Monday removed her button-down shirt, kicked off her sandals and stretched out on the blanket in a bikini top and a pair of denim cutoffs. Fishing a used Harold Robbins paperback from her bag, she scanned the back cover for some motivation to keep reading. She liked raunchy fiction, but preferred a more imaginative touch than Robbins brought to the material.
Tossing the book aside, Monday realized she’d forgotten to bring sunblock. Her fair complexion, the natural result of her parents’ Irish-Swedish union, was not made to endure high exposure to UV rays. She went straight from freckled alabaster to boiled lobster in no time flat, a painful tendency she had no intention of allowing today.
But the sun felt so good pouring over her skin. She didn’t want to abandon it for the safety of the shade just yet.
Five minutes, she told herself. Then she’d place the blanket under the protection of a gnarled oak and see if Mr. Robbins had what it took to hold her attention for another ten pages.
She lay back, head resting on the soft ground. Unprompted, Rusty Diamond appeared in her mind. Was it the thought of sexy reading material that conjured his image? Monday pondered that question with a smile. He hadn’t entirely dissipated from her thoughts since they’d parted ways at Temptations. Monday had taken a mild dislike to Rusty upon first sight at the hospital, based on what Marceline had said about him.
She hadn’t felt any immediate thawing last night, but by the end of their conversation he’d convinced her of two things. One, he was in no way involved with Marceline’s disappearance, and, two, he sincerely wanted to ensure her well-being. How much of his concern was personal and how much expressed on behalf of Prosper Lavalle, Monday couldn’t say. But she sensed something genuine and resolved in him, and she liked it.
All that aside, the guy was hot. Just her type, she realized with an inward groan. The last thing she needed right now was another ill-considered entanglement, having just broken one off last month. She was enjoying sleeping alone for the time being, or had at least partially convinced herself of that. Anyway, given Rusty’s history with Marceline, it wouldn’t feel right.
She felt her phone vibrating in the hip pocket of her cutoffs. The number wasn’t familiar.
“Hello?”
“Monday. It’s Rusty Diamond.”
“Damn, dude,” she said, irritated to feel a thrill at his voice. “You must have ESP.”
“I gotta ask you a favor. It’s not a small one.”
“What is it?”
“Need a ride back to NOLA. I’m at the Vacherie Medical Clinic. They’re ready to release me but I got no wheels.”
Monday sat upright on the blanket.
“Jesus, what happened? Did you see Abellard?”
“Yeah. He’s every bit the gentleman you’d led me to expect.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. Just need to knock some swamp water out of my ears.”
“What are you doing in the hospital? And what happened to your car?”
“I’ll explain all that on the ride, if you can come get me. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’d rather not wait for a damn bus, which I’ve been told won’t leave till after sundown. Otherwise, I’ll have to try and pay someone for a lift. Don’t see any likely candidates at the moment.”
“I’m coming.”
A pause elapsed, and she heard him expel a relieved sigh.
“Thanks, Monday. Hope I’m not breaking up your day too badly.”
“Sit tight,” she told him. “I should be there by five o’clock, give or take.”
Before he could hang up, Monday asked if there was any good news about Marceline, unable to keep the question to herself.
“I don’t know if it’s good or not,” he answered. “But we may be closer to knowing something than we were yesterday. Get out here soon as you can and I’ll fill you in.”
20.
Monday’s 2012 Chevy Volt, its Crystal Red Tintcoat exterior not a bad match for the lipstick she’d applied with a rushed glance in the mirror, sped eastward on the I-10, back to NOLA. Rusty slumped in the passenger’s seat. He was both wired and exhausted, a feeling not entirely alien to him. Felt like he could easily close his eyes and sleep for ten hours or stay on his feet for the next three days, depending on what kind of curves appeared in the road ahead.
He’d already apologized for the dank, swampy smell filling the car and no doubt seeping into the upholstery. Monday told him not to worry about it. Her beloved Volt was due for a detailing and she’d send him the bill.
It took her barely ninety minutes to reach Vacherie after they got off the phone. Rusty was surprised to see her walk into the clinic’s lobby a few minutes past five, expecting to wait at least another hour. As soon as they got on the road, his surprise faded. Monday kept her foot heavily planted on the pedal, rarely decelerating below eighty.
He gave a detailed account of everything that had happened since they last spoke. Monday listened intently, never letting up on the gas. When Rusty mentioned his viewing of the dead woman at the forensics center, she took one hand off the wheel to give his shoulder a squeeze.
“Jesus. That must have been awful.”
“Yeah. I was relieved, of course. But I won’t forget her face any time soon.”
He went on to describe his encounter with Abellard. Monday’s eyes grew wider as he outlined the chain of violence that started in the Carnival’s back office and ended with his immersion into the bay.
“That’s fucking unbelievable!” she cried, pounding a fist on the wheel. “I told you Abellard was scum.”
“You did at that.”
“So he’s obviously got Marcie. Holding her against her will somewhere till she has the baby. Or…with his temper, I guess…”
She didn’t finish the sentence.
“I’m not so sure,” Rusty said. “He was cryptic, didn’t give away much. But I got the feeling he’s as worried as we are, in his own way.”
“Right, real worried,” Monday replied acerbically. “That’s why he tries to off a total stranger who comes asking about her. Exactly what an innocent man would do.”
“I was studying him, Monday. The whole time he was talking. Laugh if you want, but I’m pretty good at reading people. I think he was being straight, to a point.”
“Mentalism, huh?” she asked, glancing at him with an arched brow.
“It’s actually not bullshit, even though most people who claim to practice it are frauds.”
“You’ve got to be kidding, Rusty.”
“I won’t try to convince you now. I’m more interested in the phone call I overheard. This Professor Guillory. Abellard became a totally different person talking to him. He sounded…I don’t know, cowed. Desperate. He said something like, ‘Is she OK? I want to hear her voice.’ What does that sound like to you?”
Monday didn’t answer, still fuming at the suggestion that Joseph Abellard might not be every inch the criminal she thought him to be.
“Did you call this Hubbard guy back?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Uh huh, after I saw the body. He said he was glad for my sake, then offered the number of a private detective. Says he’s a good man.”
“Are you thinking about going that way?”
“Last night, I wasn’t too sold on the idea. Private dicks get paid by the hour, which seems like a pretty strong disincentive to deliver fast results.”
Monday didn’t respond, just accelerated past a tour bus hauling a sunburned church group from Salt Lake City.
“What do you think?” Rusty asked.
“About hiring a private eye? I’m not a big fan of them, to be honest. My ex-boyfriend sicced one on me after I kicked him curbside. Seemed to think I was balling his best friend, which is total bullshit and wouldn’t have been any of his business anyway. This private eye, I cornered him once. Digging through my garbage with his bare hands. Absolute slime.”
She paused, frowning in disgust at the memory. “You’ve got to call Hubbard
though,” she continued, “after what happened today.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.”
“What’s there to think about? The man tried to kill you, Rusty. Mind-reading, whatever…no offense, but save that crap for Vegas. Even if Abellard doesn’t know where Marceline is, he should be in jail.”
“It’s my word against his. Everything that happened today, I got no proof. He’ll just deny ever seeing me.”
Monday chewed her lip, pondering the options.
“You said there was a security camera at the casino. That would show you walking in and never walking out, right?”
“Abellard could’ve erased the footage by now, if the camera was even running. And if there is proof of me walking in, all he has to do is say I got drunk, made a scene, and they hustled me out the back. The clinic drew blood when they checked me out, they’ll confirm the booze in my gullet. Not to mention the Vacherie Sheriff may be in Abellard’s pocket for all we know.”
Monday’s face revealed intense frustration as she pressed a little harder on the gas.
“Anyway,” Rusty said, “I think this all may have been worth it. I’ve got something to follow. Something we can follow, if you want to help.”
“This Professor…what’s the name, Guillory?”
“It’s not much. But maybe it’ll give us some leverage with Abellard. Or put us on the scent without even having to deal with him.”
Rusty got no reply to that suggestion. The next five minutes passed in silence. He couldn’t tell if Monday was annoyed with him or just wrapped up in some private concern. A sign on the road told him New Orleans was only twenty miles away.
“Before you go dismissing Abellard as the prime suspect, there’s something you should know.”
She let that hang for a moment, seeing how he’d respond. Rusty just waited to hear more.
“That incident at the hospital…when Abellard showed up and they got into an argument?”
“Yeah. You said a couple of security guys had to drag him out.”
“That was the last thing you mentioned to him, right? When he attacked you?”
“I was just trying to push buttons, get a reaction before he showed me the door. What are you not telling me?”
“The argument with Marceline. I said I didn’t know what it was about. That wasn’t completely true.”
“Well shit, don’t hold out now.”
“Just listen. After the guards hauled him away, I asked Marcie what happened. She was upset, as you might imagine, but angry more than afraid. She didn’t want to talk about it, wouldn’t say anything except it was over. But something else happened, a few days before. I really didn’t think there was any connection. Now, I don’t know.”
Monday veered into the left lane to pass a sluggish Winnebago, then cut in front with a cozy foot or two to spare.
“There was an incident involving one of the night janitors. It happened in the lab unit, where postpartum tissue is stored.”
“Postpartum tissue?”
“Some parents choose to bank the umbilical cord blood after delivery. Others don’t. The cord blood has all kinds of medical applications, but a lot of people prefer to just dispose of it. In that case, we keep the tissue in a refrigerated storage facility before it goes to a crematorium.”
Rusty felt a sense of alarm in his gut. He didn’t know where this story was going but he knew it was nowhere good.
“This janitor, he was new. Only worked the overnight shift for a week or so. He got caught trying to steal something. A security guard saw it on one of the cameras and stopped him. The administrators fired him the next day, it all went down very quickly. They called in the nurses and the rest of the ward staff for a meeting. Said we weren’t to mention what happened, at the risk of being terminated. It was a private matter that had been dealt with appropriately. Nothing but negative attention would come to Bon Coeur if it went public.”
“What was the janitor trying to steal?”
“We were never told, officially. Like I said, the brass wanted to keep it quiet. Most of us figured he’d raided the dispensary for drugs.”
She hesitated.
“Keep talking, Monday.”
“Word got around, a few days later. The security guard’s got a thing going with one of the nurses. He told her and it spread. The guy was stealing a discarded umbilical cord.”
“Jesus,” Rusty said, repulsed. “Why would anyone do that?”
“Way I see it, there are two possibilities. One, the guy’s some total sicko who planned to use the cord for purposes I’d rather not imagine.”
“Agreed, let’s leave that page blank. What’s the other possibility?”
“Umbilical cords are loaded with fetal stem cells. Pluripotent cells, to be specific, the kind that can regenerate damaged tissue in any part of the body. That’s what makes them so fruitful for treating serious illness.”
“Right. Supposed to offer miracle cures, I’ve heard.”
“The research is promising, there’s just one problem. Louisiana has a ban on any medical procedures involving stem cells. We’re one of the strictest states in the U.S. when it comes to that.”
“Pro-lifer deal, huh?”
“Correct. That sentiment runs pretty strong down here.”
“So what value does an umbilical cord have, if it’s illegal to use for treatment?”
Monday glanced at him with a raised brow.
“Think about it. If you had ALS or lung cancer or some other terminal disease, would you be shy about breaking the law to find a cure? Assuming you could afford it?”
“Black market,” Rusty nodded. “I thought that kind of thing happened mostly in Eastern Europe, places like that.”
“I can’t see why it wouldn’t happen here. Plenty of rich sick people in this state.”
“And plenty of doctors willing to perform off-the-books treatment, if the money’s right.”
“Exactly. When the hospital brass learned the full story was out, they called us in for another meeting. This time the threat was explicit. Say a word and we’d not only be fired but sued for breaching the confidentiality clause in our employment contracts.”
“Did that surprise you?”
“Not really. Bon Coeur is an elite hospital. Can you imagine what this would do to their reputation? All those Uptown parents-to-be hear about some freak stealing biological tissue from the maternity ward? Fucking nightmare on the PR side. God knows how much lost revenue.”
“So they never reported it to the police?”
Monday shook her head.
“Not as far as I know. The administrators decided canning the guy was enough. They just wanted it to go away.”
“The janitor. Do you know his name?”
“Never met him. Just saw him once, when I was clocking out from my afternoon shift.”
The knot in Rusty’s stomach coiled tighter, a deepening sense that what he was hearing boded ill in ways he couldn’t fathom.
“And this happened how long before Abellard showed up at the ward?”
“Couple days. A week, maybe. I honestly never connected the two things in my mind. There may be no connection. It’s just…hearing about what happened today got me thinking.”
“Goddamn, Monday. I wish you’d mentioned it last night.”
“Would it have stopped you from seeing Abellard?”
“No. But I might have thought twice before I mentioned him getting dragged out of the ward. I’m not sure what he thinks I know, but I’m starting to get a better idea why he was so hot to sink me in the bay.”
Monday reached over and gave his hand a squeeze.
“I’m sorry. I should have said something about it.”
“Hell. No permanent damage done.”
“So what’s next?”
“Research on Professor Guillory. If it’s a dead end, probably won’t take long to find out. Then I guess it’ll be time to call that private eye.”
“And just forget about what
Abellard did to you?”
“I didn’t say that. But I don’t want any payback on my behalf getting in the way of finding her.”
Rusty pulled his cell phone from his pocket and made a few futile jabs at the screen.
“Shit. My phone drowned.”
“We can try the rice method at my place. That’s worked for me a few times. We’ll use my iPad to do some digging on Guillory.”
The invitation surprised Rusty. He’d expected she would drop him off at his hotel and they’d regroup later tonight or in the morning. But there was no denying that her offer pleased him, if for no other reason than sparing him the embarrassment of entering the Cornstalk’s elegant lobby in his waterlogged state.
“Sounds good,” he nodded, and for the next few miles they made a game of avoiding eye contact so as not to acknowledge any other possibilities implied in the offer.
“Might have to hose you off first,” she eventually added.
“Wouldn’t be the first time, I’m afraid.”
Monday took the Esplanade exit and turned right on Rampart, heading into the Quarter just as twilight took hold.
They got stalled behind an Abita delivery truck and sat there listening to Etta James waft from the Volt’s speakers. Rusty smiled at the thought that New Orleans was probably the only city in America where the beer trucks delivered on Sunday.
Feeling the weight of Monday’s glance, he rotated his head to face her.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. Just thinking, you’re a pretty brave son of a bitch. Pretty resourceful too, getting out of that swamp in one piece.”
“Lucked out,” Rusty said with a shrug. “Didn’t see any gators and nary a leech on me when they pulled me into the boat. I’d have drowned for sure if Captain Dave hadn’t picked me up.”
“Sure, play it down. I mean, anyone could free themselves from being tied up and tossed overboard. Piece of cake.”
“Well, a lifetime devoted to learning strange skills can come in handy sometimes.”
“Makes me wish I’d seen you on the big stage.”
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