Ascension Day

What had suddenly hit Jac, started to panic him, was that he had no idea just which of his withheld secrets Beaton knew about: the alleged prison-break attempt or Durrant’s death-wish? He was facing a firestorm back at the office with Beaton, but with no idea from which direction the fire was coming. And if he picked the wrong one, Beaton would then know about both: full house!

Morvaun had acknowledged him with a numb smile as he walked in. He was wearing a bright crimson jacket with a silvery wave trim on each cuff. Quite conservative by his standards.

Morvaun liked to think of himself as a tough cookie, but he was no longer young, and beneath the veneer of bluff and bravado he’d built up over the years, Jac could clearly see — as he had done halfway through their first case together — his fear and frailty; fear that if he got anything more than a four or five-year term, he might not make it through.

‘I hope you two had the good sense not to ask my client any more questions after he informed you he had counsel on his way,’ Jac said as he put down his briefcase. Stamp his authority on the meeting early.

‘Of course, goes without saying,’ Pyrford said with a dry smile, jiggling the toothpick in the corner of his mouth. ‘We just kept it conversational after that. Mild weather for the time of year, and what a fine head of hair he still has for a man of his age.’

Holbrook looked down at the floor, and Jac swore he could almost hear a groan riding on his sigh.

‘Never let it be said that you’d indulge in pointless questions or comments,’ Jac said, peering sharply at Pyrford’s shiny, wisp-haired crown. ‘Let’s get to the bottom line, shall we?’ Jac continued curtly. ‘Is my client being charged? And, if so, what’s the evidence against him?’

‘Not yet.’ Pyrford was put off stride by the directness, flushing slightly; he injected more authority into his voice. ‘But we got a women in custody, Alvira Jardine, a Haitian national with forged papers — passport and driver’s licence — and they’ve got your client’s trademark all over them.’

‘Has Ms Jardine named Mr Jaspar as having forged them for her?’

‘No, she hasn’t, though we — ’ Pyrford fought to regain his step, the control he’d had over the meeting only minutes ago, but Jac rolled straight on.

‘And apart from my client’s “trademark” — what other evidence is there that might link him to this?’ Jac’s tone was acid and impatient; he had no intention of making it easy on them. One look at Morvaun told him how much he’d been railroaded over the past two hours.

‘Well, we…’ Increasingly flustered, Pyrford looked back towards Holbrook for support; but Holbrook did a wide-eyed, “don’t include me on where you might be heading”. ‘We’ve done our own comparisons with Mr Jaspar’s past work, and from that alone had more than good reason to bring him in now. But I’m not at liberty to discuss that, or the other evidence we have, until we’ve got the full analysis back from the lab. I’m confident, though, that will back up our findings to date — and then, believe me, your client’s really going to feel our breath down his neck.’

‘Not to put too fine a point on it,’ Jac said cuttingly, ‘wouldn’t that have been the best time to haul my client in — when you’ve got your lab conclusions. Rather than bringing him in on this fine afternoon just to comment on what a good head of hair he has for a man of his age.’ He smiled wanly.

Pyrford’s jaw tightened. He glared at Jac for a second before answering. ‘Don’t worry — he’ll be the first to know.’

‘When?’

‘Couple of days, tops.’

‘Fine.’ Jac picked up his briefcase and nodded to Morvaun. ‘Look forward to it.’

‘Me too, Counsellor,’ Pyrford said, his stare icy. ‘Me too.’

‘Thanks, Jac,’ Morvaun said as they headed down the corridor. He gave a lopsided smile. ‘But less of the two white-boys ego-posturing next time, if you could. If things turn sour, it’s my po’ black ass they take it out on.’

‘I’ll try,’ Jac said, returning the smile. They went through the station-house doors and out onto the street. ‘But if there’s no connection with you on this one, Morvaun, stop worrying. They’re not going to be able to pin it on you. I’ll make sure of that.’ The confident tone of a lawyer who, having cleared his client for a crime he did commit, thought one he didn’t should be a walkover.

‘Like I said, Jac, I’m clean on this one. Never even heard o’ Mrs Jardine before. They’re just tryin’ for a fix — most likely ‘cause they couldn’t nail me last time.’

‘And they won’t this time, either.’ Jac smiled tightly and laid one hand reassuringly on Morvaun’s shoulder as they parted. ‘Don’t worry.’

Watching Morvaun Jaspar head off along North Claiborne Avenue, shoulders slightly sunken, Jac wondered whether it was simply the gait of an old man worn down by the two hours of questioning, or if there was something Morvaun wasn’t telling him.

Though as Jac turned and looked out for a cab, he probably appeared little different: the spark of fresh hope from the video in his briefcase not enough to lift his spirits from the nightmare showdown he was facing back at the office with Beaton.

12

‘I thought I should let you know — I read what happened to Raoul Ferrer.’

‘Yeah, you and half of New Orleans that read beyond the first page of the local rags,’ Nel-M said with a huffed breath. ‘And your point is?’

It had taken Truelle three full days to work up the courage to make the call. He’d turned over which path the conversation might take so many times in his mind that his concentration had started lapsing during sessions at work and he’d had to ask patients to repeat themselves. He thought he’d better make the call before it drove him and his patients mad — or ‘madder’ to be more precise with both of them — or ditch the idea completely. The final bit of Dutch courage was provided by an extra-curricular visit to Ben’s bar, but he was still uncertain about the wisdom of making the call after the first shot, his hands still shaking. He ordered another — but then eyed it hesitantly. He’d need all his wits about him tangling words with Nel-M. He could feel the warmth of the drink in his hand drawing him in. Maybe he should just knock it back and forget the idea of making the call, stay here in the warm cocoon of the bar and order another, and another, and… He slammed the drink back down on the table and pushed it at arm’s length as if it were poison, getting quickly to his feet and heading out before his resolve went completely.

He made the call to Nel-M when he was a block away from the bar — but now with just a few testy words from Nel-M, his nerves were back with a vengeance, his hand shaking on his cell-phone. He wished now that he had downed that second shot.

‘My… my point is, the timing. You visit me one day to make sure I’m okay with everything going down now with Durrant — then the next day Raoul Ferrer is dead.’

‘Coincidence. In Ferrer’s line of work, he’s just one step away from a bullet every day. In fact, annoying little snake-eyed creep that he is — or was — I’m amazed he lasted so long.’

‘Are you trying to tell me that you didn’t kill Raoul Ferrer?’

‘I’m not trying to tell you anything — it’s you that’s made the call, doctor. But if you’re any good at analyzing what your patient’s say, you might have gathered from my last comment about Ferrer catching a bullet from anywhere that, yes, that’s exactly what I’m getting at.’

Nel-M’s tone was teasing, taunting. Truelle purposely kept his tone flat, matter-of-fact, didn’t want to give Nel-M the satisfaction of knowing that he’d risen to the bait.

‘You can say it whichever way you like — that doesn’t mean I have to believe it.’

‘Oh, is that what you’re saying to your patients these days? You can tell me you’re Batman as many ways as you like — but that doesn’t mean I have to believe it? I thought you guys had more subtle ways of putting things, like: as much as you might have liked to take such an action yourself, the actual taking of it is too shocking and burdensome for your conscious mind to cope with — so your sub-conscious then develops various alternative scenarios.’

Truelle bit at his lip. Nel-M was playing with him. He should never have made the call, should have known