40
Alexa drove up St. Charles Avenue, following the GPS lady’s unemotional directions, and when the helpful lady informed Alexa that she was at the destination, Alexa turned into the driveway of a monstrous, two-story stone mansion surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence. The sturdy man standing inside the gate opened it just enough to come out. He asked her if she was expected and, even though she said that she was-and what reason would the FBI have to lie about it? — used his radio to call someone to ask if the FBI agent could enter the grounds.
The gate swung open and Alexa drove into the enclosure. Lush foliage grew on a swale that was strategically placed to hide the LePointes from the street. She passed beneath a portico that would protect people from the rain while they got in and out of vehicles. Alexa drove to the courtyard, where LePointe’s dark Bentley Continental and a Range Rover were parked beside each other. Alexa parked beside Casey’s Rover and strode to the front door, passing through open gates to a cage of decorative wrought iron. The downstairs windows also had the same elegant filigree work-attractive, and effective security. The security measure must have been expensive. And she wasn’t surprised that the construction of the home had taken five years. The Civil War-era structure was so pristine that it looked as if it might have been completed six months ago.
A thin, dark-skinned woman wearing an apron over a starched uniform opened the door. Deana was beside her, and the little girl smiled at Alexa. “Hello, Deana,” Alexa said.
Deana spun around and ran down the hall, laughing.
“Stay with me, baby girl,” the woman called out to her.
In the vestibule behind, a vase holding an enormous spray of exotic flowers stood on a table crafted entirely of cut glass. Alexa entered and looked up at a dome that crested thirty feet above the table. The dome was made entirely of elaborate stained glass-a garden scene with greenery and multicolored flowers made brilliant by sunlight. A wide stone staircase floated up to a mezzanine with the same filigree motif in bronze railing as outside. From an arched throat in the foyer, a hallway punctuated on either side by several doorways extended deep into the home.
Alexa saw Deana and a female figure in a flowing silken gown at the far end of the hallway. The woman began waving her arms and striding in a series of exaggerated movements as she made her way toward the front. Deana stood against the wall laughing melodiously as the bizarre ballerina came toward her. Alexa saw that she was elderly, her long gray hair cascading to her shoulders. She appeared to be attempting an interpretative dance, but her joints and muscles could no longer produce fluid movements. Well before she arrived at the foyer, the woman turned abruptly, bowed with her extended and intertwined arms aimed at a doorway, and, raising her right leg awkwardly, lurched, vanishing through it, with Deana following her.
“That’s Mrs. Sarah,” the servant told Alexa.
“Dr. LePointe’s wife?” Alexa asked.
“She have the Alzheimer’s,” the woman said in a soft voice. “She believes she’s a dancer up in New York City, and it’s nineteen-whatever-it-was when she was up there.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“Dr. LePointe and Ms. West are in his study. I’ll show you back.”
As Alexa and the maid passed the doorway Sarah LePointe had chosen, Alexa turned and saw Mrs. LePointe-arms waving as though she were drowning-prancing energetically around the furniture in a large formal sitting room. The maid lifted Deana up onto her hip. Sarah LePointe’s eyes were hidden behind large sunglasses-her mind generating music she moved to, her face illuminated with a smile of pure pleasure. Alexa envied the woman her beautiful delusion, and hoped she didn’t stumble over something and snap her hip.
Alexa heard Casey’s raised voice through the heavy door as she approached it. The servant knocked and Casey fell silent. LePointe called, “Come in.”
Alexa was first struck by the Jackson Pollock painting that took up the entire wall behind the desk. There was a sharp contrast between that oil and the likewise massive oil seascape on the wall to its right-a painting that Alexa was sure she had seen before in a book. She pulled her eyes away and looked at Casey, whose face was flushed.
LePointe motioned to a chair. “Please sit down, Agent Keen. You know art?”
“I know the difference between a Pollock and a Turner,” she said, bringing a smug smile to his lips with her accuracy-and perhaps the fact that she would appreciate the value of both. “Usually I see paintings of this quality only in books or museums.”
“Quite so,” LePointe said. “Where they usually belong. This house is climate-controlled and the light is regulated carefully. If the hurricane comes and breaches the levees, all of the art here will be high, dry, and secure. The Turner is one my father purchased for next to nothing that was owned by a collector who fell victim to unfortunate circumstances. The Pollock is one my mother bought in the fifties from the artist himself. She was quite taken with the Moderns.”
Casey said suddenly, “The letter from Gary is a fraud, Alexa.”
“How can you be so sure?” LePointe asked, turning his eyes on his niece.
“Gary never types. He only writes letters with fountain pens. He thinks typing is impersonal. He never even uses e-mail.”
“That’s hardly proof,” LePointe scoffed. “I imagine he knows how to type.”
“Secondly, he wouldn’t send it to you, of all people.”
“Why not?” Alexa asked.
“He hates Unko. He thinks he’s-let me quote: ‘a pompous, controlling, egocentric, self-important windbag.’ Which he is. God, I should have known!”
LePointe stiffened. “Gary’s a man in crisis. I’ve seen this a thousand times. Self-destruction due to the fact that he’s standing at the verge of something life-altering that he knows he doesn’t deserve. He can’t handle the prospect. He’s crying out for ‘poor me saddled with all of this attention’. Anxiety. Self-loathing. Inferiority complex. Mania. Insecurity. Round peg in a square hole, et cetera, ad nauseam.”
“You are so full of it,” Casey snapped. “If that were the case, Gary would have told me yesterday at lunch, or before. I’d have known if he was having problems. Unlike you, I pay attention to those around me. And that letter isn’t in his voice at all. Emotional turmoil? Inner feelings? My future? Never could Gary be so selfish. He would never let me worry like this or leave Deana without her knowing he was coming back soon.”
“So, if he didn’t send it, who did?” LePointe asked.
“Gee, I don’t know,” Casey said. “Maybe it was some pompous ass-bite windbag who wanted to get the authorities off the case. Better to die because nobody’s searching for you than cast a shadow on the immaculate LePointe name,” Casey said, raising her voice. “Obviously it was someone who thinks I’m dumb enough to accept such an obvious crock.”
“May I see the letter?” Alexa asked.
LePointe tossed a folded sheet of typing paper across the desk. Alexa used her ballpoint to open the letter, then read the single-spaced paragraph.
Dr. LePointe,
Please tell my wife that I am sorry if I’ve caused her any emotional turmoil, but I needed a few days alone in order to evaluate my position in this life and contemplate my future. Please do not involve the authorities, as I am fine and should be home on Saturday, or Sunday at the latest. Give my wife and daughter my love.
Gary
“‘My wife and daughter’? It’s clinically impersonal,” Alexa said.
“He didn’t use our names! Impossible,” Casey said sourly.
“The envelope?” Alexa asked.
LePointe looked in the trash can beside his desk, pulled out an envelope, and placed it beside the letter. It was a plain security envelope, available by the hundred anywhere office supplies were sold. It had been opened using a sharp blade. The flap was one that used peel-off tape instead of needing to be moistened to activate the adhesive. The stamp was also a peel and stick. Obviously there would be no DNA to extract.
“Do you have an envelope?” she asked LePointe. “An unused one.”
LePointe opened a drawer and handed Alexa a large envelope made of expensive white paper. Alexa opened
