Ill Will (32 page)

“She’s taking an apartment in Baton Rouge, says that she just can’t do the commute every day anymore.”

“Joanne can’t be happy about that.”

“Call her tomorrow—Alex, Joanne, too, if you want. Someone at her office has an open apartment over their garage and offered it to her. Three hours in her car every day was exhausting.”

“Can they afford it? Two living places?”

“I’m guessing it’ll be tight—but it’s a small place and she’s getting a good deal.”

“They’ll never see each other.”

“It wasn’t like they were spending much quality time together. Alex didn’t tell me they were breaking up, just that she’d be spending the week in Baton Rouge and Joanne didn’t much like it. But that kind of tension has to wear on a relationship.”

“Are we doing the dyke soap opera so you can avoid talking about yourself?” I asked.

She gave me a look that said,
Yes, but how dare you call me on it?
“No, I talked to Alex just a while ago so it was on my mind.” She crossed to the stove and glanced into the pots. “You know I’m not…I told you the gist of things.” She paused. “Am I scared? Yes. But I was scared in Charity with the winds howling and the desperate days following. And I was scared afterward—that nothing would be the same. Yeah, I’m scared now.” She ran her fingers under her eyes. “And I’m profoundly grateful to come home to someone who cooks two batches of rice on the chance that I can eat…” and she started crying.

I put my arms around her, her head again resting on my shoulder. I hadn’t meant to make her cry, just keep her from too deeply burying her feelings as she tried to protect me. “I considered three batches, but thought that might be overkill, plus a lot of dishwashing.”

She didn’t say anything, just tightened her grasp, holding me fiercely for a moment. She pulled away and announced, “I need to wash my face,” and headed to the bathroom. She added from down the hallway, “I think I might even be hungry.”

When she came back, she tried a couple of bites of the bland rice, then a small serving of the actually edible version. We talked about what she might like to eat, agreed to do a grocery run together in the next few days. It was in the open now, how embarrassed she was for me to have to clean the bathroom after her—until I reminded her of my food poisoning and the cleaning chores she did. We’d both been doing online research, so we compared notes. I showed her the recipes I’d downloaded, she added some she’d found. It was hard to talk about; the only thing harder was the silence.

She ate slowly, as if wanting to make sure everything would stay down before adding anything more. She finally said, “What about you? What are you working on?”

I told her about my case (still leaving out that Dudley was awake) including ’fessing up to the boxes of NBG in my trunk.

“What are you going to do with it?” she asked.

“The one thing I’m not going to do with it is sell it. Maybe once it’s over, just give them away to anyone who wants them.”

“Good. Promise me that you’ll tell them the things I told you—little is proven and/or regulated. It could be bat shit.”

“I will give them a full and complete bat shit warning.” I took a breath and told her about the irregularities I’d stumbled over on the billing. As requested, I left out meeting with Lydia tomorrow.

After I’d finished, she didn’t reply for a moment. “That can’t be right. It’s not easy to fake records. I don’t know these people over years, but I can’t pick any who I’d consider likely to do this. Do you want me to—”

“No, don’t get involved. Don’t let on that I’ve told you about this. If it’s a mistake, it’ll be fixed. If it’s not a mistake, then it’s something you want to stay as far away from as possible. If it’s fraud, people go to jail for a long time for this kind of stuff.”

She agreed, almost relieved to be told it wasn’t her concern.

And from then it was a quiet night of reading and watching TV. She took the anti-nausea medication and managed to keep everything down. We went to bed early. I wasn’t really sleepy, but wanted to be beside her as she slept.

In the morning, she ate dry toast and a banana with her coffee. I prepared a small container of rice and one of chicken soup for her lunch. She could eat one or both depending on how she felt. She seemed a little better, more rested.

Or maybe I was just getting accustomed to how she looked now.

Then we were both out the door and on our way.

I cheated and picked up an order of bacon and eggs on my way to work. I could be a loving, caring partner, but didn’t think I could completely give up fried and grease, so I’d have to get it on the side.

Once at work, I considered calling the people I needed to call, but gave myself the excuse of the morning meeting. I didn’t want to get into a conversation only to have to cut it short.

Assuming I’d actually go.

At the penultimate moment, I decided to go hear what he had to say. Plus I could sneak in a croissant.

Parking in the French Quarter is a challenge—as Vincent’s tickets reminded me. I decided on the easy route, to pay for parking in one of the lots by the river. It was a business expense; if I couldn’t write it off to a client, I could at least deduct it from my taxes.

I arrived a good five minutes late and he wasn’t there. Annoying. I scanned the street. I was betting he was playing games; payback for him not spotting me as a private dick at the NBG sales pitch.

“You get another five minutes,” I muttered to myself. I entered the coffee shop, selected an appropriate pastry as compensation, and found an out-of-the-way table that allowed me to scan the room.

Four and a half minutes later, he was looming over my table.

“You’re late,” I greeted him.

“You were late; I’m later,” he said as he pulled up a chair. He was tall, broad shouldered, a little paunch, but that seemed more from age and good living than skimping at the gym. His hair was a reddish brown, no gray yet, but now in a sharp V at the hairline, showing his age in a way the color didn’t. He had a raffish mustache, full and droopy. His eyes were a light hazel, focused and observant. He wore expensive jeans that were meant to seem casual, with a wine-colored crewneck sweater, also expensive, also looking informal, as if he was just another tourist.

But there was nothing relaxed about his eyes.

“You were watching? Just waiting to see how long I’d stay?”

“No, they were brewing my tea and doing it on tourist-on-vacation schedule. I stepped outside to wait. Must have wandered down the block.” He placed a paper cup with a tea bag string hanging out of it on the table.

“So why are we here?” I gulped the last bite of my pastry.

“It’s a beautiful day in a beautiful part of the world. No place I’d rather be.”

“That includes only you. I have many places I’d rather be. And I live here, so I can come back at any time.” I glanced at my watch.

“I’m looking into Grant Walters, which I suspect you might be as well. Otherwise, why be at that meeting?”

“I’m not looking into Grant Walters; whatever he’s done, it doesn’t involve my clients.”

“What are you investigating?”

“You first.” I took a sip of my coffee.

“As I hinted on the phone, Walters likes to make money, especially when it’s other people’s money that he can help himself to. He has a silver tongue and a ruthless eye on the bottom line.”

“From what I can tell, Nature’s Beautiful Gift is legit.”

“Agreed. However, what you probably can’t tell is that he’s taken control of this region, promising great returns, and has a significant amount of the product out on credit. All the people under him are funneling the moola to him, and it doesn’t go any further.”

“At some point the company has to notice that.”

“At some point, yes. Just before that point, Mr. Walters will be gone, with claims that things were stolen, he was cheated, he has no money, save for the big stash in the Cayman Islands that no one can touch.”

“Interesting, but as I said, I’m not after Mr. Walters.”

“So what are you after?”

“I’m looking into something called The Cure,” I said.

“Ah, so you stumbled over that.”

That got my attention. “What do you know about it?”

He took a sip of his tea. “Was that Danish any good?”

“It was quite tasty. And it was a scone. What do you know about The Cure?”

“That if you’re interested in that, you’re interested in Mr. Walters.” He got up, heading to the counter.

I’m used to the boys playing their games. To be fair, most guys are pretty cool, even the obnoxiously straight ones, but there are a few who have to pay undue attention to my sex. I didn’t know if Rafe Gautier was one or this was just his standard shtick. “Better dicks than you have tried and failed,” I muttered. Sometimes a positive attitude can be the most obnoxious thing you can do.

He rejoined me.

“So what’d you get?” I asked.

“A cheese Danish.”

Boring tourist choice. I launched into a laundry list of the various baked goods—beignets, shoe-soles, turtles, rum cakes—that can be procured in this town, with suggestions of where to get them. As I started in on pralines, he finally held up his hands.

“Touché. You play the sport well, no wonder I thought you a wide-eyed innocent at the NBG sell-a-thon. Now I’m starving.”

I was good. I didn’t even smile. “Tell me about The Cure.”

“Walters has his hand in as many pies as he can. Nature’s BG, as I call it, is legit, The Cure stuff not so much, but by carefully mixing the two of them, he can use the BGs to make the other stuff look better than it is.”

“It’s ephedra and cheap Mexican speed.”

He looked at me. “Ah, interesting. I suspected, but haven’t gotten a sample to run it by a lab.”

“Limited resources or not willing to bother?”

“They don’t openly sell The Cure. I haven’t been able to get a sample yet.”

“So, what do you want from this?”

“To tie Walters in such a big knot that he can’t escape. He screwed over some rich people—and they’ll never get their money back, but they can afford to pay for revenge. So my job is to track him down and catch him doing something that’ll get him in big trouble. What do you want from this?”

“Small stuff. Someone is spending big bucks on the BGs, possibly The Cure, and her relations think she’s being snookered. They wanted me to find anything I can to help get her away from them.”

“Cards on the table. You got something I need and I’m backed by people who will pay for what I need. Walters isn’t going to give me his used toilet paper. No way I can get close enough to him to do shit.”

“You want me to do your heavy lifting,” I said bluntly.

He didn’t deny it. “I can make it worth your while.”

“Nothing is worth my while if I get killed.”

“He’s a swindler, not a fighter.”

“A lot of swindlers become fighters when they’re cornered.”

“True. But I like to think I’m smarter than he is. Between the two of us, we’re a lot smarter. Think about it. You’ve got your case; if you stumble over anything that I might use, I would really appreciate it if you’d toss it my way. If you want to help, I will be there every step of the way; if he chooses to fight, he’ll have to fight me.” He put his business card on the table. I noticed it had several phone numbers, including a cell. “Now, where do I get those good pralines again?”

I took his card and gave him directions. Once he was out of sight, I hurried back to my car. If Grant Walters went down, Vincent was likely to tumble behind him, which would get Aunt Marion out of his grasp. In truth, the McConkle’s weren’t paying me enough to do that kind of work, but Rafe had hinted his clients could more than make up for it. It could be dangerous—criminals with a lot to lose aren’t altruistic people—and on your garden variety day, I try to avoid danger. With Cordelia ill—in truth, struggling for her life—I wouldn’t be much good to her with a broken leg or arm. Or worse.

But if Grant Walters was behind The Cure, he was, even if not directly, the person who killed Reginald Banks, promising him a cure and giving him cheap drugs. How many more were there? Desperate people with few choices being sold the promise of a miracle by the kind of slime willing to profit off other people’s misery?

Like insurance companies who deny coverage because it saves them money? We needed what we didn’t have—health care that put people’s well-being before making money. But we didn’t have it, and instead left gaping holes for the profiteers—legal and illegal—to wring the last cent out of the ill.

By the time I got back to my office, I knew I’d take Rafe up on his offer—after checking him out to make sure he was who he said he was and had the kind of backing he claimed to have. If Walters was selling The Cure, and playing NBG on both sides, working with Rafe would solve everything in a tidy packet—preventing another Reginald Banks, getting Aunt Marion to believe more in kale for colon regularity than a pill, and putting a bad man out of action. Plus making me enough money to make up for the pro bono work for Cordelia and the bargain-basement rate I was charging the McConkles.

The only thing it didn’t neatly wrap up was the insurance mess at Cordelia’s office.