Free The Cult by Arno Joubert Page B

raspy breaths.
    He strode out and slammed the door behind him. “Bitch.” Someday, he would tell all these juvenile delinquents the damn truth and send Lamont and Di Mardi to Hell.
    Exactly where they belonged.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

    General Alain Laiveaux quaffed his first drink for the morning and sat back with a grunt, studying the case file. He scanned the notes, flipping through the photos of the crime scene.
    There were two reasons why Laiveaux was interested in this specific case. The first was that he had arrested and convicted the dead man, Ed Watson, twelve years ago for child molestation. The second reason was that his computer had red-flagged the movement of a certain Father Timothy Casanellas from the Vatican City, Rome. He had worked with Casanellas before. Recently though, wherever Casanellas went, a clergyman happened to be killed. Which could have been a coincidence. Or not.
    He placed the photos back in the file and his chair creaked as he leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. He sat like this for a couple of minutes, rocking to and fro in his chair, then leaned forward and picked up his phone. “Lieutenant, come see me in my office.”
    The man arrived a minute later, looking flustered, like he always did whenever he visited the general in his office.
    “Yes, General?” the tall, blond man said, his eyes darting around the room, a worried frown on his brow.  
    “Sit down, Lieutenant.”
    The man lifted the chair and pushed it back and sat down gingerly. Laiveaux poured three fingers of Cognac into a tumbler and pushed it over to him.
    Latorre nodded a thanks and took a sip, placed the glass down carefully.
    “Relax, Lieutenant.”
    The man nodded with pursed lips, wringing his beret in his hands.
    “Do you want a case?”
    Latorre’s eyes widened. “My own case?”
    Laiveaux nodded.  
    Latorre leaned forward excitedly. “Yes, of course. When do I start?”
    “Today.” Laiveaux pushed the file to Latorre and gave him a rundown of the murder of Father Ed Watson. “Liaise with Captain Guerra. Another man was killed in Salt Lake City,” he said and checked his notes. “Bishop Warren Garland, bled to death.”
    Latorre sat back with a sigh, his shoulders slumping.
    “What?” Laiveaux asked.
    “It’s just that the Captain wouldn’t approve of this. She would probably say that she needed to babysit me.”
    “You listen to everything your mother told you to do?”
    Latorre shrugged. “I guess not, General.”
    “So ignore her.”
    Latorre’s Adam’s apple bounced up and down. “The problem is that she’s usually right.”
    Laiveaux quaffed his drink and dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “Bah! Of course our mothers are usually right, but that doesn’t stop us from going out and trying things for ourselves, man.”  
    Latorre shook his head. “I meant the Captain. She’s usually does end up babysitting me.”
    Laiveaux leaned back in his chair and it creaked. He would need to oil it sometime, but it was the most comfortable chair in the entire office; he had tried them all. “You talking about the diving school, when Alexa saved you from drowning?”
    Latorre’s eyes narrowed. “I almost forgot about that, it was the first time she saved my hide.” He sighed and started counting the incidents on his fingers. “In Dabbort Creek, she saved my life twice. At Metcalfe’s mansion, she got me out of a pretty sticky situation. I thought I was a goner. Then there was the time—“
    “Shut up man, you’re boring me.” Laiveaux pointed at Latorre’s chest. “What’s that, Lieutenant?”
    He looked down at the medallion on his chest. “The Legionnaire’s medal of honor, General.”
    “And why did you receive it?”
    Latorre pursed his lips, fiddling with his beret. “For saving the Captain’s life, General,” he whispered.
    Laiveaux leaned forward. “Speak up, man.”
    “For saving the Captain’s life, General,” Latorre said, louder this