Too Far Gone (2 page)

3

Detective Manseur drummed his fingers absently on the steering wheel as he sped along streets Alexa wasn't familiar with. Policemen, firemen, and ambulance drivers were required to learn the streets of their cities and towns until they were human GPS devices. If cabbies and delivery people didn't do the same, they were less effective at their jobs, but people didn't usually die on account of it.

Alexa's understanding of the layout of New Orleans was sketchy. She knew that the streetcar ran from Uptown, through the Garden District, and made a loop at Canal Street. She knew the Mississippi River curved around the city, which was why it was called the “Crescent City.” She knew that Lake Pontchartrain was north and that the twin-span across it was the longest bridge in the world. She knew where the French Quarter, the Central Business District, the Federal Court Building, and FBI Headquarters were located.

“You ever heard of the LePointe family?” Manseur asked her.

“Can't say I have,” Alexa replied. “Sounds French.”

“They're the most influential family there is around here. They're socially prominent, wealthy, and as generous as people get. The LePointes don't usually give out in the open.”

He stopped talking to make a left turn.

“Any questions so far?” he asked.

“These LePointes make the social page wearing tuxedos more than most people and throw around money and are fairly discreet about it,” Alexa said. “But not so discreet so that everybody isn't aware of it.”

Manseur sat as silent as might a nun who has just heard someone accuse the Pope of using money sent to the Vatican from poor boxes to buy lap dances.

“So, I assume your missing person is a LePointe,” she said.

“Gary West. He married Casey LePointe.”

“So Gary West would be a valuable target for a kidnapper?”

Manseur nodded.

“What were the circumstances of his disappearance?”

“He didn't come home for dinner.”

“Missed dinner? Obviously a kidnapping.”

“Oh, you're being sarcastic. I'm sorry if I'm not doing this briefing right. I just want you to know we're dealing with people who are important to powerful people.”

Alexa laughed. “Forgive me. It's late, and being a smart-ass is part of my FBI training. Go ahead.”

“I don't mind.” Manseur had slowed the car, so Alexa figured they must be getting close to wherever they were heading. “Dr. William LePointe is presently the last male LePointe. His brother, Curry, has been dead for twenty-six years. The Wests have a kid, I think a young daughter.”

“The family's influence explains why an out-of-place LePointe by marriage rates the commander of Homicide.”
And an FBI agent who specializes in abductions.

“Kyler Kennedy, our Missing Persons detective who was at your lecture, is meeting us there. It should be Kennedy's case—at least at first—but not this time. I was hoping you could watch how we handle it, suggest things we miss, or whatever. My superiors don't want a big fuss made about this until it's established that there's a need for a big fuss. They'd like to keep everything low-key.”

“Like keeping it a secret that one of these LePointes is missing?”

“Alexa, you don't see a LePointe in the newspaper except on the society or business page. Dr. William LePointe was Rex before he was thirty-five years old.”

“Rex?”

Manseur smiled. “You're not familiar with Rex?”

“I only know from experience that it's the number-one name for German shepherds.”

“King of Carnival. It's about the biggest deal there is in this city. Well, being Momus is probably bigger, but Momus is always masked, so nobody but a few people in that secret society have any idea who the king of Momus is. See, Rex brings in Mardi Gras—Fat Tuesday—and Momus bids adieu to Mardi Gras.”

“The festive alpha and omega, or yin and yang. How did I miss that?” Alexa said. Manseur talked about Rex and Momus like a Catholic might speak of the Virgin Mary. He probably was Catholic.

“By the way, I didn't mention to anybody that I was bringing you along.”

“You didn't mention the FBI coming in?”

“Just to advise, if that's okay. Unofficially.”

“Wouldn't have it any other way.”

“I'll be ranking officer at the scene. We have this new superintendent of police. He told me to make sure this went right. You understand, nobody wants to involve the FBI unless it turns out to be an FBI matter—”

“Of course not.”

“Which nobody thinks it is. I'm just…” Manseur hesitated.

“Covering your bases.”

“Covering my something. The LePointes give millions every year to all sorts of things, like schools, libraries, the zoo, museums, scholarships, after-school programs, homeless and battered women shelters, summer camps, and hospitals. They've donated firefighting equipment, ballistic vests, and service weapons to the police. The LePointes are extremely generous to New Orleans.”

“I don't suppose their generosity extends to political campaigns?” Alexa asked.

“Local, state, and national.”

“Say no more,” Alexa said.

4

The West house was a looming thunder-gray brick palatial structure with wood shutters and a steep slate roof. It was protected from prying eyes by a wall of impenetrable privets. The lower floor of the home was visible from the street only where the hedge ended on either side of the ornate wrought-iron-gated driveway and where a matching pedestrian gate protected the walkway. The cobblestone driveway was empty except for a sleek new Bentley.

Manseur parked on the street at the end of a row of identical four-door sedans, each with cheaper-by-the-million hubcaps and short radio antennas centered on their trunks. There was not a single marked police car in evidence.

Alexa followed Manseur through the gate and toward the covered front porch, which was thirty feet wide. Men in casual attire stood in a cluster off to one side, giving the impression of a wake in progress. Alexa had to suppress a smile when she recognized one of two men standing together on the opposite side of the porch from the larger group.

“Dagnabbit,” Manseur murmured as he opened the gate. “My superintendent is here.”

Alexa wore khaki slacks, a button-down shirt under a navy blazer. Her .40-caliber Glock and a pair of loaded magazines resided in an armory section of her shoulder bag. As Alexa and Manseur closed on the porch, the men grew silent and watched intently. A couple of the plainclothes cops, both looking like deskbound administrators, nodded at Manseur as he led Alexa to the pair of men standing alone. Superintendent of Police Jackson Evans was a tall, distinguished-looking man whose skin was the color of maple syrup. The top cop's intense nut-colored eyes slowly covered the distance between Alexa's shoes and her eyes.

The older man Evans was standing with reached into his coat pocket for his ringing cell phone, glanced carelessly at the readout, then stepped away for privacy.

“Superintendent Evans, may I introduce—”

“Alexa,” Evans interrupted, smiling broadly. “Your presence here is quite an
unexpected
pleasure.”

“Well, Jackson. I heard you had taken over down here. If you don't slow down, you're going to run out of distressed cities to rescue.” Alexa allowed her accent to slow and flow below the Mason-Dixon Line. Being a native of the Mississippi Delta, her accent had a distinctly Southern edge anyway, but she had worked hard to lessen its dominance. Even so, when she was around other Southern accents, hers came back to the fore in all of its glory. In truth, a slightly exaggerated drawl tended to disarm hostility among practitioners of that accent, and it made a lot of non-Southerners think they had the upper hand intellectually. She had said on more than a few occasions that while she might talk slow, she thought really fast.

“I didn't know you were coming,” Jackson said, turning his eyes on Manseur for a split second to let the detective know he was addressing his comment to him more than to Alexa. He obviously felt blindsided, and Jackson Evans had never appreciated being taken by surprise. He was a political weatherman. When the wind blew from the right direction and his nostrils caught the scent of success, he strutted and crowed like a barnyard rooster. When it shifted and brought ill odors his way, a trapdoor would open for him to drop through.

It amazed Alexa how much the “brass” of the law enforcement world had in common. In the four cities where Evans had been the superintendent of police over the past nine years, crime had gone down, and the citizenry knew it was due to Jackson Evans because he told them so every chance he got. In every department he ran, the police public relations department was run by the very same dedicated professionals. They were a troupe of talented fact-spinners who followed their leader from city to city in the same manner a pack of jackals will shadow a lion pride.

“I wasn't aware you two knew each other,” Manseur said.

“Alexa and I go back ten years.”

“More like six,” Alexa corrected. “But who's counting?”

“Last time I saw you was year before last in San Francisco at the Fairmont.” Jackson Evans tapped his forehead as though he were remembering. “A gathering of police chiefs from around the country.”

“Which reminds me,” Alexa said, “you never did send me a dry-cleaning bill for your slacks.”

Jackson Evans smiled, possibly amused, but more likely just part of his act. “Nonsense. That unfortunate accident was my fault. I can be clumsy.”

Alexa probably should have mentioned to Manseur that she and Evans knew each other, but she hadn't expected to run into him. The superintendent had been extremely charming when they'd first met, and the fact that he was married hadn't kept him from hitting on her shamelessly until she had made it perfectly clear his chances of bedding her were nil. On their last encounter in the Fairmont's bar in San Francisco, he had put his hand on her leg. If Evans hadn't become belligerent when she asked him to remove his hand, she would not have poured a glass of house Merlot into his lap, destroying a pair of wheat-colored linen slacks and embarrassing him in public.

Alexa said, “How is your lovely wife?”

The superintendent showed her a smile filled with teeth bleached to a Hollywood standard of perfection. His eyes flickered, the smile shifting slightly. “Sandra is fine. Thank you for asking.”

The white-haired gentleman closed his phone and returned, smiling absently.

“Hello, I am William LePointe,” he said, fixing watery blue eyes on Alexa. LePointe looked to be in his mid-sixties, had bushy eyebrows, and was dressed in a black polo shirt beneath a dark sports jacket. His black-and-white-checked trousers broke above low-profile loafers.

“I'm sorry,” Evans said. “Dr. LePointe, may I present FBI Special Agent Alexa Keen. Alexa's an old friend of mine.”

Alexa was relieved that Dr. LePointe merely nodded to acknowledge her presence. She wasn't big on shaking hands.

“What is it you do with the FBI?” Dr. LePointe asked her.

“Agent Keen,” Manseur said, “is—”

“An abduction specialist with CIRG,” Evans interrupted again. “She is in town as part of a program the FBI is presenting to—”

Alexa took over from Evans. “To promote the ever-expanding assistance opportunities the FBI's departments have to offer local law enforcement in fighting crime. To educate and discuss the latest equipment, and how to apply our techniques to their problems.”

“It's part of the FBI's
new
spirit of cooperation,” Evans tossed in. “CIRG stands for the Crisis Immediate Response Group.”

“I know what the CIRG is, Superintendent Evans,” LePointe said mildly. “My question is, why is Agent Keen standing with us on my niece's porch?”

“Well,” Evans said, turning his gaze on Manseur, “I'm sure Detective Manseur can clarify that for both of us.”

“Allow me,” Alexa said. “Detective Manseur and I have a mutual friend who suggested we get together while I was in town. When Detective Manseur called to beg off our breakfast meeting, he said he couldn't make it because an important friend of the department, who I assume is you, Dr. LePointe, had a relative who was unaccounted for. I suggested we could talk on the way. Now that I'm here, I would like to offer any assistance I can give. Perhaps I could observe Detective Manseur and offer my impressions, if he doesn't see it as an intrusion. I'm sure I'd learn a great deal from observing his techniques.”

“Unofficially,” Evans said. “I expect we could all learn a great deal from Agent Keen.”

“Absolutely,” Manseur agreed. “To have someone with Agent Keen's experience on hand to share her thoughts in a confidential context might help us save time and better focus our efforts.”

LePointe's eyes softened. “I doubt we require FBI involvement, but thank you for coming out at this late hour to help, Agent Keen. Hopefully my niece overreacted by calling the authorities in so soon, but I sincerely appreciate the immediate attention on the part of the police, and I welcome your interest.” LePointe's smile seemed genuine.

“Best not to take any chances,” Evans said. “It's always a relief when these things turn out to be nothing.”

LePointe shrugged. “We are all concerned about the fact that Gary is out of pocket. However, I want you to understand that I am extremely concerned about exposing my niece to possible humiliation, a risk that becomes exponentially greater with increased official involvement. My niece is an emotionally delicate woman.”

“A minimum of hubbub. Our main job will be to put Mrs. West's mind at ease,” Evans said.

And if we happen to run across her missing husband while we're at it…
Alexa mused.

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.