Artist (12 page)

“Tell Slade here he needs to lighten up,” the uniform said when Dupond came through the door. The uniform and an older Detective were pushing an old desk into a corner where they could look through a window onto the common ground. The uniform looked vaguely familiar to Dupond, a young black guy with an already receding hairline. He caught the nametag, Flynn, and made the connection. In his first week on the job, Flynn had engaged in an epic race with an aging French Quarter transvestite hooker who didn’t want to go downtown for another booking. She managed to outrun him for three blocks in high heels, slipping a cuff along the way. If she hadn’t been plowed over by a cab, she might have made it. The hooker went to Charity, afterwards suing the cabdriver and winning. His partner started calling Flynn “Jesse Owens” and the name stuck.

“Why?” Dupond asked.

“I wanted to bring a radio in here and he nixed the idea.” Flynn said. He looked at Slade. “I even told him we could play Frank Sinatra every other hour.”

“Even the soothing quality of Sinatra couldn’t make up for subjecting my ears to the crap you listen to, Jesse,” Slade said, emphasizing the Jesse. “Anyway, you won’t have time to listen to music. I intend to put you and your beaming smile out front while I stay in the background, waiting to do the real work.” He turned to Dupond.

“I’ve got three guys putting up notices in campus that we’re here. When they get done with that they’ll check out. Clements and Green are working the Student Center. What are we looking for here?”

“Pretty much anything,” Dupond said. Talk to anyone that comes in. I suspect most of them will come in looking to ask you question
s about what’s going on. Try to be reassuring. Pay close attention to anyone who seems foreign, or has an accent, even a little bit of one. You never know. The guy might come in snooping around to see what we know.”

“I’ll pay close attention to the females,” Flynn said, “You scrutinize the males.”

“Down, Boy,” Slade replied. “You’re here to be a diligent investigator for the finest police department in the country, not a gynecology field trip.”

“
A man can dream, can’t he?” Flynn said. They were still going back and forth when Dupond walked out.

Watt watched the activity from a distance as the Detectives moved in. He strolled over to the Student Center for a cup of coffee, checked out the setup there. He carried the coffee back to his office, saw Dupond leaving the space where Slade and Flynn were still moving things around. He remembered him from the meeting a few nights ago. Dupond and the girl detective, Reynold.
The Devil is on my doorstep
, he thought, a turn of phrase that put him in a better mood and summed up the situation nicely. He felt he was once again on top of his game, the doubts that racked him a few nights ago pushed neatly away. Still, the wise hunter receded into the background when necessary.

Working his usual routine during the day, alternating between classes and office time, Watt passed the open door where he saw Flynn talking to one of his students, a freshman from his History 101 class. They were both laughing and he took that as a good sign. She wouldn’t have anything to tell him anyway. History 101 was an auditorium class with almost 200 students. He rarely interacted with them on a one on one basis and couldn’t remember a single name from this semester or the last. He wondered whether he was missing anything else though. Returning to his office, he closed the door, paced back and forth.

More and more the idea of a diversion appealed to him. His mistake, the mistake that brought these people into his world, was a simple one. He stayed too close to home with past activities. Maybe it was time to broaden his canvas. He liked the idea. To hide, cease his work, made sense. The challenge of greater accomplishments though, carried with it the reward of greater glory, an increased scope. He was torn. It was something to think about though. In the meantime, he graded tests. He was still a teaching professional and a good one.

Cassie left the Ambassador Hotel in the early evening, heading right down Boulevard Houssmann. A block down she found Rue du Helder, followed it Rue Gaillon. Within three blocks was Opera Station, one of the larger Metro stations in Paris. From there, she could go anywhere. Quatre-Septembre was closer and less crowded, but an equally viable option. It would be a last minute decision which one she chose.

Café Drouant nestled at the intersection of Rue Gaillon and Rue Saint-Augustin. Lorie probably enjoyed it as much for the prestige as the food. Drouant had once been a focal point of French Art and Literature, it’s tables occupied by the likes of Renoir, the French impressionist, and scores of notable French writers and politicians. It drew most of its clientelle now from the stock market a few blocks away and the hordes of businessmen working in the area.

Patrons entered off the street through a narrow walkway cut into a row of hedges bordering Gaillon. To the immediate left and right were single rows of tables for outside dining. Once through the revolving door there were dining areas to both sides, with the bar on the right. Upstairs, Drouant featured two exclusive dining rooms for private parties. Lorie favored outside dining, almost always taking a table to the right. He ate there two or three times a week according to her report, arriving shortly after 1pm on most days and staying an hour or an hour and a half. Alone.

She walked the route between the café and Opera half a dozen time until she could do it in her sleep. Saint-Augustin to Avenue de L’Opera, right, directly to the station. She went back and began again, this time heading for Quatre-Septembre, directly down Gaiilon to Rue Reaumurr, right, then two blocks, the stairs disappearing down into the station below. Alternatively, she could take Port Mahon to the North, ending up on Reaumurr almost equidistant between Opera and Quatre-Septembre. That route offered options at the end but a longer stretch, then a choice between two directions to go on the same street. Satisfied she had it down, she returned to the Ambassor, took the gold wrapped package, returning to Le Cantal with the sun still shining at almost nine o’clock at night. Tired, she left the package in the room, took a table at the restaurant below.

“Bonsoir, Madame.” The waiter came carrying water, flipped over her glass, said something in French.

“I’m sorry,” Cassie said, waving at herself. “English only.”

“Yes,” he replied, “I can English a little.” He was a small man with brown hair, wearing an apron over a white
shirt, with a noticeably missing front tooth. It didn’t seem to bother him as he smiled broadly.

“A menu?” he asked.

“Is there a special?” Cassie asked. She had noticed most of the restaurants lining the streets posted daily specials, chalked onto boards set along the avenues.

“Yes. Tonight we have a very good Ravioli, crabmeat, in a white sauce. Very good.”

“That’s fine,” Cassie said. “Oh, and wine, white. One glass.”

The food was good, as promised, and after the wine and a full stomach
, Cassie felt the travel and the day beginning to drag her down. She was in bed right after a shower and drifting off, the windows open to the street below. Voices wafted in, conversations between the waiter and people on the streets, an occasional shout.
Paris
, she thought, thinking of Dupond.
We’ll have to come back.

Dupond had takeout Chinese on the table, four case folde
rs spread out in front of him. He was making notes on a notepad and getting nowhere. Adan called him in the middle of it. No progress on the footprints, the photos were faxed around to other agencies and to an expert in Pasadena. “We might get something back tomorrow, they’re a couple of hours behind us, but probably the next day. If they know anything,” he added.

“What do you think about this thing with the letters?” Dupond asked. “It obviously means something to him.” A thought occurred to him. “Hey, tomorrow, pull a phone book. Let’s go over every name that ends in a V. There can’t be too many of them that list a first name with C. If we find any we can look for the middle name later.”

“We’ve been over this. I can’t believe he’d be carving his initials in these girls.” Adan said. “That’s a little obvious.”

“While you’re at it, pull Metairie and Slidell, and Mandeville, too. All the surrounding areas. Maybe the phone company can do a search faster. Call them first.”

“Okay,” Adan said. “How did the guys do at the school? Anybody come in?”

“A few. Flynn got a date with some girl from the Music Department who came in to report her neighbor parking in her driveway.”

“Well,” Adan said, “I hope he doesn’t have to chase her far.”

The blue ribbon and gold wrapping went into the trash. Inside the box was a semi-automatic pistol, a silencer wrapped in paper beside it. The whole thing, with the silencer on, fit into an over the shoulder purse Cassie picked up down the street for a few francs. It was raining, the same steady pour taken up again for the day, when she stepped out the door of Le
Cantal. She checked her watch, pushing back the sleeve of the raincoat she bought at a different shop, a few more francs. With the raincoat and a broad brimmed floppy hat, she looked like a typical woman out for a shopping spree in Paris. At ten-thirty, Cassie joined the ranks of sodden Metro riders headed toward Opera.

Emerging from the Metro, she made an about face, heading up Avenue de L’Opera, took the left onto Gaillon. Café Drouant was ahead. She was a little early, so she paused to window shop, m
aking her way slowly, bought strong French coffee from a vendor, sipped it in the rain. At twenty minutes after one o’clock, a cab dropped off Lorie. Cassie recognized him immediately. A waiter hurried out with an umbrella, covered Lorie, and took him inside. Shit, Cassie thought. She was hoping to catch him outside but with the rain that would be impossible. She weighed the situation.

She would have to go inside or wait for a day with better weather and hope to catch him on the patio. On the other hand, it was Saturday and there were few people in the restaurant. Going inside meant more noise and restricted escape if Lorie was seated in the back. It was a choice between more witnesses or maybe fighting her way out. She hesitated, turned back to walk away. Delays meant more time in Paris, more exposure, more time away from Dupond and New Orleans. She turned, retraced her steps and walked through the cut in the bushes, and across the patio entrance, pulling a leather glove on her right hand. The pistol was in her purse, thoroughly cleaned, a round in the chamber. Her hand went into the purse.

The revolving door squeaked when she went through it. To her right a man was polishing glasses behind the bar. The reception desk in front of her was empty.  An older couple occupied a table in the far room past the bar, the man bent over a bowl of something, a spoon in his hand. She looked left. Lorio sat across the room on the far wall, a waiter pouring something into a glass. She started across the room. The waiter finished pouring, bent to listen to Lorie say something, nodded and walked back toward Cassie. The blood began to pound in her head. She could feel it in her temples. Her jaw clenched. She lifted her left hand, put it on the brim of her hat as if to remove it, covering her face as the waiter passed.

“Madame,” he said and kept going.

Another ten steps brought Cassie within three feet of the table. She clenched the grip of the pistol, had a sudden rush of fear that she had left the safety on. “Anton,” she said. Lorie looked up, his eyes searching her face. She saw the look casual acquaintances get when confronted with someone they didn’t really remember. He was trying to decide whether he knew her, and from where, when she shot him in the left temple. He didn’t fall. In all the scenarios she had envisioned, Lorie had collapsed on the table in front of him, spraying glasses and food and silverware across the floor. The reality was he simply slumped to his right against the window, dropping his napkin on the floor. She shot him in the temple again and this time she heard the report, a unrecognizable puff of something, and the ratchet of the mechanism. She was out of the restaurant before the waiter returned with a basket of bread.

“Charles Louis Vohn, Uptown”  Adan said. He was sitting with Dupond in the office. The air conditioning was out. Traffic noises drifted in but no wind. Both had their jackets off, working in rolled up shirtsleeves.

“Check him out,” Dupond said.

“Coung Lee Van, 36, lives out in the East.”

“Nope.”

“ Curtis Lay Vetter, 28, Timoleon Street.”

Dupond looked up. “Seriously? That’s…..perfect.”

“Well,” Adan said. “We don’t know anything about him but the initials are right. According to Schumaker he’s a little older than the average college student, so that’s fits.”

“Why did we eliminate women?” Adan asked, a sudden thought falling in place. “Maybe CLV isn’t his initials. Maybe some woman broke his little heart and he’s getting back at her and carving her initials in his victims.”

“Shit,” Dupond said. “You just doubled our workload.” He tossed his pen on the table. “Let’s go check out Vetter. We’ll swing out by the University while we’re out there and see how those guys are doing. I’ll take this home tonight and work on it. I don’t have anything else to do.”