CHAPTER 16

I folded the paper and handed it back to her and twice she spoke and both times I had to ask her to repeat herself. I love Edie Johnson. When we had gone through the rest of the things, she said, "Does any of this help?"

"Yes. I believe it does."

She nodded, pleased that her effort was of value. "You wanna take any of these things, you may."

I smiled. "No. These are your precious things. Keep them safe."

She put the papers back in the King Edward box and closed it. "I wonder if they'll ever catch that man who killed Leon."

"I don't know."

"It's been so long now. I can't imagine anyone would care."

I patted her hand and then I stood. "Somebody cares, Chantel. Somebody somewhere cares. I've always believed that."

She gave me a nice smile and we finished our lemonade and then I left. I followed the back roads north to Ville Platte, checked out of the motel there, then stopped by the Pig Stand and bought a link of boudin for the road. I told Dottie that my business here was finished, and that this would be our last time together. She laughed and told me that I'd be back. She touched the place beneath her eye as she had done before and said she had the second sight. I wished that she would have used it earlier. Jimmie Ray might still be alive.

I ate the boudin as I drove back to Baton Rouge and listened to the same female radio evangelist screaming about plague-carriers from abroad and once more crossed the big Huey Long Bridge and arrived back at the Riverfront Ho-Jo at 1:40 that afternoon.

I didn't bother trying to call Sid Markowitz or Jodi Taylor. I booked the first available flight back to Los Angeles, checked out, then phoned Lucy Chenier's office from the lobby. Darlene said that Lucy was in and asked if I wished to speak with her, but I said no, that I was at the Riverfront and would walk over. Ten minutes later I rode the elevator to the Sonnier, Melancon amp; Burke offices. Lucy's smile was wide and bright, and she seemed glad to see me. Something ached in my chest when I looked at her, and the ache increased when I took her hand. I said, "I think I've come to the end of the line on this and there are some things we need to talk about. I'm going back to Los Angeles."

She stopped smiling, and said, "Oh."

We sat on the flower-print couch and I showed her the copies I'd made of the articles reporting Leon Williams's murder, and as she read them I told her about Mrs. Lawrence Williams and Leon's sister, Chantel Michot, and the little heart that said I LOVE EDIE JOHNSON. She finished reading before I finished talking, then sat quietly, watching me with sharp lawyer eyes until I was done with it. "Jodi told me none of this."

"I didn't think that she had."

"And you believe she knew all of this? She knew that Leon Williams was her father."

"I think that's how Jimmie Ray bought his Mustang. I think he went to them with the documentation, and they paid to have him sit on it."

She placed both hands in her lap, one atop the other, then stood and went to the window, and then she came back around her desk and leaned against the front of it. "This is silly. It's the nineties. What does she think will happen?"

I shrugged.

She waved her hand. Adamant. "It isn't even compelling evidence. 'Edie Johnson' is hardly an uncommon name. The possibility of coincidence is large."

"Maybe she didn't see it that way."

She shook her head again. "But why hire us to find out something she already knew? Why lie to us about it? She had to believe that we'd find out."

"I'm going to ask her."

Lucy pursed her lips and stared at the floor. She took a breath, let it out, then looked up at me. "So you're going back."

"I don't think I was hired to learn anything about her medical history. They knew Jimmie Ray was blackmailing them, so they didn't hire me to uncover his identity. I think she just wanted to know if it was real."

Lucy sighed again and stared out the window. Maybe she, too, was looking for Huck and Jim.

"Also, I don't like being lied to. I like it less because the lying may have had something to do widi getting Jimmie Ray Rebenack killed."

Lucy came over and sat beside me. "I know you're angry, but may I offer something?"

"Always."

"Adopted people often wonder at their histories, but there are more obvious traits by which we define ourselves. How tall we are. The color of our hair. I want you to consider that the entirety of Jodi Taylor's identity has been called into question. Not just her name, but what she sees when she looks in the mirror." Lucy's face was softer now, and I wondered if she were putting herself in Jodi Taylor's place. "She has a career and friends, and she is probably wondering if everyone in her life will see her differently. Do you understand?"

"You're making it hard to stay mad."

She smiled, but it was sad. "Mad is always easier, isn't it?"

I nodded. "Are you going to call them?"

"Of course. I don't like being lied to, either, and if my employment is at an end, then we have to terminate the file."

Termination. There didn't seem to be a whole lot left to say. "I guess that's it."

"I guess so."

I nodded at her. "I'm glad we had a chance to meet."

She nodded back. "Yes. I am, too."

We stared at each other. The Lawyer and the Big Time Op, not knowing what to say. She stood and I stood with her. "Well. I hope we stay in touch."

"Christmas. We can do cards."

"That would be nice."

"I write very funny cards."

"I'm sure you do."

We stood like that for a time, and then she put out her hand and I took it. "Tell Ben I said "bye."

"I will."

"I'll see you, Lucy."

"Good-bye, Elvis."

Lucy went back to her desk and I rode the elevator down to my rental car, and four hours and twelve minutes later I was descending through the haze into midafternoon Los Angeles.

It was ten minutes after three, L.A. time, and I was home. There had been no significant earthquakes in my absence, and the temperature was a balmy eighty-four, the humidity twenty-nine percent, winds out of the northwest. Home. The freeways were jammed, the smog was a rusty shade of orange, and Lucy Chenier was two thousand miles away. On the other hand, we didn't have hundred-year-old snapping turtles and mutant Cajuns. Also, I wasn't very likely to get anyone else murdered in the foreseeable future. If I could keep myself from strangling Sid Markowitz, I might even be able to drink enough beer to stop seeing Jimmie Ray Rebenack's body. That's the great thing about LA. – anything's possible. Portrait of the detective looking on the bright side of life.

I phoned Sid Markowitz's office from the terminal. His secretary said, "I'm sorry, but Mr. Markowitz is unavailable."

"This is Elvis Cole. Do you know that I'm working for him?"

"Yes, sir. I do."

"It's important that I speak with him."

"I'll give him the message when he checks in, Mr. Cole. He's at the studio now, with Ms. Taylor."

I hung up and dialed Jodi Taylor's number on the General-Everett lot. A man's voice answered. "Ms. Taylor's office."

"This is Elvis Cole. Is Ms. Taylor or Mr. Markowitz available?"

"Oh, hi, Mr. Cole. Jodi's on the set, now. May I take a message and have her get back to you?"

"Nope."

I rode the escalator down to baggage claim where a representative of the airline informed me that my bag had been misrouted to Kansas. They said that they would be very happy to deliver it to my home upon its recovery, and they smiled when they said it. I said fine. I caught the airport shuttle to long-term parking to pick up my car. The shuttle bus was jammed with Shriners from Orange County, and I had to stand. No problemo. A fat guy with breath like a urinal stood in front of me. Every time the shuttle hit a bump he lost his balance and stepped on my toes. Every time he stepped on my toes he would excuse himself and burp into my face. Sour. We were on the shuttle bus for twenty-two minutes, and most of that time I was trying not to breathe. Looking on the bright side. When I got to my car, the top had been slashed and my CD player stolen. A Blaupunkt. I tried to file a report, but the parking attendant didn't speak English. Hey, that's L.A. It took forty-five minutes to get out of the airport and onto the freeway, only to find that the freeway was gridlocked. A bald guy in a deuce-and-a-half truck cut me off in a sprint to the exit ramp. He called me an asshole, but he was probably having a bad day. At the bottom of the ramp he squeaked through on the yellow, but I got caught by the red. No big deal. Look at the bright side. A homeless woman wearing a garbage bag spritzed oil on my windshield and told me Jesus was coming. She said that in the meantime she'd be happy to clean my windshield for a dime. I paid her, and said that if Jesus didn't get here soon I was going to stop looking on the bright side and kill somebody. Welcome home.