She unfolded the document and her eyes edged slowly down the page. The k and u were blurred by water, but “rt Halliday” was clearly readable. The entire first name and part of the last were missing in the signature below Halliday’s but “ordan” was still there —Arthur Jordan. Below Jordan’s name, there had been a third signature, but it was unreadable.
How could this be? She thought of all the things that had conspired to keep the identity of the third person from her: four boxes; three perfectly sound, the one she needed, water-damaged; three signatures, the two she already knew, on the top, farthest from the water’s effects, the last one, obliterated. And weren’t most modern inks indelible? Jesus. It was as if she wasn’t meant to solve this thing.
Remembering how Sid Loscovitz’s name had left a remnant of itself on Harry Isom’s door, Kit held the last signature up to the light, tilted the paper, and looked hard.
Nothing.
“You actin’ like you foun’ somethin’,” Grandma O said.
“Almost,” Kit said. “But the important part was washed away when the box got wet.” Then she had a thought. Doyle Fleming, the forensic document examiner. Gatlin had always said that he was a magician. She’d take it to him and see whether he could make out the name.
But suppose he could and suppose the name he found was Paul Jarrell? That would pretty much be the end of the line for her part in the investigation even though there would still be questions. Deciding that she was being too pessimistic, she dismissed this concern and said to Grandma O, “Would you take this document to Mrs. Sonnier and ask her if I can borrow it for a few days? Tell her it’s important. Be persuasive.”
“Ah’ll do what Ah can.”
From the rear window, Kit watched Grandma O cross the road and knock on the door of the house with the bathtub shrine. A woman Kit had not seen before answered and went for Eugenie. When she appeared, there was a short conversation and Grandma O came back to the car. She opened the door and held out the lease. “She say keep it long as you want.”
Bubba took the last box back to where they’d found it and closed the truck. Kit put the lease in her handbag.
Once they were all back in the same seats as on the trip out, Grandma O said, “Doc Franklyn, Eugenie also say if you was to take a few French lessons, she’d let you date Floyd.”
Kit looked at Grandma O in disbelief. Playful sparks sizzled in the old woman’s black eyes and she broke into a gleeful cackle.
20
Broussard had been watching all day for the material from the Cotswald Institute, but it had not arrived. He looked at his watch—nearly five o’clock. But in Sheridan, Wyoming, it was an hour earlier. He reached for the phone, hoping that he could get Rutland and find out what had gone wrong. Before his hand touched the receiver, his secretary came in with an overnight mail envelope.
With a casual air that belied his excitement, he opened the envelope and quickly read the cover letter. By the time he’d finished, he understood the dream he’d been having and a lot more. Included with the letter were half a dozen photocopied pages of a scientific report with sections blacked out so they couldn’t be read, obviously portions that were still classified. He skimmed the pages. When he reached the last line, he was reasonably sure he knew it all. He picked up the phone and punched in Gatlin’s number.
*
* *
Kit dropped Grandma O and Bubba at the restaurant, thanking them for all they’d done. On her way out of the parking lot, she checked her watch—5:10. No point in taking the lease over to Doyle Fleming now. He had probably already left for the day.
She arrived home ten minutes later and was reminded of why people have dogs as Lucky danced happily around her legs. She picked him up, scratched him under the chin, and carried him to her answering machine, where there was a message to call Adrian Iverson.
He answered promptly. “Adrian, this is Kit.”
“Hello, Kit. I know you must be getting awfully tired of this, but I had two new plants bloom today and I think they may be the best of the lot. I was hoping their buds would open yesterday so you could rank them with the others, but they didn’t cooperate. Do you suppose… Goodness, this is difficult. Could you possibly come out tonight and give me your opinion? I hate to spring this on such short notice, but I’m leaving on a trip early in the morning and will simply not enjoy myself if I have to leave without hearing your opinion. Please come. I have a little something I was going to send you for the patience and kindness you’ve shown me, but I’d much rather give it to you in person. So what do you say?”
It had been a hot, tiring day and Kit was looking forward to a cool shower and her silk robe. But Iverson was such a gentleman and so appreciative of her efforts that she was unable to refuse. Then, too, he needed some new specimens, because she believed that right now, Tully’s best had him beat. “Sure, I’d be glad to come. I can be there”—she paused to consider when the rush-hour traffic would clear—“at six-thirty.”
“Wonderful.”
A few minutes later, she got another call.
“Dr. Franklyn, this is Haley Dagget. I understand that you’ve been asking questions about me at the hospital and I think you and I should talk again.”
“All right. Go ahead.”
“This is not something I want to discuss over the telephone. Could you come to my office? I’ve really gotten backed up today, but I should be clear in an hour or so. To be on the safe side, let’s say seven-fifteen.”
Picturing how empty Dagget’s office might be then, Kit said, “The time is fine, but not in your office. Someplace more public.”
“I don’t want our conversation overheard.”
“You can whisper.”
“Very well. There’s a restaurant called the Olive Tree across the street from my office. Is that acceptable?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you then.”
Iverson at 6:30, Dagget at 7:15. That meant she couldn’t give Iverson more than fifteen minutes, which should be more than sufficient.
*
* *
“Took you long enough to get here,” Broussard said.
Gatlin cocked his head and squinted at Broussard. “Remember when that chemical plant mistakenly discharged pesticide into the river… all those fish belly-up?”
“I remember.”
“Those fish had a better day than I had today. What’s so urgent?”
As Broussard talked, Gatlin seemed less and less tired. When Broussard was finished, Gatlin said, “Want to take a little ride?”
“Suppose he’s not there?”
“Where’s your phone book?”
Gatlin looked up the number he wanted and jabbed it into the face of the phone with his finger. A few seconds later, he hung up without saying anything into the receiver. “He’s there.”
*
* *
Kit proceeded onto the Huey P. Long Bridge with no misgivings about crossing it. She did not have the same confidence about meeting Haley Dagget. To her mind, there was a distinct difference between following up the Sonnier lead that Isom had given her and meeting Dagget. The first had developed entirely after Gatlin had ordered her off the case. The second was a continuation of something she had started before.
Hmmmm.
What had seemed like a sharp difference when she began this train of thought had suddenly evaporated and she saw that she was way over the line in both circumstances. But it was like the Huey P. Bridge—once you entered the approach, you had to cross.
Iverson met her at the door in tan pants and a knit shirt with tan and white ancient Egyptian designs on a black ground. It was the kind of outfit Teddy would never wear but would look good in.
“Come in. Come in,” Iverson said heartily. “The test blooms are all ready, along with a little surprise.”
“A good surprise, I hope.”
“I think so.”
As she followed him to the back, the clock with the Westminster chimes struck t
he half hour. Upon reaching the study, Iverson said, “You go ahead and get comfortable and I’ll get the surprise.”
In the few seconds that she had before Iverson returned, Kit’s thoughts drifted back to the gourmet dinner and she tried to picture Arthur Jordan and Walter Browning together. Was Browning tall enough to have strangled Jordan? She thought he was. But Haley Dagget would have had a far easier time of it….
“Here we are,” Iverson said. He was carrying a magnificent orchid bearing many huge flowers.
He put the plant on the floor beside her chair. “I’ve taped instructions for its care on the pot. And when your rose garden is ready for planting, you let me know. Don’t you dare buy any roses.”
“I’m overwhelmed,” Kit said.
“It’s the least I could do, considering what you’ve done for me. Now, let’s see what you think of my new babies.”
Not wanting to lose track of the time, Kit checked her watch while Iverson went to get the flowers—6:34….
Iverson returned with the usual silver tray and four clam-shell containers. She went quickly through the ritual and, to Iverson’s pleasure, picked one of the new flowers as the best of the lot. Without having Tully’s best in front of her, comparison was difficult, but she thought that Iverson now just might have the edge.
Iverson turned to put the silver tray on the table next to his chair and Kit checked the time again—6:45.
No. That was impossible. There was no way that it had taken eleven minutes to rank the roses. Something had to be wrong with her watch. Just then, Iverson’s Westminster chimes struck the three-quarter hour. She glanced at Iverson and saw a peculiar look on his face.
Her brain struggled to understand, tried to bring order where there was only disorder. Events of the past ten days whirled by, hopelessly mingled. Then a single powerful beacon sliced through the confusion. Her headaches. Each of her recent headaches had occurred a few hours after visiting Iverson.
She tore at her handbag and checked the compartment where she had put the lease. It was empty. She looked back at Iverson, who now wore a sad expression. Her gaze dropped to his right hand and her throat closed. He was holding a pistol.
“Stupid of me not to think of the clock,” he said. “But the way things have been going, they were bound to get worse. I have the papers you’re looking for. I’m sorry for the headaches… and for everything else.”
“The roses…” Kit said, nearly choking on the words. “You’ve been doping the roses.”
“Only the final one in each series. That’s why the last one always had a forgettable fragrance. It’s a drug called Mepridil. You won’t find it in the PDR.”
“What does it do?”
Keeping the gun trained on her, Iverson carefully sat down. “It makes the subject freely responsive to questioning and fosters a childlike trust toward others. The subject will do essentially everything they are instructed to do except harm themselves. The effect is quite short-lived after a single exposure, on the order of five to seven minutes. After recovering, the subject remembers nothing that happened during the time he or she was drugged. When the subject is under the drug’s influence, the pupils dilate. Upon recovery, they return to normal. I’ve always believed the dilation is what leads to the headaches.”
Iverson’s voice reverberated in Kit’s head: “freely responsive to questioning.” Oh God. She had visited Iverson the day she was to meet Paul Jarrell. Is that how Iverson knew of the meeting? Had she told him? “My flat tire the night Paul Jarrell… died. Was that you?”
“It was the only way I could think of to delay you.”
Guilt for Jarrell’s death settled over her like a suffocating blanket.
“In case you’re blaming yourself for Jarrell’s death, you really shouldn’t,” Iverson said. “You had no choice.”
Her thoughts ratcheted from Paul Jarrell to Arthur Jordan. Had she been responsible for that, as well? She was so confused now that she couldn’t remember the sequence of events. Had she visited Iverson after Broussard had told her about Jordan’s call? “How did you know about our meeting with Jordan?” she asked.
“I was the one who suggested it to him. After meeting you at the Gourmet Society dinner, both he and Halliday became very rocky and I was afraid they were going to talk. I told Jordan that I thought Halliday was going to make a deal by sacrificing us and that we ought to beat him to it. Jordan thought I came to his apartment so we could tell our story to you and Broussard together. I told Halliday the same thing about Jordan and set up a meeting at his home later that night to discuss what we should do. I thought with all three of them gone, that would be the end of it, but you wouldn’t stop.”
“The fire last night in Lafitte…?”
“When you said they might be in possession of records that would implicate me, I had to do something. Apparently, I was unsuccessful.”
When you said… Floyd Sonnier had been right. She had been responsible for getting them burned out. “What happened that night?” she asked.
“What night?”
“Years ago… the girl who was killed.”
Iverson’s expression saddened. “Pretty much what I put in Halliday’s suicide letter….”
“You typed it?”
“He couldn’t. His pupils were too dilated. It was about all he could do to sign it. What I put in there was mostly true except”—he paused and his face grew sadder still—“except that I killed the girl. We’d all been drinking heavily and the others had passed out. After it happened, I was shaking and began to drink again. Looking back, I still can’t believe it, but I fell asleep and I wasn’t the first to wake up. So I pretended that I had been as drunk as the rest of them and was as ignorant of what had happened as they were.”
“The rest of them being Halliday, Jordan, and Jarrell?”
“Yes. Jarrell didn’t live in the house. He was a friend of Halliday’s and was around a great deal.”
“Why didn’t you mention Jarrell in Halliday’s suicide letter?”
“You had told me Gatlin and Broussard were not convinced that Jarrell was involved. I thought if I included him, it would increase the chances they would find some discrepancy in the story I put in the letter.” He shook his head and his gaze shifted inward. “It all got so complex.”
His attention returned to Kit. “When we picked her up, I never intended to kill her. It just happened. There was so much stress in medical school that we were all nearly to the breaking point. You can’t know what it’s like if you’ve never experienced it. That kind of stress makes you do things… act in ways you never thought you could. You have to find a way to release it or go mad.
“I’m not an evil man. You must see that. I did a lot of good. There are hundreds of people making a difference in this world because of my skills as a surgeon. I didn’t operate on just anyone. I reviewed the cases carefully, weighing the contributions they were capable of making against the cost. And I did try to keep the cost low.” Iverson’s eyes glistened with tears. “I’m not an evil man. The balance sheet will show that.”
He seemed on the verge of cracking and Kit thought she would try to help him along. “You’re deluding yourself,” she said. “Kurt Halliday and Arthur Jordan could have treated thousands more patients. But you murdered them. Who knows how much good might have been done by people who will die because Arthur Jordan and Kurt Halliday will not be there for them?”
“I don’t want to hear this.”
“You’re retired. You don’t even practice anymore. If all that’s important is the balance sheet, Jordan’s and Halliday’s lives far outweighed yours. Face it, you killed them to save your own skin. There was no other reason. Admit it. You were no longer productive, they were. Your actions have been totally self-serving.”
Iverson’s face hardened and she knew she had failed.
“Am I to be dealt with as they were?” Kit asked.
“I can’t let you live. I wish I could, but it’s impossible. There will be a gu
nshot, a terrible accident, a loaded gun going off as I was showing it to you. I’m sorry.”
Kit had allowed her hand to remain in her bag since seeing that Iverson was holding a gun. She slowly removed it and stood up. “If there’s going to be an inquiry, you’d better hide this,” she said, moving toward him. She pressed the button on her Mace lipstick, simultaneously pushing off on her left foot.
She was too far away for it to be fully effective, but some of the spray reached Iverson’s eyes. He roared in pain and flinched. Gunfire echoed in Kit’s ears and a bullet skimmed across her left forearm, making a raw trail in her flesh that screamed as the air hit it.
She dashed through the curtains and out the French doors to the rose garden. Heart hammering in her wound, she ran for the perennial garden and angled across it, trampling the false indigo, crushing the Jupiter’s beard. On to the sidewalk that led to the green houses. Was Iverson close behind? She didn’t dare look. She bolted for her car but saw the bridge across the bayou begin to close.
Trapped. She was trapped!
She veered to the right and headed for the greenhouses, hoping she could reach them before Iverson saw where she’d gone.
The tropical greenhouse… lots of foliage… hard to see through it. She ran down the narrow walkway, leaves slapping her face, whipping her bleeding arm. Where to go… where to hide?
The plants were on low cement tables that ran the entire length of the greenhouse, one in the middle, one on each side. She looked under the center table. Thank God. Lots of pots and other stored material that would prevent a clear view from one end to the other. She dropped to her stomach and slithered under the table, hating the idea almost as soon as she’d done it.
The door she’d entered through a moment earlier opened. Iverson.
Her lungs were starved for air, yet she was afraid to breath, fearing that he would hear her gasping. Her wound was lying in the dirt, but there was nothing she could do about it. She felt nearly ripped in two by indecision—run now or stay hidden. Her face burned from the effort of running and she was wrapped in wet heat.
No Mardi Gras for the Dead Page 20
