Sandra Hill - [Jinx 03] (19 page)

“I knew my grandfather’s opinion of the LeDeuxs, and my having sex with one of them spelled betrayal of the highest order. But once he calmed down, he offered to take care of me and the baby, let me go back to finish college, give me all the support I needed, financial and otherwise. Provided I never involved you or any of the LeDeuxs in Etienne’s life.”

He wanted to rail at her for agreeing to such an immoral act, but stopped himself.

“I was in labor for twelve hours, but it was a natural childbirth, not caesarian. And his middle name is John.”

He nodded his thanks for that small favor.

“His favorite movie is
Pirates of the Caribbean.
”

“Isn’t that a bit adult for a kid his age? Oh, don’t get your mouth all pruned up. I wasn’t questioning your parental choices.”

“Pruned up?” She fought a smile. “He watches the bleeped-over version. Seventeen times so far.”

“To show how far removed I am from kid-dom, I didn’t even known there were curse-deleted DVDs. This I’ve gotta see, though. Johnny Depp saying ‘darn.’” There was a lot he was going to have to learn about being a parent, and quickly, he realized. That was assuming he was going to be involved. “I guess that means I need to clean up my language around him.”

“Yep. He’s like a parrot. Repeats everything he hears, especially if he thinks they might be bad words. His favorite kind.”

“My father swore like a sailor. Still does. Every sentence has to have a foul word. And he never gave a rat’s ass if I was around or not. In fact, I think he taught me the F-word when I was Etienne’s age.” He hadn’t meant to reveal all that and glanced quickly to Celine to see if she was maybe thinking he didn’t have the genes to be a good father. Or that he was engaging in a pity party.

“I have to watch my language, too,” she said. “We all slip sometimes.”

“Stop being gracious, dammit.”

“And that’s a problem . . . why?”

“I don’t want you bein’ nice to me, because then I would have to be nice, and I’m still too upset to be nice.”

“You think you don’t know much about . . . uh, what did you call it? . . . kid-dom, but that was pure kid-speak nonsense.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing . . . that I still have some kid in me.”

“You’re right. Etienne will love having a father who’s still a kid.”

Was she insulting him?

She put a hand on his forearm and squeezed.

He shoved her hand away.

They sat in silence for a few long moments, surrounded by the heady smells of lush flowers, trees, and the stream itself. They watched as the evening rituals of the bayou started up. The nighttime animals were beginning to come out. Bats, of course. Dozens of varieties of frogs, each with its own distinctive sound; René could probably identify them just by their vocal cords. There were other nocturnal creatures: flying squirrels, owls, foxes, skunks, opossums, raccoons. They would have to go back to the cabin soon, before the mosquitoes were out in full force.

“This all comes at the piss-poor worst time for me. See what I mean about my language? I said that without thinkin’. Anyhow, I can’t plan anything until this trial is over. Even if the chief allowed me to come back now, I wouldn’t be able to be around you and Etienne or my family ’til the Dixie Mafia guys are no longer a threat to any of you. They’d like nothin’ better than to get at me through someone I cared about. Afterward, though, I’ll need to be around Etienne.”

“I’m more than willing to have you visit, or even have him come to stay with you occasionally on weekends or vacations.”

“What planet are you livin’ on, babe? I meant live with me. You can visit him, not the other way around.”

“You can’t be serious. I wouldn’t give up custody of Etienne, and don’t even think of threatening me with legal action. No court is going to take a child from its mother just because she didn’t inform the father of paternity.”

“Don’t be so sure about that. Fathers have rights, too.”

“You don’t know the first thing about raising a child.”

“I’ll learn. Besides, I have a good lawyer.”

“Would you be so cruel as to separate a child from its mother?”

“Would you be so cruel as to separate a child from its father?”

“John, you’re not thinking straight.”

“No kidding. You drop a bomb and expect me to be clear-headed and logical.” His voice rose to a falsetto as he continued, mimicking her now, “By the way, John. You have a son. Now, be nicey-nice. I’ll let you come over for a play date sometime if you’re good,” followed by, “Shiiit!”

She inhaled and exhaled several times, clearly trying to tamp down her temper. Well, la de da, he was in a temper, too.

“Listen, I haven’t thought this through yet, but why can’t Etienne move into my cottage? You could see him whenever you want. Hell, you can stay overnight sometimes if you want.”

She laughed. She actually laughed at him. “That’s big of you. Bet your girlfriends will love that.”

“Stop bein’ so sarcastic.”

“Who’s going to watch Etienne when you’re working?”

“I’ll get someone.”

“That’s just great. His father’s a stranger, and he’ll hire strangers to stay with him.”

“Okay, Ms. Know-it-all. Let’s compromise. What are you willin’ to give up?”

Her chin went up, and her jaw jutted out.

“Okay, maybe that was a bit drastic. How ’bout he lives with you weekdays, but he lives with me all other times, when I don’t have to work. Weekends, holidays, summer vacation.” He congratulated himself on how generous he was being, considering his fury.

“Never! Even if I were willing, it would be too disruptive to Etienne’s routine. No way!”

“Even I know how resilient kids are.”

“He wouldn’t understand.”

Okay, I tried. Enough with the generosity.
“Bullshit! He’s a smart kid. He halfway suspects by now that I’m his dad.”

“This is ridiculous. You’ve only just met your son and you’re making all these plans. What about the DNA tests?”

“I still want the tests done, but I’d have to be blind not to see the resemblance.”

Now that she was going to have to dump her idea of winning by default . . . as in his not claiming his son . . . she tried a different tack. “Have you considered how this would change your life, or even if you want it to change? Slow down, for heaven’s sake.”

“How can I slow down? I’ve already lost five years.”

Her face went mulish. Well, he could be mulish, too.

John stood. He’d had enough of this crap. Before he walked away, he told her, “I would suggest you hire a lawyer.”

Chapter
18

John’s personal life was put on hold the next day with the order to return to town immediately, incognito, and report to the courthouse in Baton Rouge. The trial had been sped up and was about to begin.

He wasn’t the only one required to go to all these convoluted lengths in order to testify. There were at least a dozen others, including the police, ATF, and FBI. They would be without disguises once on the stand, but coming to and leaving the courthouse, they were sitting ducks for Mafia snipers.

At this point, it was the upper hierarchy that were on trial: the club manager who was considered a “soldier,” a counselor or consiglieri, an accountant, and two sons of the “godfather,” who acted as “lieutenants.” They were being charged with prostitution, narcotics (one kilo of coke found on the premises), gambling (a slot machine in the back), blackmail, extortion, bribery, racketeering, possession of illegal firearms, and various other sundry crimes, like resisting arrest and disorderly conduct, the hope being that at least some of the charges would stick. Ten “soldiers” had already been tried and sentenced for lesser crimes, which meant they would probably be out of jail in a year.

The cases against customers of the club and lower level employees had already been adjudicated in lower courts, most of whom only got a bullet, or one year, negotiated down to probation and hefty fines. A night in the holding pen had been enough to scare the bejesus out of most of them. Prostitutes . . . those who hadn’t copped a deal with the prosecution . . . had been fined or given summary jail sentences.

Celine was pissed, to say the least, that she hadn’t been able to contact a lawyer yet and that she wasn’t being permitted to attend the trial as a reporter. It had been her story to begin with, she’d complained endlessly last night. As a concession, the chief was giving her an exclusive background story every day for the next week to call in to the newspaper, provided she didn’t tell her boss where she was getting the confidential info, or that she’d been in hiding with Police Detective John LeDeux.

If it had been up to him, he would have told her to go fly a kite.

John got prepped in one of the side rooms before being called to the stand late that afternoon. Tank had gone just before him. As they passed in the hall, Tank rolled his eyes, indicating that John was in for it.

John’s role in the investigation and bust had been minimal, but the defense lawyers were gunning for him, probably considering him an easy mark because of his reputation. Although cameras were not permitted inside, John could see that an artist was sketching him. God only knows what label they would put on him today, even though he was dressed respectably in a navy blue jacket, khaki pants, a button shirt, and a tie. He even wore wire-rimmed reading glasses, for effect. A regular
GQ
geek cop.

The prosecutor, Dean Avery, led him through the easy questions to set forth his part in the case. Then one of the defense lawyers . . . there were six . . . laid into him. The cross-examination was brutal, led by Rita Nicastro, Esquire, from New York City, a plump thirty-something woman with a mustache, poured into a no-nonsense gray suit.

“Is it true, Detective LeDeux, that you were once a stripper in Atlantic City?”

Whoa! This one went for the element of surprise. “Yes, ma’am.” He put special emphasis on the “ma’am.” He could tell that annoyed her. “For two weeks,
ma’am
.”

She arched her bushy eyebrows, mostly for the benefit of the jurors. “Got fired, did you?”

“No,
ma’am.
I quit.”

“Oh, why was that? Too shy?” A titter of laughter passed through the courtroom.

“Your honor,” the prosector objected. “What does his shyness have to do with this case?”

The judge waved the objection aside.

“Hardly shy. Nope, I only did it on a bet.”

“A bet? So, you’re a gambling man. No, don’t answer that. Were you in the Playpen on a bet, too?”

“No,
ma’am.
That was my job.”

“Your job was to be a prostitute?”

“To
pretend
to be a prostitute.”

“Are you saying you never had sex for hire?”

“Never.”

“And if I were to say there were several women who would testify that you did?”

“They would be liars . . .
ma’am.
Or paid to testify to that effect.”

“Your honor, I object!” Ms. Nicastro and five other lawyers shouted.

“Sustained,” the judge said. “None of your lip, Detective LeDeux. Stick to answering the questions.”

He’d known Judge Lightley for ages. In fact, he and his son Fred, better known as Zippo, had been friends in high school.

“Yes, sir.”

“You testified earlier that you witnessed both men and women paying for sexual favors. Could you be more explicit?”

He raised his eyebrows and looked at the judge.

Judge Lightley sighed and said, “Go ahead . . . within reason. Keep in mind, there are ladies in the room.”

John had been prepared for this question, and he wrung his hands virtually with anticipated pleasure. “I saw Mimi Delacroix, one of the prostitutes—”

“I object!” said six lawyers. Ms. Nicastro added, “Miss Delacroix has not been proven to be a prostitute.”

“Beggin’ your pardon,
ma’am,
but Miss Delacroix has a rap sheet a mile long.”

The judge put up a halting hand before the defense lawyers could object again. “Detective LeDeux, this is a second warning. Answer the questions. No opinions. Jurors, you will disregard that characterization.”

He nodded. “I saw Miss Delacroix go down on six men for fifty bucks a pop. She did a figure eight on another man and a corkscrew on yet another, both for a hundred bucks each.”

There was a collective gasp throughout the courtroom.

“Then, there was Suzy Foo. For twenty bucks, she sucked the toes of a woman lawyer from Biloxi. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Ms. Nicastro; I didn’t name the female lawyer.

“Elaine Hebert engaged in a
ménage à trois
with two men, but declined to do their dog. It was a German Shepherd. The going price for threesomes was three hundred dollars.

“Then there were the men. Jasper Wilson was the most popular. Whoo-boy, that man could get mondo erections. Women didn’t mind payin’ the two hundred dollars for a half hour of his time, if their smiles on exiting were any indication.

“Jules Sebastian was in the process of havin’ a sex change operation. So, those with a taste for acey/deucy got him for a bargain fifty bucks.

“Jon Paul Savonne spoke French while doin’ the deed, and got some uptown ladies to pay a hundred dollars for the lagniappe.

“Evan Sinclair had a tongue like that guy from Kiss. Need I say more? He was almost as popular as Jasper.”

The courtroom was going wild with laughter and talking while he blathered on, ignoring the pounding of the gavel, the objections of the lawyers, and the prosecutor’s staff putting their faces in their hands. Newspaper reporters were grinning from ear to ear, taking notes frenetically.

When the judge and the bailiff finally brought the courtroom back to order, Judge Lightley glared at him. “Are you aware that you are this close—” He held a thumb and forefinger about one inch apart. “—to sitting in the lockup for contempt? And I don’t just mean for the day.”

“Sorry, your honor.”

“Lawyers, up here
now
for a sidebar. Detective LeDeux, do you think you could manage to keep your mouth shut ’til we’re done?”

“Yes, sir.”

After the consultation, the prosecutor gave John a silent message to behave himself, and all six defense lawyers gave him a pointed glower.

He was still sitting in the witness chair when the judge turned back to him. “Detective LeDeux, this trial is not a joke. You will limit your remarks to direct answers to questions.” He turned to the jury then and said, “Jurors, you are to disregard the inflammatory nature of Detective LeDeux’s testimony.” Hah! Like they were ever going to forget those descriptions!

After that, John was grilled on how he had witnessed these activities. “Through a peephole.”

“Are you a voyeur?”

“No. Except . . . ” He glanced at the judge for permission to elaborate.

“Go ahead,” Judge Lightley said on a long sigh.

“Except I like the occasional X-rated movie.”

Ms. Nicastro named the five defendants in the case and asked if he had ever witnessed any illegal activities in which they had been directly involved.

He gave specific dates, times, and what he had seen.

At the end, she got him to say that he was temporarily off duty with the police force, the implication being he had done something wrong.

“Where do you reside at the present time?”

John hesitated and gave his father’s address in Houma. He’d like to see some Mafia thug try to take his dad down.

Ms. Nicastro frowned. “Are you saying that you have been living there for the past three weeks?”

“Not exactly. I’m . . . uh, on vacation.”

“Where are you vacationing?”

“Here and there.”

“Your honor,” Ms. Nicastro complained to the judge.

The judge glanced at him. “Well?”

“I’ve been fishin’.” That was at least partially true, and here in southern Louisiana, “gone fishin’” was a legitimate excuse for just about anything.

“With Detective Woodrow?”

“Nah. His here and there for fishin’ is different from my here and there.”

The judge declared that would be a sufficient answer, knowing full well why the Mafia wanted to know where he was hiding.

“You’re excused, Detective LeDeux.” Under his breath, the judge added, “God help us all.”

That night, the evening newspapers headlined him: “Cajun Cop Adds Sizzle to Trial.”

It took another day before John was able to leave Baton Rouge, what with all the meetings with his department, as well as the prosecutor’s. Once the prosecutor, Dean Avery, had reamed him out, they had a good laugh together over his testimony.

Now, he was sitting in Remy’s helicopter at a small Dallas private airport with his son at his side. They would be flying to Remy’s home heliport and from there taking the hydroplane to the cabin. For him, ’til the trial was over and the bad guys were in jail. For Etienne, just an overnight visit.

The kid was so excited as the copter took off, it was a good thing he was belted in or he would have been bouncing up and down. No fear at all. Just talk, talk, talk.

“I have a toy helicopter. David gave it to me. Wanna play with it sometime?”

“Do you have a gun? Didja ever shoot any bad guys?”

“I want a dog.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I’m thirsty.”

“I hafta pee.”

“Where’s my mom?”

“Kin I sleep with you t’night in a tent?”

“Betcha I kin catch five fishes next time. My friend Pete dint believe I caught an eel. Maybe we could take some pictures.”

“I want a dog.”

“My grampa has a big bubble by his too-too . . . a her-knee-yah.”

“David has a big too-too. I saw it when we peed against a tree at the campsite.”

“Wanna piece of bubble gum?”

“Do you have any tattoos? I really wanna get a tattoo. A pirate one. Or else I wanna get a peg leg.”

“My mom has curly hair over her pee-pee.”

“Do girls fart? My mom says only boys fart, but Pete sez his sister Glory Ann cuts the cheese in her sleep.”

“I want a dog.”

By the time they arrived back at the cabin, about noon, John was wondering if the kid ever shut up, and where did he come up with some of this stuff? Remy, on the other hand, could barely control his laughter . . . not at Etienne, but at him having a son who was going to be as wild and outrageous as he ever was.

Celine and Tante Lulu were waiting for them. The rest of the team was working at the site.

Wading to the plane, Celine lifted out her son. Then she kissed him and hugged him as if she hadn’t seen him or talked to him for years, instead of days.

The boy skipped—he never just walked—up to the cabin alongside Tante Lulu, who tempted him with the offer of beignets and chocolate milk. Remy went off to see the progress of the Pirate Project. Leaving John alone with Celine.

“I heard you were your usual charming self at the trial.”

And he, charming devil that he was, snarled out, “Who the hell is David?”

Celine stayed back at the cabin with Tante Lulu while John took Etienne to the work site, with the promise of lots of mud and pirate gold.

She soon realized what a mistake that was when Tante Lulu started in on her.

The two of them were washing up, drying, and packing the morning stash of gold coins into storage containers. Not as much as the first finds, yesterday and the day before, but still impressive. There were also a few necklaces and rings in this last batch. Nothing spectacular, and all of it gold. No precious stones. Still, a nice change.

“Ya gonna marry up with this David fella?”

She rolled her eyes.
Here we go again.
“No. He’s just a friend.”

“Etienne talks about him a lot.”

That little stinker.
“He talks about the garbage man a lot, too.”

“So, what kinda friend is he? The sleepin’ over kind?”

“I am not going to answer that question. We date occasionally. He’s a reporter on assignment in Afghanistan right now.”

“Well then, ya gonna marry up with Tee-John?”

Good grief, she’s persistent.
“No.”

“Why not?”

Aaarrgh! Because he hates me, for one thing.
“I’m not in love with him,” she blurted out, as if it had anything to do with anything.

“You will be.”

Is that a fate worse than death, or a fate to be desired?
“You can’t know that.”

“The thunderbolt has already struck, honey.”

Celine would like to tell her what she could do with that darn thunderbolt.

“Besides, St. Jude is already a-workin’. You Catholic, hon?”