Ascension Day

those changes, and hopefully more.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ Beaton said with a spark of conviction to hopefully lift it beyond stock response, as his thoughts automatically turned to the potential value of such an account.

‘So I thought I should touch base now that the curtain is about to finally come down on the Durrant episode.’

‘And I’m glad you did. I really appreciate it.’ Beaton measured his words carefully: warmth and sincerity to hopefully lure Roche into the fold, but due deference and legal correctness for the firm’s current client, Durrant. ‘But it would probably be incorrect of us — perhaps even tempting fate — to second guess just what Governor Candaret might do with Durrant’s plea for clemency.’

Roche chuckled again. ‘I might have agreed with you — if it wasn’t for the stunt that Durrant just pulled with his attempted prison break.’

‘His wha-?’ Beaton stopped himself sharply. Stock reaction had for a second overridden one of the prime legal commandments: never give away that you don’t know everything about your client.

‘You mean you didn’t know?’ Roche pressed.

‘Of course I knew.’ Beaton recovered quickly, beating back the resurging tide of his nerves and apprehension: he should have realized that Roche wouldn’t have called without a sting in the tail. ‘It’s just that I was caught off guard as to how you knew. Especially since we’re still in the midst of how to handle the situation.’

‘I see.’ Roche had to admit, Beaton was good, his thirty-five years of keen-edged law practice shining through. But the split-second falter had been enough to tell Roche that Beaton hadn’t known. For whatever reason, his rookie lawyer had decided to keep Durrant’s attempted break-out under wraps. He could all but feel the seething anger in Beaton’s undertone: he couldn’t wait to get off the line and get his hands around McElroy’s neck. ‘Well, let’s speak again when you feel the dust has settled enough on the Durrant case for it to be right for us to do so.’

Jac had just returned with a cup of water from the water-cooler when he saw the fresh e-mail on his computer. And as he clicked and saw who it was from, durransave4@hotmail, he jolted sharply, almost spilling it. After six days with no reply, he’d all but given up on another e-mail from his mystery sender.

His hands shook on the keyboard as he opened it.

Sent at 11.16:22. One minute, forty seconds ago. Would they still be sitting there to do something else, or have left immediately?

Jac clicked on the track-back software, its screen overlapping the e-mail so that he couldn’t read it. Jac’s fingers tapped anxiously on his desk as it traced and started displaying. Then he double-clicked IT-number find, and forty seconds later it popped up on screen:

Internet-ional on Peniston Street. An internet cafe. He or she was moving around.

Jac’s heart was beating double-time, his finger tapping almost in time with it as he called 411 and waited to get routed through.

Please still be there… please…

Jac became aware of Langfranc looking at him through his office glass-screen, Langfranc’s expression weighted with concern as he spoke on his own phone. Jac yanked his attention back as a girl answered.

‘Internet-ional. May I help you?’

Jac introduced himself and explained what he wanted. ‘Computer number fourteen. Message sent just over three minutes ago. Are they still there?’ Jac held his breath in anticipation.

‘I’m not sure. One minute…’ Her voice trailed off and Jac heard her speaking with a colleague.

Jac looked again towards Langfranc, but this time Langfranc looked slightly away as Jac met his eye, as if he felt suddenly awkward or embarrassed. Jac closed the track-back screen so that he could see all of the e-mail.

The girl’s voice returned: ‘Yeah… computer number fourteen. Looks like he’s still there.’

Jac leapt up. ‘Okay… okay!’ He hooked his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘I’m heading down to you right now! Should be with you in no more than ten or twelve.’

The e-mail was now displaying, random phrases leaping out at him… I’d have incriminated myself… know what I saw… Larry Durrant didn’t kill Jessica Roche…

Langfranc, seeing Jac about to leave in a rush, suddenly seemed equally panicked, ending his call abruptly and swinging his door open as Jac was only two paces away from his desk.

‘Jac. Jac! That was Beaton just then — going on about something you’ve held back from him about the Durrant case. He wants to see you in his office right now.’

‘I can’t… I can’t deal with this now.’ Jac took a step further away, eyes shifting frantically. ‘Something’s broken on the Durrant case that just won’t wait. I’ve got to sort it out now!’

‘Beaton sounded pissed as hell — you’re taking your life in your hands fobbing him off like this, Jac.’ Langfranc’s face flushed as he forced a tight-lipped grimace. ‘But, okay, it’s your neck. How long?’

‘Thirty, forty minutes. Hour tops.’ Jac took another couple of steps away, all that filled his mind at that second an image of Durrant’s mystery e-mailer leaving his internet cafe computer.

‘Okay, I’ll tell him. But your story had better be good when you get back, Jac — otherwise it’s probably kiss- your-ass-goodbye-time here. I’ve hardly ever heard Beaton that angry.’

Jac’s stomach dipped at the possibility. He returned Langfranc’s grimace and held one hand up, thanks, hold my job for me till I get back, if you can, and sprinted out, a silent prayer on his breath that he’d make it in time.

Jac ran to the corner of Thalia and Chestnut Street so that he had the benefit of cabs from both directions, and hailed one in less than a minute.

He said that he was late for a meeting, and the driver, seeing in his mirror the anxiety on Jac’s face and the sweat on his brow, put his foot down. ‘Might be able shave off a minute or so, if we’re lucky.’

The air-rush through the half-open taxi window buffeted Jac’s face as they picked up speed along Magazine Street, older two-storey antebellum buildings with quaint railed-terraces giving way to taller, newer, flat-fronted shops and offices; the transition from old to new as New Orleans became less Colonial-French and more like any other American city.

‘Internet-ional on Peniston, you say?’ The taxi driver confirmed over one shoulder.

‘Yeah.’ Though as he said it, Jac was suddenly hit with something he should have covered while he’d been on the phone to them before.

Jac took out his cell-phone and punched in Internet-ional’s number. But as he pressed to dial, another voice was suddenly there, crashing in. His heart leapt for a second, fearful that it was Beaton deciding to give him a roasting over the phone, or fire him — but it was Morvaun Jaspar, the forger he’d got cleared a couple of months back.

‘Jac! Got a problem. Big problem!’

‘I can’t do this now, Morvaun. I’ve got someone I’ve got to call right now. Urgently!’

‘This too, Jac. This too! The local blues have just pulled me in, and it’s bullshit… absolute bullshit. They’re tryin’ to nail me for everyone they find with a forged document — or looks like one. And no doubt all ‘cause we pulled the rug out from ‘em last time. It’s a complete sham shake-down, and I ain’t about to — ’

‘Morvaun — I can’t handle this now!’ Jac could imagine his mystery e-mailer getting up from his seat and leaving as they spoke; and if he didn’t get back to the people at Internet-ional before that happened, he might not even get a description. ‘I really have got someone I’ve got to call. Right now! Let’s talk again later.’

‘I can’t call back later, Jac. This is my one allowed call. You gotta get down here — otherwise I’m here for the duration.’

‘Okay… okay. Where are you now?’

‘Fifth District station-house.’

‘I’ll get there as soon as I can. About — ’ Jac cradled his forehead as he remembered that he was meant to be back, sharp, to see Beaton. But he couldn’t just leave Morvaun hanging for what might