by Julie Smith
“It is, L. J. This time there’s some real decent money attached.” She usually paid him fifty dollars.
“Five hundred dollars.”
“What?”
“That’s what I’d consider decent money. Take it or leave it.”
“L. J., it’s four o’clock and I’m asking you to get me in at nine o’clock tomorrow—”
“They start at eight.”
“Okay, eight. You think I’d ask you to do it for any less? You want five hundred dollars, you got it.”
“Six hundred.”
“Five hundred’s what I’ve got.”
“Uh-uh. That was too easy, Baroness. You got five, you gotta have six.”
She sighed. “Dammit, L. J. Six.” She hoped Eddie wouldn’t kill her.
L. J. picked up the phone.
“And by the way, I’m Claudia Snipes.”
He nodded, to show that he’d heard. “Hey, Leona. Got some good news for ya. I think I might be able to replace Philip after all.” He gave Talba a sly grin.
She said, “You’re gettin’ too big for your britches, L. J.,” and deeply regretted she couldn’t stalk out before he got off the phone. But she had to stick around and find out who her supervisor was.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Eddie’s plan was to run a sting. He’d spent hours working it out, more hours pulling it together, and it was a thing of the most exquisite beauty. Truly one of his finest creations.
It was big, it was elaborate, it was a little preposterous, and it would have been expensive as hell except that he knew quite a few people willing to do him a favor.
He got up that morning, went to work as usual, took Ms. Wallis’s revolting sick call, and then proceeded to take the mountain to Muhammed, exactly as he’d said he was going to.
First, he made the forty-five-minute drive to Plaquemines Parish, where he parked, and waited happily, feeling like a cat outside a mousehole. He’d picked up the tail on the way over, this time a light-colored Ford.
Shortly before noon, a Billy Bob Bubba-type guy—large gut, white shoes, real name Robert Fusco—came loping out looking like he hadn’t a care in the world; in fact, looking a little smug and satisfied, exactly as if he were about to hole up on the Gulf Coast with his sweetie.
Billy Bob drove all the way back to New Orleans (Eddie following), parked, and went into a sandwich shop on Magazine Street, the kind where you have to stand in line to give your order. Eddie watched him get in line, then watched him watch a blond half his age, wearing shorts and near-bursting hot pink T-shirt, as she got up to get a packet of sugar.
As abruptly as he’d arrived, Billy Bob left, but Eddie waited. Sure enough, the blond—sometime-PI Eunice Kelton—followed at a distance. Eddie watched the blond watch Billy Bob get in his car, then watched Billy Bob wait as she got hers, then followed them both out to the Interstate, heading east to the Gulf Coast.
It was perfect, in his humble opinion. Someone would have to know Eunice and Robert not to think he was just a PI following a poor slob after young pussy and a golddigger after a score.
The tail was fairly discreet, staying well behind him. A helicopter, he thought, might have thought it an interesting caravan. He picked up his brand-new cell phone (Eileen had scored) and dialed the number of Catherine Mathison, another part-time PI. Catherine was someone he liked to work with when he needed a woman to pose as his wife.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said.
“Whereyat, dawlin’?”
“When we gon’ get married?”
“Whenever you want, baby. I’ve still got the ring from last time.”
“You see anything you like out here?”
“Umm-hmm. Late-model Ford. That goldish color everything is these days.”
“Yeah. Shiny, kind of.”
“No passengers. White male driving.”
“Good. You get what you need?” Meaning the tag number.
Catherine said, “Sure did, dawlin’. This ain’t the slickest deal I ever saw in my life.”
“Okay. You know what to do.”
Eddie hummed a Beatles song, waiting for her to pass him. He’d never really gotten over the Beatles.
There was a romantic place to eat in Bay St. Louis, with a deck overlooking the water. Eddie followed the two cars bearing Billy Bob and Eunice, watched them struggle for parking near the restaurant, and noted in the process that Catherine Mathison’s blue Mazda was already parked in front. Then Eddie himself parked and followed the happy couple to the restaurant as if he didn’t know they were going there.
They were ushered onto the deck, where they sat in full view of God and everybody. You could see them perfectly from the street. Eddie watched them order, observed the waitress bring them a couple of beers, and when they had clicked bottles and kissed lightly, returned to his car, from the trunk of which he pulled a video camera, conventional camera with telephoto lens, and a brown bag containing a sandwich.
He also made a great show of stretching, even bending over and touching his toes a time or two. This was to put ideas into the tail’s head.
The guy was going to need to stretch his legs. He was going to be hungry—they’d made sure this was a damned late lunch. At the very least he was going to need to use the men’s room. Eddie wanted him to feel extremely comfortable about the amount of time he had. He even went into the very restaurant where Robert and Eunice were yucking it up, got himself a soft drink to go with his sandwich, and used the facilities himself.
Then he returned to the street, found a good place to sit, ate his sandwich, drank his Coke, and idly watched a woman tourist wearing Bermuda shorts, plain blue T-shirt sunglasses, and visor. Her graying hair was tied back, and she carried a large purse. She was meandering in and out of the various little shops along the shore, shopping happily.
When he’d finished his sandwich, he began slowly to attach the telephoto lens to his camera, working lazily, knowing he had all the time in the world.
He took a few pictures from the sidewalk; after that he went back and photographed each car against the picturesque backdrop of Bay St Louis. Finally, he returned to wait for the misbehavers to come out of the restaurant, which they did, hand-in-hand. He recorded that tender moment as well, and then they all three returned to their cars and headed for Biloxi.
It was almost a half-hour’s trip. He phoned Catherine fifteen minutes into it.
“Any luck?”
She was laughing. “It was beautiful, baby.”
“I saw you shopping. Nice gams, kid.” She was the only woman in the world he ever flirted with, including Audrey. But he figured it was okay because she’d started it first, and she did it in front of Audrey, who was a cousin of hers. She’d been a radio reporter before her children were born, and she still liked the action.
“For an old broad, you mean. Listen, the guy’s got a bladder problem. He was out of that car so fast…”
“Give him a break. It was a long drive.”
“Well, at any rate, it didn’t take no convincing. He went in a restaurant, he peed fast, then he came out, watched you for awhile, and went back in to get some food to go. He stood outside, eating and watching, just like you. I got some gorgeous pictures of him with his mouth full.”
“Yeah? Any with it closed?”
“Whole roll. I’ll have prints by the time you get back.”
“Gorgeous, dawlin’. Just gorgeous.” He could just imagine himself speaking that way to Ms. Wallis.
Several hours later, on his way back from Biloxi, he got her on the cell phone. “Ms. Wallis, whereyat?” It was a question, not a greeting.
“Never mind about that. Let’s have another of those rolling meetings of ours.”
She was being cryptic for some reason—maybe worried about her cell phone. What the hell was a rolling meeting?
“You know. Like when we did all that thinking?”
She must mean when they’d driven around. “Yeah, I gotcha.”
“On the w
ay to Darryl’s.”
The man lived on the West Bank; that was a start, but it still didn’t explain how they were going to meet.
“Ya want me to come get ya?”
“No. I’ll meet you on the way. Just try to keep dry, okay?”
It dawned on him that she was arranging a meeting on the Algiers Ferry. It should be perfect, really—the boat left frequently, there were always plenty of people around, and no one could hear them there. But it was pretty melodramatic.
“Ya think this is the movies?” he said.
“Eight-thirty, okay?”
He looked at his watch. “Should be fine.”
After leaving Bay St Louis, he had had to go on to Biloxi, watch Eunice and Billy Bob pretend to frolic by the pool, and film the whole thing for the benefit of the guy in the gold-colored Ford. All I’s had to be dotted, and this is what he and Talba had talked about on the office phone.
On the way out of Biloxi, he methodically but unobtrusively lost his tail, returning to New Orleans on I-10 instead of I-90.
He called Catherine Mathison. “Got pictures?”
“Gawgeous ones, gawgeous. I left ’em with Cutie-Pie.”
That was Angie, his daughter. They’d set it up that way so Catherine wouldn’t have to go to Eddie’s office. If she were seen there she might be identified, the pictures might get lifted, anything could happen. This way he had a Twenty-first-century woman, probably armed and assuredly dangerous, to guard them till Eddie got there. Angie’d said she’d be working late and Eddie didn’t argue with her—she nearly always worked late.
She looked up when he came in, a gorgeous girl even in lawyer drag, her accustomed black. “Hey, Dad. I got your package.” She handed over a manila envelope.
“Anybody strange been around?”
“Not unless you count Aunt Catherine.”
“Let me call ya mama.”
Angie nodded, going back to her work. He got hold of Audrey, told her he’d be home around ten and begged for something decent to eat when he got there. Already, he was starving.
Angie said, “Want to get a bite with me?”
She never asked him for a meal. He looked at his watch. Damn! Couldn’t be done. “Rain check?” he said, and she smiled enigmatically. She’d probably never ask him again—only had then because she knew he didn’t have time.
He took a look at the pictures. The guy was good, Eddie had to admit that. The man didn’t know how to tail in a car, but if Eddie’d been followed on foot, he’d never made this guy. He was pretty ordinary-looking—medium height, sandy hair—except for one thing. He looked like a bodybuilder. This was one big, strong dude. Eddie didn’t like that.
Catherine had also included the tag number of the gold-colored Ford. Eddie said, “Angie, can I use ya phone?” and dialed before she answered, phoning a friendly cop with the license number. It was registered to a George Goldman, who’d reported it stolen earlier that day.
He left to meet Ms. Wallis.
He was in line at the ferry dock when someone tapped on his window. He whirled, wishing his Tee-ball bat was on the front seat instead of the floor behind him. But it was a teenager—a black girl in a baseball cap and those stupid short overalls.
The girl was speaking to him. “Eddeee. Come on. Open up.”
Quickly, he let her in. “Ms. Wallis. You’re somethin’ else. Ya gettin’ ready for Mardi Gras or what?”
“Let’s make a U-ie, Eddie. If we get on the ferry, and they do too, it won’t be pretty.”
Nimbly, he pulled out of the line and hung a U-ie onto the street, noticing no one else doing the same. “Does that mean ya think ya were followed?”
“Damned sure I wasn’t. I was thinking about you.”
“I think we’re okay. They followed me to Biloxi in a gold-colored Ford—stolen, by the way. I don’t see it anywhere.”
“I had a white Le Sabre. See anything like that?”
Eddie checked. “No. The Lincoln, either. I think we’re okay. If we were both followed, that means there are two of them, though.”
He regretted it the minute he said it. She’d always maintained there were two.
For lack of a better idea, he got on the Mississippi River Bridge—why not? The entire Eastern half of the country was on the other side. They could get damned good and lost.
“Before I forget. Here’s ya new cell phone. Eileen wrote the number on a business card.” He handed the pictures over. “And here’s what we got today.”
Absently she tucked away the phone, but she plucked eagerly at the manila envelope he’d given her, “Oh, yeah,” she said. “Come to mama. Oh, yeah.”
“Ms. Wallis, what ya gettin’ at?”
She reached into an envelope of her own. “Show and tell,” she said, and handed him a photocopy of a police sketch. Actually, it was a copy of a newspaper reproduction of a police sketch. But it was plenty good enough. It was the man who followed Eddie.
Chapter Twenty-Six
After leaving L. J. Currie, Talba had once again gone to the Riverwalk, where she’d bought a baseball cap, yellow T-shirt, short overalls, and running shoes, which created an effect that startled her. Even a Baroness, she thought, can look ordinary if she tries hard enough. All I need now is bubble gum.
Once again working on the convenience theory, she’d checked into the Hilton, just a few steps away, and ordered from room service. Plenty of time before she had to meet Eddie.
And she had one hell of a story to tell him. During her two hours in the library, she’d developed a really great candidate for Buddy Calhoun’s hit man, the one problem being that there was nothing to tie him to the case.
That is, not till Eddie showed her Catherine Mathison’s pictures. Her breath caught when she saw them; her heart did a spooky little jig. This was no fantasy game. This dude was tailing them, and he was nobody to mess with. Not only that, he had a pal, and they still didn’t know who either of them was.
When she handed over the sketch, Eddie spoke nonchalantly. “Who we got here, Ms. Wallis?”
“I don’t know.”
“Whatcha mean ya don’t know?”
“He goes by Stan. That’s the best I can do for now.”
“Ms. Wallis.” Eddie was drawling softly, something he didn’t often do. “Ya done good. Ya done real good. Now start talkin’.”
“Oh, man. Where to start? Eddie, we got a tiger by the tail.”
He looked grim as an executioner, but he kept his mouth shut; only nodded for her to get started.
“Okay, does the name Nora Dwyer mean anything to you?”
“Hell, yeah. Celebrated murder-for-hire case—long time ago. Real long time ago. Across the lake, if I remember right. Nora and her boyfriend hired somebody to kill her husband and dump him in the river.”
“Almost right,” Talba said. “It was attempted murder-for-hire. The husband got fished out before he was dead, full of whiskey and pills. So they pumped his stomach and he told some crazy story about two men who came to his house while his wife was out of town, tied him up, and force-fed him a bunch of pills. Guess he took care of the whiskey himself. Anyway, they squeezed Nora and she cracked. Said she had a boyfriend—car salesman named Carl Frobisher.”
Eddie snorted. “Hmmph. No accounting for taste.”
“You got that right. I mean, why bother?”
“If you were a man, I’d probably have an answer for ya.”
“Well, anyhow, she strikes some kind of deal with the DA, says the boyfriend hired a hit man to do the job, and Carl ends up taking the fall. He admits to hiring a hit man, all right—guy he met in a bar named Stan.”
“Oh crap, excuse my French. I think I see where this is going. I guess there’s no point asking Stan’s last name.”
“You got it—no point in hell. Carl said he knew the guy only as Stan—gave him a thousand dollars up front and never saw him again, never did pay him the rest of his money.”
“Which was? I’m just curious.”
“A big two thousand dollars—three thousand to kill a husband.”
“It’s about what I figured.” He picked up the police sketch. “So this is Stan?”
“Yeah. They never found him. Or his friend.”
“Friend?”
“There were two of them, remember? Just like in Babalu’s case. Almost the same kind of deal, too. Forced overdose.”
“Well, that’s all well and good, Ms. Wallis. All well and good. Stan’s the man who followed me, and he’s a hit man you can get for a pack of cigarettes. Real good news. So, what’s the trick here? How’d you find him?”
“Easy. I figured if you were a prosecutor, you’d come across more lowlifes than the average guy. In fact, you’d be uniquely positioned to find yourself a hit man. All you’d have to do would be to take a walk down memory lane.”
Eddie snapped to attention, eyebags jiggling. “Buddy Calhoun prosecuted Carl Frobisher? That what you’re saying?”
Talba nodded, feeling slightly smug in spite of herself. “Yep. But I had to find out the old-fashioned way. No computers involved.” She paused. “And there’s a lot more.”
Eddie pounded his hand on his chest. “I don’t know if I can handle it.”
“You know how New Orleans tends to forgive and forget. Remember that other woman tried to kill her husband a few years ago? That was murder-for-hire too. She’s still loose, still has the same old friends, still gets her picture in the paper. So I decided to check out Mrs. Nora Dwyer. Now, Carl Frobisher wasn’t much, but the husband seemed like a pretty respectable guy. Lawyer here in town—Gerard Dwyer. I figured Nora probably had some bucks, knew a few people; she might pick up the pieces and move on.”
Eddie raised an eyebrow.
“I was right. I found her photograph on the society page no less than four times in recent years, once in a gorgeous evening dress at some gala, posing with John Earl Macquet in a tux. Incidentally, I saw John Earl at Clayton’s funeral—along with Buddy Calhoun.”
“Phew.” Eddie leaned back against the seat of the car. “Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.”
It was a lot to digest, and Talba knew it. She just let him be quiet for awhile, while he took it in.
