by David Lyons
He finished his beignet while Perry fumed.
“I’ve got to see some proof,” Perry said.
“Of course you do. Give me an office, a nice one on the executive floor. I’ll bring in daily reports till you have everything I have. You’ll be making deposits to my nominated account. With the final report, I leave. We won’t be the best of friends, but we’ll trust each other because it would be mad not to. I don’t mean the emotion, I mean m-a-d: mutually assured destruction. We’ll have enough on each other that one could put the other away for life. That’s my life insurance policy.”
“I need to think about it.”
“Of course you do.” Boucher stood. “It’s not the perfect plan, but we’ll come to terms. I know we will. You’re predictable.”
After a last dab at the corners of his mouth, Boucher turned and left the table. He did not look back.
CHAPTER 21
BOUCHER LEFT THE FRENCH Market. When he turned the first corner and was out of sight of Perry, his legs went weak. He hugged the first lamppost he came to as if he were staggering drunk. Drawing on his wits and pure adrenaline, he had gone toe-to-toe with the killer on his own turf, the man who had almost succeeded in ending his life thousands of leagues under the sea. He let go of the lamp, stood up straight, and took a deep breath. As if to celebrate his accomplishment, two street musicians, one playing a slide trombone, the other a euphonium, started blowing a mean version of “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans.” The judge slipped a twenty into the hat on the sidewalk. The music made him realize it was good to be alive. He turned the corner at the next block and an arm reached out and grabbed him, pulling him into a doorway. It was Fitch.
“You ain’t dead yet, I see,” the detective said.
Boucher wanted to hug him, still elated over his achievement, and grateful in the knowledge that the night before, this man had stood guard over him.
“I wangled a spot inside his company,” he said. “He said he’d think about it, but I’m in, I know it.” He poked his head out of the doorway and looked around. “You want to join me Sunday for my cleanup run? I’ll tell you all about it then.”
“Pick me up at ten,” Fitch said. “Now go work it off. You’re too damned excited.”
Boucher walked home, changed into his exercise clothes, and got in his truck. He drove to his gym and parked outside. He couldn’t help but think of Ruth Kalin, her brutal murder and the last time he saw her alive. He parked and went inside. Thoughts of the woman’s death stayed with him and anger replaced the nervous elation he had felt earlier, both emotions rooted in the same source—John Perry. He blasted the punching bag for the next hour with such ferocity that the proprietor watching him almost came over to tell him to take it easy, out of concern for both his customer and his equipment.
Sunday morning broke with a sultry, musky dampness. Boucher sat in his courtyard in shorts and a T-shirt, sipping his coffee. This house was not made for a man to live alone, he thought as he picked up his phone and called Malika. They spoke for half an hour. She was in L.A. One of her clients had been offered a movie deal for his novel. It meant big money for both her and the client. This was a first for her and she was excited. Today was a day off. She would be playing tourist. Doing things they should be doing together. He hung up not liking the way his life was going. A sultry breeze blew in his ear and whispered, So change it.
He picked up Fitch at ten in front of the run-down apartment complex where he lived. For a time both were silent. Fitch spoke first.
“I know why I’m in a bad mood,” he said. “What’s your problem?”
“Malika’s in L.A. doing the town and I’m stuck here with you. You don’t look so cheerful yourself.”
“My doctor says I need to cut down on my drinking.”
“You’ll feel better if you do.”
“I’m also pissed because I’m getting nowhere with the homicides piling up around you. I spoke with an ex-FBI friend who says they wouldn’t help with any of this, even if I asked them. They’d pass on bribing a federal judge because the case is cold and they wouldn’t want a turf war with the DA’s office. He says they’ve got a short list of hot issues and if you’re not the flavor of the month they won’t look at you.”
“That’s not why they won’t help.” Boucher recounted what he had learned about Epson and the FBI.
Fitch sighed. “Don’t know why I’m surprised. Cronyism ain’t unheard of around here. Anyway, what do you plan to do in his offices?”
“I don’t know. Part of this is that old adage about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer. Part is just a feeling that I’m going to find something that will put him away.”
“You—the guy he’d whack in a heartbeat—you think he’s just going to leave incriminating evidence around for you to trip over? You’re dreaming.” He took a cigarette out, then put it back.
“I’m going to be giving him information that’s worth a fortune,” Boucher said. “He’s going to like having me around.”
“I think you’re crazy.” Fitch took out the cigarette again and placed it in his mouth, just sucking on it, not lighting up, then asked, “Where we going?”
“Nowhere. I’m just going to drive along the coast.”
No cleanup today; it was a journey of reflection. Katrina, the oil spill, coastal erosion. Natural and man-made disasters had wreaked havoc on these wetlands and beaches but, as always, there were signs of the resilience of the land and its people. Fishermen still plied their trade on calm waters and couples could be seen walking hand in hand on sandy beaches. Ibis stood like marble statuary in the shallows and brown pelicans glided effortlessly on gentle air currents. In a single vista were signs of hope, and signs of dire warning. Neither was lost on the two men as they drove.
“Let’s go by my office,” Fitch said. “I want to give you something.”
“The other evening you raised a good point,” Boucher said. “I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for us to be seen together—especially at your office.”
“It’s Sunday afternoon, for Christ’s sake. Anybody who’s not blind, deaf, and dumb is in front of a TV watching the Saints. For just a few precious hours on an autumn weekend everyone can forget about natural and man-made disasters. Martians could land in New Orleans on a Sunday afternoon during football season and nobody would know it. Besides, if Perry or his mob say anything about us being together, tell them you’re still a person of interest in a murder that showed up in your driveway and I’m bugging the shit out of you about it. I agree to question you out of the office, out of respect for who you are and all that. Believe me, they’ll buy that sooner than they’re going to buy your line about being Perry’s new Best Friend Forever or whatever the fuck it is.”
They drove to the Eighth District station.
“Come on,” Fitch said, “it’s in my office.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Boucher said when they entered. “You painted the place.”
The sickly yellow walls were now a fresh eggshell white.
“Yeah, and what else?” Fitch asked. Boucher looked around.
“There’s no ashtray on your desk.”
“Now you know why I’m not Little Mary Sunshine. I’m cutting down on my drinking and my smoking. Thank God for great restaurants, ’cause that’s going to be the only joy I’ve got left.”
He sat down at his desk and unlocked the top drawer. “Here,” he said, handing Boucher what looked like a quarter.
“What’s this?”
“Tape it under the insert of your shoe.”
“What’s it for?”
“It’s a GPS locator. It’s for finding your body.”
“That’s a morbid thought,” Boucher said, studying the small thin disk.
“That’s police work,” Fitch said. “Anyway, you want to get Perry, you know it might cost you your life. I don’t want you to die in vain. If I know where your corpse is, I might be able to pin it on him. I said ‘might.’�
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Boucher chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Fitch said.
“You as Little Mary Sunshine.”
Fitch declined the offer of a ride back to his apartment. He was going to find a bar with the biggest plasma TV, free pretzels and popcorn, and the cheapest beer. During a Saints game, temperance could take a hike.
Judge Jock Boucher went home and watched the game alone. He got a call at halftime.
“You’re on,” Perry said. “Start tomorrow.”
Boucher called the Massachusetts number Palmetto had given him and uttered two words into the recorder.
“I’m in.”
CHAPTER 22
THE WIND SHIFTED DURING the night and the temperature dropped twenty degrees. With the humidity still high, there was a definite chill in the air when Boucher woke the next morning. This was good. He was ready to go to work. The chill gave him an edge.
Like so many others beginning the normal workday routine, he was on autopilot as he drove to the city center and pulled into the federal courthouse out of habit, albeit a habit of only a few short weeks. The security guard allowed him access without question. He left his truck in the federal building parking lot. Parking privileges had not been taken from him, and it was a short walk of a couple of blocks to the office tower and Perry’s corporate headquarters. This morning, when he got off the elevator at the executive offices floor, the greeting he received was much different than what he’d experienced during his first visit. He was welcomed. The receptionist in the large lobby offered a smile, as did Perry’s two administrative assistants. All three women, he noted, were quite attractive, an observation that had escaped him earlier, when focus—and fear—was concentrated on a mission whose result could have been much different.
“Good morning, Judge Boucher.” The speaker was the woman who had asked his business before. “We were told to expect you. Mr. Perry asked that you be shown right into his office. He’s in a meeting elsewhere but will be with you shortly.”
“I don’t mind waiting here in the lobby.”
“I’m sure you’ll find it more comfortable in his office.” She held the door open for him and showed him into the CEO’s office. Boucher chose a chair next to Perry’s desk and sat down.
“Judge Boucher.” Perry’s voice came from a hidden speaker. The judge turned around, looking for the source.
“I’m on the intercom,” Perry said. “I’m down the hall with my chief geologist, Bert Cantrell. I’d like you to meet him. We’ll be there in two minutes. Did Dawn offer you coffee?”
She came through the door that instant carrying a silver tray and coffee service. “I have it here, Mr. Perry.”
“Thank you, Dawn,” Perry’s disembodied voice said. “See that Judge Boucher has everything he needs.”
“I will, sir.”
She wore a tan skirt, white silk blouse with the top button undone, and beige high heels. Her jewelry was a single strand of pearls and gold scalloped earrings. She wore a stainless steel lady’s Rolex. Her hair was too dark for blond and too light for brown. Golden highlights caught the morning sun. Little makeup, white even teeth. All this Boucher noticed in less than a second. Summation: beautiful.
“This is a French roast,” she said, pouring from a sterling silver pot into a fine china cup. “If you have a preference, please let me know.”
“French roast is fine. Next time I’d like a little chicory.” Boucher was testing. Accommodation to small details was a good sign.
“I like chicory too,” she said. “We don’t have any right now, but I’ll be sure to get some.” She handed him his cup, bending over and offering a view of her breasts supported by a push-up Wonderbra. She stood up slowly.
“Mr. Perry has assigned me to help you. Please let me know if there’s anything you need.”
Boucher nodded. “Thank you,” he said, “for the coffee.” He sipped. “It’s delicious.”
Dawn turned and left him—reluctantly, it seemed, or maybe the reluctance was his. He wasn’t alone for long. Perry and another man entered just seconds later, as if exits and entrances were all choreographed in this organization. Perry had said he was bringing his geologist, but the person with him could not have looked less like a man of science. He was in his fifties, wore a buzz cut, had a thick neck that grew out of a barrel chest. If there was a stereotype for a former Marine—there are no ex-Marines, the corps proudly claims—this guy was it.
“Judge Boucher,” Perry said, striding toward him, “I’d like you to meet Bert Cantrell, my right-hand man, and in the whole damn country he’s the best geologist and geophysicist—which means he studies rocks and reports, dirt and data. He and I built this company.”
Boucher stood and offered his right hand, anticipating and preparing for the bone-crushing handshake he knew was coming. He was not disappointed, but gave as good as he got. This man would challenge him. His grip spoke volumes.
“Bert and I have been discussing your offer,” Perry said. “I couldn’t make such a decision without him. We have decided to give you a trial run. If we feel what you have is of sufficient value to us, then the arrangement you and I discussed is on. If not, you go your own way and we go ours. Deal?”
Boucher looked at both men, studying their faces before answering. “I’m going to be parsimonious with my information until our arrangement is—”
“Parsimonious?” Perry interrupted. “Come on, Judge. This isn’t a courtroom.”
“It means you’re not going to get an information dump right off the bat. I’m going to dole it out carefully. It won’t take that long for you to decide to accept my proposal.”
“That’s fair enough.” He turned to Cantrell. “Parsimonious; I thought he was talking about the damned fruit.”
“That’s persimmon,” Boucher said.
“Whatever,” Perry said. “You agree to a trial period. You’ll turn your information over to Bert; he and I decide whether it’s worth anything. We’ve set you up an office down the hall, and Dawn will be your assistant. She’ll help you with anything you need.” He paused. “Well, then, I guess we’re in business. Welcome aboard, Judge.”
“I’d prefer not to be called Judge,” Boucher said. “My first name’s Jock.”
“Jock it is, then,” Perry said. “Bert will show you to your office.”
“Let’s do that, then I’ll excuse myself for the rest of the day. I will organize the material I’ll present tomorrow.” He turned to Bert. “And I’ll have it ready by noon. I’m assuming that typing is among Dawn’s attributes, in addition to the obvious.”
“Don’t underestimate Dawn,” Perry said. “I don’t pay her a six-figure salary because of her looks. She’s got an MBA from Wharton and speaks three languages. There’s no deadwood around here, Jock. The receptionist in the lobby is also a registered nurse. I hire based on merit. If it comes in a pretty package”—he smiled—“I try not to hold that against them.”
Boucher saw his assigned office, had a few words with Bert, then excused himself. He retrieved his pickup and drove home. There he waited. Palmetto had promised him that a package would be delivered today and that he’d better be home to receive it. The midday sun had softened the early morning chill and he could not sit still. He went out back and walked his garden, alternately looking at the plants, his cell phone, and his watch. It was after nine in L.A. He dialed. Malika’s phone was turned off or she was out of range. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been unable to reach her on her cell. He put his phone back in his pocket and went inside. He waited, wasting hours staring at the inside of his historic home, feeling disconnected from the things around him that he had loved perhaps not for themselves but maybe as markers, symbols of his success. He didn’t feel too successful right now. He called Malika again. This time she answered. She was laughing, out of breath. He could hear a male voice in the background, then a muffled sound that told him she had her hand over the phone and was trying to get someone to be quiet.
“Hi, Jock,” she said.
“I tried to call you earlier.”
“Yeah, I saw. I’m sorry. I had to sleep late this morning. We went to a cast party last night and—”
“Who’s we?”
“Jerry and I. Jerry’s my client. We had the chance to meet a director who might do the movie of his book. He’d just finished a picture, and this cast party, well, it was outrageous. Guess what? He wants me in the movie too.”
“Who, your client?”
“No, the director. His name is—”
“I don’t care what his name is.” There was silence. “How much longer will you be in L.A.?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.” Malika’s voice was flat. “There are things I need to do here.”
“Well, call me when you get back to New York,” Boucher said. “I won’t interrupt you again while you’re so busy.”
“All right. Good-bye, Jock.” She hung up.
He stared at the phone in his hand as if it would offer some explanation for the terse conversation just concluded. What did this woman want? She had said she wanted to be with him. Now she’s out West doing God knows what. Was this jealousy he was feeling—or anger over his own uncertainty about their relationship? He shunted Malika and their unresolved issues to the back of his mind.
For the next three hours he sat reading in his living room, trying to ignore his century-old Seth Thomas mantel clock, each tick of the timepiece like a small mallet beating inside his skull. The sun was going down when he heard a truck pull up and stop in front of his house.
“Finally,” he said aloud to hear his own voice. Breathing a sigh of relief, he went to his front door and opened it as the courier mounted the steps to his porch.
“This the, uh, Boucher residence?” He pronounced it butcher.
“I’m Jock Boucher.”
“Package for you.”
He signed for the package, then took it back inside. It was about twelve by eighteen inches, three inches thick, weighed maybe ten pounds, and was very securely wrapped. He took it to the kitchen and set it on the table, pulled a knife from the block of his chef’s knives, and carefully cut the tape, slit open the package, then pulled out the contents—a notebook computer, a cell phone, and a small box with bits and pieces of plastic. There was a four-page letter from Palmetto in small-font, single-spaced geek-speak, giving instructions on the care and use of the equipment he’d just been sent. He read the letter, then read it again. It was too much to comprehend in one sitting. He returned to the section dealing with the notebook computer, its adaptations, and its intended use. After several readings, Boucher did manage to ascertain that Palmetto was trying to teach him about cloud computing. Apparently, the information he would be turning over to Perry was somewhere in this cloud.