by Jim Riley
"I–it's personal," Dennis responded.
"No problem. Do you have the money with you?"
"I've got it all." Dennis thrust a paper bag in her direction.
She took it and made a quick inspection. The bills were scattered in no particular pattern, but she knew there were enough in there to meet the requirement.
Paula had to decide what to do with this unusual situation. She had half of the money from the original job. She had all the money from Dennis. But she was not sure who had ordered her death in the beginning. It was not this man. He was, however, a loose end. There were already too many loose ends in this whole situation.
"I know Niki Dupre. How do you want her to die?"
"I don't care. I don't have anything personal against her," Dennis said.
"I’d say hiring me to kill her is personal."
"Not like that. I have some secrets I don't want her to expose."
"Okay." Paula turned away from Dennis. She withdrew a syringe from an inside pocket and removed the cap.
"There's only one thing," Paula said, turning toward Dennis and stepping right next to him.
"What is it?" Dennis responded with nerves evident in his voice.
"I will do the job," she said, stepping even closer. "But you will already be in hell waiting for her when she gets there."
Paula drove the needle into Dennis’s stomach. She sneered when she withdrew it and stepped back.
"What –?" Hopper stared at his belly, not believing what he already knew.
"I can't afford for you to stay alive. You're too weak."
"I wouldn't tell," he mumbled.
"I'm sure you won't now."
An ironic thought entered Paula's mind. She wanted Niki Dupre dead. She was fairly certain Niki Dupre wanted her dead. And some unknown person wanted both of them dead. She and Niki Dupre were enemies and allies at the same time.
Chapter Fifty-One
Monday morning
Bridgestone Exotic Ranch
“We’ve got some good news,” Samson Mayeaux said, entering the den.
“You found her?” Niki asked expectantly.
Samson shook his massive head. “We found the guy that took a shot at Donna last night.”
“Who is it?” Donna popped into the room, holding the remains of a buttermilk biscuit.
“Dennis Hopper, the candidate for Congress.”
“What did he say? Did he tell you why he wants to kill us?” Niki asked.
“He didn’t. He didn’t say anything. He was dead when we found him.”
“How do you know it was him last night?” Donna asked.
“We found the gun in his truck. We don’t have much doubt it was the same man who fired at you last night,” Mayeaux summarized.
“Where was he?” Dalton asked.
“At the entrance to the Port Hudson Cemetery. Looks like he was poisoned.”
“Paula.” Niki said the name on the tip of everyone’s tongue.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Monday
Baton Rouge
“Mr. Garfield, thanks for seeing me,” Niki said.
She was in the office of Ronald Garfield, a prominent civil attorney in Baton Rouge. The lawyer not only headed one of the leading firms in the area, he volunteered to manage the nonprofit group called the People for Coastal Preservation, or PCP.
Ronnie Garfield did not take the traditional route to become one of the best-known attorneys in the area. His father was a drunk. His mother was a victim of abuse. He was an only son, and when his father was not beating on his mother, Ronnie became the primary target of his rage.
He often skipped school. He was embarrassed by the bruises and welts all over his body. One day, his father went too far. Ronnie walked into his house after school, and found his mother in a pool of blood on the living room floor.
His father had passed out in his recliner, snoring loudly. Ronnie stared at his dead mother, and something inside him snapped. He did not remember much of the ensuing events, but he felt a visceral eruption emerge from his soul.
When it was over, a policeman had Ronnie’s arms pinned behind his back. He and his father were soaked in blood. He realized later it all belonged to his father.
Ronnie spent some time at the juvenile detention center before being transferred to a psychiatric ward outside of Baton Rouge. Four years later, the boy became an adult. He was examined by an independent panel and found to be sane.
After the release, Ronnie enrolled at LSU and worked during the afternoons, nights and weekends to pay for his tuition and board. No job was beneath him. Every work detail assigned to him was completed beyond expectations.
After graduating in pre-law at LSU, Ronnie went to law school at Tulane University in New Orleans. With some financial aid, he managed to finish at the top of his class and was recruited by most of the major firms in Louisiana.
He chose to go on his own, an extremely risky decision. It seemed that every attorney in Baton Rouge was an ambulance chaser. Others advertised in every way imaginable. Newspaper. Radio. Television. YouTube. Facebook. Instagram. Ronnie did none of these.
He visited the victims of the crimes or negligence face-to-face. Fifteen minutes alone with Ronnie was enough to convince most of them he had a passionate drive unsurpassed.
After two years and much success, Ronnie no longer had to go out for potential clients. They came to him in droves. The word-of-mouth testimonials from his pleased clientele was more effective than any form of advertising he could buy.
Then Ronnie heard about the coastal erosion eating several hundred acres of Louisiana’s coastlines every year. As an avid hunter and fisherman, Ronnie knew about every inlet along the marsh coast.
When his favorite duck blind was taken over by the constant erosion and ceased to exist, he was outraged. The most infuriating element was there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent it. He had to watch helplessly as the land disappeared foot by foot.
Ronnie felt the same fury he had as a child watching his father beat on his mother and then turn on him. He vowed then he would never again be a helpless victim who stood by and did nothing. He was a man of action.
Ronnie wrote letters and sent emails to every elected official in Louisiana who had a whiff of influence over the coastline. He received back a lot of form letters and requests for donations. Not a single politician dared to take a concrete step to prevent further erosion. That’s when Garfield took things into his own hands and decided to make a difference.
He formed a political action committee, People for Coastal Preservation. It became well known in the political circles and had little trouble raising money for such a worthy cause. Most natives of the state did not realize the severity of the problem.
PCP sponsored a scientific study that produced several alternatives. The first scenario was to do nothing. The result would be further erosion in some areas, and build-up of deltas in others. The deltas resembled more of a swamp rather than a marsh.
The second alternative was to extend peninsulas from the marsh out into the Gulf. Those fingers would slow down the rate of erosion and extend the life of the marsh.
The third alternative was to build buffers, or small islands, out from the shores of the marsh. The problem arose when trying to deduce the most effective size of these formations, the distance from the shore, and the spacing. With a myriad of options, all had advantages and drawbacks.
Ronnie liked the third option. If done correctly, it would protect his beloved marsh far longer than his lifetime or his children’s. He quickly dismissed the opponents and their admonitions that trying to control mother nature was always a risky ambition.
The three alternatives had varying support of the members of the elected body in Louisiana. The result was a stalemate and doing nothing became the strategy by default. This is not acceptable.
PCP began recruiting several politicians to come on board with the third plan by making huge donations to their election campaign
funds. Only those politicians who agreed to support the plan received any money.
“Come in, Miss Dupre,” Garfield responded to Niki’s entrance. “I hope this won’t take long.”
“I will try to be brief,” Nick responded.
The first word that came to her mind was predator when seeing Ronnie Garfield for the first time. His dark eyes seem to be measuring her for a meal. She was reminded of a former LSU football coach that now led one of their rivals. It was said that the coach put a capital I in Intensity. If that was true, Ronnie Garfield added a new level to the word.
Ronnie lowered his gaze and glanced at a paper on his desk, a clear insinuation he was too busy for idle chatter. When Niki eyed the paper, Ronnie’s hand covered the top. He still did not speak.
“I’m here about the murder of Omar Philbin,” she said but got no visible reaction.
“I’m not sure how I can help you,” he replied.
“According to his disclosure statements, your political action committee donated a considerable sum to his campaign find.”
“All entirely legal, I assure you.”
“Why did you give such a large amount to Philbin?”
“We would have appreciated the support for a plan to save the coast of Louisiana from erosion.”
“You were buying his vote?”
“That would be an overstatement,” Garfield replied. “The only thing a PAC can do is to support candidates who have similar positions on key issues.”
“Did Congressman Philbin support your position?”
"We believe he did."
"Then why did his aide tell me you were displeased with the Congressman?" Niki asked.
"Two people can agree on the results both hope to achieve, but disagree on the steps to get there."
"He disagreed with your plan?"
"I wouldn't say that," Garfield shook his head.
"What would you say?"
“Only what I said before. We supported Omar because he felt the same way about the coast.”
"What changed your mind?"
"I didn't say my mind was changed," Garfield responded.
"Come on," Niki scoffed. "You don't call a politician up and ream him unless he has done something to make you mad."
"As you know, our political action committee is banned from communicating directly with the candidates."
"I believe that applies to advertisements and coordination on developing a strategy," Niki said.
"I can see you've done your homework," Garfield sighed. "We never coordinated any ad campaign with Mr. Philbin or his staff."
"What was the disagreement about?" Niki asked, ignoring Ronnie's disclaimer.
"We were not certain Mr. Philbin was taking the most direct path to support our position."
"Let's see," Niki rubbed her chin. "In plain English, that means you thought he double-crossed you. Is that closer to what you mean than what you said?"
The sharp eyes appeared to be looking right into Niki's body and sizing up her beating heart. The pace of her beats increased with each passing second.
"I believe I've told you all I can tell you about my relationship with the late Omar Philbin."
Garfield rose from his chair and held his hand toward the door. "Now if you will excuse me."
"One more question, Mr. Garfield." Niki remained in her chair.
He did not sit.
"What?"
"You also gave money to a campaign for Mr. Philbin's assistant, Chrissy Becker. Why did you do that?"
"Again, we support candidates and potential candidates who have similar goals as ours. There is nothing illegal about that."
"But Chrissy Becker is not a candidate. She was not part of the debate Saturday."
"Again, I've answered all of your questions. I must get back to work."
Chapter Fifty-Three
Monday morning
Atchafalaya Basin
Paula sat on the front porch of her cabin in the middle of the swamp. The only access to it was by boat through a patchwork tangle of sloughs, bayous, and canals. In all the years of coming here, not a single fisherman or hunter had ever discovered the retreat. This is where she came when she needed time alone to think.
The alligators in this section of the basin were huge. Humans were their only enemies for the armored reptile and there were none. Alligators, unlike most animals, continued to grow every day of their lives.
The water moccasins were plentiful. With no humans around to gig the thousands of bullfrogs, the serpents had an abundant food source. Paula often saw one skimming across the shallow water in front of the cabin.
The assassin’s attention was drawn to a small red bird swooping down to collect a grasshopper. It sat on an old cypress log swallowing its prey. Unfortunately, the log was the home of a brown and black cottonmouth, sunning and gathering heat for its cold-blooded body.
The snake struck before the bird finished downing the insect, striking and burying its fangs beneath the feathers. In almost no time, the huge snake inhaled the red bird, creating an odd lump along its body as it passed through the digestive system.
The snake fell off the log to return to its nest under the roots of a nearby tree. The bulk of its prey in its body created a different wave pattern than normal and the unusual motion attracted the attention of a nearby gator.
The alligator sank below the surface and all Paula could see where the air bubbles and the roil of the muddy bottom as it took a path to intercept the snake. Right before the snake arrived back at its nest, the alligator struck, lunging out of the water with the ends of the snake hanging from each side of its mouth.
Paula took another sip of the cold Dixie beer. She pictured herself as the alligator, the one at the top of the food chain. But someone had put her in the position of the bird or the snake, feeding on others but being susceptible to those above her.
It was obvious to her that Dennis Hopper was not the one who gave the order to kill her. He was a sap and saps did not have the guts for a plan like that. Now she needed to figure out who did.
There were two candidates left; Jimmy Gill and Kenny Long were the Republicans. Two people worked closely with Omar. George Thomas and Chrissy Becker. Last on her list was Omar's widow, Alicia Philbin.
Through her research she was able to do on the computer, all of them had reasons to want Omar dead. After Niki Dupre began investigating the murder, all of them also had reasons to welcome her demise. Paula began to contemplate different scenarios.
While she was sitting and nursing the Dixie beer, she sipped on some homemade poke salad stew. It did not kill her.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Monday
Greenwell Springs Road
Niki pulled into the Hopper Rental shop off of Greenwell Springs Road. When she approached the door, she saw the closed sign in the front window. However, there were two cars in the parking lot.
She banged on the door. Although she heard scurrying inside, nobody came to the entrance. She banged again. This time a small gray-haired lady barely cracked it open.
"I'm sorry," she said. "We're closed today."
"I know about Mr. Hopper," Niki responded. "I'm here to help the police find out who killed him."
"Who are you?"
"I'm Niki Dupre. I'm a private investigator looking into the death of Omar Philbin. I think Mr. Hopper's death may be related."
There was a long pause. Then Niki heard the little lady talking to someone behind her. After a couple of minutes, she opened the door and motioned for Niki to enter.
“I'm Josie Banks,” she said. “I worked for Dennis.”
"And I'm Ray Clark," the man behind her said. "I also work here."
"Nice to meet both of you. I'm sorry to come while you're still in a state of shock, but we want to solve this as quickly as possible."
"Who did it?" Clark asked.
"We have a suspect in mind, but we don't have any proof yet. Do you know of anyone who would want to kill Mr. Hopper?"
"Not a soul," Clark answered. "He was meek as a lamb. He didn't have any enemies."
"How about dissatisfied customers? Any customer who got so mad about something they rented they would want revenge?"
"That's not how Dennis ran the business. If anyone was ever dissatisfied, and that was rare, then we always refunded their money."
"How about family? Any upset relatives?"
"I only know his immediate family," Clark answered. "He has a wife and two boys. I think they’re both teenagers, but I'm not sure about the youngest."
"He is," Josie confirmed. "He's in the seventh grade and just turned thirteen. The other one is a sophomore at the high school."
"Did he have a good marriage?"
Josie nodded, but Clark gave no indication.
"He always remembered to send cards and flowers on every occasion," the elderly lady said. "And I always made dinner reservations for them at some of the nicest places. I never heard a cross word between them."
Niki shifted her gaze to James Clark, and he was not giving any affirmation to Josie's testimonial.
"What do you think, Mr. Clark?" She asked.
"I don't know exactly how to put it into words," he replied.
"Just say it like you're thinking, and we can sort it out afterward."
"Up until recently, I would have agreed with everything Josie said. But then something happened."
"What was that?" Niki prodded when Clark paused and looked away.
"It was like he was in love again, but not with his wife. He had a different tone in his voice when he talked to her and the other person. It was like he came alive and his energy level picked up after those phone calls."