48
While I dressed for breakfast, the news on TV was droning in the background. Heather was to meet me in the café downstairs. I didn’t want to be late. Among other things, I would be telling her what I had learned from Ashley the night before. She deserved to know everything.
Then a news report on CNN grabbed my attention, starting with the name mentioned: Attorney General George Shazzar. I turned to check it out.
Video shots showed Shazzar at the Department of Justice podium in the briefing room, giving a press conference. A reporter narrated a backgrounder: antipornography groups had criticized him for the slow pace with which the DOJ was pursuing obscenity cases. Particularly child pornography. He was being accused of “deliberate foot-dragging” when it came to the endangerment of children.
In a clip from Shazzar’s presser, the attorney general stated: “The Department of Justice has a solid commitment to enforce obscenity laws. We also are fully committed to aggressively prosecuting predators who prey on children and endanger them, particularly through the channels of the Internet. I am personally reviewing our efforts to date and can guarantee that we will be as vigorous as we can to eradicate harm to the youth of America.”
It had the sound of typical Washington-speak, but I tucked it away for future reference. While I waited in front of the hotel elevator on my way down to breakfast, my cell rang. Surprisingly, it was Ashley.
“Hey, it’s me again,” she said. “Now it’s my turn to ask a favor.”
“Sure. Name it.”
“Back at the island, you were researching voodoo on your iPad. Specifically, ‘death by voodoo.’ Something about the death of a government lawyer in Washington . . .”
“Right. I’m still trying to sort that one out.”
“What’d you find out—about ‘death by voodoo,’ I mean? You never did tell me.”
I had almost forgotten that conversation.
“Two possibilities,” I said. “One’s the supernatural definition, or you might say ‘cultural’ if you’re a secularist. For true believers, it’s the old-school idea of mixing potions, casting curses, that sort of thing—and in the case of black magic voodoo, actually causing the death of an enemy. Then there’s the second one, the medical definition. The idea that a prediction of one’s demise can become so powerful and real that a coronary event occurs. The person is literally frightened to death.”
“Interesting.”
She had me thinking. So I had to ask, “What triggered your question? Was it my calling you last night?”
“No. Something else. Remember, before I got my detective’s shield, I used to do child protection investigations as a patrol officer. I’m still on this law enforcement e-mail alert about child predators. This morning, an e-mail alert pops up in my in-box about child abductions and sex trafficking.”
“What does that have to do with voodoo?”
“The alert was referencing an Internet article talking about a voodoo cult involved in child abduction and exploitation, apparently trafficking in the New Orleans area.”
“A credible news article or just some Internet junk speculation?”
“The jury’s out. The web domain that’s being used for the article was questionable. But when I read it, I immediately thought about you being down there in New Orleans and the voodoo connection to that government attorney’s death you told me about. Anyway, I thought you ought to know. Besides, you owed me an explanation on ‘death by voodoo.’”
While I had her on the phone, I needed to get personal. “Listen, Ashley, I want to thank you again for talking to me last night about Heather and Marilyn. What a game changer that was for me. Really. Thanks for being a friend.”
I could tell she was trying not to get emotional. Ashley quickly changed the subject and shared some tidbits about her latest cases until we both said we had to run. Then I jumped in the elevator.
Heather was already sipping her coffee when I got down to the hotel café. I told her about my conversation with Ashley that morning—about the Internet rumors on the voodoo/New Orleans link to the kind of child sex trafficking we had both been exposed to. She seemed interested.
I slowly shifted to my conversation with Ashley the night before about David Fleming and how her mother, Marilyn, had fingered David as the father at first—conveniently timed, because David had been killed in action in Somalia. Then, when faced with the fact that he couldn’t have been the father, how she changed her story.
Heather was holding the coffee cup halfway to her mouth and just kept it there for the longest time, like one of those street performers posing as a statue. Finally she put it down.
She said, “Wow. You’ll have to give me a minute. I don’t know how to feel about what you just told me. Really mixed emotions.”
“I understand, and you don’t owe me an explanation. But you deserve to know everything that I know. That’s why I told you.”
She folded her hands on the table. When the waitress came, Heather said she wasn’t hungry. I paid for her coffee and we left without ordering.
In the hotel lobby, Heather looked confused and vulnerable. “For the record, I have no idea what we’re doing or where we go now or what I’m supposed to do.”
She was opening up, and that was good. Then the irritating ring of my cell. I didn’t care who it was; I was ready to ignore it and let it go to voice mail.
“Aren’t you going to take it?” she said.
“No, this conversation we’re having, it’s important.”
“You left messages with the sheriff’s department. What if it’s them?”
I glanced at the screen. It was a 504 area code. “Don’t think so. It must be from New Orleans.”
“But Port Sulphur has that same area code.”
Sharp girl. I took the call.
It was Deputy St. Martin. He said he was calling for Sheriff Haywood. I didn’t wait but jumped in and asked if he’d heard my voice mail, and went straight into the business about the boat on the river and the girl in the window.
“Sorry, we’re not authorized to comment on any of that,” he said. “The only thing I can tell you is that right now Sheriff Haywood is over at the FBI headquarters in New Orleans. He told me to specifically tell you that. Are you in New Orleans?”
“Yes. How long will he be at the FBI?”
He paused. “Uh, until his meeting is over, which should be just about now.”
“But about this child abduction ring . . .”
“Like I said—” the deputy began to speak slower and louder—“the sheriff is just about through with his meeting. At the FBI headquarters. In New Orleans.”
Either we were having a communications disconnect, or the sheriff’s department was giving me a message below radar. It had to be the latter. Which told me something, and if it meant what I thought, it was crucial. After I thanked him, I ran over to the hotel valet desk and asked for the Mustang to be brought around.
Heather and I jumped in and headed for Interstate 10 to Franklin Avenue and then up to Leon C. Simon Boulevard, thinking we could beat the crosstown traffic. But it was still slow going.
When we pulled up to the parking lot at the FBI building, it was crowded and we had to cruise through, checking each lane. Heather looked to the right, while I did the left, trying to spot a sheriff’s squad from Plaquemines Parish.
Then Heather cried out, “There it is.”
I swooped the Mustang around to the adjacent lane, but I saw the backup lights of the squad turn on as it began to ease out of the parking space. I slammed my rental into park and told Heather to get behind the wheel while I sprinted to the driver’s side of the squad.
When I was at the window of Sheriff Haywood’s squad car, I waved and yelled. Haywood was startled, slammed on the brakes, and momentarily grabbed for his sidearm. Given his line of work, I couldn’t blame him.
He kept the window up for a few seconds, eyeing me like he was weighing the risk of unintended consequences that might
come from our talking. Then the window lowered.
Sheriff Haywood kept his peace, staring me down.
“What did you mean?” I finally asked him.
“About what?”
“When you had taken me into custody and were about to escort me through the doors of Morehaven, you said something. You said, ‘This is out of my hands.’ What did that mean?”
He didn’t answer.
I continued. “What did you mean by that?”
“What did you think I meant?”
More game playing. I had a hunch why. So I answered, “I think you meant that you were getting pressured from above. The question is, how far above?”
Sherriff Haywood stayed mum.
I said, “Okay. I can see this is a guessing game. Here’s my guess: Was the heat coming from the state capitol in Baton Rouge?”
“I’ve got places to go,” he said.
“Pressure from here at the FBI?”
“Like I said, things to do . . .”
“Then it must have come from outside of Louisiana.”
He settled back in his seat. “I’m listening,” he said.
I was getting warmer.
“Washington, DC—is that it?”
“I’m still listening,” he said.
By this time I was thinking out loud. “So where in Washington? It’s a bureaucratic jungle with lots of buildings and lots of marble. Blocks and blocks of federal agencies and institutions. More lawyers per square mile than anywhere on earth. And more power per inch than any other city on the planet.”
Finally Haywood spoke up. “Mr. Black, why don’t you think about what you just said. And then think about where I’m sheriff. You know what Port Sulphur is? It’s so small, they call it a CDP. Census-designated place. I guess it’s a reminder that people actually live there in Port Sulphur and it’s got its own dot on the map. Population never gets above two thousand or so. So you think about that, Mr. Black, as you figure things out, and why they’ve happened the way they have, and then you decide where you go from here.”
I nodded. I gave him a half salute, half wave as he finished backing out and drove out of the parking lot.
I trotted back to the Mustang, where Heather scampered out of the driver’s seat and jumped into the passenger side. She said, “You get all the interesting conversations while I get stuck in the car.”
Heather badgered me about my dialogue with the sheriff. I gave her the condensed version. That some outside federal authority might have come to bear on local law enforcement—including pressure to tie me up in a mental commitment, to get me out of the way.
I called Morgan Canterelle’s office and got his law intern, Kevin, again. Because we were in a rush to get to the river the night before, I hadn’t followed up on something with Canterelle. I put Kevin on speakerphone and asked him whether Morgan had uncovered the identity of someone at the ABA convention.
“You mean the lawyer sitting next to Heather?” Kevin asked.
“That’s the one. Did he identify her?”
“He sure did. It just came in.”
“Great. Who was she?”
“Mr. Canterelle never told me.”
“Where is Morgan now?”
“In the Orleans Parish courthouse.”
Of course I knew the building and where it was. After Kevin told me what courtroom Morgan was in, I roared out of the FBI parking lot. But before I could close the conversation, Kevin asked, as I was driving, “Are we on speakerphone?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Mr. Black, is Heather with you?”
Heather giggled and I gave a fatherly shake of the head. “Yes, Kevin. She’s right here.”
“Hi, Heather,” he said brightly.
She returned the greeting.
Time to close the front door and turn off the porch lights. “Kevin, you’ve been great, but we have to run.”
49
In half an hour I was leading Heather through the shadows of the dimly lit corridors of the old state court building. It was all coming back to me, just as I had remembered it: the dark wood, the glazed glass doors, and the high arched ceilings that sported ornate plasterwork.
Outside a courtroom, Canterelle had a file tucked under his arm, and he was strenuously arguing some point with his client. Then he noticed me, excused himself, and trotted over my way.
“Trevor Black,” he bellowed, “what y’all doing here?” Before I could answer, he lowered his voice and whispered, “I’d love a favor in return for what I did for y’all’s case in federal court by helping me with my case here in state court. I have got a client over there who just won’t accept the misdemeanor plea I have bargained for him. Y’all know how clients can be. . . .”
“Actually, Morgan,” I said, “I’m here on some urgent business. I need to know who the female lawyer was who was sitting next to my daughter at the ABA session. Kevin Sanders said you found out.”
“Indeed I did. Facial recognition didn’t give us enough. But we found her full name on her registration application—which was classified, by the way, so it took some time to obtain permission from the feds. Her name on the registration was Louisa Deidre Baldou. Her registration said she was from Washington, DC.”
The last name hit me like a bucket of ice water. “Where does she work?”
“Couldn’t find that out. Privacy issues. Homeland Security reasons too, I guess.”
“So she works for the federal government, then?”
“Possibly. By deduction.”
The money-ball question: “The woman’s last name, Baldou,” I asked, “any relation to Delbert Baldou, our swamp guide?”
“Can’t say for sure. Try a PI in town by the name of Turk Kavagian. He might know.”
I chuckled. The web of connections in New Orleans—the degrees of separation between the people who knew people—was growing more and more intricate.
As I turned to leave, I broke courthouse decorum and shouted down to Canterelle’s client in the corridor, “Hey, friend, want some friendly advice? Be glad that you’ve got such a good lawyer.”
I tracked Turk Kavagian down having lunch at a place called Mother’s, a redbrick diner that had the look of a three-story warehouse. It was jammed and noisy, so Heather and I pushed our way over to his table, where he was feasting on a catfish salad.
“When you called and wanted to see me,” Turk said, “I went ahead and ordered some grub for the two of you.”
Two huge po’boys were sitting on plates for us.
“Fabulous!” Heather shouted. I remembered that earlier she had passed up breakfast and I had followed suit. We thanked him and tore into the food.
Turk craned his head to check out Heather’s neck tattoo. “Nice tat,” he said. “What is that . . . a tree?”
“Yeah,” she said without blinking. “An umbrella tree. You know, those big spreading trees in Africa. I think they’re beautiful.”
“Why a tree?” Turk asked.
I had a flashback to the spat between us about that tattoo. Wow, that felt like a long time ago. But now I was enjoying the conversation; Turk Kavagian had unwittingly led her into it, and she was opening up.
“When I was a kid,” Heather said, “I used to watch this children’s TV show called Under the Umbrella Tree. I guess it was that and, well, other reasons too.”
It was a television show she had watched as a girl. It felt good to know that. But I wanted more. So much more I needed to know about my own daughter.
“Cool,” Turk said to Heather. He turned to me. “So, Trevor, you wanted to know about Louisa Deidre Baldou? I can tell you what I know.”
“Anything.”
“As I remember it, Delbert had this girl he was raising as a daughter, because of some family problems. She was a niece of Delbert’s. Everybody called her Deidre, but her given name was Louisa. Deidre’s father—Delbert’s brother—lost a daughter, Deidre’s younger sister. Her name was Lucinda.” Turk took a second, looked me in the eye, a
nd then said, “She was the one we found at Bayou Bon Coeur.”
Wake-up call. I blurted out, “Abducted at the old Six Flags park . . .”
“Exactly. Well, after they found the remains of poor Lucinda, the father just fell apart. Booze and drugs and a busted heart, I suppose. They found him sitting in his easy chair one day. Died from an overdose. So, next thing, Delbert takes Deidre in and raises her.”
“Delbert became a substitute father?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened after that?”
“Deidre did good for herself. Really good. It sounds like she was close to being some kind of genius. Straight As. Scholarship. Ended up going to college.”
“What kind of school?”
“Something in science. Or technology.”
“Stanford?”
“Isn’t that in California?” He thought on it for a second. “Nah, that wasn’t it.”
“MIT possibly?”
“Yeah, that might be it. Definitely on the Eastern Seaboard. Big-name school.”
“And after that?”
“I can’t help you there.”
“We have information that she also became a lawyer. You know anything about that?”
Turk shrugged. “No, sorry.”
“Would Delbert be willing to talk about her?”
“Don’t count on it. For some reason Delbert closes up like a clam anytime you ask specifics about what she’s doing now. Just says he’s real proud of Deidre, given all the family tragedy. And he grins real wide whenever he says it. But won’t say anything else about her.”
We finished eating, and against Turk’s protest, I paid for everything and said that Heather and I had to hurry on to our next destination.
Turk stuck out a strong right hand, gave me a crushing handshake good-bye, and wished us well.
When we were back in the rental, Heather led into a question. “Back at the hotel I told you something. That I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing at this point. Or where I should be going.”
“I remember.”
“So,” she said, “now’s your chance. Any suggestions?”
The Empowered Page 22