Louisiana Fever

by D. J. Donaldson

  “You heard what your brother said,” she hissed. “Get out of here and leave us alone.”

  Larry left without reply and closed and locked the door. Kit held her tongue until she heard the front door open and close, then held it awhile longer until the murmur of their voices faded away.

  “Oh, Teddy, I am so sorry to have caused this.”

  Teddy rolled toward her and his mouth twisted in pain as his back touched the mattress. He turned onto his side and looked into her eyes. “You didn’t cause anything. It was those two mental cases. Did they hurt you?”

  “No, but Roy burned you to see how I’d react. So I am responsible.”

  “That’s nonsense. Besides, I’m all right.”

  “I told them you had nothing to do with all this and if it had to be done, it should be to me.”

  “That was a crazy thing to do. What if they’d listened?”

  “Then you wouldn’t be hurt.”

  “It’s over and I’m fine.”

  “I would have stopped them if there’d been any way. Roy said it was a penalty for the money not being in the mail. But he also said there’d be a greater penalty if I changed my story.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. The only reason to impose a penalty would be to get you to admit you lied about the money being in the mail and to force you to tell him where it really is. Why’d he do it?”

  “He knows there’s no money. I think he’s known it from the moment I made up that story.”

  Behind the trailer, Roy sat quietly under the slightly open window, feeding on their conversation. At first, he’d believed Jack had given her the money. But even before the boyfriend arrived, he’d begun to doubt it. Then, when she’d come up with that utterly implausible story about it being in the mail—under the kind of duress that would have forced the truth out of her—he had indeed known. It would be another three days before the truck arrived from New York. And this was as good a way as any to pass the time.

  His mind returned to Kit’s comment that he’d already made a big mistake. What had she meant? He was sure she hadn’t just been blowing smoke. And it had something to do with his shoes. So tomorrow, while Larry was getting the other stuff, he’d visit a shoe store. Then, tomorrow night, to be on the safe side, they’d move.

  BROUSSARD HURRIED FROM THE hospital, irked that another examination of the strangulation case had turned up nothing that would help find Kit. He was also upset at the peculiar fact he’d awakened a full hour later than usual and as a result would feel out of synch the rest of the day. And he was in no mood to waste it by tagging along with Blackledge as his cheerleader.

  He got to the rendezvous corner five minutes late. Three minutes later, Blackledge’s Mercedes made a left from Tulane and stopped in front of him. Broussard stepped into the street, opened the door, and looked in.

  “I told you to be punctual,” Blackledge said. “I’ve had to go around the block twice waiting for you.”

  “I’m not goin’ today.”

  Blackledge scowled. “Why not?”

  “There was nothin’ we did yesterday you couldn’t have done by yourself.”

  “I want you with me.”

  “Sorry. I got better things to do.”

  He shut the door, retreated to the sidewalk, and started back to the hospital, the small glow of pleasure he felt at denying Blackledge something he wanted flaring brightly at the sound of the Mercedes’s engine revving and its wheels squealing on the pavement.

  Upon reaching his office, Broussard fished a lemon ball from the bowl on his desk, slipped it into his cheek, and reached for his appointment book to refresh his memory on the dates he’d need to know for the call he was about to make.

  Baldwin had been exposed on the fifteenth, sixteenth, or seventeenth. He circled the seventeenth. And Teddy had said that he and Kit had found a lead down at the docks on . . . the twenty-fifth. He circled that date.

  A minute later, he punched in the port of New Orleans marine information number and waited for an answer.

  “Mornin’, this is Dr. Broussard at the medical examiner’s office. I’d like to talk to the person who keeps the records on ship arrivals and departures.”

  The voice on the line said he was the guy.

  “Could you give me the names of all the ships that were in port between the seventeenth and the twenty-fifth of this month?”

  “Arrived on the seventeenth and left on the twenty-fifth?”

  “Not necessarily. In port on those dates.”

  “Don’t get many that stay so long. Lemme check.”

  Broussard heard pages riffling; then the voice came back. “Only one fits those dates—the Schrader.”

  The Schrader . . . Broussard straightened in his chair. The note Beverly’s brother had in his wallet . . .”

  “Course she left yesterday mornin’,” the voice added.

  He thanked the fellow for the information, broke the connection with his finger, and called Phil Gatlin, who, remarkably, was at his desk.

  “I think I got a lead on Kit. Beverly’s brother had a note in his wallet that mentioned the name Schrader. And Mark Blackledge has figured out the disease he had was carried by ticks that came into the city on some kind of exotic animals. When we were talkin’ to Teddy after Kit first disappeared, he said they thought they’d found a lead down at the docks, but the captain wouldn’t let ’em on the ship. Well, guess what ship was in port between the time Walter Baldwin was probably exposed to the disease and the day Kit and Teddy were on the docks?” Without waiting for Gatlin to answer, Broussard said, “That’s right, the Schrader.”

  “Why didn’t you mention the note before this?” Gatlin asked.

  “With everything that’s been happenin’, it slipped my mind. And I didn’t know what it meant until now.”

  “Teddy’s disappeared, too.”

  “What?”

  “He called me yesterday afternoon when I was out and left a message that he’d wait at his hotel for me to get back to him. When I did, he didn’t answer. And it looks like he wasn’t in his room at all last night.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He wasn’t in when I dropped by at eleven P.M., so I taped a hair to his door. It was still undisturbed when I looked this morning.”

  “Could he have spent the night at Kit’s place for some reason?”

  “I checked that.”

  “I wonder if they’re both on the Schrader?”

  “Is it still in port?”

  “Left yesterday mornin’.”

  “Then to find out, we’ll probably have to call out the Coast Guard.”

  “So do it.”

  “I’d like a little more evidence first.”

  “We could go to the docks and talk to the longshoremen who worked the Schrader and see if they know anything.”

  “Couldn’t hurt. Did I hear you say we could go?”

  The ME’s office had hit one of those rare dry spells where there were no bodies waiting for autopsy. Also, because the chain-metal gloves had arrived, when the next case did come in, Charlie could handle it. “You drivin’?”

  “I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes in front of the hospital. You got mug shots of all three fever cases?”

  “They’re not pretty.”

  “Neither are we.”

  17

  “Yeah, I seen this guy,” the longshoreman said, looking at the morgue photo of Beverly’s brother. “What kind a picture is this, anyway? He looks . . . dead.”

  The fellow had the thickest neck Broussard had ever seen. And his skin was as black as the Boulle cabinet in Blackledge’s office.

  “He is dead,” Gatlin said. “When did you see him?”

  “Week before last.”

  “How can you remember somebody from that long ago?”

  The man’s expression grew hostile. “I look to you like somebody who don’t know what he saw?”

  “Nothing personal. Sometimes even the smartest people make mistakes ab
out things like that.”

  “Yeah . . . well, okay. We don’t get too many people down here that don’t fit in . . . like you two. I ain’t gonna forget you, either.”

  “Where’d you see this fellow?”

  “On a ship that brought in a shitload of aluminum. I don’t mean like that flimsy aluminum foil—this was blocks of it, a foot thick, six feet wide, and about eight long. Dangerous damn stuff. One mistake with that crap and you’ll look like this guy.” He waved the picture in his hand, then turned it on edge. “And about this flat. Anyway, he came on board.”

  “You remember the name of this ship?”

  “Sure, the Schrader.”

  “How about the other pictures?”

  The longshoreman shifted to the photo of the strangulation case. “No . . . never seen him.”

  Then he moved on to the one of Baldwin. “Him, neither.”

  Reaching Kit’s picture, he looked at Gatlin and said, “Nice lookin’ woman.”

  “She was here last Saturday,” Broussard said.

  “I don’t work on weekends—weekends, I wrestle. Maybe you heard a me . . . Mack Truck?”

  “You’re kidding,” Gatlin said.

  “It’s a professional name.”

  “What about a slim guy in a straw hat, jeans, alligator boots?”

  The guy shook his head. “He could a been here, though. Most of the time durin’ the day, I ain’t in a position to see who’s on the docks.”

  “Was anything other than aluminum unloaded from the Schrader?” Broussard asked.

  “Mostly aluminum, but also a half dozen empty containers.”

  “Containers?” Gatlin echoed.

  “Truck trailers. It’s done a lot. Shippin’ line needs containers somewhere, one ship’ll drop ’em off, and another’ll pick ’em up. I gotta get back to work.” He handed the pictures to Gatlin and put on his hard hat.

  “Those trailers you mentioned . . . where are they?” Broussard asked.

  The longshoreman pointed at the warehouse’s downriver end.

  “Let’s take a look,” Broussard said, moving off and motioning for Gatlin to follow.

  A few minutes later, they arrived at the first trailer. Broussard walked around to the rear and threw the door latch, which wasn’t locked. He opened the door and looked inside. It was empty. He opened the other door and inspected the floor as far as he could see without climbing in. Apparently satisfied, he closed the doors, latched them, and moved to the next one, where he did the same thing.

  Gatlin had no idea what Broussard was doing, but having known him for so long and having seen him pull off some impressive stunts, he let him work unimpeded.

  Broussard finished with the second trailer and moved to the third. Finally, as he inspected number six, he abruptly turned and began to look around the warehouse. Spotting a damaged pallet, he hurried to it, wrenched a piece of broken board free, and carried it back to the trailer.

  Gatlin could keep still no longer. “What are you doing?”

  Visually searching the trailer floor, the board poised above his right ear, Broussard did not reply. Methodically, his eyes swept the floor, back and forth. Suddenly, he saw what he was looking for and brought the board down quickly, end first. At the last second, he shifted the board’s trajectory and pounded it against the floor. After raising the board and inspecting the floor under it, he turned to Gatlin.

  “You got any crime-scene ribbon in the car?”

  “Some in the trunk. What’d you kill?”

  “A tick. And there’re bird droppin’s in this trailer and the second one. The Schrader’s been smugglin’ birds.”

  Returning to the trailers with the ribbon, Gatlin tied one end to the latch on the first trailer in the row and Broussard tied the other to the latch on the last one. Gatlin then dropped Broussard back at the hospital and went off to contact the Coast Guard.

  Broussard took the elevator to his office and alerted the Health Department to the danger posed by the trailers. Then, remembering something he’d seen next to Chester Good’s saloon when he’d been there the previous night with Blackledge, he left the office and headed for his car.

  THE WINDOWS OF THE Birds of a Feather pet store were filled with cages and signs advertising their specials. Inside, the place was a chirping asylum dominated by a large rainbow-hued parrot that announced Broussard’s arrival. “New customer. Rawwwwk. New customer. Move your tail, Bob. New customer.”

  A man in the rear who was assembling a birdcage stand stopped work and came to the front. “Yessir, what can I do for you?”

  The man’s hair was dark brown but had odd white patches in it that at first made Broussard think it’d been spotted by bird droppings. “I’m Dr. Broussard, medical examiner for Orleans Parish, and I’m tryin’ to gather some information on a man named Walter Baldwin.”

  The guy shook his head. “It’s not a name I know.”

  Because his picture of Baldwin was so distorted by post-mortem decomposition, Broussard had decided not to lead with it. “He was a salesman for Crescent City Bar and Restaurant Supplies. Chester Good’s was one of his customers.”

  The guy’s face brightened. “A guy about six two, big ears, little quarter-moon scar under one eye?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Yeah, he’s been in here three or four times in the last year. Seems to want a parrot but can’t ever make the move. I’ve showed him some beauties, but he never buys. Could be the money. They’re not cheap.”

  “Have you bought any birds in the last two weeks from anyone other than your usual sources?”

  “I thought you were interested in this . . . Baldwin, was it?”

  “Walter Baldwin’s dead . . . from a disease he acquired after bein’ bitten by a tick that appears to have come into the city on some . . .” Thinking that it might not be wise to use the word smuggled, Broussard instead said, “. . . exotic birds. So if you have bought any birds lately, they could be part of that shipment. And Baldwin could have picked up that tick here, which means you’re in danger, too.”

  The guy’s face turned five shades closer to the color of the spots in his hair and his eyes went to a big wrought-iron cage holding two gray parrots with white featherless faces and red tails.

  “I bought those African Greys over there two weeks ago from a guy who said his wife wouldn’t let him keep them anymore. And last time he was in, Baldwin helped me switch them from the cage they were in to that one. Jesus, it could be me that’s dead.”

  “The seller of the birds give you a name and address and maybe a phone number?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got it here somewhere.”

  He went behind the counter, picked up a shoe box, and began rummaging through it, pausing every few seconds to glance around him, presumably for ticks. Broussard found himself doing the same thing.

  “Here it is.” The guy handed Broussard a slip of paper.

  “I need a phone.”

  The guy reached under the counter and brought one out. Broussard punched in the number and got a recorded message from the phone company. He tried again, with the same result.

  “It’s a bogus number,” he said, hanging up. He fished the morgue photos from his shirt pocket and handed two of them to the guy. “Recognize either of these men?”

  The picture of Beverly’s brother rang no bells, but when he saw the strangulation victim, he said, “That’s him.” Some of his color had come back, but suddenly, it drained away again. “Oh, my God.”

  “What?”

  “I bought four birds from that guy—those two and two that I sold right after they came in to a couple of women from Natchez. And I got a call yesterday from a guy who said he was the executor of the estate of the one who bought the birds and that she had died. He wanted me to buy the birds back.”

  “You got his phone number?”

  He went to the shoe box and sifted all the way through it, with no luck. Brow knitted in concentration, he paused over the shoe box for a few seconds,
then remembered. He found the number under the money in the cash register and handed the slip of paper on which it was written to Broussard, who inspected it and said, “What’s his name . . . Harbison?”

  The guy nodded and Broussard reached again for the phone.

  This one was a real number—of a legal firm, judging from the name the secretary recited when she picked up. She didn’t want to put him through at first, but when he told her it was an emergency, she did.

  “Mr. Harbison, this is Dr. Broussard, medical examiner for Orleans Parish, Louisiana. I understand that a client of yours who recently died bought two African Grey parrots in New Orleans. What was the cause of her death?”

  “The doctors didn’t seem to know,” Harbison said. “What’s going on?”

  “Did she vomit blood?”

  “That was mentioned, yes.”

  Broussard got his client’s name and the name of the hospital where she’d been treated, then said, “Mr. Harbison, there’s good reason to believe your client was bitten by a tick carried on the birds she bought here. I’m gonna call the appropriate Mississippi authorities and inform ’em of the situation. In the meantime, whoever is keepin’ those birds should leave the house immediately and not return until the authorities have determined it’s safe.”

  “I understand. I’ll see to it. How will I know what’s happening?”

  “I’ll give your name and number to the appropriate people.”

  Broussard hung up and turned to the store owner. “You need to close up and get out of here. I’ll call the Health Department and they’ll take care of things from here on.”

  “Am I going to be held legally responsible for what happened to that woman?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What about my birds? Are they going to have to be destroyed?”

  “Again, that’s somethin’ for others to decide. I hope not.”

  Broussard drove back downtown and returned to his office, where he found a message on his machine asking him to call Grandma O. He checked his watch: 12:05. If he called the two health departments now, he’d probably just hear that the people he needed to talk with were at lunch. This was too important to trust with anyone but Dick Mullen and his counterpart in Mississippi. He considered contacting Gatlin but realized he hadn’t learned much, if anything, that Gatlin could use in his search for Kit and Teddy. Besides, the Schrader was the key. Best to wait and see what turns up there, he thought. With that decision made, he was free to call Grandma O.