Miscue

by Glen C. Allison

  “That is unfortunate. It is really.”

  “But you don’t have any idea who is behind this?”

  “Behind what – the murder of the abortionist or the kidnapping of his daughter?”

  “Both. The same people probably did both. Too much of a coincidence.”

  A phone rang in the outer office. Forte could see a light flashing on the phone on the pastor’s credenza. Hamilton didn’t pick it up.

  “We talked to the FBI yesterday morning, right after Dr. Lamberth came to his deserved end,” said Hamilton. “I don’t believe we can shed any further light on the kidnapping of the Lamberth girl, as much as I would like to.”

  “You are lying.”

  Hamilton’s face colored. “Could be, Mr. Forte,” the pastor said, “but you are a guest here, and I advise you to mind your tongue before Barry teaches you some manners.”

  “Barry does look like a well-mannered lad, I agree,” Forte said, “but good manners don’t always win the day, now do they? Otherwise, all your hate-mongering would never have given you such a nice office and a suit that cost as much as some people’s cars.”

  Hamilton laughed. “Hate-mongering? Tsk, tsk, Mr. Forte. You haven’t been reading your Bible lately, have you? The evil that I oppose is the same evil that God has always opposed. I didn’t make it up. God did. He said that homosexuals should be put to death. Now, we just carry signs and call for changes in our country’s laws to put an end to the perversion all around us. That’s not much, is it, compared to … death? Besides, are you going to sit there and tell me you think it was fine and dandy for Dr. Lamberth to be killing all those unborn babies all these years?”

  Forte kept quiet.

  Hamilton pointed a finger at him. “Deep down you agree with me, I know it.”

  More silence from Forte.

  “He deserved to die way before he did,” Hamilton said.

  “According to you as judge and jury.”

  “According to any measure of decency.”

  “And you know who did it, don’t you?”

  Hamilton glared at him. “No.”

  “But you know some people who probably could have done it?”

  “You are sounding like the FBI now, Mr. Forte, and I’m afraid that is not a favorable comparison.” The pastor tilted his chair back and put his wing-tips on the corner of the desk. “But I will answer your question because, even though you are a traitor to any belief in God you may have possessed at one time, I think you are trying to do the right thing by finding the girl.” His face had softened. “God moves in mysterious ways, and He could allow the girl to die. But she is innocent and I believe in protecting the innocent.” He paused. “Our methods and talents are different, but we are more alike in our mission than you will admit.”

  “I doubt that,” Forte said. “But, back to my question. You might have known who did this thing?”

  Hamilton motioned to Barry to shut the office door. To Forte he said, “I will tell you this, and it is more than I told the FBI people. I spent nearly two hours this morning checking out the whereabouts of anyone I think could have done it. The handful of people who are out of pocket at the moment… they would certainly possess the ability and conviction to kill the doctor if they chose to do so. But they would not be the type of people who would kidnap the girl.

  “Mr. Forte, you may disagree with my message and my tactics. But there are lines we would not cross to justify our ends.”

  Forte searched the pastor’s face. “And those people, who are out of pocket… if I came up with proof that any one of them could have stolen the girl…?”

  Hamilton stood up. “I would help you find him.”

  Forte came to his feet. “Good.” He held out his hand and Hamilton shook it.

  Chapter 17

  Sunday, 3 p.m.

  Café Du Monde was always filled with tourists in springtime, but Forte still braved the crowds from time to time. Somehow, amid all the hubbub, his mind could disconnect here.

  The weekend visitors -- families with kids clutching balloon giraffes and couples wrapped up in honeymoons – had mostly left the city by this hour on Sunday afternoon. But the conventioneers and business people with meetings the next morning had taken their place. Forte sat in the corner of the outside courtyard next to a table of four young women with nametags on the lapels of their suits. They had been stealing glances at him as he sipped his café au lait behind his darkest shades. One of them, a blonde who looked like she had just stepped off the sidelines and exchanged her cheerleader outfit for a business suit, got up and scooted her chair over to his table.

  “Would you mind taking our picture,” she said, holding out a yellow throwaway camera. Her nametag read “Denise Brazier, National Women Trial Lawyers Association.”

  Forte turned to look at her for a moment, then took the camera without saying anything and looked through the viewfinder at the women who huddled together and flashed their best smiles. Two of the women had big diamond engagement rings on their hands. He snapped the picture and tossed the camera back to the blonde.

  “Thanks,” she said. “We were about to go for a Hurricane. Could you tell us where Pat O’Brien’s is?” The other three women were casually watching him over their heavy coffee mugs. A cartoon image popped into his head: Tweety Bird in his cage, surrounded by cats.

  He pointed toward the corner of Jackson Square. “It’s on St. Peter. Just walk along the far side of the Square and keep going. Pat O’Brien’s is on the left. Can’t miss it.” None of the women followed with their eyes the direction of his pointing finger, their attention still on his sunglasses. Why do people think you can’t see them looking at you when you are wearing shades, Forte wondered.

  “Thanks again,” the blonde said. “Care to join us?” One of the women, thin and dark-skinned with a model’s cheekbones, put a hand over her mouth to hide a giggle.

  “Bet you’ve already been there this afternoon,” he said. All the women laughed now.

  “Could be,” their spokesperson said. “But we didn’t have a guide then.”

  “I appreciate the offer,” he said, “But, sorry, can’t help you.”

  The blonde groaned and the thin woman slapped the table. “Pay up,” she said. The other three brought their purses up to the table, rummaged through them and took out $20 bills which the black woman folded together and put in her suit pocket. “Come to mama,” she said as she looked up at the blonde. “Losing your touch, Denise?”

  Denise stood up and looped her purse strap over her shoulder. “The day’s still young,” she said, bringing another gale of laughter from her pals. The others stood up, waggled their fingers in a goodbye wave to Forte, then gathered their purses and wended their way through the tables out to the street. Their high heels clicked out a syncopated beat that almost blended with the Dixieland jazz band on the corner.

  Denise stopped and touched his shoulder. “Not even tempted?”

  Forte looked at her. “I’m not dead. Just numb at the moment.” Her touch felt warm on his shoulder. “What was the bet?”

  She smiled and waved a finger in front of his face. “You’d only get to know that if I won the bet. Hope you get un-numbed sometime,” she said. She smiled and walked away.

  Forte watched her catch up with her friends. The group crossed the street and meandered past the sketch artists, palm readers and street performers on the wide sidewalk in front of Jackson Square. They skirted around one of the horse-drawn carriages and went through the front gate of the black wrought-iron fence surrounding the square.

  He had called Jon Brach from a pay phone at the airport just before having a cab bring him directly to the Café Du Monde. Forte had been blocked from the investigation of the kidnapping, but his reporter friend would have updated information. The pay phone would provide a bit more security than the cell phone in his pocket. As his Navy SEAL commander had once said: Better to be paranoid than sorry. The call had been fairly fruitless though. Brach said t
he e-mailed ransom note had been forwarded through four anonymous e-mail addresses and was untraceable so far.

  Before he had left for Houston, Forte had placed several phone calls to contacts in the intelligence community and ex-Special Forces men on his special mission contact list. The work that needed to be done on this case was different from a regular mission where a client hired Forte to recover a child. In those cases, some level of cooperation was established by the law enforcement officials also working the case. With his involvement in Hallee’s case – after having been banned from it – he would have to take another approach. But, as one of his commando squad members from Tennessee always said, “Ain’t no hill for a stepper.”

  He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. This was a call he had to make but did not relish. He punched in a number and listened. On the other end, at the Lamberth home, an FBI agent picked up. “Please keep this line clear,” the tech said in a curt tone. His cell phone number and name had obviously popped up on the caller ID.

  “Wait, don’t disconnect,” Forte said. “Is Agent Dent there?”

  There was silence on the line then Rosalind Dent picked up. “Al, we are monitoring this line for a possible call from the kidnapper.”

  “Rosie, I just need to say one thing to Mrs. Lamberth,” he said.

  Rosie said nothing for a beat, then, “Hold on.”

  Forte let his eyes roam over the thinning crowd across the street. A bum in a wool knit cap walked toward the gate of the Square, a half-dozen plastic grocery bags dangling from his arms.

  Freida Lamberth came on the line. “Hello?” Her voice was tremulous.

  “Mrs. Lamberth, this is Al Forte. We didn’t get to talk after what happened last night.” He stopped and listened. He could hear her breathing. “I wanted to hear it from you directly though. Do you want me off this case? Yes or no.”

  On the other end, the woman gave a small gasp. “I think that would be best, yes, Mr. Forte.” Her voice faltered as she said his name.

  Forte paused, then continued. “I’m sorry. I let you down.” He knew every word was being heard by at least two agents and recorded by the FBI.

  “Yes,” she said. “Me too.” The line went dead.

  Forte folded the phone and put it back in his pocket. As you wish. But he would do what he had to do.

  He picked up a beignet and shook it twice over the plate to knock off the excess powdered sugar. He took a healthy bite of the french donut and washed it down with the coffee. As he ate he watched the bum with the shopping bags walk away from him down St. Ann. The man tipped open the swinging lid of a garbage can and peered in. Most people walking along the pedestrian-only street ignored him.

  As Forte watched the bum, his eyes refocused on another figure walking toward him, about 60 yards beyond the garbage can where the bum had stopped. Poochie, wearing a gray silk suit and white crew neck shirt, ambled toward him, a polished black oak cane swinging at his side. He tapped the ground with the cane about every third step. Forte felt a tingle on the back of his neck.

  Slowly Forte turned his head and searched the milling crowds up and down Decatur Street from behind his shades. He stretched and glanced up and behind him along the Moonwalk that bordered the river and ran atop the levee next to the café. He saw no sign of Poochie’s henchmen or anyone else who seemed to be taking any special notice of him.

  The drug dealer strolled up to the corner and stopped to listen to the jazz band. Two trombone players were in the middle of trading improv licks in “Won’t You Come Home, Bill Bailey.” A bass, guitar, trumpet, snare drum and clarinet rounded out the band. Poochie stood with one foot slightly ahead of the other, swaying slightly while tapping the cane in time to the music. The tune came to an end and he pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket, peeled off three bills and dropped them in the five-gallon white plastic bucket in front of the jazz players. He walked across the street to the café.

  Forte casually scratched his lower back, pulled the Glock nine-millimeter automatic from the holster, turned off the safety and held the gun against his leg as the other man approached his table.

  “Well, well, Al-veeeen,” said the drug dealer, his yellow-brown face lit up in a dazzling smile. “Mind if I have a seat?” He sat without waiting for an answer and hooked the cane over the back of the chair.

  “What can I do for you, Poochie?” Forte said. From behind the shades, his eyes continued to search the background for signs of a setup.

  The other man smiled more broadly now. “Al, what up with your manners, sonny boy? How about ‘Poochie, so good to see you’ or ‘Poochie, how about a cup o’ coffee?’ or ‘Poochie, thanks for your help yesterday.’”

  Forte did not respond, his hand still on the gun.

  Poochie held up his hands, his bejeweled fingers splayed in front of him. “Al-righty, I can understand you being in a bad mood, seeing what you been through recently.” He almost sang the last part of the sentence, the way preachers sometimes do when mimicking someone. Ree-cent-LEEEE.

  One of the café’s Vietnamese waitresses stopped at the table and the drug dealer ordered a coffee. She shot a glance at the gun next to Forte’s leg, her face unchanging. She scurried away to take another order. Poochie leaned back in the chair and took a deep breath. Across the street the jazz band was packing up to make room for the next street performer. “That Squirrel, he can handle a gun now, can’t he?”

  “Squirrel?”

  “Yeah, the white boy with the goatee who saved your Navy SEAL hiney yesterday. He’s a little crazy, you know, squirrelly. But he sho can shoot.” He waved a hand as if he were erasing a blackboard. “But that ain’t why I’m here. Forget that.”

  The waitress came back with a tray loaded with coffee mugs. She set one in front of the small man and kept moving. Poochie took a sip and said, “Ahhhhhh. Nothing like it.” He took out a silver cigarette case and flipped open the lid. He held it out to Forte, who shook his head. He pulled out a long thin brown cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply.

  Forte picked up his coffee mug with his left hand and drank, keeping his right hand on the gun under the table. “Poochie, you did not come here to drink coffee and chat. And if you are here to talk about getting Kyra back, the answer is still no.”

  The man held up the hand with the cigarette between two fingers, a crooked ribbon of smoke trailing from the lit end. “Now Alveeeeen, you might be changing your mind when you hear what I have to say.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “What if I told you I might know something about the guy who killed the doctor.”

  Forte’s eyebrows rose above the shades. “Keep talking.”

  “Well, just suppose I did know something about him. We could trade for that kind of information, couldn’t we now, Al?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Kyra. Give her to me. We can keep her safe until we take care of the Colombians.”

  Forte lifted his coffee mug and drained it. Oh for an uncloudy day. He moved the pistol back to its holster. “Even if I wanted to do that, you know the DEA’s office would close us down. They assigned Kyra to the Refuge until their investigation is over.”

  Poochie suddenly slammed his fist down on the table, causing shock tremors in the surface of the coffee in the mugs. A pair of businessmen at the next table jumped at the sound, one of them cursing as he spilled coffee on his jacket.

  “Dammit, Forte,” Poochie said, his voice rasping as he leaned forward and whispered. “I’m trying to help you here. That other girl, the white girl, she could die. And you sit here talking about investigations.”

  Forte took off his sunglasses and leaned forward, his mouth a hard thin line. “Listen, don’t talk to me about people dying or you trying to help. I’d hate like hell if the girl died. But I’m not going to release Kyra to you. She’s as safe or safer with us than with you. So, if you want to help me, give me your information. If not, then get the hell away from me.”

  The two men sat g
laring at each other. At the next table, the pair of businessmen got up and moved to the other side of the courtyard. A lone saxophonist started up with “What a Wonderful World” on the corner. It wasn’t Louie but it was something, Forte thought.

  Poochie settled back in his chair and crossed his arms as he looked across the street toward General Jackson tipping his hat.

  “A visit then,” he said.

  “A visit?”

  “Me… with Kyra.”

  “At The Refuge?”

  Poochie nodded. Forte leaned back and said nothing. The horn player was wrapping up the song. The dozen or so people who had stopped to listen gave him a smattering of applause. Half the people stooped and put bills in the man’s hat before walking away.

  “I think I can swing that,” Forte said.

  “Good,” Poochie said. He pulled out a cell phone, hit a speed-dial button, waited for the connection and spoke three words into the phone, then hung up. “A good friend of mine, someone who depends on me muchly, says he did a little work for the man a while back. Some ID work. He will talk to you about it, as a favor to me, but he won’t talk to the cops. He’s got to be protected.” Poochie looked at his watch. “But if we gonna see him, it better be soon ‘cause he’s overdue for a bit of happiness in his life at the moment.”

  “I don’t want to see any substance being passed,” Forte said. “You know the drill on that.”

  Poochie grinned. “No prob, Alveen.”

  A silver Mercedes sports utility vehicle pulled up to the curb. The drug dealer jerked his head toward it. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Forte looked at the truck. “I thought you guys drove Cadillacs.”

  Poochie stood up and retrieved his cane from the back of the chair.

  “Gotta keep up with the Joneses,” he said.

  Chapter 18

  Sunday, 3:20 p.m.

  The blindfold cut into his cheeks a little, but Forte figured he wouldn’t be wearing it for very long. He could feel the truck taking quick lefts and rights without traveling along a straightaway for any length of time. In the enclosed cab of the SUV, the Skull Cap’s cologne hung heavy.

  The truck stopped and Forte was helped down to a sidewalk. He could hear an iron gate swinging open and clanging to a stop. A large hand on his biceps guided him forward about 20 yards. From the way his footsteps echoed so closely around him, he felt he must be walking down a very small alleyway. He bumped into Skull Cap and could feel a large revolver under the man’s coat. It was like bumping into a wall. Then he was out walking in a more open space. Beneath his feet he could feel the uneven bricks of a courtyard. On the skin on his face he could feel the slight breeze of outside air compared to the stillness of the interior of a building.