Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller
Page 11
“Then, honey,” Elise said, “bet the ranch.”
“Fine,” Ray said. “You two go play roulette, and the judge and I will try our luck at blackjack. I wish everyone good fortune.”
As the men were making their way through the crowd to the tables, a man approached. Boucher recognized him from somewhere.
“Judge Boucher,” Ray said, “do you know Senator Jim Farmer?”
“Senator,” Boucher said. “I thought you looked familiar. No, we haven’t met.” The senator had voted against his confirmation.
“Jim is one of our more enlightened senators,” Dumont said.
“Thank you, Ray,” Senator Farmer said. “When are you going to have one of your—” He stopped himself in midsentence.
“It’s okay, Jock’s a friend,” Dumont said, clapping Boucher on the shoulder. Then, turning to him, he said, “We get a game of Texas Hold ’Em going once in a while. It’s a pretty exclusive group of players. You play poker, Jock?”
“The last time I played poker, I don’t think Texas Hold ’Em had been invented.”
Ray laughed. “Maybe you’d like to join us one evening.” He turned to the senator. “I’ll let you know when, Jim. We’ll get a game up soon.”
There were two more introductions before they made it to the blackjack tables. Both of the men were federal agents of separate but related agencies.
“Damn,” Jock said after meeting the regional head of one of the major forces in the fight against drug trafficking. “If a terrorist were to blow up this boat, he’d take out the national security apparatus for the whole gulf coast.”
“Not a chance in hell of something like that happening, Judge. Not a chance in hell.”
They played for half an hour, and Jock was up five hundred dollars.
“You hold at fifteen,” Ray said after studying his play.
“Always,” Boucher said. “Look, Ray, I have a personal favor to ask you. I met this shrimper who lost his shirt because of the oil spill, and he’s been denied reimbursement from the fund. He says his boat was damaged in a collision with one of your boats, and I talked him out of suing. He needs a job. I was hoping—”
“Don’t say another word. Of course I’ll help him. Can he cook? I know we need a cook for one of our offshore service vessels.”
“I’m sure he can cook. He lives on his shrimp boat.”
“You tell him to contact Sam Matthews at our personnel office in Houma and say he’s a galley cook. I’ll call Sam and tell him to get this guy an interview with the ship’s captain. What’s his name?”
“Fred Arcineaux.”
“Good Cajun name. Got to help a fellow Coonass, right?”
“Thanks, Ray.”
They rejoined the women to find that Malika had won fifteen thousand dollars.
“I want to find that fortune-teller,” Ray said, “and get her a job somewhere. Like Brazil. She’ll ruin me if she stays in New Orleans.”
Malika was excited and giddy with success. Nothing like this had ever happened to her, and it was impossible to begrudge her good fortune. It was with the best of humor that Ray Dumont said, “We’re going home. I’ve got to get both you winners out of here.”
In the backseat of the limo, champagne was open and on ice. The party never stopped, and the Dumonts were not to be refused. Fortunately, it was a short drive to Boucher’s house, because Malika began feeling queasy.
“It’s all right, hon,” Elise said. “It’s always the last glass that does it. We just pushed this little darling over her limit. We’ll be home soon.”
They pulled in front of Boucher’s house, and he walked Malika to the door. “You okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Go back and thank them for a wonderful evening.”
She stepped inside, sat at the dining table, and put her head on her arms.
“Is she all right?” Ray asked.
Boucher leaned into the open window of the limo. “She had too much excitement, that’s all. But we had a great time. She asked me to thank you both for a wonderful evening.”
“We’ll get together again soon,” Ray said, with Elise nodding and sipping her champagne.
“And thank you for helping Mr. Arcineaux,” Boucher said. He backed out of the window and stood on the curb, watching as the limo pulled away, then turned to go back to the house.
A pedestrian was passing. He stopped alongside Boucher. Boucher nodded in greeting, then froze. “You?”
The gun exploded. Boucher felt heat searing his body, followed immediately by a cold, cold chill. He fell to his knees and toppled over facedown on the sidewalk. As he fell, he took a last look at the light shining from inside his house. He saw Malika’s silhouette.
CHAPTER 13
MALIKA DIDN’T NEED TO look out the window to confirm what she knew in her soul, but she did so in hopes of seeing the gunman. All she saw was a fleeting glimpse of a shadow. She did not scream. She didn’t know whether her heart was beating or had stopped in one breathless suspension. She grabbed her cell phone from her purse and yanked an old wool knit blanket from the back of the sofa, not caring whether it was an antique or not. She was dialing 911 before she was out the front door.
“There’s been a shooting,” she said with a calm that surprised her. “Judge Boucher has been hit. We need an ambulance.” She gave the address. “Please call the NOPD and ask them to get the message to Detective Fitch immediately. No, I don’t know his first name. Good-bye. I’m busy now.”
Boucher was facedown on the sidewalk. There was blood coming from his side.
There goes his new white jacket was the involuntary absurd thought that zipped through Malika’s brain, a defensive reflex to keep from facing things so much worse. Boucher seemed to be vibrating, his head shaking against the sidewalk, his body trembling. She felt his neck for a pulse. It was beating very fast, and she realized her own was thumping just as rapidly. His skin was cold to the touch. She covered him with the blanket. Pedestrians stood gaping, indulging their morbid curiosity. She leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Jock, an ambulance is on its way. You’re going to be fine.” Then she said she loved him and knelt next to him, her cheek on his to warm him, thinking abstract thoughts of time and its capriciousness. “Thank God,” she whispered when she heard sirens in the distance, coming closer, getting louder, screaming as they turned onto the block and raced to the house. The ambulance pulled up and paramedics jumped out, equipment in their hands. Two went immediately to work, wasting no time asking questions, the situation obvious. They turned Boucher over, then lifted him onto a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance. Malika followed them. As she was getting in, a car squealed to the curb, and Fitch got out.
“How is he?” he asked to anyone who could answer.
“We’ll know when we get him to trauma,” a paramedic said.
Malika and Fitch locked eyes, sharing silent prayers. The ambulance pulled away. Fitch was forced to wait for a patrol car. When the two officers arrived, he transmitted the few known facts, then got back in his car and rushed to the hospital. Malika was sitting in the hall outside the trauma center. Fitch sat down beside her. “Do we know anything yet?”
She shook her head and began talking. “We had just come back from an evening with the Dumonts at their riverboat casino. I wasn’t feeling well, and Jock walked me to the house, then went back to their limo to thank them for the evening. I heard the Dumonts’ limo pull away, then I heard the shot. I did see someone running away, but it was too dark. It was just a shadow. I called 911 and asked them to call the police and you. That’s all I can tell you.”
He put his hand on hers. She gripped it. Tight. A doctor came from the emergency room. “You friends or family?”
“Yes,” they replied in unison.
“He’s a lucky man,” the doctor said. “The bullet hit his cell phone. It’s more than a superficial wound, which he exacerbated with his fall, but it could have been much worse.”
“Can we see him?”
“You say the bullet missed him?” Fitch asked, identifying himself.
“It grazed him. A direct hit would have killed him instantly at that range. The bullet was deflected by the cell phone he was carrying in his jacket pocket. It busted the phone, which caused lacerations and substantial blood loss, but as I said, he’s a lucky man.”
“Can I see him in the morning?” Malika asked.
“No promises. But come back tomorrow at noon. I’ll be on duty, and I’ll decide based on his condition at that time. All right?”
“We’ll be here,” Fitch and Malika said, again in perfect unison.
“You two practice that routine?” the doctor asked.
• • •
They were both at the hospital at noon the following day.
“He’s still unconscious,” the doctor said, “and it’s not due to any sedative. I have to confess I’m a little worried. He keeps mumbling about being shot by a dead man.”
“Shot by a dead man?” Fitch repeated, to make sure he’d heard right.
The doctor accompanied them to Boucher’s room. They stood just outside the open door. Jock was twitching like a puppy having a bad dream.
“Lengthy unconsciousness is not typical with the kind of wound he’s suffered. I’m concerned about damage to the hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis, a possibility with extreme stress response.”
“What can we do?” Malika asked.
“There’s not much to do but wait,” the doctor said, then excused himself.
“Let me drive you home,” Fitch said to Malika after the doctor left them. She sniffed and said nothing during the drive, and when they got to Boucher’s house, Fitch said, “I have some work to do, but I’m coming over with a friend this afternoon. We’ll bring something to eat. I’m not going to leave you alone this evening.”
Malika dabbed a tear. “I’m sorry.” She sniffed. “Who’s your friend, another policeman?”
“No, it’s a lady I’m seeing. I think you’ll like her.”
“I’m sure I will.” Malika forced a smile, then got out of the car.
Fitch watched till she was inside the house. He drove to his office and called Ray Dumont.
“How’s he doing?” Dumont asked with obvious concern.
“The injury is not life-threatening,” Fitch said.
“Can we visit him, Elise and I?”
“The doctor would prefer that you wait awhile. Can I ask you some questions about that evening?”
“Of course, Detective.”
The questions were routine and the answers satisfactory. There was no reason to call the couple in for a face-to-face. They had not heard the shot—entirely logical, inside a hermetically sealed limousine with air-conditioning, top-of-the-line sound system, and clinking champagne glasses—and they had not seen the shooter. Fitch thanked him, hung up, then put his feet on his desk and thought about Boucher’s mumbled words. A dead man had shot him. There had been too many dead men around Jock Boucher of late, entirely too many.
It was five that afternoon when Malika looked out the window to see who was knocking at the front door. It was Fitch and his lady friend.
“Malika, Helen,” said the man of few words.
“Pleased to meet you.” She welcomed them in. “I’ve made some chai. Why don’t we sit at the dining table?”
The guests took their seats, and Malika brought out a tea service, studying the woman Fitch had brought with him. Helen was compact, about five-three. She wore a wool robin’s-egg-blue skirt with a matching jacket over a white cotton blouse. Her hair was silver, wavy, and brushed back from her face. There was not an iota of fashion to her ensemble, but her face was kind, her slight smile full of empathy.
“I appreciate you coming over,” Malika said, “but I’m doing fine. I’m going to the hospital in an hour, and I plan to stay with Jock this evening. They won’t get rid of me so easily this time. I think he needs me.”
“I agree,” Helen said, pouring herself a cup of tea. “I think loved ones are always the best medicine. Fitch has told me what Jock has been through lately. I can understand him being under stress.”
Malika looked at Fitch. “You know more about what he’s been through lately than I do. Something has been bothering him, and he hasn’t wanted to share with me. I had thought I’d let him tell me when he was ready. Now I think I need to know.”
Fitch looked at the cup in front of him. “I think it started with that thug who tried to rob him the night he got back from Washington. Happened close to home, and you know how he feels about his neighborhood. He defended himself, and the gunman later died. It wasn’t Jock’s fault, but he blamed himself.”
“I read about that,” Helen said. “I knew the man. At least I knew him when he was a boy.”
“You did?” Fitch said.
“He was in my school about ten years ago. I’m a middle school principal,” she said to Malika. “I knew him and his brother.”
Both stared at her, astonished.
“You remember kids from ten years ago? Out of what, thousands?” Fitch said.
“The Manley boys were memorable. They were a handful. Also, I don’t get that many identical twins. Over the years, maybe only—”
“Twins?” Fitch said, then, “Twins! C’mon, Helen, I know Judge Boucher is going to enjoy meeting you.”
Fitch had parked away from the house because two squad cars were parked in front. Police investigators were going over the exteriors of Boucher’s as well as neighboring properties, looking for any physical evidence from the shooting.
“They’ve done this before at Judge Boucher’s house,” Fitch said.
“I remember,” Malika said.
“The identical twin brother of the man who died. That’s who shot him,” Fitch said as they drove to the hospital. “He thought he’d seen a ghost. Sounds corny, I know, but ghosts have been causing folks acute stress syndrome for centuries. Helen, you wouldn’t happen to know where this twin brother is now, would you?”
“They were out of our system long ago.”
• • •
They made their way to his room with ease, disconcerting ease, Fitch thought. No one challenged them; no one asked for identification. There was no one else in his room. Boucher was at last conscious but dazed, staring into space. The three stood at the foot of his bed. Fitch spoke.
“Jock, we think we know who shot you. This is my friend Helen. I’ve told you about her. She’s a middle school principal.” He stepped back as if onstage, and Helen was given the spotlight.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Judge Boucher,” she said, “though not under these circumstances.” Her tone was soothing, as if she were consoling one of her schoolkids. “I knew Tyrone Manley, the man who tried to rob you at gunpoint. I blame myself for how he ended up as much as anyone. We failed him. We fail a lot of them. We save those we can. What I wanted to tell you is that he had an identical twin brother. His name was Peter, and he had a nickname—Pip. If you got a look at the man who shot you and thought it was Tyrone, who is deceased, then it very likely was Pip.” She took a step back, ceding the stage to Malika.
“Jock,” she said, “talk to me.”
CHAPTER 14
FOR NEARLY A MINUTE the trio stared at Boucher. There were subtle signs that the gears were turning. His eyebrows knit together, and his lips pursed as he frowned. Finally, he spoke.
“That’s possible,” he said.
“It’s more than possible, it’s probable,” Fitch said. He stepped to the bed and grabbed his friend’s forearm. “You feeling
better now?”
“I think I am,” Boucher said. He reached out for Malika. “Yes, I think I am.”
“What’s all this?” The doctor entered the room, surprised and not looking too pleased at the trio of visitors.
“They’re friends of mine,” Boucher said. “They’ve helped solve a riddle that has had me somewhat perplexed.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you all to leave immediately,” the doctor said.
“Wait a minute,” Fitch said. “Your patient is obviously feeling better, and I think it’s because we came to visit him.”
“My request has nothing to do with you,” the doctor said. “I’ve been asked to clear all visitors out of the hospital. National security.”
“Bomb scare?” Fitch asked.
“The president. He was returning to Washington from Houston when he got word of Judge Boucher’s shooting. He’s ordered Air Force One to land and is coming in for a visit.” The doctor walked to his patient, cuffed his arm, and took his blood pressure. “Solid,” he said, then looked at his eyes, now sharply focused, not vacant. “Are you back from wherever you were?”
“Wherever I was,” Boucher said, “I don’t want to return.” He held up a hand and motioned Helen to step forward. “I’d like to know more about these brothers when you have the time.”
“The Manley twins? My information is a bit dated, but I can tell you what I knew then.”
Two men in dark suits who could only have been from the president’s security detail stood in the open doorway.
“Come on, people,” the doctor said, “I’ve got my orders.”
It was too late. The president entered the room. To the astonishment of all, he strode not to the bedside of the man he had come to see but straight to Malika.
“You must be Malika,” he said. “I owe you an apology.”
“I b-b-beg your pardon, Mr. President?” she said, flustered.