looking for.” His eyes conveyed he knew who Callan meant.
“Appreciate it,” Callan said with a nod. He and Brandon ordered beers, vacated their bar stools, and headed toward the back booth. Time to engage their first leads.
The two middle-aged men scrutinized Callan and Brandon as they approached. Up close, their muscled arms were etched with faded tattoos—likely remnants of time served. The bigger one, with a goatee, took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled sharply. “Help you fellas with something?” His tone made clear they weren’t welcomed.
Callan acted casual, hoping to get them talking. “Sorry to bother you, gentlemen. We were just hoping you could help us out with a little mystery.” He took a swig of beer, watching their reactions. “We’re trying to figure out where Vinnie Garofalo’s been hanging out lately. Heard he’s been laying low.”
The two men exchanged subtle looks. Goatee stubbed out his cigarette. “Can’t say I know anything about that. Me and Sal here just mind our own business.” His monotone delivery gave little away.
Sal drained the last of his beer, eyeing Callan and Brandon cagily. “Vinnie hasn’t been around much, though. Not sure why. Must be important.” He seemed reluctant to elaborate.
“When’s the last time you saw him?” Callan pressed. Reticence was common when discussing missing criminals. Yet their body language suggested wariness. Were they hiding something?
Goatee shrugged. “Few weeks? Like we said, Vinnie’s been making himself scarce.” He gestured to the barkeep for another round of beers, eager to escape this conversation.
But Callan wasn’t done yet. “Any idea why Vinnie would have dropped off the radar? He in some kind of trouble?”
Both men stiffened at the question. “Look, Vinnie’s business ain’t our business,” Sal grumbled. “We steer clear of whatever he’s into. And you should, too, if you’re smart.” His pointed stare signaled this interrogation was over.
Callan nodded, reading the apprehension lurking beneath their tough facades. “I hear you. We’ll be on our way then.” He left his card on the table just in case. “But if you do hear from Vinnie, give me a call. Could be worth something.”
He and Brandon stepped away, leaving the two men muttering nervously at the booth. Outside, Brandon exhaled in frustration. “They know something. But neither wants to talk.”
Callan agreed. “All this fear surrounding Vinnie’s disappearance—whatever happened, it’s got the whole underworld spooked.” Garofalo’s demise, orchestrated by the Game Master, seemed tied to the recent dread haunting local criminals. Hopefully, someone would get desperate or careless enough to reveal more. In the meantime, they needed to keep digging.
Their next stop—the upscale Garden District residence of Gina Garofalo, Vinnie’s wife of twenty years. Callan hoped appealing to her distress as a concerned spouse might compel her to open up about her husband’s final movements. Parking a few houses down, they approached the elegant two-story home.
“Just follow my lead,” Callan told Brandon. “I don’t want to alarm her yet about Vinnie’s death. Let’s see what else she knows first.”
Brandon nodded. “Good call. Would rather not frighten her if we can avoid it.” He straightened his tie and smoothed back his hair, prepping for their audience with Gina.
Callan rang the doorbell. Footsteps approached before a slender, immaculately dressed woman answered. Her eyes were rimmed with red—a clear sign of earlier tears. “Yes? Can I help you, gentlemen?” Her refined tone carried a slight quaver.
Flashing a polite smile, Callan introduced them. “Mrs. Garofalo, I’m Detective Hemlock, and this is Detective Turner. We apologize for the intrusion, but we were hoping to speak with you about your husband.”
Gina tensed slightly. “Regarding what exactly?” Suspicion edged her words. No doubt she feared the police nosing around her husband’s illicit affairs.
Maintaining a nonthreatening tone, Callan continued. “We know he’s been away, and you must be very worried. We only want to make sure he’s all right and help you in any way we can. Do you mind if we come inside to talk more?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Gina stepped aside in acquiescence. “Please, come in and make yourselves comfortable.” She led them into a lavish living room and settled on an ornate couch. “I’ll admit, I have been concerned about Vinnie. He’d been behaving quite erratically before he… he… disappeared.”
