Orb

by Arp, David E. ;

  Without a doubt, the game was on.

  A brown SUV taxi double-parked next to the entrance into the hotel caught his attention. New Orleans Limousine Service written in fancy script lined the edge of the hood. Right. Should say Taxi. A misnomer. He approached. The driver’s window was down. “Hey, I need a ride, no problem?”

  A bearded man looked up. “No got problem. Please, sit, other side.”

  No got problem? A foreigner. No speakie Enguish. Meshach walked around, opened the front passenger’s door and got in. The thing smelled like a mix of Mr. Clean and incense.

  The driver sported a hefty black beard that draped to the start of his ample belly. He wore brown suit pants, silk maybe, and a white dress shirt. “Where you go?” He spoke fast. English didn’t fit his tongue well. He started the meter mounted on the dashboard, put the SUV in gear and eased to the exit.

  Meshach pointed right. “About two miles up here, on the left, are two small used car dealers. Drop me off at the first one.”

  “No need downtown?”

  “No need downtown,” Meshach said. “Go right, two lights ahead, on the left, at Airline Drive. That’s all I need.”

  “I go Hyatt, New Orleans. You go too. Good place walk Bourbon Street.”

  “Got the T-shirt. You’re not listening. Up here on the left.”

  The meter clicked over $8.50 as they pulled in and stopped. Meshach dropped a ten on the console and got out.

  The car dealership looked like a condemned fast food place. Still had the drive-up window. The sign on the awning read D’Jay’s and advertised used cars. The building looked like someone got a deal on yellow paint.

  Meshach eyed a white Altima parked between a yellow Beetle and a faded blue, seventy-something Cadillac. The right front fender had some damage. A jagged crack in the windshield stretched from the upper corner on the passenger’s side, across the black shoe polished Red Tagged $1799, to the center of the dashboard.

  A tall, thin black man strolled out of the building. White belt, red slacks, and yellow shirt. He had to be colorblind. “You lookin’ for a car?” he said.

  Meshach stopped and held out his hands, palms up. “What do you think?”

  “Well, you lookin’ at ’em, so ….” He slapped the hood. “This’n here would look good on you. Where you stay at?”

  Meshach opened the driver’s door and pulled the hood latch. “Where do I stay at?”

  “Yeah, like live. You don’t stay ’round here none.”

  The man backed up a step as Meshach walked to the front of the car, tripped the safety latch, and raised the hood. “You got a rag?”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind.” Meshach pulled the dipstick and checked the oil. It was full and looked clean. He slid the thin rod back into the motor, slammed the hood closed, and took another survey of the car. Still had good tread on a set of Michelins, none of them low. “How many miles?”

  “One-twenny-five. Old engine is in good shape. Don’t use no oil.”

  “Let’s go inside and talk.”

  “Now, ’fore we do.” He opened his left hand and tapped the palm with his right hand, like put her here. “I gots ta tell ya, we likes cash ’round here. Franklins ’n such. Especially for folks we don’t know. You feelin’ me?”

  Meshach nodded. “I’m feeling you.”

  ~*~

  Thursday, 1:30pm, somewhere over southeast Texas

  Wes gazed out of the small window next to his seat. The land below looked like a playroom floor strewn with building blocks. Square plowed areas mixed with grass and trees and lakes crossed with rivers and highways. The view gave little evidence to indicate mankind had any sense of organization.

  Jordan turned around in his seat at the controls of the jet. “You guys comfortable? Too hot or too cold? Let me know. We should have a good ride all the way. Thunderstorms are building in west Texas, but we’ll skirt ’em to the south with little delay.”

  Jess said, “How far is it?”

  “Just a smidgen over seventeen-hundred miles. I’ve got the cruise set on three-eighty. We’d make better time with a tailwind, but we won’t be blessed with one this trip.”

  “Thanks, Jordan,” Wes said.

  “Make yourselves at home. You know where the drinks and the snacks are.”

  “Thanks, again,” Jess said.

  Cole said he owned two jets. If this aircraft set the example, jetsetters would be sorely disappointed. The bird was a five-foot-diameter culvert with wings and seating for six in leather chairs. A small refrigerator, coffee bar, and lavatory took up the back of the plane. The four chairs in the front of the cabin unlocked and swiveled for inflight comfort, like posh lounge chairs with seatbelts. A small table affixed to the floor between the two seats on the left side served as a desk.

  An oil tycoon’s work truck.

  Jess’s demeanor baffled him. Granted, she had a point about his failure to pass on his suspicions regarding Lamech’s warning post.

  The million-dollar question: did he think they were in danger? At the time: no. Now: possibly. If they got closer to the real reason the man was in Louisiana: definitely.

  Neither employee asked him why he ended the chase. They had Meshach. Wes could have run him down. He’d stepped into harm’s way many times. That was different than risking the lives of Jess and Tony or some bystander.

  He glanced at Jess. She still had her back to him, facing the window. Her statement about the kind of panties she wore tickled him. She’d waited long enough. Like a large pot of cold water on a small flame, she took a while to boil over, but boil she did. His mom had that fortitude. All woman, but tough emotionally, and she spoke her mind, as Jess had.

  She scratched the top of her head and raked her fingers through the dark tresses.

  He knew better than to assume what a woman thought. A lesson he’d learned early in life.

  Then, as if reading his mind, she unbuckled her seatbelt and moved to the chair behind him. “Can we talk?”

  That question was never good. Not coming from a woman.

  He unlocked the chair and swiveled around to face her across the table. Wasn’t too many years ago a gaze so intense would have made him squirm in his seat.

  She took an audible breath, held it a heartbeat, and let it out. “I want to apologize, Wes. I, well…” She looked at the ceiling and back. “It’s not your fault, but calling me Jess kind of caught me off guard. It’s been a long time since a man called me that.”

  Ooh! Shortening her name? The apology disarmed him. He was the one who should apologize. “I didn’t realize. It just came out. I didn’t mean to be presumptuous, if that’s the right word.”

  “You couldn’t know.” She gazed out of the window as if the portal gave her a look back at troubled times.

  “I grew up in turmoil. Dad drank. Beer he handled fine, but whisky, whisky made him mean and vengeful. No one was safe around him. Mom and I lived on the edge, one bottle to the next. Then, at eighteen, I ran from my abusive father straight into the arms of an abusive husband. I stayed because that’s what Christian women do. For better or worse. More worse than better, I’ll tell you. A liar, unfaithful, mean.” She laughed without mirth. “Dad called me Jess when he wanted his little girl back, my ex when he wanted…”

  Her eyes grew wide. She looked at Wes as if the thought of what she was about to say broke the trance. “I left ten years ago. I haven’t dated twice since. I swore off men. Even wore my wedding ring for three years after we divorced so guys would leave me alone. Got to where the ring didn’t matter. No morals anymore. Just added to the mistrust I felt for every man who looked at me.”

  She smiled suddenly, flashing straight white teeth. “Now, I need to apologize again for rambling.”

  “No, you don’t.” It was his turn to look out the window. He had a thousand questions he wanted to ask her. Kids? No kids? What happened to her dad? Though he could guess. Where’s her ex? “So, I suppose we need to communicate more. I need
to apologize too, for not warning you about Meshach. I started to knock on your door but didn’t want to worry you for nothing. Turns out I should have. Meshach isn’t a figment of our imaginations.”

  She nodded. “What’s Tony going to do?”

  “I told him to change hotels. I need to send him an e-mail and remind him to check rental dealers for Meshach’s car and see if we can get a real name. I don’t think our guy is dumb enough to use his real name, but you never know. I’d like him to visit Avis and Hertz, all of them, and see if someone recognizes Meshach’s description.”

  Jessica pulled out her iPhone. “I’ll send him a text, but I’ll bet you he’s already looked for records. I’ll mention a visit to the rental car places.”

  Wes agreed. Tony didn’t miss much. Wes had reservations about hiring his computer tech, but his doubts didn’t last long. Tony was good. “You’re right. He’d have called by now if he’d found anything. I had another thought. He needs to get a different car. We didn’t see a plate number on the Chrysler. That doesn’t mean Meshach didn’t see ours.”

  “I’ll mention that too. What’s our plan for this afternoon?”

  “We can start right now by getting a rental car reserved and a place to stay.”

  Jessica leaned over and grabbed her computer case. “I can do that. How long? What kind of car?”

  He removed his credit card from his wallet and handed it to her. “I like a Malibu. Lots of room inside and it has a big trunk. If one isn’t available, then get something of comparable size. Two nights should be plenty. I suspect Lane’s address is a house. The search only turned up one contact for Woodard. Either way, he hasn’t been deceased long, and he was murdered. His parents won’t have closure until the murderer is found and convicted. That’s a plus for you and me. They’ll want to talk to us and do anything to help.”

  “So, what’s a good time of day to call on them?”

  A good question. “No time is perfect, but some are better than others. I like afternoons. The husband may be at work, or both of them will be. We’ll have to see. But normal working hours, otherwise, they’re apt to be wary, guarded. I don’t like to pop in during mealtimes. It’s rude. I always pop in. Never call. People screen calls now more than ever with the flood of telemarketers looking for victims. People like to see who they’re talking with, and they’ll be more comfortable.”

  “Tony sent us a note.” She read for a moment. “He’s already moved to a Days Inn in Mandeville. Where’s that?”

  “Across Lake Pontchartrain. Louisianan’s call the area the North Shore.” The location was perfect. Bubba lived on that side of the lake, east of Abita Springs.

  Wes leaned back in the chair. Jessica worked at her computer. This mode of transportation was really the only way to fly.

  “What else, Jessica?”

  She glanced up and said, “Please, call me Jess,” then focused on the screen again.

  He gazed out the portal. Looked like foothills into the snowcapped mountains of eastern New Mexico below. Clear skies as far as he could see.

  The woman was three, five-hundred-piece jigsaw puzzles mixed up in the same box.

  19

  Thursday evening

  Wes eased the brown Malibu to the curb across the street from the address they had for Lane Woodard. If he had to guess, the house, like all of them in the area, dated back to the fifties. Red brick extended to the eaves of a nearly flat, hot-mopped tar and graveled roof. Fixed narrow windows along the front of the house reached from the foundation to the eaves. Instead of a garage, the roof extended across a narrow slab of concrete to form a carport on the left side of the structure where a blue station wagon sat. The yard consisted of natural, no-maintenance desert, like the southern Nevada and Arizona countryside. Every plant looked like a pincushion or a chainsaw.

  He glanced at his watch. “It’s five ten. We’re cutting it close, but this needs doing.”

  “Looks empty,” Jess said.

  “Let’s find out.” Wes opened the door and stepped out.

  Jess exited and came around the car. They crossed the street.

  Jess pointed toward the side of the house. “Look. What are they?”

  Four birds sprinted for the backyard, like trailers tied together. Follow the leader. “Look like quail. I forget what kind. Not bobwhites or blues, but like blues. We’ll have to ask someone who lives here.”

  The place looked empty, but not vacant. A clay pot full of red flowers on the porch looked healthy. The Chevy wagon under the carport was old but in good shape, like the house. It had been washed recently. Someone lived in the home.

  He rapped on the jamb of the white storm door.

  Seconds passed. Jess smoothed her red blouse with a swipe of her hands. She glanced at Wes. “I’m nervous.”

  “Don’t be. You’re lovely. You’ll put them at ease.” He squeezed her elbow. “I’ll start. Just be yourself.”

  The deadbolt clicked and the main wooden door opened. If the lady who answered stood five feet tall, he’d be surprised. Gray, short hair hung loose around her face. She was petite, frail even. She opened the storm door a crack. “Can I help you?” she asked in a weak voice.

  “Ma’am, I’m Wes Hansen, a private investigator. This is my associate, Jessica Wahl. We hoped we might speak to Mr. and Mrs. Woodard, Lane’s mother and father.”

  It was then Wes noticed the assorted bouquets and vases of yellow, white, and red roses scattered around the living room behind the woman. The type of flowers friends and family would send after a tragedy. They were at the right house, but the woman looked too old to have a son twenty-five.

  “I’m Miss Woodard. I’ve already talked to the police. A detective from New Orleans came here this morning and asked a bunch of questions. I had few answers for him, and he didn’t have a one for me. He didn’t even know when they’re going to send my son home to me.”

  The title struck Wes. She didn’t say Miss with emphasis like a feminist trying to make a point. Divorced? Widowed? She was spent. She looked like she hadn’t slept or showered in a couple of days. Her voice was low, resigned to whatever. He regretted the visit in the first place, but especially so soon. “Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry, but could you spare a moment for us? We’d like to see if you recognize the description of a man we suspect of involvement.”

  She inched the door open and turned away. Wes took the move as an invitation and held the door for Jess.

  The woman walked to a green chair, next to a well-used upright piano, and plopped down. “Please, have a seat.” She indicated a matching green couch against the wall to their right. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’d offer you something to drink, but frankly, I just can’t go anymore.”

  “That’s OK,” Jess said, sitting closest to the lady and folding her hands in her lap. Wes sat next to Jess.

  Pictures of young and old, couples, groups and singles covered the walls. A music book titled Songs for the Ages sat in the holder on top of the piano. The interior of the house took him back to his childhood. Wall-to-wall shag carpet in a greenish-yellow he couldn’t describe without using the word hideous and a textured ceiling flecked with glitter.

  The place looked clean. For a family man in the nineteen-sixties the house would have been a move up.

  She leaned over and offered her hand. “I’m Elizabeth. Call me Liz.”

  Wes didn’t reach for her but nodded.

  Jess took the shaking hand in hers. “Very nice to meet you. We’re so sorry for your loss.”

  Tears flowed from the woman’s eyes. She fell back in the chair, her head down, arms on the cushioned rests to each side. She cried. Not a sound. Just tears. A flood of them poured down her cheeks.

  Jess matched her tear for silent tear.

  An oak grandfather clock in the corner of the room next to the doorway into the kitchen ticked with the rhythm of its pendulum. It clicked off seconds but seemed too slow and grew louder in the silence. Despite his efforts, Wes couldn’t keep his tears
in check.

  He didn’t know Lane, but he knew death. He knew what it felt like to have a broken heart and to cry until the well dried. No words could ease the pain.

  After a minute, Liz stood. As she rounded the corner into the hallway out of sight, Wes put his hand on Jess’s shoulder and gave it one light squeeze. She leaned her head and raised her shoulder to press his hand between the two. Her tears wet the back of his hand. She straightened and removed a tissue from her purse to wipe her eyes and nose.

  The big clock chimed on the half hour, eight minutes fast.

  Liz returned and sat, clutching a white tissue. “I lost Lane’s daddy to colon cancer fifteen years ago. Lane had just turned ten.” She held her hands out as if to say help me. “Lane was my life. He still lived here, with me. He was going to marry this August. I don’t know what I’ll do now.”

  “Miss Woodard…Liz,” Wes said. “I am sorry for the intrusion. I know there’s no good time to ask questions, but we wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was important. What we find out from you, about your son, his friends, may save lives.”

  The woman seemed to rein in her emotions and focus. She sat up and inched forward onto the edge of the chair. “Please, what can I do to help?”

  Starting was the hard part. No place like the beginning. “I was hired to find a man who assaulted a woman in Lubbock, Texas. My investigation led me, us, my team, to New Orleans. I think our guy and your son’s murderer is the same man. I think a chance meeting got Lane killed. I believe he knew his assailant.”

  “You said you had a description. No name?”

  “Tall,” Jess said. “Around six-two, dark hair. Very attractive, masculine and strong, but with one distinguished flaw, we think he’s blind in one eye. He wears sunglasses day and night. The eye or the area around it could be damaged enough to put people off at first glance.”

  Liz looked between them, then at the ceiling and shook her head. “I can think of a couple of Lane’s friends who are tall, but no one who has one eye. Everyone is tall to me, young lady.” A faint smile crossed her lips.