Ill Will (24 page)

My phone rang. Hoping it would be Cordelia, but knowing it wasn’t likely, I picked it up.

Danny. “Hey, girlfriend. Need to follow up on the fun with one of my least favorite criminals.”

“Fun? Then you and I disagree of the definition of fun.”

“Naw, just the context.” But this was business, so she continued, “Dudley’s got a rich daddy. So in the past he’s been able to get much better treatment than most common hoods. Promises of going into treatment instead of being sent to jail, probation, house arrest in the family manor in Old Metairie. If you’re willing to press charges, we’ll throw the book at him.”

“Yeah? So what’s in it for me?”

She was silent for a moment, as if not believing that I could be so venal.

“I mean, you should at least offer to cook those buttermilk blue-berry pancakes.”

I heard a discreet snort on her end. “I’ll cook them for you as a friend, not as a bribe to have you testify. Got it?”

I got it. She was working and I needed to behave. Or at least deal with everything that was going on by not being an asshole to my friends.

“Okay, unless I’m likely to get killed I’ll testify.”

“You’re probably safer with him in jail than with him out. I can’t make absolute promises, but Daddy does his evil deeds with lawyers, not guns. Oh, and Mick? I’m glad you still have enough of your nine lives left to have made it through this one okay.”

“Yeah, me, too. So what’s next?”

“Nothing at the moment. Dudley is still unconscious. He has to be awake for us to charge him. Maybe the bump on his head will have made him a better person and he’ll plead guilty.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice,” I agreed. We both knew it was unlikely.

“Once he’s awake, we’ll have a better idea of how to proceed.”

“Is it possible that you can give me a warning before he sets foot out of the hospital?”

“I’ll do what I can. It may depend on how slick his father’s lawyer is. But he should go from the hospital to the jail. Luck was on our side this time. Some concerned citizen with a decent cell phone camera got video of the chase down St. Claude. We might be able to turn Prejean to admit he hired Dudley for a little harassment that got out of hand.”

I sighed. This wasn’t bad news, but it meant I’d be entangled in the legal system—grand jury and court dates—and could only hope justice prevailed when it was finally finished. Luck—and evidence—were on my side, but money can trump even those. “So you basically called me to tell me to wait around?”

“That. And to make sure you’re okay. And…” She hesitated.

I guessed what was coming next. Elly, Danny’s partner, was a nurse who’d worked with Cordelia for a long time at her clinic.

“And,” she continued, “Elly told me about Cordelia.”

I didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to talk about it. I could be normal only if I kept blinkers on, a fierce focus on the right now, the right in front of me. But those walls were fragile and Danny had just breached them.

“Yeah, I know,” I cut in gruffly. “If there’s anything you can do, yadda, yadda.”

“I hope you know it’s not just words. If there is anything we can do, we’ll do it.”

“How about miracles? You have any of those?”

“Those are hard to find. I’ll see what I can do,” she said gently. I guess Danny knew me well enough to know my rage was a defense and it wasn’t aimed at her.

“I’m sorry, my other line is ringing,” I lied. “Is there anything else we need to talk about right now?”

“No, I’ll catch you later.”

I put the handset down without saying anything else.

Then to make my lie the truth, my phone rang. I stared at it for a moment, hesitant to answer, but just before the answering machine kicked in, I grabbed it.

“Hello—Knight Detective Agency.” I managed to make it close to professional.

My hasty decision did not go unpunished. “Hey, I know we didn’t really set anything, but I was driving by, so is it okay if I come up now?” Mr. Charles Williams.

The one advantage of him coming now was that he would be leaving a little after now.

Again, I lied. “You’re in luck. I had a cancellation, so I can fit you in.”

The downstairs door was locked, so I had to climb down three flights of stairs to let him in. I didn’t hurry, instead took my time trying to compose my thoughts and my expression to be a bland mask by the time I was at the door letting him in. Maybe I did, or maybe Mr. Charles Williams was not a man who easily read hidden emotions.

“Hey, was that you on the news?” he asked as he entered.

“I do everything I can to stay out of the news.” I didn’t add that I don’t always succeed. Instead I headed back up the stairs at a quick enough pace that Mr. Williams had to choose between talking and breathing.

When we got to my office, I was determined to control the conversation. Barely giving him time to catch his breath, I said, “I got the fax from Mr. McConkle. As you should know, he did give you permission to hear about certain aspects of the case. However, he also gave me discretion as to what I can tell you. You argue, you get nothing, you understand?”

He flopped heavily down in the chair in front of my desk. It was a sturdy one, so it took his weight without even a groan.

I took the chair behind my desk and continued, “I did research on Nature’s Beautiful Gift. As far as I can tell they’re a legitimate company and they obey the laws regulating supplements.”

“There are no laws,” Mr. Williams cut in. “You know what I mean. If someone dies, they’ll pull the stuff from the shelves. That’s it.”

“They can’t make claims they can’t back up with scientific evidence, like advertising that their products cure diseases.”

“Yeah, they slime around that by things like ‘promotes heart health,’ ‘aids in protection against cancer.’”

“Free speech,” I reminded him. “The bottom line is that Nature’s Beautiful Gift appears to have nothing illegal and untoward going on. You can argue that supplements are a waste of people’s money because they’re unproven or you can argue that there isn’t enough money to do tests on pills that are made of plants and herbs because no one can afford it on something they can’t patent and these companies are doing a service by making alternative remedies available. People get to make that choice, and you may have to live with people not making the right choice.”

“My nephew is killing himself with this stuff,” Mr. Williams burst out. “He’s spending more money than he has because he’s convinced they’re making his problems go away.”

“How old is your nephew?” I asked.

“In his late twenties. He should be old enough to know better, but he’s not. He says he’s sick and tired of going to doctors and having needles poked in him. He wants something that can give him a normal life.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He has sickle cell anemia. And, yeah, I get it. He has to go to the doctor as often as old men and get transfusions more times than I can count. He wants to have a regular life, play sports, date—he’s a handsome devil when he’s not sick-looking—go cheer at the Saints game and not worry he might get something from the public toilets.”

I started to ask him when he had last seen his nephew, but stopped. I didn’t want to know. There could certainly be many young men in the area with sickle cell anemia. But how many of them had put their faith in alternative medicine and turned their backs on standard treatment? If Reginald Banks was Charles Williams’s nephew, I was not going to be the one to tell him what had happened.

“So how’d you get involved with being the one to pursue this? What about his parents?”

“They ended up in Milwaukee after the storm. My nephew didn’t like the cold, so he came back down here. I’m the only family he has that’s close.”

It was time to change the subject. I didn’t want to know any more. “I printed out all the stuff I found out about NBG and made a copy for you.” I handed him the stack of paper.

He took it, giving it a dubious look.

“You can read, can’t you?” I asked, not very politely.

“Not my favorite thing to do,” he said, “but, yeah, I can read. I’m slow. Why don’t you just give me that main stuff in this?”

I glanced pointedly at my watch. I realized I had assumed the Mr. Charles Williams was Reginald Banks’s uncle and I was angry at him for not checking more regularly, for leaving me to find him too late.
You don’t know that
, I told myself. And I was doing everything I could not to find out.

“The gist is pretty much what I said, that Nature’s Beautiful Gift is a legitimate supplement company. It relies on multilevel marketing. Independent contractors buy the product and then turn around and sell it, doing things like house parties. Fletcher McConkle’s aunt has a very nice young man who visits her regularly. Maybe your nephew has someone similar, a friend who spends time with him, cares about his health, and therefore he’s likely to buy the pills from him. Maybe if you spent more time with your nephew you could get him to see your point of view.”

He hung his head. “Yeah, well, I tried that. Went over almost every day. He finally got tired of me, told me to get out, that he could live his life without my interference. That he’d call me when he wanted to see me again. So far he hasn’t called. When I call him, he doesn’t answer.”

This isn’t my tragedy
, I reminded myself.
I have one of my own.
“I’m sorry to hear that. If he’s not willing to talk to you, then whatever I find out won’t do much good.”

“Yeah, I was hoping you’d find out they’re a bunch of crooks and we could shut them down.”

I said softly, “That’s why we need movies and TV, so we clearly know what’s right and wrong and most of the time the good guys win. Real life doesn’t always give us that.”

He stood up. Without me even prompting him. “No, it doesn’t. At least you talked to me.” He picked up the huge pile of paper I’d copied for him. “Would you be upset if I just burn this instead of reading it?”

“I made it for you. You get to do whatever you want to with it.”

He nodded and started to head out.

I got up. “I have to let you out. Had some trouble lately, so we keep the bottom door locked.”

He let me lead. I went down slowly, to let him keep pace. We talked about the weather, just words to fill the silence. Mr. Charles Williams was a man uncomfortable with silence. At the landing window I looked out to the street. From this angle the TV crews were gone.

I let him out the door, watching him as he crossed the street to his car. I couldn’t protect him from much, but I could make sure he was safe crossing the street.

I was as slow going back up the stairs. There seemed no reason to rush to anything.

I spend fifteen minutes starting at my computer screen, trying to work, trying to do something—anything—to keep my mind consumed with some distracting task, but nothing worked.

The day had been long enough. I decided to go home.

We did need some groceries. Since I’d left early, I fit in a quick run to get the essential stuff, toilet paper and cat food, something to eat tonight. I decided on shrimp and cheese grits, one of Cordelia’s favorites, but not something she often indulged in since it wasn’t exactly hard-core healthy. And some salad stuff, so at least part of the menu would be virtuous.

Her car was already parked in front by the time I got home from the grocery run.

When I came into the house, I heard her on the phone.

“Micky just got home,” she said. “We’ll talk later, okay? And either you’ll come over this weekend or we go out—I’ll call tomorrow and work out the details.”

Whoever she was talking to answered, as Cordelia was silent for several moments.

While she finished her conversation, I carried the groceries into the kitchen. It was just a couple of bags, so it was only one load.

“Who was that?” I asked as she joined me.

“You’re spying on my phone calls?” she asked, her tone teasing.

“I think I distinctly heard you obligating us to either cook here or go out. Since that involves me, I have a right to know.”

“That was Alex. I told her that I have cancer, so she has to get her shit together.”

“You did not. Well, not like that.”

“Yes, pretty much like that. She’s gotten lost in her gloom and needs something to kick her out of it. If I have to have cancer, I might as well get as much mileage out of it as possible.” She started unloading the second grocery bag. “Shrimp and grits? You must think I’m dying.”

“No, not at all,” I said too quickly. “But…but it’s been a long day and it just seemed like a night for comfort food. So, how is Alex doing?”

“She spends about three hours a day driving back and forth from Baton Rouge, eight to ten hours at work, seven hours sleeping or trying to sleep, an hour in the morning getting up and ready to go, so that leaves, what, about three, maybe five hours a day for everything else, chores, eating dinner, catching up with people—we just spent forty-five minutes talking on the phone. Joanne was used to having a lot of Alex’s attention, a good hour or two talking about her day. Put those all together and she has not only no time for herself, but is skimming the other things as well.”