by Jim Riley
"I get enough adventure deciding which bills to pay this month and which ones to hold until next month."
"R–I–G–H–T," Dalton scoffed. "Maybe a few years ago. But I doubt if the world's most famous investigator is having to pinch her pennies."
"If I'm working for nothing, that means you're buying today. You can write it off as a town hall meeting with your constituents."
“No problem,” he responded. “Does this mean you'll be contributing to my campaign fund for reelection?”
"I don't think so. Look where that got Congressman Philbin."
Chapter Four
Saturday night
Sheriff substation–Central
“What do you have, Samson?” Niki asked.”
“The usual crap,” the chief replied. “It makes me wonder if all those people were actually there.”
“Anything useful?”
“Let’s see. Fellow by the name of Broderick Thomas said the congressman looked sick at the beginning of the debate.”
The chief thumbed through a few more cards.
"Another lady said he grabbed his assistant’s ass. Another said he grabbed his aide’s ass. That would be George Thomas."
"At least he was an equal opportunity guy," Niki chuckled.
"Funny." Samson was not amused. "One guy saw his wife messing with the cooler. Another saw at least two of the other candidates doing something at the back of the stage, but he thought they were taking a piss."
"I didn't realize they were serving alcohol this morning. Anything reliable?"
"Do you mean something other than the devil squeezed his heart too hard? I believe that was one of your interviewees."
"Clarice Clement," Niki said. "She is convinced Philbin was an evil man."
"And we have one witness claiming Clarice was groping Philbin during the break."
"Geez," Niki rubbed her hands along her temple. "What happened to the cooler?"
"Found it on the ground behind the stage. Got more prints on it than a whore at a sailors’ convention."
"Any of them useful?"
"Don't know yet," he answered. "We'll need to collect specimens from all the parties involved. But finding someone's print on the cooler won't mean anything."
"How about the plastic jug that Clarice Clement mentioned? What does that tell you?"
"Nothing," Mayeaux responded. "We haven't found it. But it was there. Several folks swear they saw it. But some of them also swear they saw Martians standing on the platform during the break."
"Did the Martians leave any fingerprints?"
"I don't know. They forgot to leave samples in our system."
Chapter Five
Saturday night
King's Gate Subdivision
"Mrs. Philbin, thanks for seeing me," Niki said once she was inside the congressman's home.
She expected more. Maybe five thousand square feet of room on two hundred acres adorned with marble and granite. Instead, it was an ordinary house in an ordinary subdivision. It wasn't in the slums, but it was not an exclusive gated community.
"It's okay," the new widow replied. "I knew there would be a lot of questions after what happened this morning."
"What do you remember?"
"I told that big policeman everything I saw. He should have the notes."
"That would be Samson Mayeaux. He's the Chief of Homicide and lead detective on this case. He asked me to follow up with some of the key witnesses."
"Does he think I killed my husband?"
"He has formed few opinions on the case so far. Chief Mayeaux is waiting for more evidence to come in before he develops a theory."
"I didn't kill Omar," Alicia Philbin said in a level tone. "I had plenty of reasons to kill him, but I didn't."
"What reasons did you have?"
"Where do you want to start?" Alicia snorted. "We can start with the other women. Actually, they were mostly girls. Or we can start with the abuse. Both physical and mental. Or we can go straight to the money. It's up to you."
Niki leaned back in her chair. She hated to take advantage of the widow’s emotional state, but she wanted as much information as possible. She attempted to assess Alicia Philbin, but was coming up with a puzzle. Many pieces were missing.
The lady sitting on the other side of the table was in her early thirties, at least ten years younger than her late husband. Niki could see traces of the beauty and elegance. But there were only traces.
A dark, smooth complexion was now covered with crows' feet and little bumps growing under the skin. Her dark, thick hair had spots of premature gray.
Alicia's body resembled that of an ex-athlete. The once lean figure now formed bulges in the wrong spots. Her shoulders drooped.
The dark pantsuit was designer chic with matching expensive shoes. The jewelry she wore sported real diamonds. No cubic zirconium on the on her fingers, wrists, or ears. All the diamonds were as real as they were big.
"Why don't we start with the other ladies?"
"You don't have a big enough pad," Alicia formed a wry smile. "You might want to get a Rolodex."
"That many?"
"Omar didn’t believe in discriminating, as long as they were female. Young or old. Black or white. Rich or poor. Tall or short. Fat or skinny. I guess you could say he had diverse tastes."
"Is that what you said?"
"I said he was a sicko. A pervert that preyed on any female who let him get within twenty feet."
"How did that affect your marriage?"
"Our marriage," she emphasized the word. "It was nothing but a business arrangement. People down here, whether they're Catholic or Protestant, expect a politician to be happily married. Or at least married."
"What did you get out of the relationship?"
"Money. And the freedom to do anything I wanted to do without a guilty conscience."
"How much money will you receive?" Niki asked, getting directly to a probable motive.
"I'm not sure. He has most of it tied up in accounts in the Caymans. I've got to find out how to access those."
"How much not counting those accounts?"
"Hmm," Alicia pondered the question. "My best guess is between two and three million. But that includes his campaign finance fund. I really don't know how much is in it or how that works."
"Why didn’t you divorce him?"
"Money. I was waiting until I was sure my share was at least five million. Then I was outta here."
"But now you don't have to split the money."
"Isn't that wonderful?" Alicia grinned. "I don't know who killed the slime-ball, but they did me a huge favor."
"You don't sound like a grieving widow."
"Grieving, hell. I'm celebrating." She paused. "Of course, I'll keep up appearances for the cameras. I have no reason to ruin Omar's reputation now that he's dead."
"Then why are you telling me all the bad stuff?"
"I figure I might as well. From what I've heard, you're the best investigator around. If I didn't tell you, you would find out all his bad habits and wonder why I didn't tell you."
"Who was Omar—uh, in a relationship with lately?"
"Screwing, dear," Alicia laughed. "Omar didn't believe in relationships. He believed in screwing."
"Okay, who was he screwing?"
"I'm not positive, but I bet that little priss he's paying. Chris the priss. She shook that tight little butt at him and that's all it took."
"Did they spend a lot of time together?"
"Hah." Another laugh from the widow. "They didn't call him 'Speedy' for his work habits. His idea of romance was over in about three minutes, and that includes two minutes to take his clothes off and put them back on."
"Any other women?"
"Probably. He was quick, but he was always persistent. Kinda like one of those snapping turtles the keeps biting even after you cut its head off. Omar was like that."
"How about political enemies? Did Omar have any disagreements with his opponents or ot
her representatives?"
"Only the ones he met or talked to on the phone. He didn't go out of his way to upset people. But if they happened to venture into his path, he could make a Baptist preacher become an alcoholic."
"If he was that bad, how did he maintain the all-American image? I know I've never heard a lot of bad things about Omar."
"George Thomas. He's the image doctor. He can make a skunk look like a bunny rabbit. All those guys have someone like George around."
"Anybody else who would have wished your husband to come to harm?"
"Only all the people he ever talked to."
Chapter Six
Saturday nightgown
Creekwood Subdivision
“Mr. Hopper, thanks for seeing me on short notice.” Niki said to the candidate for Congress running as an independent.
Hopper did not look like a politician. His blue jeans were not a designer label. The calluses on his hands were evidence of hard manual labor. His brown hair that ran down the back of his neck was combed, but not styled.
He stood a little over six feet tall with a lean and wiry body. Niki pictured him on the back of a bucking bronco rather than attending a subcommittee meeting on international finance.
"No problem," he answered, his tone cordial.
"I know you gave a statement to the police this morning, but I have some additional questions if you don't mind."
"Are you with the police?"
"I'm an independent private investigator. Chief Mayeaux asked me to help out with the investigation. They use private consultants from time to time."
"Samson," Hopper chuckled. "He wants you to do his job, so he has more time to lose money playing poker with me."
"I didn't know Samson was a gambler."
"The way he plays, it's not gambling." Dennis paused. "It's more like paying for a few hours of fun and relaxation. I just hope that big sucker never gets mad at me for taking his money. That wouldn’t be pretty."
"Did you see anything unusual this morning?"
"Yeah, I saw Omar Philbin die." Hopper deadpanned.
"Sorry. I didn't phrase that well. Did you see anything that might have contributed to his death?"
"Do you mean other than his terrible speech, his liberal positions on the size of the government, fossil fuels, health insurance, immigration, and two dozen others?"
"Would any of those positions get him killed?"
"In today's polarized world, all or any of them could trigger some nut to do something stupid."
"Do you think that was the case here, one of his stances on the issues triggered an extremist?"
"Hard to say," Hopper rubbed his chin. "If I had to bet, I’d say it was because he owed too much money to the wrong people."
"I thought he had lots of money?"
"Don't know about that. I've heard rumors about some offshore accounts. But I guess Omar was reluctant to use those. He didn't want to get the IRS involved and ask him where all the money came from."
"How did he get into debt?"
"Gambling," Hopper stated. "Compared to Philbin, Mayeaux looks like a professional. He would bluff with a nine–high hand and then be amazed when someone called him."
"Did you ever play with him?"
"Sure. I enjoy poker. Sometimes I play with the likes of Mayeaux and Philbin when I need to get ready for a big tournament. I'd rather they pay my entry fee than taking it out of savings."
"So you beat Philbin most of the time?"
"I believe every time would be a better description. I don't ever remember losing to him."
"What do you do for a living? Play poker?"
"No way." Hopper had an easy laugh "I enjoy playing, and I don't want to change that. I own the trailer place on Greenwell Springs Road."
"Trailers? Like in mobile homes?"
"No. Like in tow–behind cargo trailers. Open trailers, enclosed trailers, horse trailers. Whatever anyone wants or needs."
"Did you notice a white cooler behind Philbin this morning?"
"Yeah, he had one. We all have one except for Clarice. I think her family gave her refreshments during the break."
"Do you know what happened to it?"
"I didn't know it was missing. Is that where the poison came from? The cooler?"
"It was sitting on the back of the stage. We found it in the weeds behind the platform. A plastic jug is missing from it."
"What kind of poison?"
"I haven't heard back from Doc yet," Niki said.
"Hmm. Those results may shed a lot of light. If he comes back the way I think it might, it would be very revealing."
"What are you thinking?"
"That Omar may not have been the only target. This could get awful dicey."
Chapter Seven
Sunday morning
"What did you find, Doc?" Niki asked over her cell phone.
"It's different, for sure. First time in my career, and I can't say that many times." Doctor Hebert replied.
"That doesn't sound good."
It's not. Have you ever heard of poke salad?"
"Do you mean poke salad like in the country-western song?"
"That's the one," he said.
"I thought that was a myth. Do you mean there really is a poke salad?"
"There is," he said. "I won't bore you with the details or the technical name, but it's a plant grown in the swamp, somewhere like the Atchafalaya Basin."
"How can a salad poison someone?"
"Poke salad has to be boiled to be safe. Then the water is poured off, and replaced with fresh water. It takes three boilings at a minimum to make it free of toxins."
"Are you serious?"
"Unfortunately. Somebody figured out a way to take the plant and put it on hormones by adding some kind of acid. I'm waiting on some breakdowns before I can tell you what kind of acid."
"Is poke salad plentiful?"
"In the swamp, you can find it along the banks of most of the sloughs and bayous."
"That's not much of a help." Niki thought out loud. "Free and plentiful. No records of purchase because there aren't any. I'd say it's the perfect weapon."
"I hate to be the one with the bad news, but I have to tell you what I found. If I get any information on the type of acid, I'll let you know."
"Thanks, Doc. I could use good news."
Chapter Eight
Sunday morning
Watson
"How can we help?" Drexel Robinson asked.
He and Donna Cross ate with Niki at their favorite restaurant in Watson, Linda's Chicken & Fish. Drexel was the oldest investigator at Wildcat Investigations by far. Donna was the youngest. Niki often leaned on both during difficult cases.
"We have a lot of interviews to conduct. I haven't scratched the surface yet." Niki swirled a Cajun fried chicken liver in a combination of ketchup and Tabasco sauce.
"Give us the list, and we’ll knock it out in no time," Donna responded with the confidence of youth. She brushed back her long blonde hair.
"I talked to the independent candidate, the coroner, and Clarice from the debate. We still have three more Republicans, the aides, and the rest of the two hundred people who attended. Oh yeah, I talked to Mrs. Philbin, as well."
"What’s the picture so far?" Drexel asked between spoonfuls of chicken and sausage gumbo.
"It seems like the representative led two very separate lives. His public life was all about honesty, integrity, and hard work. His private life was dramatically different. At least from what I've been able to find out so far."
"Do you have any idea yet who killed him? It would help if you had a theory," Donna said.
"I have no theory yet. The poison was simple, yet sophisticated. It can be obtained by anyone taking a trip to the basin, but then was mixed with a booster acid. I don't think the mixture was happenstance. Somebody knew what they were doing."
"Have you ruled out the wife?" Drexel asked.
"Not yet. She seems to be on the up and up. She thinks P
hilbin left a lot of money in some offshore accounts, but the other guy I spoke to said he was big-time in debt."
"Where does she think the accounts are located?" Donna asked.
"She thinks they are in the Caymans."
"I'll find those accounts if they are indeed there." The youngster boasted.
"How—Never mind. I probably would rather not know how you find them." Niki replied.
"Don't worry. I'll get in and out of his computer and nobody will ever know. I don't leave any trails when I visit."
"Girl, you're going to get in trouble if you keep messing around with all that stuff. Off-line servers, the cloud, digital, passwords. Somebody will track it all back to those pretty little hands of yours on the keyboard," Drexel admonished.
"Only if I get old and careless like someone at this table," Donna responded, winking at Niki.
"Okay," Niki nodded. "Donna, you try to track down the truth about the money trail. Drexel, you follow up on the gambling debts and the poke salad angle. I’ll follow-up with Doc Hebert and see if the acid gives us any leads."
"What else do we do?" Donna asked.
"Talk to the other candidates and assistants. Then we'll meet again, and see what we've got. I hate to waste time interviewing two hundred extra people unless we at least know what to ask them."
Chapter Nine
Sunday afternoons
Jefferson Road
"He was like a mentor to me," Chrissy Becker told Niki in her small home just north of Central.
The small abode looked like a dollhouse, perfectly arranged, neatly adorned, with bright fresh paint. The modest home could not have been much more than a thousand square feet, but once Niki was inside, it seemed more than adequate. Every small item was situated in a way any architect or interior designer would have been extremely proud.