‘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 everknow 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 everythingabout 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 youknew. Especially since we’re still in the midst of how to handle the situation.’
‘I see.’ Roche had to admit, Beaton was good, his thirty-five years of keen-edged law practice shining through. But the split-second falter had been enough to tell Roche that Beaton hadn’t known. For whatever reason, his rookie lawyer had decided to keep Durrant’s attempted break-out under wraps. He could all but feel the seething anger in Beaton’s undertone: he couldn’t wait to get off the line and get his hands around McElroy’s neck. ‘Well, let’s speak again when youfeel the dust has settled enough on the Durrant case for it to be right for us to do so.’
Jac had just returned with a cup of water from the water-cooler when he saw the fresh e-mail on his computer. And as he clicked and saw who it was from, durransave4@hotmail, he jolted sharply, almost spilling it. After six days with no reply, he’d all but given up on another e-mail from his mystery sender.
His hands shook on the keyboard as he opened it.
Sent at 11.16:22. One minute, forty seconds ago. Would they still be sitting there to do something else, or have left immediately?
Jac clicked on the track-back software, its screen overlapping the e-mail so that he couldn’t read it. Jac’s fingers tapped anxiously on his desk as it traced and started displaying. Then he double-clicked IT-number find, and forty seconds later it popped up on screen:
Internet-ionalon Peniston Street. An internet cafe. He or she was moving around.
Jac’s heart was beating double-time, his finger tapping almost in time with it as he called 411 and waited to get routed through.
Please still be there… please…
Jac became aware of Langfranc looking at him through his office glass-screen, Langfranc’s expression weighted with concern as he spoke on his own phone. Jac yanked his attention back as a girl answered.
‘Internet-ional. May I help you?’
Jac introduced himself and explained what he wanted. ‘Computer number fourteen. Message sent just over three minutes ago. Are they still there?’ Jac held his breath in anticipation.
‘I’m not sure. One minute…’ Her voice trailed off and Jac heard her speaking with a colleague.