There was a closet beside the dresser, but I didn't have to go into the closet or look through the dresser or dig around under the futon to find what I was looking for. Jimmie Ray had what looked like the entirety of the sealed state files on the relinquishment of Maria Sue Johnson and the adoption of Judith Marie Taylor, and he had left them scattered on the bed. There were nine separate documents, at least two of which appeared to be originals, and all of the documents were complete. They were mixed with more articles and clippings about Jodi Taylor, and with yellow legal pages of what were probably Jimmie Ray Rebenack's handwritten notes. I whistled between my teeth and knew that I could not leave it here. Oh, Jimmie. How'd you get this stuff?
Maybe Jimmie Ray Rebenack wasn't the world's worst private investigator after all.
I gathered everything together, went back into the other room for the phone bills, then let myself out and drove back to the motel. Jimmie would know that someone had been in his house and he would probably know it was me, but if things played out the way I thought they might, Jimmie and I would be discussing these things soon enough.
I phoned Lucy Chenier at her office, but she wasn't back yet. I told Darlene to have her call me as soon as she returned, and Darlene said that she would. I hung up and went through what I'd found. As near as I could tell, everything was there. All of the documents were either original or were new clean copies of the originals. The original birth certificate showing Pamela Johnson as the mother of Maria Sue Johnson was attached to the complete original document showing that the Johnsons had relinquished all rights to the child to the state of Louisiana. A Louisiana State Department of Social Services document showed that Steven Edward Taylor and Cecelia Burke Taylor, lawfully wedded man and wife, were adopting the child known as one Maria Sue Johnson. A Louisiana juvenile-court document showed that Maria Sue Johnson's name was henceforth changed to Judith Marie Taylor. Each of the documents had a file and case number. The handwritten notes were mostly about Jodi Taylor and were probably culled from magazine articles: where she was born, her birth date, the name of her studio and agency and personal manager. Edith Boudreaux's name and address and phone were written on the back of one of the sheets. Jimmie Ray had been to see her, all right. On another sheet the name LEON WILLIAMS was written in big block letters and was the only name I didn't recognize. Six phone numbers were scrawled in no particular order on two of the sheets, two of them with Los Angeles area codes. The name 'Sandi' had been written a half dozen times around the page. I checked the numbers against the numbers from the phone bill, and the numbers matched. I picked up the phone and dialed one of the Los Angeles numbers, thinking maybe I'd get someone named Sandi. A young man answered, 'Marko-witz Management. May I help you?'
'Jesus Christ.'
'Pardon me, sir?'
'Is this Sid Markowitz's office?'
'It is, sir. May I help you?'
I didn't know what to say.
'Sir?'
'Does someone named Leon Williams work there?'
'No, sir.'
'How about someone named Sandi?'
'No, sir. Who's calling, please?'
I said, 'Tell Sid it's Elvis Cole, the Lied-to Detective.'
'Pardon me?'
I hung up and dialed the other L.A. number. A young woman's voice said, 'Jodi Taylor's office.'
I went through it again. No Leon Williams. No Sandi. I hung up.
In the past three months, Jimmie Ray Rebenack had made seven calls to Sid Markowitz, one of the calls lasting almost an hour and one of the calls lasting thirty-five minutes. They were lengthy calls implying meaningful conversation. The longest call was made just three days before Jimmie Ray Rebenack deposited $30,000 in his checking account. My, my.
I put down the phone and stretched out on the floor and thought about things. A large monetary payoff seemed to imply the 'B' word. But if Jodi Taylor was in fact being blackmailed, why not tell me that and hire me to find out who was doing it? Of course, since Sid had spent so much time on the phone with Jimmie Ray, it looked as if they already knew who was doing it and, besides that, what was there to blackmail her with? That she was adopted? That had already been in People. Jodi Taylor spoke of it publicly and often. Maybe they wanted me to get their money back. That seemed reasonable. Then again, it would seem even more reasonable if they had told me the score. I went back to the phone and called Sid Markowitz again. The same young man answered. I said, 'This is Elvis Cole. May I speak with Sid?'
'I'm sorry, Mr. Cole, but he's not in.' Great.
'Would you have him call me, please?'
'Of course.'
I left the motel number and I called Jodi Taylor again, but she, too, was unavailable. I was getting angry at having been lied to and I wanted to know what was going on. I got up and paced around the room, and then I called Lucy's office again. Still not in. Nobody was in. Maybe I should leave and then I wouldn't be in, either. I looked up Jimmie Ray's office number, dialed, and hung up on the twenty-sixth ring. Another one. I decided to go back to Jimmie Ray's house and wait for him.
I gathered together the documents and the articles and hid them between the mattress and box spring. The Dan Wesson was too big to wear at my ankle, so I clipped the holster on the inside of my waistband and pulled out my shirt to hang over it. Neatness counts, but bullets often count more.
I had locked my room and was getting into my car when LeRoy Bennett and his sidekick Rene drove up. LeRoy showed me a Colt Government.45. 'Get in,' he said. 'We goin' f' a little ride.'
I guess Jimmie Ray would have to wait.
CHAPTER 11
I said, 'Well, well. Bill and Hillary.'
LeRoy lowered his gun. 'Knew we'd see you again, podnuh.' He tilted his head toward the backseat. 'C'mon. Don't make ol' Rene have to get out.'
Rene was in the backseat. His eyes were filmy and moved independently of each other, and I was struck again with the sense that maybe he was here with us, but maybe not. I said, 'What if I won't go?'
LeRoy laughed. 'Knock off da bullshit and les' go.'
I said, 'Tell me something, is Rene for real or did someone build him out of spare parts?'
Rene shifted and the Polara squeaked on its springs. He had to tip in at close to four hundred pounds. Maybe more. LeRoy said, 'Get in front wi' me. Rene, he won't fit up front. He ride in back.'
I got in and they brought me south through Ville Platte and down along the highway to Milt Rossier's Crawfish Farm. We drove slowly up between the ponds and along the oyster shell road past a couple of long, low cinder block buildings. The buildings had great sliding doors and the doors were open and you could see inside. Hispanic men driving little tractors towed open tanks alive with wiggling catfish into the near building. There, Hispanic women working at large flat tables scooped up the catfish, lopped off their heads, then gutted and skinned them with thin knives. Other men drove trucks filled with crawfish into the far building where women washed and sorted and bagged the crawfish in heavy burlap bags. With the windows down and no air conditioning, the crunching oyster shells were loud in the car and sounded like breaking bones. Jimmie Ray Rebenack's Mustang was parked on the far side of the processing sheds, and Jimmie Ray was standing with Milt Rossier at one of the ponds. LeRoy parked by the nearest building and said, 'Here we go.'
We got out and went over to them.
Milt Rossier was in his early sixties, with blotched crepey skin and cheap clothes and a gut that hung well out over his belt. The short stub of a cigar was fixed in one side of his mouth, and his hands were pale and freckled with liver spots. He wore a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves down and cuffed at his wrists, and he was wearing the Panama hat again. Sensitive to the sun, no doubt. Milt said, 'My name is Milt Rossier. They tell me you're
