Kit took his outstretched hand and felt calluses on his palm. A company president who apparently did more than push pencils. “Kit Franklyn,” she said. “I’m with the Orleans Parish medical examiner’s office.”
“Kit,” he said, trying her name himself. “Short for what?”
“Nothing, just Kit.” She hadn’t told even David what it stood for. It was too ridiculous. “Is there a place where we can talk?”
Just outside Weston’s office, there was a small anteroom with rose-colored carpet so plush that Kit’s shoes were nearly swallowed up by it. The walls were papered with a large beige-and-brown floral on a rose background. Hung in just the right places, there were a number of small Impressionist paintings of rainy street scenes in oversize gold frames. Kit couldn’t talk for more than a few minutes about art, but she did notice that unlike the Impressionist painting she owned ($18.95, frame included, from Starving Artists, Inc.) the characters in Weston’s paintings were not all dressed the same.
Behind a small desk was a young woman with iridescent black hair that made her skin look nearly as white as the face on a street mime. As they approached, she looked up from her word processor and gave them a plastic smile. Weston pushed his office door open and stepped aside for Kit to pass. To the young woman, he said, “Hold all calls until we’re finished.”
Kit glanced backward and saw the secretary put her tongue between her teeth and raise her middle finger to Weston’s back in a Bronx salute. The two women’s eyes met briefly and the girl put her index finger in front of her lips and shook her head gently in a plea for silence.
Despite its immense size and warm yellow paneling, which was either very old or very cleverly made to look that way, Kit found Weston’s office unattractive, primarily because of all those things hanging on the wall. Behind his desk, a half-dozen wide-eyed antelope heads stared off into space. The far wall was reserved for heads from the bigger species: an elephant, a tiger, and a rhino. She found the elephant-foot ashtrays distributed about the room particularly offensive. To her right, on a long table, a stuffed alligator stared hungrily at two wood ducks floating on a placid pond in a watercolor hanging on the wall.
“Got him right through the eye from seventy yards,” Weston said, coming up beside her. “My bearers carried on like they’d never seen such a shot. That’s one of the reasons I like Africa so much. The natives don’t seem to resent having hold of the shitty end of the stick, and if there’s one trait I admire in a people, it’s obsequiousness, even if it’s faked.” He shook his head. “It won’t last, though. When that mess in the south spills over into the rest of the continent, they’ll be too good to carry a pack.”
“You’re responsible for all this?” Kit said, looking about the room.
“Ah, you don’t approve,” Weston said, noticing the tight set to her lips.
“It’s not for me to say.”
“Would it make any difference if I told you that many of these animals were man killers? I’ve operated businesses in parts of the world that have never seen a sidewalk, and occasionally an animal like that elephant will decide he’d rather not live near a mine or plantation and he’ll set out to improve the neighborhood. Or a big cat will realize that my workers are easier to catch than a gazelle. Then something has to be done. Absenteeism becomes a real problem when being eaten or smashed against a tree becomes a hazard of the workplace.”
She gave him a wry smile. “Just making sure the old wheels keep turning, huh?”
“Isn’t that the major responsibility of the chief executive officer in any business? Let productivity fall or the profit margin slip, and suddenly you’re signing chapter eleven papers. No company has ever lost money while I’ve been in control and none ever will.”
Kit glanced at the heads behind his desk and nearly asked how many workers the beautiful creature with the spiral horns and big brown eyes had killed. But she wasn’t here to debate the pros and cons of killing animals for sport. She was here to find out why mass murder and suicide had become one of New Orleans’s favorite sports.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Weston asked. “Coffee, iced tea, soft drink?”
“No thanks; I’m fine.”
“Well, you didn’t come here to discuss rogue animals. Have a seat over here and tell me what I can do for you.”
She followed him to a matching pair of burgundy leather sofas facing each other under the great heads at the far end of the room. Motioning her into one, Weston took the other and, with one arm resting along the sofa back, waited for her to begin.
“A little over three years ago, a man employed here as a night watchman shot his boss to death and I’m trying to find out why. They said at the time he was crazy, but there have been a lot of cases lately similar to that one and I’m looking for an explanation.”
“How is what happened here similar to the other cases?”
“The night watchman said that when he leaned against a vent on the back of this building, he began to hear voices singing a children’s song. Then he said he blacked out and remembered nothing about the shooting. We have three other cases in our files where a man singing a childhood song took several lives and then killed himself.”
“And you’d like to know what was coming out of that vent?”
“Exactly.”
He shook his head. “Afraid I can’t help you. Shortly after the shooting, the business closed. When I took over, the place had been vacant for a year and there wasn’t much in the way of assets; some fairly modern machinery and an antiquated building. I had the place gutted and completely remodeled inside and out. I have no idea what purpose that vent served.”
Until the last few sentences, Weston’s face had been that of someone with nothing to hide. No involuntary shudders, or eyebrow twitches, or jerking jaw muscles. But when he said he had no idea what purpose the vent served, there had been the barest flinch around one eye, a cue that he had lied.
“What about old blueprints?”
“Never had any.”
Unlikely, Kit thought. “Old employees then,” she said. “They might know. Did you take on any of the people who worked for the previous owner?”
“I told you, the place had been shut down for a year. They all had other jobs by then. All my people are new.”
“Surely you remember the kind of business they were in.”
“It was primarily a fabric mill.”
“What kind of fabrics?”
“Mostly upholstering, I think.”
“How could I find some of the people who used to work here?”
Weston shrugged. “Detective work is kind of out of my line. Now if it was a grizzly bear you were afraid of, I could help you. But with this…”
His jaw muscles tensed and he averted his eyes.
Kit stood up and offered her hand. “Well, thanks for talking with me anyway.”
“Maybe you should give me your address and phone number in case I think of anything.”
She jotted the information down on the back of a business card for a beauty shop that had made a mess of her hair on the last visit, handed it to him, and left.
The girl at the desk outside was so involved in prelunch maneuvers, touching up her lipstick and pulling at her hair, that Kit didn’t even get the plastic smile this time. Why had Weston lied? And she was virtually certain he had lied… a lot. What did he have to hide?
Outside the plant she had a thought. Instead of leaving, she moved her car to a spot opposite the entrance and waited. A few minutes later, Weston’s secretary came out and started across the lot. Kit couldn’t help but envy her just a little for the ease with which she navigated on stiletto heels. As the girl passed by, Kit rolled her window down and said, “Hi. Remember me? I was just talking with your boss.”
“You didn’t tell him what I did when his back was turned, did you?” the girl said behind hostile eyes.
“No, of course not.”
She smiled and immediately grew friendlier. “Thanks
. I know I shouldn’t have done that, but he deserved it. Every time I bend over in that office, it’s like my ass is sending out a signal that says, ’Here Bert, give this a squeeze.’ Yesterday I asked him if I could leave a half hour early and he said, sure… if I’d go for a ride with him… on one of those big sofas in his office. I don’t have to put up with that stuff, at least I won’t when I find a new job. And I’m looking every day. By the way, I’m Cheryl.”
Kit introduced herself, went quickly through the reason for her visit, then said, “During my conversation with your boss, I had the feeling he lied in response to some of my questions, and I was hoping you might help me get at the truth.”
Cheryl’s eyes narrowed. “Is he likely to get in any trouble over this?”
“It’s too early to say for sure, but I suppose it’s possible.”
“Good,” Cheryl said, going around to the other side of the car and getting in. “Now what was it you think he lied about?”
“For one thing, he said he didn’t have any blueprints of the way the plant was laid out before it was remodeled.”
A disappointed look passed across the other woman’s face and she shook her head. “Afraid I can’t help you on that one. Why did you want old blueprints?”
“Before the remodeling, there was a vent on the side of the plant facing that meadow, and I have reason to believe that a few years ago the discharge from that vent might have played a part in causing the night watchman to become temporarily deranged and shoot his boss. I want to know what went on in the rooms connected to that vent.”
“Why didn’t you just ask Weston that instead of asking for blueprints?”
“He said he didn’t know what the room was used for because the plant had been vacant for a year before he took over.”
Cheryl shrugged. “That’s all before my time. I’ve only been here six months.” A flicker of an idea passed across her face. “You need to talk to Ethyl.”
“Who’s Ethyl?”
“One of our maids. I heard her talking to another maid who was complaining about how hard it is to keep the plant clean and Ethyl told her she should have seen it before it was redone.”
“Weston told me he brought in all new people.”
“Well, you said he was a liar.”
A maid! She couldn’t have asked for a better contact. A maid would likely have been in every room in the plant at one time or other. “Could you give me this person’s name and phone number?”
“If you like. But why don’t I just go inside and ask her right now about that vent? After all, I should leave Weston something to remember me by.” As she spoke, she made a claw with her right hand and twisted it in a disemboweling motion.
It was nearly ten minutes before she returned. From the look on her face, she had good news. “Ethyl knew all about that part of the building. There was only one room vented to the outside like that. It was where they tested each batch of dyed material for colorfastness. She said that there were always lots of fabrics hanging from the ceiling and the room was usually real hot because each piece of cloth would have a sunlamp shining on it. Does that help any?”
“Do you think she’d have any idea what products were made from those fabrics?”
“Hey, she was a maid, not head of product development.”
Seeing Kit’s face fall, Cheryl opened the car door. “Wouldn’t hurt to ask, though.”
She returned this time in only five minutes.
“Ethyl couldn’t answer your question,” she said. “But she sent me to someone else who worked here then. He thought some of the fabrics being made then might have been used in automobile interiors.”
Automobiles! There were cars involved in each of the three cases connected by childhood songs. Hollins had just gotten out of a car before the fire started; the sniper incident had begun in a car; the events at the railroad crossing involved a car—and the Huey P. Long murders were committed by a man in a car. So What? the voice of reason said. In an automobile-oriented society, almost any three events could be related to them somehow.
“Is any of this useful?” Cheryl asked.
“I don’t see the whole picture yet, but I’m sure it’s all important. You’ve been a great help.”
“Like the duke says in the Schwepp’s commercial, ’my pleasuah.’ ”
As their two cars moved up the drive, Bert Weston watched them from the plant entrance, a dark scowl distorting his handsome features.
CHAPTER 9
Upon reaching her office in Charity Hospital, Kit went back to the files, looking for another common denominator of the three cases related by children’s songs. But there were none… except she was back to cars again. Damn it! What kept bringing her back there? Cheryl’s comments for one thing. There was reason to believe that Shindleman had been driven over the edge by vapors from fabric samples being tested at CCI, fabrics that might have ended up in the hands of automobile manufacturers. Why not cars? It wasn’t that unreasonable. Or was it?
For hours there had been an itch in her brain that she couldn’t scratch. She sifted through the files and pulled out the Huey P. Long case, wanting to see again the photographs taken immediately after the death car was pulled from the river.
The first few shots were close-ups of the driver’s face taken through the windshield. These were not what she wanted, and she began shifting them one by one to the bottom of the stack until she came to those showing more of the car. The first was a head-on view of the entire front end. She put this one on her desk, shifted a close-up of the corpse taken through the side window to the bottom of the pile, then saved a long shot of the driver’s side. The itch was still there. But not for long. The last picture was taken from the rear, and it clearly showed the unusual rear window: a central oval and two portholes… just like the car pinned under the train. She grabbed up the other two photographs and headed for Broussard’s office. Before reaching it, she hesitated and knocked instead on Charlie Franks’s door. It was still too soon for Broussard. She found Franks rubbing his chin and staring into the monitor on his computer.
“Charlie, what kind of car is this?” She handed him the pictures.
He ran quickly through them and handed them back. “It’s an Escadrille.”
“Never heard of it. Who made it?”
“I don’t remember the name of the company, but they only put out this one model, then folded. What’s up?”
She explained where the pictures came from, then told him of her suspicions that Crescent City Industries might have provided toxic fabrics for the car, recounting in detail her reasons for thinking so.
“Interesting idea,” Franks said. “How are you going to pursue it?”
“I don’t know.” She looked at him for a second or two, then said, “Where would that car in the photographs be now?”
“Probably at the impoundment station on Poydras.”
“Suppose I took some laboratory mice down there and put them inside the car to see their reaction?”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t use that car. You might come up empty simply because it had been totally immersed in water. Not only might that have washed away any toxic material but knowing the Mississippi, there’s probably a crust of mud all over the inside. That could also work against you.”
“I guess the flattened car is at the Poydras lot, too.”
“Probably. But there’s no way to test it. You need to find one that’s not damaged. And I may know where… the automotive museum next to the amusement pier at the lake. Because of the short life of the company that made it, the car should already be of historical significance.”
*
In the parking lot some jerk had parked his Land Rover a foot over the yellow line on Kit’s side and she had to wiggle into her car through a mere crack. Once inside, her troubles continued, for the car would not start but produced only a metallic click every time she turned the key.
Exasperated by the heat and the inconvenience, she roundly cursed the dri
ver of the other car as she squirmed out of her dead vehicle. While pausing to consider her options, a voice from behind her said, “Got you hemmed in, has he?”
It was Al Vogel, the handsome and outspoken forensic chemist she’d met at the open house Broussard had taken her to. “Worse than that,” Kit said. “It won’t start. There’s nothing I hate worse than car trouble.”
“What’s it sound like when you try to start it?”
“Hardly makes a sound at all, just a click.”
“Hold on. My car’s right over there. I’ll get my tools.”
He was gone before Kit could stop him. In a minute, he was back, a rolled-up fabric tool pouch in one hand.
“Look,” Kit said. “It’s awfully hot out here and you’re not dressed to be doing this sort of thing. Let me call a garage.”
“If it’s what I think it might be, it won’t take any time at all to fix.”
He opened the hood, took a quick look around, then spread his tools out on the fender and went to work with a wrench.
“Try it now.”
This time the engine came to life with a touch of the key. He dropped the hood and made an A-Okay sign with his finger and thumb. She rolled down her window, pulled slowly from the cramped parking space, and stopped beside him.
“Loose battery cable,” he said.
“I wish I knew of a way to thank you,” she replied, looking into his bottomless blue eyes.
“There is a way,” he said. “Have dinner with me tonight.”
Tempted, Kit remembered her date with David. “Sorry, but I already have plans.”
Vogel’s face fell. “Of course. It was stupid of me to think you wouldn’t. How about Saturday?”
Kit hesitated. David hadn’t said anything about Saturday, but he might. About to make an excuse, she thought of all the arguments she and David had been having lately and how she’d been wondering whether he was really the right man. Maybe it was time to test new waters. “I’d love to,” she said.
A big grin spread over Vogel’s face. “You’re in the book?”
“Yes.”
“See you at seven then.”
Cajun Nights Page 10
