Robert Crais - Voodoo River

We went through a door marked Social Services and up to an older African-American woman sitting behind a high counter. You had to pass her if you wanted access to the rest of the social services offices, and she didn't look like she'd be easy to pass. I said, "I'd like to see Sandi Bergeron, please." Lucy's DMV check said that Sandi was something called an associate claims monitor, and that she worked in this office.

The woman said, "Is she expecting you?"

I gave her one of my nicer smiles. "It's kind of a surprise. Tell her it's Jimmie Ray Rebenack." She would either know he was dead, or she wouldn't. If she knew, she'd call security. If she didn't, she'd come out to see him.

The woman picked up her phone and punched some numbers. I said, "We'll wait outside in the hall."

The woman covered the receiver and said that that would be fine, and Pike and I went out into the hall.

We were there no more than thirty seconds when a woman in her late twenties hurried out. She had teased blond hair and thin shoulders and rings on both the third and fourth fingers of her right hand, just like the woman in the photograph I'd found at Rebenack's office. Sandi Bergeron, letting Jimmie Ray put a bag on her head and snap a nudie shot. She wore too much makeup, and her nails were the color of Bazooka bubble gum.

She glanced at me and Pike, then looked past us, first one way down the hall and then the other. Looking for Jimmie Ray. She frowned when she didn't see him and started back inside. I said, "Ms. Bergeron?"

She stopped. Confused. "Are you here with Jimmie Ray?" She didn't know he was dead.

"I've got some bad news, Ms. Bergeron. Is there someplace we can talk?"

She looked from me to Pike and back again. She looked nervous. "Are you the police?"

I shook my head. "No, ma'am."

"Where's Jimmie? They said he was here."

"He couldn't make it. Is there someplace we can talk?"

You could see the world slow down for her. You could see the ceiling lower and the end of the hall recede and the pounding of her pulse grow to mask all lesser sounds. She seemed to sway, the way a reed might in a soft breeze, and then she shook her head. "I'm sorry. I don't know you, and I don't think I have anything to say to you."

She turned back to her office. I took her arm and quietly said, "Jimmie's dead. Milt Rossier had him murdered."

In that instant she tried to pull away from me, but I held on, and, just as quickly, she stopped pulling. Tears welled and she blinked frantically, and pretty soon the tears were gone. People moved along the hall, in and out of offices, in and out of the elevators. I let go of her and stepped back.

I said, "We're not the police, and we're not from Milt Rossier. We won't hurt you."

She nodded.

"I'm a private investigator, and I'm not after you. I'm after Milt. He's the guy I want to hurt. Do you understand?"

She nodded again. Getting her breath under control. "He killed Jimmie Ray?"

"I believe so. Yes."

"It's about those files, isn't it?"

"We shouldn't talk in the hall."

She brought us two flights down to an employees' cafeteria that smelled of hamburgers and lima beans. We sat at a table with a view across the city and drank coffee while Sandi Bergeron told us that she had met Jimmie Ray ten months ago when he had come to her office to ask for Jodi Taylor's adoption records. Just like that, he had walked in and asked if he could have a copy. They'd told him no, of course, and turned him away, but Jimmie Ray had hung around out in the hall by the Coca-Cola machine, stomping about and fuming and convinced that "the Boss Bitch," as he'd called Mrs. Washington, was just looking for a payoff. Sandi had gone out for a Dr Pepper and had met Jimmie there when he'd asked her if she had change of a dollar. She was surprised when he'd phoned a few days later, tracking her down by calling the Social Services Department and saying that he'd like to speak with "the pretty blond girl." They had connected him with two other women before they put on Sandi Bergeron, who was not pretty, and never would be, and would always feel bad about it.

Three weeks later, when they were lying in bed, he'd asked what was the big deal with these sealed documents, did they keep 'em in a goddamned vault or somethin'?

Two weeks after that, when they were lying in bed, he'd asked if she'd ever seen one of these sealed documents and, if she hadn't, how did she know they were really there?

One week after that, when they were lying in bed, he'd asked if she could get her hands on Jodi Taylor's adoption records, and, if she could, would she give it a quick read and tell him Jodi's bio-mama's name?

He hadn't asked her to steal the file, she said, but by the time she had it in her hands she was just so gol-darned nervous that it was just easier to steal it than to stand there reading the thing. So she had.

I said, "Did you know that Jimmie Ray was working for Milt Rossier?"

"Not then he wasn't. He was just lookin' for some-thin' he could sell to the National Enquirer or one of those magazines. Only he found that thing about Leon Williams and that sheriff over there, and he took it to Milt Rossier."

"You knew about the blackmail?"

She looked defensive. "Jimmie Ray said Mr. Rossier was gonna put him on retainer. He said he wouldn't have to work as a mechanic anymore. Jimmie didn't want to be a nobody all his life."

Pike said, "He doesn't have to worry about it any more, does he?"

Sandi Bergeron stared at him, and then had some of her coffee.

I said, "Did Jimmie Ray tell you why Milt was blackmailing the sheriff?"

She shook her head.

"Did he tell you anything about Rossier's business."

"I'm sorry."

"Please try to remember."

She put down the coffee cup and picked at the table. The bubble-gum nails were long and French-tipped and probably false. She made a little shrug. "Jimmie didn't know everything that old man had going, and Jimmie Ray had spent a lot of time trying to find out. He told me so himself. He said that Mr. Rossier was so careful about all these things that he'd never get caught. He said he learned a lot from that old man."

"Like what?"

You could see her work to try to remember. "He said the old man never got involved himself. He had this other guy do that."

"LeRoy Bennett."

"Jimmie Ray called him a stooge. He said that if there was ever any trouble, it would all go back to the stooge."

"What else?"

She chewed at her lips, thinking harder. "He told me about this place called the Bayou Lounge."

"Uh-huh."

"Mr. Rossier owns it. Jimmie Ray said that the old man bought it so he wouldn't have to bring any of his bad business home. Jimmie thought that was just the smartest thing. He said the old man's stooge would go to the Bayou Lounge to take care of business. That way they didn't have to bring it home. You see?"

I glanced at Pike, and Pike nodded. He said, "If we're looking for something, maybe we should look there."

Sandi Bergeron crossed her arms over her middle. She said, "Am I going to get in trouble?"

I looked at her. "Maybe, but not because of us. The cops are going to investigate Jimmie's murder, and they may find you the way we found you, but it won't be because we told them. We won't."

She nodded and looked at her coffee. "I know that what I did was wrong. I'm really sorry."

"Sure."

"I think I'm going home. I don't feel well." We walked to the elevator with her. She pressed the button for up . We pressed for down . The up elevator came first, but she didn't get on right away. She stopped in the door and said, "I know what you're thinking, but it's not so. Jimmie Ray didn't use me. He loved me. We were goin' to get married." She stood straight when she said it, as if she were challenging me to disagree.