by Julie Smith
She’d dropped a name to reckon with. John Earl Macquet was one of the biggest businessmen in New Orleans—a town not noted for big business. Macquet was in shipping; and shipping was one of the oldest, largest, most respected businesses in the city. He’d been at Clayton’s funeral. He was a big supporter of Buddy Calhoun.
None of which was the point. That was what Eddie was struggling with. She knew he knew Macquet’s story, but he’d sort of half-forgotten it. The businessman had recently lost his wife. Finally, Eddie said, “Now, how’d John Earl’s wife die? Refresh my recollection, would ya?”
“The maid found her dead one morning when John Earl was out of town. Pills and alcohol. ’Course everybody knew she was pretty much of a drunk.”
“Oh, yeah. It’s coming back to me.”
“Well, I’m sorry to say there’s more. I figured since I’d done such a good job on Nora, why stop now? So I went ahead and did a little more research on John Earl. And guess what?”
“I give up. I don’t know.” Eddie let go of the wheel and flung his hands into the air. “You tell me. He’s got a brother named Stan?”
“Not that I know of. But Mrs. Macquet’s untimely demise is not the only tragedy in his life.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“His company’s CFO was shot and killed a few years back—random mugging kind of thing.”
“Sort of like the way Donny Troxell died.”
“Umm-hmm. Company was in a little trouble at the time. It recovered soon after that. Could have been some crooked accounting, something the guy wouldn’t go along with.”
“Oh, hell. Could have been anything. Ms. Wallis, this is way too many coincidences.”
“Yeah, Eddie. It’s real ugly. Do I need to tell you John Earl’s a big Buddy Calhoun supporter?” She knew she should have been scared to death, but actually, she was excited. This was the real deal; she had one hell of a big fish on the line. “I figure what happened, Stan didn’t just happen to be in that bar where Carl met him. Somebody got drunk and told Nora about him. She knew where Carl drank and sent Stan there. Carl arranged the hit, thinking he was going to get Nora and all Nora’s money as a reward—but that was never in the cards.”
Eddie sat quietly. Talba knew from experience that he was thinking. Finally, he said, “Where are you tonight? Anybody staying with Miz Clara?”
“I checked into the Hilton.”
“The Hilton! Pretty rich for the firm’s blood.”
“Yeah, but convenient, and really, really anonymous. The thing’s huge, and there’s always some convention going on—you can get lost in the crowd if you have to. I feel pretty safe there, but to answer your other question, I’m a little worried about Mama.”
“Mmph. Maybe Darryl could babysit.”
Hell, no, Talba thought. That wouldn’t work at all. Miz Clara would probably make a pass at him, she was so crazy about him.
Eddie said, “We need something to tie this stuff together.”
“Well, I did get that job tomorrow—at Buddy Calhoun’s office. Maybe I’ll come up with something.”
Eddie grunted. “Worth a try. Don’t forget to call in sick. And do something about Miz Clara, will ya?”
She wondered what he was planning to do about Angie and Audrey. He could probably protect Audrey himself, but Talba could just picture Angie’s reaction to his well-meant advice.
Back at the hotel, she called her sister-in-law, Michelle, planning to humble herself.
“How’s my little Sophia?” she began.
Michelle sounded slightly frantic. “She’s kind of a handful. Neither one of us has gotten a night’s sleep since she was born.”
Thank you, God, if you exist, Talba thought. She wouldn’t even have to beg. “Hey, I’ve got a great idea—you know, Mama would give anything to help y’all out. Why don’t you just ask her to come over for a few days?”
“We couldn’t do that. It’s way too big an imposition.”
“It would be the thrill of her life, swear to God. Listen, you’d be doing me a big favor—I have to be away for a few days, and I worry about her all alone over there.” Miz Clara was about as helpless as a boa constrictor, as Michelle perfectly well knew.
“Oh? Where are you going?”
“I’ve already gone, actually. I’m in Mississippi on a case. I just got to thinking about her there all alone. I was actually calling to ask if y’all could look in on her, but I know she’d love to come stay with you, and since the baby’s keeping you up…” She let it hang there, hoping Miz Clara would forgive her for volunteering her sleeping hours, but there was no help for it. Besides, it would be the thrill of her life; she doted on that child.
By the time they hung up, Michelle had already dispatched Corey to go plead with his mama to come help out. Talba couldn’t have been happier—Miz Clara’d be safe in her brother’s gated community.
Darryl presented another set of problems.
He answered on the first ring. “Talba! Where have you been? I’ve been calling and calling.”
“Well, things got a little complicated with the Patterson case and I had to check into a hotel for a few days.”
“What are you talking about? You’re not telling me you’re in danger?” He sounded outraged, as if it were somehow rude of her.
“I think I’m being watched, that’s all. I just wanted to let you know I’m okay.”
“Well, thanks.”
“And also to tell you… I mean, I guess there’s a chance they might go after you.”
“What?”
“Is there any place you could go for a few days?”
“Are you kidding? I’m not going to be driven out of my home.”
She almost mouthed the words with him. “Darryl, I’m serious. You can’t mess with these people. Would you at least… you know… be vigilant?”
“I’m always vigilant.” Defensive, she thought. Like some gander or drake or billy goat. All males were the same, as far as she could tell.
“Well, be extra vigilant.” That was all she could do, and she knew it. The man wasn’t going to go out and buy a gun.
She barely slept, worrying about him and Miz Clara; and Audrey and Angie. Even worrying about Eddie. Man wasn’t half as tough as he thought.
Hoping Miz Clara hadn’t discovered she was missing a wig, Talba got up the next morning and put it on, along with the rest of the outfit she’d brought for temping. The effect was highly satisfying. A perfect Claudia Snipes.
If she could just remember to quote the Bible now and then, she could fool her own mama.
She called in sick again and then consulted her notes. She was to report to one Margaret Neuschneider, to work the firm’s computer help desk (the regular person being on vacation, and Philip, the temp Currie’d sent to replace her, being a noted non-people person). If someone had a problem, it was Talba’s job to fix it—for instance, ran into a snag with a Power Point presentation, or hit the wall trying to create a database. She could shine at that, and the beauty of it was, there were long periods when no one had a problem, leaving her more or less to herself. The downside was, the make-work in between consisted mostly of helping the secretaries input data. Boring almost beyond comprehension, but who cared? Like every other employee, she lived for the lunch hour—though for a slightly different reason.
She managed to sneak around on her bathroom breaks enough to figure out where Calhoun’s office was. The good news was, he wasn’t in today. The bad was, there was no way past his assistant, Barbara Jo, who sat in a little anteroom. Talba introduced herself to her, said she was the new temp; talked about the weather. You never knew who might be good to know.
And as Barbara Jo left on her way out to lunch, Talba sang out, “Have a good lunch now. See you later.”
Barbara Jo made a face. “Actually, I’m going to get a mammogram.”
It never hurts to be nice, Talba thought. Miz Clara would be right proud of her little girl. She figured it would take at least an hour to get
a mammogram.
After a decent interval, she sneaked into Buddy Calhoun’s office, intending a thorough search of his private files. She’d done this before, with other people, and always been lucky. There was always the chance she wouldn’t be lucky sometime. But mostly, just around the office, people weren’t all that careful about their passwords. And Talba was well armed—she had the names of Calhoun’s wife and children and dog; his birthday; his wife’s birthday; and she could always guess at the year the computer system was installed. If he didn’t use the name of some long-dead favorite retriever, she figured she’d get in.
She looked at the pictures on his desk—mostly of his children, not the wife. And mostly of the daughter, not the sons. Okay, that one first. She typed in “Sarah.” And bingo, she was in. Still lucky.
Her fingers started flying. There were letters here and memos—maybe something good. She put a disk in and started making copies. She wasn’t about to read through all this stuff.
Follow the money, she thought, and she looked for financial records. Ah—a file called Campaign Expenses. This one she did glance over, and there was one very interesting entry—“Stan Underwood, $10,000.”
“For services,” the spreadsheet said. Every campaign needs services, she thought and she copied the file immediately.
She reached in her pocket for another disk—one copy for herself and one for Eddie, she thought—and was about to insert the disk when the door opened. She found herself face to face with Hubert Calhoun, AKA Buddy. The candidate himself. Livid.
Talba struggled to maintain her cool. “Oh, you scared me,” she said, and closed the file. “Almost finished.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She looked him right in the eye, making her own eyes wide with amazement. “Excuse me?” She paused a moment. “I’m a temp; checking your e-mail program.”
He dropped his briefcase, strode toward her, and grabbed her arm, startling her so badly she dropped the second disk. Involuntarily, she screamed, just a loud piercing shriek, and then, thinking about it, a much louder “Help!” Maybe she could put him on the defensive.
It partially worked. He let go of her arm, but he was still between her and the desk, and she was ready to leave, thank you. No point sticking around for more; she wasn’t going to get it.
People were starting to crowd in the door, coming to her aid.
Instead of going forward—what she really wanted to do—she shrank back against the wall, covering the lower half of her face with her hands. “He groped me. He came up behind me and…”
Calhoun just stood there with his mouth open.
Talba spoke in a small piteous voice. “Could someone call the police? Please?”
Calhoun said, “I didn’t… I found this woman…”
“I’ve been at a battered women’s shelter. I prayed to the Lord to give me a good job…. I thought I was so lucky….” She stared at the two people now in the room with her and Calhoun—both women, one black, one white, and neither, thank God, Margaret Neuschneider, who was blessedly at lunch. She didn’t have to fake panic; she felt it.
“Omigod, I’m so scared!” Every word of that was true. “Oh, Lord, when am I gon’ be delivered?”
For a moment, she thought she’d gone too far, but the white woman fingered a little gold cross she wore at her neck. The black woman, sixtyish and stout, wearing a business suit and glasses, opened her arms, giving Calhoun a nervous little glance over her shoulder. She said, “You’re all right, baby. Come on now, you’re all right.”
Talba hugged her, closing her eyes, as if she had been delivered.
Calhoun was starting to recover. He said, “Young lady, would you mind answering one question? Just what were you doing in my office?”
Talba, released from the older woman’s hug, stepped back once more, putting a hand on her breast. “He’s scaring me. He’s scaring me again. Call the police! Please—won’t somebody call the police?”
Calhoun started backing down. “I don’t really see any need…”
“I’m sorry.” Talba passed a worried hand over her face. “See, I’m on medication. At the shelter we… One of the things they teach us… is call the police first and let them ask the questions… I’m just so… I really need to… Look how I’m shaking.” Talba raised a hand for all to see. “I forgot my medication… It’s for the panic.” She turned fearfully again to the older woman. “Can you… I’m afraid to go near him… Can you…?” She cut her eyes at Calhoun long enough to see that his anger was giving way to something else—fear, she hoped. Who knew? Maybe she’d hit a nerve; maybe he had a reputation for this sort of thing.
“All right darlin’. I got you.” The woman inserted her body between Talba and Calhoun, put an arm around her shoulder, and led her past Calhoun, her face half-turned in his direction, giving him a kind of half-dirty look. Talba let the woman lead her back to her workstation, where she picked up her purse. She sat for a moment rubbing her face, shaking her head, trying to regain her composure. “I think if I just… Would you mind showing me the bathroom?”
Talba prayed for two things: that the woman wouldn’t come with her; and that Margaret Neuschneider wouldn’t come back from lunch. She sure didn’t want to have to come up with an explanation for being in Calhoun’s office. There was nothing on the disk she’d dropped. If she could just get out of here without getting searched, she was home free.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What’s your name, child?”
“Claudia Snipes. What’s yours?”
“Suzeraine Thompson—you want me to call you a doctor or something?”
Talba made a show of indecision. “No. No, I think I’ll be fine if I can just wash my face and take my pill. And get back to the shelter.” She jerked her head toward Calhoun’s office, worried that he might try to call security. If he does, she thought, I can keep begging them to call the police. If worse comes to worst, I can call them myself. I just can’t get searched, is all. She said, “I have to get away from him. I have to go home and pray; and talk to my counselor. And see if I can get the good Lord to help me come to terms with this.”
She stood a little shakily, and caught the desk for support. “But I don’t really feel so good. Where’d you say the bathroom is?”
“Come on. I’ll show you.”
A kind-hearted woman, dammit. But she forced a weak little smile. “Thanks, Suzeraine. I really appreciate it.”
Surely the mile they made you walk to Death Row couldn’t be as long as the one to the ladies’ restroom on Calhoun’s floor.When she saw it in view, she mumbled, “ ’Scuse me,” and started running.
She ran into a stall, locked it, and started coughing and gagging violently, making a big show of throwing up. She heard Suzeraine come in behind her. “You okay in there, baby? Anything I can do to help?”
Deftly, Talba transferred the disks from her pockets to her pantyhose, one in front and two in the back. For good measure, she hid her PI license in her bra.
She came out wiping her face with a piece of toilet paper, went straight to a basin, and rinsed her mouth like anyone who’d just thrown up. Then she took her time splashing her face and drying it.
Suzeraine smiled at her. “Better?”
She did her weak-smile thing again. “A little bit.”
They walked out together and when they came to the elevators, Talba pressed the button, and turned to her benefactress. “God bless you, sister,” she said, and gave Suzeraine a hug.
The woman looked puzzled. “Where you going?”
“Home. I’m real sorry this job didn’t work out. I sure did need it.”
“Well, I’m sorry too, darlin’. You take care of yourself.” The elevator doors opened to reveal Margaret Neuschneider. “Hi, Claudia. Going to lunch?”
Talba stepped in. “No, ma’am. I’m going home and I’m never coming back to this place ever again for any reason.”
Only when the doors closed did she
breathe a sigh of relief. But now came the hard part. In a way, she’d made it easier for Calhoun—removed herself from the spotlight; she wondered if she should have made one of those nice ladies take her back to CompuTemps.
She pressed 3, took off her jacket, removed her wig, and wrapped it in the jacket. Her heavy, sexy extensions fell to the middle of her back. It was taking a chance; she might fool somebody looking for a short-haired woman, but if she were caught, she’d have a hell of a time explaining why she’d come to work in disguise.
No one was waiting for her on three. So far so good. She stepped into the stairwell and clattered down. One floor; silence. Two floors. More silence—and then a second clattering. Someone was coming up from the first floor.
She turned around and started climbing again. From behind, she’d look nothing like the woman Calhoun would have described to security; yet exactly like the woman Stan probably had a picture of. Speaking of Stan, what if it were he? She risked taking a peek.
No. It was a uniformed guard.
She fumbled for her cell phone, which she had programmed to speed-dial 911 if she pressed 1 and Eddie if she pressed 2. The man elbowed past her without so much as an “excuse me,” clearly in a hurry.
Talba turned the other way and started running, going down again. She heard a confused noise behind her. And the next thing she knew, a rhino was after her.
At any rate, she ran as if it were. It was probably only the one guard, but there might be reinforcements on the first floor. The basement too? Maybe not, but she was dead if they’d thought of it. They could probably murder her there in perfect privacy. Uh-uh, she’d take her chances with a crowd.
There was another guard waiting when she stepped out of the stairs, and also two women waiting for the elevator. The guard said, “Claudia Snipes?”
She shrank back, but spoke up big. “Don’t you come near me. See this phone?” She held it up. “I’m gon’ call the po-lice right now, you come anywhere near me. Ma’am? Ma’am? Help me. Could y’all help me, please? Some man tried to attack me up there and they’re tryin’ to cover it up—could one of y’all find me a po-liceman, please?”
