John Miller - Too Far Gone

hollered. “ARE YOU THERE, DOC? ANSWER ME! ANSWER ME, DAMN IT!”

Leland didn’t know he had thrown the phone until he realized he was no longer holding it, and he had no idea which direction he had throw it in. Might be Doc would be mad about the stupid little phone. Leland didn’t give a damn. He was supposed to watch over the man in the cabin, but he knew Doc wouldn’t know it if he went out and checked on his catfish lines. It wasn’t like the man in the cabin was going anywhere.

When Manseur’s cell phone rang, Jackson Evans frowned. After a few seconds spent listening, Manseur held the phone aside and said, “Sorry, I have to deal with this. Detective Kennedy, if you could take Agent Keen inside to get the ball rolling with Mrs. West, I’m right behind you.”

Jackson Evans nodded his approval. “Dr. LePointe, please call me if you need anything. And I mean anything at all. Detective Manseur will be keeping me up to speed on the investigation. Feel free to call me anytime you feel the need.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Superintendent Evans.”

Evans reached into his pocket and took out a card case made of brass. Opening it, he reached behind the front cards to remove one that was clearly different from the ones in front. It was printed on an expensive parchment and looked to be engraved, not offset-printed. He handed it to LePointe. “My private numbers.”

Dr. LePointe pocketed the card and, without saying anything further to the superintendent of police, led Alexa and Detective Kennedy through the house’s wide hallway back to an open kitchen where two women, one with dark hair and the other a blonde, sat at a table. The blonde held a fair-skinned towheaded child whose eyes were exact replicas of her mother’s-except the mother’s showed evidence of tears.

Casey West possessed the sort of classical beauty that inspired artists, allowed peasants to end in royal beds, and started wars. Her features, framed by curtains of perfectly straight white-blond hair that was gathered into a wide ponytail, were perfectly balanced. Her almond-shaped green eyes were tinted pink from crying.

“This is Casey, my niece,” LePointe told them. “Casey, this is Detective Kennedy of Missing Persons, and FBI Special Agent Alexa Keen, who has kindly consented to give the local authorities her expert assistance.”

Casey West managed a worried half smile. “FBI? So you think Gary was kidnapped?” She locked eyes with Alexa. “Is he all right? You know something, don’t you?”

“No, Casey,” LePointe said firmly. “Agent Keen is merely a friend of Detective Manseur’s. The man Jackson Evans told us was handling this.”

“What sort of FBI agent are you?”

“The regular sort, I’m afraid,” Alexa answered.

“She’s here for a law enforcement seminar,” Kennedy said. “She gave a lecture on techniques for identifying and resolving abductions.”

Alexa saw LePointe roll his eyes toward the ceiling.

“Abductions?” Casey asked, fear in her eyes.

“Nobody has suggested that your husband was abducted. I’m just here to observe and advise if it becomes necessary. You are in very capable hands,” Alexa said. “It’s purely by coincidence that I’m here.”

The other woman, whom Dr. LePointe had failed to introduce, had pasty skin that stood in stark contrast to her sculpted black pageboy and pencil-thin eyebrows. The turtleneck sweater, her shimmering lipstick, and the smears of rouge on each of her round cheeks were identical shades of red. The brown irises of her eyes were almost as dark as her hair and her fingernails. A row of pearl-shaped gold studs curved up the edge of her left ear from its heavy lobe to the crest. She watched them with the wide-eyed intensity of a child having her first trip to the circus.

“I not yew-ah fren,” the blond child said.

“You’re not my friend?” Kennedy replied, feigning disappointment.

The child shook her head violently.

“She doesn’t mean she isn’t your friend,” the dark-haired woman said, smiling. “Deana picked the expression up from an older child at school.”

“Well, that’s good,” Detective Kennedy said. “I hate to make enemies of pretty young girls.”

Deana stuck out her tongue. She was at that age where it was hard to tell whether or not she understood the impact of her words, or was repeating some phrase or action that earned a reaction from adults.

Detective Kennedy, who was all elbows and knees, took a seat across from Casey and immediately worried with the precise position of his eyeglasses.

“I not yew-ah fren,” Deana said again, poking out her lower lip.

Casey hugged the child to her. “Okay, Deana. That’s enough of that.”

Dr. LePointe looked at the woman beside his niece, waved his hand, and said, “Grace, please take Deana to her room.”

The woman turned to look at LePointe, her eyes filled with disappointment.

“Grace,” Casey said, “would you please get Deana ready for bed?”

“I’d be delighted, Casey,” the still unintroduced Grace said. She stood, opened her arms, and the little girl transferred herself easily into the other woman’s arms, clinging to her. Alexa saw for the first time that the child was naked. Alexa wondered if Grace was the child’s nanny.

As they left the room, LePointe said, frowning, “Put a diaper on the child.”

Casey smiled and looked at Alexa. “She takes them off. Sometimes Gary and I let it ride. We’re only firm with the important things. Discipline is a tricky issue. Clothing is sometimes optional. Gary and I want Deana to feel free to express herself.”

Alexa sat down beside Kennedy, diagonally across the table from Casey. Alexa’s view through the wall of French doors was of a large formal garden, which formed a protective horseshoe around a swimming pool. A pool house with a slate roof stood at the far end of the pool, connected by a glassed-in corridor. A ten-foot-tall wall of brick appeared to enclose the entire property.

“Coffee?” Casey offered.

“None for me,” Kennedy said immediately.

Alexa shook her head. She wanted to fade into the background and take in the reactions of Casey and her uncle to Kennedy’s questions.

“So, Mrs. West,” Kennedy said, opening his notebook, “I was told only that your husband failed to show up for dinner?”

“Our family has dinner at six,” Dr. LePointe said. He stood with his back to the counter, watching.

“Routine is especially important for children,” Casey said.

“Important for everybody in a civilized society,” LePointe added.

“We try to always eat as a family,” Casey told them. “Most times we manage to do so.”

“Does the entire LePointe family eat together here?” Kennedy asked, smiling up at the doctor.

“My wife and I eat together in our home.”

“Dinner at six,” Kennedy said as he wrote it down. “Your house is on St. Charles, isn’t it, Dr. LePointe?”

“Our family home has been there since the street was put in,” LePointe answered. “The original structure burned to the ground in 1855. The one there now was completed just in time, as the War Between the States made stonemasons and detail craftsmen a rarity. It wasn’t adequately furnished until after that conflict, as the furniture was imported and there were far more profitable cargoes to be shipped than chairs and tables.”

In Alexa’s mind, where Dr. LePointe lived seemed totally irrelevant to the case at hand.

“It isn’t at all like Gary to be late,” Casey said.

“Casey, he’s missed dinners before,” Dr. LePointe corrected. He took a seat at the head of the table, with Casey on his right, Kennedy on his left.

“He always calls to tell me if he’s not going to make it on time,” she countered, defensively. “I’ve called his cell phone for hours, but it went straight to message. He rarely turns it on anyway. He carries it for emergencies. Anyway, I found it in our bedroom. Gary hadn’t even taken it with him.”