‘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 wasin 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 whichof 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.
Morvaun liked to think of himself as a tough cookie, but he was no longer young, and beneath the veneer of bluff and bravado he’d built up over the years, Jac could clearly see — as he had done halfway through their first case together — his fear and frailty; fear that if he got anything more than a four or five-year term, he might not make it through.
‘I hope you two had the good sense not to ask my client any more questions after he informed you he had counsel on his way,’ Jac said as he put down his briefcase. Stamp his authority on the meeting early.
‘Of course, goes without saying,’ Pyrford said with a dry smile, jiggling the toothpick in the corner of his mouth. ‘We just kept it conversational after that. Mild weather for the time of year, and what a fine head of hair he still has for a man of his age.’
Holbrook looked down at the floor, and Jac swore he could almost hear a groan riding on his sigh.
‘Never let it be said that you’d indulge in pointless questions or comments,’ Jac said, peering sharply at Pyrford’s shiny, wisp-haired crown. ‘Let’s get to the bottom line, shall we?’ Jac continued curtly. ‘Is my client being charged? And, if so, what’s the evidence against him?’
‘Not yet.’ Pyrford was put off stride by the directness, flushing slightly; he injected more authority into his voice. ‘But we got a women in custody, Alvira Jardine, a Haitian national with forged papers — passport and driver’s licence — and they’ve got your client’s trademark all over them.’
‘Has Ms Jardine named Mr Jaspar as having forged them for her?’
‘No, she hasn’t, though we — ’ Pyrford fought to regain his step, the control he’d had over the meeting only minutes ago, but Jac rolled straight on.
‘And apart from my client’s “trademark” — what other evidence is there that might link him to this?’ Jac’s tone was acid and impatient; he had no intention of making it easy on them. One look at Morvaun told him how much he’d been railroaded over the past two hours.
‘Well, we…’ Increasingly flustered, Pyrford looked back towards Holbrook for support; but Holbrook did a wide-eyed, “ don’t include me on where you might be heading”. ‘We’ve done our own comparisons with Mr Jaspar’s past work, and from that alone had more than good reason to bring him in now. But I’m not at liberty to discuss that, or the other evidence we have, until we’ve got the full analysis back from the lab. I’m confident, though, that will back up our findings to date — and then, believe me, your client’s really going to feel our breath down his neck.’