Ill Will (13 page)

I was almost there when I decided that the best defense was a good offense. Maybe it was time I had a talk with Carl Prejean to inform him of how misguided his actions were. And if that didn’t work, kick him in the balls as well.

Perhaps a long shot, but I was guessing he might be rebuilding his burned house. I pulled to the side of the road—keeping my engine running, just in case—to rifle through the various notebooks in the backseat of my car. I was pretty sure I’d jotted his address there.

Of course he lived in one of the pretentious houses over by the lake. This is a newer section of New Orleans compared to the older enclaves of wealth like the Garden District. The area adjacent to the lake was land reclaimed in the early 1900s. Because of this, it was somewhat higher than the surrounding area, so a small swath closest to the lake did not flood. The houses date mostly from the mid-century or later. It never quite feels like New Orleans, instead some alien place that could exist in any city, bereft of the history of the French Quarter, Tremé, the Garden District, Uptown.

Prejean’s address was at the end of a cul-de-sac, a large house, with one side a different and presumably unplanned color than the other. It dated from sometime in the sixties, a large, sprawling house painted a trendy brown, with modern windows that now seemed dated and a clearly added newer section on one side. The lawn was large, well tended. Its asking price was probably far out of my price range and even farther out of my taste range. Especially on the white trim, I could see evidence of smoke. However, unless there was damage not visible from the outside, the house seemed in decent condition and could be easily rehabbed.

A brand-new red truck was parked in the driveway.

I glanced at my notebook. Ah, yes, the license plate matched one registered to Karl Pearlman, one of Prejean’s aliases.

I parked just far enough down the street to have a clear view of the house and the truck. If I was going to confront him, I intended to do so in as public a place as I could. I’d wait for him to come to his truck.

That didn’t take long. Not even fifteen minutes. Evidently Prejean, or whatever his name actually was, didn’t seem to be hard at work on repairing his house. His clothes were cleanly pressed, no sign of sweat or dirt.

I started my car and pulled in behind him, hoping that blocking him in would be a successful bluff and he wouldn’t use his much newer truck to batter past my older car.

As I hoped, Carl did seem to be a swindler, not a fighter. He stood stock still, his mouth open, as if unable to comprehend what was happening.

I got out, making sure to brush my jacket open enough to reveal the gun.

He still didn’t move, other than to close his mouth. Swindlers are actors. He either thought I’d be the last person he’d see here or he was doing a damn good acting job.

“Hey, Carl,” I called. “A word with you.”

“A word? Haven’t you caused me enough trouble?”

“And you’ve caused me plenty of trouble back. That macho bruiser you sent to beat me senseless? I don’t appreciate that kind of trouble.”

“What are you talking about?”

Well, of course he wasn’t going to admit to it. “I’m talking about the muscle man you sicced after me yesterday. Tall, blond, meth teeth. The one you met in a bar and hired to do your dirty work.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You tried to send me a message. Perhaps the dude messed it up. Not wise to have drug addicts do your dirty work. He told me to get off the case. Which I can’t do, since I’m already off the case.”

“I didn’t send anyone after you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Prejean took a small step toward his truck.

I lunged and grabbed the keys out of his hand. Since my car was blocking the driveway, I’d be very unhappy if he tried to get away before I moved.

“You’re the person who called up and threatened me. We both know that, so don’t waste my time denying it. Next thing that happens, some muscle-bound idiot tries to beat the crap out of me. Bit of advice: bulked-up macho men are prone to lying about how big and tough they are, especially after a few drinks. For some reason, I connect your threat with his assault. Go figure.”

“I’m telling the truth. I didn’t send anyone after you.”

“When you were a baby out of the womb, you were probably crying lies.” I knew he wasn’t going to admit guilt; he had too much swindler experience to fall into that trap. Prejean was an experienced con, and crocodile tears—and acts of innocence—were his specialty. “I wanted to give you a message in return. Your big boy messed it up. He didn’t land a blow. The cops probably have him run down by now. I don’t do illegal, but I have friends who do. Friends who owe me big-time. You leave me alone; I’ll leave you alone. Mess with me again and I’ll make you regret it in ways that you don’t want to think about. Got it?”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” he claimed.

I tossed his truck keys halfway across his lawn. He started to turn to them, but wisely decided to keep his eyes on me.

As I kept mine on him. I backed to my car, keeping him in sight the entire way, my hand on my waist just below my gun. I even backed my car halfway down the block so I could keep him in view. He didn’t move at first. Only when he realized I really was leaving did he retrieve his keys.

I did a hasty U-turn and was down the block before he got back to his truck.

What have I gained
, I wondered as I drove back to my office. Of course he had played possum, but that was expected. He did seem surprised, and a bit shaken, to have me show up at his house. Most cons are smarter than Prejean appeared to be—he clearly hadn’t bothered to consider how I’d react to his threat. Maybe he didn’t expect me to seek him out, but he should have expected some reaction. Perhaps what had seemed a nice idea in a bar with Dudley Dude making promises didn’t seem so smart now that the consequences boomeranged. Maybe Prejean would have the sense to back off and move on to more lucrative swindle victims. Perhaps not a nice wish on my part, but he was going to con people; he could at least do it without making a mess in my life.

My trip back to the office was convoluted. I wanted to make sure no one was trailing me or could easily guess where I was going. I was so busy checking my rearview mirror I came close to running a red light.

When I finally got back, my routine was the same—drive by, around the block, park outside and wait, then get into the building as quickly as I could, then slowly up the stairs. The spider still lurked, but nothing and no one else was about.

And it wasn’t even noon yet.

Deciding that offense was still better than defense—or at least better than sitting around waiting to see if I got attacked again—I contacted the Grannies.

I didn’t become a private eye because I wanted to sit and stare at a computer screen. But the Internet and its troves of information treasure were an important tool. I solved my screen-staring dilemma by hiring out.

Illegal grandmothers? Who better to skirt the law than little old ladies? Sarah Clavish used to share the floor with me. Her side was still unused. After retiring, she had found her vocation in computer sleuthing. “I get to sit all day in the air-conditioning,” as she said. She turned out to be quite good at it. Over time she had recruited several of her friends and they became Grannies Online, Inc.

But her sister and brother-in-law had decided that they could ride out any hurricane; they always had before. Their house was high, they had a boat. They lived down the river. She had gone there the day before Katrina to convince them to leave—this one was different. But her brother-in-law wasn’t willing to abandon his house, his wife wouldn’t abandon him, and in the end, Sarah didn’t abandon her sister. He was able to get in the boat, but the violent waves took the two sisters.

Her two cohorts continued the work and I continued to use them. I can do the computer stuff, but much of it is tedious reading of some of the most boring documents in the world over and over again before finding anything useful. I’m just as happy to send it out. Plus, I don’t have the hacking skills the Grannies have.

“Hey, Alma, I need a favor.”

“You going to bring cookies again, honey?”

Alma called everyone “honey” save for those she called “scalawags.” “Any kind of cookies you want,” I promised. Then I asked for my favor—anything and everything about Carl Prejean and his aliases, with special emphasis on his burned house and the insurance claims made on it.

“Oh, and if anything happens to me, assume he’s behind it and you may let loose whatever computer evil you wish.” And I had to explain—yet again—what had happened.

They promised to dig “to the center of the computer earth.”

As I hung up I thought that if the clock weren’t just striking noon, I’d be ready to go home.

The phone rang. Assuming it was Alma with additional questions, I answered, “Yeah, honey pie, what kind of cookies do you want?”

“Micky?” Cordelia.

Good thing for me that she knew about the Grannies and about my cookie baking payment to them (cold hard cash as well, I do not take advantage of charming little old ladies and their sweet tooth) so my explanation just squeaked into the bounds of possible.

After which I added, “I’m free for lunch if you’d like to get together.” On saying it, I realized it was true. Yesterday felt like such a jumble that it seemed we’d barely seen each other.

“I’d like to,” she said wistfully, “but it’s crazy here. I’m afraid I’m going to ask you for another favor.”

Just the tone of her voice told me it was something that I probably wasn’t going to want to do, so I hedged, “I’ll do it if I can.”

“Reginald Banks is in a coma. I just got the news from Lydia. She went over his records and realized that he had made an appointment and come in for it. His insurance was billed and they paid and there are notes in his chart. He was Tamara’s patient. Lydia even called her, but she couldn’t remember, although she was distracted by a screaming baby. So we can’t understand why he deteriorated so quickly.”

“I can’t see how I’ll be much help there,” I said. “Take two aspirin is about as far as I get in the medical department.”

“One possibility is that he was taking something that interfered with his treatment.”

Ah, light dawned. “You want me to go back to his house and see what he might have been taking.”

“I hate to ask…”

“But you’re going to anyway.”

“It might be his only chance. Admittedly not a great one, but if he was on drugs or even taking something like St. John’s wort, it might shed some light.”

“Would you consider carrying a gun?” One obnoxious request deserved another.

“A gun? You know how I—”

“A very bad man might be stalking you. At least until he’s caught.”

“So if I agree to carry a gun, you’ll check out Reginald Banks’s residence?” she asked.

“Yes, I would do that.” I couldn’t believe that she’d agree.

“Would you do it if I don’t agree?”

“I want to keep you safe,” I argued.

“Micky, if I truly thought it would keep me safe, I might agree. But first, I don’t know how to fire a gun, so it might be more danger than not. And second, I took an oath. ‘First do no harm.’ I take that seriously. I don’t know if I could fire a gun at another person.”

“Not even to save the orphans, widows, and puppies?”

“I might shoot one of them rather than save them. No, I can’t carry a gun. Does that mean my request is off the table?”

“No,” I conceded. “I’ll call the cops I saw there yesterday and see if they’re okay with letting me in. I won’t do B and E. Will that suffice?”

“Thank you.”

“And you have to do the laundry.” I couldn’t handle another set of stench-infused clothing.

“Deal. Thank you. I do mean that.”

I knew she did, I could hear it in her voice.

“And sex, lots of sex.” But she had already hung up. However, laundry was the challenge—she had never been shy in the lots-of-sex department.

I gave myself a bathroom break before digging through my desk to find the cards from the cops I’d spoken to yesterday. They had gone into my I’ll-never-need-this-again pile. Which was why I found them so easily—it’s only the stuff I think I’ll need that I can’t find. I glanced at the two cards. Mr. Foul Play got tossed back into the desk—same pile.

First ring was answered by the woman cop.

I told her my mission.

The stars were in alignment. Against me. She still had the key and was willing to meet me there. In half an hour.

There would be no lunch today. No time now, and I doubted that I’d feel like eating after being in that house again.

I grabbed a big flashlight and a bottle of scented moisturizer. Noxious toxic sites are places I avoid, so I wasn’t exactly prepared to deal with unwanted odors. Sandalwood rose was my only option. Also several pairs of latex gloves. This wasn’t a crime scene, not of the prosecutable kind; they were more for my protection against the rot and decay.

No wonder the bad guys win
, I thought as I again headed downstairs. It’s impossible to be ever vigilant, always prepared for something that might not happen as I caught myself sauntering down the stairs as if spiders were my only worry. I managed to perk up my wariness by the time I was on the bottom steps. The memory of what had happened when I’d walked out this door was too recent for my animal brain not to go on alert when I reached it.