“No.” She had hardly glanced at it. “That’s all T-Jacques had?”
“That’s all that was on the drive,” Marisol said. “I even scanned for metadata—nothing.”
“So it was a wasted trip, except for some decent jazz.” Geoff pocketed the scrap. “How’s the report coming?”
“It’s coming. No surprises.” The scientist seemed to relax a little. “The plume of contamination is clearly emanating from the refinery. There are several regulated pollutants present. It’ll be your job to prove as a legal matter that this is a continuing violation of the Clean Water Act—something I think you can handle. Case closed.”
“Thanks, Eileen.”
Nodding, she sipped her coffee.
“Ms. Kim, did Dalia’s work include any research on unusual animals at the lake?”
Eileen looked at Marisol straight on for the first time. “What?” She paused. Geoff recognized her old temper flaring, her taking in of breath to keep it at bay. Eileen would never correct her, but could guess his old friend the professor would have preferred that Marisol call her “doctor.” But he also sensed that Eileen’s annoyance went deeper than the mere omission of an honorific. She seemed nervous, almost frightened. Paranoid. His mind drifted to T-Jacques.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Eileen said. “What makes you ask that?”
“T-Jacques mentioned evidence of weird creatures—”
“Creatures? Dalia was a serious scientist. She wasn’t out there looking for ‘creatures,’ like some crackpot taking fuzzy pictures at Loch Ness. She was studying the lake’s biodiversity. And, yes, it is an interesting ecosystem—I wouldn’t be one bit surprised if there are species of insects, say, whose only habitat is the lake. But these perennial stories of supernatural beasties are nothing more than the childish myths of the ignorant.”
“Calm down, Eileen. It’s just a question.” Geoff looked toward the kitchen. The void in his gut cried for grease. “What had Dalia learned on that front, beyond her work on the lawsuit?”
“Nothing. Or at least, nothing that you two need to worry about.” Eileen chewed a thumb nail and glared. Marisol looked at Geoff as if she wanted to speak and sought direction from him, to interrogate this freaked out scientist. Geoff closed his eyes and rubbed his temples and pretended not to notice. Then Eileen said, “If T-Jacques really had no additional information, then we have nothing further to talk about.”
Marisol seemed to be losing her cool demeanor, as if Eileen’s unexpected belligerence had put her off guard. “But what about her panicked phone call to you? The one that led Waltz to contact T-Jacques in the first place? And she gave you some kind of sample or something from the lake, right? Well what is it? What’s this all about?”
“Everyone’s jittery down here these days, kiddo. She probably just had a case of the nerves. Dalia’s ‘sample’ as you call it—”
“Come on, Eileen, that’s what you called it.” Geoff felt annoyed at the two of them.
“In any event, it’s nothing.”
“Wait, this doesn’t make—”
The food came, breaking Marisol’s probing, Eileen’s glare. Over plates piled with grits and black beans, ham steak and sausage, eggs, biscuits and fresh fruit, Geoff said, “How’s Lakeview coming along?”
“Slow and steady,” Eileen said, steady herself now. “Families are moving back. Lots of new construction and rebuilding. Much more progress than the Lower Ninth Ward, which is its own source of tension. In any event, I hope to be back in my house by July.”
Marisol said, “Were you here during the storm?”
“Of course not. I evacuated. The whole situation was just … absurd.”
“Let me ask you something, as a scientist. Does it really make sense to rebuild this whole city, when it’s mostly below sea level?”
Eileen dropped her fork. Geoff watched the rage building in her eyes like an electrical storm. “Do you know how sick I am—everyone in this city is—of that question? So listen up, kiddo. Plenty of other cities are vulnerable—to flooding, earthquakes, volcanoes. E.g., San Francisco, Seattle, Amsterdam, Tokyo. We need those places; that’s why we employ engineers to make them safe. What happened here was an engineering failure—the levees failed. But more than that it was a corporate and governmental failure on a massive, even criminal scale. The oil companies and shipping interests have been carving up our coastal wetlands—our natural hurricane defenses—for decades. Every American who has ever put a drop of gasoline into an automobile shares some culpability for what happened here. And every American has a responsibility to fix it.”
In the silence, Marisol’s eyes had softened and gone distant, as if Eileen had not only reached her but frightened her. They were the same eyes he had glimpsed over dinner the night before, when he had asked if she had children.
“So do you believe these rumors that the levees were dynamited?”
Eileen seemed ready to breath fire. “Good God, Geoff, where’d you find this one?” Turning to Marisol: “Those stories are being peddled by poor, undereducated people whose grief at the loss of their homes, in conjunction with their long history of oppression, has made them delusional. The storm itself was a natural disaster; the failure of the levees a result of negligence—gross, criminal negligence, as I explained—but there was no conspiracy to drive the poor from New Orleans, as some would lead you to believe. Take Lakeview, for example—my neighborhood. Solidly upper-middle class, utterly obliterated. It doesn’t fit the narrative.”
Geoff paused from shoveling food into his angry gut. “How do you like living in the Irish Channel?”
“It’s great. That old New Orleans charm. You can see it survived pretty much intact. I’m lucky to have found a place to rent, price gouging aside. But I’m ready to have my own house back.”
Marisol ignored Geoff’s attempt to smooth their breakfast. Eileen’s condescension had not seemed to phase her, though her eyes had lost their mistiness. “You’re probably right that the stories are deluded, professor. But T-Jacques Rubell doesn’t think so, and he even thinks Katrina is linked to whatever’s going on in East Texas that Dalia was into—at least in a, I don’t know, spiritual sense. And crazy or not, in my game you try to figure out what people are on about, why they think the things they think. It’s how you get to the truth.”
“I’m a scientist. I know truth. And the truth is, Dalia was killed by racist, redneck scum. Nothing in her work suggests otherwise.” Eileen leaned over her yolk-smeared plate to stare down Marisol. “Nothing, kiddo.”
•
They didn’t speak much on the drive out of New Orleans, radio tuned to a local music station he couldn’t get enough of. The station petered out as they crossed over the miles of swampland and neared Baton Rouge.
Marisol said, “I take it you guys have a history. And not just a professional one.”
“What makes you say that?” Geoff drove, Marisol in the passenger seat, legs crossed over the soft, worn leather.
“The way you interact. The familiarity. I mean, if she were just a consultant you had retained, I would think she would have treated us with a bit more politeness. Client relations, you know?”
Geoff glanced over. “She’s always been rough around the edges. And since the storm …”
“Don’t worry; my feelings aren’t hurt.” She gave him that crooked smile. “Lots of people don’t trust snoops. Especially if they have something to hide. No offense.”
Geoff did not answer right away. Then he said, “I’ve known her for years. So you’re right that we have a history. I do trust her.” He knew he sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. “But…”
“She is hiding something. I wouldn’t be worth half my fee if I couldn’t tell you that.” Marisol peered at him over her glasses. “And it just doesn’t make any sense. She’s the one that introduced you to T-Jacques. Let you know that Dalia was working on a side project at the lake, told you she had … something Dalia had discovered. And now s
he goes mum. Why?”
“Because T-Jacques wouldn’t talk to her—he would deal only with me. And now it seems clear that there really is nothing there. Or at least nothing related to the murder or my lawsuit. At most, maybe Dalia was onto some cool research path at the lake. Maybe a new salamander species or whatever. Now Eileen wants to follow it through. Academe is so damn competitive and political, grants and whatnot. I don’t blame her if she doesn’t want to go blabbing to a stranger at this early stage—a P.I. at that.”
Geoff kept his eyes forward as traffic picked up in the capital city, but he could feel Marisol’s gaze burning into his profile. With a tease in her voice, she said, “You’re not regretting bringing me on this assignment, are you, Waltz?”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Anyway, T-Jacques doesn’t trust her. I picked up that vibe.”
“The vibe I picked up? T-Jacques wouldn’t trust his own mother.”
“Touché.” Marisol paused. “What did you really make of his ramblings—alien technology and cloning and all that? Pure bullshit?”
“Paranoid delusions at best. But you’ve got to understand—everybody down here’s suffering some degree of PTSD since the storm. It’s sad.”
“So should we even bother trying to figure out what that number means?”
“I don’t see much point right now. If my client, Willie, doesn’t get tangled up further in the murder investigation, then I think your work will be done. Whatever else Texronco is up to at the lake—and I’m sure Eileen will explain it to me in her own time, when she’s figured it all out herself—I can’t imagine a scenario in which the company would go so far as to murder a scientist. It’s a publicly traded, multi-national corporation—they just don’t behave that way.”
Marisol jerked her head around and gave him a look as if he had suggested that Mafioso are perfectly nice fellows, pillars of their communities, just misunderstood. Realizing the statement had sounded naïve, Geoff said, “I mean, murder—really? And to stage it like a hate crime? Whatever Dalia had discovered, worst case scenario for the company would be maybe some environmental response costs amounting to a fraction of their earnings.”
“You really are Mr. Rationality, aren’t you?” All the playfulness and all of the sexy edge had fled from Marisol’s voice. “But maybe you don’t understand what these companies are capable of when it comes to covering up their … their crimes against nature.”
Geoff waited a beat and then spoke in the gentlest tone his hangover would allow. “Tell me what you mean.”
“I mean, I’ve seen things, where I’m from.” A pause, and then her voice sounded not just distant but harsh. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
Geoff almost said: I figured you to be a Libertarian—that doesn’t usually jibe with environmentalism. But he knew better than to prod. And perhaps in her case the two philosophies were not inconsistent—a Libertarianism arrising from the belief that environmental degradation (crimes against nature) stem from corrupt institutions, that all large institutions tend toward corruption, and that the struggle of the individual against such faceless power is both noble and doomed. No wonder she got along with his pal Tony Abruzzo.
They crossed the massive, unadorned iron bridge over the Mississippi in silence, downtown Baton Rouge and the capitol building tower off to their right. Soon, refineries surrounded them in massive industrial jumbles. Then Marisol said, “Hey, I know you’re one of the good guys.” Geoff sensed her smile had returned. “One more question: does your old buddy Eileen call everyone ‘kiddo?’ I mean I’m, what, maybe five years younger than her?”
Geoff scowled to himself. “No, that’s a new Eileenism. She was really in a mood.” He hesitated, then let the story come forth on its own accord. Such sincere words required no conjuring. “We were an item once, a long time ago, back in college.” Christ, was it nearly twenty years ago? “We were both engineering majors—environmental engineering. They called us the hippies of the department even though, compared to most the liberal arts types, we were downright lame. She was one of the few girls in engineering of any type—had that cute, nerdy look.” Staying in bed all afternoon, smoking cigarettes and listening to the indie rock tapes they hunted and treasured like dark painted misshapen Easter eggs only they appreciated, the more obscure the label the better. “We grew up, but stayed friends. She was at my wedding, got along fine with Janie, my wife. They were polar opposites. I guess that’s why.”
Geoff turned quiet, feeling the darkness threaten to return, knowing from experience that talk could only keep it at bay for so long.
“I’m sorry if I sounded cold about her. I have a suspicious mind.”
“Don’t worry about it. If I’d hired a credulous P.I., I’d want my money back. Anyway, things have been tense between us.” He looked over long enough to meet her dark eyes. “After Janie died, right after I started working again, I went down to New Orleans for an appeal. I was dazed and numb and pretty much worthless. Eileen was married to a junkie musician, and it was falling apart. We met for a drink in the Quarter and, well …”
“Two hurt people. It happens.”
“Yeah.” Geoff almost shuddered at the memory of waking up entangled and hung over in Eileen’s damn Lakeview ranch style, the smell of her boy-toy itinerant husband still on the sheets. Toxic sweat and cigarettes. “We didn’t make the smart move. Should have laughed it off as a silly mistake. Instead, we tried to make something of it. A two-month fuck-a-thon.” He sensed Marisol start but kept his eyes on the road. “I guess … I guess I was trying to convince myself that my old life had been a mistake, was no great loss, that I’d belonged with Eileen all along. Stupid. Anyway, when our heads cleared …” Loop of guilt and grief, a month of crushing despair…
Marisol turned toward him in the seat, patted his right thigh. He was glad not to finish the thought. “Okay. It might be a good idea for you to talk to Eileen alone. But anyway, like you said—I’ll probably be out of that part. I’ll meet Willie, and we’ll keep track of the murder investigation.”
“Right.”
Geoff turned off the interstate to cut across the Acadiana Trail to Opelousas and I-49 up to Shreveport. They would be at the lake in just over three hours. He fiddled with the radio and lighted on an NPR affiliate out of Lafayette. The hourly news roundup: Flooding along the Danube. A major rail accident in Tokyo. More deaths in Iraq. Geoff zoned out. Until the announcer said: “And arrests have been made in an alleged racially motivated murder that has brought nation-wide attention to an East Texas lakeside hamlet. Sheriff John Seastrunk brought twin brothers Wayne and Duane Tatum into custody at just past ten this morning … there have been reports that the brothers intend to plead guilty …”
Smiling for the first time that day, Geoff said, “Now how about that, Marisol—it’s over!”
Chapter 10
Jimmy Lee Monroe lay on his couch drinking beer and flipping through the satellite TV stations. He avoided the news channels. He had pushed from his mind what he did. What he had promised to do next. He could stomach no reminders.
No use. He paused on a cop show. The longer he watched, the more the plot began to cut through the boozy foam around his brain faster than he could replenish it. Until he worked himself into a panic.
The lawyer on the show explained the finer points of the law of conspiracy. Explained that any member of a conspiracy to commit murder could be guilty of murder—and subject to the same punishment—even if he didn’t pull the trigger.
And Jimmy Lee knew that for him, that meant lethal injection.
The simmering doubts he had about the Speaker and his promises boiled over. He got up from the couch, turned off the TV, cranked up some metal on his clunky old stereo and reached for his bong to settle his mind.
We was drunk. Started jokin bout scarin the shit outa some niggers, like they used to do in the Klan days. I don’t remember how it happened, but before I knew it, we had that girl in the truck. I thought we was just g
onna have some fun with her, but the twins went nuts. We was on the bayou. I shoulda made em stop. I’m so sorry, sorry sorry …
This was to be his story. He would turn himself in and rat out the idiot twins. The DA would cut him a deal, and the Tatums would go to death row.
Now the town was up in arms, rabble-rousing colored preacher leading rallies. All over the national news. Twins already in the pokey; too late to turn them in. Stupid to think he could get off with just a few years. He would be sitting on death row in Huntsville, right along with Wayne and Duane.
The Shadow People—they had put him up to it. Through the Speaker. Jimmy Lee had seen that strange crew once gathered at the Speaker’s country estate. The foreigners, the old men, the ancient woman—he had seen them whispering with his boss through a part in the double doors to the great man’s study. Before they had shut him out.
Then the order had come down.
Unless … there was no order; there were no Shadow People. Where had he gotten the idea to egg the twins on? Just another ignorant notion, Jimmy Lee. You and your fool ideas, Momma had said in the years after Daddy went away. It’ll be a miracle if I don’t grow old alone with you dead or in prison.
The fear and confusion enveloped him like a jaundiced haze. The Speaker had promised nothing, knew nothing. Except …
The thought of the Speaker betraying him crushed Jimmy Lee’s heart. So he himself must be wrong—you’re always wrong, Jimmy Lee. You’re worthless. Who had said that? His mother, his father? He could not remember. Surely not the Speaker. The Speaker loved him like a son.
But Jimmy Lee knew how fathers could treat their sons.
Before, Jimmy Lee figured he would do anything for the Speaker. He scared off voters in colored-town. Took bags of money from foreign businessmen in dark alleys. Gave bags of money to mobbed up Miami types from the underbelly of the telecom industry to fund robo-calls against Duchamp’s opponents. Ruined some of those opponents’ careers and marriages with whisper campaigns of mixed race babies and homosexuality.
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