Louisiana Bigshot

by Julie Smith

  He led her back inside. He was about to do what he’d had to do only once before in his own office. On the way back, he explained it to her. For Eileen Fisher, who’d seen it before, he wrote two words on a piece of paper and watched her eyes pop. The words were Level Three.

  In his business, as Eileen well knew, Eddie recognized three levels of sweeps. Level One was for domestic cases—people who used Radio Shack stuff. Level Two was for small businesses. Level Three was performed when you were dealing with somebody with deep pockets, like the government or a large corporation. He had no idea who was on their tail, but he damn sure wasn’t taking chances.

  He wrote another note: “Everybody do their own office.”

  By now, Ms. Wallis knew what to do, and Eileen was already a pro at it. What was called for was a thorough physical search. You had to yank out all the drawers and turn all the furniture upside down. You had to pull the wall sockets out, unscrew the switchplates, look anywhere and everywhere your imagination led you. He had no doubt Ms. Wallis was going to be good at it. He figured she was no stranger to highly illegal electronic equipment. He knew perfectly well where she’d gotten the damn GPS—surfing the net for spy shops.

  After a first round, they changed places and each searched someone else’s office. Then they did it again. After two hours, nobody had found anything. Eddie resumed respiration. It could have been a lot worse.

  “Okay, ladies, let’s check the cell phones.” These were more difficult to tap, but they could be checked. They registered negative, but he still wasn’t satisfied. “We use these till we can get new ones. Eileen, go to a secure phone—pay phone if ya have to—and order some now. Let’s have them by tomorrow.”

  He just hoped no damage had yet been done. They were in the reception room, Eileen Fisher’s office, Eddie leaning against her desk. “Now think back real carefully, Ms. Wallis. What have you said on the phone? Who have you talked to and what have you said that might be dangerous to you or me or somebody else?”

  “Shit! Just shit!” She was shouting. He thought she might kick something.

  “Goddamn! I hate that kind of talk.” And he hated the panic in her voice.

  “Calvin Richard. I called him twice.”

  “And ya think he’s in danger? Why?”

  “He knows something—and you know what happens to—” He didn’t even let her finish. “Call him.” He looked at his watch. “Try him at home—use ya cell phone.”

  She dialed, fingers fumbling, and he heard her say, “Calvin, it’s Talba Wallis,” then watched her lower the phone, staring at it, bemused.

  “Eddie, he hung up.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  She nodded, as he had known she would. Ms. Wallis always researched those things. “Let’s go see him.”

  She didn’t say a word, just followed, docile as a deer. That worried him a lot.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  For the first time in her life, Talba wished she smoked cigarettes. She didn’t know Richard. In point of fact, he’d been horribly rude to her, but the fear that something could happen to him because of her was making her feel ill. “Eddie, his little boy’s got something wrong with him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s got what they call a development disorder.”

  “Okay, Ms. Wallis. Okay. I’m driving as fast as I can.” He’d understood her—that this was a kid that needed his parents even more than most.

  She kept talking, to relieve the tension. “He had to have all kinds of evaluations that must have cost a fortune, but now he’s going to a special school that’s helping a lot, apparently.”

  “Private school?”

  “Yes—and you know how much those things can cost.”

  “You suggesting the Richards are getting a little help?”

  “Well, suppose Calvin’s not the slasher, but he knows who is—or at least he knows about the cover-up. And he’s being paid off. They’d have damn good reason to trust him. Why would he drop a dime if it dried up the money?”

  “They probably won’t hurt him. But all the same we gotta warn him. By the way, who’s ‘they’?”

  “The real slasher, maybe. Or could be Calhoun. Calvin told me I was messing with something I didn’t understand.”

  Eddie said, “Understatement, hmm?” and they were silent for the rest of the drive.

  A typical cop, Richard lived in the suburbs, not in the city in which he worked. Like Mozelle and Matthew Simmons, he lived in Kenner, but not in their gated community. It was strange heading there again, and made Talba think of the sister she still hadn’t met—whom she was putting off meeting.

  The other houses on the block were new and relatively expensive. The Richards’ probably was too, but that wasn’t what you saw right away. What you noticed was that the place was surrounded by Jefferson Parish Sheriffs’ cars.

  “Oh, God, Eddie—what if we’re too late?”

  “He answered the phone, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.” But somehow that didn’t make her feel any better. Eddie had once been a deputy sheriff in Jefferson Parish. She said, “This is your territory. Do you want to try to talk to them?”

  He gestured at one of the several knots of civilians clustered on the street. “Let’s try the neighbors.” He smiled at her wryly. “I’ll do it. Ya got the wrong demographics.”

  Actually, some of them were black, as were the Richards, but Eddie was a schmoozer, infinitely more suited to coaxing information than she was. She trailed him at a distance as they approached one of the groups.

  “How y’all this evenin’?”

  The group buzzed a little.

  “Looks like there’s trouble at the Richards’.” He paused, and a few people nodded. “We teach over at their son’s school—just on our way home when we saw the commotion. Anything we can do?”

  A woman with short hair looked like she was about to pop, a very thin woman with eyes that bulged almost as much as those of the infamous Sergeant Rouselle. Her hands fluttered, restless pink butterflies. “Somebody shot at Tanitha.”

  Talba made an o of horror. “Damian!”

  The woman nodded. “He was with her.”

  “Omigod.”

  Eddie said, “Nobody hurt, though?”

  “No, but we all heard it. It was a drive-by—can you imagine? In this neighborhood! Car just drove by and opened up.”

  “How many shots fired?”

  A man said, “Two.”

  The short-haired woman shook her head. “Three. Three, swear to God. Calvin’s a policeman, you know—it could have been somebody with a grudge.”

  “But the wife!” said another woman. “And poor little Damian.”

  A couple of the men grumbled in a way that said to Talba, There goes the neighborhood.

  “Well, y’all tell ’em our hearts are with ’em,” Eddie said. “We’ll leave our cards in the mailbox.”

  Back in the car, they were silent, each trying to take in what they’d just seen, the magnitude of the thing building around them. After awhile, Talba noticed that Eddie wasn’t driving back to the office.

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’re driving around.”

  She didn’t answer, thinking that was fine with her. There wasn’t anywhere she especially wanted to be right now. “We’re thinking,” he continued.

  Again she kept quiet. The last thing she wanted to do was think.

  “We’re thinking about how to keep that from happening on your street. And my street And Angie and Darryl’s streets.”

  “Oh, shit!”

  “Now that ain’t gon’ help anything, Ms. Wallis.”

  She kept quiet again, a turtle safe in its shell.

  Finally, he said, “What do we think is happening here?”

  And she was stunned at the burble of words that poured out of her mouth, as if she really had been thinking. “That was a warning. They didn’t mean to hurt anybody, or they would have. Like when they
shot at you. Also, they don’t have to worry about the Richards—that’s a family with plenty of reason not to wreck the gravy train. They just wanted to remind them of that.”

  “Agreed. Once again, who is ‘they’?”

  “Yeah. Who? I mean, Calhoun’s got to be behind it, but…”

  “Maybe not. With politicians you never know. It could be crazy supporters.”

  She shook her head, surprised at how clearly she could see it. “Uh-uh. This isn’t dirty tricks, it’s murder. Who’d care that much except Calhoun himself? Besides, how would they know about the cover-up? It’s Calhoun.”

  “Ya mean it’s somebody he hired. And I’ve got a real bad feeling about what that somebody’s next assignment is.”

  “You mean us? You do, don’t you? I was afraid you did.” She was almost used to the idea. She was starting to look at it coldly—turtling out further still. But maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing right now. She said, “It was more than one—it took two people to kill Clayton.”

  “They’re real slick, Ms. Wallis. Real, real slick.”

  “How the hell do you deal with something like this?”

  “Well, now, I was hopin’ you were going to ask what I been thinkin’ about it. Ya really want to know?”

  “Don’t tell me to yell uncle.”

  She was surprised when he laughed. “Ms. Wallis, Ms. Wallis. Ya think I’m crazy? I’d never say a thing like that to you. ’Course, maybe we could just go to the police.”

  She thought about it. “It puts Calvin too much at risk. He could lose his job—or worse. And you know what I mean by worse. I just don’t think we have the right.” She let it lie for a minute. “Okay, I give up. What’s your idea?”

  “Ya famous demographics, Ms. Wallis. For this, ya got the perfect demographics; and also ya famous criminal abilities. We gotta go behind enemy lines; do a little spyin’.”

  “You mean computer spying? Illegal stuff?” Eddie was usually such a stickler.

  “This is life or death, Ms. Wallis. Ya want ’em to get to Miz Clara? Or Calvin Richard’s little boy? Ya gotta disappear right now and become someone else. Somebody with access to certain things.”

  She was amazed. She’d have thought he’d have gone all male and protective. Almost crossly, she asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m gon’ run a little sting, Ms. Wallis. Got quite a little idea in the back of my head, but don’t ax me any more yet. I got a lot of details to work out. I’m gon’ have to bring in some outside help. Now, listen. I don’t want you at home and I don’t want you at Darryl’s. Ya got any place ya can stay?”

  She shrugged. “Hotel, I guess. Just tell me, will you—what the hell am I going to be doing?”

  “Ya had a chance to background Calhoun yet?”

  “Sure. He was born in Clayton, of fairly poor parents, and put himself through law school with that deputy sheriff’s gig. After that, he came to New Orleans, where he worked for the DA’s office, and now he’s a bigtime lawyer who wants to be governor. Wife and kids, the whole thing.”

  “Uh-huh. So he’s got two offices in New Orleans—a law office and campaign headquarters, most probably. Now campaign headquarters—that might be promising. How would ya feel about volunteering?”

  “Ah.” All of a sudden she saw the plan and thoroughly approved. “My name’s Claudia Snipes.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s the new person I’m waking up as.”

  “Where’d ya get that name?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. It just popped into my head.” It was funny how clearly she was thinking. “But not campaign headquarters. How big is the law office?”

  “Huge. But ya can’t just volunteer to work in a law office.”

  “Uh-huh. You can if it’s big enough—and you’ve got computer skills.”

  “Whatever ya say, Ms. Wallis. I don’t know what ya talking about, but there ain’t no news there.”

  The next morning, with the phone bugs still in place, she called the office and was greeted by Eileen Fisher’s cheery, “E. V. Anthony Investigations.”

  “Eileen, it’s Talba.” She made her voice labored and slow.

  “Talba, you okay? You don’t sound right.”

  “I’ve got the worst cramps I’ve had since I was fifteen.”

  “Oh, Gawd, I feel for ya. I get ’em every month.”

  “Listen, can I talk to Eddie? I don’t think I can come in today.”

  “Sure. You take care of yourself now.”

  Eddie answered particularly gruffly. “Yeah?”

  “Eddie. You know that prejudice you’ve got against female employees?”

  “Miz Wallis? That you?”

  “You know how you’re afraid they’ll get their periods and—”

  “Miz Wallis, what the hell ya talkin’ about? Ya sound like ya voice is comin’ up from a tunnel.”

  “I’m sorry. I just feel crummy is all. I’ve got these horrible cramps and, you know, like, really, really heavy flow. I’m scared I’m hemorrhaging. I even think maybe—”

  “Ya need the day off, Miz Wallis? Is that what ya sayin’? Could ya spare me the fuckin’ details? Excuse my French.” He sounded so genuinely horrified she almost laughed. She’d picked this particular form of infirmity for the express purpose of getting a reaction so genuine whoever was listening couldn’t mistake it. “Eddie, I wouldn’t do this if I absolutely didn’t have to.”

  “Just cut to the chase, okay? How about the Patterson case?”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s our most important case of the moment. What kind of progress ya makin?”

  “Eddie, I’m gonna be honest with you. I’ve got a real bad feeling it’s a dead end. Richard’s not going to tell us anything. Talking to him’s like talking to a dead fish.”

  “I don’t care if he stinks like a fish. This guy Jason’s got money and he’s willing to spend it. You will pursue this case. Ya understand me?”

  “Okay, okay. I swear to God I’ll hit it with both barrels tomorrow. Just let me have a day off and—”

  “Miz Wallis, you can have two days off if ya need ’em. Just get up a head of steam on this one. I can’t work it for ya or I would. I gotta go out of town today.”

  “You do? What for?”

  “Ya know the Fusco case? Billy Bob Bubba-type guy out in Plaquemines?”

  “Oh, yeah. Divorce case. Made a lot of money in something or other, and the wife wants it. She’s trying to prove he’s having an affair.”

  “No, ya got it wrong, Ms. Wallis. He didn’t actually make his money—took care of a fishing camp for some old boys from New Orleans; one of ’em took a shine to him and remembered him in his will. Well, anyway, Mrs. Billy Bob just wouldn’t take no for an answer about Sweet Thing. But I did hours and hours and hours of surveillance and got nothing. Remember that?”

  “I remember how pissed off you were.” And because she was feeling kindly toward him, she said, “Excuse my French.”

  “Well, ya know what I did, Ms. Wallis?”

  “I know I’m about to find out.”

  “I brought Muhammed to the mountain, that’s what. That is, I invited him to the mountain. Sent him a prepaid coupon for two nights at the Beau Rivage. Champagne breakfast, the whole thing. Ya think he’s taking his wife to that?”

  “Let me guess. He told her he’s got a business trip.”

  “To Mobile! He told her he’s going to Mobile! I love it. I swear to God, I love it.” Outwitting people was pretty much his favorite thing, and she was coming to see the appeal of it.

  “So you’re spending the day on the Gulf Coast with a video camera.”

  “Yeah. Last time I did something like this, they all but did it out by the swimming pool. Prettiest little movie I ever made in my life.”

  “Well, you just have a swell old time, Eddie. I’ll see you when you get back.”

  “Take care of yaself, Ms. Wallis.”

  “Ohhhh, yeah.” She e
xecuted a pseudo-moan. “I think I might go to the emergency room.”

  They hung up, she smiling happily to herself, hoping the listeners had enjoyed themselves. Eddie loved his little ruses so much even she was half-convinced he was going off to do a surveillance.

  So far so good. The next thing was to come up with a disguise for herself. Fortunately, her mother had a closet full of wigs, none of which were styled any way at all Talba would even consider wearing under normal circumstances. She chose a kind of church lady do that would look more or less professional paired with a plain white blouse, navy skirt, and rust-colored jacket. The jacket was essential for this kind of work, having deep pockets for carrying whatever she needed—in this case, disks. She put the whole outfit in a bag with a few other things and pulled on a pair of jeans.

  She looked up her destination in the phone book, picked up her bag, got in her car, and headed for Eve’s Full-Service Garden of Glamour (AKA Eve’s Weaves). It was out in the Ninth Ward, and she decided to take St. Claude, a nice wide street with plenty of lanes. She drove very slowly, as if extremely relaxed, or else the possessor of a raging hangover. And pretty soon she saw a white Buick Le Sabre, a plain vanilla car, perfect for tailing, going about as slow as she was. She turned off onto a side street, and so did the car. Uh-oh, she thought, It's going to be a long, ugly day. She didn’t want the guy to know she’d made him, which somewhat complicated things. She hadn’t thought of an errand to fake to explain her detour. What the hell, she decided, Somebody’s about to get a surprise visit.

  She picked a house with no cars in front, parked, and rang the bell. But while she stood on the porch, the Le Sabre didn’t pass.

  She slipped to the side, hoping there were no vicious dogs in the back. There were, only next door.

  Amid a huge din that she hoped wouldn’t draw a man with a gun, she crept to the back, hid, and waited till a car passed. The Le Sabre? She couldn’t see. Well, who cared? If it hadn’t passed by now, she’d probably lost it already.

  She walked back to her own car, making sure to wave at the imaginary person at the back of the house. It was tempting to pretend to adjust the rearview mirror, but she didn’t dare. Peeks would have to do. She slid back onto the street, and when she’d gone half a block, saw a white car doing the same. Damn!