Autumn A novel

It is Autumn in Louisiana. And, as the leaves on the trees flourish, Detective Jack Lowell, Jr., investigates a series of deaths that are high-profile in the Deep South of America.
As he does so, he faces corruption and a cover-up that shatters his faith in justice.


2. Autumn-Part Two


Detective Jack Lowell, Jr., was drinking a glass of Jack Daniels by six o'clock in the evening at Bobby Lang's Bar in Louisiana. He ate his dinner without any kind of problems. The warm fireplace heated the spacious room since it was sixty degrees...and getting colder by the hour. Jack, who was thirty-six, was alone since the death of his wife, Sharon Lowell, three year's ago due to breast cancer. She was thirty-three. Jack, who ate Irish stew, and garlic bread, sipped his beer...and remembered when his own parents were proud of their son being a detective. He knew it was hard on them, and in the end, he enjoyed working on his own.


He saw a woman eating pepper steak with gravy, and vegetables. She sipped her sparkling champagne. She sat on table 31. She smiled at him. He finished eating, and walked away from table 36 in the middle of the spacious hallway. "Hi, I'm Jack", he said. The woman nodded. "Cara", she said. Jack nodded. "Do you want to sit by the warm fireplace?", he asked her. "Yes", she answered him.

And she walked there with a man she didn't know.


L. Ray Grahame, III, stared at the waitress. 

"I'd like some New York steak, with gravy. And a coffee, please". She wrote down the order with her pen. "It shouldn't be too long, Sir". And he nodded, and relaxed for the first time in a long time.


Cara had long, blonde hair, bright, green eyes, and petite. 

"I'm a writer, and am thirty".

"I'm a detective, and am thirty-four".

"Like Humphrey Bogart".

"Yeah", Jack said.

"Louisiana has a lot of crime, like in New York, and Chicago".

"Depends on the murder rate. If it's down, I'm out of a job".

"Do you have an office, Jack?", Cara asked.

"Yes, it's small though. It's not like I meet women in distress, or Godfather's like in a Mario Puzo novel", he answered. He didn't smile at her; he was serious. He looked around, and saw two spare sofas were empty. As they relaxed, several mobsters arrived in expensive black suits, and strode towards Grahame. 


"I...", Cara began to say.

Jack stared at the mobsters.

He knew one of them as Simon Nathaniel Marks, Jr., a hot-headed killer in the Underworld. Cara stared at them. Jack shook his head.

"Simon's here", he said.


"Al Kane's assassin".

"He works for the head of the New York crime family".

"Yes", Jack said.

"How do you know him?", Cara asked.

"Al Kane was my father's golf partner. He ordered murders during various meetings that was top secret. Simon and the other mobsters killed people who opposed them. You never left the Mafia; you worked for the Mafia until you gasp your last breath", Jack answered her. He saw Simon walking towards him. "Jack, I thought you were in hiding", he said.

"I'm a Detective, Simon. I work on important cases for money. It's less than what the mobsters in New York pay, but it pay the bills", Jack said. 

"And who is your wife?", Simon asked him.

"I'm Cara. And Jack's not my husband. We just met", Cara answered.

"Ah, it's good to have a good woman at your side, Jack. Now, I have business to attend to. Good-bye", he said. He grinned maliciously, and walked towards table 41 with the other mobsters.


Anne Grey drank her coffee.

She noticed the mobsters talking to a man and a woman.

She shivered with fear.

She remembered her late husband, Ron Grey, had died from a brain aneurysm while he was jogging in the Louisiana park. Some people thought he was healthy, and worked hard to keep his family safe. He was forty year's old. Anne, who was a crime journalist for the Louisiana Times newspaper, stared into the glass window and sighed. It was Autumn in the city she was born in. When her parents, Tim and Jane Grey died in a plane crash three year's ago, she bunkered down with grief; her world, as she knew it, became darker than normal. Anne, who wore glasses, read the article on crime that had put pressure on Mayor Caleb Shaeffer. The political, social, and economic structure America dimmed in the fake news world of the United States. Because everyone was linked by the Internet by their social media accounts, and using their I-phones, that included apps, Anne knew that the modern, 21st century, became a focus for venting their rage on other people. The Mayor was elected in the summer of 2012 on a platform of reducing crime in the Deep South. He succeeded. And, at thirty-eight, he was the youngest Mayor ever to hold office.

      Anne stopped remembering the past. 

She was glad to have a $60,000 job, was happily single, and lived in an apartment in town. She noticed Simon Nathaniel Marks, Jr.; she knew the mobster was still alive. She saw Detective Jack Lowell, Jr. speaking to a woman she didn't know. She finished eating and drinking. She was about to leave when James Deere Bird, the Editor-In-Chief of the newspaper, was overly anxious. He opened the front door, and saw her. "Anne, there's been a murder. Karen D. Moreton-Smyth, the Louisiana socialite". Anne stared at him. "Karen! I knew she was in trouble....". James nodded. "She was my wife", James stated. Anne nodded. "I know. You told me before you married her". He took a deep breath. "Are you hungry? I could buy you something, you know", he said. Anne nodded. "Fine, and some more coffee, please. It's freezing outside". 


"It seems we're not acquainted", Jim Horton III said. He gripped his .9mm gun at the mobster's head. Alan Roberts, II, a young criminal screamed, as he was tied up on a black chair. "I don't want to die!", he yelled.  Jim shot him in the chest two times. Blood spilled downward, as his body thudded to the harsh, grey, ground. "Now, you think about leaving The Organization", he said. Alan's body fell limp, as he died from blood loss before the ambulance could arrive.


There was a mass panic by seven-forty five PM.

Jack stared at the dead body.

"Jesus!", he said.

He saw Cara was crying.

Suddenly the blaring sirens of police, and ambulances, arrived at the pub. He saw Simon. "Did you see anything?", he asked him.

"No. I didn't kill anyone. It wasn't my hit", he answered. He saw F. J. Markham, Jr., the head of the Louisiana Federal Bureau of Investigation, wave his ID badge in the cold air. He stood over six foot tall. He had short, black hair that was greying, green eyes, and cast an ominous presence wherever he walked. Cara stood near Jack, as she held his right hand. "Karen D. Moreton-Smyth, the socialite lived in Louisiana all her life. She married John H. Smyth, an builder by trade who made his fortune in the gold and silver trades. She had two boys, Aaron and Lowell Smyth, they were both twins, and are seven year's old. Karen was thirty; John was thirty-seven. They were worth five billion dollars", he said. Jack shook his head. He focused his attention on the mobster. "Alan Roberts, II, missed his parole hearing for murdering three people in Sacramento, California in the summer of 2015. Apparently, according to reports, mobster Jim Horton III, who is wanted for murder in New York, Chicago, and in Boston, found him after three years underground". Jack shook his head. "I'm a detective. I am not on a case-yet. Karen wasn't my client". He stood his ground, as the FBI Agent took over the Pub for the rest of the evening.


James stared at the FBI Agent.

"I have to publish my story", he stated.

"You can do that after we speak to you first, Sir", F. J. Markham, Jr., said.

"Fine, but we have deadlines to follow".

"Death is a messy business", the FBI Head stated.

"It's  Autumn, you know", Cara said.

"What about the season?", he asked.

"Everyone's goes mad in Autumn", the FBI Agent answered.

And he sighed, as the Pub was closed for the rest of the evening.


"It's not fair", Donald H. Shull said. 

"Nothing is fair", Jensen Parker, Jr., said.

"What about The Organization?", Donald asked him.

"It's corrupt, and full of mobsters", Donald answered. He sipped his warm coffee, as he grabbed his I-pad. On the screen was all of the members of The Organisation. All four hundred and eighty-eight of them", Jensen answered. Suddenly they saw Dominique Grey walked towards them. She looked around anxiously. Her face was lined with worry, as she strode towards the FBI Agents.

     "It isn't over", she said.

     "Nothing ever is", Donald stated.

     "We have three hundred files on The Organization", Dominique said.

     And she sat down on a spare seat, and they ordered their dinner and beer.


Page 2.







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