by Janet Dawson
What could be worse than losing a husband?
Davina told me. “Laurette was holding it together, after Chris was killed. She got some counseling through the VA there in New Orleans. She was working full-time and talking about taking some classes. Then, a year ago, Laurette was in a car accident. She had just picked up Hannah, her daughter, from the day care center and she was driving home. It was raining.”
I shook my head, knowing what was coming.
The other driver was at fault, Davina told me, but that was cold comfort. He ran a stop sign and sent Laurette’s car careening into a building. Laurette survived the crash and her injuries. Her daughter didn’t. The little girl was pronounced dead not long after arriving at the emergency room.
The twin blows of losing her husband and child sent Laurette spiraling into depression. “She took a leave of absence from her job,” Davina said. “She works at Entergy. That’s the local power company in New Orleans. When she wasn’t at home in bed, brooding, she was drinking a lot, hanging out at the music clubs all over town.”
“The party girl,” I said, thinking out loud. “Trying to numb the pain.”
Davina agreed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. She was getting better, though. She came out to see me for a week, last year just before fall semester started. Then she went back to work. From what she said, I think she liked her job. Then a few months ago she met this guy, a musician. She really likes him. But my parents took an instant dislike to him. And they’ve been very protective of Laurette these past few years.”
“Tell me about this guy. What’s his name?”
“Eric Slade,” Davina said. “Laurette tells me he prefers to call himself Slade. I only met him once, when I was home during the Christmas holidays. He plays guitar. That’s how Laurette met him. She and a friend from work were at one of the clubs on Frenchmen Street. He asked Laurette for her phone number.”
“You say your parents don’t like him,” I said. “How do you feel about him?”
“Ambivalent. He and Laurette came over for Christmas dinner. At the time I didn’t have any feelings for him one way or the other. He’s good-looking. I can see how Laurette would be attracted to him. Though he’s nothing like Chris, her husband. Chris was blond and sunny. This guy’s dark and brooding. I guess I was glad to see that Laurette was dating, after everything that’s happened. Having someone in her life has been good for her. But—” Davina paused, as though gathering her thoughts. “He seemed domineering and Laurette deferred to him, a lot. That wasn’t like the old Laurette, before she lost her husband and child. Laurette and Chris were so well-matched. The old Laurette wouldn’t let a man boss her around. She certainly never acted like that with Chris. That may be why my folks don’t like him. Anyway, when he was there at Christmas, he was living in an apartment in Treme. Then he moved in with Laurette at the end of February, I think. She had an apartment not far from where my folks live.”
“But now she’s missing? What happened?”
“Jeri, she’s disappeared. She quit her job, gave up her apartment and it looks like she’s left town with Slade. My parents are frantic.”
“When did they realize she was gone?” I asked.
“This past weekend,” Davina said. “My brother Henry’s birthday was on Saturday. He works on an oil rig out in the Gulf. He came home for his birthday and Mom and Dad cooked up a party. It was a big deal, all of Henry’s favorite foods, a cake. Mom took a few days off work and invited all the relatives. Laurette was supposed to come over for dinner. She didn’t show. Mom called, several times, and the calls went straight to voice mail.”
“And that’s unusual behavior for Laurette?”
“It certainly is,” Davina said. “Laurette has always been good about keeping in touch with my folks. She comes over for dinner every week or so. And calls every few days. On Sunday, Mom and Dad went over to Laurette’s apartment. Jeri, they were gone. The manager said Laurette and Slade had moved out. They loaded up all their stuff and drove away. Mom got hold of one of Laurette’s friends that same day and found out Laurette quit her job. She gave notice and left, on Thursday of last week. It’s a crazy situation. My folks had no idea she was going to do this, and they’re upset, especially because Laurette’s not answering her cell phone or responding to the messages they’ve left.”
I didn’t say anything, processing what Davina had told me. How did all the pieces fit? Laurette was in her mid-twenties. She was certainly an adult. If she wanted to leave town with her boyfriend, that was her business. But quitting her job and leaving without saying a word to her family seemed precipitate. It made me wonder what else was going on.
“How can I help?” I asked.
“I’d hop on a plane right now, but I can’t get away,” she said.
“And I’m already here.”
“Jeri, I know you’ve got clients and cases and obligations waiting for you back in Oakland. And you’re supposed to fly home tomorrow. But if you could just give me a couple of days.”
Clients and cases and obligations, I thought. I needed to consult my calendar. I had cleared time for the New Orleans trip, and at the time I’d scheduled it, business had been slow. But I did have a meeting with a client on Wednesday morning, a week from tomorrow. That meant I had to fly home on Tuesday at the latest.
“I can stay a few days longer. At least give it a start, go talk with your folks. I’ll find an investigator to help. There’s a guy I met a couple of years ago, at a convention. He worked for a firm here in New Orleans. I’ll see if he’s still in business — and available to do some digging around.”
“That would be wonderful, Jeri. Thanks so much. I’ll text my parents’ address and phone number. I really appreciate your doing this. I worry about my sister. Ever since her daughter died, it’s like Laurette is running from something. Her grief, her feelings. I guess she figures if she lives fast and hard, she’ll outrun the devil, but it’s not working.”
Outrun the devil, I thought as I ended the call. Somehow the devil always catches up.
“Problem?” Dad said, joining me.
“Yes.” I explained the situation. “It looks like I’ll need to stay here in New Orleans a few days longer.”
“Much as I would like to stay and help,” he said, “I have to go home. I’m participating in that seminar at the university. I can’t get out of it at this late date.”
Even though Dad was retired after many years as a history professor at the California State University campus located in Hayward, he still had an active intellectual life and a busy schedule. The seminar in question was a two-day event, Thursday and Friday, on campus at the University of California in Berkeley. Dad was one of the speakers. We were booked on a flight that left New Orleans tomorrow afternoon.
“When we get back to the hotel,” I said, “I’ll see if I can extend my reservation for a few days. Then I’ll change my flight.”
“How long do you think you’ll stay?” Dad asked as we continued along St. Peter Street.
“I have appointments next week. I’ll have to go home Tuesday at the latest. That gives me a few days’ leeway. My plan is to involve a local investigator. Two years ago, at the investigators’ convention, I met a private eye from New Orleans. He seemed like a sharp guy. Now if I can just remember his name.” We crossed Royal Street and I stopped on the other side. “The name of an old car.”
“Hudson?” Dad asked. “DeSoto? Packard? Cord?”
I shook my head, then waved a finger at him. “Lasalle. That’s it. He worked for a big firm. At least he did at the time I met him. As soon as we get back to the hotel, I need a computer.”
We quickened our pace. When we reached Chartres Street, we turned left, walking through Jackson Square, site of St. Louis Cathedral. I glanced across the square, where Café du Monde was. Dad and I had stopped frequently for café au lait and beignets.
Our hotel was two blocks away, on Dumaine Street. The converted townhouse, once a private residence, had been owned by a cotton bro
ker, according to the information we’d been given when we checked in. It had been in the same family until the end of World War II, then it changed hands, eventually turning into a hostelry. The rooms overlooked the street and an inner courtyard with tables and a fountain. When I had agreed to come to New Orleans with him, Dad had upgraded his reservation to a small suite, which gave both of us some privacy. We were located near the back of the hotel, and our balcony looked down on the courtyard. The location was great, was walking distance to the Quarter’s myriad attractions, as well as those in the nearby Faubourg Marigny district.
When we entered the lobby, Dad headed upstairs to our suite. I walked over to the hotel’s business center, a big name for a small room off the main lobby, where guests could use computers and a printer. A swipe of my room key on the pad opened the locked door. I sat down at one of the computers and logged onto my business account, looking at my email and calendar.
Clients and cases and obligations, Davina had said. That was certainly true. I had been away from my office for a week. Although I was on vacation, I’d been checking my email and office voice mail daily, responding to messages and returning calls as needed. Judging from the messages I’d received in the past forty-eight hours, business was picking up. A client with whom I had a long and financially lucrative relationship had a case for me and wanted to schedule a face-to-face meeting soon. I had two email queries from prospective clients wanting to consult with me about cases. My voice mail included, among other messages, one from Gary Manville, the head of a security firm in downtown Oakland. I’d met Gary last fall while working on a case involving the death of a mutual friend. Earlier today, he’d left a terse message saying he had something he needed to discuss with me. By now it was after ten in New Orleans and after eight in Oakland. I’d call him back tomorrow.
I looked at the calendar screen. Here was the client meeting scheduled for next Wednesday morning. I had another meeting that afternoon, as well as one on Thursday. I responded to the emails, setting up tentative appointment dates on my calendar, explaining that I was out of town and would be back in the office by Wednesday.
Could I stay longer in New Orleans? I wanted to help Davina find her sister. After all, I’d been in that scary place when my brother was missing. Yes, I could stay a few days longer, but not indefinitely. All the more reason to find a local investigator to steer Davina’s way.
I pictured the investigator I’d met at the convention two years ago. He was a tall, slender man in his mid-thirties, about my age, and we’d hit it off. “Next time you’re in New Orleans,” he said, “call me, I’ll show you around. I know all the best places to eat—and drink.” We’d traded business cards. His was in a desk drawer in my office back in Oakland. Since I was with Dad this trip and we had a full schedule of birding, museums and other activities, I hadn’t dug out the card before my travels. I remembered the man’s face and his first name, Antoine. As for his last name, I was reasonably sure it was Lasalle. I wasn’t sure of the name of the firm he worked for. Garden, I thought. That was it. The name of the firm? Or was it located in the Garden District?
As it happened, neither was true. My Internet search turned up a firm called Gerdine Investigations, located on Tchoupitoulas Street, in the neighborhood known as the Irish Channel. I jotted down the phone number and business hours, intending to call first thing in the morning.
I logged off my account and shut down the browser. When I went back out to the lobby, I headed for the registration desk, to ask if I could extend my stay in the room. “I can do it for three more nights,” the clerk said, her eyes on the computer screen as her fingers played over the keys. “After that, we’re booked up solid, unless we get a cancellation.”
“I’ll take the three nights.” I stifled a yawn. That would give me the next three days to make some progress looking for Davina’s sister. After that, I’d have to figure out something else.
For now, though, I needed sleep.
* *
When I woke up the next morning, I checked my phone for messages and saw that Davina had emailed three photographs. She’d also sent a text message with the address and phone number of her mother and stepfather, the Tedescos, adding that they were expecting my call. I opened the first attachment. The picture showed Laurette alone. As I looked at the image displayed on my smart phone, I saw a young woman with shoulder-length dark hair and a sad expression on her pale face. There were dark circles around her eyes. Davina’s accompanying note told me the picture had been taken a few months after the car accident that killed Laurette’s daughter. The second photo had been snapped a year or so before, showing Laurette in happier times. She sat on a green sofa with a younger man who resembled her, presumably her brother, Henry. On Laurette’s lap was a little girl of about three, with a head of blond curls. This was Hannah, Laurette’s daughter. The third picture had been taken last Christmas, when Laurette and her boyfriend, Slade, came to dinner. They were seated together on the same green sofa, Laurette leaning into his shoulder, a smile on her face. She looked a lot happier than she did in the first photo, dressed for the holiday season in a sparkly red-and-gold blouse and a black skirt.
The man sitting next to her had one arm draped over her shoulder. He looked funereal in gray slacks and a black knit shirt, enlivened with a tiny sprig of holly pinned above his breast pocket. My fingers moved across the phone screen, enlarging the man’s face. Dark and brooding, Davina called him. He was certainly that, with a long narrow face, a hawklike nose and an olive complexion. His eyes were blue, so pale as to be colorless, and the smile that curved his thin lips didn’t seem to extend to his eyes. It was as though he was trying to be pleasant and not quite succeeding.
Who knows why one person is attracted to another? I’d been attracted to the dark-and-brooding guys a time or two in my past. Something about him must have filled one of Laurette’s needs. She was vulnerable, I thought. She’d lost her husband and child in a short period of time and must have been vulnerable to the first man who’d come along. On the other hand, maybe Slade himself was what she needed right now. I didn’t know anything for sure. It was up to me to find out.
I heard Dad stirring and he called to me, asking if it was all right if he took the first shower. “Sure,” I said, as I got out of bed. “I’ll start the coffee.”
A short time later, showered and dressed, Dad and I headed downstairs. The hotel had a complimentary breakfast for guests, featuring cold and hot dishes. The meal was served in a light, airy dining room on the first floor. It opened onto the courtyard, where tables were set up near the fountain. Dad and I helped ourselves to coffee and moved to the tables that held platters of fruit and pastries, as well as chafing dishes full of scrambled eggs, grits, bacon and sausages. We filled our plates, then carried them outside, claiming a table.
Dad sprinkled hot sauce on his scrambled eggs. “I should call Esther.”
Esther had volunteered to drive us to the airport and proposed lunch beforehand, since the flight back to Oakland left in the late afternoon. Now my schedule was uncertain. I planned to call the Tedescos to set up a meeting with them, which might very well impinge on lunch plans. I was going to rent a car.
“Yes, call her. After we eat, I’ll call the Tedescos.” I ate a slice of bacon with a forkful of eggs, then spooned up some berries and eyed the little chocolate croissant I’d liberated from the pastry tray. When we’d finished breakfast, I left Dad sipping coffee and eating his second croissant. I headed into the lobby and the concierge’s desk, where I arranged a rental car. That done, I found a quiet corner and called Davina’s parents. We agreed to meet at eleven o’clock. I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to nine. Plenty of time to do everything on my list and get over to the Tedescos.
I pulled a slip of paper from my pocket and consulted it before punching in the number of Gerdine Investigations on the keypad of my phone. “I’m an investigator from California,” I said, when a woman answered the phone. “I’m looking for someone I
met a couple of years ago. I think he works for your firm. His last name is Lasalle.”
“That would be Antoine Lasalle. But he doesn’t work here anymore. Would you like to speak to one of our other associates?”
“No, I’d like to speak with him. I told him I’d look him up if I was in town. Where is he working now?”
“He set up his own shop,” she told me. “AL Investigations. I’ve got his contact information right here.”
“Just a minute. Let me grab a pen.” I stepped over to the concierge’s desk and got a pen and some paper. I jotted down the information as she read it off, thanked her and ended the call. Then I logged into the browser on my smart phone and searched for the address. It was on North Villere Street, just this side of Esplanade Avenue, and not far from the hotel. I called the number and got a message inviting me to leave one of my own, so I did.
I went back out to the courtyard, but I didn’t see Dad. He’d left the table where we’d eaten breakfast and was seated on the wall surrounding the fountain, talking on his phone. I guessed he was talking with Esther Landau. I waited until he ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket before joining him.
“Esther’s going to pick me up and we’ll go on to lunch,” he said. “Then she’ll take me to the airport. So I’ll say good-bye before you leave for your meeting.”
Chapter Three
I drove up Iberville Street, in the New Orleans neighborhood known as Mid-City. I realized I’d been in this area before. Katie’s, the restaurant where Dad and I had lunch with Esther, was in this neighborhood. The Tedescos lived in the middle of the block. I parked at the curb and got out, looking at the two-story house. It was painted white, with olive green trim, and the yard looked well-tended. A wide gallery stretched in front, furnished with two comfortable-looking chairs with faded green cushions.
Silencing my phone, I headed up the front steps and rang the doorbell. A moment later, George Tedesco opened the door. He ushered me into the living room, where I sat on the same olive green sofa I’d seen in the photos Davina had sent to me. The Tedescos offered coffee. I took a sip, tasting a strong dark roast with a hint of chicory. Then I looked around me at the living room, furnished with oak furniture that looked like family heirlooms, well-kept and burnished to a shine. An old quilt was draped across the back of a wingback chair and a set of double doors led back through a dining room to the kitchen. Nearby shelves held books and framed family photos.