me to report to him what you’re thinking and doing. Although I don’t know for sure, I expect he’s asked Kyler Kennedy to do the same. He told me to keep Kennedy meaningfully involved, and I doubt it’s because he cares about hurt feelings. Jackson is most likely reporting to the mayor, the governor, congressmen, judges…”
Alexa yawned into her hand. “Jackson Evans’s instincts for survival are perfectly pitched. His MO is that he gets as close as possible to the most powerful people that he can ally himself with in whatever city he’s running the department in. His staff builds a bulletproof cocoon around his image. As soon as his rising star has hit its zenith, or the real stats are about to be released, and while the perception of other troubled cities is that he has vanquished crime from the city he’s in, he gets offers from one or several municipalities in need of a savior. He takes the most attractive offer, and he’s off-lock, stock, and super-staff road show.”
Manseur shrugged. “I don’t have any reason to think Jackson Evans would sabotage this case. There’s nothing criminal about having ambition. I used to have a little myself.”
“Let he who is without sin…?”
Manseur opened his hands in resignation, reminding Alexa of a beleaguered Mexican border official.
“It turns out this Gary West thing is nothing, we’ll say good-bye and it’ll all be over. He turns up dead, body’s going to be in my front yard and not in front of the Hoover Building. Kidnapping, and it’s all yours to deal with as you see fit.”
Alexa nodded.
“My job is just to sort out facts, solve crimes, and arrest the guilty parties. I don’t get my back-hairs up over things I can’t do anything about. I resent people who think there’s only equal laws for equal people, but that’s how rich people think.” He shrugged sadly and looked very tired as he let his eyes wander over the boxes of files. “Kennedy has over three hundred missing-persons files open at any given time, and he wants to be a Homicide detective, not spend a minute longer than he has to running down kids who ran off from home to go on a smoke-up in the Quarter. This case looks like his shortcut to Homicide. I’ll let him do some busy work for us until he shows me I can’t trust him.”
“What about Dr. LePointe?”
“You think he’s behind this, jealousy or whatever the motive might be, and I have to tell you I don’t think that for a minute. Too much to lose for too little gain. Mrs. West herself told you he wouldn’t harm anybody. She knows him better than we do.”
Alexa looked out the window. “A man like that, if he were involved in something unsavory, might believe he can’t be tied to anything. He probably wouldn’t think anybody is smart enough to get him cornered, or brave enough to take it to the next step.”
“He’d be about right on that,” Manseur said.
When the phone buzzed, Manseur reached for it. “Manseur.”
He listened intently for a few seconds. “When did the call come in? What did you tell them? Hurricane coming and they got time to dig into this? Tell them you’ll have to locate those files in the morgue, and tell them about how it’s a mess to find anything on account of the constant lack of a budget and how we’re trying to put the taxpayers’ money toward fighting crime. Mention all our manpower is trying to protect the citizens while trying to figure out how we can clear the citizens safely out of the city, and keep looters from cleaning out their property. In the meantime, you get the files to me and misplace the reporter’s request form for a couple of days, and she’ll probably forget all about it.” He hung up. “Crap.”
“What?” Alexa asked.
“What are the odds? A TV reporter up and decides out of the blue to look into a twenty-six-year-old homicide case before eight o’clock on the morning after Gary West vanishes?”
“What case?”
“Casey’s parents. I better look and see what’s in those files before we let the press have access to them. This I will have to pass by Evans.”
“Casey’s parents’ deaths? You said homicide?”
“Didn’t I tell you Curry and Rebecca LePointe were murdered? I must have mentioned it when I was telling you about the family.”
“I think I’d remember.”
“Twenty-six years back, a psychopath broke into the LePointes’ house and chopped up Curry and Rebecca LePointe in their kitchen with a meat cleaver.”
“Casey told me they were dead, but she didn’t mention they were murdered.”
“Probably doesn’t like talking about it. She was there and saw it happen. Patrol got there in time to save Casey. I expect she was four or five at the time.” He shrugged. “Was very big news around here. It’s a stretch there’d be anything from those murders that would help on the West case. But it’s possible they found out about Gary and they’re just digging through whatever they can find. Reporters pay cops for hot leads. It’s possible one of the responding officers or someone there last night when we arrived sold it.”
“You think one of the people in the loop clued the media?”
“Possible. Money makes the world go around, but it spins New Orleans like a two-dollar top.”
There was a rapping on the office door. “Yeah?” Manseur called out.
Missing Persons Detective Kyler Kennedy stuck his head in, looked at Alexa, then Manseur, and nodded uncertainly.
“Detective,” Manseur said, cheerfully. “Can I help you with something?”
“I need to speak to you privately for a second,” Kennedy said.
“I’m busy. Tell me what it’s about.”
“The West case,” Kennedy said.
“Then you can say it in front of Agent Keen,” Manseur told him. “She’s involved in this.”
“Patrol just located Gary West’s car,” Kennedy answered. “And West wasn’t in it.”
17
Leland Ticholet tied his boat to the pier beside Moody’s store and lifted the wooden crate he’d brought from his cabin. Balanced on his haunches atop a pier post, a gawky young man of indeterminable age who did odd jobs around the dock watched Leland. Without the overalls, ratty T-shirt, and unlaced work boots, Grub might have passed for a very large version of one of the pelicans that often perched in that exact spot, resting and watching for a meal of opportunity between flights.
“What’s in yur box, Lee-lund?” the boy asked.
“Rusty old cottonmouth,” Leland said. “’Bout big around as your empty head.”
“Naw it ain’t, Lee-lund. Tell me what’s really in it.”
“Tails.”
“Whut kind of tails is it?”
“Nutria,” Leland answered just gruffly enough to discourage further conversation. “What else would it be- catfish tails?”
Grub snorted. “State gives four bucks a tail on swamp rats. How many is it in your box, you reckon?”
“I reckon forty-one,” Leland said.
“How much that add up to in money?”
“Four dollars times forty-one. Figure it up.”
“Ninety-one dollars,” the boy said, a worried look on his face.
“I’m lucky they ain’t paying me by your calculations.”
“How’s that, Lee-lund?”
“Because you’re a idiot and I’d starve to death on account of it, you scrawny little dog fucker.”
“Big as you are, you ain’t missed any meals, you…you. Ijit your own self,” Grub hissed, spreading his legs wide apart and freeing his eel-like penis through a ragged hole in his crotch with hands that looked like he’d been working on diesel engines. “Tickle this, Lee-lund Tickle-ay.”
“It’s Ticholet, you wormy retard.”
“Lee-lund Teesh-o-lay this, goober-puller.”
