But at least, unlike Jennifer Bromwell, there hadn’t been any parental interference in her lovelife. She’d been able to make her own bad choices without any help from them. After Molly’s father had headed for the hills when Molly was only six months old, there’d been a couple of brief disastrous relationships, but Gerry — now an assistant bar manager at the Golden Bay Casino in Biloxi — had been her first serious boyfriend since then. Things had been okay for the first year or so, but then he’d become increasingly paranoid about her work.
‘He hasn’t hit me yet — just a lot of pushing and shoving. But give him time, I know he would — and I’m not waiting around for that to happen.’ She played thoughtfully again with the rim of her wine glass. ‘Seems to me like I’m continuing my mother’s cycle: hopelessly drawn to guys who either can’t put bread on the table, or are handy with their fists. Or both.’
Words would have been wrong at that moment, empty promises, which probably Alaysha Reyner had heard far too many of in her life — so Jac just reached out and gently squeezed her hand in reassurance. To their side an arched window looked onto a resplendent tropical courtyard, New Orleans’ finest milling through it to the luxury hotel beyond; sharp contrast to the life Alaysha had just described. Though with part of what she’d said, bread on the table, Jac had felt a stab of conscience. Given that same choice, career or family, unlike him it appeared she’d put family first every time.
‘You’re obviously very close to your mom.’ Jac tightly smiled his understanding. ‘Do you take after her?’
‘A little, I suppose. But I probably look more like my father, as much as I might not feel comfortable with that.’ She glanced down fleetingly before looking at Jac more directly. ‘I think that was part of the problem right there. He knew he was good-looking, so thought that gave him the right to push women around, treat them bad. Felt that they’d always come running back for more.’ She sniggered uncomfortably. ‘And in a way, he was right — at least where my mom was concerned.’
‘She’s far better off without him, by the sound of it. As tough as it might have been.’ Jac touched her hand again, hoping he’d read it right; after all, she’d had to sacrifice there, too: her mother’s happiness put before her losing her father while she was young. ‘You both are.’
‘Suppose so.’ Alaysha smiled and shrugged, as if freeing the weight momentarily hanging there. Though the other weight hanging over her would be more difficult to shift, she reflected, wondering whether she’d ever know him well enough to tell him that. And looking across at Jac, she realized in that moment what had attracted her about those blue-grey eyes when they’d first met; the sadness and loss in them made him look soft, vulnerable. Understanding. Most vitally, given her and her mother’s history with men, he didn’t look like a man who would ever hit her. ‘Let’s just hope that I don’t take after him in temperament.’
‘If you do — I’ll remember to wear my body protector next time.’
Alaysha’s smile widened and she lifted her glass to clink with Jac’s raised glass. More points scored.
Enough, as the evening wound to a close and she kissed him lightly on the cheek by his apartment door, for her to want to see him again.
‘Do you like Creole food?’ she asked, to which he nodded.
‘Put it this way — since being in New Orleans I’ve developed more of a taste for it. It’s been either that, or starve.’
She chuckled lightly. ‘Okay. Maybe I can invite you round for some home cooking later in the week.’
Jac squeezed her hand in thanks and returned the kiss — both cheeks this time, French style. ‘I look forward to it.’
Enough for another dinner date, though not enough to be able to share her bed that night.
Though when forty minutes later she phoned and asked, ‘Are you still up?’ — he thought for one hopeful moment she might have had a change of heart.
‘Yes, yes, I am. Not in bed quite yet.’
‘Because that problem you mentioned earlier. I thought of how you might be able to get around it. If you’re interested?’
The second Jac picked up his phone, the tape activated and the sound-man, Vic Farrelia, leant closer as he listened.
Nel-M had left the apartment almost two hours before McElroy returned, having finished his search and planted the bug, and within half an hour he had Farrelia set up in a small room on Perdido Street six blocks away.
And when just after midnight, Farrelia phoned and related the first call to come over the line, Nel-M nodded thoughtfully. From this moment on, Jac McElroy’s life was never going to be the same again.
11
The first time that Adelay Roche called, Clive Beaton got his secretary to lie and say that he was tied up until late morning, so that he could prepare himself before returning the call.
There were so many worrying no-go paths the conversation could take that he began to doubt the wisdom of talking to Roche at all — but his mounting curiosity finally won the day.
Roche quickly sought to quell Beaton’s worries.
‘I know you’re probably thinking that we shouldn’t be speaking, given the delicacy of things at this juncture. But, you know, we’ve been skirting around each other for eleven years for the very same reason — and now that everything is finally drawing to a close, I felt I should make contact.’ Roche drew a fresh breath. ‘In particular because what I’m calling about has nothing to do with the Durrant case.’
Beaton felt a weight ease from his chest as Roche explained how he’d been watching for the past couple of years the activities of one of the firm’s associates, Ralph Miers, an expert in tax law.
‘Seems to me he’s one of the few guys in the State to also wear a strong hat on environmental issues. I saw what he did for Gulf-West petroleum, and, let me tell you — I was impressed.’
Beaton was happy just listening — it meant that he didn’t have to defend any of the no-go conversation areas he’d run through — as Roche went on to explain that Miers looked like just the man he needed.
‘I’ve been stalling on changes to my refinery at Houma for nigh on four years now — but if I can please the greens and environmentalists and at the same time get the right tax breaks for making the plant environmentally friendly, I’m all for it.’ Roche chuckled, which quickly became a heavy wheeze. ‘That is, assuming I’m correct in my judgement that your man Miers is right for the job and can get the government to pay indirectly for every penny of those changes, and hopefully more.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ Beaton said with a spark of conviction to hopefully lift it beyond stock response, as his thoughts automatically turned to the potential value of such an account.
‘So I thought I should touch base now that the curtain is about to finally come down on the Durrant episode.’
‘And I’m glad you did. I really appreciate it.’ Beaton measured his words carefully: warmth and sincerity to hopefully lure Roche into the fold, but due deference and legal correctness for the firm’s current client, Durrant. ‘But it would probably be incorrect of us — perhaps even tempting fate — to second guess just what Governor Candaret might do with Durrant’s plea for clemency.’
Roche chuckled again. ‘I might have agreed with you — if it wasn’t for the stunt that Durrant just pulled with his attempted prison break.’
‘His wha-?’ Beaton stopped himself sharply. Stock reaction had for a second overridden one of the prime legal commandments: never give away that you don’t know everything about your client.
‘You mean you didn’t know?’ Roche pressed.
‘Of course I knew.’ Beaton recovered quickly, beating back the resurging tide of his nerves and apprehension: he should have realized that Roche wouldn’t have called without a sting in the tail. ‘It’s just that I was caught off guard as to how you knew. Especially since we’re still in the midst of how to handle the situation.’