Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller

by David Lyons

  “I’ll need to return some of these files to the respective judges now that you’ve finished them,” she said, swooping an armful of manila folders into her arms. “I’ll be gone a while. Is there anything I can get you?”

  “Do you think they have orange juice in the cafeteria vending machines?” Boucher asked.

  “I’m sure it’s not fresh, but I’ll see what they have,” she said. “You don’t mind answering your phone while I’m gone?”

  “Not at all.”

  Boucher had no problem making his own calls either. He picked up the phone and dialed the number of the oil-spill claims administrator. He identified himself. The woman put him on hold, then came back online.

  “I’m sorry sir, but Mr. Thompson is—”

  “You tell Mr. Thompson that District Judge Jock Boucher will be in his office at ten o’clock Monday morning to review each and every disbursement he has made to date and to review his procedures as well. If he is not there, he will be meeting me on my territory, the subject of a bench warrant. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fine. See you Monday. Have a nice weekend.” He hung up the phone rather forcefully. It felt good.

  He neither made nor received another phone call for the rest of the working day, with the exception of a text message from Malika, confirming her flight arrival time that evening. With new application to the work he had disparaged, Boucher basked in the adulation of his assistant for the remainder of the day as he churned out document after document. The hours sped. It was five o’clock.

  “Mildred,” he said, “I think we’ve earned our salaries today. Let’s close up shop.”

  “I can stay,” she offered.

  “But I cannot. My girlfriend is flying in this evening.”

  “Oh” was all she said, and began clearing her desk.

  His ears perked at what might have been the flat tone of disappointment; then he realized it was Friday syndrome. Lonely people whose jobs are the center of their lives don’t always look forward to weekends.

  “I’ll have to come in early Monday,” he said, “and get a few more things finished. I have a ten o’clock meeting with the administrator of the oil-spill funds.”

  “I can be here early if you need me.”

  “It would be helpful, but I don’t want to impose.”

  “It’s no imposition at all. I’ll be here at eight.”

  He bade her a good weekend and left her to lock up. She was already gearing up for Monday’s early start.

  He walked to the parking lot. The man who’d missed him last night now walked right past him, looking down, his hat covering his face. Their shoulders almost touched. At any spot along the city blocks between the federal complex and the public parking lot, he could have done it. A gun or a knife; either would have worked. Each had pros and cons. The gun’s benefits were obvious, but heads turned instinctively at the sound of a gunshot. They’d be turning and staring at him the moment the bullet was entering Boucher’s body. The knife was silent, but the physical aspect made many shun its use as a murder weapon. Boucher was fit, that was obvious. Against the judge’s fitness weighed the element of surprise. Fitness was not a factor when you didn’t see it coming. He watched Boucher drive away in his gray pickup. He knew where the judge was going, and at his own pace, he’d follow him there. There was no hurry. Trying to conceive, to construct, the perfect opportunity had given him a sense of purpose he’d never known. He’d almost hate to see it come to an end. But it would. And soon.

  • • •

  They had reached an understanding early in their relationship. Malika did not expect to be picked up at the airport. She traveled light and had no problem with taxis. Their reunions took place not in public but behind the closed doors of Boucher’s home. All was ready when he heard the taxi pull up out front. He’d chilled the champagne; an assortment of fruits and cheeses were plated and prepared to serve. He had bought and arranged flowers, putting the roses aside for special use. From the vermilion blooms, he’d plucked petals and strewn them in a trail from the doorway, across the living room floor, and down the hallway to the bedroom. He turned down the duvet and scattered rose petals across his fine cotton sheets. On the nightstands were two scented candles. Their purchase had caused him no small amount of reflection as he had stood in the small specialty shop and asked himself: Was cinnamon sexy? It reminded him of breakfast as a child, saved for special mornings. Bread going stale was toasted rather than thrown away, spread with soft butter, and the spice mixed with sugar was sprinkled on each warm slice. Running to the table whenever it was served was a delightful memory. He lit the candles. Once again the scent of the spice inspired a hunger—but this time not one born of childhood reminiscences. He was dressed simply in chinos, blue oxford shirt, and loafers, no socks—one less article of clothing to remove if this reunion held true to form. He would know soon enough.

  “Hi, stranger.” Malika stood in the doorway for a second and stepped inside. The taxi driver was right behind her and set her single piece of luggage inside the door, then closed it and departed.

  Beyond radiant, the woman glowed. Her dark brown hair fell over her shoulders, on which was draped a red scoop-neck dress of layered silk, no jewelry. Her footwear: six-inch stiletto pumps, the bold color matching her dress. She reached behind her back, and the dress fell to her feet like a feather, revealing her in all her loveliness. Jock stood in stunned silence as he stared at her soft skin, the hue of cinnamon, the color that had subliminally dictated his candle choice. He raised his hand to his chin to make sure his mouth was not gaping, recalled that breathing was an essential life function, and gasped at her beauty.

  “You’ll have to come to me,” Malika said. “I’m not taking another step in these things.”

  He fumbled awkwardly at his shirt, then ripped it from his body, sending buttons flying in all directions. He was more adept with his trousers, which fell to the floor as he slipped off his loafers and walked to her. He picked her up in his arms and carried her along the red-petal trail to the bedroom, placing her gently on the bed against a mound of pillows.

  “Candles and rose petals,” she said. “Very well done, Jo—” The last consonant was lost as his lips came crushing down on hers.

  Hours later, passion spent, they sat before the fireplace in terry-cloth robes, sipping champagne, the traditional finale to their reunion and commencement of their “together again” stage.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” Boucher said.

  “I was beginning to wonder.”

  “Well, wonder no more. To prove my love, I’ll sip champagne from your slipper.” He picked up one of the six-inch heels.

  “Sip away. I won’t be wearing those again.”

  He examined the shoe. “I can’t believe you wore these in the airport.”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “I slipped into the dress in the ladies’ room after we landed, and I put the shoes on in the taxi. I wanted to get your mind away from wherever it’s been lately. You’ve sounded so disconnected.”

  Boucher sighed. “Can we talk about it in the morning? You just got here.”

  She ran her fingertips across his cheek. “We don’t have to talk about it at all. What I was saying is that I want to pull you away from that world, if I can. There’s a sadness in your eyes, Jock. I don’t know how it got there. Maybe I don’t want to know.”

  He kissed her fingertips and changed the subject. “We’re invited to dinner tomorrow night at the home of the richest family in New Orleans, the Dumonts. The invitation calls for a smoking, which my assistant tells me really means a tuxedo jacket.”

  “They call them that in Europe. Jock, I don’t have anything formal.”

  “And I don’t own a tux. I know it’s an imposition, but would you mind if we spent our first day together shopping?”

  Malika smiled and reached for her champagne. “I guess every relationship requires sacrifice, doesn’t it? Besides, I need to buy you a new shi
rt.”

  • • •

  The man had been watching the house when the taxi pulled up and the woman got out. He sauntered away, unhurried, unfazed. Time was on his side.

  CHAPTER 10

  SHOPPING IS A GOOD test of a relationship. Enduring the ordeal, even finding humor in it, is a good indication of how a couple will fare with sterner challenges. They survived their day at the malls. For the evening with the Dumonts, Malika chose a black silk strapless gown and black satin flats with a crystal ornament. The lady did protest but then accepted Jock’s gift of a diamond necklace with matching earrings. His jacket was a perfect fit. He remarked on the number of pockets in the lining.

  “It’s a smoker,” Malika said. “You have a pocket for a cigarette case, one for your lighter, and one for your cards of introduction, usually carried in a case of gold or silver. There are often pockets for a portefeuille, that’s French for billfold, for glasses, and pen.”

  “I do have a billfold. I guess I could carry my cell phone in one of the other pockets.”

  “There you go.”

  His new white tux jacket brought on a very bad Bogart impression when he put it on that evening. “Here’s looking at you, kid,” he said upon the arrival of the chauffeured limo the Dumonts had sent for them.

  “I hate myself every time I use the word, but wow,” Malika said as the limousine pulled up to the entrance of the Dumont home. They rang the bell and were granted entry by a uniformed butler who could have walked off the stage of a British sitcom but for his pure New Orleans accent, distinctly Southern but with an insouciant elongation of vowels that reminded her a bit of the South Jersey shore.

  “Cocktails are being served in the solarium,” the butler said, and motioned for them to follow.

  They passed through a large salon, then a dining room with mural-covered walls. Doors were almost hidden, as the murals were painted over them also, and crystal doorknobs were barely visible. The butler opened a door and led them to the solarium. It was a glass-paneled pavilion and the largest room yet, verdant with plant life. There were potted palms of numerous varieties and hanging planters filled with orchids. White rattan furniture was placed throughout. The room was filled with the scent of blooming flowers. The Dumonts stood in a far corner, looking out toward their massive backyard, where dancing lights played on a huge fountain. They turned when their guests were announced by the butler. Ray Dumont held a martini glass in his right hand, and his left was slipped into the patch pocket of his black tuxedo jacket, thumb overhanging. Elise Dumont sipped through lips frozen in a half-smile. Her diamonds sparkled from fifty feet away as if a spotlight had been beamed at her for just that purpose. Ray Dumont put his left index finger to his lips and motioned for them to come forward. His greeting was whispered. “Welcome. There’s a raccoon at the fountain. Look.”

  It was hard to tell just what the creature was doing—washing, preening, or drinking—but it stood on the ledge of the fountain in a proprietary manner, either oblivious to or unconcerned with the fact that it was so visible. A light rain had just begun, and the grounds were a glistening wonderland with uplights strategically placed at the trunks of ancient magnolias, casting filtered beams of blue, pink, and purple on the green canopy. It looked like a Disney animation. The raccoon raised its masked head, looked directly at the two couples, then scampered away. Ray continued to stare in wonder as Elise spoke.

  “He’s a nature nut. He’d have an African safari out there if the city would allow it. Hi, I’m Elise. My, you two are a striking couple.”

  A more cordial beginning to an evening could not have been imagined. Prepared for an icy formality to match the dress code, Jock and Malika were immediately won over by their hosts’ easy manner. When Malika hesitated at the offer of a vodka martini from the ready-to-serve premixed pitcher, Elise didn’t miss a beat. “Hon, you look more like the champagne type.” She motioned to the butler, and before you could say Cristal Brut, Malika was holding a Baccarat flute.

  “Judge Boucher is our most recently appointed federal judge,” Ray said to his wife, a fact obviously intended to draw a respectful response.

  “And an expert in self-defense,” Elise said. “I read about your little sidewalk altercation. I bet our street scum will think twice before tangling with you again, Judge. I hope you’re as decisive with them in the courtroom.”

  “I’m not trying cases at the moment,” Boucher said, his discomfort obvious.

  “Why not, for heaven’s sake?” said Elise. “A man who puts criminals in their place as effectively as you did? We need more like you.”

  “I’m sure the judge doesn’t want to talk about his professional duties,” Ray Dumont said.

  “I don’t mind,” Boucher said. “I’m restricted to administrative matters temporarily.”

  Dumont turned to Malika and changed the subject. “That’s such a pretty name. Where are you from?”

  Malika told them she’d been born in Mumbai and schooled in London and New England. Her unique multinational background became the focus of the cocktail conversation, till the butler informed them that dinner was ready. When all were seated, Ray took charge, first stating that everything on their plates was locally produced: homegrown vegetables, gulf seafood, and a saddleback of venison, the deer shot on one of his properties. The wines had both domestic and international provenance; Dumont was an oenophile, delighting in his knowledge. Each selection had been chosen with care, and he explained the reason for each choice. Far from pompous, his discourse added an element of enjoyment to the meal and expanded the knowledge of his appreciative guests. Even the liqueurs he offered after dessert were selected with purpose. When the cordial glasses were served, he asked Boucher, “Would you like to see that campaign desk I bought at Rau’s? I haven’t confirmed it yet, but I might have an historical piece.”

  “I’d love to see it.”

  The gentlemen left the ladies involved in a conversation of their own.

  Dumont’s study was on the ground floor, and though it did not look onto the backyard, the side view was well landscaped and equally attractive. There was an alcove off the study, a sitting area where the desk was placed. He turned on a light, and they examined the piece.

  “Did you know,” Dumont began, “that from 1810 to 1840, New Orleans had more free black craftsmen than any other city in the United States? An artisan by the name of Jean Rousseau had the most apprentice contracts with freemen of color. This piece might be one of his earliest. But look here.” Dumont pulled out the central drawer. On the inside of the drawer was carved something barely legible. “I looked at it under black light. It says ‘Capt. W.S. U.S.A. 1811.’ In 1811, Winfield Scott served as a captain under General Wade Hampton. Right here in New Orleans. Winfield Scott. He became the greatest general of his age, maybe better than Napoleon. In March 1847, with a force of eighty-five hundred men, he landed at Veracruz, then marched to capture Mexico City, the largest capital in the Western world at the time. He later governed the country, and his leadership was exemplary. I can’t help but think that if we had someone like him now . . .” He let the thought dangle. “Anyway, if this desk was his . . .”

  “You’d have a national treasure,” Boucher said, excited at the possibility and sorry that he had passed it by.

  “It’s a guess at this point,” Dumont said. “But just the thought: the desk that might have belonged to General Winfield Scott.”

  The two men stood in silence. Dumont put a hand on Boucher’s shoulder. “Judge, may I ask you a personal question?” Boucher nodded. “I heard frustration in your voice earlier over your current assignments. Hypothetically, if you were to leave the bench, what would you do?”

  “Go back to practicing law, I guess. Though the thought of the years involved in building a practice doesn’t hold much appeal for me.”

  Dumont stroked his chin. “The general counsel of Dumont Industries is nearing retirement. I’ll be looking for a replacement. Would that appeal to you? It’s as div
erse a workload as most law firms, I can guarantee you that. It would be far better than the administrative penance you are now forced to endure.”

  “It’s an interesting proposition.”

  “Think about it. Shall we rejoin the ladies? Malika is absolutely stunning. I can tell Elise likes her too, and that’s not an everyday occurrence. I do hope we’ll be able to spend more time together, the four of us.”

  “I’m sure we’d enjoy that.”

  They arrived back at the dining table.

  “Ray, guess what?” Elise said. “Malika has never been to a casino. Never. We’ve got to take them to the showboat.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Ray said. “How about one night next week?”

  “I’ve got a lot of work—” Boucher said.

  “Oh, come on. We’ll have an early dinner, catch the show, and lose a little money in any way you choose. You’ve got to lose, though; in this economy, we’re having a hard time keeping the old tub afloat. Set yourself a limit, that’s what I do, and when it’s gone, the evening is over, and we’ve all had a good time. What do you say?”

  “Monday’s fine with me.” Boucher looked at Malika. She nodded.

  “Monday it is, then. We’ll pick you up. The party starts in our limo.”

  “No,” Jock said. “If you’re coming to my home, we’ll have drinks there before going out. Malika and I insist.”

  “That’s fine too.”

  There was a shared exuberance, the high point of the evening having just been reached. Ray called for the driver, and they said good-byes at the door. The rain had stopped.