Landry knew a respected criminal defense attorney, but he said he’d wait. The officer brought him a bottle of water and left him alone. Half an hour later, Detective Young and the cop came in.
“Hey, Landry. Sounds like you’re in a mess. Have you called an attorney?”
Landry said no, and when the policeman set a recorder on the table, Young pushed it back. “He’s not represented, and this isn’t a formal interrogation. I want to ask him a few questions. Do you know who he is?”
Irritated, the cop smirked and said, “Sure. Everybody knows Landry Drake. That doesn’t make him innocent —"
“Agreed, but sometimes the things he’s involved in seem more bizarre than they are.” He looked at Landry. “I’m not cutting you slack; if you’re beyond the presumption of innocence, we’ll handle this strictly by the book.”
Landry nodded. He understood, and he appreciated Young’s willingness to listen. He explained everything, beginning with the ghost tour and ending with finding Tiffany unconscious on the pavement.
“Any initial thoughts? Could someone inside the building have attacked her?”
“I have no idea. I have way more questions right now than answers. I dropped her at the airport, so why didn’t she leave? Instead, she returned to the same building she refused to go in earlier. Either she opened the lockbox or someone else did, and something happened to her inside. I saw no one else but her. None of this makes sense.”
“If this were your investigation, where would you start?”
“I’d ask the airline reps at the airport what they know about her. Did she go through security? Had she boarded a plane? How, when and why did she leave? Then I’d talk to a guy named Jack Blair who lives in a box across from the building. He has a clear shot of the entryway. He drinks too much, but he may have seen something.”
The detective told Landry he was free to go, but not to leave town for a few days. Landry understood; he was getting to go home tonight, but in case things changed the cops wanted to keep tabs.
The officer didn’t like it one bit that the detective let him go. When he asked to speak with Young privately, he said, “Leave this one to me. I’ll vouch for Mr. Drake, and if he skips out on us, it’s my head that’ll roll.”
There was nothing more the irritated cop could say or do. To him, it looked like a celebrity getting preferential treatment. By his own admission, Drake was the only person besides the victim at a crime scene, but Detective Young appeared to be ignoring the facts and protecting a friend.
Before he left, Landry asked Young if he could check on Tiffany. He learned she was in a coma and was now in ICU. The hospital said they’d advise if her condition changed, and the detective promised to pass on anything he heard.
He arrived at his apartment exhausted, dropped his clothes on the floor and crawled into bed. He wanted sleep more than anything, but Cate would be waiting for an update. It was a brief call that ended with a promise to talk tomorrow.
With the sounds of Mardi Gras — shouts, screams, the bass thump-thumping of bands in Bourbon Street bars, and sirens — resounding outside his window, he lay back in bed and thought how much had happened in the week since he and Cate attended the Calypso ball. Sitting in the Blue Room of the Roosevelt Hotel, neither could have imagined that tonight he’d be an assault suspect.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
At eight on Mardi Gras morning, Jack Blair’s doorway on Toulouse Street was quiet because this block had no bars or restaurants, thank God. He lay in the dirty sleeping bag, knowing things would change in just a few hours. By noon the streets of the French Quarter would be a jumble of noise, trash and revelry.
Jack cursed at the noise of a street sweeper and a garbage truck making rounds. He squinted through rheumy eyes at the morning light and wished he had a drink. He’d have to panhandle before that could happen, but now was too early to hit the square. As he rested in his box, he heard footsteps approaching. And the smell of something irresistible.
He heard a voice. “Jack, are you awake?”
He pushed his sleeping bag and tarp aside and crawled out to the stoop, where Landry Drake stood holding a brown paper bag and a cup of coffee.
“What are you doing?” His mouth watered as Landry sat down next to him and opened the bag. He took out a ham and egg sandwich and two thick slabs of Texas toast with plenty of butter and jelly too. Jack attacked the meal like a starving dog.
While he ate, Landry looked over at the yellow tape draped across the three archways. A large sign on the gate read NEW ORLEANS POLICE DEPARTMENT CRIME SCENE. DO NOT ENTER. It appeared no one was around.
“How long were the cops here?” he asked, and Jack said they ran around like ants all night long.
“They set up big searchlights inside, and they blocked the street with police cars and left the damned blue lights flashing. I didn’t get any sleep until they left a couple of hours ago.”
When Jack was finished, he stuffed his trash into the paper sack, leaned back and sipped the steaming coffee. “I appreciate you bringing me breakfast, Mr. Drake. I saw you leave
