‘Right. What’s your name, by the way?’ Personalize to get closer, Jac thought.
‘Uuuh… Tracy.’ Hesitant, as if worried what he might do with the information.
‘Okay, Tracy, I don’t know how easy it is because I’m not there — but if you could shift more to a side-view… without, that is, being too obvious, making him suspicious. Just in case he leaves before I get down there myself to see him.’ Jac looked up as they crossed Washington Avenue. Only a dozen or so blocks now to Peniston: four or five minutes at most. Hold on. Hold on.
‘Oh… okay.’ But Tracy still sounded uncertain.
‘And if he does start to leave before I get there — maybe try and hold him up a bit, if you can. Keep him there.’
Only the sound of Tracy’s breath falling for a second. ‘That might be more difficult.’
‘I know. I know. But maybe tell him that there’s a free coffee today for customers… I’ll cover for it when I get there.’
‘I… I suppose I could… oh… oh…’
Hearing her sudden intake of breath, Jac asked sharply, ‘What is it?’
‘He… he’s looking round, starting to get up.’
Jac felt his stomach tighten; but then he’d suspected all along that he wouldn’t hang around long. His voice lowered, a conspiratorial hush. ‘Okay, Tracy… try what I suggested.’
‘I’ll try. I’ll do my…’ Jac could hear her breath falling shorter, sharper as she broke off for a second. Then, a faint tremor in her undertone — or perhaps it was just Jac picking up on it because he knew she was nervous: ‘Sir… there’s a free coffee for customers today I forgot to tell you about earlier.’
Aline Street flashed by. Only four blocks to go now.
At Internet-ional, the man, African-American, late-thirties, in a maroon Hilfiger jacket, paused for a second, looked tempted. But some noise from the street outside reached him then, strains of a brass band playing a block or so away, and he glanced distractedly over his shoulder for a second. And as he turned back, Tracy saw something shift in his eyes, flicking between her and the phone. Picked up a bad vibe, or just acknowledgment that he was interrupting her?
‘Thanks for the offer.’ He pushed a terse smile. ‘But I gotta rush. Someone to see.’
Tracy watched helplessly as he scurried out; though maybe, like he said, he was in a rush. She let out a long sigh as she brought the receiver back.
‘I’m sorry… tried my best. But he’s gone.’
‘I know. I know.’ Jac had heard it all his end, closing his eyes as the sinking in his stomach spread, made every part of him feel empty, cruelly cheated. Though as he opened them again and saw the next cross street flash by, a spark of hope resurged. ‘But you got a good look at him?’
‘Yeah, sure did.’ Tracy’s tone brightened; one thing to have gone right.
Only two blocks away now, if Jac got a good description maybe he’d still be able to pick him out as they turned into the street — but at that moment the taxi slowed, then braked sharply. Jac looked ahead: four cars backed up at the next intersection as a procession of sixty or seventy people, some with banners, marched and sashayed by in rhythm to a small brass band leading.
Jac exhaled heavily, feeling his stomach dip again. He wouldn’t make it now.
‘That’s okay,’ he said resignedly. ‘I’ll be there in just a couple of minutes. Give me all the details then.’
Mr Mystery-e-mailer would be long gone by the time he got there; and if he’d now been spooked, that would probably be the end of any more contact.
Jac looked up towards the procession as it finally passed and the taxi crossed the junction. In his few years in New Orleans he’d discovered that bands were broken out for anything and everything — weddings, funerals, gay marches, dog’s birthday — though from the banners this looked like a save some bay or other environmental protest.
Jac suddenly became aware of a man in the crowd looking back at him, smiling and waving. Probably just somebody random, catching Jac’s eye as he’d looked towards them. But in that moment it became Jac’s mystery e-mailer, teasing, taunting: You won’t find me. You won’t find me.
‘Black guy, broad. Bit of bulk on… but not fat.’
‘And height?’
‘Five-ten, maybe six foot.’
‘Age?’
‘Mid to late thirties, maybe forty.’
‘Anything that stood out? Beard? Moustache? Prominent scar or birth-mark?’
‘No, clean shaven. But, oh… he had this gap between his front teeth when he smiled.’
‘And what he was he wearing?’
‘Hilfiger jacket, sort of dark-red, and jeans. And a baseball cap, dark-blue or black.’
Jac paused at that point, looking back at his notes for anything he might have missed. At the outset he’d ascertained from Tracy, an early-twenties short-cropped-blonde-with-a-lime-green-stripe and more nose rings than a Krishna, that it had been paid cash, as he’d suspected: no trace back. Now the description wasn’t giving him that much either. Could fit twenty to thirty percent of African-American males in that age band. But as Jac puckered his mouth, Tracy commented, ‘But, hey, you can check all that for yourself.’ She eased a sly smile as she looked up above the entrance. ‘We should have him on video.’
Jac followed her eyes towards the camera there and, uncertainly, as if taking a second to believe his luck, mirrored her smile.
The atmosphere in the interview room was laden, tense.
Morvaun Jaspar looked tired, worn-down by the questioning and psychological games the two policeman had rained down on him over the two hours he’d been held. Pretty much the same Mutt and Jeff, black and white game as before. Jac knew the black officer, Jim Holbrook, from last time — the supposedly friendly voice in Morvaun’s ear: ‘Hey, come on bro’, make it easy on yourself.’ But the white lieutenant, Pyrford, Jac hadn’t seen before. Rakish with heavily receding red-brown hair, a toothpick that he seemed reluctant to take out the corner of his mouth, and a look of disdain down his nose at Morvaun that spoke volumes. Jac could imagine that ten years ago he’d have been addressing Morvaun, and probably his partner too, as ‘boy’.
Jac had no doubt looked troubled and on edge as soon as he walked into the interview room, which had set the mood for what followed. He’d watched only a few seconds of the video with Tracy, just to make sure maroon-Hilfiger-jacket was there and it was the right segment, then had taken a copy to look at in more detail later. No time right then. He’d phoned Langfranc on his way over to Morvaun to tell him he’d be delayed, Langfranc warning that it could be one delay too many ‘…the one that might just tip the balance on Beaton preparing your dismissal letter,’ but Jac had become equally concerned about something else, asking Langfranc if there was any indication as to just what he was meant to have held back on?
‘No, no clue at all.’
‘Or perhaps where Beaton might have got his information from?’
‘No clue there either, I’m afraid, Jac. All I know is he’s madder than hell, and says he wants it all straight from the hip from you — right now in his office.’
What had suddenly hit Jac, started to panic him, was that he had no idea just which of his withheld secrets Beaton knew about: the alleged prison-break attempt or Durrant’s death-wish? He was facing a firestorm back at the office with Beaton, but with no idea from which direction the fire was coming. And if he picked the wrong one, Beaton would then know about both: full house!
Morvaun had acknowledged him with a numb smile as he walked in. He was wearing a bright crimson jacket with a silvery wave trim on each cuff. Quite conservative by his standards.