Читать книгу Alligator Moon - Joanna Wayne - Страница 9

Six months later

CASSIE HAVELIN PIERSON stared at the sheet of paper. The divorce decree. All that was left of her marriage to Attorney Drake Pierson. She’d have expected the finality of it to be more traumatic, had thought she’d feel anger or pain or maybe even a surge of relief. Instead she felt a kind of numbness, as if the constant onslaught of emotional upheavals over the past year had anesthetized her system to the point that it was unable to respond.

She tossed the decree into a wire basket on the corner of her desk and went back to pounding keys on her computer. Almost ironic that the next word she typed was the name of her ex-husband, but he was all the news these days—him and his client’s suit against Dr. Norman Guilliot.

Leave it to Drake to snare the hottest case of the year. Acclaimed plastic surgeon to the wealthy pitted against the best-known TV evangelist in the south. The locals fed on the details like starving piranhas on fresh flesh, but then New Orleanians always loved a good scandal. So did her boss. It sold magazines, and circulation numbers sold advertising.

The Flanders case had been the hottest news item going for the past six months, even beating out the young woman who’d accused one of the city’s famous athletes of rape. The reverend was on TV every week, proclaiming the gospel according to Flanders and shedding tears over the wife he claimed had been lost to a case of malpractice by the famed Cajun surgeon. And somehow Drake had expedited the trial beyond belief to take advantage of the hype.

Cassie finished the article, hit the print key and picked up the phone on the corner of her desk to make another stab at reaching her dad in Houston. The president of the United States was probably easier to reach, but then the president didn’t draw nearly the salary Butch Havelin did as CEO of Conner-Marsh Drilling and Exploration.

She dialed the number and waited.

“Mr. Havelin’s office. May I help you?”

“It’s Cassie, Dottie. Is Dad around?”

“I’m sorry. You just missed him again. Did you try his cell phone?”

“I did and left a message there, as well.”

“I’m sure he’ll get back to you soon, but if this is an emergency I might be able to track him down.”

“No need for that, but thanks for the offer.” She hung up the phone and slid her notes on the Flanders v. Guilliot case into a manila folder.

“You’re looking glum for a Friday night,” Janie Winston said, stopping by her desk. “Bad day?”

“No worse than usual.”

“A few of us are going to Lucy’s for happy hour. Why don’t you join us? You can drink as much as you want and stagger home from there.”

“Staggering through the warehouse district on a Friday night. Boy, does that sound exciting.”

“Not only glum but sarcastic. Why do I smell a rat named Drake Pierson behind this mood? What’s he want you to give up now, the sheets off the bed he shared with you?”

“Too late. I burned those after I found he’d brought the Tulane cheerleader to the townhouse to take her testimony. Besides, Drake is old news.” She reached over, retrieved the decree and handed it to her co-worker.

“Over and done with. I’d think you’d be celebrating, not sulking. He really is lower than pond scum, you know?”

“Evan Flanders doesn’t think so.”

“Evan Flanders has visions of dollar signs dancing in his head. So, forget ’em all. Let’s go get a margarita.”

Cassie was tempted. She almost said yes, then spied the postcard propped against her pencil cup. “Actually I’m going shopping tonight.”

“Buying something suitable for a hot divorcée?”

“Could be, or at least for a relaxing vacation far away from this humidity.”

“Now that’s what I call a divorce party. When are you leaving?”

“Immediately, I hope, if the airline will let me use my flight credits for the last trip I had to cancel.”

“Does Ogre Olson know about these plans?”

“Not yet.”

“That explains the glum. No way the guy is going to let you leave with the Flanders case going to trial in just two weeks.”

“Only because he thinks the Pierson name in the byline carries some clout.”

“You’ll never hear him admit that. Clout might translate to an increase in salary.”

“No, he’ll use the usual bull. The timing couldn’t be worse for Crescent Connection. I don’t have the time blocked off on the vacation chart. I’m putting the man in a major bind, and…”

“And you’ll owe him big time,” Janie joined in as they quoted in unison the boss’s last word on everything.

“So where are you going on this impromptu vacation?”

“The Greek Islands.”

“Wow! When you play, you play first-class.”

“Come with me.”

“I would in a New York minute if I had a little more money in my vacation fund.”

“How much do you have?”

“Somewhere under five dollars. Not even enough to buy a box of assorted condoms for the travel bag.”

Cassie’s cell phone rang. “Buy something really hot,” Janie said, walking away as Cassie grabbed the phone. “I’ll spring for the condoms.”

Cassie murmured a hurried hello.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Her dad, finally. “You are one hard man to reach.”

“Sorry about that. Damn merger’s going to drive me nuts before it’s over and done with.”

“Don’t you have a merger committee and a VP working on that?”

“Yeah, but when the going gets tough, I hit the front lines. Is anything wrong?”

“No, I just wanted to get Mom’s itinerary from you.”

“She’s not due home for almost two weeks.”

“I know, but I need to talk to her.”

“Big news?”

“I think I might join her and her friend for the last week or so of their trip.”

“That’s a great idea.”

“Any chance you can fax her itinerary to me tonight or just attach it to an e-mail if you have it on the computer?”

“I don’t think I have it anywhere. I don’t remember even seeing it.”

“You must have. Mom wouldn’t leave the country for six weeks and not tell you how to reach her.”

“I was in London when she left. I assumed she’d given it to you.”

“No.”

“Sorry, baby. All I know is what she told me. She and Patsy…Patsy somebody. Anyway their plans were to spend a few days in Athens then leisurely tour the islands.”

“Patsy David,” Cassie said, filling in the last name for him.

“That’s it. She’s an old high school buddy of your mother’s. Evidently they hooked up when Rhonda went back for her fortieth reunion.”

“Patsy must be quite persuasive to talk Mom into a six-week vacation abroad.”

“It’ll be good for her, especially with me working so much. Why don’t you give Moore’s Travel a call? It’s right here in The Woodlands. One of your mother’s friends from church works there, and Rhonda always lets her book our nonbusiness flights. I’m sure they’ll have a copy.”

“What’s the church friend’s name?”

“I’m not sure. But they’ll have the info in their computer system, so anyone can help you. Have them fax an itinerary to my office when they fax one to you.”

They talked a few minutes more, about nothing in particular. When they hung up, Cassie picked up the postcard and stared at the picture of a small Greek village and the brilliant blue sea beyond. Beautiful beaches. Ancient ruins. Picturesque windmills. Snowy white monasteries. Living, breathing Greek gods.

Goodbye, Drake. Hello, Greece.

JOHN ROBICHEAUX stepped through the open door of Suzette’s and scanned the area looking for his brother Dennis. It didn’t take long to locate him. He was seated at a back table, his hands already wrapped around a cold beer.

John maneuvered through a maze of mismatched tables and chairs, nearly tripping over a couple of young boys who were playing with their plastic hot rods on the grease-stained floor. The air was stifling and filled with the smells of fried seafood, cayenne pepper and stale cigarette smoke—enough to choke a man. Worse, the jukebox was cranking out a 70s rock song at a decibel level just below that of a freight train.

A typical Saturday evening at Suzette’s. Later the families would leave and the drinkers and partiers would take full charge, not staggering back to their homes until the wee hours of Sunday morning. John planned to be long gone by then.

He dropped into the rickety wooden chair across the table from his brother. A young waitress he’d never seen before appeared at his elbow.

“You want a beer?”

“I’ll take a Bud.”

“Draft?”

“In the bottle if you’ve got a real cold one.”

“Icy cold.”

“Bring me another while you’re at it,” Dennis said. “And keep ’em coming.”

“You looking to have a good time tonight?” she asked, staring at Dennis through long, dark lashes so thick they had no use for mascara.

“I might be,” Dennis said, giving her a once-over. “You looking to be invited to the party?”

She blushed, but smiled. “I’m just here to bring the beer.”

He and Dennis both watched her walk away, her white shorts hugging her firm little ass above great thighs.

“How would you like to have those legs wrapped around you tonight?” Dennis asked.

“Not enough to do jail time.”

“Those breasts look like they’ve been growing at least eighteen years to me. Besides, a sweet thing like that might inspire you to clean up a bit—at least use a razor once in a while. You’re starting to look like a mangy dog.”

John rubbed his chin and the spiky growth of half a week. “Hope you had a better reason for this visit than insulting me.”

“We’re brothers. We should see each other once in a while.”

“I’m easy to find.”

“When you’re not out in the Gulf. How’s the fishing business?”

“It’ll do. I’ve got a group of guys down from New York for a week starting Monday. Long as Delilah don’t come calling, we’ll be fine.”

“Supposed to be a bad year for hurricanes.”

“Don’t take but one to be bad if she hits you dead-on.”

“Yeah.”

The waitress returned with the beers. Dennis took a long, slow pull on his. “You ever miss your old life?”

“Mais non.” John drank his beer slowly, letting the cold liquid trickle down his throat. He wasn’t about to rehash the past or his mistakes. Old horror stories should not be washed up by cold beer.

“You could be rich by now,” Dennis said. “Driving a Porsche, picking up high-class babes.”

“High-class babes don’t screw any better than poor ones, sometimes not as well. Besides, one successful Robicheaux is more than Beau Pierre ever expected to see.”

Dennis cracked his knuckles, a nervous habit he’d picked up from their grandfather. “I’m thinking of leaving Beau Pierre.”

The statement was the night’s first surprise and the first clue as to what had really prompted Dennis’s call. “I thought you and Guilliot were close as two crabs in a pot.”

“Guilliot’s all right. I just think it’s time I move on. Beau Pierre’s starting to feel more and more like one of Puh-paw’s old muskrat traps.”

“You didn’t knock up some local jolie fille, huh?”

“Nothing like that.” He stretched his legs under the scarred old table. “It’s just time I move on. That’s all.”

“You didn’t feel that way last time we talked.”

“Things change.”

“They changed real fast. This doesn’t have anything to do with losing a patient on the operating table, does it?”

Dennis choked on the beer he’d just swallowed, coughed a few times into his sleeve, then slammed his almost empty bottle onto the table. “You talking about Ginny Lynn Flanders?”

“Who else?”

“That wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t nobody’s fault. She just had a bad heart condition that had never been diagnosed. Guilliot’s gonna win that lawsuit easy.”

“I just asked.”

“Well, I just answered.”

Not honestly, John figured, judging from Dennis’s reaction. But he sure as hell wasn’t in a position to tell anyone how to live his life. “When will you be making the move?”

“Soon, but keep it quiet. I haven’t told Dr. Guilliot yet, and I want him to hear it from me first.”

“Good idea. Have you told anyone else?”

“Nobody I can’t trust. You ought to think about a change, too, John. You can’t live in that old trapper’s shack and avoid life forever.”

“I’m not avoiding.” He chased the lie with a swig of beer. “Where are you planning to go?”

“I’m thinking about Los Angeles. I got a buddy out there I went to medical school with. He says the field’s wide open. Lots of job opportunities and enough sun-bronzed hotties to make me forget my Cajun bellos.”

“Might not be as good as it sounds. The rules are different once you leave the bayou country. No buddies watching your back when the gators come after you.”

“I don’t think they have a lot of gators in Los Angeles.”

“Oh, they got ’em all right. Only the gators out there wear high-priced suits and designer shoes from Italy.”

“Maybe I won’t go that far.”

But he was going. John could tell the decision had been made. He’d liked to have asked more questions, but that wasn’t the type of relationship they had. He didn’t answer questions so he forfeited the right to ask them. Still, he hated to see Dennis leave town, especially if he was being driven out.

And that was a possibility he wouldn’t put past Norman Guilliot. “It’s your call, Dennis. Just make sure you’re the one doing the calling.”

The waitress stopped by their table again. “You want another beer?”

John looked at her again, letting his gaze take it all in, from the dark, straight hair that curved around her face and fell down the back of her neck to the perky breasts and hips that flared from the narrow waist.

She was a looker, and the way she was batting those eyes at Dennis, seemed like she might have changed her mind about wanting to party.

“Make mine a whiskey,” John said. His little brother was leaving town. Reason enough to hit the hard stuff.

DENNIS KEPT both hands on the wheel as he slowed and maneuvered the sharp turn. He shouldn’t be driving at all after so many beers, but it wasn’t far to the old house he’d rented from Guilliot’s nephew. Another mile or so and he’d be home.

His mind wandered back in time. Shrimping out in the bays with Puh-paw. And on Saturday nights Muh-maw would make the big pot of gumbo. And the stories Puh-paw would tell about trapping and hunting back in the good old days before there was such a thing as licenses and limits. They’d been terrific grandparents.

John and Dennis had different mothers; it didn’t matter much since Muh-maw and Puh-paw had raised them both anyways.

Dennis didn’t remember his parents at all. He’d been only two when their father had gone to jail up in Jefferson Parish. He’d never come home. He didn’t know that much about his mother. Muh-maw hadn’t let anyone mention her name in the house, but John had told him once that she’d run off with some guy from Lafayette.

Dennis nodded, then jerked his head backward, fighting sleep. He shouldn’t have taken those two pills back at Suzette’s, but he’d had a migraine the first part of the week and the thing was threatening to come back on him.

He gunned the engine, then threw on his brakes when he saw something lying across the road in front of him. The car left the pavement, skidded along the shoulder, then careened into the swamp before it finally came to a stop.

Dennis wasn’t sure what was on the road, but it had looked a lot like a body. Could be some drunk passed out walking home from a neighbor’s. Only there weren’t any houses along this stretch of road. He loosed his seat belt and opened the door. When he stepped out, his feet sank into a good six inches of water before being sucked into the mud. His good shoes, too.

He jerked at the sound of something swishing through the water behind him. A water moccasin? A gator? He spun around. Too late.

His head exploded, but Dennis never felt the pain or the blood and bits of brain spilling over his body. Never knew when he sank to the soggy swamp now red with his blood.