Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 07 - The Swamps of Bayou Teche (14 page)

Primeaux and LeBlanc exchanged guarded glances.
“That’s what the coroner, he say”

LeBlanc handed me a stack of pictures. “Dese be
took when the Terrechoisie Parish boys cut the body
from the ‘gator.” He shook his head and whistled. “I
hope I don’t never run across no ‘gator that big myself.”

The alligator appeared to be at least sixteen feet
long. I grimaced at the pictures taken from several
different angles, but in each, the dead man’s body had
been doubled backward over itself before being swallowed, the back of the head pressed against the heel of
his boots. I couldn’t imagine the tremendous force exerted to bend the human body far enough backward to
snap the spine.

I shivered and closed my throat in an effort to force
the rising gorge back down. I dared not speak. I simply handed the pictures back to Sergeant LeBlanc and
headed back to the Cadillac for a cold beer.

When I reached the corner of the hallway, I froze.
Terrechoisie Parish!

“Something be wrong?” LeBlanc called out.

I turned back to face the two lawmen. “Sergeant
Primeaux. Are you from the Terrechoisie Sheriff’s
Department?”

“Oui.”

“Would you happen to know Fawn Williams?”

He grinned at LeBlanc. “Suppose just about everybody know that one.”

Taking a couple steps back toward them, I asked,
“She ever have any trouble with John Hardy?” I nodded to the autopsy room behind them.

His eyes narrowed. “Why you ask?”

With a shrug, I replied. “I heard that she’d attempted to blackmail Hardy for half a million, but the
Terrechoisie Sheriff’s Department put a stop to it.”

Emile Primeaux studied me several moments. “Me,
I don’t remember nothing about that, but that don’t
mean Hardy, he don’t talk to someone else”

“Can you find out for me?”

Jimmy and Emile exchanged looks. Jimmy nodded.
Emile cleared his throat. “Maybe”

I remember clearly Josepphine Hardy’s words. “My
son is missing. I want him found. If he has been hurt
or worse, then I will triple your fee to find those responsible.”

There was no question in my mind that I will continue.

On the way back to Maida, I called Marty with the
information I had. “I’m certain the body is John
Hardy, so I’ll pursue the case as a homicide.”

“Fine with me, Tony. Just cover your keister with
them Louisiana police. They got a reputation for tossing folks in the can just to hear them rattle around”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll cross all my T’s and dot
all the I’s”

“And make me proud!” His favorite expression, and
one that invariably drove me up the wall.

Before I visited Fawn Williams, I had Jack pull into
a convenience store where I made a photocopy of the
receipt I had taken from her Jeep a few nights earlier.
I folded back the original into my wallet.

I blinked twice when Fawn Williams opened the
door of her apartment. Slender and curvaceous with
rich auburn hair falling over her honey-colored shoulders and full lips matching the color of her shiny hair,
she was, unlike Laura Palmo had surmised, anything
but over the hill.

And, she, along with probably hundreds of others,
fit the vague description given me by old Jean Baptiste
at Venable’s Convenience Store-red hair, dusky
complexion, and shapely. In fact, the outline the old
Cajun had sketched in the air with the shrimp deveiner
failed to do her justice. He should have curved in and
out just a little more.

Fawn lifted an eyebrow warily when I introduced
myself. She shook her head and started to close the
door, but when I blurted out that I knew she had attempted to blackmail John Hardy, she hesitated, then
reluctantly invited me in. “Blackmail is a harsh word,
Mr. Boudreaux” Her words were edged with ice.

“Just repeating what I was told, Miss Williams”

“Probably from Laura Palmo”

I grinned. “I did speak with her.”

“I’ll bet,” she sneered.

In my job I’ve dealt with many ladies of the evening, both retired and currently employed, and one
thing that I discovered quickly was that not a one of
them wore a scarlet letter on her chest. In fact, most of
them were charming, excellent conversationalists, and
bubbling with charisma, qualities essential to maintaining a lucrative clientele.

Her apartment was tastefully decorated with earlyAmerican appointments, none of which appeared
cheap. She indicated a tweed-covered couch with
white ruffles about the base. With a weary sigh, she
plopped down in an adjoining chair and remarked. “I
figured John was finished with me. What does he
want now?”

The question caught me by surprise. Either she was
a clever, cool liar or she was as innocent as the Vestal
Virgins. I had not decided just how much I should tell
her, so I just played it by ear. “He’s missing. That’s
why I’m here, Miss Williams.”

She pursed her lips and arched an eyebrow. Her response was cutting. “You’ve come to the wrong person if you think I’ve seen him, Mr. Boudreaux. Last
time I spoke with that slime, he backed out of a investment fund he had promised to set up for me”

“Investment fund?”

A wry grin curled her lips. “That’s what we called
it when the son … when he first brought it up. He
wanted me out of the business, so he figured that half a million or so invested properly would provide me
the opportunity to start over. Then, when I questioned him about it later,” she added bitterly, “it became blackmail.” Opening a cigarette case encrusted
with diamonds, she slipped one between her fingers,
and with her left hand flicked on a lighter. Another
southpaw.

How many of them now, I asked myself. Three?
Cullen, Palmo, and now Fawn Williams. All three
smoked and all three were lefthanders. Any of the
three could have left the matchbook in the suburban.

She took a deep drag and then looked up at me under long, dark, curving eyelashes that must have taken
at least an hour every day to mascara and crimp. “He’s
a lying, no-good-” She paused, and a crooked smile
played over her lips. With a shrug, she chuckled. “I
apologize. I swore I wouldn’t let myself get upset over
the shaft he gave me. It’s over and done with. I can’t
do anything about it now. And John Hardy certainly
won’t.”

She was composed-calm, polished-too calm and
polished. I wondered if it were simply an act, a deliberate facade. I decided to see if I could break down her
composure. “You could be closer to the truth than you
think, Miss Williams. Mr. Hardy might be dead.”

With a harsh laugh, she replied, “That, I can live with,
Mr. Boudreaux. What happened? I hope he suffered”

I expected a reaction, but not the one I received.
Her bitter response surprised me. “We don’t know for sure,” I lied. “All we know is he’s missing, and yesterday morning his suburban was fished out of Whiskey
River.”

She took a deep drag off her cigarette and squinted
through the smoke at me. In a hard, cold voice, she
said, “Excuse me for not crying. Now what does this
have to do with me? Why are you here?”

“Two or three reasons, Miss Williams. I’ve been
hired to find him, and I’m talking to anyone who
might have had some contact with him. Now, you say,
you weren’t blackmailing him. I won’t argue that because I don’t know. I was told it was blackmail, and
when Hardy informed the Terrechoisie Parish Sheriff’s Department, you backed away”

Her eyes glittered with hate, but she said nothing,
which suggested to me the information Laura Palmo
had provided was accurate. “And then I was told you
later called him and threatened his life.”

Her nostrils flared. “That is a lie. I never threatened
his life, and if he said that, he’s more of a liar than I
thought. Sure, I was angry and upset. He made me a
promise, then went back on it. I talked to a lawyer
who was willing to take my case, but a few days later,
he called back and said he was too busy” She snorted.
“Too busy! My eye he was too busy. John Hardy got to
him. That’s what it was.” She glared at me. “Truth is, I
could kill him, but he isn’t worth what it would cost
me. Satisfied?”

“Not completely, Miss Williams. You see, a red Jeep Cherokee was seen on the levee with Hardy’s
Chevrolet suburban on August twenty-sixth. That was
last Monday, the day John Hardy disappeared.”

Fawn shrugged. With lazy confidence, she replied.
“So? There must be thousands of red Jeep Cherokees
around.”

“I suppose there are, but how many of them filled
up with gas five miles from Whiskey River on that
same day?”

The slender woman frowned at me, obviously confused.

I handed her the photocopy of the receipt. “And
here is the receipt for the gas, plus you’ll note the license plate number, Louisiana FKW-395, which
strangely enough happens to be the plate registered to
you, or rather to Sophie Mae Brown”

The lazy confidence she had exuded vanished. She
stammered, “W-Where-I mean-” Her cigarette
dangled from her fingers as she gaped at the receipt.
“I didn’t … I mean, this isn’t mine. I’ve never
stopped at this place, wherever it is.”

Nodding to the copy in her hand, I asked, “How do
you explain the license number? And the old man who
wrote out the receipt said the woman had red hair.”

Adamantly she denied filling the Jeep. “It wasn’t
me. I don’t care what some yokel says”

“Then who?”

She puffed furiously on her cigarette. “I don’t
know, but it wasn’t me. I can prove it.”

Arching a skeptical eyebrow, I replied, “You might
have to if the cops get hold of this.”

A thoughtful expression erased the anxiety on her
face. “How did you get it?”

“The truth?”

“Yes. Why not?” She glared at me, her eyes defying
me to tell the truth.

“I stole it from your glove compartment”

She gaped at me for several moments, stammering
for a response. Finally, she exclaimed. “That’s illegal.”

I grinned. “As can be”

A shrewd gleam filled her eyes. She leaned back on
the couch and eyed me smugly. “I could call the cops.
You broke into my car and stole personal items.”

“I suppose so, but then I’d tell them that you had
paid me to clean up your vehicle, and I found the receipts. Who’s to say which one of us is lying? Besides, then they’d have the receipt, and you’ll still
have to explain it.”

Her eyes flashed, then as quickly as the anger flared
in them, it died out, replaced with genuine concern.
“I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t fill the Jeep over
there, and I can’t explain the receipt, but I can prove I
wasn’t the one who filled it because I was at a business
convention in New Orleans from Sunday, April
twenty-fifth through last Friday, the thirtieth.”

“Convention?”

Fawn leaned back, resting her head on the back of
the couch. She pursed her lips. “If you know my real name is Sophie Mae Brown, then you know my profession.” When she saw confirmation of her statement
in my eyes, she continued, “I worked the National
Portable Builders Convention in New Orleans.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “And you can prove you were
there?”

A smile that bordered on a sneer played over her
lips. “I keep records for the IRS, Mr. Boudreaux”
When she saw the surprise on my face, the smile
broadened. “Oh, yes, I’m an escort service. I report
income and pay my estimated taxes every quarter. I’ve
even been audited, and I came away with a clean bill
of health,” she added with a mischievous smile on her
lips. “I’m a good little girl when it comes to the IRS”

Clearing my throat, I said, “What you’re saying is
that you have proof that on the day that receipt is
dated, you were … ah … occupied in New Orleans?”

Her dark eyes narrowed, then widened in amusement. “With a client. Yes, I have proof” She rose
abruptly. “Wait here”

To say I was surprised was an understatement. On
the other hand, keeping records was good business, despite the type of business. It’s just that I didn’t expect it
from someone in her profession. At that moment, my
cell phone vibrated several times. I ignored it.

She glided across the room to her computer station,
picked up a day planner, and came back to sit at my
side, enveloping me with the sultry scent of what I figured was five-hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfume.

She thumbed through the planner to April 26th.
“Read this,” she said. “See for yourself.”

According to the planner, her business day began at
10:00 A.M. at the Chateaubriand Hotel; then a second
appointment at 4:00 P.M. at the Lafitte Arms; and her
last appointment at 8:00 that evening was back at the
Chateaubriand. “That one concluded at just after midnight,” she commented. “We visited the Cafe du
Monde for coffee and powdered beignets afterward”

I glanced at her skeptically, and she rewarded my
cynicism with a smug but very becoming smile and
added, “That was quite a profitable day for me”

Only the clients’ first names were listed along with
the hotels, all of the establishments in the middle of
the French Quarter. She looked up at me defiantly.
“Well?”