‘Thirty, forty minutes. Hour tops.’ Jac took another couple of steps away, all that filled his mind at that second an image of Durrant’s mystery e-mailer leaving his internet café computer.
‘Okay, I’ll tell him. But your story had better be good when you get back, Jac – otherwise it’s probably kiss-your-ass-goodbye-time here. I’ve hardly ever heard Beaton that angry.’
Jac’s stomach dipped at the possibility. He returned Langfranc’s grimace and held one hand up, thanks, hold my job for me till I get back, if you can, and sprinted out, a silent prayer on his breath that he’d make it in time.
Jac ran to the corner of Thalia and Chestnut Street so that he had the benefit of cabs from both directions, and hailed one in less than a minute.
He said that he was late for a meeting, and the driver, seeing in his mirror the anxiety on Jac’s face and the sweat on his brow, put his foot down. ‘Might be able shave off a minute or so, if we’re lucky.’
The air-rush through the half-open taxi window buffeted Jac’s face as they picked up speed along Magazine Street, older two-storey antebellum buildings with quaint railed-terraces giving way to taller, newer, flat-fronted shops and offices; the transition from old to new as New Orleans became less Colonial-French and more like any other American city.
‘Internet-ional on Peniston, you say?’ The taxi driver confirmed over one shoulder.
‘Yeah.’ Though as he said it, Jac was suddenly hit with something he should have covered while he’d been on the phone to them before.
Jac took out his cell-phone and punched in Internet-ional’s number. But as he pressed to dial, another voice was suddenly there, crashing in. His heart leapt for a second, fearful that it was Beaton deciding to give him a roasting over the phone, or fire him – but it was Morvaun Jaspar, the forger he’d got cleared a couple of months back.
‘Jac! Got a problem. Big problem!’
‘I can’t do this now, Morvaun. I’ve got someone I’ve got to call right now. Urgently!’
‘This too, Jac. This too! The local blues have just pulled me in, and it’s bullshit… absolute bullshit. They’re tryin’ to nail me for everyone they find with a forged document – or looks like one. And no doubt all ‘cause we pulled the rug out from ‘em last time. It’s a complete sham shake-down, and I ain’t about to –’
‘Morvaun – I can’t handle this now!’ Jac could imagine his mystery e-mailer getting up from his seat and leaving as they spoke; and if he didn’t get back to the people at Internet-ional before that happened, he might not even get a description. ‘I really have got someone I’ve got to call. Right now! Let’s talk again later.’
‘I can’t call back later, Jac. This is my one allowed call. You gotta get down here – otherwise I’m here for the duration.’
‘Okay… okay. Where are you now?’
‘Fifth District station-house.’
‘I’ll get there as soon as I can. About –’ Jac cradled his forehead as he remembered that he was meant to be back, sharp, to see Beaton. But he couldn’t just leave Morvaun hanging for what might be almost two hours. He’d have to get Langfranc to tell Beaton that his out-of-office meeting got more involved, was going to take longer. Jac sighed heavily. ‘About forty minutes or so.’
‘Your office is only fifteen minutes from here, Jac, can’t you –’
‘I’m halfway across town right now, Morvaun – trying to sort something else out. But I promise I’ll get there as soon as. Hold on!’
‘Yeah, okay… hear you loud ‘n clear Jac. Not much else f’me to do.’
Instantly Morvaun rang off, Jac re-dialled Internet-ional.
‘Jac McElroy again. I called a couple of minutes back. Is he still there – computer number fourteen?’ Jac’s breath froze in his throat in the two-second wait for the girl to look and answer.
‘Yeah. I can still see him.’
‘Okay… okay.’ Jac exhaled heavily. ‘Can you try and get a good look at him?’
‘I… I can’t see him that well from here. He’s turned away from me, looking at his computer.’
‘Right. What’s your name, by the way?’ Personalize to get closer, Jac thought.
‘Uuuh… Tracy.’ Hesitant, as if worried what he might do with the information.
‘Okay, Tracy, I don’t know how easy it is because I’m not there – but if you could shift more to a side-view… without, that is, being too obvious, making him suspicious. Just in case he leaves before I get down there myself to see him.’ Jac looked up as they crossed Washington Avenue. Only a dozen or so blocks now to Peniston: four or five minutes at most. Hold on. Hold on.
‘Oh… okay.’ But Tracy still sounded uncertain.
‘And if he does start to leave before I get there – maybe try and hold him up a bit, if you can. Keep him there.’
Only the sound of Tracy’s breath falling for a second. ‘That might be more difficult.’
‘I know. I know. But maybe tell him that there’s a free coffee today for customers… I’ll cover for it when I get there.’
‘I… I suppose I could… oh… oh…’
Hearing her sudden intake of breath, Jac asked sharply, ‘What is it?’
‘He… he’s looking round, starting to get up.’
Jac felt his stomach tighten; but then he’d suspected all along that he wouldn’t hang around long. His voice lowered, a conspiratorial hush. ‘Okay, Tracy… try what I suggested.’
‘I’ll try. I’ll do my…’ Jac could hear her breath falling shorter, sharper as she broke off for a second. Then, a faint tremor in her undertone – or perhaps it was just Jac picking up on it because he knew she was nervous: ‘Sir… there’s a free coffee for customers today I forgot to tell you about earlier.’
Aline Street flashed by. Only four blocks to go now.
At Internet-ional, the man, African-American, late-thirties, in a maroon Hilfiger jacket, paused for a second, looked tempted. But some noise from the street outside reached him then, strains of a brass band playing a block or so away, and he glanced distractedly over his shoulder for a second. And as he turned back, Tracy saw something shift in his eyes, flicking between her and the phone. Picked up a bad vibe, or just acknowledgment that he was interrupting her?
‘Thanks for the offer.’ He pushed a terse smile. ‘But I gotta rush. Someone to see.’
Tracy watched helplessly as he scurried out; though maybe, like he said, he was in a rush. She let out a long sigh as she brought the receiver back.
‘I’m sorry… tried my best. But he’s gone.’
‘I know. I know.’ Jac had heard it all his end, closing his eyes as the sinking in his stomach spread, made every part of him feel empty, cruelly cheated. Though as he opened them again and saw the next cross street flash by, a spark of hope resurged. ‘But you got a good look at him?’
‘Yeah, sure did.’ Tracy’s tone brightened; one thing to have gone right.
Only two blocks away now, if Jac got a good description maybe he’d still be able to pick him out as they turned into the street – but at that moment the taxi slowed, then braked sharply. Jac looked ahead: four cars backed up at the next intersection as a procession of sixty or seventy people, some with banners, marched and sashayed by in rhythm to a small brass band leading.
Jac exhaled heavily, feeling his stomach dip again. He wouldn’t make it now.
‘That’s okay,’ he said resignedly. ‘I’ll be there in just a couple of minutes. Give me all the details then.’
Mr Mystery-e-mailer would be long gone by the time he got there; and if he’d now been spooked, that would probably be the end of any more contact.
Jac looked up towards the procession as it finally passed and the taxi crossed the junction. In his few years in New Orleans he’d discovered that bands were broken out for anything and everything – weddings, funerals, gay marches, dog’s birthday – though from the banners this looked like a save some bay or other environmental protest.
Jac suddenly beca
me aware of a man in the crowd looking back at him, smiling and waving. Probably just somebody random, catching Jac’s eye as he’d looked towards them. But in that moment it became Jac’s mystery e-mailer, teasing, taunting: You won’t find me. You won’t find me.
‘Black guy, broad. Bit of bulk on… but not fat.’
‘And height?’
‘Five-ten, maybe six foot.’
‘Age?’
‘Mid to late thirties, maybe forty.’
‘Anything that stood out? Beard? Moustache? Prominent scar or birth-mark?’
‘No, clean shaven. But, oh… he had this gap between his front teeth when he smiled.’
‘And what he was he wearing?’
‘Hilfiger jacket, sort of dark-red, and jeans. And a baseball cap, dark-blue or black.’
Jac paused at that point, looking back at his notes for anything he might have missed. At the outset he’d ascertained from Tracy, an early-twenties short-cropped-blonde-with-a-lime-green-stripe and more nose rings than a Krishna, that it had been paid cash, as he’d suspected: no trace back. Now the description wasn’t giving him that much either. Could fit twenty to thirty percent of African-American males in that age band. But as Jac puckered his mouth, Tracy commented, ‘But, hey, you can check all that for yourself.’ She eased a sly smile as she looked up above the entrance. ‘We should have him on video.’
Jac followed her eyes towards the camera there and, uncertainly, as if taking a second to believe his luck, mirrored her smile.
The atmosphere in the interview room was laden, tense.
Morvaun Jaspar looked tired, worn-down by the questioning and psychological games the two policeman had rained down on him over the two hours he’d been held. Pretty much the same Mutt and Jeff, black and white game as before. Jac knew the black officer, Jim Holbrook, from last time – the supposedly friendly voice in Morvaun’s ear: ‘Hey, come on bro’, make it easy on yourself.’ But the white lieutenant, Pyrford, Jac hadn’t seen before. Rakish with heavily receding red-brown hair, a toothpick that he seemed reluctant to take out the corner of his mouth, and a look of disdain down his nose at Morvaun that spoke volumes. Jac could imagine that ten years ago he’d have been addressing Morvaun, and probably his partner too, as ‘boy’.
Jac had no doubt looked troubled and on edge as soon as he walked into the interview room, which had set the mood for what followed. He’d watched only a few seconds of the video with Tracy, just to make sure maroon-Hilfiger-jacket was there and it was the right segment, then had taken a copy to look at in more detail later. No time right then. He’d phoned Langfranc on his way over to Morvaun to tell him he’d be delayed, Langfranc warning that it could be one delay too many ‘…the one that might just tip the balance on Beaton preparing your dismissal letter,’ but Jac had become equally concerned about something else, asking Langfranc if there was any indication as to just what he was meant to have held back on?
‘No, no clue at all.’
‘Or perhaps where Beaton might have got his information from?’
‘No clue there either, I’m afraid, Jac. All I know is he’s madder than hell, and says he wants it all straight from the hip from you – right now in his office.’
What had suddenly hit Jac, started to panic him, was that he had no idea just which of his withheld secrets Beaton knew about: the alleged prison-break attempt or Durrant’s death-wish? He was facing a firestorm back at the office with Beaton, but with no idea from which direction the fire was coming. And if he picked the wrong one, Beaton would then know about both: full house!
Morvaun had acknowledged him with a numb smile as he walked in. He was wearing a bright crimson jacket with a silvery wave trim on each cuff. Quite conservative by his standards.
Morvaun liked to think of himself as a tough cookie, but he was no longer young, and beneath the veneer of bluff and bravado he’d built up over the years, Jac could clearly see – as he had done halfway through their first case together – his fear and frailty; fear that if he got anything more than a four or five-year term, he might not make it through.
‘I hope you two had the good sense not to ask my client any more questions after he informed you he had counsel on his way,’ Jac said as he put down his briefcase. Stamp his authority on the meeting early.
‘Of course, goes without saying,’ Pyrford said with a dry smile, jiggling the toothpick in the corner of his mouth. ‘We just kept it conversational after that. Mild weather for the time of year, and what a fine head of hair he still has for a man of his age.’
Holbrook looked down at the floor, and Jac swore he could almost hear a groan riding on his sigh.
‘Never let it be said that you’d indulge in pointless questions or comments,’ Jac said, peering sharply at Pyrford’s shiny, wisp-haired crown. ‘Let’s get to the bottom line, shall we?’ Jac continued curtly. ‘Is my client being charged? And, if so, what’s the evidence against him?’
‘Not yet.’ Pyrford was put off stride by the directness, flushing slightly; he injected more authority into his voice. ‘But we got a women in custody, Alvira Jardine, a Haitian national with forged papers – passport and driver’s licence – and they’ve got your client’s trademark all over them.’
‘Has Ms Jardine named Mr Jaspar as having forged them for her?’
‘No, she hasn’t, though we –’ Pyrford fought to regain his step, the control he’d had over the meeting only minutes ago, but Jac rolled straight on.
‘And apart from my client’s “trademark” – what other evidence is there that might link him to this?’ Jac’s tone was acid and impatient; he had no intention of making it easy on them. One look at Morvaun told him how much he’d been railroaded over the past two hours.
‘Well, we…’ Increasingly flustered, Pyrford looked back towards Holbrook for support; but Holbrook did a wide-eyed, “don’t include me on where you might be heading”. ‘We’ve done our own comparisons with Mr Jaspar’s past work, and from that alone had more than good reason to bring him in now. But I’m not at liberty to discuss that, or the other evidence we have, until we’ve got the full analysis back from the lab. I’m confident, though, that will back up our findings to date – and then, believe me, your client’s really going to feel our breath down his neck.’
‘Not to put too fine a point on it,’ Jac said cuttingly, ‘wouldn’t that have been the best time to haul my client in – when you’ve got your lab conclusions. Rather than bringing him in on this fine afternoon just to comment on what a good head of hair he has for a man of his age.’ He smiled wanly.
Pyrford’s jaw tightened. He glared at Jac for a second before answering. ‘Don’t worry – he’ll be the first to know.’
‘When?’
‘Couple of days, tops.’
‘Fine.’ Jac picked up his briefcase and nodded to Morvaun. ‘Look forward to it.’
‘Me too, Counsellor,’ Pyrford said, his stare icy. ‘Me too.’
‘Thanks, Jac,’ Morvaun said as they headed down the corridor. He gave a lopsided smile. ‘But less of the two white-boys ego-posturing next time, if you could. If things turn sour, it’s my po’ black ass they take it out on.’
‘I’ll try,’ Jac said, returning the smile. They went through the station-house doors and out onto the street. ‘But if there’s no connection with you on this one, Morvaun, stop worrying. They’re not going to be able to pin it on you. I’ll make sure of that.’ The confident tone of a lawyer who, having cleared his client for a crime he did commit, thought one he didn’t should be a walkover.
‘Like I said, Jac, I’m clean on this one. Never even heard o’ Mrs Jardine before. They’re just tryin’ for a fix – most likely ‘cause they couldn’t nail me last time.’
‘And they won’t this time, either.’ Jac smiled tightly and laid one hand reassuringly on Morvaun’s shoulder as they parted. ‘Don’t worry.’
Watching Morvaun Jaspar head off along North Claiborne Avenue, shoulders slightly sunken, Jac wondered whether
it was simply the gait of an old man worn down by the two hours of questioning, or if there was something Morvaun wasn’t telling him.
Though as Jac turned and looked out for a cab, he probably appeared little different: the spark of fresh hope from the video in his briefcase not enough to lift his spirits from the nightmare showdown he was facing back at the office with Beaton.
12
‘I thought I should let you know – I read what happened to Raoul Ferrer.’
‘Yeah, you and half of New Orleans that read beyond the first page of the local rags,’ Nel-M said with a huffed breath. ‘And your point is?’
It had taken Truelle three full days to work up the courage to make the call. He’d turned over which path the conversation might take so many times in his mind that his concentration had started lapsing during sessions at work and he’d had to ask patients to repeat themselves. He thought he’d better make the call before it drove him and his patients mad – or ‘madder’ to be more precise with both of them – or ditch the idea completely. The final bit of Dutch courage was provided by an extra-curricular visit to Ben’s bar, but he was still uncertain about the wisdom of making the call after the first shot, his hands still shaking. He ordered another – but then eyed it hesitantly. He’d need all his wits about him tangling words with Nel-M. He could feel the warmth of the drink in his hand drawing him in. Maybe he should just knock it back and forget the idea of making the call, stay here in the warm cocoon of the bar and order another, and another, and… He slammed the drink back down on the table and pushed it at arm’s length as if it were poison, getting quickly to his feet and heading out before his resolve went completely.
He made the call to Nel-M when he was a block away from the bar – but now with just a few testy words from Nel-M, his nerves were back with a vengeance, his hand shaking on his cell-phone. He wished now that he had downed that second shot.
Ascension Day Page 14
