Ill Will Page 9

  I called Joanne. Not even giving her time to speak, I said, “Hey, Prejean just did more than make threats—I’m okay, but worried that he might have come to my house. I’m going in now.”

  “Stay out!” she yelled.

  “Cordelia’s in there.” I hung up.

  He wanted me, not her. And if I had to give him me to get him away from her, then that was the only choice I had.

  Not giving him an easy target, I ran from my car to the front steps. I banged on the door. “Core, it’s me.” She hates all the ways people choose to shorten her name, so I rarely do it, but there was not enough time for four syllables.

  Of course now I was standing on my front steps being a perfectly easy target. Just as I got my keys out, the door was flung open.

  Cordelia.

  No one else.

  She was talking on the phone. “She just got here. Do you have any idea what this is about?” She mouthed “Joanne” to me as I brushed past her, quickly locking the door behind me.

  Once safely bolted in, I took the phone from Cordelia.

  I gave them both—Joanne over the phone and Cordelia listening in—the quick and dirty version of what had happened.

  Just as I finished talking, a squad car pulled up, lights flashing, but mercifully no siren.

  Not so mercifully, they pulled their guns as they approached.

  Cordelia started to open the door, but I pulled her back.

  I yelled at the cops—and into the phone, but Joanne could have mentioned she was sending a patrol car, “Hey, we’re okay in here. Please put your guns down.” Then I slowly and carefully opened the door, coming out with my hands clearly visible. “I’m talking to Detective Sergeant Joanne Ranson,” I spelled out, so they would consider the possibility that the thing in my hand was a phone.

  Mercifully, they did, putting their guns away.

  A tinny voice—the phone two feet from my ear—said, “I’ll be there in about five minutes.” Replaced by a tinny buzzing. She’d hung up.

  Just as I had finished explaining to the patrol cops that I was a private detective and that a swindler hadn’t appreciated my locating him for the people he had swindled and that he blamed me for a fire at his house—which I emphasized I had nothing to do with, lest they think otherwise—and just about everything else I could explain, Joanne arrived.

  And I had to do it all over again.

  And a third time when Danny showed up.

  “If we just had an executioner, we’d be set,” I muttered.

  “Naw, we just need a defense attorney,” Danny cheerfully corrected me. “This isn’t a capital offense.”

  “I’m capitally offended,” I answered.

  Joanne was kind enough to do the walk-through of the house, as if knowing that there had to be a bra or two hanging out of the laundry basket, letting the patrol cops check the outside, where we could argue that the dirty bras weren’t ours.

  No big man, no gas can, nothing suspicious.

  Maybe Prejean had only paid him for a one-shot deal. Maybe it was about scaring me and not really doing harm—although I was more than sure that someone was going to get hurt, the only choice was who.

  But if he wanted me off the case, I was off the case. It was over. What I’d found couldn’t be unfound. Beating me into a coma wouldn’t change anything. It made no sense. Crooks and criminals are usually not high intellects; as we say here, a few sandbags short of a levee. It didn’t have to make sense to me.

  As Joanne rejoined us, she said, “I don’t think you should stay here tonight.”

  “One of you can stay with us,” Danny said.

  “One of us?” Cordelia asked.

  “Redoing the guest bedroom, so only the couch is available. Bad timing on our part,” Danny said with a rueful shrug as if she really did regret home improvement.

  Joanne said, “One of you is welcome at our place. We’ve barely finished painting all the rooms; no extra beds as of yet. We can put an air bed on the floor.” They had flooded, their house in eight feet of water.

  She turned from us to speak to the cops to let them know they were free to go, but to give this block an extra pass by if possible.

  Cordelia and I looked at each other. We hadn’t even had a chance to talk about Reginald Banks.

  “Or there are a few hotels around,” Danny suggested, seeing our reluctance at the idea of separate sleepovers.

  “What about our cats?” I asked, worried that Prejean might have revenge arson on his mind.

  “We can leave them with Torbin and Andy,” Cordelia said. We usually left the cats with them when we traveled.

  The other cops left and Joanne turned her attention back to us.

  “How long do we stay away?” I asked. The question wasn’t directly at her, but she answered.

  “Not long. From your description, this man is a distinctive character. He’s probably in the mug shots, certainly easy to spot if he’s seen on the streets. Spend the night away. Tomorrow look at some pictures. He might be in custody by midafternoon.”

  “What about Prejean?”

  “Once we get his thug, he’ll likely turn on Prejean and then we can arrest him.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “He will,” Danny interjected. “Addict thugs aren’t paid well enough to protect their masters. They’re just high enough to think they won’t get caught. Once they are, they’ll sell their mothers for a deal.”

  “So, call Torbin about the cats,” Joanne said.

  Cordelia nodded, and after a brief search, found where I’d left the phone. “Can you corral the cats while I get our stuff?”

  Okay, I forgot to pack the underwear once; now the cats are my duty and the other packing Cordelia’s. Joanne and Danny helped round up the beasts and get them into the carrier just as Torbin and Andy arrived to collect them.

  By the time I had finished explaining—yet again—what had happened, Cordelia came downstairs with two overnight bags—the ugly burnt orange presumably for me and the deep purple for her.

  She handed the purple one to me.

  “Who goes where?” Danny, ever the logistician, inquired.

  “We stay together. I’ll sleep on the floor,” I said.

  Joanne started to argue, but Danny put a hand on her arm, clearly understanding the decision had been made.

  We ended up going with Joanne. Her empty room had more floor sleeping space than Danny’s living room couch.

  By the time we got there it was almost ten p.m. Both Cordelia and Joanne work in professions that demand an early start, and Alex’s long commute made the same demands on her. We had a quick sandwich for food, then bedded down in their empty spare room.

  Chapter Nine

  I insisted Cordelia take the air mattress. She needed her sleep—her patients needed her awake. If I didn’t sleep well, I could snooze at my desk without major consequences.

  We’d managed only a brief conversation before she nodded off. She had little information, only that Reginald Banks had been rushed to one of the hospitals—she didn’t even know which one, LSU, she assumed, as that had replaced Charity. Tamara was his attending physician. As she wasn’t around, Brandon had been notified and that was all she knew. I’d have to wait until the morning to find out if he was alive or dead.

  Cordelia on the air mattress left me on the floor, not the most comfortable place to sleep. I was now tossing and turning over the events of the day.

  I had wanted distance from finding Reginald Banks. I’d gotten it.

  Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll would have been so much more preferable.

  What the hell was Prejean hoping to accomplish? I wasn’t actively investigating him. Revenge came to mind. His house had been torched—he assumed; it could have been his shoddy workmanship—and he wanted someone to pay for it. That would be me.

  I can’t take the vacation a meth-addict thug “recommended” I take because we had one already planned—plane tickets bought and all—in the near futu
re. Once Cordelia finished with this job, she was going to take time off and we were going to New York City to visit my mother. But that was over a month away, not well timed for me to vamoose right now. My thoughts were jumbled. I wondered if I could get Cordelia to carry a gun.

  I pretty much knew the answer to that, but I’d ask again anyway.

  Somehow I managed to fall asleep, but was still slow and groggy in the morning.

  Joanne and Alex had already gone by the time we came downstairs, leaving a note of where the coffee was, and a spare key on top of it.

  I was kind enough to make coffee while Cordelia showered. She borrowed a travel mug, grabbed a granola bar, and was on her way.

  After a quick cup of coffee of my own, I cleaned up, deflating the air mattress. We would be sleeping in our own bed tonight, I vowed. I headed downtown to my office. Joanne and Alex lived in Mid-City, so in less than fifteen minutes I was at my door. Instead of stopping I carefully drove around the block. But nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

  Once I finally parked in front of my door, I waited for several minutes to see if there was any movement. Meth addicts are not patient people.

  A butterfly flitted by. A car passed, driven by a woman twice my age. Then the street was empty, save for my fear and worries clouding this bright, sunny day.

  I finally got out, carefully making my way to the outside door, doing a thorough look around before putting the key in. I turned it in the lock as quickly as possible, hurrying through the door and slamming it closed, then just as quickly locking it.

  I slowly mounted the stairs, ready for someone lurking on the landings. As I got to the top, I thought, I can’t live like this, constantly in fear, wondering when the hand will grab me again. But the only threat on the stairs was a big spider web in one corner. Bad for the flies, not so much a worry for me.

  Once in my office, I locked the door behind me. I usually leave it open, trusting the downstairs door and three flights of stairs to give me adequate warning of anyone heading this way.

  After having brewed a big, strong pot of coffee to compensate for my night on the floor, I called Joanne.

  “Morning, sunshine,” she answered. Caller ID can be so annoying. “Sleep well?”

  “Lovely,” I lied. “Took me back to my bucolic camping days of snoozing on oak roots.”

  “We put out a description of your attacker, but it would be helpful if you’d come in and look at some mug shots.”

  After a hasty gulp of coffee, I retraced my steps, carefully locking and unlocking, going slowly down the stairs as if there could be danger on every landing. I hesitated at the door, listening for any sounds on the other side. Hearing nothing, I threw it open and ran to my car, checking out everything and everyone. No black trucks, no looming man.

  As before, the height of danger was the spider. No one on the street, no one in my building.

  In fifteen minutes—five of them spent looking for parking—I was at the front desk asking for Joanne. I had to wait another fifteen minutes for her to come get me. Other than a quick hello, our only interaction was for her to dump me in front of a beat-up old computer to scroll through pictures of the scum of the earth.

  So much scum, so little time. It was bad enough that after about half an hour, I went in search of the overbrewed swill they call coffee just to keep my eyes focused.

  It took me over an hour and some major eyestrain, but I finally found him. Dudley Etherton III. A string of bad-boy arrests, joyriding, drug stuff, a barroom brawl. No jail time; it seemed that Daddy had good lawyers. His rap sheet screamed rich-boy rebellion, spoiled enough to think that Daddy’s bucks would always get him off. But Dudley was an addict; I knew that much from my brief encounter with him. The addiction—and the poor choices his cravings caused—would take him places where Daddy couldn’t help. Dudley the III was devolving, doing things even Daddy’s best lawyers couldn’t get him out of. His listed address was in Old Metairie, a place where the rich who didn’t want to risk bumping into New Orleans riffraff lived.

  Instead of making more sense, this was making even less sense. How did a two-bit, out-of-town swindler like Prejean connect with a local bad boy like Dudley? Which I was guessing was not the moniker he went by. Where do locals and not-locals meet up? A bar—there were plenty of them in this city. Daddy cut off Dudley. He needed to go to twink town to get his meth fix. A stranger in a bar offers up cash—and maybe his drug of choice—and, poof, just like that, Dear Dudley is at my door.

  That was the how. It didn’t answer the why. Why come after me? Dudley’s message hadn’t been that this was revenge for burning down Prejean’s place. It had been to warn me off a case I had closed. Maybe Dudley had taken two warning gigs and mixed them up. That was as good an explanation as any I could come up with.

  I found Joanne and showed her the mug shot. She called it in, told me to be careful, that she’d call when they picked him up, and then she was pulled back into the usual criminal chaos of New Orleans.

  When they caught him? If they catch him, I thought as I headed back to my car. Even knowing who to look for wasn’t a guarantee that the cops would find him anytime soon. If he was smart—well, I knew the answer to that—but if he had a modicum of survival instinct, or was around someone who did, like Prejean, he’d be halfway to Houston by now. If he’d put me in a coma—or killed me, not a pleasant thought—he might get away with it. But given that he’d left me merely bruised but otherwise a hale and hearty witness, there was a jail cell with his name on it.

  However, until he was in that cell, I had to assume he might try again to finish what he’d started, in the dim hope that if I was dead I’d be unable to testify against him. He didn’t even need to be that thoughtful. He could also want revenge for the damage inflected on something very important to him.

  So it was careful plus back to my office. Constantly checking my rearview mirror to see if anyone was following me, scanning the pedestrians just in case one of them might lunge at my car door.

  I was almost there when I decided that the best defense was a good offense. Maybe it was time I had a talk with Carl Prejean to inform him of how misguided his actions were. And if that didn’t work, kick him in the balls as well.

  Perhaps a long shot, but I was guessing he might be rebuilding his burned house. I pulled to the side of the road—keeping my engine running, just in case—to rifle through the various notebooks in the backseat of my car. I was pretty sure I’d jotted his address there.

  Of course he lived in one of the pretentious houses over by the lake. This is a newer section of New Orleans compared to the older enclaves of wealth like the Garden District. The area adjacent to the lake was land reclaimed in the early 1900s. Because of this, it was somewhat higher than the surrounding area, so a small swath closest to the lake did not flood. The houses date mostly from the mid-century or later. It never quite feels like New Orleans, instead some alien place that could exist in any city, bereft of the history of the French Quarter, Tremé, the Garden District, Uptown.

  Prejean’s address was at the end of a cul-de-sac, a large house, with one side a different and presumably unplanned color than the other. It dated from sometime in the sixties, a large, sprawling house painted a trendy brown, with modern windows that now seemed dated and a clearly added newer section on one side. The lawn was large, well tended. Its asking price was probably far out of my price range and even farther out of my taste range. Especially on the white trim, I could see evidence of smoke. However, unless there was damage not visible from the outside, the house seemed in decent condition and could be easily rehabbed.

  A brand-new red truck was parked in the driveway.

  I glanced at my notebook. Ah, yes, the license plate matched one registered to Karl Pearlman, one of Prejean’s aliases.

  I parked just far enough down the street to have a clear view of the house and the truck. If I was going to confront him, I intended to do so in as public a place as I could. I’d wait for him to come
to his truck.

  That didn’t take long. Not even fifteen minutes. Evidently Prejean, or whatever his name actually was, didn’t seem to be hard at work on repairing his house. His clothes were cleanly pressed, no sign of sweat or dirt.

  I started my car and pulled in behind him, hoping that blocking him in would be a successful bluff and he wouldn’t use his much newer truck to batter past my older car.

  As I hoped, Carl did seem to be a swindler, not a fighter. He stood stock still, his mouth open, as if unable to comprehend what was happening.

  I got out, making sure to brush my jacket open enough to reveal the gun.

  He still didn’t move, other than to close his mouth. Swindlers are actors. He either thought I’d be the last person he’d see here or he was doing a damn good acting job.

  “Hey, Carl,” I called. “A word with you.”

  “A word? Haven’t you caused me enough trouble?”

  “And you’ve caused me plenty of trouble back. That macho bruiser you sent to beat me senseless? I don’t appreciate that kind of trouble.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Well, of course he wasn’t going to admit to it. “I’m talking about the muscle man you sicced after me yesterday. Tall, blond, meth teeth. The one you met in a bar and hired to do your dirty work.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You tried to send me a message. Perhaps the dude messed it up. Not wise to have drug addicts do your dirty work. He told me to get off the case. Which I can’t do, since I’m already off the case.”

  “I didn’t send anyone after you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Prejean took a small step toward his truck.

  I lunged and grabbed the keys out of his hand. Since my car was blocking the driveway, I’d be very unhappy if he tried to get away before I moved.

  “You’re the person who called up and threatened me. We both know that, so don’t waste my time denying it. Next thing that happens, some muscle-bound idiot tries to beat the crap out of me. Bit of advice: bulked-up macho men are prone to lying about how big and tough they are, especially after a few drinks. For some reason, I connect your threat with his assault. Go figure.”