“Are all these cases connected?”
“I fear so. Which is why I brought y’all down here to New Orleans in the first place. Not just to entertain, but—might I also say—to awaken the complacent legal community, which y’all did, by the way. My heavens, y’all surely did. But no, sir, not just that. To enlist y’all’s help. I will pay whatever the fees. Money is no object. Justice, Mr. Black, that’s what we are after. Y’all said it yourself in the speech at the ABA, that the law looks only at the objective world of the empirical and the physical. But we know better. I know all about y’all’s strange, remarkable abilities. And why they capriciously took Trevor Black’s law license away. I need a man like Trevor Black helping me on this case.”
With that, Canterelle slipped a thick envelope out of his suit pocket and handed it to me. “There’s a healthy sum of cash in there for an advance toward y’all’s fees and expenses, plus the meager information that we have been able to collect about the disappearance and tragic death of Lucinda—that’s the fourteen-year-old girl involved. Also, background about the case I’m handling for the other family. The disappearance of a twelve-year-old blonde girl named Peggy Tanner. Still missing.”
I opened the envelope. There were copies of a few police reports. I paged through and in a quick glance noticed a mention of the Six Flags theme park. There was also a missing person poster with Peggy’s picture on it. The same one I had seen on the street a few hours before. And instantly I was hit with a flood tide of desperation about Heather.
“What about my daughter?” I demanded.
“I will be in touch with my contact straightaway. To get y’all to Bayou Bon Coeur.”
“No disrespect, Mr. Canterelle,” I said, “but how do I know I can trust you? What do I really know about you? How do I know which side you’re really on?”
Morgan Canterelle set his fork down and leaned away from the table. “I am going to give y’all a very valuable piece of advice, Mr. Black. Here it is. There is a darkness spreading here. Vile. Unspeakable. Like the pagan days of old. The sacrifice of young, innocent females. Now if y’all pursue for me these demons or whoever they are, then I will help in return. And godspeed, sir, in that endeavor. I need y’all to help us put an end to this unspeakable scourge. But the evil we speak of will not be found in the person of Morgan Canterelle, Esquire. I guarantee that.”
Just then the lawyer’s cell phone rang, and he picked up the call. Canterelle did most of the listening and very little talking. Finally he said good-bye, clicked it off, and turned to me.
“Right now,” he said, “we have a meetin’, y’all and I, with an important source of information. Let’s go.”
Wherever we were going, I knew it had to be important, because as he rose to his feet, Morgan Canterelle had left a respectable portion of his alligator sausage with smoked onion and apple relish there on his plate.
16
During the drive to our destination, Attorney Canterelle gave me the short course on a woman by the name of Belle Sabatier, who had agreed to meet with us. He said she was the daughter of Minerva Sabatier, a woman who was on her way to becoming a modern “voodoo legend” in New Orleans folklore—that is, before “her untimely death.”
That information hit me hard. Like I had just been smacked in the face with a catfish. In response, I hit Morgan Canterelle with a torrent of questions, most of which he slyly avoided answering except for a few basics: that Belle was an “artist type,” she had been living for years up in Philadelphia, and she was Minerva’s sole heir. “When her mother passed away,” he explained, “she relocated here in order to settle the estate.”
“What are we hoping to get from this meeting?” I demanded.
“As a former courtroom champ-ion yo-self,” he shot back, “I am sure y’all know what a fishing expedition is.”
He pulled his car up in front of a historic-looking three-story mansion that had a curved porch on each floor, wrapped with railings made of delicate wrought-iron latticework. “Welcome to the Sabatier mansion,” he said, turning off the ignition.
As we walked up the brick path to the front door, he qualified that by adding, “In point of fact, the house technically belongs to the estate of Minerva Sabatier. But Belle, her daughter, is temporarily living here while she settles estate matters.”
We were shown inside by a butler who was decked out in a dinner jacket, and then taken through graceful arched entranceways, past a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves accessed by reading ladders. There were plenty of dark velvet drapes gathered by gold rope and tassels adorning the windows that reached to the top of the twelve-foot ceilings. It was like walking through a slightly creepy time warp.
The butler brought us to a smaller room where there was a fireplace and an ornate black marble surround, and above it, over the mantel, a big portrait. The subject of the painting was a beautiful woman, perhaps in her late fifties, with a light-cocoa complexion and dark, piercing eyes. Her ebony hair was streaked in a few places with silver. Her dress was unusual, a black robe with stars and constellations and a few painted skulls on it, with a hood that draped over her shoulders.
“The late Minerva Sabatier,” Canterelle murmured quietly with a kind of musical inflection, nodding to the painting as if there was something significant about her name. We were told by the butler to take our seats on the sofa adjacent to the fireplace.
Ten minutes later Belle Sabatier, a smartly dressed woman in her thirties, strolled in wearing a long black dress accented with flowers. My late wife, Courtney, had been a fashionista in her own right, and I had learned both by osmosis and by our checkbook to recognize the expensive brands. This one looked like Magda Butrym. Price tag probably north of fifteen hundred bucks. Apparently Belle was no longer the starving artist. Minerva’s estate must have been generous to her.
Belle shook hands with both of us and then sat down on the tufted chair across from us.
Her resemblance to her mother’s portrait was remarkable. Same cocoa-colored skin, dark eyes, and striking good looks. The only difference was age.
Canterelle thanked her for meeting us, then turned to me and explained that he had given Belle “some background data on who Trevor Black is.”
I would have preferred to have described my curriculum vitae to Belle myself, but I let that slide.
“I understand,” Belle said to me, “that you dabble in the world of dark arts.”
“Not really. My job is to hunt down the powers of demonic darkness.”
Belle stiffened in her chair. “So you’ve come here hoping to uncover things? Things in the dark?”
“Not me. God’s the one who does that.” Then I gave her a quote: “‘It is He who reveals the profound and hidden things; He knows what is in the darkness, and the light dwells with Him.’”
Canterelle said, “Mr. Black here is a man versed in the Good Book.”
“Second chapter of Daniel,” I added.
She took a moment to respond after that, letting her eyes sweep the room. Finally she said, “Mr. Black, Mr. Canterelle here says that you are assisting him in some very tragic cases. Young girls kidnapped. I am not sure how much help I can be. But if you have any questions, I can try to answer them.”
Considering Canterelle was the one who wanted this meeting in the first place, I was confused—why was she directing her comments to me? I had just one crucial matter on my mind, and it was about Heather, but before I could ask it, Canterelle jumped in.
Canterelle turned to me. “The families I represent need answers about the fate of their loved ones. And they demand that those responsible be brought to justice.” He nodded in Belle’s direction. “Now Mr. Trevor Black here won’t be timid, I am sure, in asking any questions he has.”
No response from Belle. Just a smile. Things were getting stranger. Why were we having this meeting? In my prior life as a trial lawyer, I recalled a few instances like that, where the conversation seemed cloaked and obtuse. They usually involved lawyer
s who didn’t want to disclose exactly who they represented. Or what side they were on.
Before hitting Belle with information about the mysterious bayou where I hoped to locate Heather, I decided to smoke her out a bit.
“I’ve heard about your mother’s well-known connection to the voodoo community. You being her daughter, perhaps you can shed light on some things.”
“Things,” she asked, “such as what, exactly?”
“Let’s start with whether you know of any involvement of voodoo in the terrible crimes we’re talking about. Or any connection between voodoo followers down here and the death of a federal attorney up in Washington by the name of Jason Forester? Or the murder of Mr. Paul Pullmen, a lawyer from the Department of Justice, killed right here in New Orleans? Both dead under circumstances that implicate voodoo.”
“Are you accusing my mother in some way?” she blew back, clearly offended. “Or me?”
Canterelle leaned forward, trying to smooth the waters. “Now, Miss Sabatier, none of this is to suggest, in any way, any besmirching of the memory of your late mother.”
Belle shifted in her chair. “Mr. Black, I’m not sure how much you actually know about the ancient practices,” she said. “But I would warn you to exercise caution before you slander the good name of my mother.”
I pushed the discussion further. “Then why don’t you tell us what you know about voodoo? Educate us.”
“I am not a practitioner,” she said. “I never have been.”
“But your mother obviously was,” I said.
“Voodoo is not a hereditary disease, Mr. Black. Daughters don’t catch it from their mothers.”
“Maybe not, but it’s a big deal in these parts,” I said. “I’ve heard politicians and judges coming up for election have paid good money to voodoo priests and priestesses to influence the result. Like Marie Laveau, for instance, the voodoo mambo who has a museum named after her. Even more relevant, voodoo includes blood sacrifice. And pertinent to my mission, it embraces spirit possession.”
“You’re talking ancient history,” Belle replied, forcing a smile. “Marie Laveau died in 1881. Nowadays, modern voodoo is more concerned with living a happy life. Influencing attitudes in a positive way through communication with helpful spirits.”
“Helpful spirits?” I said. “That’s funny. The occult spirits I’ve tangoed with have always been so dangerously unhelpful.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “because you have offended the bokors—black magic practitioners. Maybe you should find a different pastime.”
I saw the paradox. “There’s something strange here, Miss Sabatier. For someone who is ‘not a practitioner’ and never has been, you seem to know a lot about the subject.”
Belle’s eyes flashed, and she pursed her lips.
Canterelle tried to cool her down. “Now, Miss Sabatier, my friend Mr. Black comes on a little strong. He does not understand the courtesies we extend to each other here in New Orleans. Let me just ask you to contact me if you have any information that can help us.”
I still had questions of my own, and I was going to get them answered.
“How exactly did your mother die?”
She went wide-eyed. “That’s an odd question.”
“Odd or not, I’d like to know.”
She glanced at Canterelle before answering. “If you have to know, the death certificate said she went into anaphylactic shock. A severe reaction from a food allergy.”
Then my million-dollar question. “Have you ever heard of Bayou Bon Coeur?”
“I have,” she said, cocking her head. She studied me for a moment. “It has always been considered a place of mystery and shadows.”
“Explain that.”
She shifted in her chair. “I’m referring to the Cajun meaning of the words bon coeur.”
“And that is what?”
“In the voodoo culture, Mr. Black, it means ‘those who can cast spells.’”
More reasons to be uneasy about Heather.
My last question was the most important one. “Do you know where that bayou is located?”
She took a moment. Then, “No, Mr. Black. I’m afraid I do not.” Rising, she excused herself and told us the butler would show us out.
17
As Canterelle drove me back to my hotel, I asked him the reason for our soiree with Belle Sabatier.
“A personal introduction,” he said. “Unlike New York City, where y’all practiced law at freeway speeds, down here we are more pedestrian. We still practice the art of the personal. As my expert consultant, y’all needed to meet Belle. Now I agree, there is the foul smell of black magic rising from my cases. And perhaps in the slaying of that DOJ lawyer in your hotel room . . .”
“And the death of AUSA Jason Forester in Washington, DC.”
“Of course. So, patience, Mr. Black. Patience. It is a sublime virtue.”
“I agreed to work with you on your cases. But there’s still the matter of my daughter, Heather, who may be out on that forsaken bayou somewhere. On that, I’m all out of patience.”
“Y’all will be getting a call tomorrow on that matter of obtaining a trusted swamp guide who knows about that particular bayou. By close of business. It is a small, curious circle of us here in New Orleans who traverse what might be called the unsavory underbelly of Louisiana. Meanwhile, I am trusting y’all to get to the bottom of this horrid rash of child endangerments.”
Before we separated, I urged Canterelle to remember my voice mail request: that I wanted him to track down the ID of the woman lawyer seated next to Heather at the ABA. He assured me he was working on that too.
In my hotel room that evening, I put in another call to Heather’s cell and, maddeningly, once again listened to her familiar voice mail.
I dropped to my knees and pleaded with the God of heaven. I needed wisdom to figure out this tangled web, and power over the demonic powers that were surrounding me. I also had to consider the matter of endurance, because my gauge was nearing empty. But there was one shred of hope, and I was hanging on it. Even though I hadn’t heard from Turk Kavagian’s guy, Canterelle sounded rock-solid that within twenty-four hours I would be in touch with someone who could navigate me through the Louisiana swamps.
Then I thought about Vance Zaduck. Maybe he was different now. On the surface, at least, we should have a common interest: stopping this plague against the daughters of New Orleans. If he helped me with Canterelle’s cases, in return, I could offer whatever help I was able to give him in solving the deaths of Forester and Pullmen. Best of all, Canterelle would get me to the bayou and to my daughter. The circle seemed logical enough: all of us scratching each other’s backs.
But I was a realist. Before getting too close with my former nemesis, I’d better do my due diligence. I put in a call to Dick Valentine, thinking I would get his voice mail. Instead, he picked up.
I asked why he was taking a call from me rather than having a date night with his wife.
“Girls’ night out,” he said. “So I’m stuck home, clicking through eight hundred channels on satellite TV and learning more than I ever wanted to about cleaning products and solutions to male romance problems.”
I told him I needed some very quick intel about Vance Zaduck, US attorney for the District of Columbia. He asked how extensive.
“Anything and everything. Before asking for his help and getting too close, I want to know if I’m opening myself up to a left hook.”
Dick paused. “No problem. I know a guy.”
He sounded like William Shatner doing a TV ad about hotel bookings, so I managed a half chuckle.
But he said, “Hey, Trevor, this time I’m serious. A personal friend who does security clearances for DOJ and US attorneys. I can call him.”
They don’t make many friends like that. I dumped thanks on Dick Valentine to the point of embarrassment, until we finally said good night.
The next morning I woke up with a jolt, two hours before my wake-up call. I
dropped to my knees again. More praying. More pleading.
Then I picked up the Bible that had been given to me by Elijah White, a former client and now a close friend. I was plowing my way through the Old Testament book of Deuteronomy. Some of it was tough sledding.
As I fixed myself a cup of coffee in the one-cup coffeemaker in my hotel room, I had a thought. About that paper coffee cup. The one that showed up in the crime scene video of my hotel room when I watched it at the FBI headquarters. The coffee cup that didn’t belong there because I didn’t have any coffee in the room that morning when I was getting ready for the ABA convention. It must have been put there by someone else.
I needed to revisit that.
Then a call on my cell. From Dick Valentine. It was before ten in the morning, and he was already prepared to brief me on Vance Zaduck.
I mustered a bumbling joke. “With the blinding speed of your results, Dick, you must not be doing any actual police work.”
“Where you are in New Orleans, in some sections I’d be busier than I am up here in New York.”
Considering he was in homicide, that wasn’t comforting.
Dick said he had a chat with his federal contact and that this was very sensitive stuff and he wouldn’t be doing it for anybody but me. He said he was in a rush, so he gave me his intel in rapid fire.
According to Vance Zaduck’s security references, as a prosecutor and as a man, Zaduck was known for “keeping things close to the vest. Very careful. But very smart.”
Dick added, “Vance Zaduck has developed an extensive knowledge of cybercrime and Internet technology. He was married for a few years but is now divorced.” That last part, of course, checked out with what Zaduck told me himself.
The Empowered Page 8