The Perfect Crime (9 page)

He phoned Marty while he was on the road to give him the name of the Day’s Inn he’d be staying at in New Orleans. He called from a pay phone outside a Popeye’s Fried Chicken in Mississippi where a thermometer on the outside of the building read 97
⁰
. Marty had some more information. He read him a list of names he’d gotten from NCIC, folks that might be interested in electronic gear, but it didn’t look as though it would be much help. The list consisted mostly of individuals belonging to political fringe groups and terrorist groups. Sounded pretty much like the same list of names he used to go over, back when he was on the bomb squad. Christ! Weren’t any of these crackpots caught and put away yet? No lone wolf bandits, except some safecrackers, but for some reason Grady couldn’t explain, he didn’t think this was a yegg. Grady asked him to fax the sheet to the Day’s Inn anyway and any other info he could get from the other agencies, though both men were sure Kincaid was the right guy. He didn’t want to eliminate any possibilities. He went into Popeye’s and picked up some red beans and rice before he got back in the car.

He drove nonstop the rest of the way to New Orleans, going across the Pontchartrain Causeway in the middle of the night. After he checked in and showered, he walked over to the front desk and asked for messages. There was one fax from Marty. The knife used on the hooker was also the one used on Jack was all it said, not much else--good luck in catching this creep. They were looking up in Dayton in all the usual places, but Marty figured the same way Grady did. Kincaid was back in New Orleans.

The car rental place he’d passed on the way into town proved very accommodating. They had not only rented him a car, but let him park his own on their back lot. For a small fee. At first, they tried to talk him into taking one of the flashy T-birds out front, but he held out for the gray Dodge Dart four-door he’d spotted. It was a twin for his own. No sense in driving all over town in a car with Ohio plates. Who knows when or if he might run into Kincaid and if the guy was this smart, he’d tumble to him in a minute if he spotted plates from the state in which he’d just committed a crime.

The motel clerk gave him directions on how to get to Algiers. At the Vallette Street address he’d gotten from Marty, he didn’t get much of anything useful. All he found was a retired black woman living there. No, she never heard of a Charles Kincaid, and no, she’d never seen the person in the photo Grady showed her. The person who lived there before her was a young black man who sold insurance. Before that, she didn’t know. Folks didn’t stay in these apartments long. She was moving out herself soon.

Grady got in the car, drove to New Orleans and headed out to Kenner. He found Veterans Highway and looked for a gas station where he could buy a city map. Driving along Veterans, he had several near misses in traffic when cars pulled out without warning and crossed lanes inches in front of him. A traffic cop could have a field day, he thought. Half the drivers on the road appeared to be drinking something and he bet it wasn’t coffee. He wondered what the DUI stats looked like in this town.

There were two guys working at the station, a teenager and an older guy. He waited until the older one walked out to the bays and went out to him and asked, “Where’s the best place in town to get a girl?”

Grady wasn’t feeling horny; he figured if Kincaid liked hookers, this might be the best way to find him.

“Hell, y’ain’t gotta go clear inta town,” the guy said, grinning. “Do what the preachers do--pick any joint on Airline Highway. They partial to tourists on Airline. Dontcha watch the news? Say, y’ain’t a preacher, are ya? I bet y’all got a TV show and everything, aintcha? They gonna love ya over t’Airline! Say, what channel are y’all on?” He guffawed and slapped his knee.

“You might want to try and control yourself, Clyde,” Grady said to the man as he opened his car door. “You don’t want to end up with a heart attack while you’re having so much fun.”

Grady made a point not to go back to that station.

CHAPTER 11

SARAH ST. IVES WAS on the phone, unaware that two men were watching her house from a car nearby.

Bastard. Bastard, bastard, bastard
. Bastard!

“Thank you, Jane,” Sarah St. Ives said pleasantly, in a voice that belied what she was thinking. She hung up the phone with deliberate care.

That was it. That was enough. Who did that bastard think he was? Didn’t he realize it was
her
bank, not his? Her grandfather’s present to her, her debutante surprise, her inheritance?
Hers
, not his, not that lying, philandering coonass son-of-a-bitch of a husband, who convinced everybody into thinking he came from quality. She knew what he was, where he came from. A long time ago, she helped him create the fiction everyone accepted. Knew all about his working in the cafeteria, when he was putting himself through Ole Miss. Knew all about those movie-star good looks that turned her head--her, cheerleader, summa cum laude head--so smart she fell for a low-life coonass with ambition. Smart, but dumb! Dumb little cheerleader with hot pants and a Phi Beta Kappa key.

The ambition. That’s what turned her on to him. That and the looks. God! He was a killer back in those days, could have been in movies, in magazines, modeling underwear. Still was. That was the problem. Goddamn coonass movie star! And her. Look at her. Cursing like an Italian waiter or one of those Third-World Catholics, the ones who made her ashamed of her faith. He’d turned her into this coarse person. And what did she do? Only helped make him what he was, the ungrateful bastard. Figured out the lie herself, wrote it, lived it, played it to the hilt, got him in
Who’s Who
with a bio that made him look like one of the fucking Kennedys for Christ sakes, the ungrateful bastard.

She’d had her suspicions for a long time. Mostly, she ignored them, put them away in a part of her mind she didn’t go to often. Not now. She couldn’t ignore the phone call earlier that day, as hard as she tried.

“
Mrs. St. Ives,”
the voice said.
“Your husband’s fucking my girlfriend. You gonna do anything about it?”

You bet your ass I’m going to do something about it, she thought, the anonymous caller’s voice still echoing in her ear. The voice on the phone had refused to give his name, but he gave her plenty of other information. A name she recognized immediately as one of her husband’s employees. The address of C.J.’s love nest. Some intimate details.

He was out with the fucking bimbo right now, no doubt. She listened to the bank’s chief teller, her voice calm but her eyes full of fury. “He’s away on business, Mrs. St. Ives. He did call in a few minutes ago and said something had come up. He’d run into a client who needed to talk to him about a loan. I think he said it was Mr. Bell. You know, Mr. Bell who has Bell Industries?” In that tone Jane used, that superior, nasal voice. That said,
between you and me, we both know where he’s at, honey. That’s some husband you got there.

Sarah St. Ives hung up the phone softly and then picked it up again. She daled information for the number of Bell Industries.

“J.J.? How are you, J.J.? We don’t see much of you and Dorothy. We’ll have to have you over soon. Would next week be convenient? Listen, J.J., is my husband there by chance? He mentioned something about seeing you this week, today I thought. No? Well, it’s nothing important...”

Lying bastard. That was it. She was finished. This was one time too much. Still...she’d give him one more chance. She went over to the sideboard for the decanter she kept the Crown Royal in and poured about two fingers in a glass. Reaching for the phone, she dialed the bank again and asked in a voice muffled by a handkerchief held over her mouth, “Is Miss Villere available?”

When she hung up the phone, tears of anger welled up but she forced them back.

Okay, Buster. That tears it. You asked for it. Let’s see how tough you really are, you piece of Bridge City trash. Now you get to play in the big leagues; see if you can hit the curve ball.

What she did was go over to the CD player and put on Pavarotti. She remembered something she’d read about him one time. He owned horses. Wasn’t it funny how people of distinction possessed much the same interests? She listened to the opening strains of
Quando Le Sere Al Placido
and smiled, one long graceful finger on the pulse in her neck. It would be nice to see the horses again. Perhaps she’d have a ride. It had been weeks since she’d been on a horse. Blue Boy. She’d take out Blue Boy. Once more she dialed a number.

“Hello? Grandfather? I want to come over and have a talk. I need your advice on something. I’ll tell you when I get there.”

There. What should she wear? The blue suit, that’s the one. Grandfather says it makes my eyes bluer. And my jodhpurs. Better take some jodhpurs. Take Blue Boy out.

She turned the volume as loud as it would go.
Yes,
she thought.
La donna è mobile. Très mobile.
Luciano Pavarotti’s voice filled the room as she busied herself packing.

In a short while, she was walking out to the street where her car was parked. She failed to notice the two men sitting in the midnight-blue Caprice halfway down the block.

***

Reader and Eddie sat in Reader’s car and watched the old man making his way up the street, stopping every so often to pick up a can or bottle and place in his shopping cart.

“That’s--”

“Yeah. I’ve never seen him over on Magazine. Closest he gets usually is maybe Tchoupitoulas. Mostly he’s up in the CBD. What’s with the cans? I’ve never seen him pick up cans. I thought he was a paper man.”

Both of the men laughed. They were watching one of the New Orleans street people, a well-known figure seen mostly in the Central Business District.

“I’ll tell you a story about this guy,” Reader said. “You know how he’s always going around to the trash bins and picking out newspapers and putting them in his goddamned cart...well, one day, Sunday, I was thinking...I got this huge-ass bundle of the Times-Picayune I gotta pitch...I’ll throw it in the car and next time I see the old geezer I’ll give it to him.

“Anyway, I got this crap in my car two, three days when I spot him up over on Carondolet. I pull over and yell at him, ‘Hey, old-timer. Here’s a drink for you. This’ll get y’all some good wine, what?’ And this creep...smells like you wouldn’t believe, like the underside of a board you find in a vacant lot...this asshole says, believe it or not, he says, ‘Keep your fucking charity!’ He’s screamin’, ‘Keep youucking charity, motherfucker! I don’t need your fucking handout! I’m working here, motherfucker!’ I couldn’t fucking believe it! To me,
Reader
, he says this with people standing all around listening to this shit.”

“What’d you do?”

“What’d I do? I got out of the goddamned car. I left the goddamned car in the middle of the street and walked over to him, ten pounds of Sunday papers in my mitts, of which five pounds is all about how come the Saints can’t win no way, and I stick ‘em in his goddamned shopping cart. That’s what I did.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Uh-huh? Uh-huh your ass! Fucking asshole starts throwing my papers outta his greasy cart! Throws ‘em all over the street. Fucking pollutin’ motherfucker, throwin’ my papers all over the goddamned place. I went over to this cocksucker, pulled my gun out and put it on his ear.”

Eddie smirked.

“I guess you didn’t shoot him, didja, Reader? I see him right there, half a block down.”

Reader chortled. He felt the mad all over again for a minute, but it fell away and his shoulders shook with silent mirth.

“I guess you’re right, Eddie. Naw, I didn’t shoot him. I was gonna, but fuck, I was on parole. Man, you talk about a scene! People all running to th’other side of the street, women screamin’, stuff like that. I’m fresh out on parole, don’t care nothin’ about that, but this guy, this
bum
, he’s got heart. I got the gun right up alongside his skull and he says t’me, ‘Take a hike. I want your help, I’ll call you on the phone. You don’t get no phone call, don’t be bringing me your charity bullshit. I’m working here.’ He says that. Don’t look at me the whole time. Keeps throwin’ papers outta the cart. You gotta admire that. So I didn’t shoot him. I tapped him with the gun butt. Not that hard. Knocked him down, shut him up. He’s an all-right dude.”

Somebody came out of the St. Ives house. She was wearing a blue dress that Reader could tell a mile away wasn’t bought off the rack at Penney’s. Maison Blanche threads, all the way. She was a knockout, too, even at her age. She got in the Mercedes parked in front, getting in from the curb side. Slid over and drove off.

“That’s the wife. Maybe we’ll bring
two
bombs and suit her up too. Yeah. Put some more pressure on ol’ Clifford. Don’t hafta have anything in it, just make them think there is. Good way to keep her quiet, keep from doing something stupid anyway.”

“You gonna follow her?” Eddie asked.

“Naw. Looks like St. Ives isn’t home. He’s the one I want, not her.” He’d seen what he wanted but it wasn’t information he wanted Eddie to know. She looked mad. Good.

He gunned the engine briefly, let off the gas and eased forward and out into the street. When they passed the street person he honked and waved. The old man never looked up.

“Bet that old fucker’s used t’people honking at him,” he said, heading the car north toward the French Quarter. “You know, that day I braced him, it musta been ninety-five degrees, hunnert percent humidity. He’s got on four layers of clothes under that shiny black suit, all the time. Not a drop of sweat on him, neither. Go figure.”

He dropped off Eddie back at the Seaport Cafe on Bourbon and leaned across the seat to talk as Eddie stood with the door open, one foot up on the curb. Behind him, a guy in a bottled water delivery truck lay on the horn. Reader ignored him.

“Now you know the house where we’re going Friday. In suits. With briefcases. You got your briefcase? Tell you what.et a haircut. Get a decent one this time. Go to Kenneth’s out in Metry. You’ll like it. Lots of cute girls. Good cutters. Tell them you’re going to start working in insurance, want to look professional. Let them do what they want. Get about half that shit cut off. Buy you a blow dryer and get the girl to show you how to use it. And no booze Thursday
or
Friday. I don’t want a lush on this job. I don’t want to see you Friday morning nursing a hangover, neither. Get it out of your system today if you have to. Got it?” He pulled away leaving Eddie standing on the sidewalk, his hand running through his thin, straggly brown strands like he was saying good-bye to them, wanted one last feel.

Yessir. You’ll want to look professional when they lay you out in that coffin, bitch... Reader stuck his hand out the window as he pulled back into the traffic and gave the trucker behind him the bird. He was disappointed when the truck slowed and didn’t come after him.