“We’re family,” I told him.
He went back to Funny Cars on Speed.
Katie looked at Breedlove, turned and looked at me, turned again and walked over to his bed, the side which put her back to the orderly. I took the other side.
Breedlove looked like hell. A decade older than a few hours ago, which would have put him at over a hundred, I was sure. His breathing was shallow, his skin the color of that rub-on paste they used to call mucilage. There was no chart at the end of his bed.
“When was he admitted?” I asked Trent.
Trent appeared not in the mood for conversation but finally said. “Not for sure, just came on,” without looking up but with a voice from the bottom of a very deep barrel.
“What’s his diagnosis, would you happen to know?” from Katie. The big shoulders barely shrugged but still made the plastic chair squeak. “Pancake cancer?”
I guessed he meant ‘pancreatic cancer.’
Katie stared down at Breedlove a moment. Then, casually, as if she were in charge here, she felt the pulse in one gray wrist. Then she looked up at the clear plastic drip bag hung on the steel rod…looked at that for a few moments…then looked down at the little table beside the bed, which contained a box of Kleenex, a tube of lip balm, a bed pan and another plump clear plastic drip bag.
Then she pretended to glance at her watch and looked up at me. “Looks like they’re taking good care of Uncle Le-Beau,” more than loud enough for the orderly to hear.
She stared at me, finally made owl-eyes at me.
“Yes, it does,” I agreed.
Katie nodded, looked back down at the rasping attorney and said, “Whenever you’re ready, darling.”
And we left the Home.
“So which is it,” I asked after we’d slid back into the Bird, “the secretary’s heart attack or Lester’s pancake cancer?”
Katie made a wry face. “Either or neither, maybe?”
I rested my hand on the gear shift. “Where now?”
Katie slung a John Wayne ‘Wagons Ho’ signal at the windshield. “Forward to the nearest bar,” she clipped smartly, “then right back here. Later. Tonight.”
“When Trent is hopefully off-duty?”
She graced me with a pleasured smile. “We make a good team, Elliot, you know that?”
I did know.
That was the trouble.
TWENTY-FOUR
This was another attendant.
A male, older, grayer, and more pot-bellied but just as busy with his own magazine: Hustler. And just as bored-looking, in a beige kind of way, with the contents which, according to the cover blurb, was the All Anal Antics Annual.
The nursing home was quiet. It was past ten p.m. and I was pretty certain visiting hours were over but Katie had insisted on waiting for what we both hoped was the next shift.
I gave the gray hair attendant my best next-of-kin smile. “Here to see LeBeau Breedlove, we’re family.”
He nodded without looking up from the magazine, which was opened to a double-page spread; ‘spread’ being the operant word.
Katie and I walked to room 121.
The halls were silent with a faint scent of antiseptic, a steel gurney parked here, a wheelchair there, mostly just rows of closed doors, the mechanical sigh of a re-breather coming from somewhere.
Attorney Breedlove looked exactly as before—maybe a bit paler—and the room was dark but for a single hidden panel light above his waxy head and thinning hair. The plastic chair sat next to him, minus Trent.
But a patient on an I.V. and oxygen mask isn’t left unattended for long, I thought, right?
Right?
“Shut the door,” Katie instructed, moving quickly, efficiently about the room.
When I turned she was taking down the plastic drip bag from Breedlove’s I.V. stand.
“May I ask what you’re doing?”
She turned with the bag, held it up with disgust. “Sodium Pentothal.”
“Truth serum?”
She nodded, placed the bag on the bedside table and began digging through a nearby closet. “Ah!”
She exchanged the first back with a second, identical-looking one, started the drip again.
“What’s that?’
“Saline solution, normal procedure for a patient with just about any disease. If he has one.” She looked about anxiously, consulted the closet again, back to me. “I don’t suppose you could score us a few cc’s of phenobarbital from the nurse’s clinic?”
“Well, I could ask real nice…”
“Right.” She scooted the chair over beside Breedlove, pulled back the plastic mask, turned to a large metal oxygen bottle beside, and peered close at the green valve. “Damn thing’s not even turn on,” she hissed disgust.
She slapped Breedlove’s sallow cheek until some color appeared there. “Just have to wait until the Pentothal wears off…” she breathed impatiently.
“What the hell’s going on here, Katie?”
“Not sure. Let’s just say this nursing home’s efficiency isn’t far behind that of the Robichou Cemetery from what I see.”
In a moment she fiddled with her purse, extracted something small—a yellow pill—pried open Breedlove’s mouth and forced the thing down his throat until I heard him gag and choke once. She snapped her fingers at me, pointed. I brought a pitcher of water over from a side table, poured a glass and handed it to her. Katie tipped the attorney’s head by the back of his neck, pushed the lip of the glass at his mouth. “Drink!” When he refused, she dipped a finger in the glass, ran it around the inside of the old man’s sagging mouth, tried again with the glass. This time Breedlove swallowed weakly.
“Good boy.”
“What was that stuff?” I queried.
“Upper.”
“You take Dexedrine?”
“On late night cases sometimes, yeah.”
She laid Breedlove back, fluffed his pillow.
And we waited…
* * *
Within fifteen minutes Breedlove’s dull orbs fluttered open.
He blinked at us without coherence. He croaked something.
Katie leaned close and he indicated his mouth with a trembling finger.
Katie poured another glass of water—a full one—and he downed half of it.
She clucked disgustedly. “Dehydrated.”
Breedlove made a little rattling sigh. “Ah…that’s better…”
“Mr. Breedlove, do you remember us? We spoke with you briefly at Roger’s funeral.”
The wizened little lawyer gave her a lidded look. “A-Angel?”
Katie shook her head. “No, it’s—“
“Yes,” I cut in, “it’s Angel.”
She gave me a quick look, then looked back at Breedlove. He turned his head to me. “Dean?”
“Yes. It’s Dean Robichou. How are you feeling, LeBeau?”
He gazed at me with confusion, turned to Katie again, back to me. “Not so…hot.”
“You’re doing fine,” Katie said.
Breedlove looked listlessly around. “Where…am I?”
“You’re going to be fine,” I repeated, “we’re here now.”
He nodded, seemed to gain a little more color, reached out and Katie took his hand. “I’m sorry…”
“No…” Katie started.
“About what?” I asked.
Breedlove turned back to me. “The sting. I know it hurts…probably my fault…”
“Where were you stung?” I asked, stepping closer.
But Katie waved me off impatiently. “What happened during the sting, LeBeau?”
The old man’s color shifted again, eyes starting to sink back in their sockets. Katie tipped cool water to his mouth, took some Chapstick from her purse, ran a finger of it over his lips. “Tell us about the sting, LeBeau.”
He shook his head slowly. “A total mess. All my fault. Sorry…”
I heard a sound behind us and we turned quickly to the door. A pair of shoes walked
by outside.
“Sorry about what, LeBeau?” from Katie.
The old man started breathing harder.
Katie slipped the mask back on him, bent to the metal bottle, hooked up the line and turned the valve until the needle read: Level 2.
She looked back at Breedlove. Some color returned.
“Can you hear me through the mask, LeBeau?”
He nodded vaguely.
“Tell us what happened. About the sting.”
The attorney’s eyes drifted around the room, in and out of focus. “That fucking Cormac…”
He looked up suddenly at Katie, apologetically. “Sorry, Angel…”
“It’s okay. Tell us what happened. What did Sheriff Cormac do?”
Breedlove grunted disgust into his mask. “Sat too long on his >breath< lazy fat ass >breath< that’s what. Missed ‘em…”
Katie wiped at his brow with a Kleenex, bit her lip in concern. “Missed—?“
She turned to the oxygen bottle, twisted the valve to Level 3. “Missed who, LeBeau?”
The aged attorney shook his head slowly, like he was shaking a bowling ball. “All my fault…shouldn’t have talked Dean into it…bad advice…bad advice from an old country lawyer...”
There was a knock at the door.
Katie jumped, whirled to me.
“Is everything all right in there?” a female voice behind the wood. The door handle began to turn.
“We’re fine,” I called authoritatively, “just checking his vitals. I’m Dr. Kildare.”
Silence.
Katie gave me a fathomless look.
Another silent moment, then footsteps padded away.
I bent to Breedlove. “What advice, LeBeau? To whom?”
The attorney viewed me with nonplussed suspicion. Why…why you, Dean! Who else?”
I countered quickly, nodding fast. “Right. I’m…I seem to have forgotten some of the details…”
Breedlove’s lids became heavy but he managed a small smile. “Gettin’ old…like me…”
“Guess so. Can you help me out? LeBeau?”
He fought to focus again. “Shoulda done it…>breath< your way, Dean…shoulda just put the >breath< money in that suitcase like you >breath< wanted…”
I glanced at Katie. Turned back and nodded at Breedlove. “Yeah, yeah…you’re right, done it my way…” I straightened, moved over casually behind Katie’s chair, looked down at the attorney. “I, uh…never had the nerve to tell Angel here the whole truth. Maybe…would you mind?”
I could see the old man squeeze her hand. “Sorry, Angel…you >breath< deserved better…”
“It’s okay,” Katie wiped the damp forehead again, “just let go of it now. The truth will set you free, as they say. Tell me what happened, LeBeau. What about the suitcase?”
A very small tear formed, threatened but never quite fell from the old man’s left eye. “Talked yer husband here into >breath< stuffin’ it with >breath< strips of newspaper. Can you…can you imagine their (breath) faces when they saw that!”
Katie took his hands in both of hers, as if attempting to warm them, syphon memory from them.
Breedlove was trying to shake his heavy head again. “That damned Cormac…if he’d only >breath< been on time. But they got away…got away with nothin’ but >breath< a suitcase full of newsprint…sorry…so sorry, Angel…”
His eyes closed again.
Katie gripped his hands and leaned close, lips almost against his ear. I could see little white hairs sprouting there. “LeBeau? Who took the suitcase? Do you remember? Can you tell me that? LeBeau?”
I thought the old man was out again, but then saw a drag of movement behind his lids. “Don’t you fret now >breath< Angel, dear…she wasn’t…wasn’t all she >breath< appeared to be. Somthin’….spooky about her…somethin’ >breath<…I dunno…dark…”
“About who--LeBeau?”
Katie reached quickly back for the oxygen again. “About who--?”
But Attorney Breedlove was out for the count again.
“Is he gone?” I asked softly.
Katie laid the wrinkled hands atop the shallow chest, quickly replaced the second I.V. bag with the first. “No,” she breathed ominously, “but I’ve got a strong feeling we’d better be. C’mon!”
We scooted out of the patient’s room in a fast walk that we tried to keep casual.
No one passed us in the hall. The old man at the nurse’s station didn’t look up.
As she pushed through the front door, Katie gave me a jaundiced look. “Dr. ‘Kildare’?”
I rolled by eyes. “Best I could do on short notice.”
My cell trembled in my pocket. “Bledsoe here…”
“Didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Deputy Olson? No, no. Katie and I were just finishing some…late dinner. What’s up, Jimmy, somebody in trouble?”
“Probably. Saturday night someone’s always in trouble. But not Diane Murdock. Not anymore.”
“Diane—“
“Just heard from Angel Robichou here at the station. She was calling from some hotel down in the quarter.”
“Where?”
“French Quarter--Orleans. Supposed to meet Diane there tonight—some kind of pow-wow. They were going to talk things out or something. She was pretty rattled. Angel, I mean.”
“And what, Diane didn’t show?”
“She showed. It was Angel who was late for the meeting.”
“And Diane was upset?”
“Upset enough, apparently--to slit her own throat…”
TWENTY-FIVE
The nursing home’s location was already a quarter of the way south to downtown New Orleans. I put the pedal to the metal.
The French Quarter, or Vieux Carre, as the locals call it, is the oldest neighborhood in the city, the district itself a National Historic Landmark and, of course, the top tourist attraction in town. Compared to other areas of the city, the Quarter—built on dry land that predates New Orleans’ levee systems at 5 feet above sea level--was affected relatively lightly by Hurricane Katrina in 2005, though it got its share of flooding. The New Orleans Police Department is another story.
“What else did Jimmy say?” Katie asked as we tore through the night down old Highway 51 to new Highway 55.
“He told Angel to sit tight where she was, try to relax, not to touch anything or make any more calls. Said he’d contact the NOPD for her.”
“I assume that’s either the New Orleans Police Department or a small Japanese motor bike.”
“Said he knew some people down there, a good Detective. You know, I think he called us before he notified the police.”
“Really? That was considerate.”
“Yeah.”
She turned in the seat to me. “Why do you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Yeah…”
I frowned at the road, merged with the new highway into Orleans. “I don’t know. Maybe…something in Olson’s voice.”
“Like what?”
“Not sure, really. Let’s wait till we get there, maybe I’ll know then.”
It was after 1:00 am when we arrived after only a few minutes’ drive.
The quarter is basically the land along the Mississippi River from Canal Street to Esplanade Ave. and inland to North Rampart St., all of it equaling something like 78 sq. blocks. The Ambrose House hotel was located on a section between Decatur St. and the river, much of it old industrial and warehouse property. Bordering the Mississippi River on its east and Treme on its west, it’s not New Orleans at its very best.
Katie looked out her side window at the boarded fronts of shops and dilapidated crack houses. “Whose idea was it to meet in this delightful neighborhood?”
“Clearly Diane’s. She may have been too faced to meet anywhere else. Doesn’t look like the kind of area Angel Robichou would hang around in.”
We saw the patrol cars before we saw the hotel but there were only two of them. The ME and ambulanc
e pulled up just before we did.
“Law enforcement’s a little slow on the draw, aren’t they?” from Katie as we got out and locked Garbanzo in the car.
A walk-up flight of three floors and we were at room 312, the door open, uniforms standing about in the hallway with Styrofoam coffee cups, one holding up a stiff palm as we tried to enter.
“Family,” I told him.
He looked us both over, told us to wait, ducked inside.
In a moment a young, officious-looking man in a blue suit came to the door to look us over. “The Bledsoes? Manchac?”
I nodded.
“Detective Banes, 1 District Unit. Olson spoke of you. They still rib him about the Superman thing up there?”
“Not to his face,” Katie said.
Banes graced us with a small smile. “Okay, you can come in but we’re still getting underway. You knew the deceased as well as Mrs. Robichou?”
“Yes, we’d met.”
“Okay, stand over there and try to stay out of the way, this is a crime scene. You can talk with Mrs. Robichou in a few minutes, she’s still being interviewed. Coffee?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“No thanks,” from Katie, eyeing the sprawled, red-scalloped figure on the rumpled but still made hotel bed. Diane lay on her back, slightly off-center on the bed. If not surrounded by patrol officers--and another plain clothes man I guessed was a second detective—except for them and all that blood, she might have been asleep.
Banes walked us over to our spot without hurry. Officious maybe, but this was still the Big Easy.
“Excuse me for saying so, Detective, but you’re a little low on manpower, aren’t you? No offense.”
Banes snorted familiarity. “None taken. Katrina really hammered the department—looting and violence became a full-time job. The police were supposed to attend to that and man the rescue efforts too. Security in the city went to hell. Much of the violence came from the poor slob residents just trying to gather a little food and water. Goddamn Iwo Jima’s what it was.”
FEVER DREAMS: A Bracken and Bledsoe Paranormal Mystery Page 25