There was a round of handshaking and Fleming said, “Never met an alligator farmer before. Is it dangerous?”
“Only if you’re careless.”
“That’ll get you in trouble in most any line of work.”
“Since we can’t get in Tortorici’s, how about we go to Felix’s?” Broussard said. “Since this is Leo’s first trip to New Orleans, that’s probably a better choice, anyway.”
The five-minute walk to Felix’s stretched to ten when Fleming wanted to listen to a guy with an accordion play “Malaguena.” Actually, Fleming was more interested in the guy’s dog, which would take a dollar gently from your fingers and put it in the guy’s hat on the ground. By the time they left, Fleming was out five bucks.
A block later, they lost him again when he paused at the entrance to a strip joint where a girl wearing a denim halter, skimpy denim shorts, and cowboy boots invited him in by bending over with her back to him and slapping her thighs.
“We should have the meetin’ here every year,” he said, rejoining them.
They made good time for about three minutes, until Fleming wandered across the street to join a crowd around a guy standing on a small box. The object of all the attention was wearing a tux, white gloves, and sneakers. His face was mime white and his hair was dressed in dreadlocks wrapped with gold braid that ended in a cluster of little wooden balls that jiggled with the slightest movement, except they weren’t moving at all—this, of course, being his talent. He stood with his arms raised and bent at the elbows, fingers spread in a flagrant display of bodily control. After a few minutes, he mechanically shifted his arms to a new position and rotated his torso, once again becoming the Amazing Living Statue.
Broussard’s stomach suddenly rumbled like thunder and Fleming looked back at him. “You tryin’ to steal the show?”
“Tryin’ to get somethin’ to eat,” Broussard growled. Fleming tossed a buck into the living statue’s open satchel and recrossed the street.
At Felix’s, they were shown to seats in the open, unpretentious main room. As Fleming studied the menu, Broussard said, “Leo, you should have the crawfish.”
A waiter went by with an order of the bright red crustaceans nicely arranged on a big white plate. Fleming watched them pass and wrinkled his nose. “Where I come from, that’s fish bait.”
“That’s because you never tasted one,” Broussard said. “Now we’re gonna educate you.”
So it was crawfish all around and, in Broussard’s case, a dozen raw oysters on the half shell for an appetizer.
Watching Broussard fork the slippery bivalves into his mouth, Fleming’s lips curled in disgust. “That’s the whole animal, right?”
Broussard nodded.
“Digestive tracts, gonads, everything?”
Broussard nodded again and reached for another. Fleming looked away, shaking his head. But when the crawfish came, he was soon shucking them like a native, though he found Teddy’s suggestion that he suck the juices out of the head barbaric.
Between crawfish, Teddy said, “Leo, what’s the subject of the paper you’re giving?”
Kit had been around Broussard long enough to know that you do not ask a forensic pathologist or anthropologist such things while eating. Fleming’s answer taught Teddy the same lesson. “Saw dismemberment of human bones: characteristics indicative of saw class and type.”
Looking a lot like Fleming had when he was watching Broussard eat oysters, Teddy said, “Ah . . . interesting topic.”
Broussard turned to Kit. “You come up with any ideas on those letters?”
“To be honest, I’ve been having a little trouble concentrating on them. When I got home this morning, I found Lucky nearly dead. The vet said he’d gotten into some rat poison. I don’t have anything like that around, so we think it was one of the neighbors, angry at his barking.”
“The penalty for killin’ a dog ought to be the same as for a human,” Fleming said, his jaw clenched, his eyes hard.
“The vet thinks he’ll recover, but he has to stay there a while.”
Fleming cleaned his fingers on his napkin and reached over and patted the back of Kit’s hand with his own calloused mitt. “I’m sure he’s gonna come out of this good as new. And your concern for him does you credit. I always believed that St. Peter gives double coupons for kindness to animals.”
Almost as soon as she’d begun talking about Lucky, Kit had regretted bringing it up, thinking it was only going to sound like an excuse for not having anything to contribute on the Scrabble problem. Now, Fleming’s well-intentioned compliment made her feel that even more keenly. She was relieved, therefore, when Fleming turned to Broussard and said, “You mentioned some letters. . . .”
Glancing toward the two couples at the next table, Broussard lowered his voice and told Fleming about the body in the locker and the hair they’d found. At first, Kit was a little surprised he would talk so openly about it, but then she saw that, Fleming being a forensic colleague, it was like a consult. Moreover, it gave her a chance to ask Broussard the question that had been on her mind since she and Teddy had run into him.
“Did Gatlin get hair samples from the victim’s lover?”
“He did.”
“Well?”
“Not a match.”
“I knew it. So we’re all agreed now?”
“Not completely. Phillip’s checkin’ the possibility that the roommate might have hired it done.”
Kit’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Hired it done? The man’s in denial.”
“He’s thinkin’ a hired assassin might account for the lack of overkill. He wouldn’t be a very good detective if he ignored that possibility.”
“I have to agree with Kit,” Fleming said. “I think there’s gonna be more.”
Remembering that Teddy had been left out of the conversation, Kit patted him on the leg. “Sorry for all the shoptalk.”
“Yeah,” Teddy said. “It’s been really boring.”
Back on Bourbon Street after dinner, Kit asked Broussard, “Where are you parked?”
“We walked from the Hyatt. Leo’s there, and since I’m local chairman of arrangements, I took a room myself. Figured I’d just stay there durin’ the meetin’. Anything goes wrong, I’ll be easy to get hold of.”
“That’s a pretty long way and there is that killer to think about,” Kit said. “We’ll give you a ride back.”
“Appreciate the offer,” Broussard said. “But we’ll just catch the hotel shuttle.”
“I’ll see you both Monday then, at the meeting.”
“You all set with the hospitality table?”
“Unless something unforeseen happens.”
“And people to man the doors outside each room?”
“Actually, they’re all women. Every man I asked had something more important to do.”
“We’re an uncooperative lot all right,” Broussard said. “But it’s not our fault. It’s that blasted testosterone.”
Eyes dancing, Kit said, “I know a cure for that.”
3
Monday morning, Kit saw Teddy off for the drive back to Bayou Coteau at 6:00 A.M. By 6:45, she was at the Hyatt for her appointment with the two dozen volunteers she’d rounded up to help keep the Forensic meeting’s attendees well informed and happy.
The meeting was officially to begin at eight o’clock. That gave her plenty of time to pass out hotel maps and take her group on a tour of the pertinent areas, which were laid out much like one of the rat mazes in the Tulane behavioral psych lab. The group finished the circuit in about twenty minutes, at which time Kit handed out the assignment sheets she’d prepared. She then took everyone around to the Courtyard restaurant for breakfast, the tab for this and all the volunteers’ other meals to be picked up by the national office.
Kit sat at a table with Edna Gervais, secretary of the rose society they both belonged to, and Edna’s daughter, Bebe LaCour, a large woman with fine skin who wore earrings so heavy that she’d already stretc
hed the holes in her earlobes to an alarming size. In her youth, Edna had been a stage actress in New York. Now, well beyond youth and acting, she could still project. Because of Edna’s commanding voice and her willingness to stay all day, Kit had made her second in command of the volunteers. Edna and Bebe were also to serve at the hospitality table, where Bebe’s size could be put to good use each morning, carrying the various brochures from the room where they were stored to the table in the Regency Foyer.
Everything was going so smoothly that Kit should not have been surprised to suddenly find Susannah Lester at her side. Susannah was the liaison between the local committee and national headquarters. “National needs a favor,” she said, wearing an apologetic expression.
“What kind of favor?”
“Some of their people didn’t make it. So they’re short for the registration desk.”
“And they want some of mine?”
Susannah winced. “Yeah.”
“For how long?”
“The whole meeting.”
“My schedule’s all made out.”
“Dr. Broussard said to tell you that anybody can lead when things are going according to plan, but the true mark of character is how well you behave in a crisis.”
“Is he down here?”
“I dunno. When I talked to him on the phone, he was in his room.”
“How many people do they need?”
“Three.”
“Okay, I’ll work it out. I’ll have them over there at eight.”
“Fabulous.”
Kit excused herself to Edna and Bebe and went to an empty table where she spent the next thirty minutes rescheduling her troops. At ten to eight, she stood up. “Okay everybody, time to get to our posts.” She held up the revised schedule. “I’ve had to rework your assignments a little, so be sure and get a look at this. I’ll leave it on the hospitality table. Some of you had to be reassigned to the registration desk. Just report there and they’ll tell you what to do. I hope this doesn’t create problems for any of you. If it does, Edna will handle it.” She looked hopefully at Edna, who nodded her head reassuringly.
They all then followed Kit to the Regency Foyer. While the others looked at the revised assignments, Kit and Bebe went to the room where all the tourist brochures were stashed and began ferrying them to the table.
By eight o’clock, the table was ready and all the volunteers were at their posts. As Kit took her first relaxed breath of the morning, she saw Broussard coming toward her.
“Susannah find you?” he said.
“All taken care of. Thanks for the philosophy.”
He looked her up and down. “Unless I’m mistaken, you’ve grown an inch or two.” He shifted his attention past her, introduced himself to Edna and Bebe, and offered each of them his hand. “Good of you to help us out. We’d be in real trouble without folks like you.”
When he turned back to Kit, she said, “Did you see Lawson’s article in the Sunday paper?”
Broussard motioned to the side with his head and they moved away from the table.
“I don’t think he hurt us too badly,” he said, waving at two men by the message board. “He didn’t say what the four letters were, and he didn’t mention the hair.”
“But he knew about the eyelid and everything about the wound and how it suggested the killer was an expert with a knife.”
“Interestin’ point. He could have learned about the wound from seein’ the original or a copy of the autopsy report. But I didn’t draw any conclusions in there about the killer. I only said that to Phillip.”
“Maybe he got a look at Gatlin’s report, too.”
“I suspect Lawson is pretty persuasive with the ladies. If I had to pinpoint the leak, I’d look for a female clerk in Homicide.”
“Hard to believe that a woman would risk her job for a guy with a ponytail.”
“You just don’t like him. It was good, though, that he warned folks about walkin’ alone on deserted streets.”
“I was so afraid there was going to be another one Saturday night, I woke up at five o’clock Sunday morning and just lay there waiting for the phone to ring.”
“Maybe it won’t happen.”
“I’d like to believe that. Think we should issue a warning to our attendees about walking about alone at night?”
“Already got one in their packets.”
“That was fast.”
“Put it in the plans months ago to remind ’em this can be a dangerous place.”
Broussard reached in his pants pocket, fished out a lemon ball, and slipped it into his mouth. From the other pocket, he produced two identical candies wrapped in cellophane, which he offered to Kit, who had often imagined he bought both kinds in fifty-five-gallon drums. For the first few months after he’d hired her, she’d been offered only the naked ones, which she’d always refused, the offer frequently including small bits of lint from his pocket. Then the wrapped ones had appeared. Since he never unwrapped one for himself, it was obvious he’d begun carrying them just for her. Under the circumstances, she now found the offer impossible to refuse. The ritual transfer was made and Kit put them in her purse with the half dozen others she’d collected the week before. She wouldn’t eat them, but she couldn’t bring herself to throw them away, either. So on it went, the candies slowly filling a plastic garbage pail in her pantry.
“You gonna be around the hotel today?” he asked.
“There’s nothing of interest here for me until tomorrow. I only came over to get my volunteers organized and off to a good start. If there’s no line in the restaurant, I’m going to have something to eat, then I’m going to the office. You?”
“Thought I’d stop in at the radiology workshop.”
While Kit returned to the restaurant, Broussard checked his program to refresh his memory on the location of the workshop. On the way there, he paused to watch a fellow at the registration booths get his packet and Forensic Academy tote bag, thinking there was something familiar about . . . My God, it was. He headed that way.
“Brookie?”
The man turned, and Broussard was jarred by his appearance. Crandall Brooks, the Albany, New York, ME had been a faithful jogger, running five miles a day every day for the twenty-odd years Broussard had known him, a practice that, in Broussard’s opinion, had always made him appear under-nourished. Now, he’d gained at least thirty pounds. And his hair, which he still wore in a military crew cut, looked decidedly grayer.
“Hello, Andy.”
Broussard took Brookie’s hand warmly in his own. “When’d you get in?”
“Few minutes ago.”
“Brookie, I am so sorry about Susan’s death.”
“Thanks. I really appreciated the flowers.”
“I’m just sorry I couldn’t have been there, but we had a major crisis here and . . .”
“No apologies necessary, I know you would have come if you could.”
“I’m kind of surprised to see you. Considerin’ the circumstances, thought you’d probably skip this one . . . to . . . well, you know, kind of regroup.”
“I needed a change of scenery. And I did think about going off somewhere to be alone but figured if I did, I’d probably just sit around feeling sorry for myself. This is better. I’ll be near old friends and I’ll have something to keep my mind occupied. In fact, I signed up for the aircraft-accident workshop, which I believe is going to start in a few minutes. Can we have lunch?”
“Absolutely, I’ll meet you right here at noon.”
Broussard had been in forensic work for so long he rarely saw his job as anything out of the ordinary. But now, as he watched this man who was hoping to get his mind off the death of his wife by listening to descriptions of aircraft mayhem, he saw that theirs was indeed a peculiar profession. He then reflected on the lie he’d just told. It hadn’t been a crisis that had prevented him from attending Susan Brooks’s funeral. It had been his wish to remember her as she had been, lively, quick-witted, warm. The thr
ee of them had spent many happy hours together over the years and he doubted he would ever be able to look at Brookie again without thinking of Susan.
“We’ve got a problem.”
Broussard turned at the voice beside him and saw Corinne Samuels, senior toxicologist with the crime lab, looking very worried. This didn’t particularly set him on edge, because she was always worried, sometimes with reason, often without. “What’s wrong?”
“A barge hit the Creole Queen early this morning. She’ll be out of commission for at least three weeks.”
So this time she had reason. “Can they get a substitute?”
“They say no. I’m afraid the paddle-wheel panorama is a wash.”
“How many signed up?”
“A hundred and twenty.”
Broussard lapsed into thought. His hand strayed to his nose and began to rub the stiff hairs that grew on its tip. “It’s too late to do anything but arrange for refunds,” he said abruptly. “Also, have some big signs made announcin’ the cancellation and place ’em on easels around the hotel . . .” The beeper on his belt went off. “Include somethin’ like ‘Refunds may be obtained from the registration cashier.’ ”
While Corinne went off to follow his instructions, Broussard walked down to the lobby telephones and dialed his office.
“Margaret, it’s me. What have you got?”
“Lieutenant Gatlin called. You’re supposed to go to Madison Street in the Quarter. He said they found another one.”
Broussard hurried to the Courtyard restaurant. He spotted Kit sitting alone under a small green-roofed gazebo. When he reached her table, she took one look at his face and got up with only a single word. “Where?”
“The Quarter,” he replied, already heading for the escalator, “near where we found the first one.”
Kit stopped at the cashier’s station, scribbled her name on the running Forensic Academy tab, and walked briskly after Broussard, who was just disappearing from view.
Broussard loved each of his six ’57 T-birds equally and generally drove a different one each day. But since he was confined to the hotel for the next few days, he had access only to the yellow one he’d checked in with. It was brought around to the entrance without much delay and they were soon out on Poydras, heading toward the river, the steering wheel pressing firmly into his belly.
New Orleans Requiem Page 4