by Robert Crais
Jesus Christ.
An address had been written in pencil on the back of the birth certificate: 1146 Tecumseh Lane. I copied it.
I stared at the birth certificate and the relinquishment document for quite a while, and then I put Jimmie Ray’s office back as I had found it, let myself out, and went back through the smell of wet shrimp to the little diner across the street. The same cook with the cratered nose was leaning on the counter. The same crinkled old man with the snap-brimmed hat was smoking at the little window table. Dignified. I said, “Use your pay phone?” They have a pay phone on the wall by the restroom.
The cook nodded help yourself. Watching me gave him something to do.
I fed a quarter into the phone and dialed Martha Guidry, who answered on the second ring. I said, “Martha, it’s Elvis Cole.”
“What?” The Raid.
I had to yell. “It’s Elvis Cole. Remember?” The old man and the cook were both looking at me. I cupped the receiver. “Her ears.” The cook nodded, saying it’s hard when they get like that.
Martha Guidry yelled, “Goddamn bugs!” You could hear the flyswatter whistle through the air and snap against the wall, Martha cackling and saying, “Gotcha, you sonofabitch!”
“Martha?” Trying to get her back to the phone.
Something crashed, and she came back on the line, breathing harder from her exertion. “You have a bowel movement yet? I know how it is when I travel. I cross the street, I don’t go potty for a week.” A living doll, that Martha.
I said, “The people you were trying to remember, were their names Johnson?”
“Johnson.”
“Pamela and Monroe Johnson.”
There was a sharp slap. “You should see the size of this goddamned roach.”
“The Johnsons, Martha. Was the family named Johnson?”
She said, “That sounds like them. White trash lived right over here. Oh, hell, Pam Johnson died years ago.”
I thanked Martha Guidry for her help, then hung up and stared at the address I had copied. 1146 Tecumseh Lane. I fed another quarter into the phone and dialed Information. A pleasant female voice said, “And how are you today?” She sounded young.
“Do you have a listing for a Pamela or Monroe Johnson on Tecumseh Lane?”
She didn’t say anything for a moment, and then she said, “No, sir. We’ve got a bunch of other Johnsons, though.”
“Any of them on Tecumseh Lane?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t show Pamela or Monroe Johnson, and I don’t show a Tecumseh Lane, either.”
I hung up.
The cook said, “No luck?”
I shook my head.
The old guy at the window table said something in French.
“What’d he say?”
The cook said, “He wants to know what you want.”
“I’m trying to find Monroe and Pamela Johnson. I think they live on Tecumseh Lane, but I’m not sure where that is.”
The cook said it in French, and the old man said something back at him and they talked back and forth like that for a while. Then the cook said, “He doesn’t know these Johnson people, but he says there’s a Tecumseh Lane in Eunice.”
“Eunice?”
“Twenty miles south of here.” Ah.
I smiled at the old man. “Thank him for me.”
The cook said, “He understands you okay, he just don’t speak English so good.”
I nodded at the old man. “Merci.”
The old man tipped his hat. Dignified. “Il n’y a pas de quoi.” You take your good fortune where you find it.
I went out to my car, looked up Eunice on the Triple-A map, and went there. Like Ville Platte, the landscape was flat and crosscut with bayous and ponds and industrial waterways, mostly sweet potato fields and marshlands striped with oil company pipelines and vent stations. The town itself was bigger than Ville Platte, but not by a lot, and seemed like a neat, self-contained little community with a lot of churches and schools and quaint older buildings.
Tecumseh Lane was a pleasant street in an older residential area with small frame houses and neatly trimmed azalea bushes. 1146 was in the center of the block, with a tiny front lawn and an ancient two-strip cement drive and a big wooden porch. Like every other house in the area, it was set atop high brick pillars and, even though the land was flat, you had to climb three or four steps to enter the house.
I left the car at the curb and went up to the house and rapped at the door. An older black woman in what looked like a white nurse’s uniform answered. “May I help you?”
I gave her one of my nicer smiles. “Mrs. Johnson?”
“Oh, no.”
“I’m looking for Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. I was told they lived here.” The air behind her smelled of medicine and pine-scented air freshener.
She was shaking her head before I finished. “You’ll need to speak with Mrs. Boudreaux. I work for her.”
“Who’s Mrs. Boudreaux?”
“She owns this house.” A wet, flapping sound came from deeper in the house, and a raspy old man’s voice yelled something about his pears. The black woman took a half-step out onto the porch, pulling the door so I wouldn’t hear. “She doesn’t live here, though. She only comes by in the morning and the evening.”
I let myself look confused. A relatively easy task. “Did the Johnsons move?”
“Oh, Mr. Johnson’s her daddy. She used to rent this place out, but now she lets him live here.” She pulled the door tighter and lowered her voice, letting me in on the know. “He can’t live by himself, and they didn’t want to put him in a home. Lord knows he couldn’t live with them.” She raised her eyebrows. “He’s very ill.”
I said, “Ah. So Mr. Johnson does live here.”
She nodded, then sighed. “He’s eighty-seven, poor thing, and he takes spells. He’s a devil when he takes a spell.” The voice in the house yelled again, something about the TV, something about Bob Barker and the goddamned pears.
I said, “How is Mrs. Johnson?”
“Oh, she died years ago.”
Score another for Martha Guidry. “If I wanted to speak with Mrs. Boudreaux, how could I do that?”
“She’ll be here in a little while. She always comes around two. Or you could go by her shop. She has a very nice formal wear shop on Second Street by the square. They call it Edie’s. Her first name is Edith, but she goes by Edie.”
“Of course.”
She glanced back toward the house. “Twice a day she comes, and he don’t even know it, most days. Poor thing.”
I thanked her for her time, told her I’d try to stop at the house again around two, then drove back to the square. Edith Boudreaux’s boutique occupied a corner location next to a hair salon, across from a little square filled with magnolia trees. I parked on the square, then walked back and went inside. A young woman in her early twenties smiled at me from a rack of Anne Klein pants suits. “May I help you, sir?”
I smiled back at her. “Just sort of browsing for my wife.”
The smile deepened. Dimples. “Well, if you have any questions, just ask.”
I told her I would. She finished racking the Anne Kleins, then went through a curtained doorway into the stockroom. As she went through the curtains, an attractive woman in her late forties came out with an armful of beige knit tops. She saw me and smiled. “Have you been helped?”
The similarities to Jodi Taylor were amazing. The same broad shoulders, the good bone structure, the facial resemblance. They were, as the saying goes, enough alike to be sisters. We would have to unseal the sealed documents to be sure. We would have to compare the adoption papers from the Johnson family to the Taylor family to be positive, but Edith Boudreaux and Jodi Taylor were clearly related. Maybe Jimmie Ray Rebenack wasn’t the world’s worst detective, after all. I said, “Are you Ms. Boudreaux?”
“Why, yes. Have we met?”
I told her no. I said that her shop had been recommended and that I was browsing for something
for my wife, but if I had any questions I would be sure to ask. She told me to take my time and she returned to her stock. I browsed around the store another few minutes, then let myself out, walked to a pay phone on the other side of the square, and dialed Lucy Chenier. I said, “Well, I’ve done it again.”
“Tied your laces together and tripped?” Maybe she had a laugh button, after all.
I said, “I have found a gentleman named Monroe Johnson. Thirty-six years ago on Jodi Taylor’s birthday, his wife, Pamela Johnson, delivered a baby girl. They gave the child up for adoption. I saw his adult daughter, a woman named Edie Boudreaux, and she is Jodi’s spitting image.”
Lucy said, “You’ve done all this in two days?”
“It is not for nothing that I am the World’s Greatest Detective.”
“Perhaps you are.” She sounded pleased.
“Also, Rebenack found them for me.” I told her what I had found in his office.
“Oh.” She didn’t sound as happy about that.
I said, “I still don’t know what Rebenack’s interest in all this might be, but if these people are, in fact, Jodi’s biological family, Edie Boudreaux should be able to provide whatever medical information Jodi wants.” I gave her Bogart. “So it’s all yours, shweet-heart.”
“Was that Humphrey Bogart?”
Some people are truly cold.
She said, “The next step is to approach these people. Perhaps we can figure out a plan of action over dinner.”
I said, “Is this an invitation, Ms. Chenier?”
“It is, Mr. Cole, and I advise you to accept. There may not be another.”
“Dinner sounds very nice, thank you.”
“Where are you?”
“Eunice. The family lives here.”
She said, “Can you be back at the Riverfront and ready to be picked up by six-thirty?”
“I think I can manage.” If I grinned any wider I’d probably split my gums.
“Good. I’ll see you then.” She paused, and then she said, “Good work, Mr. Cole.”
I hung up, went to my car, and sat there with the grin until a guy in a Toyota flatbed yelled, “Hey, pumpkinhead! You’re gonna catch bugs that way!”
Southern humor.
8
I went back to the motel in Ville Platte, showered, shaved, then drove back across the Atchafalaya Basin to Baton Rouge. It seemed a lot faster than when I had driven from Baton Rouge to Ville Platte, but maybe that was because I was looking forward to getting there. I am nothing if not goal oriented.
I checked into the Riverfront again and was nursing a Dixie beer in the lobby bar at six-thirty when Lucy Chenier walked in wearing a rose blazer over a clay-colored blouse and tight jeans. Two businessmen at a little round table watched her walk in. So did the bartender. She smiled when she saw me and her eyes seemed to fill the room. She offered her hand. “Did you satisfy, your urge for local cuisine, or are you still feeling adventurous?”
I said, “Adventure is my middle name.”
She smiled wider, and her teeth and eyes sparkled, but maybe that was just me. “Then you’re in for a treat.”
Lucy waited while I paid the bar bill, then we went out to her car. She was driving a light blue Lexus 400 two-door coupe. The sport model. It was clean and sleek and had been freshly washed. There was an AT&T car phone, and the small backseat was littered with CDs, mostly k. d. lang and Reba McEntire. She looked good behind the wheel, as if she and the car were comfortable together. “Nice,” I said.
She flashed the laugh lines, pleased. Lucy Chenier drove cleanly and with authority, very much the way I imagined she practiced law or played tennis, and pretty soon we turned into a great warehouse of a building with streams of people going in and coming out. Ralph & Kacoo’s. She said, “Let me warn you. The decor is kind of hokey, but the food is wonderful.”
“No problem,” I said. “I go for that Barnacle Bill look.”
Ralph & Kacoo’s made an airplane hangar look small. It was festooned with fishing nets and cork buoys and stuffed game fish and mutant crab shells the size of garbage can lids. There must have been seven hundred people in the place. A lot of families, but a great many couples, too. All it needed was Alan Hale in a yellow slicker greeting everyone with a hearty “Ahoy, matey!” I said, “Kind of?”
Lucy Chenier nodded. “We’re big on hoke down here.”
A young woman who looked like a college student seated us and asked if we’d care for a drink. I said, “Shall we order a bottle of wine?”
“Never with Cajun food.” Lucy grinned, and now there was a glint of fun in her eyes. “You’re going to think it’s hokey again.”
“What?”
She looked at the waitress. “Could we have two Cajun Bloody Marys, please?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Cajun Bloody Marys?”
“Don’t laugh. They’re made with cayenne and a hint of fish stock. You said you’re adventurous.” She turned back to the waitress. “And we’ll have an appetizer of the alligator sausage.”
The waitress went away.
I said, “First, it’s dinner at Gilligan’s Island, now it’s alligator sausage. What could be next?”
Lucy looked at her menu. “The best is yet to come.”
The waitress came back with Bloody Marys that were more brown than red, with a ring of lemon floating in them. I tasted. There was the hint of fish, and, the flavors of Tabasco and pepper and cayenne were strong and tingly, and went well with the vodka.
Lucy said, “Well?”
“This is good. This is really very good.”
Lucy smiled. “You see?”
The waitress returned with the alligator sausage and asked if we were ready to order. I tried the sausage. It could have been chicken or pork, but the texture was interesting.
Lucy said, “If you really want to taste Louisiana, I’d suggest any of the crab dishes, or the crawfish. The crab dishes tend to be fried; the crawfish boiled or made in a soup.”
“Sounds good.”
Lucy Chenier ordered the crawfish étouffée, and I ordered the crawfish platter. With the platter I would get a bowl of crawfish bisque, as well as boiled crawfish and fried crawfish tails. The fried tails were called Cajun popcorn. We finished the first Bloody Marys and ordered two more. The waitress brought our salads, and I watched Lucy eat as, in her office, I had watched her move. To watch her was a singular, enjoyable occupation. She said, “To be honest with you, when Jodi told me that she was bringing in an investigator from California, I tried to discourage it. I didn’t think you’d be as effective as a local investigator.”
“Reasonable.”
She tipped her glass toward me. “Reasonable, but clearly misplaced. You’re good.”
I tried to sit straighter in the chair. “You’re making me blush.”
She sipped the Bloody Mary. She didn’t seem too interested in the salad. “What did Mr. Rebenack have to say for himself?”
I went through it for her. I told her that Jimmie Ray Rebenack had approached at least two of the women I interviewed and presented himself as someone seeking to find a sister, and that when I questioned him about this, he denied it, and also denied approaching the women. I told her that I had taken the opportunity to enter his office, and that when I did I discovered what appeared to be Louisiana State adoption papers and a birth certificate for a girl child born to Pamela and Monroe Johnson on the same day as the day of Jodi Taylor’s birth. When I said that part of it, Lucy Chenier put down her Bloody Mary and held up a hand. No longer smiling. “Let me stop you. You broke into this man’s office?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “Breaking and entering is a crime. I will not be a party to criminal behavior.”
I said, “What office?”
She sighed, still not liking it.
I said, “The state papers were standard stuff, showing that the Johnsons remanded all rights and claims on the child to the state. Someone had written the Johnsons’ address on
back of the birth certificate. It could be coincidence, but if it is, it’s a big one.”
“Were the Taylors mentioned anywhere on the papers?”
“There was a copy of Jodi’s birth certificate. That’s all.”
“Do you think this man Rebenack is related to Jodi Taylor or to the Johnson family?”
“I have no way to know. He denied all knowledge, yet he had the file. He’s interested in Jodi Taylor, and he’s linked her to the Johnsons. He had Monroe Johnson’s address, so he may have approached them, but I don’t know that.”
Lucy Chenier stared into midspace, thinking. Now that we were on the serious stuff, she seemed intent and focused and on the verge of a frown. Her court face, I thought. A mix of the tennis and the law. I had more of the Bloody Mary and watched her think. Watching her think was as rewarding as watching her move, but maybe that was just the vodka. My mouth tingled pleasantly from the spices, and I wondered if hers was tingling, too.
