The Caesar Clue (The Micah Dunn Mysteries)

by Malcolm Shuman

I didn’t want to think of her anymore; in that sense, Kath-erine was right. The sheeted forms on the tables, the smell of disinfectant, the drains in the floors, all made me want to turn away. There was no use wasting time on speculation. She’d been on the plane. Mancuso had checked the passenger list. Julia Morvant, in black and white.

  I thought of calling Solly, but I decided to go to O’Rourke’s instead. He lived in a big house in the university district, a few blocks from St. Charles, which made it easy for him to take the streetcar to work every day, since he hated to drive. I knew that on Saturday he often took bike rides, but today he was home. And I was glad.

  He opened the door dressed in T-shirt and sweat pants. A piano concerto sparkled in the background. If my friend was surprised to see me, he didn’t show it.

  “What’s up?” he asked as we went inside. “You don’t need a quick bail hearing, do you?”

  “No, just an objective ear,” I said and told him about Gautreau and then about my visit to the morgue. “I didn’t expect to find her. But I know, intellectually, that she’s dead. John, I’ve got to screw my head back on.”

  He listened thoughtfully. “You will,” he promised. “What’s the status of this Rivas? Any news?”

  I shook my head. “My guess is he’s gone to ground, at least for a couple of days. He knows he almost got ambushed the other night and now he’ll be wary. Unless he goes for the congressman now.”

  O’Rourke shook his head. “Unlikely. I talked to Stokley’s aide. The congressman and his wife left yesterday for a hospital back east. She has to have plastic surgery.”

  “Walter Reed?”

  “Maybe.”

  “How many people know they’re gone?”

  “Not many. They’re still pretending they’re at the plantation.”

  I thought for a moment. “I’m sure Cox’s group set me up to draw Rivas. Somebody managed to get word to him that I was after him and had to be neutralized.”

  “A leak in Cox’s organization?” the lawyer asked.

  “Cocaine buys a lot of loyalties,” I said. “My guess is somebody’s playing both ends. Or maybe Cox has somebody planted in Rivas’s camp and used them as a pipeline to get the message to Rivas about me.”

  “It’s happened before,” he said philosophically. “You know it was pretty coincidental, your friend being there when he was needed.”

  “I’ve thought about that,” I said. “But I know Solly. He wouldn’t be part of any double-dealing with his friends.”

  It sounded good; the trouble was that I was having trouble keeping myself convinced. Solly and I had been apart a long time. They’d given him something he wanted. He’d been a Marine, sure, but we’d done a lot of intelligence missions in the old days, and the essence of intelligence is deception.

  The record ended and O’Rourke got up to change it. “You figure she stole some of their coke?” he asked.

  “Seems logical,” I said. “She got mad at them for something they did, or something she imagined they did, and double-crossed them.”

  “And so they sent Rivas after her.”

  “Right.” I got up and went to the mantel. He still had his Christmas cards tacked up from last year. “But there’s a couple of things that bother me.”

  He carefully replaced the record in its cover and selected another, giving me a chance to marshal my thoughts.

  “First,” I said, “there was no cocaine found at the crash site. Oh, I know it could have been thrown clear, or destroyed, or be at the bottom of the swamp now. But it would be nice if some bags of the stuff turned up.”

  “And second?” he asked, placing the new record on the turntable.

  “Rivas was pretty busy. He took care of a whole plane load of people and then hopped over to St. Croix and threw a grenade at Stokley. I don’t like coincidences.”

  The room was filled with a fatuous voice: “When I was a lad I served a term as office boy to an Attorney’s firm.”

  I smiled in spite of myself.

  “You think Stokley was part of the dope deal?” O’Rourke asked.

  “I don’t know. It wouldn’t be the first time a politician talked against something and did something else under the table.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. But I’ve never heard anything about his being involved in dope deals. Not that I necessarily would, of course. It’s not something he’d talk about.”

  “Doesn’t fit his image, though, does it?” I agreed.

  “Not unless they’re holding something over him.”

  “I thought of that, too,” I said. “But if you’re blackmailing a man and he refuses to go along, you expose him first, right? You don’t kill him.”

  “That’s logic,” O’Rourke said. “But it’s ours, not theirs. Besides, they didn’t kill him. They just came close. Maybe he wasn’t meant to die. Ever think about that?”

  He had me there and he knew it.

  “… You can be the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee!” the record promised.

  I went back to my office to wait. On most Saturday afternoons Katherine and I would take a long ride, or head for Gulfport and the beach, or laze around. In fact, one of the little delights of the past year had been wondering what whim would seize us the following weekend. But today was different. The only hook I had on the case now was Sandy and the hope that she could find out something from Julia’s sister. A name, a date, a casual reference that might be remembered, and repeated in a rare moment of sanity. Anxiety gnawed at me. Partly it was fear for Sandy, and the not knowing. But it was also the fear that she would find out something I didn’t want to hear: that whatever demons ate at Jenny’s soul might also have inhabited Julia’s and that her wild flight from Jamaica had been part of a deadly fantasy. She had spent most of her adult life courting society’s disfavor. Was it any different to now take on the drug cartel?

  But this was only the second full day. I had given Sandy until Sunday. On Sunday her “parents” would come for a visit and she would pass me a message: No go; Get me out; or Need more time.

  The problem was I didn’t want to wait until Sunday.

  I popped a beer, went into my bedroom and switched on the TV. The Astros were playing the Cubs. I watched without interest and then switched to the weather channel. It looked like the hurricane was going to turn toward Florida. I wished them no ill there, but with winds at a hundred miles an hour we didn’t need it here. The phone rang then and I picked it up.

  “I could come over.” It was Katherine’s voice, matter-of-fact, promising. “I’m tired of the house already. I haven’t been to your place for ages. Maybe you don’t even live there any more.”

  She waited patiently as I fought the urge to say yes. But Rivas was still out there somewhere. Odds were he was in hiding, but there was no guarantee. Best to keep her away from my place.

  “Let me call you later,” I equivocated. “It would be better that way.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that. Actually, I was just calling on the off-chance.” She sighed. “Scott and his friends have asked me to go with them on a canoe trip into Barataria. Can you imagine? Asking an old person like me? I was so surprised I said yes. But I’m willing to cancel for a better offer.”

  Scott could handle himself and there would probably be another boy or two along, from the sound of it. In all, the swamp wilderness of Jean LaFitte might be the safest place for her to be.

  “I’ll catch you later,” I said. “Maybe we can do something tonight.”

  “If I’m not worn out and mosquito bitten,” she said.

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “Let’s. Oh, and Micah …”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you.” The phone went dead and I replaced the receiver.

  I was still looking down at the telephone, wishing she’d given me a chance to respond, when it rang again.

  “Mr. Dunn, please,” said a voice I’d heard but couldn’t place.

  “Speaking.”

  “Mr. Dunn, this is T
heo Schwartz, at Charity. We talked earlier?”

  Of course. The pathologist.

  “Yes, Dr. Schwartz?”

  “Well, this may be nothing.” He gave his nervous chuckle. “But you wanted to know if we came across anything strange.”

  All my senses were on alert now.

  “You’ve found her.”

  “Well, no, that’s not it. This is something else. It’s something somebody brought in, something I just got to. A plastic bag. And you won’t believe what’s in it.”

  17

  I thought about what other ears might be listening and decided on caution.

  “I’ll be right over,” I said.

  It took me twenty minutes. I was sweating as I accepted the ticket stub from the parking-lot attendant. The day had turned sultry, with banks of cumulus clouds drifting in from the south, but it wasn’t the heat that was making me perspire. It was the thought of the plastic bag.

  Its contents weren’t hard to guess.

  She’d taken some of their coke, of course. The bag was probably small enough to be hidden on her, and there had probably been more of them. Pregnant women had been found to be carrying five or six kilos of the stuff instead of a baby. Handicapped men had filled up their prosthetic legs. There were all kinds of places to hide it, even inside the body.

  But the fact remained that with experienced customs agents, used to all the ploys, and dope-sniffing dogs, it was still a sucker play. Lots got through, but lots didn’t. So why take the chance with some half-assed stunt like that?

  Because she was Julia Morvant, courtesan, not Juliette Folsom, farm girl, and she was living a fantasy that couldn’t be spoiled by something so prosaic as a customs agent.

  I’d have felt a lot better if she hadn’t been a whiz at the market. What bothered me was that it was the kind of thing poor, dim Linda would pull, not Julia, who could juggle market figures, and who saved her money in bank boxes, and who kept her client list under the same security.

  There was a security guard at the front door and I showed my license. He asked who I wanted to see and when I told him he picked up the phone.

  I knew something was wrong when he couldn’t get Schwartz. He said a Dr. Aucoin would be out. I told him Dr. Aucoin wasn’t who I’d come to see. He told me Dr. Aucoin would explain everything.

  All I could do was wait.

  Dr. Aucoin took his time. When he arrived, it was in a flurry of white, his lab coat flapping behind him like wings. He was a big man, with a belly that lapped over his buckle, and I was reminded of some great swamp bird settling onto a log to peer into the murky waters for fish.

  He didn’t offer his hand, just his name.

  “I’m Dr. Schwartz’s supervisor,” he said officiously. “I’ve been talking with Dr. Schwartz. He really should not have called you. This is an official matter. We’re subject to rules. We cannot divulge aspects of our investigation to members of the public.”

  So Schwartz had gotten a chewing-out.

  “Suppose I have Detective Mancuso call you,” I said.

  He shook his head. “A city detective? No. This is federal jurisdiction. Dr. Schwartz really exceeded his authority.”

  Cox, I thought. Cox had gotten to him.

  “Can I at least talk to Schwartz?”

  “I’m sorry, it’s out of the question. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’re working overtime on this and there’s a lot left to do …”

  “All right. Then just answer one question: What’s in the bag?”

  “I said I could not and would not answer questions. Now, if there’s nothing else …” He nodded meaningfully at the security guard who took the cue and started up from his chair.

  “Thanks for the help,” I told them and left.

  I drove over to the Clarion Hotel. Too angry to call first, I went straight to the fifth floor and banged on the door. I was still hammering when a maid stuck her head around a corner.

  “No hay nadie,” she said.

  “They’ve gone out?”

  “Esta libre, el cuarto.”

  I didn’t have to know much Spanish to understand that she was saying they were gone.

  Next I drove to the safe house where they’d taped up Solly, but now there was a For Sale sign on the lawn, the doors and windows were closed, and there was no car in the drive. Just to be thorough I got out and went to the door and knocked, but there was no answer, and the window air conditioners were off.

  I didn’t want to have to wait two hours in the muggy New Orleans heat, so I found a phone booth near Charity and looked up the number of the security desk. When the guard answered I gave him my best imitation.

  “Man, listen, this the attendant at the doctors’ lot. You got Dr. Schwartz working there today? Tell him I don’t want to make no trouble, but somebody just busted into his car, made a real mess.”

  I hung up and walked over to where I could watch the doctors’ lot.

  There wasn’t long to wait.

  He flew through the door and down the steps, half running, half skipping, his face screwed into a mask of anxiety.

  I caught him just as he came to the garage, stepping out from behind a pillar and into his path.

  “Hold on, Dr. Schwartz. There’s nothing wrong with your car.”

  His jaw gaped and he raised a hand, as if to ward me off.

  “What?”

  “I just wanted to get you alone. You called me. You said you found something, a plastic bag. I want to know what was in it.”

  “I … mistake. Shouldn’t have talked. Excuse me.” Before I could grab him he turned and dashed back for the building. I watched him go, a sense of failure settling over me.

  When I got back it was after three. I parked in the patio and went through the back door into Lavelle’s shop.

  “Any visitors?” I asked.

  He turned slowly from his vantage point behind the counter, from where he had been moodily eyeing the scatter of tourists passing outside on the sidewalk.

  “None for you, damn near none for me,” he said glumly. “I don’t know how I can keep open at this rate. It was a mistake taking this place. I knew I should’ve taken a place closer to Canal. Down on Royal or Bourbon or Burgundy: That’s where the business is. Christ, nobody comes here.” He moved from behind the counter and gestured theatrically at his full shelves.

  “Some of this crap’s been here for two years. And I just spent five hundred on black candles. They promised there’d be an upsurge of satanism.”

  “I can see you’re having the devil of a time.”

  “It isn’t funny, Micah.” He followed me up the steps and watched as I opened my door. “Those cattle in Tangipahoa, the ones that they found all gutted? I thought there might be a cult, maybe we could stir up some interest. Then that damn vet at LSU said it was coyotes. Coyotes, for Christ’s sake! I can’t make a living off coyotes. And if that damned hurricane comes, I can write off a whole week …”

  “I thought it was headed for Florida,” I said.

  “Just shows you what the Weather Bureau knows. Last bulletin has it headed straight for the mouth of the river. If nothing changes, the son-of-a-bitch could be here by this time tomorrow.”

  I went for the refrigerator and took out a beer. He was still standing there, his eyes lingering on the can in my hand, so I moved aside.

  “Help yourself,” I said.

  “Thanks.” He slumped in my chair, one eye cocked at the stairs in case anyone entered below. “I may go to L.A.,” he declared.

  “Well, there’s no shortage of oddball cults there,” I said.

  “Oh, the hell with this scam.” He gave a disparaging wave. “I was thinking of setting up a university.”

  “A university?”

  “Yeah, you know, the kind that gives nonresidential degrees. I’ve been looking into it. You can charge ten thousand for a doctorate, five for a masters, and two-five to three for a bachelors, depending in what field. I mean, like, English degrees are cheap, but in engineer
ing, well, you could ask four, probably. The overhead’s next to nothing, just a box, and you throw together some crap for the state licensing board, but that’s a formality. I got it all planned out, see.” He leaned forward now, eyes dark coals above the spade beard. “You get some Ph.Ds that didn’t get tenure, and you put them on as faculty for a percentage. Hell, I can put out a catalog that’s as slick as Harvard or Stanford or even Tulane. We may even invent some new degrees. I was thinking of a doctorate in public analysis. We’ll come up with the subject matter later. I figure I could clear sixty, seventy grand a year at the start.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  “Well, it beats selling love potions.”

  There was a sound downstairs and the bell on his door tinkled. He rose and peered down the stairwell.

  “One minute,” he whispered and held up a finger. “Business.”

  He bounded down the steps and I heard voices at the bottom. He returned a minute later with a large brown paper bag.

  “It’s a shipment I ordered,” he proclaimed. “From a lab in Arizona. Guaranteed to be a best-seller.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Ah!” He reached into the paper bag and produced a withered, brownish object wrapped in polyethylene. “A freeze-dried monkey paw.” He sniffed and swore under his breath. “Damn. I’ll be back in a minute.” He bounded down the steps again and I heard his voice yelling in the street.

  I looked down at the paper bag. A nauseating stench was already filling my office. A minute later I heard his feet on the steps again.

  “Bastards are gone already,” he muttered. “They promised the process was foolproof. Lab animals, parts that were going to be thrown away anyhow. They were selling ‘em cheap.” He came over and put a hand on my arm. “Micah, listen, I need a favor. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  I shook my head from side to side. “Whatever it is, if it has to do with those”—I jerked my head at the bag—“you can forget it.”

  “Aw, Micah. Look, I don’t have any way to keep them from going bad. In this heat an hour could make the difference. Nobody wants to buy something that, well, isn’t fresh.”

  “No way,” I said.