Too Far Gone Page 3

  LePointe cocked his head slightly. “I expect you know my dear friend Alfred Bender, Agent Keen?”

  “I haven’t met the new director yet,” Alexa said. She had been in the same room with the director along with a hundred other agents, but she was fairly certain he had no idea who she was. Director Bender was also a close friend of both Presidents Bush and every other individual worth knowing in Washington. The director was widely rumored to be chronically uninterested in the day-to-day operations of any organization he was associated with except his golf club in Augusta, Georgia. It was common knowledge inside the Beltway that FBI Director Alfred Bender elevated delegation of authority to levels that would have stunned Senator Strom Thurmond senior aides.

  “I’ve had occasion to make limited contributions to your Behavioral Science people over the years,” LePointe told Alexa.

  She didn’t bother to tell him that the Behavioral Science Unit he was referring to was now the Behavioral Analysis Unit, or BAU, the profiling unit one subdivision of BSU.

  “Contributions?” she asked.

  “I have some insight into the abnormal mind,” LePointe said. “Especially the criminally abnormal mind.”

  “Dr. LePointe is a psychiatrist,” Manseur told her.

  “We can safely say an internationally respected psychiatrist,” Evans interposed.

  “Is that a fact?” Alexa said, feigning genuine interest. She met the eyes of a red-haired man standing in the cluster of policemen ten feet away. The staring man’s features were hard as rock and blade-sharp and his sky-blue eyes were locked on hers. In her job Alexa ran across hard-core individuals who radiated a skepticism that bordered on disease, or transmitted a soul-staining hatred, or possessed a festering sense of superiority. Such people, usually criminals but often cops, chilled her to the marrow.

  The sound of a car racing up the street shattered the quiet.

  “Well,” Manseur said, “Detective Kennedy has arrived.”

  Everyone on the porch turned to watch the approaching detective, who reminded Alexa of someone who should be fleeing a headless horseman.

  5

  The monster outboard growled as the seventeen-foot-long boat shot between the soft grassy banks at thirty miles per hour. Standing at the center console, a tall, muscular man with a buzz cut swung the wheel hard at the intersections, casting walls of water when he turned the vessel sharply. Like a dog with his nose out in a car’s slipstream, the boat’s pilot, Leland Ticholet, luxuriated as the slipstream caressed his face.

  Using the powerful searchlight to illuminate the scummy surface, Leland checked his intended path for any floating debris that could puncture the fiberglass hull. On the trip into the swamp, he had seen dozens of pairs of alligators’ eyes and enough nutria to fill a truck bed. If he’d had the time, he would have killed a few of the furry critters with his Remington Nylon 66, a .22 carbine made using as much nylon and as little steel as had been possible forty years before. The weather-resistant gun, a dependable and accurate weapon, had been his father’s favorite. Shooting was easier than trapping and if you made head shots, the skins and the meat were undamaged. The state paid a four-dollar bounty on each nutria skin. Leland had been told that nutria had been imported to Louisiana from South America for their pelts or some happy crap and then had bred there to beat the band, and started wreaking havoc on the ecosystem, destroying the vegetation that helped keep salt water out of the marshes. Since there were so many of the pesky critters in Louisiana, the state had encouraged chefs to prepare their meat in creative ways so they might become as close to extinct as redfish had become when a famous chef had the world eating pan-blackened carp until only emergency legislation instituting strict limits kept the poor things from being enjoyed off the face of the earth.

  The network of interconnected bayous and canals in the snake-infested swamp was a maze navigable only to the few people who traversed it daily in order to scrape out an existence by fishing, crabbing, poaching, and trapping. Leland had spent his life running the light-green-algae-coated highway and he loved the solitude—a life of total freedom and self-sufficiency. The people who lived in the swamp knew better than to stick their noses in another man’s business or mess with his things. In the swamps, nobody called the cops, bullets were plentiful, and something hungry would always eat red meat before it raised a stink.

  After rounding a familiar bend, Leland turned into his cove—its throat invisible because of tall grass that formed a solid-looking wall—cut the motor’s power back, then drifted toward the sagging pier connected to his floating fishing cabin, a twelve-by-sixteen-foot room set on a floating foundation of rusted steel barrels. He killed the motor and the night filled instantly with insects, frogs, and alligators sending warnings or invitations to others who spoke their language.

  Mosquitoes swarmed around his head. After he tied the boat to the pier, Leland climbed onto the deck and played the flashlight over his small cabin. He didn’t think anything about the fact that one side of the building was closer to the waterline than the other, because it had been that way for as long as he could remember.

  Leland reached down and lifted the hog-tied man into the air like he was made of feathers and draped him over his solid right shoulder. Stepping onto the pier, he walked to the cabin door, which he kneed open. He stepped over the first four floorboards, then used the toe of his sneaker to drop a section of plywood over those rotten boards, which were about as substantial as cigar ash.

  “Once you get used to the skeeters you’re gone to really like it here,” he told the man he carried over his shoulder. “They’s nobody going to poke needles in you, and try and measure out your brain chemicals so they can control you.” Leland dumped his rope-bound guest onto the cot, grabbed a section of rope off the floor, and looped it around the man to bind him to the cot.

  Leland went back outside to the boat and fished the new cell phone from underneath the back seat. Dialing the number he had learned by heart, he waited for the person to answer, but nothing happened. He shook the phone gently, assuming some crucial part must be loose, listened to it, then shook it harder. It was lit up like it was when Doc used it, but it wasn’t ringing and nobody was talking to him.

  “Hello, Doc. I’m at my camp,” Leland said. He listened for a few seconds and repeated the message like Doc had told him to do when he got there. “HELLO!” he hollered. “ARE YOU THERE, DOC? ANSWER ME! ANSWER ME, DAMN IT!”

  Leland didn’t know he had thrown the phone until he realized he was no longer holding it, and he had no idea which direction he had throw it in. Might be Doc would be mad about the stupid little phone. Leland didn’t give a damn. He was supposed to watch over the man in the cabin, but he knew Doc wouldn’t know it if he went out and checked on his catfish lines. It wasn’t like the man in the cabin was going anywhere.

  6

  When Manseur’s cell phone rang, Jackson Evans frowned. After a few seconds spent listening, Manseur held the phone aside and said, “Sorry, I have to deal with this. Detective Kennedy, if you could take Agent Keen inside to get the ball rolling with Mrs. West, I’m right behind you.”

  Jackson Evans nodded his approval. “Dr. LePointe, please call me if you need anything. And I mean anything at all. Detective Manseur will be keeping me up to speed on the investigation. Feel free to call me anytime you feel the need.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Superintendent Evans.”

  Evans reached into his pocket and took out a card case made of brass. Opening it, he reached behind the front cards to remove one that was clearly different from the ones in front. It was printed on an expensive parchment and looked to be engraved, not offset-printed. He handed it to LePointe. “My private numbers.”

  Dr. LePointe pocketed the card and, without saying anything further to the superintendent of police, led Alexa and Detective Kennedy through the house’s wide hallway back to an open kitchen where two women, one with dark hair and the other a blonde, sat at a table. The blonde he
ld a fair-skinned towheaded child whose eyes were exact replicas of her mother’s—except the mother’s showed evidence of tears.

  Casey West possessed the sort of classical beauty that inspired artists, allowed peasants to end in royal beds, and started wars. Her features, framed by curtains of perfectly straight white-blond hair that was gathered into a wide ponytail, were perfectly balanced. Her almond-shaped green eyes were tinted pink from crying.

  “This is Casey, my niece,” LePointe told them. “Casey, this is Detective Kennedy of Missing Persons, and FBI Special Agent Alexa Keen, who has kindly consented to give the local authorities her expert assistance.”

  Casey West managed a worried half smile. “FBI? So you think Gary was kidnapped?” She locked eyes with Alexa. “Is he all right? You know something, don’t you?”

  “No, Casey,” LePointe said firmly. “Agent Keen is merely a friend of Detective Manseur’s. The man Jackson Evans told us was handling this.”

  “What sort of FBI agent are you?”

  “The regular sort, I’m afraid,” Alexa answered.

  “She’s here for a law enforcement seminar,” Kennedy said. “She gave a lecture on techniques for identifying and resolving abductions.”

  Alexa saw LePointe roll his eyes toward the ceiling.

  “Abductions?” Casey asked, fear in her eyes.

  “Nobody has suggested that your husband was abducted. I’m just here to observe and advise if it becomes necessary. You are in very capable hands,” Alexa said. “It’s purely by coincidence that I’m here.”

  The other woman, whom Dr. LePointe had failed to introduce, had pasty skin that stood in stark contrast to her sculpted black pageboy and pencil-thin eyebrows. The turtleneck sweater, her shimmering lipstick, and the smears of rouge on each of her round cheeks were identical shades of red. The brown irises of her eyes were almost as dark as her hair and her fingernails. A row of pearl-shaped gold studs curved up the edge of her left ear from its heavy lobe to the crest. She watched them with the wide-eyed intensity of a child having her first trip to the circus.

  “I not yew-ah fren,” the blond child said.

  “You’re not my friend?” Kennedy replied, feigning disappointment.

  The child shook her head violently.

  “She doesn’t mean she isn’t your friend,” the dark-haired woman said, smiling. “Deana picked the expression up from an older child at school.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Detective Kennedy said. “I hate to make enemies of pretty young girls.”

  Deana stuck out her tongue. She was at that age where it was hard to tell whether or not she understood the impact of her words, or was repeating some phrase or action that earned a reaction from adults.

  Detective Kennedy, who was all elbows and knees, took a seat across from Casey and immediately worried with the precise position of his eyeglasses.

  “I not yew-ah fren,” Deana said again, poking out her lower lip.

  Casey hugged the child to her. “Okay, Deana. That’s enough of that.”

  Dr. LePointe looked at the woman beside his niece, waved his hand, and said, “Grace, please take Deana to her room.”

  The woman turned to look at LePointe, her eyes filled with disappointment.

  “Grace,” Casey said, “would you please get Deana ready for bed?”

  “I’d be delighted, Casey,” the still unintroduced Grace said. She stood, opened her arms, and the little girl transferred herself easily into the other woman’s arms, clinging to her. Alexa saw for the first time that the child was naked. Alexa wondered if Grace was the child’s nanny.

  As they left the room, LePointe said, frowning, “Put a diaper on the child.”

  Casey smiled and looked at Alexa. “She takes them off. Sometimes Gary and I let it ride. We’re only firm with the important things. Discipline is a tricky issue. Clothing is sometimes optional. Gary and I want Deana to feel free to express herself.”

  Alexa sat down beside Kennedy, diagonally across the table from Casey. Alexa’s view through the wall of French doors was of a large formal garden, which formed a protective horseshoe around a swimming pool. A pool house with a slate roof stood at the far end of the pool, connected by a glassed-in corridor. A ten-foot-tall wall of brick appeared to enclose the entire property.

  “Coffee?” Casey offered.

  “None for me,” Kennedy said immediately.

  Alexa shook her head. She wanted to fade into the background and take in the reactions of Casey and her uncle to Kennedy’s questions.

  “So, Mrs. West,” Kennedy said, opening his notebook, “I was told only that your husband failed to show up for dinner?”

  “Our family has dinner at six,” Dr. LePointe said. He stood with his back to the counter, watching.

  “Routine is especially important for children,” Casey said.

  “Important for everybody in a civilized society,” LePointe added.

  “We try to always eat as a family,” Casey told them. “Most times we manage to do so.”

  “Does the entire LePointe family eat together here?” Kennedy asked, smiling up at the doctor.

  “My wife and I eat together in our home.”

  “Dinner at six,” Kennedy said as he wrote it down. “Your house is on St. Charles, isn’t it, Dr. LePointe?”

  “Our family home has been there since the street was put in,” LePointe answered. “The original structure burned to the ground in 1855. The one there now was completed just in time, as the War Between the States made stonemasons and detail craftsmen a rarity. It wasn’t adequately furnished until after that conflict, as the furniture was imported and there were far more profitable cargoes to be shipped than chairs and tables.”

  In Alexa’s mind, where Dr. LePointe lived seemed totally irrelevant to the case at hand.

  “It isn’t at all like Gary to be late,” Casey said.

  “Casey, he’s missed dinners before,” Dr. LePointe corrected. He took a seat at the head of the table, with Casey on his right, Kennedy on his left.

  “He always calls to tell me if he’s not going to make it on time,” she countered, defensively. “I’ve called his cell phone for hours, but it went straight to message. He rarely turns it on anyway. He carries it for emergencies. Anyway, I found it in our bedroom. Gary hadn’t even taken it with him.”

  LePointe frowned.

  “When did you see him last?” Kennedy asked.

  “We had lunch at R&O’s.”

  “Arnaud’s?” Kennedy said, starting to write that down.

  “R and O’s, out on the Lakefront. We eat lunch there together every Friday. Except when we’re out of town,” Casey said.

  “Or when Christmas falls on Friday?” Kennedy asked, seemingly serious.

  “It’s where we had our first meal in New Orleans together. That was five years ago. We usually have the seafood gumbo and a beer. I guess it’s a ritual.”

  “Gumbo’s very good there,” Kennedy said, straightening his glasses. “Best in the city for the money. Good chopped salad too.”

  Casey nodded absently.

  “You left the restaurant together?” Kennedy asked.

  “Well, we were in separate vehicles. I’d been working all morning, so Gary had Deana. She came with him. Gary left a few minutes before I did. I had to go by my studio to do some paperwork on a show I’m shipping out of the country next week,” Casey said. “I had Deana with me. I met Grace there.”

  “Grace is your nanny?” Kennedy halted his note-scribbling.

  “Nanny?” Casey smiled. “No. Grace is my personal assistant. We don’t have a nanny. I have sitters who come when I need them. Grace has been my dearest friend since elementary school.”

  “Where is your studio?” Kennedy asked.

  “On Magazine Street.”

  “I saw some of your snapshots at the Contemporary Arts Center one time,” he added.

  “Formal portraits,” LePointe corrected.

  “It’s like a hobby for you?” K
ennedy persisted. “Taking pictures. Or are you a professional?”

  “The photography keeps me occupied,” Casey said, “but I don’t think I’m a professional, because I don’t make money at it.”

  LePointe said, “Casey’s portrait work is in every museum collection worth mentioning. We’re extremely proud of Casey’s artistic accomplishments—her body of work. Can we please get back on point?”

  “I meant no offense,” Kennedy said.

  “Portrait series?” Alexa said. “Would that be similar to Richard Avedon’s portraits? Subjects with some common association?”

  Casey nodded, her eyes springing to life. “I’m hardly in Avedon’s class. I work in color. Longshoremen, homeless people, veterans, racists, midwives, artists, evangelists, carpenters…”

  “Senators, cabinet members, ex-presidents and their wives,” LePointe added.

  Alexa was fascinated by LePointe’s incessant need to elevate his niece’s importance.

  Casey’s face flushed. Alexa wondered if Dr. LePointe’s friends accommodated his niece as a favor to him. Perhaps he used his influence to make sure her work made the right private and museum collections, and the right galleries. Unless she really was that good, and Alexa had seen nothing to indicate she was, his patronage could certainly account for her success. Wouldn’t it be something, Alexa thought, if a woman as attractive, wealthy, seemingly intelligent had real artistic talent as well?

  “So R&O’s at lunch was the last time you saw your husband? Or spoke to him?” Kennedy asked.

  Casey nodded. “And nobody’s seen him. I’ve called everybody I could think of. Sometimes he gets with friends and loses track of the time.”

  “How much did he have to drink at lunch?”

  Dr. LePointe looked down at his hands, twisted his heavy gold signet ring.

  “One beer,” Casey said.

  “And before you met him at the restaurant?” Kennedy asked.

  “Gary never drinks before five.”

  “Except at lunch,” Kennedy said.