A Perfect Cover

by Maureen Tan

  I woke up, gasping.

  It was just before midnight, two hours before I was to meet Beauprix.

  I got dressed anyway. I put on black jeans, a sweater with deep, buttoned pockets and lightweight boots that tied up above my ankles and had slip-proof soles. I tucked my phone and flashlight into my pockets and then spent a few minutes loosening the straps on my purse so that I could strap it over my shoulders.

  That done, I filled my purse with a couple of candy bars, a bottle of water, my binoculars, the wrapped teacups and the papers I wanted to give Beauprix. Then I rigged the straps so the backpack rode comfortably between my shoulders and pulled on a dark, camouflage-colored poncho. I’d bought it and the boots at a surplus store that had been a quick bus ride down Chef Menteur Highway. The poncho was made of some kind of heavy plastic material, reeked of chemicals and hung well past my knees.

  A cold rain made the night miserable, but the poncho’s hood kept water from soaking my hair and trickling down my back and the nasty weather cut down on the number of people who might notice me.

  I had time to spare before I was to meet Beauprix. No point in wasting it.

  For a while I watched the traffic that crossed the bridge spanning both one-way lanes of Dwyer Road. That activity yielded the license number of another car belonging to a Young Businessman. The map, license numbers and fingerprints might give Beauprix enough evidence that he could push the N.O.P.D. into supporting him. But even as I considered that, I realized that without a complaint filed by Mr. Yang, the whole thing could be dismissed as mere speculation. As nothing more than overactive imagination. But I would not give up. And neither, I knew, would Anthony Beauprix. And he would believe me.

  I left Dwyer Road for the no-man’s land of the canal and catch basin that separated Chef Menteur Highway from Little Vietnam. Just like the police, I assumed that anyone I saw hanging around at that hour was probably up to no good. Little that I saw contradicted that belief.

  A lime green Dodge Neon with at least twenty thousand dollars’ worth of custom mods and a young white male behind the wheel cruised down Dwyer and parked. For the next quarter hour, traffic on the street increased as cars cruised past the Neon, slowed, then stopped just long enough for drugs and cash to exchange hands.

  Near the fence surrounding the catch basin, several kids hung out beneath a makeshift canopy of raincoats and tree branches. They were so preoccupied that I walked within a few yards of them, close enough to hear them giggling and to listen to snatches of dialog. By its odor, I guessed they were smoking a Swisher Sweet. Based on their conversation, I knew that homegrown weed had replaced the cigar’s tobacco interior.

  But I was no vice cop, and I doubted, anyway, that what I’d seen had anything to do with the murders. Except that murder, apparently, hadn’t put much of a crimp in this type of business-as-usual activity.

  As my meeting time with Beauprix approached, I made my way south of Chef Menteur Highway into the marshy edges of the bayou, where train tracks, empty lots and industry converged. Carefully avoiding the glare of security lights, I watched the marsh grass and water-filled ditches warily for any snakes and gators that hadn’t gotten the message that the wildlife refuge was a mile down the road. Back on higher ground, I knocked the mud off my boots as I walked along the tracks, skirted the edges of parking lots, and moved in the deep shadows between buildings.

  I followed the now-familiar route onto the flat rooftop of a coffee warehouse facility. The complex was a block square, made up of several structures that butted up to each other or were attached by enclosed walkways. The roofline was irregular, but the building that faced north was one of the tallest for miles. Its view of the streetscape was unmatched.

  There was nothing about the flat-roofed warehouse that offered shelter from the rain. That, I’d expected. But I hadn’t expected Beauprix to be late. I glanced at my watch, realized that another five minutes had passed. It was 1:45 a.m. Which made him fifteen minutes late. No big deal, except that he struck me as a man who was rarely late for appointments.

  By two, I was beginning to wonder if I’d inadvertently placed him in jeopardy. He was so powerfully built, so obviously fit, that I hadn’t considered that he would have a problem meeting me on the roof. Despite the rain puddling on its flat surface, I’d crossed the twenty-five-foot length of the pedestrian walkway without a thought to the paved, barbed-wire enclosed freight yard three stories below. The tarred roof of the walkway was at least six feet wide, but maybe he wasn’t as sure-footed as I was. And that was assuming he would have no problem climbing the vertical ladder that went two stories up the side of a building.

  I wondered if Beauprix was too proud, too stubborn, to tell me that he couldn’t do what I’d asked of him. But, for all his chauvinistic tendencies, he didn’t seem to be the foolishly macho type. I dug beneath my dripping poncho, took the cell phone from my pocket and punched his number on speed dial. After a couple of rings, my call rolled over to voice mail. And it occurred to me that this was the first time I’d called him that he hadn’t answered.

  “This is Lacie,” I said. “Call me, please.”

  And I hoped that I’d managed to keep my concern from tainting those few simple words.

  Then I went back to watching the street through my binoculars, ignoring my watch to keep my eyes on the traffic. The pattern that I wanted Beauprix to see was holding true for tonight. The vehicles I’d spotted seemed to follow overlapping, carefully timed and obviously well-planned routes. Though I could see only a section of the main business area and swatch of residential streets, I didn’t doubt that there were several more cars and small trucks engaged in the late-night activity.

  Undoubtedly, the Young Businessmen ran an organized patrol on the streets of Little Vietnam every night. And, I suspected, a similarly organized patrol during the day. And that, I thought, as I picked out another of their cars and used my binoculars to follow it until it disappeared from sight, explained the lack of crime in Little Vietnam. Young Businessmen on patrol. Businessmen who were armed and dangerous and extorting the area’s residents. And maybe providing counterfeit documents. Was that, I wondered, what the red envelopes from the Benevolent Society were purchasing? Or was there—as Uncle Duran had suggested—a supplier who was better known to me?

  I glanced at my watch again. Thirty minutes late had become forty-five. And it was too easy now to imagine that somehow Beauprix had slipped and fallen on his way across the rooftops. Unlikely that anyone else would be around at this time of night. And the gusty wind would make it difficult for me to hear his cries. Assuming he was conscious.

  Unconsciousness, I supposed, would make him incapable of using a phone. Or answering it.

  Five minutes later and anxiety overcame my very real belief that he had simply forgotten our appointment and I was simply being irrational. So I backtracked all the way to the top of the tallest escape ladder, taking time along the way to check the ground below every potential hazard. Not surprisingly, I didn’t find his bruised and broken body.

  Even as I felt relieved, I cursed the man for making me worry. Cursed myself for worrying. Undoubtedly, if I were this late and my absence unexplained, he would be frantic. Undoubtedly, that was exactly how I was feeling.

  I left the roof at 3:00 a.m. As I began making my way along the railroad tracks, heading toward the street, I saw Beauprix. He was hurrying along the tracks in my direction, following the route I had described to him, occasionally looking up but mostly watching the crossrails to avoid a misstep. The next time he looked up, he saw me.

  He was hatless. And coatless. In the pouring-down rain.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said when we were close enough not to have to shout. He waved his arm in the direction of the building I’d come from. “Go on back. I’ll follow you.”

  Even if I thought his disheveled state was normal, there was nothing normal about the tension I heard in his voice. Another murder was my first thought. But he would have phoned. />
  And then he was standing in front of me.

  I stepped in close, pushing back my hood and looking up into his face. Even through the darkness, I could see that something was terribly wrong. But before I could ask, he spoke.

  “You said there was something on the roof you wanted to show me,” he said, almost brusquely, looking toward the rooftop. “Best not waste any more time.”

  I stayed where I was and raindrops dripped from his face onto mine.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  He flinched, his hazel eyes flicking away from my face, then back again.

  His body language was transparent. Whatever was wrong hurt like hell. And he wasn’t ready to talk about it.

  “I tried to call,” he offered, “but my cell phone didn’t work inside the hospital. I went to the desk, asked to use theirs, but the doctor came in just then.”

  Though I feared the reason for his presence at the hospital and wanted a coherent explanation now, I didn’t interrupt him. His voice was still over-controlled and oozed tension. But as he edged closer to the source of his distress, his delivery became increasingly agitated.

  “And then I had to get away from all of them. Not for long. Just for an hour or two. Just enough time to think. So I got in my car and started driving. Anywhere. Nowhere. And, after a couple of minutes, I remembered that you were waiting. And I was late. And I apolo—”

  I put my fingers gently over his mouth to stop the tumble of words.

  “Anthony,” I said quietly, “please tell me what happened.”

  I shifted my hands to cup them both around his wet cheeks. Felt his muscles working beneath my fingertips as he clenched his jaw, fighting to control his runaway emotions. And I waited.

  “My father had another stroke,” he said finally.

  Then he choked and swallowed hard, clenched his teeth and briefly pressed his eyes shut. This time, when he spoke again, his accent was pure Louisiana and his voice was thick with unshed tears.

  “My daddy died tonight,” he said simply.

  And there in the rain, in the middle of the night, standing on the railroad tracks behind a coffee warehouse, I wrapped my arms around Anthony Beauprix and held him as he wept.

  I climbed back to my lookout point with Beauprix on my heels.

  While we still stood on the railroad tracks, at the point that Beauprix had straightened and stepped back from my embrace, I’d suggested that he come back to the house with me. I offered the same remedy that he’d offered me back in my room at the Intercontinental—a hot shower, decaf coffee, cookies to soothe his nerves, someone to watch over him as he rested.

  He thanked me, said no and, instead, demanded that we climb onto the warehouse roof. As planned.

  When we reached the top, I suggested that we share my rain poncho.

  “No. I’m okay,” he said, then he moved his chin in the direction we’d just come from. “I owe you an apology for what happened back there. I was just…tired. There was a problem at work and then, when I finally got home… Well, it’s just that I haven’t slept for more than a few hours in the past couple of days.”

  Obviously he was not okay. He was soaked and shivering, beyond exhaustion, physically and emotionally. And, though I was sure he’d never admit it, he was probably in shock.

  I stripped off my poncho and dropped it at his feet.

  “What the hell—”

  “You can put it on. Or you can share it with me. Or we can both sit like fools in the driving rain. You choose.”

  He opened his mouth to object.

  “Don’t bother, Beauprix,” I said. “This is one you’re not going to win.”

  And so we knelt, side by side, beneath the poncho we’d draped over our shoulders. And, eventually, I felt him stop shivering as his cold body relaxed against the warmth of mine.

  Odd to be tucked in next to a man who was now all business, who only a few minutes earlier had held on to me as though he were drowning. And I hadn’t minded that he’d chosen me to hang on to. But, on the rooftop, it seemed as if those few moments of intensity had driven a wedge between us.

  “What do you have?” he asked.

  I kept my tone as neutral as his and told him everything I knew, everything I suspected about the Young Businessmen. I gave him the bundle with the teacups, the map, the license numbers. Then I told him what I suspected the members of the Benevolent Society had done.

  I offered Beauprix the binoculars and we remained in near silence for the next half hour as he watched the patrol route. Focusing on the business at hand, I supposed, so that the immediate past would slide away. For just a little while.

  Finally he put the binoculars aside and looked at me. And even in the darkness, I could see that his tears were still too near the surface.

  “We need evidence,” he said, struggling to keep his voice from cracking too badly. “Or a witness. But I can’t… I’m sorry. But not right now… In a day or two. But until then…”

  “We have time,” I said. “At least a week.”

  “Lacie, ask your uncle for help. Tell him what you suspect. Maybe he can convince someone at city hall.”

  This was not the time to explain why I couldn’t do that.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, lightly touching his cheek. “For the time being, leave this to me.”

  “Check in with me every night. That hasn’t changed. Promise me.”

  So I promised.

  Chapter 18

  On Saturday, I worked all day and stole the extra key to the Red Lotus’s front door from its corner in the cash drawer. Late that night, I returned to the restaurant, let myself in and used my lock-picking skills on the metal file cabinet in the utility room. I sat in the middle of the floor for hours, looking over Mr. Yang’s books.

  Though he’d kept no record of the payments he was making to the Young Businessmen, in the past year the restaurant’s reported income had been steadily declining. And, as I suspected, it was on the brink of failure. A motive, I thought. But I still needed to prove there’d been a crime.

  Sunday, I followed the Yangs through their day. I watched them at church. I watched them at home. I watched them do nothing.

  On Monday, Squirt called in sick.

  “Female problems,” I said, and wasn’t pushed for details.

  I walked to a bus stop where I was sure I wouldn’t be recognized and took a bus back into the center of the city, paying the extra twenty-five cents for a transfer. I watched as the bus cruised past the massive Louisiana Superdome and got off at the next stop with a crowd of other passengers, a few of them with babies and toddlers in tow.

  The entrance to the New Orleans Center was on Poydras Avenue near Sugarbowl Drive, and we all headed that way. Once inside the big glass doors, the other passengers were quickly lost to the mall’s sixty upscale shops and mobs of mostly well-dressed female shoppers. Beneath the center’s soaring marble atrium, I shopped under the watchful eyes of suspicious salesclerks.

  I felt out of place and, no doubt, created considerable interest among security personnel throughout the mall. I ignored them all, continued with my business, and made a point of paying for merchandise at the nearest counter and keeping receipts for every purchase. Then I carried my packages with me into the mall’s very nice public rest room.

  A sign—Women—was all that kept a pair of male security officers in dun-brown uniforms from following me inside. They lingered near the door, and I passed them as I walked out of the rest room and headed in the direction of the mall’s main entrance. As I hailed a taxi, I imagined them finally closing down the washroom and discovering that the mixed-race teenager with multicolored hair, wearing low-slung jeans and a skimpy top, had somehow escaped them.

  I slid into the back seat.

  The driver didn’t bother to turn around, but slowly pulled away from the curb as his eyes examined me through the rearview mirror.

  The woman he saw wasn’t the type to stiff a cabdriver.

  I was dresse
d in a black, two-piece linen suit. The skirt was fashionably, but not unacceptably, short. Dark hose over shapely legs and high heels made me look taller than I was. Beneath the soft, feminine tailoring of the jacket, I wore a mocha-colored silk top with a straight, simple neckline. It matched a silky wrap-style hat that completely covered my hair. A gentle application of makeup emphasized my high cheekbones, slanted eyes and full lips. And the only jewelry I wore was a pair of thin gold hoops in my ears. Squirt—or, at least, the clothes that made her—now rode beside me in a Lord & Taylor shopping bag.

  “Where to, ma’am?” the cabbie asked.

  I reminded myself of who I was and spoke in Lacie Reed’s voice—a voice that was solidly midwestern and hadn’t, for many years, carried the accents of Vietnam.

  “I have a funeral to attend at St. Louis Cemetery Number Two,” I said, opening an expensive leather clutch purse. “Can you take me there?”

  I was no stranger to the customs of New Orleans. I made it clear I knew exactly how far away the cemetery was, we negotiated a price for him to stay and wait for me until the funeral was over, and I paid half in cash up front. The cabbie flipped off his meter and drove.

  Old New Orleans families are buried in old New Orleans cemeteries, and the Beauprixs had been around long enough to have taught the pirate Jean Lafitte some tricks of the trade. They also were probably among the first families to build an above-ground family crypt in St. Louis Cemetery No. 2.

  That was back in 1823, when a yellow fever epidemic overwhelmed the original St. Louis Cemetery. The city fathers, perhaps wiser in the way of contagion than they’d been when Cemetery No. 1 was opened, located No. 2 in another swamp, this one a full third of a mile from the inhabited French Quarter.

  Thanks to modern drainage, the contagious dead were no longer a problem. Thanks to a deteriorating inner city and the no-man’s land created beneath the elevated interstate roadway, the criminal living were. Most guidebooks warned tourists away from solitary visits to Cemetery No. 2, even in the middle of the day.