“Was this the prescription for her contact lens?” Basous handed her the paper with the lens prescription.
“I can check her records.” She went to a filing cabinet. In a few minutes she returned. “Yes. That’s it.”
Basous’ homely face momentarily reflected his inner elation. “Could we have her address?”
She wrote the address on a slip of paper. “I do hope nothing has happened to her, Officer?”
Basous did not reply. He and his partner returned to their car. Basous looked at the address and muttered a Bayou French exclamation under his breath. “She lived in the Garden District. Very posh address.”
They drove to the address, parked in front of the house. Basous looked up at the sweeping lawn, the costly home with its plantation-style Ionic columns. “I don’t look forward to this — telling the man that his wife shacked up with some dude in the Quarter last night and then got herself knifed and probably dumped in the river.”
“Wonder why he hasn’t reported her missing?”
“She probably gave him some story about going to visit friends or relatives, so he hasn’t missed her yet.”
They rang the bell. A maid ushered them into a parlor after Basous showed her his identification. He sat precariously on an antique chair and looked around at the grand piano and thick carpet and costly paintings, holding his hat between his hands.
Presently Arthur Turner, a man in his fifties, silver-haired, with a deep golfer’s tan joined them. “Gentlemen — Mildred said you are from the police...”
“Yes.” Basous looked uncomfortably at his partner. He was not very good at coping with things like this.
D’Aquin came to his rescue. “It’s about your wife, sir,” he said gently. “When did you see her last?”
Turner looked surprised. “About two minutes ago. We’re having cocktails in the family room. Why are you asking about my wife?”
D’Aquin turned and stared rather foolishly at Basous, who thought his own expression must be pretty sheepish. Finally he cleared his throat and asked politely, “May we have a word with her, sir?”
“Well, I suppose so.” Turner left the room, then came back immediately with his wife, a stunning blonde woman — Linda Turner.
The two detectives quickly rose. It was Basous’ turn to clear his throat. “Pardon us for this intrusion, Mrs. Turner. Could you tell us where you were last night?”
She regarded him with a puzzled expression, looked at her husband, then again at Basous. “Right here at home with my husband. Why are you asking, Officer?”
Turner had put an arm around his wife. “We had a quiet dinner at home and spent the evening watching television; keeping away from the Mardi Gras crowds, you know. Would you mind telling me what this is all about, sir?”
“Please excuse us for disturbing you. Perhaps it is a case of mistaken identity. We’re just doing some routine checking...”
Out in the car, D’Aquin said, “She’s lying.”
“Of course she’s lying. And her husband is covering for her. There is no question but that she is the woman in that sketch.” Basous slapped his forehead. “Mon dieu! So it was the man who got his throat cut, and all the time we’ve been thinking it was the woman. But I simply cannot see how a woman could knife a man, then carry his body down the stairs and across the courtyard to the gate.”
“Perhaps he staggered out of the room under his own power.”
“Or the woman had help. Why would she kill him? Did he threaten to blackmail her? Or was it a matter of jealousy? Anyway, we can’t arrest her yet. Everything is too slim and circumstantial. We don’t even know who the man was. You know, I think we ought to check the list of everybody who got busted at Bubba’s party last night. It looks very much to me like Linda Turner or the man she was with, or both of them, ran around with that crowd. Bubba’s friends might be more willing to talk to us than Bubba was, especially if we lean on them just a bit.”
Back at the police building, Basous and D’Aquin went over the records of the arrests made at Bubba Noss’ apartment the night before. They ran a check to see if any of those booked had a police record. Several did, and Basous selected the most promising. “Nikki Lane, Female. Age twenty-one. Several arrests. One conviction for possession of marijuana. Served time as a juvenile offender. Was on probation a year.”
Basous said, “Let us pay a visit to Miss Lane. I see she lives in a little town on the other side of the river. It just so happens I am acquainted with a family-operated restaurant in that same village which will not be overrun with tourists, and which serves some of the very best authentic homemade Creole gumbo you ever tasted. It will be about time for the evening meal when we get there.”
D’Aquin laughed. “You do like your meals on time, Basous.”
The Arcadian agreed.
They drove over the Huey Long Bridge and stopped at the small cafe in the village. They were served steaming bowls of Creole gumbo and when D’Aquin sampled his, tears filled his eyes. He quickly gulped a drink of wine. “This is really fiery!”
“It’s real Louisiana Cajun cooking,” Basous said happily, beads of perspiration popping out all over his long, homely face as he ate the spicy dish with relish. “This gives a man the spirit to pole a pirogue all day and dance the fais-dodo all night.”
After two large bowls of gumbo and several cups of black chicory coffee, Basous was ready to call on Nikki Lane. They found her address to be one of a row of unpainted shacks just below the levee. In the weed-filled yard were parked several motorcycles. When the detective knocked, a young woman with stringy blonde hair, dressed in blue jeans, barefooted, carrying a baby on one hip, came to the door.
“We’d like to speak to Miss Nikki Lane,” said Basous.
Her expression was wary. “That’s me. What do you want?”
Basous showed her his badge. Her expression turned to fright. “Listen, I’m clean. What are you bugging me about?”
“You were arrested last night?”
“That was a mistake. They busted us for disturbing the peace. They thought they were going to find some grass or smack. But we were clean. They let us go this morning.”
“The point is, you hang around with Bubba Noss and his crowd of swingers. Have you ever seen this woman? Does she come to Bubba’s parties?” Basous showed her the two sketches of Linda Turner, both the brunette and blonde version.
“Is that all you want to know?” she asked.
“Yes — unless, of course, you decide not to cooperate. Then we might think of a lot of other things to question you about.”
Relief showed in her eyes. “Sure, I know her. Why shouldn’t I tell you?” She shrugged. She pointed to the brunette sketch. “That’s Helen Davis. I’ve seen her at several of Bubba’s parties.”
“Did she ever tell you her name was Linda Turner?”
“I don’t know nothin’ about that. I know her as Helen Davis.”
“Was she at the party last night?”
“Yes. But she left early. Before the fuzz raided the place.”
“Was she with somebody?”
“Sure. Same guy she always comes with. Ron Giampietro.”
“Ron Giampietro,” D’Aquin muttered as they drove back across the Huey Long Bridge.
The name was familiar to both detectives. Giampietro owned a small strip joint on Bourbon Street, but his main activity was being a bookie and small-time hoodlum.
“I wonder how a high-class dame like Linda Turner ever got involved with a shady character like Giampietro,” Basous mused.