He laughed. "No, but my mother's elderly. Well, not really elderly. She'd kill me for saying that. It's important that we help this lady, and I'm already here. Can you do this for me?"
The line of passengers behind him was growing, and to move things along she issued one pass. Jack would have to wait outside security, but Landry could go through.
He found the busy Sazerac Bar in Concourse B. After a moment he caught the harried bartender's eye. When she advised she’d worked Sunday, he showed her Tiffany's picture.
"Did you wait on this woman?"
"You a cop?" she asked.
“I’m an investigator.” Technically it was the truth, or close enough, because it worked.
"I remember her," the woman said. "She seemed exhausted. She sat there at the bar and ordered a wine and a sandwich. Thank God I got her credit card up front, because she walked the tab before her meal came out. I delivered her wine, and the next time I looked she had disappeared. Hold on a minute." She walked to the cash register and returned with Tiffany's Visa card, which she handed over.
"Is she in some kind of trouble?"
"Not at all. She's had memory issues, but she's okay."
Landry exited security and found Jack waiting on the far side of the terminal. "I have news," he said. "She never boarded the plane. After calling her name twice, they gave her seat to a standby passenger."
"Great investigating!" Landry said, impressed. "How did you learn that?"
"By chatting up an agent at the ticket counter. And..." He paused, beaming from ear to ear. "And I got her phone number. I haven't had a date in three years. Never dreamed it would happen again. I can't stop thinking about her." He babbled on and on until Landry held up a hand.
"Don't take this the wrong way, Jack. Be proud of yourself for taking a risk but it’s still early. Three days ago, you were sleeping in a doorway. Don’t take anything for granted yet. Alcoholism isn't something you can beat in a day."
Jack snapped, "You think I don’t know that? Is it unrealistic to dream of a life again? How long will it take to convince you I can stay sober, so you'll allow me to have a life?"
Surprised at Jack's sudden burst of anger, Landry said, "Hey, ease up. You're like a man who just got out of prison. You're free for the first time in years. Enjoy it. I'm on your side, remember? You're a grown man. I'll support whatever you do, but my job is to help you for as long as you'll let me."
"I’m sorry. I haven't had a friend in far more than three years, and it'll take some getting used to. Your help is much appreciated, and I agree it’s too early to ask someone out. Hell, I don't have any money anyway. Let's get back to our investigation. Tiffany never made the flight. What did you find out?"
"She placed an order at a bar, handed over her credit card and disappeared. That’s probably when she left the airport."
"What's the next step?"
"If I was a cop, I’d ask to see the airport's security camera footage. We have to find out how she got from here back to Toulouse Street."
As he drove back, Landry called Tiffany and asked if she used Uber. It turned out she had, and she forwarded the emailed receipt she’d received. He tracked down Abraham, the driver who picked her up at the airport at 6:44 p.m. and dropped her in front of the Jackson Brewery thirty-seven minutes later.
"Something was off about her," Abraham said. "I get a lot of drunks, but she was like in a trance or something. She entered her destination as the Superdome, but when she got in my car, she wanted to go to Toulouse Street. She didn’t have an address, so I dropped her on Chartres and pointed her toward Toulouse. I left her standing on the curb like she wondered what to do next."
Landry and Jack reviewed what they knew. Jack saw Tiffany at the building minutes after being dropped off. She unlocked the door and went in. Within three hours a person attacked her.
Landry voiced unanswered questions. Who was inside? Were they waiting for her, or was she in the wrong place at the wrong time? If someone was lying in wait, how could they know she was coming? And how did the perpetrator escape after the attack?
Jack added, “And who unlocked the gate? Did the Realtor forget? Did an unseen force arrange it?”
Landry snapped his head up. “Damn, that’s my fault. When Cate gave me the code, I said it aloud in front of Tiffany.”
Jack said, "She must have retained it in her subconscious. We now have one logical answer, but maybe the rest aren’t. You're the ghost hunter; you’re accustomed to thinking outside the box. If something isn't possible, then you have to consider the impossible."
"You're beginning to sound like me. Go for it."
"Something took over Tiffany’s thoughts and actions while she sat at that bar in the airport. That something put her in an Uber, brought her downtown, and directed her to go inside."
"You’re suggesting someone waited for her —"
"Or not. What if she was alone?"
"Then who —"
"Or what attacked her? That's the question. Those dreams I had are hazy and hard to remember now. I blamed the booze, but now I realize there’s something else. The building calls to me, like I said. It's tried to get me inside the same as Tiffany.
“I had terrifying dreams about being inside. I walked up a stairway and stood on a balcony where someone waited — something pure evil. It was...there's just no way to describe how I felt when I sensed its presence. It wanted to kill me. I was going to die, Landry. That’s when the...the thing pushed me over the railing.”
"Is that when you woke up?"
"I woke up back in my box, like nothing happened. In my second dream, the only thing that kept me from falling to my death was my jacket snagged on the railing. I fell to the dirt down below. Later that morning when I was trying to sober up, I found the rip in my jacket. I tried to tell you that the other day, and you called me a liar. I'll never go inside again because something haunts the courtyard. A tangible, evil being.”
Landry said, "The balcony’s long gone. No dirt in the courtyard either; it's paved with flagstones. You fell into the dirt, so where was it?”
"Maybe it was in the past. When I stepped inside that building, perhaps I was in another time. If I were telling this story to anyone else, they'd think I was back on the sauce for sure. But you — you understand things aren't always what they appear. What I'm saying could be true, right?"
"It could, but that isn’t necessarily what happened. Thinking out of the box is important in my business, but I must eliminate the realities before considering the paranormal. Either something attacked Tiffany or she injured herself, but we need answers. Keep working while I call Detective Young for an update."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The detective told Landry they had struck out. There was no sign of a third party in the building. “You’re the only one who was there with her,” Young said. “Don’t leave town, Landry. Find out fast what happened that night because right now you’re the only suspect.”
After the call ended, Jack said they needed to work harder. “We have to prove the paranormal,” he said. “No one else was there that night. I don’t think you did it, so my theories may be right.”
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you’ve been an investigator for two days, and I’ve been at this for years. It’s way too early to jump to supernatural conclusions. Things that happen almost always can be explained. The cops didn’t find answers, and now it’s up to me. There just isn’t much time.”
Their long day was drawing to an end. It was late Friday afternoon, and Cate was coming for the weekend. Landry told Jack he worried about leaving him alone, but there was no way around it. “You’re a grown man and you’re responsible for your actions. I hope you’ve enjoyed your investigative work so far. This is how productive and rewarding your life might be. You’re a smart guy, and if you take care of yourself, you’ll be surprised by what happens. I guess I’m saying all that because we’ve worked closely together for two days. Now it’s a weekend and my girlfriend’s
coming in tonight. You’ll be on your own until Monday morning. Think you can handle it?”
“I sure hope so. I’m damned sure going to try. Speaking of that, can I borrow a few bucks, so I don’t have to go back to panhandling for money to eat?”
Landry apologized, pulled out two twenties and said, “Consider this your first payday as my assistant. So far so good, and I want to keep working with you. The station’s not hiring, but I’ll pay you what I can for now, and we’ll see how it goes. I can only imagine how hard it is for you at the moment, but I have faith in you. We have to solve this mystery. You have money now. That’s dangerous, so be careful.”
Jack thanked him, said he’d be there Monday at eight, and left, while Landry went home and tracked Cate’s flight. She would get a ride into town this time, and if things went well, they would be together before eight. He was ready, because shepherding Jack was a stressful job. Surreptitiously Landry had watched him, unsure when or if the man might take a wrong turn. Now he had to let it go. He needed to listen to his own advice. Jack was in charge of his life, and only he could decide if he survived or failed.
A dozen times while he and Cate were together that weekend, he resisted the urge to call Jack and pretend to be asking something while instead checking up on him. Cate said he should give Jack breathing room and see what happened.
They visited Tiffany in the hospital on Saturday afternoon and learned she’d be discharged the next day. He wished he had more time to talk with her, but she had to get back to her life and her job. She had booked a flight to LA tomorrow afternoon.
“I’m broke from buying airline tickets,” she quipped, “so it’d better work this time.”
That evening Shane Young called and said, “I’m at a pay phone in a bar. I couldn’t make this call from my phone. This is a courtesy call. You’re going to be arrested, Landry. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day — I can’t say when. I don’t think you had anything to do with Tiffany’s assault, but it’s out of my hands. Your time’s running out, my friend. You need to find some answers. And get a lawyer.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
On Sunday afternoon Cate flew back to Galveston. Aching with loneliness, Landry walked to Muriel’s in the rain, but instead of going inside, he stood under the balcony and decided against it. So much had happened since he and Cate dined there two weeks ago, and tonight Muriel’s would only bring back a flood of memories. What he wanted was a drink in a place where the bartender didn’t know him. Fame was bittersweet, and tonight he hoped to be an anonymous nobody and not a ghost hunter.
He had so many favorite places in the Quarter he couldn’t come up with something different. He walked aimlessly and saw a sign for Patrick’s Bar Vin. Tucked away off a courtyard in a Bienville Street hotel called the Mazarin, he’d never noticed it. Once inside he found it cozy and almost empty — a place for cocktails and reflections.
He stood at the bar and ordered a vodka tonic, then changed it to a double. The bartender set the glass in front of him and said, “Would you like to run a tab, Mr. Drake?”
Dammit. Landry struggled to be civil, although his first inclination was to snap at the guy and demand privacy. “I would,” he said, “I’m working through some things, and I need a little quiet.”
“No problem with that tonight.” He laughed as he swept his hand around the deserted bar. “I won’t bother you; just let me know when you’re ready for a refill.”
Landry walked to a table in the corner, sat, leaned back and took a deep, satisfying drink.
“It’s a damned lousy night to be alone,” he muttered out loud. Cate was gone, Tiffany was gone, and he hoped Jack was in his room, comfortable, safe and sober. He missed Cate even more than usual. She always knew the words to make things better. They spent the morning avoiding the elephant in the room — his impending arrest — and focused instead on the building, Tiffany’s mystifying attachment to it, and their pride at Jack’s progress so far.
After dropping Cate at the airport, he spent the afternoon preparing for his arrest. He spoke with his boss Ted, who promised any help Landry needed. He’d been in tight places before, and Ted was a friend and a supporter.
He left a voicemail for Pamela Sacriste, the tough criminal lawyer he worked with previously. As false as his story sounded, she’d keep an open mind, even though the truth might be more bizarre than any alibi in her career.
He didn’t expect a call back on Sunday, and all he needed was her presence at the bail hearing. It’s tough to prove you didn’t do something when you and the victim were the only two persons present. He knew even the best criminal lawyer in town would find this case a challenge, but release on bail shouldn’t be an issue.
Landry hailed the bartender and ordered another drink as the only other patrons in the place donned rain jackets and hats and walked out into the thunderstorm. He glanced at his watch. It was after eight and he was hungry.
Tiffany called. The plane had backed away from the gate, things were fine and she would text from home.
Disjointed thoughts entered his mind. He couldn’t decipher the mystery. Each day brought more questions with no answers. Being the paranormal expert, he should know what to do, but this enigma escaped him. How did Tiffany fit in? And Jack? What were the secrets in the building?
Although he enjoyed the solitude of Patrick’s, Landry became more depressed by the minute. Hungry now, he wanted to be around people. Dodging puddles, he darted across the street to Desire. The well-lit restaurant was just the opposite of where he’d been. Less solitude and gloom, more customers and action. A big plus would be if his friend Miss Kitty was behind the bar tonight. He stepped inside, left his umbrella at the front door, and looked across the room. A friendly smile and a beckoning wave perked him up at once. He sat at the bar and ordered a double vodka and a fried shrimp basket. Kitty had tended bar at Desire for years, and he always enjoyed seeing her. The normally raucous restaurant was quiet tonight, and that meant fewer interruptions for drink orders and more time to chat.
They discussed what brought him out on a stormy night, what he was working on these days, and how things were going for her. Kitty never pried into his affairs, or second-guessed his thoughts, or psychoanalyzed the conversation. A genuine person with a listening ear and a big heart, Kitty was just what he needed.
He left with a plan. Stymied in the past, he turned to a man whose life work was the paranormal. He wouldn’t bother Henri Duchamp on a Sunday night, but he would call first thing tomorrow.
Landry intended to walk the eight blocks home, but hard rain still pelted the streets. More than a little unsteady on his feet, he hailed a cab instead. Thirty minutes later he fell into bed, intoxicated and exhausted.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
He tossed and turned. Alcohol doesn't allow peaceful slumber; it only makes things worse. Three hours after getting in bed, he plodded into the bathroom, took two ibuprofen and tried again to rest. It didn't work.
He lay awake wondering why Tiffany didn’t leave a message like she promised, worrying about Jack Blair, and mulling over what to say to his friend Henri in the morning. At some point he slept, but it seemed like no time before his cell phone buzzed. A call at four thirty in the morning was never good. The number seemed familiar, but after his night, he wasn’t sure.
"Hello?" he mumbled.
No response.
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
A frantic whisper. "Landry! Landry, please help me!"
"Who is this?"
A whimper. "It's Tiffany. I need help!"
Fully alert now, he asked her what was wrong.
"I...something is, but I‘m not sure what. I was on a bus and now I'm sitting in a diner. You can help me. Please tell me you will."
"You left New Orleans last night. Did you make it to Los Angeles?"
"Yes."
"Did you go to your house?"
"I don't remember. I can't remember leaving the plane or anything else until about fifteen minutes ago. I w
oke up sitting here in a booth. The waitress said I got off a bus."
"Where are you?"
He heard her ask someone, where am I? "Blythe. Blythe, California. I'm at a Red Robin on I-10."
He wondered for a moment why, but then he realized Interstate 10 ran across the southern USA straight to New Orleans. She got off the plane, went straight to the bus station, and began working her way back to the building on Toulouse.
"Why are you in Blythe?"
She had found a slip of paper in her pocket. "I bought a ticket from LA to Blythe. Why did I do that? Oh yeah, it's coming back to me. My, uh...my card only had enough limit to get me this far. I was going to...I don't know. What's happening to me?" He could sense the frustration and fear as she struggled to make sense of it.
"Do you think you were coming back to New Orleans?"
She cried, "I guess so. Please help me. I don't have anybody else and at least you understand. I think I'm going crazy. I'll lose my job and my sanity if I don't get this figured out. What's wrong with me?"
As bizarre as the situation was, he assured her she wasn't crazy. The paranormal world — another dimension in another place — was as real to Landry as the world he lived in, and he explained to Tiffany that things beyond her control were happening to her. He promised to help and told her to stay there until morning. He would contact her then.
He asked to speak to someone working at the diner, and a man — the owner who had just arrived for the morning shift — answered. Landry explained that Tiffany was disoriented and confused, and he was going to help her. The man said there was a motel next door to the restaurant, and Landry offered to read off his credit card information in hopes the restaurant owner could get her a room. At first the man refused to get involved, but when he heard Landry's name, his attitude changed completely.
"Mr. Drake, my name's Peterson. Charlie Peterson. The wife and I love your specials. Is this woman involved in something supernatural? I'll do anything I can to help you and the lady. I'm just real happy to be talking to a celebrity like yourself!"
Die Again (The Bayou Hauntings Book 6) Page 7
