“Whoa, thanks, that’s enough. I hope we’re not here long enough to eat at all of those.”
“There’s a hundred more.”
“No, that’s good for now.”
“OK then. Hey, for me. Cole didn’t give me the details, but I know you’re not looking for a runaway, and you didn’t fly down here to thank me for a job reference.”
“You’re right. I don’t know much now, but when I do, I promise I won’t leave you out of the loop. It’s bigger than the NOPD.”
“What kind of big?”
“My gut tells me it’s about the size of the BP in your hair right now.”
14
Wes drove the long way back to the Hilton, crossing the bridge into Gretna, circling west to Boutte, then back into the west side of town to the hotel. Why he’d gone downtown instead of calling to see if Bubba was available aggravated him. He had to do something, and sitting in another hotel room was doing nothing.
Chasing a criminal through cyberspace was like pursuing the wicked witch through a nightmare. Meshach existed and he had mass. He breathed, walked the earth, slept, and ate, but where? What in the world was he up to?
As he parked, Jordan called to tell him he was on the way to New Orleans in the jet. He sounded better.
He heard Tony and Jessica bantering before he opened the door to his room. The team’s office. They sat with their computers at the small table next to the window. Tony held up one finger. A sign. Wait a second or I got it? Hard to determine. Wes waited.
Jessica smiled over the top of her computer screen.
“Got a new chirper. Sullivan finally commented,” Tony said.
“Chirping and now Chirper. Did you just come up with that? And he didn’t chirp.” Jessica shook her head and gave one schoolmarm tsk. “Lamech passed the message along. ‘Luck Sullivan.’”
“Semantics, semantics.” Tony rolled his eyes and pulled at the hoodie. “OK, a new player.” He eyed Wes. “Your hunch was right. How was your trip?”
“My contact had other business, but I talked to him. He’s on board. In fact, let me look.” He opened his laptop. The thing ran like cold molasses sometimes. “Yep, I’m going to forward this to both of you.” He went through the process and passed along the message from Bubba.
Their employer wrote one word in a reply to his update—thanks. There was nothing else of interest.
Nothing from Lisa.
Tony spoke up. “This e-mail you forwarded—who’s this Risa Richard? What a name.”
“It’s French. We’re in Cajun country. The last syllable is pronounced ‘shard,’ like a piece of broken vase, Re-shard,” Jessica said.
“You’re kidding me.” Tony tapped at the keyboard like a woodpecker on meth.
“I wouldn’t do that. We’ve been together too long.” Jessica gave Tony a playful nudge with her elbow.
“Two days. Feels like years,” Tony jabbed back.
Wes liked it. The banter meant they got along. He also liked the twitch at the corners of Jessica’s mouth as she suppressed a smile and the gleam in her eyes. She caught him staring again and winked.
“I don’t know who Risa works for, but my buddy, Bubba, is a Fed. She’s his contact. Introduce yourselves and pick her brain. Look at traffic violations and parking tickets. Stick with nonresidents. Get Meshach’s name out there. Give Risa a rundown on the definitions. She’ll be another set of eyes. Another computer.”
“What timeframe?” Tony said.
“Three days. Start Sunday.” Wes looked at his watch to confirm the day’s date, the ninth. “Meshach indicated he was here, in Joan, Sunday evening. If he is here, I think he flew in. That would put him in the air, possibly, that morning. Risa will be able to get passenger lists. If she can’t, let me know, and I’ll contact Bubba again.”
“Hotels and rental cars too,” Jessica added.
Tony held up both hands, palms out. “Stop, stop, stop. All good ideas. Now, tell me again who we’re looking for? Height, weight, hair, eyes, and better yet, give me a social security number.”
Tony was right. They had no physical description, no real name, nothing to go on. “OK, we’re done for the day. It’s five and Risa is probably off work anyway.” Wes snapped the laptop closed. “I’m hungry, and I’m buying. What will it be? Cajun, steaks, Italian, what?”
Jessica and Tony looked at each other, then Jessica said, “We’re in Cajun country, not Italy, and I can have a steak at home. I vote for the local fare.”
Tony nodded. “I can do that.”
Wes rubbed his hands together. “It’s settled, back to your rooms, both of you. I’m going to shower and change. Let’s meet in the lobby in an hour and go downtown to the Redfish Grill.”
Jessica raised both arms with clenched fists. “Shotgun!”
~*~
Wes’s peripheral vision seemed more acute than ever with Jessica in it. A pang of guilt gripped his heart again. How could he feel guilty about looking at another woman after so many years? Never mind that the one sitting in the car next to him as he drove through heavy traffic was more distracting than typing a text.
“Did your daughter respond?” she asked, watching him.
“I haven’t sent her anything. I started to text her this morning, then again this afternoon, but didn’t. I know what I want to say. Just haven’t said it yet.”
“I don’t know your daughter, of course, but I suspect she’s anxious to hear from you. Daughters need their dads more than they’ll ever admit. You’re her rock. The one who slept in the room down the hall, only a yell away, when her imagination played with shadows and night noises.”
He’d have to think about whether or not Lisa needed him. She’d already mentioned she had Josh and didn’t want his help.
“Didn’t she contact you?” Raised eyebrows begged for a response.
Good point. Lisa had made the first move. He hadn’t thought of that.
Jessica adjusted her shoulder belt. If men had any sense, they would declare women the first wonders of the world. He was sure Adam thought that about Eve.
He left her comment unanswered and concentrated on his driving. I-10 inbound through the downtown area moved at near normal speeds, unlike the stifled lanes full of the city’s workforce on the way home on the other side of the concrete median. According to Maps, the Redfish Grill wasn’t far from where he’d been that morning.
He took the same exit onto Poydras Street, wove his way across to Canal, and parked near Harrah’s Casino. He led his entourage two blocks to Bourbon Street and one block right to the restaurant. The place was made for servicing volume. Roomy with lots of simple tables and chairs. Stools lined the bar against the far wall. Dozens of waiters, waitresses, and busboys worked the tables. Tonight, the restaurant buzzed.
The hostess led them to a table toward the middle of the room. “Brit will be your waitress. Enjoy your meal.”
Wes pulled out a chair for Jessica then sat and opened the menu. He saw immediately what he wanted. “I’m having the namesake, blackened red fish.”
“Me too.” Jessica folded the menu and placed it on the table.
He eyed Tony who gave the list of fare a cursory glance and folded his menu. “Tony?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Maybe a burger.”
Jessica grabbed her menu again and opened it like she’d missed the Happy Meal section. “You are not serious. A burger? Oh, look, they have them.” She tapped the page.
Tony shrugged. “I like a good burger.”
A young woman placed three glasses of water on the table. “Hi, I’m Brit. I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you out with drinks?” Wes stayed with water, Jessica cranberry juice, and Tony opted for diet coke.
When the waitress left, Wes addressed Jessica. “Well, what do you think about our project? Is being a private eye what you expected?”
“Different. That’s for sure.”
“It may seem like we’re at a dead end, but this job is like an archeological
dig. If we excavate long enough, deep enough, and sift enough dirt, sooner or later something will turn up. I call it PR work. Patience required.”
Tony chimed in. “Running background checks on air travelers won’t take long. Eliminating women, kids, doctors, lawyers, and conventioneers will narrow the list down to two or three hundred suspects. A couple of days maybe.”
Jessica stood. “If you two will excuse me a minute?”
Wes nodded as she edged between the tables and headed toward the ladies’ room.
Tony held out his phone for Wes to see. “A Jean Cooper is following Lamech now. Her bio is complete. She lives in Kansas. Her avatar is that of a middle-aged dishwater blonde. I’ll do a little research on her, but I can tell you, if she’s involved, she’s the dumb one.”
“I think he’ll mess up, if he hasn’t already.” Wes moved his menu as the waitress returned and set the drinks on the table. “Criminals think they’re smart. Our prisons are full of the most intelligent people in the world. This Meshach character will be no different.”
Jessica returned. She sat, situated her chair, eyed Wes and Tony, and smiled. If Wes didn’t know better he’d say she looked smug. To reinforce his thoughts, she shrugged and clasped her hands together. She looked like a teenager who’d just answered the extra point question on the big algebra test. “I have a little surprise for you guys. You won’t believe what I overheard in the ladies’ room.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the restrooms and the bar.
Another waitress approached. She was already tall, but the blonde hair piled on top of her head and the heels she wore stood her over six feet. Jessica pushed out the fourth chair for the lady. She sat and folded her hands in her lap.
Wes was stumped. Long lost cousin, the sister Jessica didn’t know she had, what?
Jessica indicated Wes. “This is my boss, the investigator, Wes Hansen. Tell him what you told me.”
The lady glanced at Tony before she focused her green eyes on Wes. “I think I met him,” she said.
“You think you met who?” Wes said.
“Meshach. Last night.”
Now Wes was more than stumped. How in the world?
She continued. “Isn’t that a strange name? I met a guy next door at a bar where I hold a second job. He said his name was Meshach.”
No wonder Jessica looked smug.
Tony’s mouth hung open.
Wes gathered his thoughts. This was exactly the kind of chance meeting that broke cases wide open.
“Ma’am.” He looked at her nametag. “Paula, tell us what you can remember about him.”
She looked hesitant and suddenly wary.
“It’s important.” He nodded at Jessica. “She told you I’m an investigator. This is my team.”
Paula nodded and wrung her hands.
Wes was an investigator and this was his team. What Paula didn’t know about his lack of legal standing might help them get the answers they needed.
She scooted forward onto the edge of the chair. “Look, I just, well, I hit him up and tried to flirt. He was gorgeous, movie-star dreamy. But it’s like…like he doesn’t like women.” She hesitated and looked between them. “I can see him, uh, dark brown hair, cut close, a shadow of a beard, like he shaved it that way, with defined lines on his cheeks and below his neck. Strong jaw and nose.”
“Tall?” Wes asked.
“Six two, maybe more. Muscular, real strong.” She looked at Jessica. “This sounds childish, but he looked inviting, confident, safe. You know, like he was a hunk, but…”
“But? But what?” Jessica asked.
“After we talked and he walked off, I got the creeps. Like he looked right through me. Not the undressing type of look.” She glanced at Tony then focused on Jessica again. “You know what I mean. How men can make you feel naked. Not like that, but like he didn’t like me. He was clipped and short when he told me his name, and he whispered, raspy like. Then he stared at me until I felt stupid and wondered what to say or do next.”
“What color were his eyes?” Tony typed notes into his phone with his thumbs.
She stood. “That’s the strange part. I don’t know. He wore sunglasses, inside the bar, at night. Look, I, I have to get back to work. I hope I’ve helped.”
Wes could have hugged her. Hopefully, she’d just given them what they needed to find Meshach’s true identity.
Jessica was still smiling. She shrugged. “I heard her mention his name.”
Tony leaned over and held out his hand for her to give him a high five. “You need to go to the ladies’ room more often.”
She slapped his hand. “Speaking of, I didn’t. I’ll be back.”
“Wait, here, give her my info just in case she remembers more details.” Wes handed over a business card.
She stood then leaned over and tapped the table with a long, glossed nail. “I’m just speculating here, but who wears sunglasses at night? Self-esteem issues? Sensitive eyes cause headaches. Immaturity? A Mr. Cool syndrome? Or vision problems? I’ll bet he only has one eye. That’s the avatar, the orb.”
15
Wednesday, Venice
Meshach sat at the bar tying knots in the anchor rope, using the width of the back on a second barstool to measure the spacing. The rope wasn’t ideal for what he had planned, but it would suffice. He had no doubts about his ability to scale it with ease when the time came.
A warm, musty breeze coursed through the camp house. The French doors stood open. All the windows were up. He sipped tap water and ate raisins from the box. Whitecaps covered the distant bay. The Gulf would be worse with seas three to five feet, maybe less, but enough to make a trip in a small boat rough and wet.
He’d positioned himself next to the French doors, inside far enough that wandering eyes wouldn’t see him and watched Shanteel’s place. If the cop who had paced the dock had the woman in mind, which seemed likely, and returned to snoop, he wanted to know.
He finished with the rope and unfurled a blue, flat bed sheet. The only dark-colored one he could find in the house. He tore it into four-inch-wide strips and laid the narrow pieces across the tabletop. He wove strips between the stabilizer and the anchor flukes, careful not to use too much. The cloth would cushion the metal-to-metal impact, but the flukes had to rotate on the stabilizer so it wouldn’t matter how the anchor landed. He had one attempt. The anchor had to catch on the handrail. No ifs.
Better options were available for purchase. Like the grapples law enforcement used to dredge water for bodies. Again, he could not afford questions.
Shanteel emerged from her place carrying a small sport bag. Had he not just seen her walk out of the house, he wouldn’t have recognized her. She had on clothes. Tan skin-tight slacks and a white blouse, white tennis shoes, hair loose in the wind.
He glanced at the time on his computer—lunchtime. He’d be surprised if she didn’t have a hangover.
She padded out to her car and tossed the bag into the backseat. Shading her eyes, she peered into the distance, toward the highway, then planted both hands on her hips. A white Sheriff’s cruiser sped down the gravel road toward her. Had to be the same cop. He got out in the cloud of dust just as his car skidded to a stop and started in on her. Too far away to hear the exchange. The deputy pointed. She pointed then stomped a foot. He threw his arms out to his sides. She stomped again. He stuck his face in hers, then took an I’m-a-cop-and-a-man stance, arms back, chest out, like an I dare you. She flipped him off, and he slapped her hard enough to make her stumble then looked around. No doubt to see if anyone saw what he’d done.
Shanteel recovered quickly and launched a foot toward the man’s groin that missed the intended target, but not by much. Her shoe marred the leg of his creased uniform. When she stormed away, he didn’t follow.
The girl had spunk.
A heavy knock sounded at the front door. Meshach did a quick survey of the room, grabbed the anchor, the rope, what was left of the sheet and put them in the bedroom closet. After o
ne more quick check, he pulled the Kimber from his belt and stuffed it behind the center cushion on the couch.
Some guy stood at the door. A gray T-shirt hung on boney shoulders and covered about half of his black shorts. He reached for the jamb with a closed fist. Meshach jerked the door open. “What do you want?” Meshach took a step back but didn’t open the screen door.
“Um.” The man moved up his sunglasses, astraddle the bill of his red ball cap. “I’m, Scott Breaux.”
“Am I supposed to know you, Scott?”
“Well…this is my place. Just thought I’d check on you, see how you’re getting along with my boat. I see it’s still in one piece.” He chuckled at what he must have thought was a joke.
Meshach knew the man periodically came by to check on the house. He probably wasn’t used to leaving his renters unescorted.
Scott reached for the doorknob. “Do you mind?”
Meshach flipped the latch, walked into the kitchen, and leaned against the counter.
Scott followed and did a quick scan of the living room. His yellow Crocs squeaked on the floor when he walked. “Something wrong with the air-conditioning?”
“I shut it off.”
“That’s a first.”
“Air-conditioning makes men soft.”
“You don’t look like you’ve spent much time indoors, then.”
The guy wanted to make small talk. Meshach didn’t like talk. Period. If he engaged the man in conversation, he might stay longer and he’d already overstayed his welcome. Meshach stared at him and crossed his arms over his chest.
Scott looked away and moved toward the deck. He spun and pointed outside. “What happened to my table? The glass top is shattered. You didn’t even clean it up.”
Nothing like a little righteous indignation to embolden a man.
Enough was enough. “Here, Scott, come here.” Meshach pulled a wad of bills from his front pants pocket.
Scott eyed the cash and shifted his weight from one foot to the other but remained where he was.
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