Too Far Gone (26 page)

“I want to make sure it gets read. Just between us, for the time being, okay, Casey? Your uncle can't know I have it.”

Casey nodded once and turned her attention back to her husband.

         

65

Manseur exploded into the cabin, gun in hand, the sirens outside still blasting. “Clear!” he yelled.

Bond came through the back door, holstering his gun. “Back's clear.”

“EMS's ETA is thirty minutes,” Manseur told Alexa as he squatted beside her, looked at Decell's corpse. “You're all right?”

“Fine. Gary's pulse is steady, but weak,” she said.

“Should we take him to the hospital in your car?” Casey asked. “Wouldn't it be faster?”

“No,” Manseur said. “There's a life-flight helicopter en route. The techs will get him ready for the ride, and see what he needs. We'd do more harm than good if we moved him, Mrs. West.”

“I shot the kidnapper,” Casey murmured. “I can't believe I actually shot someone.”

“If you hadn't, Gary and I would both be dead,” Alexa said. “I saw his and Leland's faces….” Like avillain in some James Bond film, Doc had wanted to make sure Alexa appreciated his genius by setting his killing mechanism in operation before he killed her. Egotistical people were unpredictable criminals, and the smarter they thought they were, the dumber they thought everybody else was.

“So this kidnapper shot Decell for Dr. LePointe? Decell's almost a foot taller than LePointe. Maybe the shooter had never seen Dr. LePointe in person,” Manseur said.

Alexa said, “Between the shadows, him expecting LePointe, not Decell, I can see it. And Decell was drawing a gun. We should make sure the rear is secure,” Alexa said, standing.

“Larry, could you kill those sirens?” Manseur said.

Manseur followed Alexa out the back door. Flipping on his flashlight, he ran the beam over the truck, the sloping yard, the small dock. “Cooley at the lab sure nailed that truck.”

“I have the diary,” Alexa said in a low voice.

“What's in it?” he asked her.

“I'd like to examine it in private. Casey saw me pick it up. I told her to forget she did.”

“What about fingerprints?”

“Leland took me by complete surprise. I never saw him until he had my gun. The guy Casey shot is the one in the pictures from Fugate's. Doc, Leland called him. He had gloves on, so I bet he didn't leave his prints. I'll wear gloves to preserve any other prints on the book.”

“And then you're going to give it to me, right?” he asked. “The diary is part of the Fugate homicide.”

“It's also part of the West kidnapping. I'll pass the book to you after I've seen if it is relevant to any federal crimes. I want to know why Dr. LePointe was willing to go to so much trouble to get his hands on it, but I don't want anybody else knowing I have it. Nobody else.”

“When can I read it?”

“Tomorrow.”

“First thing?” Manseur's expression reflected suspicion.

Alexa smiled. “Relax. You'll get your fair share of the credit.”

“It'll be nice, having credit,” he said. “Maybe the federal prosecutors won't be as easy for the good doctor to influence.”

“You think?” Alexa said, frowning.

Twenty minutes later, sirens announced the arrival of an EMS ambulance. After checking Gary West's vitals, the techs placed him into the vehicle and it raced off to meet a helicopter being sent from New Orleans. Parish deputies had popped flares to guide the life-flight chopper to the closest paved road. After hugging Alexa tightly for a few long seconds, Casey accompanied her husband in the ambulance.

“Michael has to keep your gun for ballistics,” Alexa told Casey.

Casey said, “I don't expect I'll be needing it again.”

While Alexa and Manseur were standing beside the Mercedes, a Crown Victoria pulled into the driveway. Detective Kyler Kennedy got out.

“I called Detective Kennedy in because we need a warm body,” Manseur said.

Without looking at Alexa, Kennedy addressed Manseur. “What do I do first, sir?”

“Ask Agent Keen,” Manseur said. “We're out of our jurisdiction. This is a kidnapping case. She's in charge. It's up to her.”

Flashing lights announced the arrival of two sheriff's department cruisers, following a Blazer with a light bar on the roof.

A tall, pole-thin man in a starched white shirt climbed from the Blazer and approached them.

“I'm Sheriff Buddy Lee Tolliver,” he announced. “Y'all New Orleans PD?”

“I'm Special Agent Alexa Keen with the FBI.”

The sheriff nodded at her.

“Sheriff Tolliver, I'm Detective Michael Manseur,” Michael said, offering his hand.

The sheriff took Manseur's hand, smiled, and pumped it briskly. “Well, finally we meet, Detective. It's a pleasure.” Sheriff Toliver explained loudly enough for his deputies to hear him, “This kind gentleman cleared a homicide for us last year. Burned-to-shit body we found in a Rover. I owe you for that one, Detective. Kept my stats clean enough to get me reelected.”

“Didn't you run unopposed?” Manseur asked, laughing.

“That helped, too. What we got going on out here? Must be a homicide.”

“Homicide it is,” Manseur said.

“I don't reckon I'm lucky enough it's somebody got themselves murdered in New Orleans and got brought over here as a corpse, like last time. What's the FBI got to do with it? Don't ever get the FBI out here.”

“Corpse is connected to a kidnapping that went sour. Agent Keen here and my department have been working it jointly. One of the dead men is an ex–NOPD detective.”

“I don't want to sound like an ass, but this
is
my parish.” The sheriff looked at Alexa. “First I hear of this
joint
operation in my parish is that my deputies are called by Homicide detectives, and when they get here they're told to direct traffic for some helicopter. Naturally, I'm a mite curious.”

“We were following a ransom delivery and it ended up over here,” Alexa said.

“You want a piece of this, Sheriff?” Manseur asked.

Tolliver shook his head. “Well, if the FBI is going to handle the expenses of the lab work, the investigating, and all that, there won't be a whole lot left over for my people. And it doesn't affect my stats. One more murder doesn't mean a lot to NOPD, but it skews the hell out of my numbers.”

Manseur told him, “But if you want a bite off a sour apple, I can give you a plug with the press.”

“Naturally,” Alexa added, “we'd both allow you a fair share of the credit for being instrumental in helping us with a very important, high-profile kidnapping case and murder.”

Sheriff Tolliver lowered his voice. “And maybe I'd help you out best by standing back and letting you work the scene? You'll mention my boys can flag in hospital choppers?”

“If you don't mind,” Manseur said. “Might be expeditious.”

“Too many cooks ruin the stew,” Bond offered.

“Truer words were never spoken.” Buddy Lee Tolliver's bright eyes were like steady beams of light. “But lots of people can cook up a gumbo. Forget it. We got us a wild-ass category four hurricane coming tomorrow night, so most of my people need to be out informing our good citizens they have to leave.”

“That's a coincidence,” Manseur said. “We got one of those coming too.”

“We tell those that say they're staying put, they have to write their names and socials on theirs and their kids' arms and torsos with markers we carry, and do it while we're there, so we can identify their bodies later on,” Tolliver said, casting his eyes on Alexa. “It works better than you'd think. We also got us a couple of game wardens missing since this morning that we have to help the state boys look for. I hope they ran out of gas or their boat motor broke down. I'm stretched pretty thin about now. You just make sure you treat my department fair when the camera lights hit you, Manseur, and I'm content to leave this mess to y'all. You want, I can leave a cruiser in case you need anything.”

“We can manage, Sheriff,” Manseur said.

“Sheriff Tolliver, are you familiar with a man named Leland Ticholet?” Alexa asked.

“Agent, I'm as familiar with that individual as I ever want to be,” the sheriff replied, grinning. “Ticholet's in on this? That old boy sure as hell doesn't strike me as anybody would be tied into a ransom demand.”

         

66

Alexa was content to let Manseur handle the evidence collection and the crime-scene investigation, under the color of her authority. She would work out the details with her superiors later, and if there was a positive outcome, there'd be plenty of credit to go around for the FBI, the New Orleans Police, and the parish. Manseur ordered a van to remove Kenneth Decell's body. The New Orleans crime-lab technicians were more than competent to collect any evidence in and around the cabin.

If this case had gone sour, it could have devastated her career, but every case had that potential. Her director had told her to help the NOPD with this, use her best judgment, and that was what she was doing. She didn't want an FBI team she wasn't familiar with walking in on the case at the present point. Then she'd have to go by the numbers. Anyway, at that moment most of the local agents were either making sure their families were out of the city, or battening down the offices before leaving themselves.

Alexa and Manseur were out behind the cabin down by the place where the boat had been tied up earlier.

“How badly did Casey hit the little guy?” Manseur asked her.

“She hit that valise and maybe those bonds slowed or stopped most of the rounds, but Casey shot him at least once. Maybe more when he turned to flee.”

“She tell you she was armed before you got here?”

“She has a concealed carry permit for the .380, and she was certainly justified in her actions.”

“So, the answer is no?”

“Of course she didn't. You can't blame her for carrying, though, can you? She handles a weapon better than I do.”

“You mean she hung on to hers.”

“Dry up, Manseur. Leland wants your gun, he'll take it. I gah-rhone-tee.”

“I'll put out an alert to area doctors and hospitals. Maybe he'll show up for treatment if he's still among the living.”

“Good,” Alexa said. “Have your techs collect everything and we'll decide what needs to go to the FBI lab. I'll ask for expedited blood and DNA evidence on Doc Doe.”

“If this case is still that hot up there. I have a feeling Evans might want to put us on banging on doors, now that West is going home.”

“We still have to find Sibby Danielson.”

“Yeah, I expect that's going to be right up there beside finding out where Hoffa's buried.”

Alexa stepped back and felt something under her heel. She bent, parted the weeds, and, using her flashlight, saw that the object was a cell phone. “One of them must have dropped this,” she said.

Manseur picked it up carefully by the antenna and dropped it into an evidence envelope. “With any luck we can trace it to one of them. Looks like it has blood on it.”

“Hopefully it's a prepaid cell on our sheets. Michael, Leland called the guy Casey shot Doc. I think he's Grace's man friend. We need to get her picked up. The phone will connect her to Doc and to this. Doc—he could be a physician, dentist, chiropractor, maybe a Ph.D.”

“Or a tree surgeon,” Manseur said.

“LePointe might be upset since Decell gave up the bearer bonds, and he didn't get his notebook,” Alexa said.

“He has to act happy, because he's got Gary West back, and he sure as hell can't ask us about the notebook. Be interesting to see who does ask.”

“My money's on Jackson Evans. Christ! What the hell's wrong with me?”

She raced around to her Bucar, opened the passenger side door, reached in, pulled the computer out, and opened it on the hood of the car. “The tracker is still in the briefcase.”

“The tracker is out of range now or got damaged by a round,” Manseur said, after seeing there was no blinking dot on the screen.

“We could use a plane to locate the bug if it wasn't damaged. If they keep the bonds in the briefcase, and they don't discover the tracker, maybe we can find them.”

“That I can handle,” Manseur said.

“I hate to leave this in your lap, but I need to go to the hospital. I want to see how Gary and Casey are. Maybe you can send Kennedy by Smythe's address and pick up Grace. You get her in an interrogation room, call me.”

Alexa got into her car, plugged the hospital's address into her GPS, and drove away. She was feeling light-headed from a lack of sleep. As soon as she made sure Casey was all right, she had some reading to do. After that, she was going to grab a cat nap.

         

67

When Alexa arrived at Tulane Medical Center, she spotted Dr. LePointe in the Emergency waiting room, talking with Superintendent of Police Jackson Evans, who wore his starched white uniform shirt, resplendent with gold and silver pins testifying to his importance. Casey was at the opposite end of the room, seated alone, head down, as though inspecting her hands in her lap. She looked up and smiled when she saw Alexa come in.

Passing LePointe and Evans, Alexa walked straight to Casey and sat beside her. “How's Gary?” she asked.

“They're trying to stabilize him. He's got some brain damage, and he's severely dehydrated, but other than that, they won't know until they get further along. You saved his life with that vest.” She broke down. Alexa put a hand on her shoulder while she sobbed wretchedly.

Dr. LePointe strode over and stood silently above them. His expression was impossible to read. Not that Alexa gave a damn.

“This is one hell of a mess, Agent Keen,” he remarked, almost pleasantly.

“Yes, Dr. LePointe,” Alexa told him. “It is definitely that.”

“There will have to be an accounting.”

Alexa felt the heat of anger rising inside her. “I'm glad you understand that. You know, if you had leveled with me about the note and whatever else you and Decell kept to yourselves, the outcome could have been vastly different.”

“I acted in what I perceived was my niece's best interests, and I followed Ken Decell's suggestions to that end. This sort of thing is new to me.”

“I bet.” She thought it likely Decell's corpse would get the blame for everything.

“You are responsible for the fiasco tonight,” Casey said, firmly.

Alexa knew LePointe was responsible for a lot more than the mess of that evening. The full scope of his involvement was something Alexa planned to discover. Then they'd see who got stuck for what.

“Kenneth Decell was a professional,” LePointe said, looking away. “Perhaps I shouldn't have followed his advice in this matter. The fact remains, Agent Keen, that you put my niece in a very perilous position tonight.”

“She did not! I'm an adult, and I made a decision to become involved! All of this is on your head. Dealing with abductions is what Alexa does, and she does it better than anybody else at the FBI. Decell got himself killed because you two decided to let him handle something Agent Keen should have been dealing with. Can you explain how you honestly imagined that a retired detective could handle getting my husband back home safely better than an honest-to-God expert at it?”

“I was trying to get Gary back for you. Everything I did was to that end. I didn't involve Agent Keen because Kenneth insisted he had everything under control and that when lots of people are involved, things can go badly. The instructions from the kidnappers were quite specific about not bringing in the police.”

“Jesus, Unko! Have you forgotten that I read the letter? If you had followed those instructions, and delivered the bonds and not sent Decell, it might have worked out. Instead, two people are dead, and I may have killed a man. If I hadn't been there, Gary and Alexa would have been killed. You didn't do anything for anybody but yourself.”

LePointe stiffened. “Superintendent Evans has everything in hand. He's going to investigate this. Legally speaking, I had every right to pay that ransom without involving the authorities. Can anybody say for certain that person didn't intend to kill Gary all along, no matter who brought the ransom? Professional advice was what I paid Decell for. It was his decision to deliver that briefcase. I wanted to do it.”

Alexa thought it convenient that Decell—who was, in cop lingo, DBRD, or dead beyond a reasonable doubt—couldn't contradict his patron unless he did so through a medium. She wondered what LePointe would do if she whipped Fugate's notebook out of her purse and waved it under his nose.

No, when she confronted William LePointe, she intended to have everything figured out, so no matter how much money he had, or how many friends in high places who might try to stop her, he'd answer for everything he was guilty of doing. Whatever it ended up costing her, he was not going to walk away from this without a few scars.