Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller

by David Lyons

  “I’ve known this house since I was a little girl. This is one of the most beautiful homes in the Quarter.” She turned to face him. “Jock, it’s precious.”

  “Precious? What does that say about me?” He smiled and walked from the driver’s side to stand next to her. He saw a familiar car driving slowly past, as Dawn stared at the home’s façade. He walked her up to the porch and was not surprised to hear the phone ringing inside.

  “Let me get that,” he said, leaving her standing on the porch.

  “How’s it going?” Fitch asked. “Pretty well would be my guess. I didn’t want to call you over to the car and get her curiosity up. It might have spoiled the mood. Considerate of me, don’t you think?”

  “Things are fine,” Boucher said, his tone of voice indicating the timing of this phone call was not the best.

  “I couldn’t remember if I told you,” Fitch said. “It was so damned obvious that everybody ignored it, me included. It might be nothing, but it’s about that first lawyer’s murder.”

  That was the inciting incident that had led to where he was now in every respect. “What is it?” he asked.

  “The killer was left-handed,” Fitch said. “I know from the angle of the gun pressed against the victim’s skull.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?” Boucher asked.

  “Because you’re in the snake pit up to your neck, that’s why. I want you to keep your eyes open, and you seem to be pretty observant about things like this. This is the second time this issue has come up. Remember, you pointed out to me that Ruth Kalin was not left-handed. Look, just be aware, that’s all I’m saying, and watch out for lefties. Sorry to interrupt your afternoon.”

  Dawn was still staring at the colonnaded front porch. She commented on the unique period architecture, obviously well versed on the subject. He complimented her on this.

  “New Orleans is my home,” she said. “Anyone who lives here and does not become intimately acquainted with her history, especially her architecture, is missing so much. Are you going to show me inside, sir?”

  “It would be my pleasure, ma’am.” He offered his arm and she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow.

  Boucher gave her the tour of his home. The folk art piece he’d spoken of was a carved sculpture made from mangrove roots. It stood four feet high and resembled black snakes twisting and writhing in agony, but on closer look one could see heads carved to reflect different creatures: an owl, a cat, and others. To most eyes it was hideous. He asked her opinion.

  “It’s your youth,” Dawn said. “You grew up on the bayou; you loved it and felt at home there. If this piece of folk art didn’t come from your own small town, it came from nearby or could have. It’s a connection with your past. And, if it makes any difference, I like it. I’ve always been attracted to Louisiana’s bayous and the people who live there.”

  He saw the piece in a new light. “My dad did some carving. I never made the connection. I thought I was being daring since it is such a departure from everything else I’ve collected. Would you like some coffee?” he offered.

  “Let’s have it out back, please. I’m really looking forward to seeing your courtyard.”

  Boucher enjoyed her company. As the minutes passed, her beauty—of which he was most conscious—ceased to become a bar to the simple and enjoyable art of conversation. She even opened the door to a corner of his soul he had kept locked from the world, even from Malika. He spoke of the conflict he felt as a black man owning a home where slaves had lived. He had not even ventured into the slave quarters that looked down on the courtyard since he had bought the property.

  “I sit down here, look up there, and all I can do is pray that they were treated well, that they lived decent lives,” he said.

  She took his hand in hers. “When you pray,” she said, “give thanks for the changes in the world since those days. We are not responsible for the sufferings caused or endured by our ancestors. We are responsible for seeing those errors are not repeated—not here, not anywhere.”

  The hand she held, she brought to her lips, kissed it gently, then softly said, “I’m hungry.”

  “For anything in particular?”

  “I have a sudden craving for oysters Rockefeller.”

  In New Orleans, when one has a yen for this famous dish, one goes to where it was invented.

  Though it had been cool two days earlier, on this afternoon the sun was high and hot for late October, this being the time of year when any of the four seasons could be felt in a single day, sometimes more than one, from morning to evening. They walked from Boucher’s house to St. Louis Street, to the oldest family-run restaurant in the entire country.

  Established in 1840, Antoine’s could reasonably claim to have served a member of all but the earliest of America’s generations. For aficionados of New Orleans history, a better restaurant would have been hard to find. The lunchtime maître d’ recognized Judge Boucher and hurried to greet him.

  “Your Honor, it’s good to see you.” He recognized the judge’s guest as well and greeted her even more formally, in keeping with customs established in this restaurant almost two centuries ago.

  “Marcel,” Boucher asked, “is the Mystery Room available?”

  Antoine’s contained fifteen dining rooms that seated from small groups to hundreds. The Mystery Room was the most intimate, having received its name during Prohibition days, when select clients would enter the room through a secret door and return to their tables with coffee cups full of hooch. When asked the source, they would reply, “It’s a mystery to me.” Hence the name. Boucher knew he did not need to regale Dawn with this anecdote. It was an urban legend she doubtless already knew.

  “For you, Judge, I will open it personally.”

  “Thank you, Marcel. I have another request. We will be having oysters Rockefeller. Do you have time to walk us through the wine cellar and help us make an appropriate selection?”

  “Of course, Your Honor.”

  Marcel was a sommelier and relished the chance to exhibit his expertise. The wine cellar was dark and dank—a good thing. Over twenty-five thousand bottles were stored in this treasure trove, but it didn’t take long for a choice to be made.

  “I’ll think you’ll like this,” he said.

  Boucher read the label: Didier Dagueneau Pouilly-Fumé, 2004. “This will be fine.”

  “Let me show you to your table.”

  The kiss came after the oysters, before the second glass of wine—which was of course a perfect accompaniment to the meal—the kiss and the wine. Great restaurants around the world offer private dining rooms and behind closed doors passions, like champagne, have been known to become uncorked, but this did not happen at Antoine’s on this autumn afternoon. Conversation picked up where it had left off after the brief display of affection.

  “Something’s on your mind,” Dawn said. “I can see it.”

  “You’re perceptive. I was asking myself who kissed who just then.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “If I kissed you, then I need to explain—”

  She put a finger to his lips. “There’s nothing to explain. It was just a kiss. If it makes you feel better, I think I kissed you. I know I wanted to.”

  “It’s just that I’ve been seeing someone—” Again she hushed him. She looked around their private dining room, then at him.

  “I don’t see her in here. I don’t see her in your eyes.”

  For the first time he noticed the color of Dawn’s eyes: amber with flecks of gold. They were haunting, not unlike those of a wolf but radiating tenderness, not hunger. They were not threatening.

  “I called her last night after I took you home,” Boucher said.

  “And what did you talk about?”

  “That’s just it. We didn’t talk. She’s in California, Napa Valley; working on a movie, or so she says. She was too busy to talk to me.”

  “Have you thought about letting go?”

  Boucher lea
ned toward her. This time there was no doubt who kissed whom.

  “I think I just did,” he said.

  There was a long silence, then glasses were raised, a silent toast to things living and dead.

  “Do you trust your first impressions?” Boucher asked.

  “I do, almost without exception. Why?”

  “I’m battling with one.”

  “Since we’ve just met, can I assume this first impression has something to do with me?”

  He nodded and refilled her wineglass. “I know I’m basing this on a very short period of time, but it seems to me that as a multilingual graduate of Wharton School of Business—”

  “What am I doing serving coffee to executives, right?”

  “I was going to say that you seem to be overqualified for your job—but I know my appearing on the scene has probably upset office routines. You told me you did . . . what was it?”

  “I said I was responsible for SEC compliance. We are a publicly traded company and that involves a lot of work, but . . .” She sighed. “I do feel I’m overqualified for what I do. Mostly I fill out the same old forms.” She sipped her wine. “But at least I’m overcompensated too. I am paid an obscene amount of money.”

  “I suppose overcompensation . . . compensates.”

  “I sold my soul a long time ago. I made my deal with the devil and I have to live with it. But it won’t be forever. I’ll have enough to retire early, move to the tropics, and take up painting.”

  “You would leave New Orleans?”

  “Not necessarily. My dream is to have two homes in two different climates and flit between them as my mood and the weather dictate. Have you ever been to Puerto Vallarta?”

  “Mexico?”

  “Yes. Someday I’ll have a home there. And should it come to that, yes, I would leave New Orleans. I think my days at Rexcon are numbered. I won’t miss it.”

  The wine finished, Boucher called for the check and they left the restaurant.

  Wine midday was something Boucher was definitely not accustomed to, and to walk it off they strolled to Jackson Square, made the perimeter, then sauntered back to his house.

  “That was a wonderful lunch. Thank you,” Dawn said. “Now I’m in charge of the rest of the day and it’s going to be basic. First, we’re going to my place and take a nap. For dinner I’m going to order a pizza and we’ll watch a movie, d’accord?”

  “D’accord.”

  When they were inside her home, she motioned him to the sofa. “It’s more comfortable than it looks. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to take your shoes off.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am.”

  Dawn excused herself and went to her own bedroom. After a few seconds she called to him.

  “Jock, could you come here, please?”

  She was standing in front of an open wall safe, fidgeting behind her with the clasp on her South Sea pearl necklace.

  “Could you undo this? Be careful, it’s very old.”

  He managed to unfasten it easily enough. She put her jewelry in the safe. “The combination is my birthday,” Dawn said, “should you ever decide to become a cat burglar.”

  He chuckled, then excused himself. The bedroom door closed behind him as he walked to the living room and the couch assigned for his nap. Though his stockinged feet dangled over the edge, the sofa was comfortable and he dropped right off.

  When he woke, late afternoon shadows were falling. In this temperate zone, seasonal temperatures varied, but the days grew short this time of year as they did everywhere in the Northern Hemisphere. He sat up and put on his shoes. Dawn stepped into the living area looking like a college coed. She wore what looked like black silk capri pants and a blue cotton oxford button-down shirt hanging loose, just like the one Boucher happened to be wearing. She wore brown penny loafers without socks. Little or no makeup, no jewelry; ready for an evening in.

  “You stay here and make yourself at home. I’m going out and pick up some snacks.” And she was gone.

  With the house to himself, he stripped to his undershorts, pumped out a hundred push-ups and an equal number of sit-ups on the Persian carpet, then helped himself to a shower. He was fresh and clean and dry—and dressed—when she returned, a brown paper sack of groceries in her arm.

  “I could have helped you with that,” he said.

  “It’s just popcorn, and some Diet Cokes for me. I’ll order the pizza when we’re ready to eat.” She went into the kitchen and yelled back, “I’ve got us a Denzel Washington movie. There’s beer in the fridge.”

  He joined her in the kitchen and got himself a beer. “When do I get the tour?”

  “How about right now? If you’re not hungry, you will be after this excursion. This place is enormous.”

  That it was: seven thousand square feet of high-ceilinged rooms with detailed plaster and woodwork. The number of antiques—and their worth—was almost beyond calculation. The gardens outside were immaculate, with ornate cast-iron work throughout. As Dawn promised, covering the entire house and grounds did work up an appetite.

  Little was said during dinner, and nothing during the movie. They both enjoyed it, but Dawn seemed pensive, distracted. She sat on the sofa with her legs folded under her in the lotus position, cradling a bowl of popcorn, which she ate methodically, one popped kernel at a time. Boucher was amazed she could maintain the position for the whole movie, but when it was over, she got up with ease. She took the empty popcorn bowls to the kitchen and returned. She stood before him and said, “If you’d like to stay the night, you’re welcome to the guest room.”

  “How about breakfast tomorrow? We have the day off, remember?”

  “Okay. Where?”

  “Right here. I accept your offer. I’ll take the guest room.” He kissed her cheek and whispered good night.

  He closed the bedroom door behind him and undressed. Spending the night under her roof might not be the smartest move, but he’d decided to go with his gut. There was something about her, something that got next to him and just sort of burrowed in. He felt she had something she wanted to say, and was weighing very carefully whether she should or not.

  He pulled down the duvet and climbed between the sheets, turning off the bedside lamp. The door opened. He lay on the bed tense and rigid. If he was wrong about her, he was about to find out. Footsteps trod lightly on the hardwood floor; there was the rustle of sheets beside him. He flicked on the bedside lamp. Dawn stood naked at his bedside. He stared at her.

  “I’m not the enemy,” she whispered.

  He turned down the cover and switched off the light. She slipped into bed. Her hand reached across his chest. He turned on his side and moved his head closer to the sound of her breathing till their lips met. His tongue pushed her teeth apart and she sucked it down her throat as if trying to consume him from the inside out. Their hands explored each other’s bodies. She pulled him on top of her, raising her knees, kicking his buttocks with her heels as he entered her, nails digging deep into his back. Gasping for breath, she seemed to be suffocating, and he lifted his head. She pulled it back to hers, crushing his lips. His thrusts were deep and arrhythmic, accompanied by the percussion of her heels kicking him like a rider spurring a horse, urging him faster, faster. Then she sighed and collapsed beneath him. He was not finished, and his motions became more measured. He continued, speeding up slowly, and she began to move again with him. They ascended once more, now both gasping as the height of passion was reached. Exhausted, spent, he was dead weight on top of her for a long time before rolling off. Lying on his back, he felt her hand again caress his chest. He brought it to his mouth and kissed her fingertips. They fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 25

  THE SUN STREAMING THROUGH the open slats of wooden shutters woke him and he reached over. Dawn was already up. He showered and shaved, pleased to find a full complement of toiletries for his morning ritual. Drawn by the fragrance of coffee and chicory, he found her in the kitchen, preparing breakfast with a no
-nonsense focus on the task. He kissed her cheek. She motioned him to sit. The plate she served him was scrambled eggs with what looked like orange jelly beans on top.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Ikura. Salmon roe. Japanese caviar. It’s better on the eggs than salt.”

  She brought a French press coffeepot and served them both. For herself, she spread the salmon roe on a piece of toast. He tasted his eggs and nodded his approval, sipped the coffee and pronounced it delicious.

  “Now,” she said, “we’re over the preliminaries. Tell me what you’re doing at Rexcon. There’s something funny about this picture.”

  “You can’t tell me they haven’t briefed you about me,” Boucher said.

  “I was told to observe and report. That’s all.”

  “You’re not going to report everything, I hope.”

  “Cute.” She bit a half-moon out of her toast. “Please answer me, Jock.”

  “I am providing some technical information that came into my possession, that’s all—and getting handsomely paid for it.”

  She studied him. “I don’t see that in you. There’s something you’re not telling me. That’s okay. Just know that I know.” She sipped her coffee, then said, “So, will you tell me why you aren’t being a judge right now?”

  “I will,” he said. “I may be disillusioned, I may be unfit. I decided to take some time off to decide for myself. That is the truth.”

  “Good enough for me,” she said, then stood up and walked to the refrigerator. “Do you like blueberries?”

  After breakfast, as Dawn showered and dressed, he walked the gardens. When he got to the farthest corner he turned on his cell phone. Palmetto’s smiling face was on the small screen.

  “So, what’s new?” Palmetto asked.

  “I thought you might have something new for me. No, wait, I talked with Detective Fitch yesterday. He said that Dexter Jessup’s murderer was left-handed.”