Gator Aide (Rachel Porter Mysteries)

by Jessica Speart

  Putting the chart down, Kushner pulled herself up on the examining table. “No, not at all. Besides, now you’ve got my curiosity aroused. All I want to know is if it’s legal.”

  I limped back into the room, the brace a vise around my knee. “That’s a hard one. I’d say it’s perfectly legal. My problem is a boss who’s hedging on having an autopsy done, out of sheer stubbornness and obstinate male ego.”

  Kushner laughed as she drew small concentric circles in the air with her feet. “I’ve dealt with the same problem around here. Believe me, it’s not that unusual. But it sounds like the patient is. What kind of animal are you talking about?”

  “Reptile. A large one.”

  She rubbed a finger along the bridge of her nose as another patient was rushed down the hall on a gurney. “I wish I could help you, but…” Gesturing toward the commotion out in the hall, she smiled and then shrugged.

  But I wasn’t ready to give up so easily. Not after Hickok’s abrupt dismissal of my work.

  “Would you know someone else who might be willing to do it without legal authorization? I swear on the Empire State Building, it’s for a good cause.”

  Kushner gazed off in the distance for a moment, then turned back with a look of sheer inspiration. “I just might have the guy for you. He’s a veterinarian and fellow New Yorker who’s heavy into animal rights, which means we’re constantly battling over medical experimentation. Sam’s one of these old sixties idealists who’s probably crazy enough to do just about anything, if you can provide him with a politically correct reason.”

  “How would helping to solve a murder case involving a big-time wildlife poacher strike him?”

  “I’d say you’ve got your man.”

  Ten

  The waiting room had pretty much cleared out by the time Santou returned to get me. I’d spent the last half hour watching frightened people being shunted in and out, with injuries ranging from broken bones to bodies that looked as though they’d been put through a meat grinder—mostly victims of the riot. I was caught between two conflicting emotions. Though I wanted to thank Santou for his help, I also had the overwhelming urge to punch him out for being on a police force that didn’t seem to care.

  I slid into Santou’s LeSabre, wanting nothing more than to sleep for a solid eight hours without any dreams of Valerie, Hickok, or the maniac who’d plowed a sign into my head.

  “So, Porter, you want to tell me all about your day before, during, or after dinner?”

  It hurt for me even to think. Having to deal with carrying on a conversation over dinner was another dimension altogether. “Listen, Santou, I appreciate the trouble you’ve gone to, taxiing me back and forth. But look at me. I feel like shit, and all I want to do is go home.” What I really wanted more than anything was another Percocet.

  “Home is exactly where I’m taking you, Porter.”

  This time we drove down Bourbon Street. Santou flashed his badge, and we were waved on through an area that had been blocked off to all other traffic. I had expected to find a scene out of war-torn Beirut. While torn clothing and splintered signs abounded here as well, what surprised me was the fact that most of the buildings and porno theatres remained relatively untouched, except for those that were explicitly gay. Terri’s club, Boy Toy, was one that had incurred skinhead wrath. The front window was shattered, and part of the building had been torched, but Terri’s publicity shot as Madonna in a lacy white bustierre, bikini panties, garter belt, stockings, and high heels still hung outside. “Kill All Fags” had been spray painted over it in large black letters.

  As we drove down block after block, it became obvious that the riot on Bourbon had been carefully planned. It was as if someone had laid out which businesses were to be hit. Considering the amount of money generated on the strip, it wasn’t hard to imagine why. But it did make me curious. A few of the clubs had even had the foresight to board up their windows. I made a mental note as to which buildings they were, and decided to try and find out who the investors might be.

  Santou parked in front of my apartment, placing his N.O.P.D. sign clearly on display. Opening the passenger door, he helped me out.

  “You’ll have to make it upstairs on your own steam, chère. I’ve got packages to carry.”

  I concentrated on the long flight of steps ahead, not bothering to ask Santou exactly what he was bringing in. All my energy was directed on keeping as much weight off my left leg as possible. The second-floor landing still reeked with the odor of urine, and my straw doormat was stained with Terri’s blood. Unlocking my door, I stepped inside and scanned the room for my purse. Spotting it on the floor where I’d left it, I limped over to my secondhand chair, removing the ice bag I’d carelessly left on its seat. A dark, wet puddle covered the pale green fabric. Too hot and tired to care, I plunked myself down as I watched Santou come through the door with an armload of groceries. The man rarely seemed carefree. Tonight he looked even less so.

  “You picked a good day to get beat-up, Porter. We got us some fresh catfish, and I’m in the mood to cook.”

  The mention of food set my stomach rumbling, and I realized I was starved. The last time I’d eaten was the cherry Danish before my expedition to Valerie’s. I was in no shape to get up and cook for myself, something I rarely did even under the best of circumstances. Instead, I watched Santou put the groceries away and generally check out my living conditions. I hadn’t cleaned the place in weeks, and, at the moment, my freezer was in worse shape than Valerie’s.

  “I figured you wouldn’t have much here to cook with. Looks like I was right.”

  Santou looked perfectly natural puttering about as he hummed to himself, but I didn’t appreciate the crack. I’d been made to feel that I wasn’t domestic by everyone from my mother to my former fiancé. They were right, of course. But it was still a sore spot. I believed in the philosophy of takeout: if you live by yourself, why bother cooking food that’s just going to go to waste? I considered myself a responsible adult by bringing my meals home in little aluminum containers.

  The catfish sizzled and the collard greens smelled better than I had imagined they would. It was the most cooking that had been done in my kitchen since I’d moved here.

  I was more aware of my mismatched plates and utensils than ever as we sat down to eat. I hated the thought of someone coming in and making assumptions about me as I’d done with Valerie, but it wasn’t hard to do. Santou poured himself a glass of red wine, quickly downing it in one gulp.

  “What? No Mylanta chaser?”

  His eyes narrowed as they focused in on me, and he was silent for a moment.

  “Want to tell me what you found at Vaughn’s place this afternoon?”

  I picked at the catfish, trying to figure out what it was about his question that bothered me. “Why don’t you tell me first why there were no cops around for today’s festivities? Or weren’t the police aware that a potentially explosive march would be taking place today?”

  I reached for the wine bottle, having come to the decision that one glass along with a Percocet probably wouldn’t kill me.

  “They were out there, Porter. There was no trouble on Canal where the march started, and that’s where everyone had been ordered to report.”

  I pictured a long line of cops hanging out on Canal watching the march disappear off in the distance. “Why didn’t they move in when all hell broke loose?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question. They were ordered back to the precinct to change into riot gear as soon as they got wind of trouble. Seems it took a long time to order them back out on the street again.”

  “And who was the one giving the orders?”

  Santou took a drink of his wine. “Captain Connie Kroll.”

  “The same charmer I had the pleasure of not meeting early this morning.”

  “The one and only.”

  “Interesting guy. First he ropes off a murder investigation, and then sits back as all hell breaks loose in the Quarter. He wou
ldn’t happen to be tied in with Hillard Williams by any chance, would he?”

  Santou frowned. The creases in his face cut deep through his flesh. “Everyone knows Hillard. You can’t hang a man for that.”

  The words reverberated in a hollow cavity behind my eyes where a migraine was beginning to form. My daily quotient for civility was close to running out.

  “Well, just what can you hang a man for down here? I know poaching doesn’t seem to matter. How about committing murder? Does that pose a problem? Or is it only the slashing of hookers that doesn’t count? I mean, what the hell is it that you guys are paid to do, anyway?”

  Santou sat back and stared through me as though deciding my fate. When he spoke again, it was with an icy distance that let me know in no uncertain terms that I had overstepped my bounds.

  “Listen, Porter. I work damn hard to do my job right, and that ain’t always easy around here. I’ve paid my dues and been put through the fire more than you’ll ever know. I’ve learned that sometimes you got to straddle both sides of the fence to get what you need. That’s why I’m good at what I do. It’s a trick you could do well to acquire. I put my ass on the line today by giving you that key to Vaughn’s apartment. Now you owe me some information. As for the march, I’ll dig around and find out what I can. Other than that, you want to press charges against the guy who bashed in your head? Sure, no problem. Describe him for me. Can Bo Peep identify who beat him up? I’ll be glad to do the paperwork. Otherwise, if you’ve got a problem just say so, and we’ll call whatever this is that we’ve started here quits.”

  A combination of Percocet and wine had me dead tired and close to bursting into tears. Everything seemed hopeless at the moment—from taking the time to try and slap a poacher in jail, to attempting something as simple as having a conversation. In the past when I’d reached this point, I generally handled the problem by walking away and burning my bridges behind me—especially when it came to my relationships with men. This time I couldn’t figure out whether Santou was a bridge I couldn’t afford to burn, or just one I didn’t want to yet.

  “I apologize. I’ve never been very good at getting beaten up in riots. It’s something I’m trying to work on. Mind if I start over?”

  Santou drank another glass of wine, never taking his eyes off me. Exuding both a red-hot anger and white-hot lust that caused my pulse to race, his seductive mix of danger and sex was as irresistible as it was frightening. My face flushed as he continued to stare. Noticing it, the barest trace of a smile flitted across his lips. I took a deep breath and tried again.

  “What happens to Connie Kroll if Hillard gets into office?”

  “Same thing that happens to him no matter who gets in. The man stays. He’s rock solid. Kroll’s a lot like old J. Edgar Hoover was. He’s got dirt on everybody in town. Starts a file as soon as each new baby is born.” Santou leaned back in his chair, examining me more casually now. “It would take a bomb to dislodge that man. Problem is, nobody’s got one big enough to do it.”

  “Does he have a file on you, Santou?”

  Leaning back to grab a box of toothpicks on the kitchen counter, he pulled one out and began to chew it to bits. “I suppose he does, at that.”

  “Does he have one on Charlie Hickok?”

  “Porter, he’s probably already started one on you.”

  The thought put a stop to the rush I’d been feeling.

  “So, if you wanted to find out about someone, all you’d have to do is take a peek inside his files, is that right?”

  Santou finished off the wine. “Don’t even think it. They’re kept under lock and key I don’t know where, and I’m not sure I want to. I’ve just about used up my nine lives already. I’m trying to hold on hard to this last one.”

  By now, the roar in my head had died down to a mild throb. “The last thing I remember during the march was being slammed on the head by a sign encouraging me to vote for Hillard. Do you think he could have been behind what happened today?”

  “No way, chère. Don’t waste your time on that end. He’s not stupid enough to chance it, not this close to the election. Too many votes would be lost if he openly sided with the rednecks. Besides, he’s found Jesus, remember?

  “Hell, Porter. Today’s ass kicking could have been from any number of groups. We’ve got Confederate Hammer Skins, the Aryan National Front, White Aryan Resistance, and Church of the Creator. Take your pick. We’ve even got splinter groups of the Nationalist Skinhead Knights and the Fourth Reich Skinheads. Any one of them could have been responsible. They’re so damn disorganized most of the time, it’s hard to keep a finger on them. They form; they break up; new ones start.

  “That’s not to say that someone close to Hillard couldn’t have organized the butt kicking, though. This was a solid-gold opportunity for a little right-wing political consciousness raising, and if that were the case, I’d have to put my money on Buddy Budwell.”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar. “Who’s that?”

  “One mean ol’ fat boy who’s come a hell of a long way from his roots. He used to be poor white trash from back in the swamp. He worked his way right on up through the ranks in Hillard’s gator scam. There ain’t nothing too down and dirty for ol’ Buddy to stick his hands into. Whatever’s going to get him his pot of gold is his religion. That and being a Nazi. He was Hillard’s second-in-command when Hill headed up the delta contingent. Buddy’s like a son to him. Hell, he could be his son. I hear Hillard used to pop his mama regularly; could be Buddy was a product of that loving union.”

  I remembered now where I’d heard his name before. It had been through Trenton.

  “So Buddy’s still at Hillard’s beck and call?”

  “Who’s to say? Buddy’s a respectable businessman these days. Deals legally in gator skins, selling them around the world. Shit, he even sells to rock stars. He’s made a fortune at it. If Buddy’s dipping his fat little fingers into something illegal, he has a hell of a cover. Up till now, we’ve never had any reason to look into it. Fact of the matter is, we still don’t.”

  That was something I disagreed with him on. Buddy was a man I wanted to meet soon. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out Valerie’s necklace and plunked down a fortune in diamonds next to Santou’s plate.

  “Jesus, Porter! Where in the hell did you find this?”

  “Yeah, I’ve grown kind of fond of it myself. The question is, how come you guys didn’t discover it?”

  Picking up the necklace, Santou ran his fingers over each stone. I tried to envision it around the neck of either Dolores or Valerie, but neither fit the bill.

  “Hell, as far as I know, that place was torn upside down and right side up.”

  “Obviously not inside out. Someone forgot to check her freezer.”

  Santou’s fist tightened around the necklace. “She kept a fortune in diamonds next to some frozen chopped meat?”

  “She had it buried inside ice cream.”

  His eyes drilled into me until I felt like a bug about to be pinned and dissected. “You dug through ice cream in a dead woman’s freezer? You want to tell me how you happened to come up with that idea?”

  I decided to skip over the details and just give him a broad outline. “I used to work off the books in New York. I ended up with lots of cash, and needed some place to stash it. I figured a container of ice cream would be the last place anyone would ever look.”

  Santou shook his head as the corners of his mouth twitched into a grin. “And they wonder if the sexes think differently. How did you know what you were looking for?”

  “I didn’t. I just knew that Dolores Williams’s jewelry was being siphoned off by Hillard and ending up around Valerie Vaughn’s neck.”

  “And how did you know that?”

  “Dolores told me.” I pulled out the card for Global Corporation, placing it next to the diamonds. “This was under the necklace when I found it. It might be worth looking into.”

  Santou picked up the card and turned it ove
r. “How many jewelry stores do you know of on Mulberry Street, Porter?”

  “That’s exactly what I thought.”

  Leaning over, he kissed me lightly on the lips. “Good work. I’ll clean up.”

  Santou washed the dishes as I sipped some more wine. If this was what togetherness could be like, it wasn’t half-bad. So far, I’d made it my business never to stop long enough to wonder if I might be missing out on something. Biological clock was still a distant phrase, even though mine was running out fast. Even my mother was beginning to give up hope I’d ever settle down. After my last relationship ended, I’d sworn to myself “never again.” Now I was beginning to wonder if perhaps I’d been too hasty. The riot had shaken me more than I liked to admit. Getting smacked in the head made me realize I was vulnerable. Being with Santou made me aware of just how lonely I sometimes felt.

  “You going to be okay here by yourself tonight, Porter? I could camp out on your couch if you like.”

  For the briefest moment I was tempted not only to tell him to stay, but to forget about the couch.

  “It’s a nice offer, but the couch has more springs than fabric on it. I don’t want you impaled in your sleep.” Hesitating, I decided against it, still not ready to take the plunge. “Thanks, I’ll be fine.”

  I handed him the key to Vaughn’s apartment as he headed toward the door. Pulling it halfway open, he turned back around to face me. Looking at his unruly mop of hair and those eyes that penetrated me, my pulse began to race, and I was prepared to change my mind. All he had to do was ask.

  “Listen, I wasn’t going to bother telling you before, but you’re bound to find out. I got a call from Dolores Williams. Somebody poisoned her dog.”

  It was late that night as I was drifting off to sleep, courtesy of another Percocet, that I realized what had irked me about Santou during dinner. He never bothered to ask if I had made it as far as Vaughn’s apartment before getting caught in the riot. It was as if he already knew. But something troubled me even more, something I was only able to tap into as I began to fall asleep.