All the Devil's Creatures (6 page)

After sitting in the parked car for twenty minutes staring at the peeling garage wall, Geoff snapped to, needing a drink. He left the detritus of the road trip—corn chip bag, Dr. Pepper can—in the car but grabbed his suitcase. The back door wouldn’t open, a symptom of the bungalow’s settling foundation, so he walked around to the front. He stepped inside just long enough to drop off his bag and flip through the useless mail before walking the quarter-mile to his favorite neighborhood watering hole, a shack of a place several blocks off the main drag on a corner beneath some live oaks.

The patched, padded red leather door opened onto a smoky den of cheap wood paneling and candle-lit booths. Geoff made his way past a cigarette machine to the bar as Johnny Cash gave way to Sinatra on the juke box. The joint was mostly empty save for a few neighborhood regulars, including Tony Abruzzo lounging at his usual perch. Geoff could not imagine how a man of Tony’s Falstaffian girth managed to always look so comfortable and relaxed on a bar stool.

Tony was talking to a woman Geoff had never seen before, his wild eyebrows animated as he hung on her words. She stood over him at the bar finishing off what looked like a vodka tonic or maybe just club soda with lime. She wore a fitted black leather jacket, and her straight dark hair flowed almost to her waist. Her tan legs glistened between the hem of her short, red leather skirt and the tops of her high heeled boots. As Geoff approached the bar, Tony noticed him and waved him over. The woman turned and Geoff saw her face—stunning and intelligent with dark lipstick and small, crystal clear eye glasses. Smiling at Geoff a little, she leaned over to whisper something to Tony. Then she walked away before Geoff got there. Tony looked disappointed for a second but grinned at Geoff when he sat down at a neighboring stool.

“Did I scare her off?”

“Nah. She’s not the type of gal to stick around one place for long,” Tony said in his gravelly voice and New Jersey accent. He picked up his pack of Benson & Hedges and held it out to Geoff.

“You know I don’t smoke.”

Tony shrugged and shook one out for himself. “I say smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. City Hall’s talking about a ban.”

“Even in bars?”

“Even in bars. Fucking nanny state.”

Tony lit his cigarette and gestured the bartender forth with the deftness of an experienced bar fly. “What are you drinking?”

“Shiner.”

He ordered Geoff a pint and another bourbon rocks for himself. Geoff said
cheers
when they arrived and took a long drink.

“Rough day?”

“Rough week. And it’s only Wednesday.”

“Oh shitty world.” He made a circling motion with his hand, but his slick grin and twinkling eyes suggested that his world was anything but shitty. “So what’s up?”

“Just got back from the lake.”

“Oh. Oh yeah. That lynching’s been all over the news. Bad mojo, man. Fucking awful shit.”

“You don’t know the half of it. The victim worked for my consultant, and my lead client discovered the body.”

Tony’s eyes widened as much as his fleshy face would allow. “No fucking
way
, man. You’re shitting me, right?”

“Afraid not.” Geoff remained impassive, looking into his beer as he spoke. He wanted Tony’s advice, but more than that he wanted to drink.

“Mild mannered
you
getting dragged into this shit storm. It’d be almost funny if it weren’t so fucked up.”

“Yeah.” Geoff frowned into his half-empty pint glass.

“Did you know the girl well?”

“Only met her once in person. She was a grad student working for Eileen.”

“That’s your New Orleans lady, right? Bet she’s taking it hard.”

“Yeah.”

They sat for a while. The bartender leaned against the opposite corner of the bar conversing with a young tattooed couple in black t-shirts. An old man sat alone in a booth drinking beer and working on a crossword. The sole cocktail waitress stood near the door to the kitchen holding her left elbow in her right hand as she smoked a cigarette. On the television over the bar, a soccer match played on mute.

Tony said, “So, how’s it going to affect your shit?”

Geoff gave him the elevator speech about the litigation and the additional time it would take to see it through with Eileen having to pick up the slack for Dalia. Then he looked up and met the fat man’s gaze and said, “Tony—confidential here. My client, his name’s Willie Kincaid. He might need a little help, in your department.”

“Shit, Geoff, is he a suspect?”

“I don’t think so. There’s no way he could have been involved in something like—he’s country, but he’s sure not a violent racist. No—the problem is, he pissed off the sheriff.”

“Never a good idea in the sticks.”

Nodding, Geoff met Tony’s gaze. “See, Willie had seen Dalia, that’s the victim, going in and out of the refinery complex. He’s seen dudes in haz-mat suits all around. He had to know they had something to do with our case. Probably knew Dalia was working for us, for Eileen. Should have, anyway. I mean, maybe I’m not the best about keeping my clients in the loop on the day-to-day shit, but—”

“Yeah, yeah. So?”

“So, when the sheriff interviewed him, Willie didn’t mention his involvement with the lawsuit, with anything to do with the refinery, or Dalia. But he did mention what he’s seen at the facility. Now, when Eileen and I went to talk to the sheriff, we didn’t even know Willie had been the one to discover the body. It just came out, kind of as an aside, that Willie was connected to us and, through us, to the victim. The sheriff sort of flipped.”

The criminal lawyer’s fat lower lip jutted out as he pondered over the situation—big enough for a pigeon to perch on. “Because, I guess, it seemed like Kincaid had selectively withheld information. So why’d your guy act so screwy?”

“Because he’s a nut job. He spends most his days alone on an old swamp island duck blind drinking cheap gin and running an illegal trotline. Probably shooting Lord knows what out of season to boot.”

Tony laughed. “Clients—who needs them, eh?”

“Anyway, if Willie gets dragged deeper into this, he might need a defense lawyer—not my department. He has a little money, apparently.”

“Alright, here’s the deal-io. If Kincaid’s got nothing to hide, isn’t even a suspect, the last thing he wants to do is lawyer up. It’ll just arouse suspicion. You should advise him to cooperate with the authorities. And to act as little like the Unabomber as possible. If things heat up, I’ll be on call.”

“Sure. Thanks, Tony.”

They drank. An indie-rock chanteuse sang through the juke box. Tony lit a cigarette. Then he said, “Okay, answer me this. Is there any chance the murder has anything to do with your lawsuit?”

“I can’t see how it could. But …”

“What?”

“Well, there is some weirdness. I guess Dalia was doing some side-research down at the lake, for her dissertation maybe. I’m not really clear on it. Anyway, according to Eileen, Dalia thinks she uncovered something big. Her boyfriend, this dude T-Jacques in New Orleans, thinks it’s some powerful information involving big name people. He thinks they killed Dalia for it.”

“No shit?” Tony squinted at him. “Now who’s withholding information, Geoffy?”

“Hey, I think this T-Jacques is another paranoid lunatic. Anyway, he has Dalia’s research—proof of this grand conspiracy, he claims. And he’ll only share what he’s got with me.”

“Because you’re the fucking grand crusader who Dalia was working for. Classic.” He snorted. “So when’re you taking a trip to the Big Easy to meet this mope?”

“I’m not sure I’m going to.”

“What?” Tony almost did a spit take with his beer. He put the bottle down hard. “Geoff, are you serious?”

“I don’t think whatever Dalia was up to had anything to do with the lawsuit. She said so herself before she died. She left Eileen some kind of sample—but Eileen’s being cagey. Without all the facts, I don’t feel much like stepping up.”

Geoff rested and sipped beer. Tony smoked in silence, waiting for Geoff to continue as if knowing his drinking buddy had more to report.

“My lawsuit’s progressing; maybe I’ll even get paid. I guess I don’t want to muck it up by screwing around with this T-Jacques guy.”

Tony made a derisive squinty face, his flabby features seeming like melting folds of rubber. He mocked: “‘
Muck it up, muck it up
.’ Come on Geoff, this might be nothing, but it might be big. You’ve got to look into it.” He looked at Geoff, eyes narrow, and pointed with his cigarette. “No, you have an ethical duty to your clients to explore this.”

“Since when do you give a damn about ethical duties?”

“Jersey was another life, my friend. I’ve clean as a whistle since moving to the fucking Lone Star State.”

“Yeah, alright. But say I do talk to T-Jacques and he shows me … what? Evidence of some corporate shenanigans? What am I going to do with it? It’s not my bailiwick. Just like a criminal investigation isn’t my bailiwick.”

Tony considered as he smoked. “You know what you need, Geoffy? A good private eye. Someone who can surreptitiously keep tabs on your redneck sheriff’s investigation down there, and help you out with this T-Jacques fellow.”

“That’s your world we’re talking about.”

“Yeah, no shit.” He took his overflowing wallet from his hip pocket and pulled out a business card. “Here.”

Geoff took the card. Three lines, black on white: “Marisol Solis, Private Investigator.” And a local telephone number.

“She’s the best in town,” Tony said.

Geoff raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“I don’t know. But she’s good. You’ve seen her.”

“Yeah? When?”

“Just this afternoon. She’s the beauty I was talking to when you walked in.”

Geoff cocked his head and smirked. Tony flashed his slick grin.

“She didn’t look like any detective I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s why she’s so good. One reason. And she spent almost ten years with the feds—ATF. Got sick of infringing on honest citizens’ God-given right to drink, smoke, and shoot, so she went private. Anyway, she learned how to work a case. Plus, her father’s a police detective down in the Valley. It’s in her blood.”

“Okay, Tony.” Geoff pocketed the card. “I’ll think about it.”

•

Geoff rolled his eyes with the phone receiver to his ear. The lush, New Orleans accented voice on the other end continued its spiel: “You remember those WMD’s? They weren’t never in Iraq; they’re right up there, under that lake.”

“T-Jacques, slow down. That doesn’t make any sense.” Geoff closed his eyes and rubbed them with the thumb and forefinger of his free hand. He had called T-Jacques this morning first thing after pouring himself a big mug of strong black coffee in his own kitchen and padding into the spare bedroom. At first, Dalia’s boyfriend was furtive, had even insisted on calling Geoff back—presumably to trace the phone line and make sure he wasn’t an imposter. Now he spoke in a waterfall of paranoia but eschewed specifics.

“I will not spell it out for you on the phone, man. It’s not safe—but Dalia left everything you need to know on a flash drive. I’ll tell you this much, there’s illegal nasty shit going on—unnatural, godless evil shit.”

“At the shuttered refinery? T-Jacques, there’s just no way—”

“At the refinery, under the refinery, I don’t know. But they killed her for it.”

Christ, I’ve got to get off this call.
He let himself sound exasperated. “Who T-Jacques? Who killed her for it?”

“I. Don’t. Know. Your answers start with the flash drive. But hear this: doesn’t Robert Duchamp own that refinery?”

“What? No, Texronco owns it, the oil company—”

“Man, Dalia had it figured out. It’s on here, I know.”

“Did you tell Sheriff Seastrunk any of this?”

“Hell no. No way I’m telling that cracker Texas sheriff anything. Especially not if it involves that rat bastard racist motherfucker Duchamp. At
best
he wouldn’t believe me.”

“Alright, T-Jacques,” Geoff said. “Then I think you should talk to Eileen Kim, Dalia’s boss. She probably has a better idea what Dalia was working on—”

“No, unh-uh. I don’t trust that woman. She’s working her own angle.”

Geoff could not argue. He listened to T-Jacques’ breath in the long silence until the man continued: “Look, Mr. Waltz. I know all about what you’re up to up there—suing to clean up the lake and shit. But this is bigger than that. Dalia died for it, man. So just look. Please, man.”

Geoff leaned back in his office chair and stared at the ceiling fan as he listened to the plea of a grieving stranger five hundred miles away. “Why me, T-Jacques?”

“Because it’s on you, man. Dalia died for your shit. And it wasn’t worth it. But if any good’s going to come out of it, it’s on this flash drive.”

Geoff sat up and looked over his IKEA desk. He had put it together just a few months after he and Janie bought the house. He remembered her standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her bulging belly:
I snared me a hotshot trial lawyer and a handyman. How ‘bout that?

“Okay, T-Jacques, mail me the drive. I’ll take a look.”

“Mail? Forget that, fool—no mail, and no FedEx either. We meet in person. And I’m not coming to Texas—spent enough time stranded in Houston last year to last me a lifetime.”

Geoff considered. A road trip might do him some good. “Fine. Will you be around New Orleans this weekend?”

“Man, I’m around every weekend—playing four sets at least, just to make ends meet and rebuild my peoples’ houses. And that’s what I’m doing every minute I’m not playing—building houses. We all been dicked by FEMA, now we all getting dicked by Allstate. My weekends are booked. Shit, I can’t even take a weekend off when my girl—.” He seemed to have choked up. After a bit, he said: “But I’ll tell you—this Friday night we’re playing in the Marigny, at the Argentine. You been to New Orleans, know where that is?”

“I know the club, T-Jacques. Glad to hear it’s still open.”

“Alright then. Be there.”

S
heriff Seastrunk stayed in his office till sunset, catching up on paperwork that he’d let slide as his department’s first full-fledged murder investigation in nearly five years got underway. There had been other killings, of course—a couple of hunting accidents, a meth-fueled lovers’ quarrel turned tragic—but those hadn’t required any real detective work.