John Miller - Too Far Gone

“Please do.” Perhaps he had a pressing question on a case he thought she might have an answer to.

“We’ve got ourselves a potential situation. I was hoping you could spare me a couple of hours.”

“My flight leaves just after nine.”

“I mean right now. This deal is what you do, and Winter said you’re one of the best there is at it.”

“An abduction?” She straightened and let the curtains drop shut, closing out the night.

“Possibly. Going missing in New Orleans is hardly unusual. Ninety-nine times out of ten, the case solves itself pretty quick. I hope you might be able to help us assess a situation. Tell us what you think we’ve got. It’s a pretty delicate deal.”

“You’re the head of Homicide, aren’t you?”

“Missing Persons is understaffed, and, like in most places, we work hand in hand a lot. I hoped I could get your opinion on this since you’re here and have the reputation you do. That’s all.”

“I see.” She was flattered.

“And then I can tell Massey truthfully that we got together. Are you free to go to a location with me?”

This wasn’t going to be a question or two over the phone. “How soon?”

“I’m in the lobby now,” he told her. “Standing by the elevators. I’m wearing a green suit.”

If he hadn’t been the only man in a dark green suit watching the elevators, Alexa would have kept scanning the lobby until the detective approached her. Michael Manseur’s voice had thoroughly misrepresented him. He sounded like Tommy Lee Jones but looked more like a chronically unsuccessful door-to-door salesman. Even with the thickness of the soles of his scuffed brown wingtips, Manseur was no more than five-seven and, except for the laurel of short pale hair anchored by small ears, he was bald. His pasty round face featured intelligent but sad eyes with large bags beneath them, a razor-thin nose, acne scars, and a smile like that of a child with a secret. The loosened knot on his predominantly yellow tie rested between stiff shirt collars, one of them bent up at the end like a hand waving.

“Agent Keen?” he said, uncertainly.

“Alexa,” she said, smiling. “Michael, please call me Alexa.” She realized that he had expected her to be a white woman-and not a light-skinned black woman. She knew there was nothing in her voice that gave away her ethnicity.

“Certainly,” he replied, nodding. He swept his arm to indicate the direction she should travel to get to his car, which turned out to be a large white sedan waiting at the curb.

Manseur opened the passenger door for Alexa, and closed it gently before hurrying around to get in behind the wheel. He checked the rearview, pulled out, and headed away from the Mississippi River, flipping on the blue light centered on the dash to cut a path through the traffic as the vehicle gathered speed.

“Where are we going?” she asked him.

“Uptown a little way,” he replied, as if that answered her question.

Alexa sat back and watched the Big Easy rush by.

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.”