Half Past Midnight - chapters

Half Past Midnight is Book 10 of the French Quarter Mystery Series. Private investigator Wyatt Thomas is hired to find the missing son of a Louisiana state senator. Cast into the most dangerous case of his career, Wyatt must endeavor to save Mama Mulate, his longtime business partner, from a fate worse than death.

 Chapter 1

 

T

here’s no odor like the stench of death. Doctor Wayne Pompeo knew as much, the pungent smell of disinfectants accosting his senses when he unlocked the door to the autopsy room. After fifteen years as the hospital’s chief pathologist, he’d participated in hundreds of autopsies. It didn’t matter because he’d never gotten used to the putrid odor.

Jack Dugas, his autopsy technician, suffered no such problem as he switched on the overhead lights. He and Doctor Pompeo had different backgrounds, though they had lots in common.

Pompeo lived in a million-dollar house in the Garden District. Jack Dugas had a small house in the Seventh Ward. Pompeo owned a Mercedes, Dugas an old Ford. They could have passed as brothers, both short and bald. Dugas liked raucous zydeco music, while Pompeo preferred Mozart concertos. Music by Rosie Ledet or Clifton Chenier usually flooded the autopsy room during dissection.

Dugas glanced at the chart on his clipboard when Pompeo asked, “Who we got today?”

“Robert Blanchard, Jr., Male Caucasian, age twenty-three.”

Dugas laughed when Doctor Pompeo said, “Twenty-three? What the hell killed him?”

“Hell, Doc, that’s for you and me to find out,” Dugas said.

“The name sounds familiar,” Pompeo said.

“It should. His daddy’s a state senator. Ran for governor last year.”

“Too damn conservative for me,” Pompeo said. “I didn’t vote for him.”

“Didn’t know you was a socialist, Doc.”

Pompeo didn’t react to Dugas’s political comment. Instead, he crossed himself and said, “What a horrible tragedy for parents to lose a son so young.”

“You been doing this longer than me, Doc. You know you can’t look at it that way. He’s just another stiff,” Dugas said.

“Suppose so,” Pompeo said.

Dugas glanced at his watch. “We got nothing scheduled after this. It’s Friday, and I plan to go home early.”

“I got lunch at Antoine’s. Can we finish by then?”

They laughed when Dugas said, “Hell, Doc, you got the fastest scalpel in the whole damn hospital. Drink a brandy milk punch for me.”

“Will do,” Pompeo said. “Let’s get to it. I got Antoine’s on the brain.”

A body bag on a gurney waited in the hallway. Dugas wheeled it into the pathology lab and unzipped the bag to reveal the body. Using practiced leverage and balance he’d developed through years of practice he lifted the shoulders of the deceased young man and slid the body onto the dissection table he called the chopping block. Though Dr. Pompeo hated the crude synonym, he’d never mentioned his dislike for the term to Dugas.

As Dugas returned the gurney and empty body bag to the hallway, Doctor Pompeo glanced up at the overhead LED modules. Vision is critical when performing an autopsy, and modern lights are more efficient than fluorescent illumination. He wondered how they’d managed before the hospital had outfitted the dissection lab with advanced lighting. Dugas returned with pen and clipboard as Pompeo began his examination.

The pathologist adored the functional stainless steel table. Its design allowed blood and other fluids to flow away from the body, containers under the cutting surface collecting them. Soft light from the LED modules provided all the vision Doctor Pompeo needed to complete his task.

Dressed in faded blue jeans and a purple LSU tee shirt, the deceased wore a braided leather bracelet on his right wrist. He wore no shoes or socks. Pompeo cradled the man’s head and rubbed his fingers through his short brown hair.

“Cuts and contusions on his scalp. From the looks of the bruising, he might have taken a fall and hit his head.” Pompeo used an Archimedes Screw to open the man’s jaws. “Full set of adult teeth. Looks like he had a high-dollar dentist. Recent shaving cut on his right cheek. Let’s get him undressed.”

Dugas set his clipboard and pen on a cabinet and unbuttoned the shirt. When he had the body undressed, Doctor Pompeo examined the man’s neck, quickly working his way down the body.

“It appears from the bruises he was in a fight and got the worst of it,” Dugas said.

Doctor Pompeo ignored him. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said.

Dugas wasn’t convinced. “Just saying.”

“Old appendicitis scar. Normal male genitalia.”

“What about the bruises?” Dugas asked.

“Football player, most likely,” Pompeo said.

Dugas was skeptical. “What makes you think so?”

Pompeo pointed to the cadaver’s left knee. “Hasn’t been long since he had his knee scoped. He’s too muscular to be a runner and too short for a basketball player.”

“It’s April,” Dugas said. “Football season’s long gone.”

“Spring training. Don’t you keep up with sports?”

“Saints and Pelicans,” Dugas said.

Dugas grinned when Pompeo said, “They’re pros. They don’t have to practice.”

“Is that a tattoo under his left nipple?” Dugas asked.

“So strange,” Pompeo said. “Looks like an Auschwitz tattoo.”

Jack Dugas focused on the dark tattoo. “M1231,” he said. “What does it mean?”

“Don’t know,” Pompeo said.

The music track had ended, morphing into swamp rock that Pompeo detested even more than zydeco. He poured coffee from the pot on the cabinet while Dugas flipped the body and then centered it on the dissection table. When he turned away from the table, Pompeo handed Dugas a steaming coffee.

“Break time,” he said. “How’s the wife and daughter?”

“The old lady’s good. My little girl ain’t little no more. I have my fingers crossed she don’t have me a grandchild before she graduates high school.”

Pompeo grinned. “My daughter did. Sissy’s a freshman at Tulane, me and Melissa raising her baby while she’s screwing God only knows who at the sorority party of the week.”

“What’s she majoring in?” Dugas asked.

They both laughed when Pompeo said, “Partying one oh one.”

“Hell, Doc, we was young once.”

“I barely remember that far back,” Pompeo said.

After setting the half-finished cup of coffee on the cabinet, Pompeo pulled on another pair of gloves and returned his attention to the job at hand. He lifted a leg to examine the soles of the feet. The bruising on the young man’s back appeared to confirm the injuries occurred from something other than a beating.

“Forceps,” he said.

Dugas handed the instrument to Pompeo, watching as the pathologist dropped something into a metal collection pan.

“What is it?” Dugas asked.

“Tiny shards of glass in the soles of both feet,” he said.

“Damn, that must have smarted,” Dugas said. “Maybe that’s what caused him to fall.”

Pompeo was rubbing something between the thumb and index finger.

“Lacerations on both feet and there’s more than glass in the cuts,” he said.

“What?”

“Sticky brown powder,” Pompeo said.

“The glass is in the powder? What would have caused that?” Dugas asked.

“Not what; who? Hand me a tube.”

Dugas handed the pathologist a collection tube and watched as he scraped the powder from the raw wound.

“You think somebody put the ground glass in the powder?” Dugas asked.

“It didn’t get there by itself,” Pompeo said. “Another tube.”

“Same powder?” Dugas asked.

“No use speculating until the results come back from the lab,” Pompeo said.

Pompeo spent the next ten minutes cleaning out the cuts on the feet. After capping the two collection tubes, he handed them to Dugas, who labeled them with a marker and dropped them into a tray. After removing his second pair of gloves for the day, Pompeo poured another cup of coffee.

“Java’s good today,” he said. Dugas smiled when he added, “Damn obvious you didn’t make it. Want a cup?”

Dugas stripped off his gloves and said, “You don’t like my coffee, Doc?”

“You kidding? I’ve had tastier castor oil.”

“Hell, Doc, nobody drinks castor oil anymore.”

“Just saying,” Pompeo said.

Dugas took a sip of the coffee. “It is good. Don’t know who made it, but we need to hire them permanently.”

“Got that right,” Pompeo said.

“I think our deceased stepped on glass, tripped, and fell, hitting his head. The fall killed him,” Dugas said.

“The bruising on his head and face aren’t severe,” Pompeo said. “Something else killed him.”

“Maybe he had a heart attack when he hit his head,” Dugas said.

“The brown powder wasn’t something someone dropped and then forgot to clean off the floor.”

“Then what is it?” Dugas asked.

“Voodoo powder,” Pompeo said.

“Did you learn that in med school?” Pompeo wasn’t smiling. “Hell, Doc, you don’t believe in voodoo?”

“I’ve seen a few things I can’t explain,” Pompeo said.

“Everyone in New Orleans has. But voodoo powder?”

“I had a black nanny growing up. Her name was Mirlande Casseus, from Haiti,” Pompeo said. “She always threatened to turn me into a toad when I misbehaved. She carried a vial of brown powder in her purse. Voodoo powder. Same thing I swabbed out of the cuts on the cadaver’s feet.”

Dugas rolled his eyes and turned away so Doctor Pompeo couldn’t see the smirk on his face. The swamp rock tape had ended, and the autopsy tech loaded a Mozart rendition.

Pompeo smiled when Dugas said, “Hell, Doc, I should have brought a Congo Square drumming session.”

“Mozart will do,” Pompeo said.

“Say, Doc, you’re joking about this voodoo thing, aren’t you?”

“I’m dead serious. Anything Mirlande didn’t like had a way of disappearing,” Pompeo said. “My ferret, for one.”

“You had a ferret?”

“Mirlande made it disappear.”

“You mean like a magician?”

“The woman never liked me, and the feeling was mutual. She was pissed off at me one day for something or other. When she pointed her finger at Jacques, he went “poof” and disappeared.”

“Just like that?”

“Right before my eyes.”

“Maybe she hid him under her shirt.”

“She was on the other side of the room,” Pompeo said. “I searched everywhere. My ferret was permanently gone. Jacque wasn’t the first nor the last thing of mine she made disappear.”

“Hell, Doc, I believe I’d have said something to my parents and had her fired,” Dugas said.

“I did. My daddy whipped me for my trouble.”

“He didn’t believe you?”

“Though I never caught them in the act, I’ve always suspected Dad and Mirlande were having an affair.”

“Your mom didn’t know it?”

“Maybe, though, it wouldn’t have mattered. Mirlande had a spell on everyone in the family. My younger sister adored her.”

“I never knew you had a sister,” Dugas said. “What’s she do?”

“Her name is Pearl,” Pompeo said. “Pearl Pompeo. Recognize the name?”

“Surely you don’t mean Pearl Pompeo, the president of Southern United Hospital and the boss of both of us,” Dugas said.

“Exactly who I mean,” Pompeo said. “Little sister Pearl is my boss.”

“Damn, Doc, are you trying to scare me or just pulling my leg,” Dugas said.

“Mirlande watched me once while my parents were away. She put something in my orange juice that immobilized me for almost eight hours. It was the most frightening experience I’ve ever had. Pearl adored Mirlande.”

“Damn!” Dugas said.

“I could hear and see just fine, though I couldn’t utter a sound or move a muscle. Mirlande left me that way, not giving me an antidote until just before my parents returned home.”

“Double damn!” Dugas said. “What did you do about it?”

“Nothing,” Pompeo said. “Mirlande told me if I ever breathed a word to anyone about what she had done, she’d do it again and leave me that way.”

“Hope she never finds out you told me,” Dugas said.

Doctor Pompeo cracked a smile. “She’s probably dead. At least, I hope so. Let’s move on, or I will miss my lunch at Antoine’s, and you won’t be going home early. Turn over the body, and let’s get to cutting.”

“My favorite part,” Dugas said.

Dugas flipped the body and placed a dissection block under the back of the cadaver to facilitate blood flow and fluids. After arranging the body how he wanted, he handed Doctor Pompeo a scalpel. Pompeo began the incision at the right shoulder. He didn’t get very far.

When the scalpel bit into flesh, the cadaver’s eyes opened. Rising into a sitting position, the suddenly alive body grasped Pompeo by the neck, lifting the diminutive man into the air. A muffled scream died in Pompeo’s throat as he clutched his heart and crumpled to the floor. 

 

Chapter 2

 

E

early morning sun had begun filtering through the front window of Bertram Picou’s French Quarter bar on Chartres Street as I exited my upstairs apartment. The first person I saw was Tony Nicosia, a former N.O.P.D. homicide detective talking on his cell phone. He didn’t notice my arrival until I touched his shoulder.

“Was wondering if you were going to sleep all day,” he said.

I returned his smile, “It’s not even seven yet.”

“I been up since five,” he said.

“Lil, kick you out of bed?”

My bantering words didn’t offend him. “Hell, Cowboy, at least I got a wife to kick me out.”

“Lil’s a sweetheart,” I said. “If I could find a woman like her, I’d have remarried years ago.”

Even though the hour was early, Tony was nursing a tall scotch. He hadn’t bothered removing the ubiquitous straw fedora he favored to cover his thinning hair. Fat Tony had been his nickname when a lieutenant in the N.O.P.D. Though still stout, he’d lost fifty pounds and had managed to keep it off. The moniker no longer fits like a pair of Tony’s old pants. Bertram Picou, the bartender, and my landlord joined us.

“It ain’t Cowboy’s fault he ain't married. He so needy, no woman wants to take on the task,” he said.

“You’re one to talk,” I said. “At least I once was married.”

“Bartending’s a hard life,” he said.

“You’re so set in your ways. The only female that will ever put up with you is Lady.”

Hearing her name, Lady, Bertram’s beautiful collie and constant companion, began thumping the oiled hardwood floor behind the bar with her long tail.

“Don’t know why I even put up with you,” Bertram said.

“You make out like a bandit,” I said. “I’m the only person in New Orleans who gets charged four bucks for a glass of lemonade.”

“Knock it off,” Tony said. “You two sound like an old married couple.”

Tony’s comment rendered Bertram and me speechless.

“Hitting below the belt, aren’t you?” Bertram finally said.

“But true,” Tony said. “Charge Cowboy double for his lemonade and put it on my tab. I got business to discuss with him.”

Bertram’s eyes lit up. “Now you’re talking,” he said.

“Bring our drinks to Wyatt’s table,” Tony said. “You haven’t changed these barstools since I’ve been drinking here. They’re so uncomfortable my butt’s rebelling.”

“New furniture costs money,” Tony said.

Tony didn’t stop walking to comment. Instead, he gave Bertram a backward wave.

“Tell it to my sore butt.”

Bertram smiled as he said under his breath, “Can’t please everybody.”

I had a booth in the back for meeting new clients and hearing their problems. It wasn’t free. Never missing a way to earn a buck, Bertram added an extra hundred dollars a month to the rent on my upstairs apartment. It's just one of the reasons Bertram was rich, and I wasn’t. Tony slid into the booth beside me.

“You were a bit harsh on the Cajun bartender,” I said.

“With the money he charges for drinks, he could at least afford comfortable furniture.”

“Those stools are antiques,” I said.

“Got that right,” Tony said.

“This bar is on the National Register. Bertram has to get permission to change anything about it.”

“Even the padding on the stools?”

“Anything,” I said.

Bertram brought our drinks, Tony remaining silent until he’d walked away.

“You working?” he asked.

“Between jobs,” I said.

I hadn’t worked in forty-five days, and my meager bank account was rapidly shrinking.

“I have something for us. You interested?”

I was more than interested. “You bet. What’s cooking?”

Instead of answering my question, he said, “Can you leave the city for a while?”

“Depends,” I said.

“On what?”

“Where to, and how long is a while?”

“Not far,” he said. “The North Shore. I can’t tell you for how long because I don’t know?”

The North Shore is the area across Lake Pontchartrain from New Orleans and includes the towns of Slidell, Covington, and Mandeville. The towns featured good restaurants, great neighborhoods, and a slower pace of life. Many people who work in New Orleans commute to and from the bedroom communities across the lake.

“My cat doesn’t like it when I don’t feed her.”

“Hell, Cowboy, none of us do. Take the cat with you.”

“Whose going to care for her while I’m working?”

“Trust me. You and your kitty have nothing to worry about,” Tony said.

“What will I be doing?”

“Can’t tell you?”

“Is it illegal?”

“It’s legal,” he said.

“Dangerous?”

Tony took a drink of his scotch before answering.

“Maybe,” he said.

“How dangerous?”

“You asking questions I can’t answer.”

“Why the secrecy?”

“Orders. Interested?”

“How much does this gig pay?”

Tony counted out ten hundred dollar bills on the table.

“Just a taste of what you’ll earn,” he said.

Tony knew he had me when I smiled and reached for the cash.

“When do we start?” I asked.

“Right now. Get the cat.”

“I’ll have to pack some things,” I said.

“No, you don’t. Someone will provide everything you need.”

Sliding out of the booth, I headed upstairs to get my cat Kisses while Tony tabbed us out with Bertram.

We were soon on the Causeway, the longest water-crossing bridge in the world. The weather was beautiful, with no clouds and several distant sailboats. The top of Tony’s red convertible was down, and Kisses was asleep in her picnic basket converted to a cat carrier. Tony hadn’t spoken since we’d left Bertram’s.

“No one’s here but you and me,” I said. “Can you at least tell me where we’re going?”

“Frankie Castellano’s horse farm north of Covington. He woke me this morning at five and said he needed to see me. For a retainer, he wired money into my bank account. He asked me to bring you along.”

“What if I were busy?”

“Frankie don’t take no for an answer. I’d have had to kidnap you.”

Tony didn’t sound as if he was kidding.

“If he needs a private dick for something, you’re as good as they come.”

Tony glanced up at a flock of seagulls flying overhead.

“I got no clue what that man is thinking. If I did, I’d be as rich as he is instead of working P.I. cases until I drop dead.”

“You know you love it,” I said. “You’d be working cases even if you had all the money in the world.”

“Maybe,” he said. “I wouldn’t be driving the Causeway. I can tell you that.”

“Longest bridge in the world,” I said. “At least over water.”

“Yeah, well, no one ever climbs Mount Everest twice. Once you’ve done it, driving the Causeway’s nothing more than a pain in the ass.”

“Been a while since I’ve been to the North Shore,” I said.

“Growing fast, though, it still looks pretty much the same,” Tony said.

The Causeway, as Tony had said, dragged on forever. He’d grown silent as the miles passed. Easing against the comfortable bucket seat, I closed my eyes, enjoying the sunshine and salty breeze. I awoke when Tony slowed to exit the Causeway.

Frankie Castellano’s horse farm was north of Covington, highlighted by pine trees and rolling hills. We passed a sign on the highway that said Murky Bayou Farms, home of thoroughbred champions.

The front gate was majestic, a brick-lined road leading toward a house in the distance, acres of manicured grass, beautiful horses, regal barns, and stalls as far as the eye could see.

The scenic road led us to a sprawling, single-storied structure that seemed like a cross between a Texas ranch house and a Louisiana plantation home. A man with a shotgun in his lap sitting on the porch informed us this wasn’t the home of the local Baptist preacher. Frankie Castellano came outside as we approached the porch.

“No need to check I.D.s, Gus. I know these two.”

Unlike the pin-striped suit and polished brogans Frankie wore the last time I’d seen him, he seemed relaxed in a colorful Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts exposing his bony knees. One thing hadn’t changed: the tumbler of scotch in his hand.

“Quite a spread,” I said as Frankie pumped my hand.

“The best Louisiana thoroughbreds in the world,” Frankie said. “How you doing, Wyatt?”

“Couldn’t be better,” I said.

“Thanks for coming.”

“No problem. Hope you don’t mind that I brought my cat.”

Frankie took the picnic basket from me and handed it to the man with the shotgun.

“Take this pretty kitty to Toni, will you, Gus?”

“Her name is Kisses,” I said.

Gus nodded as he disappeared around the corner.

Frankie gave Tony’s shoulder a friendly slap. Except for his casual clothes, he’d changed little, tall and regal-looking even in his shorts, bare legs, and expensive sandals. His thinning hair was still dark, though it had grown longer, framing his bulldog face that made him look fierce even when he was smiling.

“Come in,” he said. “I’ll get us something to drink.”

The place was stately, with expensive rugs covering the floors finished in marble and polished hardwood. Paintings of champion horses decorated the walls, and slow-moving ceiling fans barely rustled the room’s open curtains.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Frankie,” I said. “This place is gorgeous.”

“Josie found it for me. Adele loves it.”

Josie was Frankie’s daughter and the mother of his grandson Jojo. Adele was his wife and mother of Toni, who was now looking after my cat.

“How they doing?” Tony asked.

“Well. Jojo and Josie are in town shopping with Adele. They’ll be back before we finish our business. You’ll see them.”

From speakers hidden somewhere in the walls, light jazz began to emanate. Frankie poured another scotch for himself and one for Tony. He and Tony tapped tumblers and sat on an oversized leather couch as Gus appeared with a pitcher of lemonade for me.

“Cheers,” Frankie said.

I’d known Adele, Frankie’s wife, for years. She was arguably the best Italian cook in Louisiana. It didn’t matter because Frankie thought she was. She and her father, Pancho, and daughter, Toni had run the Via Vittorio Veneto in Metairie for years. Adele and I’d met Frankie the same night when he stopped by to sample the fare. Romance had ensued.

That night, someone had been with me: Eddie Toledo, my best friend, and valedictorian of his law class at the University of Virginia. He was the assistant Federal D.A. in New Orleans when I’d first met him. He was also the best lawyer I’d ever known. As intelligent and talented as Eddie was, he had a fatal flaw: he’d never known a woman he didn’t lust after and couldn’t keep his pecker in his pants.

Eddie and I had met Frankie’s daughter, Josie, at a horse race at Fair Grounds in New Orleans. Josie looked so much like the former love of my life that her appearance caught me by surprise. Though I’d never had any romantic relationship with Josie, Eddie had.

Eddie and Josie’s relationship had progressed to the point where they’d gotten engaged. Frankie was on cloud nine, anticipating Eddie becoming his consigliere. It never happened, nor did the marriage between Josie and Eddie.

Unable to consummate a permanent relationship, Eddie spoiled his engagement when he had an affair with another woman. Frankie and Adele loved Eddie as much as Josie did. Frankie gave Eddie a second chance by making him a part-owner of a restaurant and casino. I’d only seen Eddie once since he’d moved.

I forgot about Eddie when Frankie said, “I got a job. Nothing big. You interested?” 

Chapter 3

A

fter Frankie had put me on the spot, he and Tony waited for my answer.

“Why are you grinning?” Frankie asked.

“Good thing you aren’t a salesman,” I said. “You’d starve to death.”

“I didn’t want you going into anything without knowing the ramifications.”

“I need the work. Tell me what the job entails, and let me decide if it’s too dangerous to risk.”

Frankie’s smile returned. “You’re right about my sales ability. Adele says I’m too blunt.”

“I like blunt,” I said. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

Frankie stirred his drink with his finger. “You know what omerta is?”

“Code of secrecy,” I said.

“This is a secret. You can never tell anyone about this meeting even if you don’t take the job. Understood?”

“Though disbarred, the attorney-client privilege is still the rule I live by.”

“That’s what Tony told me,” Frankie said. “There’s someone I want you to meet. If you take the job, you’ll work through me, though he will call the shots. What’s your political persuasion?”

“I have none,” I said.

“Sure about that?”

“In my line of work, it’s best to be apolitical.”

Frankie grinned. “Same goes for me. I can’t afford to piss off someone in a position of power to put me in jail.”

I tried not to smile. Frankie didn’t mind as he took Tony’s empty tumbler and returned to the wet bar to refresh their drinks. Instead of two scotches, he mixed three. I understood why when someone appeared from down the hallway. I recognized him even before Frankie made introductions.

“Gentlemen,” Frankie said. “This is Robert Blanchard.”

“Don’t get up,” the man said.

Blanchard was a state senator with higher political aspirations. He’d run for governor in the last election, narrowly losing to the popular incumbent. As the grandson of a former governor, I was well aware of the games public servants must play to survive life in office.

Blanchard was forty-something with brown hair touched up to hide any gray around the edges. His short-sleeved sports shirt and khakis made him look younger than in a suit and tie. Though it looked forced, he was smiling as he sipped his scotch.

Tony and I nodded when he said, “You may have heard my wife and I recently lost our son. The papers said the cause of death was a drug overdose. That’s a lie propagated by my political opponents.”

“You want us to find out who’s spreading the lies?” Tony asked.

“Anyone into social media knows the answer,” Blanchard said. “I have reason to believe my son is still alive, and I want you to find him for me.”

“Maybe you better explain,” Tony said.

Blanchard’s smile had disappeared. He drew a deep breath and then sipped his scotch.

“Bobby was the starting quarterback at L.S.U.”

“Now I remember,” Tony said. “I didn’t make the connection.”

“Though Bobby had a hell of an arm, he was probably too short to succeed in the pros. The rumor was I’d paid to get him on the team.”

“No one who has seen him play would believe that,” Tony said.

“You’d think,” Blanchard said. “Football wasn’t Bobby’s main passion. He majored in journalism as a straight-A student. He told me he was working on a story involving certain things I’d find hard to believe.”

Tony glanced up from his note-taking. “Such as?”

“He never had the chance to explain. He only said whatever or whoever he was dealing with was dangerous, and he didn’t want me or his mother hurt.”

“Not much to go on,” Tony said.

“I had nowhere else to turn, so I talked to Frankie about it,” Blanchard said.

Senator Blanchard’s admission made me wonder what connection a state politician needed to have with the Don of the Bayou. I kept my mouth shut and continued listening.

“Tell us why you think your son is alive,” Tony said.

“Bobby was only twenty-three and in perfect health. I requested an autopsy to determine the cause of death.”

“Understandable,” Tony said.

“The medical examiner had a heart attack and died during the procedure.”

“Damn!” Tony said.

“It’s what caused the unnerving heart attack,” Blanchard said. “When the medical examiner made the first cut, Bobby sat straight up and grabbed him. The autopsy tech jumped back, tripped, and banged his head on the floor. When he recovered, he found the medical examiner dead and Bobby missing.”

“Why wasn’t any of this in the news?” Tony asked.

Blanchard sat his drink on the coffee table. “I’ve used all my political connections to suppress the story.”

“Because?” Tony said.

“I believe Bobby is in grave danger. I don’t want to jeopardize him if he’s still alive.”

“We’re here to help you,” I said. “Please share your plan with us.”

Robert Blanchard fished in his pocket, removed a keychain with a single key attached, and handed it to me.

“We saw him shortly before authorities found his body. This keychain fell out of his pocket while sitting on the couch. Alice, my wife, and Bobby’s mother found it the next day.”

The tag on the keychain said Bell House Bed and Breakfast, Coffee Street, C. 1884, Mandeville, Louisiana, Room 1.

“What am I supposed to make of this?” I asked.

“Bobby stayed there for some reason,” Blanchard said. “It’s the only clue I have.”

“It’s not where he lived?” Tony asked.

“He had an apartment on Conti in the French Quarter. I don’t know what he was doing in Mandeville. I suspect it had something to do with his story.”

When Senator Blanchard stopped talking, Tony said, “That’s it?”

I could tell from Blanchard’s expression he didn’t like the tone of Tony’s question. After twenty-five years as an N.O.P.D. homicide detective, Tony had developed an in-your-face demeanor that scared people half to death and often prompted them to blurt the truth. His line of questioning didn’t work well with prospective clients, and I’d counseled him on more than one occasion to moderate his technique.

“I already told you it’s all I have,” Blanchard huffed.

Seeing our potentially lucrative assignment fading away into the sunset, I interceded.

“You’ll have to forgive my partner’s bedside manner. He sometimes forgets he’s no longer an N.O.P.D. homicide detective. He means no harm and gets results like no other detective in the city.”

“I can attest to that,” Frankie said.

“Sorry if I offended you,” Tony said.

Blanchard lowered his head and put his hand over his eyes. When he moved his hand away, his smile had returned.

“My fault,” he said. “I’m distraught and having a hard time functioning. Still, a politician can’t afford to be thin-skinned.”

When Blanchard glanced at his watch, Frankie put his arm around his shoulder and pointed him toward the door.

“These boys will handle your problem. Go home, forget about it, and enjoy the rest of your day. We’ll find Bobby and return him to you.”

We had almost nothing to go on, and I wondered how successful Tony and I would be as we watched Robert Blanchard walk away down the hall.

“What now?” I asked.

“You in or out?” Frankie said.

“In,” I said. “I’m too broke to be out.”

“Good,” Frankie said. “You got the money Tony give you. Here’s another thousand to tide you over. I got business in town. Adele will be home shortly. She knows the story and will take it from here. Until then, help yourselves to the bar.”

Tony was mixing another scotch in a go-cup when I said, “Too bad I don’t drink anymore.”

“Quit bitching, Cowboy. Sobriety is your choice, not mine.”

“We don’t have much to go on,” I said.

“If it was easy, someone else would earn the big bucks. I’m heading back to town to question the autopsy tech. I’ll check in when I’m on to something.”

“How will I know?” I asked.

Tony handed me a key. “Frankie rented a post office box in Covington for me. If I have something or need to see you, I’ll leave a letter in the box for you. Check it every couple of days. I left a pay-as-you-go cell phone for you to call me.”

Tony was naturally suspicious and gave me a backward wave as he walked out the door. I reclined on the comfortable couch, resting my head on a soft cushion and listening to the piped-in music until someone I barely recognized interrupted.

“Toni, is that you?” I said.

The young woman smiled and hugged me. “It’s me. Have I changed that much?”

She had. The last time I’d seen Adele’s daughter, Toni Bergamo, she’d had long black hair and ample curves. Her hair was now short and ash blond. Cutoff jeans highlighted her tan and toned legs. Her jean shorts and sleeveless tee shirt revealed she was no longer the curvy woman I remembered. She’d probably lost thirty pounds, though her muscled body was anything but emaciated. She could see me staring and did a pirouette for me.

“You like?” she asked.

“You were always gorgeous,” I said. “Now, you look as if you could run a marathon.”

“I’m exercising horses for Frankie and training to be a jockey,” she said. “I tended to sample the cannoli when I worked at Via Vittorio Veneto for Mom and Gramps.”

“You look great. You must love it here,” I said.

“It’s a dream come true. I’ve always loved animals, and now have a place to keep them. There’s an old ranch house on the property. My two dogs and three kitties love the house and yard. Your baby likes it so much you may have difficulty convincing her to leave.”

“I was worried about her,” I said. “How’s your mom doing?”

“In heaven since she met Frankie. She loves it here as much as I do.”

“And Pancho?”

“Gramps moved in when they sold the restaurant in Metairie. He never got used to it here and was moping around, everyone worrying about him until Frankie bought him a little hole-in-the-wall café in Covington. Mom and Josie redecorated it. Pancho lives in a small apartment above the café, and now he’s over the moon.”

“Wonderful,” I said.

“Frankie wants me to alter your appearance,” Toni said. “You ready?”

“No one knows who I am on this side of the lake,” I said.

“Frankie doesn’t take chances.”

Toni grabbed my hand, nudged me off the couch, and led me to a chair in the kitchen. After putting a barber’s apron on me, she buzz-cut my hair. I raked my hand through what hair she’d left as she held up a mirror for me to see.

“What now?” I asked.

“Ever been a blond?” she asked.

“Nope,” I said.

Toni led me to the sink and bent my neck over it.

“I’m not bleaching you, just adding enough dye to turn your hair from dark brown to ash blond, like mine.”

I didn't recognize myself when she held up the mirror this time.

“I’ve never had hair this short, even as a kid.”

“You like it?” she asked.

“No. It feels like I’m looking at a stranger in the mirror.”

“We’re not done yet. There’s a change of clothes in the bathroom down the hall. Put them on.”

Dressed in khaki shorts, a red-flowered Hawaiian shirt, and sandals with no socks, I looked like a tourist when I returned to the kitchen. Toni fitted me with a pair of granny glasses and a Panama hat. When I looked in the mirror, I looked at someone I didn’t know.

“Well?” I asked,

“Perfect,” Toni said. “Even your mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

“You think?”

“We’ll soon find out,” she said. “Mom and Josie just drove up. Keep the hat on and stand by the bar. Mix a tonic in a glass so you don’t look like a teetotaler.”

Toni cleared away her clippers, dye, and barber’s apron as I added ice and tonic water to a tumbler. I stood at the wet bar, sipping the tonic, when Josie and Adele came through the front door.

Adele had put on a few extra pounds since I’d last seen her. She looked enough like Toni to pass for her older sister, except her hair was still dark, and she hadn’t lost any of her curves.

Josie’s beauty always made me feel uncomfortable. She looked enough like my former girlfriend Desire that I felt uneasy every time I saw her and didn’t know how to act since Eddie had jilted her.

Josie and Adele’s black dresses draped to their calves. They were in an animated discussion about a designer purse Josie had just bought and didn’t look up until they’d dumped their shopping bags on the kitchen table adjoining the living area. Their smiles disappeared when they saw me standing at the wet bar.

“So sorry, Toni. We didn’t realize you had company,” Adele said.

Neither Toni nor I spoke. Adele almost fainted when she walked over to introduce herself, and I hugged her.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.