“I’m not excluding anybody,” says Kaiser. “After visiting Cayman, I’m convinced Marcel de Becque could be behind it all. He could easily be commissioning someone to paint the pictures and paying them peanuts compared to the overall take. That includes Thalia Laveau or a skell like Gaines.”
“If de Becque is behind this,” Lenz counters, “why draw attention to himself by demanding that we send Glass to see him in exchange for photos of his paintings?”
“He’s a ballsy guy. He’s not scared of us.”
“Not one bit,” I confirm. “But what about Thalia Laveau? What would be her motive? Do you really think a woman’s going to paint dead women for money?”
“I haven’t talked to her yet,” says Kaiser. “So I don’t know. But the kind of people you described – Sabines – they tend to stay where they grow up, right?”
“Yes.”
“So why did she leave? Was she a brilliant kid with ambition? Or was she running from something?” Kaiser looks at Baxter without waiting for an answer. “How are we going to handle the approach? Who’s going in?”
Baxter walks to the wall and switches on the overhead lights. Lenz blinks against the brightness, but he looks set for battle.
“John,” says Baxter, “I know you’ve been point man on this thing for a long time, and against your own wishes, which counts for a lot in my-”
“Damn it,” Kaiser mutters.
Baxter implores Kaiser with his hands. “Listen, John. Because of Wheaton’s artistic stature, and because of his medical condition, I’m inclined to let Arthur take the lead on this one. He has a broad knowledge of art, and he’ll be able to question Wheaton intelligently on his disease, gauge his mental state related to it, and…”
Kaiser sits in silence as Baxter drones on. The decision has been made, and the medical angle makes argument pointless.
“Normally, I would be going in as well,” Baxter concludes. “But because I think you should be there, John, I’m going to send you in in my place. If you feel that some path is being left unexplored, you can go down it. You’ll be there. Okay? It’s just that Arthur will take the lead on the questions.”
“Where will you be?” Kaiser asks in a taut voice.
“Surveillance van outside. Arthur’s going to wear a wire.”
Kaiser’s mouth falls open.
“It’s a major break with Bureau policy,” says Baxter, “but the Director has personally approved it. The police insisted on live transmission and tapes as a condition of letting us handle the interviews alone.”
“And Glass?” Kaiser says without looking at me.
“She’ll be in the van with me until Arthur cues her. The code phrase is, ‘I’m sorry, our photographer was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.’ That’s the story for the suspects: we’re not confiscating their paintings, just photographing them. Once we’ve finished, though, NOPD will be confiscating everything in sight. These suspects are going to be totally alienated after that, and there’s nothing we can do about it. We’ve got one shot at each of them. Wheaton we treat with kid gloves. Gaines is second, and we go in hard. John, you’ll take the lead with Gaines, because you have more experience with convicts. Smith and Laveau we play by ear. But in every case, when Ms. Glass comes in-”
“Please just call me Jordan,” I cut in. ‘“Ms. Glass’ is getting old.”
Baxter nods gratefully. “When Jordan comes in, she won’t look directly at the suspect. This will make someone who’s shocked by her appearance have to work harder to confirm what his eyes are telling him. The innocent people won’t look at her twice – though I’m sure Gaines will ogle her a little – but the guilty one should look like he’s seen a ghost. Which, in a sense, he will have.”
“Or she,” says Kaiser.
“Or she,” Baxter concedes.
“Gaines will ogle me a little?” I echo. “He looks like he’d walk up, lick my face, and dare me to slap him.”
“If he does,” says Bill Granger, the violent crimes supervisor, “kick him in the balls.”
Baxter frowns. “If Gaines does do something like that, don’t overreact. We have no idea what could happen when you walk into these situations. The painter could be the killer – if the women
This part of the plan clearly makes Lenz nervous. Even I see a mental image of Kaiser leaping over a metal prison table and trying to strangle the death-row inmate he told me about. But Baxter is showing clear support for Kaiser, and Lenz doesn’t question it. Not in front of him, anyway.
“If either of you comes out and says somebody’s dirty,” says Baxter, “we bring them in for interrogation before the police get in on the act.” He looks around the table. “Okay. We’ll have another strategy meeting tomorrow morning, here, seven a.m. From eight o’clock on, we’ll have police observers with us. Everybody good to go?”
Lenz sniffs and gives Baxter an ironic smile. I try to catch Kaiser’s eye, but he gives me nothing.
“I need a bite to eat and some sleep,” I tell them, rising from my chair.
“Take Agent Travis with you,” Baxter says, meaning Wendy.
“I will.”
“The Camellia Grill is still open,” Kaiser says in an offhand voice. “You know it?”
“I probably ate there a hundred times in my younger days.”
“What do you keep in that waist pack?” asks Lenz.
“It’s my genie’s lamp. I rub it, and whatever I need comes out.”
“It must weigh a lot,” SAC Bowles says dryly.
“It does. But aren’t you glad I had a camera in there during the gallery fire?”
“Yes, we are,” says Baxter. “Get some sleep, Jordan. Tomorrow’s a very big day.”
“I’ll see you here at seven.”
Kaiser gives me a wave as I depart, but Dr. Lenz only watches, his wise eyes missing nothing.
12
The Camellia Grill stands at the intersection of Carrollton and St. Charles, with the river rolling past just beyond the levee. Like many New Orleans institutions, it’s a modest place, an old-time grill with pink walls, aproned employees, and stools at the bar. Agent Wendy and I have been here long enough to get menus when John Kaiser walks through the door and scans the room. He comes straight to us and looks down at Wendy, whose expression quickly morphs from surprise to discomfort.
“Could I see you alone for a minute?” he asks.
She gets up without a word and follows him outside. Through the window, I see Kaiser speaking, Wendy listening attentively. When they come back in, Wendy goes to the far end of the bar while Kaiser takes her stool beside me.
“That didn’t look very smooth,” I tell him. “What did you say to her?”
“That I needed to talk to you without Lenz hearing.”
“I see. She’s got a terrible crush on you.”
“I never encouraged it.”
“You think that makes it any better for her?”
Kaiser picks up a menu. “She’s a good girl, and she’s tough. She can handle it.” He glances up at me, and his eyes seem to hold more understanding than his words. The skin around his eyes is dark with fatigue.
“Okay,” I say, looking at my own menu. “What are we doing here?”
“This is our first date, isn’t it?” He says it deadpan, and I laugh in spite of myself.
“Come on. What’s going on?”
“Just what I told Wendy. I want to talk to you without Lenz around. Or Baxter, for that matter. I have a certain amount of anxiety that we’re behind the curve. That whoever’s running this thing is ahead of us. Maybe way
