Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller (12 page)

“Cocktails are being served in the solarium,” the butler said, and motioned for them to follow.

They passed through a large salon, then a dining room with mural-covered walls. Doors were almost hidden, as the murals were painted over them also, and crystal doorknobs were barely visible. The butler opened a door and led them to the solarium. It was a glass-paneled pavilion and the largest room yet, verdant with plant life. There were potted palms of numerous varieties and hanging planters filled with orchids. White rattan furniture was placed throughout. The room was filled with the scent of blooming flowers. The Dumonts stood in a far corner, looking out toward their massive backyard, where dancing lights played on a huge fountain. They turned when their
guests were announced by the butler. Ray Dumont held a martini glass in his right hand, and his left was slipped into the patch pocket of his black tuxedo jacket, thumb overhanging. Elise Dumont sipped through lips frozen in a half-smile. Her diamonds sparkled from fifty feet away as if a spotlight had been beamed at her for just that purpose. Ray Dumont put his left index finger to his lips and motioned for them to come forward. His greeting was whispered. “Welcome. There’s a raccoon at the fountain. Look.”

It was hard to tell just what the creature was doing—washing, preening, or drinking—but it stood on the ledge of the fountain in a proprietary manner, either oblivious to or unconcerned with the fact that it was so visible. A light rain had just begun, and the grounds were a glistening wonderland with uplights strategically placed at the trunks of ancient magnolias, casting filtered beams of blue, pink, and purple on the green canopy. It looked like a Disney animation. The raccoon raised its masked head, looked directly at the two couples, then scampered away. Ray continued to stare in wonder as Elise spoke.

“He’s a nature nut. He’d have an African safari out there if the city would allow it. Hi, I’m Elise. My, you two are a striking couple.”

A more cordial beginning to an evening could not have been imagined. Prepared for an icy formality to match the dress code, Jock and Malika were immediately won over by their hosts’ easy manner. When Malika hesitated at the
offer of a vodka martini from the ready-to-serve premixed pitcher, Elise didn’t miss a beat. “Hon, you look more like the champagne type.” She motioned to the butler, and before you could say Cristal Brut, Malika was holding a Baccarat flute.

“Judge Boucher is our most recently appointed federal judge,” Ray said to his wife, a fact obviously intended to draw a respectful response.

“And an expert in self-defense,” Elise said. “I read about your little sidewalk altercation. I bet our street scum will think twice before tangling with you again, Judge. I hope you’re as decisive with them in the courtroom.”

“I’m not trying cases at the moment,” Boucher said, his discomfort obvious.

“Why not, for heaven’s sake?” said Elise. “A man who puts criminals in their place as effectively as you did? We need more like you.”

“I’m sure the judge doesn’t want to talk about his professional duties,” Ray Dumont said.

“I don’t mind,” Boucher said. “I’m restricted to administrative matters temporarily.”

Dumont turned to Malika and changed the subject. “That’s such a pretty name. Where are you from?”

Malika told them she’d been born in Mumbai and schooled in London and New England. Her unique multinational background became the focus of the cocktail conversation, till the butler informed them that dinner
was ready. When all were seated, Ray took charge, first stating that everything on their plates was locally produced: homegrown vegetables, gulf seafood, and a saddleback of venison, the deer shot on one of his properties. The wines had both domestic and international provenance; Dumont was an oenophile, delighting in his knowledge. Each selection had been chosen with care, and he explained the reason for each choice. Far from pompous, his discourse added an element of enjoyment to the meal and expanded the knowledge of his appreciative guests. Even the liqueurs he offered after dessert were selected with purpose. When the cordial glasses were served, he asked Boucher, “Would you like to see that campaign desk I bought at Rau’s? I haven’t confirmed it yet, but I might have an historical piece.”

“I’d love to see it.”

The gentlemen left the ladies involved in a conversation of their own.

Dumont’s study was on the ground floor, and though it did not look onto the backyard, the side view was well landscaped and equally attractive. There was an alcove off the study, a sitting area where the desk was placed. He turned on a light, and they examined the piece.

“Did you know,” Dumont began, “that from 1810 to 1840, New Orleans had more free black craftsmen than any other city in the United States? An artisan by the name of Jean Rousseau had the most apprentice contracts with freemen of color. This piece might be one of his earliest. But
look here.” Dumont pulled out the central drawer. On the inside of the drawer was carved something barely legible. “I looked at it under black light. It says ‘Capt. W.S. U.S.A. 1811.’ In 1811, Winfield Scott served as a captain under General Wade Hampton. Right here in New Orleans. Winfield Scott. He became the greatest general of his age, maybe better than Napoleon. In March 1847, with a force of eighty-five hundred men, he landed at Veracruz, then marched to capture Mexico City, the largest capital in the Western world at the time. He later governed the country, and his leadership was exemplary. I can’t help but think that if we had someone like him now . . .” He let the thought dangle. “Anyway, if this desk was his . . .”

“You’d have a national treasure,” Boucher said, excited at the possibility and sorry that he had passed it by.

“It’s a guess at this point,” Dumont said. “But just the thought: the desk that might have belonged to General Winfield Scott.”

The two men stood in silence. Dumont put a hand on Boucher’s shoulder. “Judge, may I ask you a personal question?” Boucher nodded. “I heard frustration in your voice earlier over your current assignments. Hypothetically, if you were to leave the bench, what would you do?”

“Go back to practicing law, I guess. Though the thought of the years involved in building a practice doesn’t hold much appeal for me.”

Dumont stroked his chin. “The general counsel of
Dumont Industries is nearing retirement. I’ll be looking for a replacement. Would that appeal to you? It’s as diverse a workload as most law firms, I can guarantee you that. It would be far better than the administrative penance you are now forced to endure.”

“It’s an interesting proposition.”

“Think about it. Shall we rejoin the ladies? Malika is absolutely stunning. I can tell Elise likes her too, and that’s not an everyday occurrence. I do hope we’ll be able to spend more time together, the four of us.”

“I’m sure we’d enjoy that.”

They arrived back at the dining table.

“Ray, guess what?” Elise said. “Malika has never been to a casino. Never. We’ve got to take them to the showboat.”

“That’s a great idea,” Ray said. “How about one night next week?”

“I’ve got a lot of work—” Boucher said.

“Oh, come on. We’ll have an early dinner, catch the show, and lose a little money in any way you choose. You’ve got to lose, though; in this economy, we’re having a hard time keeping the old tub afloat. Set yourself a limit, that’s what I do, and when it’s gone, the evening is over, and we’ve all had a good time. What do you say?”

“Monday’s fine with me.” Boucher looked at Malika. She nodded.

“Monday it is, then. We’ll pick you up. The party starts in our limo.”

“No,” Jock said. “If you’re coming to my home, we’ll have drinks there before going out. Malika and I insist.”

“That’s fine too.”

There was a shared exuberance, the high point of the evening having just been reached. Ray called for the driver, and they said good-byes at the door. The rain had stopped.

“See you Monday,” the Dumonts said as their guests bundled themselves into the limousine. They waved as the car pulled away from the house, then they stepped inside, closing the door behind them.

“How’d we do?” Elise asked.

“Brilliant. We worked our magic.”

“Was it worth it? I mean, he’s just another judge.”

“Maybe more than that,” Ray said. “He might leave the bench; he’s not happy there. A former federal judge with his contacts? I could always use a man like that.”

•  •  •

They were silent on the short drive home, but Malika spoke the instant they entered the house. “I was confused by what you said when we were introduced. What was all that about?”

“Something happened the night I returned from Washington. We’ll talk about it later. What did you two discuss?”

“Ayurvedic medicine and transcendental meditation,” Malika said, walking away from him toward the bedroom.
“She assumed I knew all about them because I was born in India.”

“Do you?” He locked the front door and followed her.

“Jock, my father is a doctor of nuclear medicine. I tried to be polite.”

“You didn’t like her.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I just thought they were trying too hard. Didn’t you think it was all a bit much?”

“I thought they were acting like rich folks do.”

“You’re not exactly poor. You don’t act like that.”

“I’m not in their league, not by a long shot.”

“I think they’re too concerned with wealth. For some people, there’s never enough. But I liked them fine. I’ll be happy to spend time with them, if you want.”

Jock got into bed and turned out the light. In the dark, Malika said, “She said something curious to me.”

“Hmmm?”

“She said to excuse her husband if he drinks too much. It’s the way he compensates for the loss of his son.”

“That’s strange,” Jock said in the darkness. “He said exactly the same thing to me about her.”

“Let’s go to sleep.”

•  •  •

Next morning Jock fixed a pot of coffee and sat at the kitchen table while Malika showered. The sun was rising over the former slave quarters at the rear of the property. Boucher stared
at the second-story banister, recently repaired. He had crashed through it, taking two murderers intent on killing him to their well-deserved deaths only a few months ago. He thought of the street criminal, now dead, against whom he had defended himself. He thought of the man they had fished from the gulf. He had not even thought to ask his name. Then there was the crippled father whose son was dead, the circumstances curious. He poured himself a cup of coffee and noticed his hand was shaking.

“Good morning,” Malika said. She sat down and put her hand on his arm. “If you want to talk, I’m ready, Jock.”

As if he’d been given a reprieve by a higher power, his landline rang. He got up to answer the retro kitchen wall phone with its spiral cord.

“This is Fitch. I didn’t want to bother you, but I thought you should know this. I had a friend do some research for me. There are hundreds of active offshore rigs in the gulf and many others shut down, due to lack of production or destruction by Katrina or Rita. There are lots of offshore service vessels, but Dumont is the big player. He’s got a lock on servicing the deep-water rigs.”

“If that’s what the ship we saw is being used for, then it’s perfectly legitimate.”

“Guess so. Something’s still bugging me, though. Anyway, sorry to interrupt, I know you’ve got company.”

“Is anything being done concerning that young man whose father we met?”

“I’m sorry. Jock, I’m shut out on that one.”

“I had dinner with the Dumonts last night, and we’re going to their riverboat casino with them tomorrow evening.”

“No shit. You be careful around that guy.”

“I will. Thanks for calling, Fitch.” He hung up the phone. “Malika, there’s something I try to do on Sundays. I’d like to have you join me.”

“What’s that?”

“I drive around storm-damaged neighborhoods. Sometimes I pick up trash and haul it off. Sometimes I see somebody trying to patch together what they can, and I try to help. I never have a grand plan, just drive out, do a little something, drive back. That’s all.”

“I’m ready when you are,” she said.

Driving through St. Barnard Parish, they spotted a group of volunteers rebuilding homes. Jock asked if they could join in, and they were graciously welcomed. At the end of a satisfying afternoon, he wrote them a check for their charitable efforts.

“That was rewarding,” Malika said on their drive home. “Jock, folks in this town are certainly resilient.”

“I have my own word for the people of New Orleans.”

“What’s that?”

“Indomitable.”

B
OUCHER GOT TO HIS
office early Monday morning. There were new boxes of files inside his office, stacked high against the wall. Mildred was at her desk.

“They say be careful what you pray for,” she said. “I’m afraid my prayers have been answered.”

“I’m glad the good Lord’s taken a liking to you. You can put in a word for me.”

He hurried through documents, then made his exit for his previously scheduled appointment. He was on time. The administrator wasn’t. Boucher was fuming when the man arrived half an hour late, and it only got worse. When the meeting was concluded, his blood pressure was off the charts. He feared for his driving and pulled off the road into the empty parking lot of a restaurant not yet open for business. He pulled out his cell phone and punched numbers.

“Fitch, I have to talk to somebody, and right now that somebody is you.”

“I would say ‘be still my beating heart,’ but it sounds like you’re just pissed off at something.”

“Boy, you’ve got that right. It’s a travesty. That guy administering the funds from the oil spill paid himself millions in his first few months on the job, and he hired his own law firm, and they’re getting paid millions more. Guess what else? He lost a computer with the applications and personal data, including Social Security numbers, of thousands of claimants.”

“You’re not behind the wheel at the moment, are you?”

“No. I pulled into an empty parking lot.”

“Good. Now get out and lean against the car. Lift up your head and shout, ‘I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet,’ as loud as you can, as many times as you can in a single breath.”