Simple Misconception

by Rachel Sharpe

“Marty, there’s nothing calm or rational about any of this.”

  “Then help me.”

  As the words left Dr. Weisman’s lips, his voice broke. I was again moved with sorrow for this man, a man I had known for almost my entire life. Martin Weisman was a man who had showed me nothing but compassion and kindness ever since I could remember. I thought him to be decent, good. But now? Now I realized my perceptions did not match reality. Now I understood the truth: I had never really known him at all. I saw what he wanted me to see—his mask.

  After a pause, Robert asked, “What do you want me to do?”

  Their plan was as callous as it was calculating. In dark silence, I listened as they laid out what they determined to be the cleanest, most efficient way to dispose of their problem without drawing attention to it. Jess Weisman was dead. There was no debating that fact. Also, she had died of an overdose, most likely a fatal combination of uppers and downers, some legal and some not. Any drug-related death would lead to an autopsy. And any autopsy would reveal whatever secret they were so desperate to hide.

  They decided, therefore, the most calm and rational course of action would be for Jess Weisman to die where deaths often went unsolved. Somewhere that no one would bat an eye if a young woman overdosed, accidentally or otherwise. The only way to keep the blame from falling upon them was to let it die with her. They decided to dump her body in New Orleans East.

  ~ ~ ~

  I heard the front door to the Weisman home shut after Dr. Weisman had set the alarm. I let out the breath I felt I had been holding for an eternity. It was so intense, my entire body shuddered, my teeth chattered. The father of one of my best friends was on his way to dump his dead wife’s body just days before Christmas. I felt nauseous. I tried to think, but couldn’t. My mind was reeling, the room spinning.

  Stumbling forward, I fell to my knees. I scrambled to my feet once more, taking only five steps before the nausea intensified. I was on the ground again. Weak, but determined, I managed to push open one of the closet doors. I crawled to Natalie’s private bath, located just to the right of the closet. I reached the toilet just in time.

  “Long night?” Zane’s deep voice pierced the silence that, until then, was penetrated only by my pounding headache. I sank to the floor, leaning against the porcelain with my eyes shut. “You are a little lightweight, aren’t you?”

  “Please just leave,” I begged, my eyes still shut. I felt as humiliated as I did sick. I didn’t want to see his smug face. “They’re gone now.”

  “Yeah, they’re gone,” he agreed. “And they set the alarm. How do I get outta here now? You know the code?”

  I swallowed hard. My throat felt raw. “The windows aren’t wired. Just the doors. There’s a motion sensor downstairs. Go to the first room to the right of the stairs. The window’s easy to unlock and there’s a trellis beneath it. Climb down and you’re out.”

  “What about getting out of the neighborhood? All those guards, the cameras . . .”

  I cleared my throat. It burned. “Take a left at the stop sign instead of a right. Stay on Toutant Lane. It’ll take you out the back of the neighborhood. There’s a guard shack, but no one’s ever there, especially at night. And those cameras haven’t worked in years.”

  I expected that was all it would take for him to leave. When he didn’t reply, I opened one eye, then the other. There he was, leaning against the doorframe, staring down at me, a curious frown on his face. Brushing my hair back, I waited. He didn’t say anything. Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer.

  “What? You wanted an out, right? The window’s it.”

  “What about you?”

  His question caught me off guard. “What about me?”

  “I mean,” he said, crossing his muscular arms. “What are you gonna do?”

  “What’s it matter to you?”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t. Just wondering.”

  I still felt weak, but the nausea was subsiding. I grabbed hold of the granite countertop. I hoisted myself up. My legs were shaky but did not give out.

  “I’ll be fine,” I insisted.

  “What are you gonna do? Sleep it off?” The curious look returned to his eyes. “You’re still playing little detective, aren’t you?” I refused to reply, deciding instead to meet his sarcasm with sober determination. He shook his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  “Do you realize all the insane crap that’s gone down tonight because of this so-called friend of yours?” Again, I didn’t respond. “Let it go, babe. She’s probably just off somewhere partying. I saw y’all at that bar. She’s not exactly the type to live on the straight and narrow.”

  “What do you know about the straight and narrow?”

  “That’s really annoying.”

  “What?”

  “That . . . look. I’m trying to be nice.”

  “That’s your idea of nice?”

  “Said I was trying.” He stared up at the intricate crown molding that lined the bathroom ceiling. Like the granite found throughout the house, it was imported from Italy and handcrafted. Leave it to Dr. Weisman to waste money on something people rarely see. While the room itself was a subtle shade of taupe, the crown molding was bright white, proclaiming its magnificent presence with pride. The room’s equally bright fluorescents shined upon the tattoo on his forearm. While the Celtic cross was impressive, it was the initials beneath it that piqued my curiosity. Just who or what was DL?

  “I can’t leave you here,” he said. “We’ll get out of the neighborhood and I’ll drop you off . . . somewhere. A bar, bus station, I don’t know. Somewhere.”

  “Then what? Gonna sell my friend’s car?”

  “Don’t worry about what I do,” he snapped. “If you gave two craps about yourself, you’d drop this stupid manhunt.”

  “Excuse me, what? Did we or did we not just eavesdrop on the same conversation?”

  He crossed his arms. “What I heard was some kind of twisted. When you were hitting on me earlier, I thought you were a sexy co-ed looking for a good time. But all this? This is too crazy for even me.”

  “I would never . . .”

  “Drop the self-righteous act, babe.” He walked toward the door. “All I care about is getting the hell outta here before the white bread mafia returns. You coming?”

  I wanted to tell him where he could shove his bogus chivalry. I wanted to tell him to go ahead and steal my friend’s car. I’d call the cops. He’d be arrested before he could even make it out of the neighborhood. So much for not “catching” new charges. I wanted to tell him a lot of things. The type of things I normally refrained from saying because I had a bad habit of putting my foot in my mouth. But as I stood there, weak from a balmy winter night spent dancing and drinking in the Quarter, I didn’t say anything.

  As much as I hated to admit it, I knew that I was not in the right state of mind to reject any offer of help, no matter who it came from. Or for what reason. With my throat still scratchy and sore, I walked past him, through Natalie’s bedroom, and stopped in the doorway to the hall.

  Tilting my head to the side, I said, “What’re you waiting for?”

  “Oh, after you,” he said with a smirk, bowing.

  I wanted nothing more than to smack that grin off his face, but there was too much to do and too little time to do it. I figured it must have been at least three hours since Natalie was taken, if not longer. Finding her was a top priority, but getting out of her father’s house came first. Depending on how fast he drove and where they dumped the body, he could make it back in an hour.

  Inching out into the hallway, I surveyed the ceiling. It had been years since Natalie and I snuck out of her father’s house. That was during the ill-fated reign of Wife Number Three who was probably the closest thing to a r
eal mother Natalie ever had. Unlike his other wives and girlfriends who were more than happy to ignore Natalie, letting her do whatever she wanted as long as she stayed out of their way, Wife Number Three made a valiant effort to provide both love and support. Unfortunately, her efforts were rebuffed by both Natalie and the good doctor, who was none too pleased his arm candy was trying to play parent.

  While they were married, she made a point of keeping an eye on Natalie. This included giving her the only curfew she ever had. Natalie responded as anyone would expect. She took the curfew and subsequent groundings she received for breaking it as a personal challenge. To make a long story short, that was the reason I knew where the alarm system was installed. It was also the reason why I was searching the upstairs to make sure Wife Number Five hadn’t bothered to install an upstairs motion sensor.

  Feeling confident there was nothing upstairs, I held my breath. I took my first step into the hallway. Nothing happened. I hurried down the hallway. I entered the front room. I was surprised when I walked inside to find that Dr. Weisman had taken the former guestroom, which had been decorated by Wife Number Four with ghastly floral print that should have been discontinued in the early ‘90s and turned it into an office.

  A large cherry oak desk sat in the middle of the room. A matching credenza and hutch stood against the wall behind it. Three cherry bookcases filled with medical texts partially occupied another wall. Above them Dr. Weisman’s academic and professional credentials were hung in well-polished frames. It was a home office perfectly suited to a doctor of his stature.

  Dark, thick wooden blinds replaced the cheesy, floral curtains that once framed the large window overlooking the street. They were closed. As I stood in the doorway, Zane shoved past me, hurrying into the room. He peered through the blinds.

  “Looks good,” he mumbled to himself. Quickly, he raised the blinds, hiding in the shadows to make certain no one was outside. When he felt confident, he unlocked the right window. He raised it. He sat on the sill and stared down at the trellis and the gardens, located two stories below. I thought I glimpsed doubt cross his eyes. “You done this before?”

  I didn’t reply, instead walking over to the doctor’s desk. Dim moonlight and the orange glow from the gas streetlights seeped into the room. I began scanning the documents on the desk’s surface.

  “That thing. It’s sturdy?” Zane continued, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “What?”

  “I mean you weigh, what? Eighty pounds? How do I know that thing’s gonna hold my weight?”

  “Believe me, you won’t be the first guy to climb up or down that trellis.” I had been reading through a series of memos on official hospital stationery when I felt his gaze on me. Glancing over, I noted his look of amused surprise. My face flushed as I realized what I had said. Trying to gloss over the unintentional insinuations, I added, “It’s sturdy.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Realizing that my mind was elsewhere, he crossed the dark room. He watched as I used my phone’s flashlight application to get a better look at the memos. Nothing about them stood out as unusual. While I am by no means familiar with the bureaucratic protocol or the daily dealings of the director of a world-renowned hospital, it struck me as odd that he had print outs for three different international flights over the past six months mixed in with other documents.

  Why would Dr. Weisman need to keep going abroad? It struck me as weird when Natalie mentioned that he was in Amsterdam. I didn’t know at the time he was smuggling illegal drugs into the country. What were these drugs? Why would he decide to risk everything to bring them here? It couldn’t have been about the money. The man made more money in one year than my father did in five and my father was a partner at one of the most prominent law firms in the Crescent City.

  I couldn’t understand any of this strange scenario. It made no sense. If I hoped to, I would have to either figure out what the drugs were or ask the doctor myself. Something told me, based on his reaction to his wife, his response to my inquiries would not be met with enthusiasm. As I considered all I had seen and heard, a terrible idea crossed my mind: could this drug connection have led to Natalie’s kidnapping? I was so consumed by troubling thoughts I nearly jumped out of my skin when Zane touched my shoulder.

  “Don’t do that,” I hissed, shaking. “You could’ve scared me to death.”

  “Well, if that frightened you, this is going to put you into cardiac arrest. Someone’s here.” He cursed again as he motioned toward the window.

  My heart still pounding in my chest, I inched closer, careful to stay in the shadows as we neared it. A slight, mild breeze blew inside, causing the blinds to sway softly. I watched as a dark-colored sedan crept to a stop along the curb. Silently, the driver’s door opened and a tall, dark figure emerged. As the man passed beneath the streetlight and approached the driveway, I glimpsed his face. Even though I hadn’t lived in Louisiana for almost six years, I still would have recognized him in an instant. It was the new district attorney for Orleans Parish, Asher Bain.

  16

  Asher Bain was New Orleans’ golden child. He was the son of Brett Bain, the former Orleans Parish district attorney who worked his way up to the state’s appellate court. Brett’s tenure as D.A. was short-lived. He ran with the intention of using it as a stepping stone for higher office. It worked.

  When the special election to fill the D.A. position came up, his chief assistant district attorney, George Dunbar, won in a landslide. Unfortunately, he was neither as effective nor as smart as his predecessor. When the press got wind he had been using ADAs to handle some of his private practice cases on the public’s dime, a recall effort began as soon as the toner had set on the printed petitions.

  Enter Brett’s son, Asher. A Rhodes Scholar fresh out of law school and having completed one year as a law clerk for the Honorable Judge William Carroll in Baton Rouge, Asher was young, charming, dynamic. His resemblance to his father was uncanny. Asher would have won the election by his looks and name alone. The fact that he was articulate and idealistic was just lagniappe. The city loved him.

  And apparently, he had an interest in Wife Number Five. After searching the garden for the hide-a-key rock in vain, Asher resorted to ringing the doorbell. When no one answered, he let out a soft groan. He pulled his cell phone from his coat pocket. After several seconds, the call must have gone to voicemail. Asher cursed.

  “Hey, Jess, it’s me. You said it was okay to stop by tonight, but I guess you’re not home.” Cursing again, he paced the shadows by the front door. “Just call me, okay? I need to see you. All right, bye. Erase this message.”

  With that, Asher Bain hurried down the driveway, climbed inside his brand-new, Mercedes Benz S-Class, and sped away. As I watched him leave, I remembered Zane was beside me. Glancing up at him, the moonlight revealed the same look of panicked shock I’d noted earlier. When he caught my gaze, he scowled. With surprising force, he pushed me away from the window, not stopping until I was cornered.

  “All right. This is total B.S. That was the D.A. down there!” he hissed, his eyes locked on mine. “What in the hell is all this? You better start giving me some answers.”

  Everything that had happened since the night began in the French Quarter had left me confused. And overwhelmed. Even so, his response, shoving me to intimidate me into giving up answers I didn’t have, left me incensed. Anger washing over me, I felt revived. I shoved him back before hurrying to the windowsill. After making sure no one was outside, I crouched down. Holding the sill, I placed my right foot on the trellis.

  “Where are you going?”

  In an instant, he was beside me, his hand holding my left arm.

  I stared at it then glared at him. “Let go.”

  “Not ‘til you tell me what’s going on.”

  “I don’t know.”


  “That’s bullsh—”

  “I don’t know,” I exclaimed, louder than I intended. I flinched, looking around the street below to see if any doors opened. None did. “Not a clue. All I know is something’s happened to my friend.” Horrific images of Natalie flashed across my mind. I shuddered. “I’ve gotta help her.”

  “You’re telling the truth.” His eyes studied mine.

  “Of course I’m telling the truth. Why would I lie about this?”

  “In that case, drop this”—he motioned around the dark room—“whatever the hell this is. Trust me. There’s a lot more here than you know. You don’t want to get involved.”

  I blinked. “God, I would hate to be your friend.”

  “Has nothing to do with friendship, babe. It’s self-preservation. Your boy who got shot up on Bourbon? What happened when you talked to the cops?” He waited. I didn’t reply. “They didn’t do a damn thing. All they did was start to look at you funny. If you think that was bad, imagine what’ll happen if you get involved in an OD cover-up that involves the D.A.’s mistress.”

  As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. This was turning out to be a lot bigger deal than anything I imagined. I may have handled a few cases that dealt with international and political conspiracies, but none of them involved good old Southern politics. If I wanted to take this case head-on with the hopes of finding Natalie alive, I needed to get more information. Fast.

  Swinging my leg back inside, I hurried over to Dr. Weisman’s desk. Leaning against it, I pulled out my cell phone. I checked the time. The screen said it was 3:48 A.M. That meant it was a quarter ‘til five in Glocester, Rhode Island where Jon, my temperamental associate, would be spending his Christmas vacation. My finger lingered over his contact. I hesitated.

  Our last encounter had been, in a word, awkward. After solving a murder on the set of my best friend Heather’s sitcom over the Thanksgiving holiday, things between Jon and I had returned to normal. Then, the morning of my flight home earlier this week, Jon came by to wish me safe travels. He did something unexpected. He kissed me. This wouldn’t have been a big deal except for the fact he had never done it before. And, considering his professed desire to take our relationship to the next level, I knew it was not meant as a friendly peck.