by John Moore
Most of the people Charlotte described to me had the normal run-of-the-mill credentials. They were college graduates with masters of business administration degrees from local universities. Most lacked real-world experience. She read their resumes to me with a blasé attitude until she came to the one she’d saved for last. She was anything but nonchalant about Michael Keeson’s resume. Charlotte’s face lit up the moment she read his name. He was a graduate of Yale. He’d most recently been the manager of a start-up micro-brewery in Pennsylvania. He was relocating to New Orleans and wanted to work in the health industry. Charlotte and I joked that beer was considered health food in Louisiana. I think it was his photo, Facebook page, and website that really hooked her. He was over six feet tall with jet-black hair and eyes the same shade of blue as mine. His smile could light up a room. He was a handsome man to be sure, and well-traveled for a forty-year-old. He had some great pictures on Facebook and some cool links as well—enough to make me think maybe I hadn’t given craft beer enough of a chance.
I’d never seen Charlotte this impressed with a man, other than Mr. Morris, in all the years I’d known her.
“When can we interview him?” I asked.
“Is tomorrow too soon for you?” she answered with a sly smile.
“Tomorrow will be fine,” I said. “Why don’t we have lunch with him at Galatoire’s?”Galatoire’s has been a Bourbon Street institution since French immigrant Jean Galatoire opened it in 1905. The food is great and the location is perfect. “That way I can check on the progress the contractors are making on our new condo afterward.”
“Oh my God,” Charlotte said. “I love Galatoire’s. It has such a relaxed atmosphere . . . perfect for getting to know him.”
Getting to know him? I hoped she didn’t mean in the biblical sense. I mean, that would be fine, but there were a few things to find out about Mr. Keeson first. Was he as nice as he seemed; was he single; was he into Charlotte?
It was good to see her smile again though. Handsome or not, he would have to be able to run the company and get us in the black soon. He had graduated from Yale, one of the best universities in the United States, sohe must be a smart man. Michael had attached letters from his former employers with glowing descriptions of his abilities and work ethic. On paper, he was the man we were looking for.
After Charlotte left, Tom and I went to bed. He was in bed first with his chest showing and his hands behind his head. Bicep muscles flexed as he adjusted his head on the pillow. I felt that all-too-familiar stirring when I turned toward the bed. The low light from the nightstand lamp highlighted his handsome face. Piper or no Piper, I had to have him. I crawled in bed next to Tom and rested my head on his bare chest. He brought his left hand down and cupped one of my breasts. Warm waves rippled through my body as his hand caressed my erect nipple. I turned my head and our lips met, tongues intertwining. The television drowned the moans I began making as our kiss broke and he made his way down my body.
I rolled onto my back and gave Tom unfettered access to all of me. His tongue that only moments before had danced with mine found the place that ignited a ferocious blaze in my lower parts. I grabbed his head and held it in place as wave after wave crashed over me. When the storm had passed I pulled him by his hair back to my lips. We kissed like lovers had done since before Helen and her Greek lover, Paris’s, lips met, igniting the Trojan War. Once again Tom and I moved in that familiar unison until we exploded together in ethereal bliss. We slept the sound sleep that only lovers know.
When I awakened the next morning, my throat muscles ached from holding in the screams that had struggled to escape the night before. I brought Tom coffee in bed, being careful not to wake the little princess occupying the couch. She’d fallen asleep watching television, the Movie Channel spinning its tales till I turned it off. The silence was one of those little pleasures in life that you don’t think about till it’s upon you.
Tom had propped himself up in bed when I returned. “The contractors should be finished with the condo in the next couple of days,” he said. “Are you sure you are OK with moving into the Quarter?”
I was as sure as a person could be who knew thatdanger lurked around every corner. Jess and Tom had both made me realize that hiding my head in the sand was no way to live. Evils had to be confronted lest they dominate the world, and, frankly, Tom’s contention that Broussard could get at me anywhere rang true. I’d been thinking of the condo as somehow magically connected to him, like he had some kind of secret access door. Yes, he had lived there. Yes, that was kind of weird. But weird or not, it was a great place and we were lucky.
“Tom, I’m sure,” I said. “We should check the progress today. Once we know when they will complete the renovations, we can schedule a rental truck for the few things we need to move.”
“Awesome,” Piper said, poking her head into the room. “I can’t wait to put my masks on the wall. Wouldn’t it be cool to paint my room black?”
“We aren’t painting any rooms black,” I said. “We are going to make the condo our cheery new home. You can have your voodoo decorations, but there will be a limit.”
“Why don’t we all go to the Café du Monde for breakfast this morning before you meet with Mandy Morris at eight?” Tom suggested.
Piper and I didn’t need any persuading. We dressed and headed to the Quarter. Living in the French Quarter in New Orleans would be a dream come true for me. I never believed I’d have such a great life. When I was a child I feared I’d be stuck on the farm in Indiana, plowing cornfields. Now I was about to move to one of the most famous streets in the world in a beautiful condo with a man I loved and a girl (part daughter, part little sister) whom I was crazy about. What else could a woman ask for?
Café du Monde had its usual summer crowd. The locals were easy to spot, dressed in shabby-chic clothes. The tourists, on the other hand, usually wore some type of shorts with T-shirts that said, “I’m with Stupid” or “New Orleans Surrender the Booty.” They had the Middle America look on their faces that said, “That’s not how we do things back home.” None of that mattered to us in New Orleans. They were just people looking for a party, and we were happy to see them. Goofy or not, we loved them.
The morning was a little cooler than normal, so we enjoyed sitting at a table outside by the sidewalk. Tom, Piper, and I enjoyed a cup of café au lait while we chatted about our new life in the Quarter. I wasn’t looking forward to meeting with Mandy, so I tried to drag my time with Piper and Tom out as long as I could. They, on the other hand, were just as anxious to go to the condo. I lost the battle and they left me sitting by myself at the table.
As they walked away I thought I saw Victor Ivanovich get into a black car across the street. Mandy walked up as I strained my eyes to get a better look. The car sped away before I could verify it was Victor.
“Good morning, Alexandra,” Mandy said, observing my squinting eyes. “What are you looking at?”
“Oh, hi, Mandy. Nothing. I was just peoplewatching. Have a seat,” I said. “So, how are things at Superior Sugar these days?”
“So-so,” she said. “That’s really what I wanted to talk to you about. We need your help moving the company forward. I’ve talked it over with my Uncle Garrett and he agrees. Our vision for the company is to expand our distribution worldwide. The emerging markets of India and China offer unlimited potential for us. We want you to craft an effective message to dominate those markets. We will pay you well if you’ll come to work for the company.”
I looked away for a moment to collect my thoughts. I didn’t want to work for Superior Sugar. I really didn’t want to have anything to do with sugar at all. I’d seen the damage overuse of sugar had done to the American population. Besides, stevia was a sugar substitute and a direct competitor to sugar. Then there were Garrett and Mandy Morris themselves. A pervert and a cult queen, not the type of people I wanted to associate with. However, what was I
going to do if the stevia company and the farm needed money? Superior’s cash could make the difference between success and failure. It was a tough decision.
My mind strayed back to what I’d just seen. Was that Victor? I was sure it was. Why was he in New Orleans? Was he after Piper again or moving in on the drug and prostitution markets now that Jaeger was out of the way? I’d better text Tom and give him a heads-up.
Mandy was looking at me, waiting for my response. “I’m sorry, Mandy, I have to text Tom about something he’s waiting on. I’ll just take a second.”
I placed the phone in my lap hidden from Mandy’s view and texted, “Tom, I just spotted Victor Ivanovich. Watch over Piper. Keep her close to you.”
A text bounced right back to me.“10/4.” I turned back to Mandy, whose eyes had strayed to a cloud formation.“Doesn’t that cloud look like the devil?” she asked.
She’s so weird, I thought. But I smiled and said, “Kinda. Mandy, I need a week or so to think about your offer. I also need to talk to Charlotte and Tom about it. Is that OK?”
“If you insist,” she said, pouting a little.
The black car sped by again. This time, I got a good look. Victor Ivanovich was indeed back in New Orleans.
Chapter Five:
Body Drop
It was time for me to see Clinton Cunningham. I stopped first at our new condo to check in with Tom. He and Piper were chatting with the workmen about the progress they’d made. It seemed that the work on the bathrooms would be complete in two days and we could move in. I had my reservations but put them aside. Seeing Victor unnerved me. No, it scared the shit out of me. He was in town for a reason, and I hoped Clint would know what he was up to. My fear that we’d be more vulnerable in the French Quarter condo was really irrational. It was much more secure than my rented one. Our new condo had an alarm system and we could always add video monitoring if we needed it. I calmed myself and headed to Clint’s strip joint.
It was a short walk down Bourbon Street to Clint’s. The sun was out and a little kinder than normal for July, so I took my time walking down Bourbon. Beer trucks were delivering to the bars, and people were opening their businesses and preparing for another day. The city was waking with an odd bustling quietness, like a movie without sound. There were sounds, but not the normal loud pulsating music blaring from the bars or the shouts of the barkers trying to lure the tourists into the strip clubs. No, it was the sound of everyone waking up and warming up to prepare for the day’s performance. The hellos and good mornings flowed back and forth, the signature sound of New Orleans.
I walked into Clint’s club and eyed the same scene I’d seen every time I visited. There at the bar was the old guy finishing his night or beginning his day. I don’t think he knew which. The lone stripper twirled on the pole with her undulating body present but her mind a million miles away. Clint was seated at his desk as I entered his office.
“Well if it isn’t Alexandra Lee,” Clint croaked. “What brings you here so early in the morning? You miss me or something?”
“Not hardly,” I said. “It’s Victor Ivanovich. I saw him in a car a few minutes ago. What the hell is he doing back in town?”
Clint pushed back from his desk and chewed on the cigar in his mouth for a second. “Are you sure it was Victor you saw?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said. He wasn’t faking. He was shocked. He didn’t know Victor was back in New Orleans. “I was having coffee at the Café du Monde and he drove past. He didn’t see me, but I got a good look at him, and he was in a hurry to get somewhere.”
“I’ll have my guys check it out. If he’s trying to make a run at my girls, I’ll hear about it. You need to watch your back. Keep that little pea shooter you carry around handy.”
I got up and walked out of Clint’s office. Victor wasn’t after Clint’s prostitution business. That much was clear to me. If he had been, Victor would not have been out in the open, and Clint would have spotted signs of his movements in the underworld. He was in town for something else, and he didn’t care who knew it. I had a bad feeling that his return had something to do with me. It sent cold shivers down my spine. Clint was right. I’d have to watch my back and Piper’s too. Maybe I’d better start wearing my gun. Victor was a slick operator with a deadly evil side, and was relentless when he went after something he wanted.
I took the short walk to our new home, confused as to why Victor was back in New Orleans. He usually stayed in the background as his devious schemes unfolded, trapping his unsuspecting victims in his carefully weaved web. Something evil was afoot, but I didn’t have a clue as to what. Maybe Detective Baker knew what he was up to?
Tom was on his phone when I walked into our home. He slipped off into the kitchen to finish his conversation. Piper looked up from my laptop and gave me a contented smile. She resembled a puppy that had just crawled up under its mother for a nap.
“Alexandra, I love it here. Can we spend the night?” she asked.
“Not tonight, sweetheart. The bathrooms aren’t finished and we have to buy groceries to stock the pantry and fridge. I promise it’ll be soon.”
Tom walked back into the room with a frown on his face. “I have to go out on a boat for a couple of days,” he said. “I tried to get out of it, but I have to go. We have to map the dead zones in the Gulf.”
“Dead zones? That sounds cool. What are they?” Piper asked.
“They are not cool at all,” Tom said. “They are low-oxygen areas in the Gulf caused by ‘excessive nutrient pollution from human activities coupled with other factors that deplete the oxygen required to support most marine life in bottom and near-bottom water.’ At least that’s the official definition of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA). I call them man-made fish hells.”
“Tom, they sound awful. What causes them?” I asked.
“Deforestation to convert more land into farmland and the increase in demand for corn. Corn needs more fertilizer than other crops. The nitrogen-based fertilizer runs off of the land into streams, then into the Mississippi River, and eventually into the Gulf of Mexico,” Tom said. “Industrial farming practices by Aggrow contribute the most to the problem.”
“It really sucks that you have to go,” Piper said. “When will you be back?”
“I’ll only be gone for a couple of days. We shouldn’t have any trouble getting it done. The weather is good now, but the weather service is reporting increased activity in the tropics. They want this done in case we get battered by a hurricane,” Tom said.
Piper looked back at the computer screen, having lost interest in the conversation when she found out the dead zones didn’t have any vampires or zombies. “Alexandra, look at this post on your website. Another body has been found. This time it’s a young man.”
“Are there any other details?” I asked.
“No. The post just says it looked like a suicide, but the police are investigating.”
It was time for me to go to meet Charlotte and Michael Keeson for lunch. I threw my car keys to Tom and told him I was going to walk to Galatoire’s Restaurant and take an Uber back to the old condo. He and Piper planned to stay in the Quarter for another hour or so. Like Piper, I wanted to stay in our new home, because it was beautiful and it was in the French Quarter. I couldn’t believe I was about to live here.
Charlotte and Michael were already seated in a large room, brightly lit, cooled by ceiling fans, and packed with people, when I entered the restaurant. The servers bustled about in a frenzy attending to the guests as if filling each empty glass were a matter of life and death. Charlotte introduced me to Michael, a charming man with closely cropped hair, graying at his temples. He had the afternoon stubble so trendy on men now.
“Charlotte tells me your expertise is public relations,” Michael said.
“I used to work for a PR firm. Now I would say I’m more concerned with larger ma
tters,” I said.
“What do you mean by that?” Keeson asked.
“Maybe we can discuss it later. Right now, let’s focus on you,” I said. “Your resume says you went to Yale to get your business degree. I’ve always heard that Yale grads stay in touch with their fellow students all of their lives. Is that true?”
“For the most part that is true. As you may know, there have been many distinguished graduates. Both the Bush presidents, Bill and Hillary Clinton, Eli Whitney, inventor of the cotton gin, and the list goes on and on. There are only around one thousand graduates every year. That’s not many when you consider that a school like LSU confers around four thousand degrees in each class.”
“Where did you work after you graduated from Yale?” I asked.
“I worked at Magna,” he said. “They are a large manufacturing company who make the interiors of cars and trucks for some of the auto companies like Ford.”
“I’ve never heard of them,” Charlotte said. “I thought Ford made every part for their vehicles. Tell me a little about Magna.”
Charlotte was looking at Michael with that certain glint in her eyes I’d only seen a few times before. Yep, it was unmistakable. She was attracted to him. She’d rested her chin on her two closed fists with her elbows on the table. Her eyes were cemented to his as he spoke. I don’t think she had any real interest in Magna. She just wanted to hear the sound of his voice. I was happy to see the old Charlotte back, but I was uneasy worrying that this situation could get complicated.
Michael continued, “Magna was founded by an Austrian named Frank Stronach. He hailed from the same little town as Arnold Schwarzenegger. They knew each other well as young men and have kept in contact over the span of their careers. Mr. Stronach started in a small machine shop and started acquiring others like it. He did machine work for many companies but focused on the thriving auto industry. Today his company is publicly traded with a gross income of more than $40 billion per year.”