Ascension Day

by John Matthews

  Nel-M sat back in a nearby armchair and eased out a long breath. There was something else niggling at the back of his mind about the girl, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

  He glanced at his watch, timing for when they’d probably be back.

  Much of the conversation from Jac’s side was the same as two nights ago with Jennifer Bromwell, but practically everything else was different.

  They’d gone to a more formal restaurant, Begué’s, and the waiter was over-attentive, kept asking if everything was to Monsieur and Madame’s liking or there was anything else that they desired. ‘Yes, Monsieur would like to be left alone without interruption for ten minutes so that at least he is given a chance of impressing the girl of his dreams.’

  Dreams? That was half the problem right there. In the same way that Jennifer Bromwell complained of boyfriends being intimidated by her father’s money, he found himself intimidated by Alaysha Reyner’s beauty. His mouth felt constantly dry and he kept sipping repeatedly at his water, and he could tell from her facial expressions that he wasn’t hitting the right notes.

  Maybe because it had been so long since Madeleine, and he was coming across as too anxious, over-eager. Or because part of his thoughts were still tied up with Durrant: Haveling had phoned to say that Marmont was off the critical list, one bit of positive news, at least; but he’d found himself dwelling more and more on his meeting with Francine Durrant. Something perhaps he’d missed, some way of convincing her to get Joshua to make contact again with his father? Or, if there was to be no more contact, any other way of shifting Larry’s stance?

  The thoughts spun through Jac’s mind as he took his shower, the water running for so long that he shook off a shiver, along with his unresolved thoughts, as he finally got out. And the same thoughts were plaguing him again now as he focused back on Alaysha Reyner across the candle-lit table, and forced his best smile.

  There’d even been, as with Jennifer Bromwell two nights back, a confession from Alaysha when she thought the moment was right.

  ‘I wanted to put this on the table straight away – because a lot of guys don’t handle it too well, including my ex.’ She grimaced wryly, glancing to the side to make sure their over-attentive waiter wasn’t within earshot. ‘And so I think it’s only fair that you should know straight-off: I work as a lap-dancer.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  But even that part he’d got wrong. He’d kept his reaction bland so as not to give away that he already suspected: ‘I just don’t like other guys looking at you like that.’ But from her eyes searching his, he could tell that she’d expected something more, and it had probably come across that he was shocked or offended, and had opted for a bland reaction to mask it.

  ‘It’s mainly to keep my little girl, Molly. She’s only four now. Her father and I were never married and, besides, he headed for the hills within six months of her birth. And not a penny in maintenance since… so it’s just been down to me. I’ve been interested in interior décor for a while, just bits here and there for friends, but I decided in the end to take a course… and that meant extra money. So I thought – I’ve got maybe four or five good years left in me before…’

  As she fought to explain, he felt he had to stop her. He reached a hand across the table. ‘Really, you don’t need to justify it to me. I’m not shocked or put out by it. All those years in France – most of the girls wore the same as the average lap dancer on the beaches every day. I’d have to be a real hypocrite to be shocked by that.’ He smiled coyly and shook his head. ‘But I didn’t want to smile and be too positive about it – otherwise you might think I’m a real lech.’

  Her return smile rose uncertainly as she squeezed his hand back. ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

  A couple of favour points gained. Perhaps, if lucky, he was scoring four out of ten now.

  Maybe, the thought hit him, he could tell Larry he knew about the e-mails from Joshua, say that he was sure they’d start again later. Convince Larry to hang on. But then that would also mean giving away that he’d heard it from Rodriguez, when he’d promised Rodriguez that he wouldn’t betray that confidence.

  ‘Something bothering you?’

  Jac brought his attention sharply back. ‘Sorry. Problems with a case I’m handling. One of those impossible Catch-22’s you get hit with every now and then.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Jac hadn’t intended to say anything originally, but now it seemed odd holding back, and at least it removed the spectre that what was troubling him might have been due to her. He kept Durrant’s name out of it in deference to client confidentiality, it was all just this prisoner throughout. ‘As you can see, a pretty bitter history on both sides, him and his wife, and ironically much of it revolving around his son and those same broken promises that are weighing him down so.’

  Alaysha’s face clouded briefly. She ran one fingertip halfway round the rim of her wine glass. ‘So if there was contact again from his son, you think that might change his stance? Solve the problem?

  ‘Yeah. High chances. But it doesn’t look like there’s any way of that happening.’

  She gave a pained, understanding smile, but then as she fell silent and thoughtful, the noise of the restaurant around crashing in for a moment, Jac feared he’d said too much. Spoilt whatever remaining chances he had by burdening her with his work problems. Though as she started to open up with some of her own problems, he realized that she’d just been thinking about what or what not to share, or whether to say anything at all. And as for the first time the tension between them eased, he knew that it had been the right thing to do. For the first hour or so, they’d just been politely fencing with each other; now they were getting to the core of what shaped and drove them.

  As Alaysha Reyner talked, the stark differences to Jennifer Bromwell’s life became apparent. Where Jennifer had been financially cosseted, Alaysha’s background had been one of dire poverty, the family arriving from Port of Spain when she was only seven and her father got a job with a local New Orleans trawling fleet. Things eased financially for a while, but when her mother felt she couldn’t take any more of her husband’s erratic behaviour and periodic beatings, they parted and Alaysha’s father quickly disappeared to avoid maintenance payments. They were on their own and in dire straits again, with a vengeance. And that had practically been the pattern since. Alaysha had gone out to work rather than go on to university, mainly so that she could earn to provide for her mother and younger brother.

  But at least, unlike Jennifer Bromwell, there hadn’t been any parental interference in her lovelife. She’d been able to make her own bad choices without any help from them. After Molly’s father had headed for the hills when Molly was only six months old, there’d been a couple of brief disastrous relationships, but Gerry – now an assistant bar manager at the Golden Bay Casino in Biloxi – had been her first serious boyfriend since then. Things had been okay for the first year or so, but then he’d become increasingly paranoid about her work.

  ‘He hasn’t hit me yet – just a lot of pushing and shoving. But give him time, I know he would – and I’m not waiting around for that to happen.’ She played thoughtfully again with the rim of her wine glass. ‘Seems to me like I’m continuing my mother’s cycle: hopelessly drawn to guys who either can’t put bread on the table, or are handy with their fists. Or both.’

  Words would have been wrong at that moment, empty promises, which probably Alaysha Reyner had heard far too many of in her life – so Jac just reached out and gently squeezed her hand in reassurance. To their side an arched window looked onto a resplendent tropical courtyard, New Orleans’ finest milling through it to the luxury hotel beyond; sharp contrast to the life Alaysha had just described. Though with part of what she’d said, bread on the table, Jac had felt a stab of conscience. Given that same choice, career or family, unlike him it appeared she’d put family first every time.

  ‘You’re obviously very close to your mom.’ Jac tightly smiled his und
erstanding. ‘Do you take after her ?’

  ‘A little, I suppose. But I probably look more like my father, as much as I might not feel comfortable with that.’ She glanced down fleetingly before looking at Jac more directly. ‘I think that was part of the problem right there. He knew he was good-looking, so thought that gave him the right to push women around, treat them bad. Felt that they’d always come running back for more.’ She sniggered uncomfortably. ‘And in a way, he was right – at least where my mom was concerned.’

  ‘She’s far better off without him, by the sound of it. As tough as it might have been.’ Jac touched her hand again, hoping he’d read it right; after all, she’d had to sacrifice there, too: her mother’s happiness put before her losing her father while she was young. ‘You both are.’

  ‘Suppose so.’ Alaysha smiled and shrugged, as if freeing the weight momentarily hanging there. Though the other weight hanging over her would be more difficult to shift, she reflected, wondering whether she’d ever know him well enough to tell him that. And looking across at Jac, she realized in that moment what had attracted her about those blue-grey eyes when they’d first met; the sadness and loss in them made him look soft, vulnerable. Understanding. Most vitally, given her and her mother’s history with men, he didn’t look like a man who would ever hit her. ‘Let’s just hope that I don’t take after him in temperament.’

  ‘If you do – I’ll remember to wear my body protector next time.’

  Alaysha’s smile widened and she lifted her glass to clink with Jac’s raised glass. More points scored.

  Enough, as the evening wound to a close and she kissed him lightly on the cheek by his apartment door, for her to want to see him again.

  ‘Do you like Creole food?’ she asked, to which he nodded.

  ‘Put it this way – since being in New Orleans I’ve developed more of a taste for it. It’s been either that, or starve.’

  She chuckled lightly. ‘Okay. Maybe I can invite you round for some home cooking later in the week.’

  Jac squeezed her hand in thanks and returned the kiss – both cheeks this time, French style. ‘I look forward to it.’

  Enough for another dinner date, though not enough to be able to share her bed that night.

  Though when forty minutes later she phoned and asked, ‘Are you still up?’ – he thought for one hopeful moment she might have had a change of heart.

  ‘Yes, yes, I am. Not in bed quite yet.’

  ‘Because that problem you mentioned earlier. I thought of how you might be able to get around it. If you’re interested?’

  The second Jac picked up his phone, the tape activated and the sound-man, Vic Farrelia, leant closer as he listened.

  Nel-M had left the apartment almost two hours before McElroy returned, having finished his search and planted the bug, and within half an hour he had Farrelia set up in a small room on Perdido Street six blocks away.

  And when just after midnight, Farrelia phoned and related the first call to come over the line, Nel-M nodded thoughtfully. From this moment on, Jac McElroy’s life was never going to be the same again.

  11

  The first time that Adelay Roche called, Clive Beaton got his secretary to lie and say that he was tied up until late morning, so that he could prepare himself before returning the call.

  There were so many worrying no-go paths the conversation could take that he began to doubt the wisdom of talking to Roche at all – but his mounting curiosity finally won the day.

  Roche quickly sought to quell Beaton’s worries.

  ‘I know you’re probably thinking that we shouldn’t be speaking, given the delicacy of things at this juncture. But, you know, we’ve been skirting around each other for eleven years for the very same reason – and now that everything is finally drawing to a close, I felt I should make contact.’ Roche drew a fresh breath. ‘In particular because what I’m calling about has nothing to do with the Durrant case.’

  Beaton felt a weight ease from his chest as Roche explained how he’d been watching for the past couple of years the activities of one of the firm’s associates, Ralph Miers, an expert in tax law.

  ‘Seems to me he’s one of the few guys in the State to also wear a strong hat on environmental issues. I saw what he did for Gulf-West petroleum, and, let me tell you – I was impressed.’

  Beaton was happy just listening – it meant that he didn’t have to defend any of the no-go conversation areas he’d run through – as Roche went on to explain that Miers looked like just the man he needed.

  ‘I’ve been stalling on changes to my refinery at Houma for nigh on four years now – but if I can please the greens and environmentalists and at the same time get the right tax breaks for making the plant environmentally friendly, I’m all for it.’ Roche chuckled, which quickly became a heavy wheeze. ‘That is, assuming I’m correct in my judgement that your man Miers is right for the job and can get the government to pay indirectly for every penny of those changes, and hopefully more.’

  ‘I’m sure he is,’ Beaton said with a spark of conviction to hopefully lift it beyond stock response, as his thoughts automatically turned to the potential value of such an account.

  ‘So I thought I should touch base now that the curtain is about to finally come down on the Durrant episode.’

  ‘And I’m glad you did. I really appreciate it.’ Beaton measured his words carefully: warmth and sincerity to hopefully lure Roche into the fold, but due deference and legal correctness for the firm’s current client, Durrant. ‘But it would probably be incorrect of us – perhaps even tempting fate – to second guess just what Governor Candaret might do with Durrant’s plea for clemency.’

  Roche chuckled again. ‘I might have agreed with you – if it wasn’t for the stunt that Durrant just pulled with his attempted prison break.’

  ‘His wha–?’ Beaton stopped himself sharply. Stock reaction had for a second overridden one of the prime legal commandments: never give away that you don’t know everything about your client.

  ‘You mean you didn’t know?’ Roche pressed.

  ‘Of course I knew.’ Beaton recovered quickly, beating back the resurging tide of his nerves and apprehension: he should have realized that Roche wouldn’t have called without a sting in the tail. ‘It’s just that I was caught off guard as to how you knew. Especially since we’re still in the midst of how to handle the situation.’

  ‘I see.’ Roche had to admit, Beaton was good, his thirty-five years of keen-edged law practice shining through. But the split-second falter had been enough to tell Roche that Beaton hadn’t known. For whatever reason, his rookie lawyer had decided to keep Durrant’s attempted break-out under wraps. He could all but feel the seething anger in Beaton’s undertone: he couldn’t wait to get off the line and get his hands around McElroy’s neck. ‘Well, let’s speak again when you feel the dust has settled enough on the Durrant case for it to be right for us to do so.’

  Jac had just returned with a cup of water from the water-cooler when he saw the fresh e-mail on his computer. And as he clicked and saw who it was from, durransave4@hotmail, he jolted sharply, almost spilling it. After six days with no reply, he’d all but given up on another e-mail from his mystery sender.

  His hands shook on the keyboard as he opened it.

  Sent at 11.16:22. One minute, forty seconds ago. Would they still be sitting there to do something else, or have left immediately?

  Jac clicked on the track-back software, its screen overlapping the e-mail so that he couldn’t read it. Jac’s fingers tapped anxiously on his desk as it traced and started displaying. Then he double-clicked IT-number find, and forty seconds later it popped up on screen:

  Internet-ional on Peniston Street. An internet café. He or she was moving around.

  Jac’s heart was beating double-time, his finger tapping almost in time with it as he called 411 and waited to get routed through.

  Please still be there… please…

  Jac became aware of Langfranc
looking at him through his office glass-screen, Langfranc’s expression weighted with concern as he spoke on his own phone. Jac yanked his attention back as a girl answered.

  ‘Internet-ional. May I help you?’

  Jac introduced himself and explained what he wanted. ‘Computer number fourteen. Message sent just over three minutes ago. Are they still there?’ Jac held his breath in anticipation.

  ‘I’m not sure. One minute...’ Her voice trailed off and Jac heard her speaking with a colleague.

  Jac looked again towards Langfranc, but this time Langfranc looked slightly away as Jac met his eye, as if he felt suddenly awkward or embarrassed. Jac closed the track-back screen so that he could see all of the e-mail.

  The girl’s voice returned: ‘Yeah… computer number fourteen. Looks like he’s still there.’

  Jac leapt up. ‘Okay… okay!’ He hooked his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘I’m heading down to you right now! Should be with you in no more than ten or twelve.’

  The e-mail was now displaying, random phrases leaping out at him… I’d have incriminated myself… know what I saw… Larry Durrant didn’t kill Jessica Roche…

  Langfranc, seeing Jac about to leave in a rush, suddenly seemed equally panicked, ending his call abruptly and swinging his door open as Jac was only two paces away from his desk.

  ‘Jac. Jac! That was Beaton just then – going on about something you’ve held back from him about the Durrant case. He wants to see you in his office right now.’

  ‘I can’t… I can’t deal with this now.’ Jac took a step further away, eyes shifting frantically. ‘Something’s broken on the Durrant case that just won’t wait. I’ve got to sort it out now!’

  ‘Beaton sounded pissed as hell – you’re taking your life in your hands fobbing him off like this, Jac.’ Langfranc’s face flushed as he forced a tight-lipped grimace. ‘But, okay, it’s your neck. How long?’