“Any idea where he went?”
“Since your client didn’t report any of this, it sounds like you know more than we do at this point. You care to share?”
Carson told him about his research and his conversation with Jenny’s grandmother. “The connection is tenuous, but I don’t have anything else at this point.”
“That’s okay,” said Lawry. “I think we might. Let me make a call. You mind?”
“I’ll be right here.” Carson jerked his thumb toward the outer office. He stepped into the next room and heard Lawry make his call. Despite the detective’s hushed tones, Carson’s acute senses allowed him to hear most of the one-sided conversation.
“It’s me... Yeah, I’m here... Yeah, I got them, but we have a situation... Some guy here seems to know what’s going on. He promised me a fifty-grand payout if I help him out... Give me some credit. If he’s offering me fifty, he’s got to be holding back at least that much for himself... Yeah, yeah. It’s perfect. You get the collar, we get the cash, and the business with Buddy gets buried with him. But we got to deliver too...”
Having heard enough, Carson crossed over to the far side of the room. So that’s how it was. Not that he was surprised, but he’d need to plan ahead. At least Detective Lawry had simplified the situation for him. He heard Lawry end the conversation.
“Hey, chief.” Carson bristled and then turned to face his temporary partner, who now wore a look of confusion. “What’s your name?”
Carson slowly stretched his mouth into what he hoped was a relaxed grin. “Faubion. Charles Faubion.”
“You got some proof?”
“Of course.” Carson smiled for real. No honor among thieves, he thought as he handed over an Arizona driver’s license and a card identifying Charles Faubion as a licensed investigator in that state.
Lawry nodded, satisfied. “Okay, Charlie. Our crime scene boys found a note pad on Buddy’s desk with the name Jenny and a New Orleans telephone number. That enough of a connection for you?”
A shave under six hours later, Carson pulled the Charger into the lot for the apartment complex at the address Dorothy McLaren had provided. They located Jenny’s apartment and saw that the place was dark.
“Looks like she’s either still asleep or she’s already left,” noted Lawry.
“Or she’s just now getting home,” added Carson, hunkering down in his seat as he pushed Lawry down in his.
The young woman in question drove past them in a red Corolla from the early ’90s. They watched her walk up the ornate wrought-iron stairs and disappear into her apartment.
“Let’s go,” said Carson.
When she answered the door, Jenny McLaren had scrubbed her face clean of the heavy makeup that revealed why she was returning home at dawn. She looked like a young co-ed, dressed in a Tulane sweatshirt and baggy jersey pants.
“Hello, Jenny,” Carson said in a soft voice. “Mind if we talk?”
Fear flickered across her face, replaced by sullen suspicion, as Jenny assessed her visitors.
“Who are you and why would I talk to you?”
“Because we’ve tied you to a dead guy and a suspected killer.”
Jenny stared at the men and then sneered. “I don’t think you’ve got shit.”
Before she could react, Carson stepped forward and spun Jenny around, pinning her arms behind her back. “Listen up. A woman’s life is on the line, and I don’t have time to waste. We’re going inside, and you’re going to talk.”
Carson ignored the muttered epithet and guided Jenny into the tiny living room, where he released her. “Spill it,” he snapped. “We’ve got James Hicks driving your SUV around, while you’re in a tin can. We’ve also got your name and number in the office of the late Buddy Martin, who was supposed to be protecting my client’s money.”
Jenny covered her mouth with both hands, and tears welled in her eyes.
“Buddy’s dead?” she whispered.
“Stone cold,” said Lawry. “What’s your connection?”
She took a deep breath. “We were lovers.”
Both men stared at her.
“Maybe that’s too strong a word,” she admitted. “A few months back, James talked me into getting friendly with Buddy. He was a lonely old man.” Jenny paused, as if remembering the accountant. “It wasn’t hard for me to seduce him.”
“So you sweet-talked him into stealing the money,” said Carson.
She nodded, eyes downcast.
“Were you and Hicks planning to live happily ever after? Or did you know he was picking up a new high-class girlfriend?”
Her head snapped up. Surprised outrage sparked in her eyes.
Lawry turned to Carson. “I guess not.”
Carson reached into his breast pocket and retrieved the newspaper clipping. He showed the photo to Jenny, who flinched as if Carson had struck her.
“You know this woman?”
Jenny brushed tears away with an impatient swipe. “Of course I do,” she snorted. “She never shied away from a camera in her life. That lying son of a bitch told me to head down here while he wrapped things up in Memphis.”
“Have you seen him?” asked Carson.
She nodded. “Yeah, he came over here last night, just before my shift. He’s staying at some cheap motel about twenty minutes out.”
Before they left, Carson asked Jenny for a pad of paper and a pen. She frowned but retrieved the items.
He jotted down a number and a short note. Then he folded the paper and handed it back to her with the pen.
“Call this number,” Carson said. “If you’re interested in making a change, they can help you out. If not, that’s your choice. Either way, you’d do well to forget we were here.”
Her face remained expressionless as she closed the door.
When Carson and Lawry pulled into the parking lot of the Motel 6 in Slidell, northeast of the city, the Land Rover was parked in front of room 114, just as Jenny had indicated it would be.
“What’s the plan?” asked Lawry after Carson killed the engine.
“We go in, get the girl, and leave.”
“You don’t think your man’s going to have a problem with that?”
“We won’t give him a choice.” Movement in the window confirmed that Jenny had followed his instructions and made the call. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on the room. Go show the manager your badge, and get the master key. One of us will open the door; the other will provide cover.”
Lawry arched his brow with skepticism. “I’ll provide cover. You open the door.”
“Get the key.”
The officer opened the car door and strode toward the office, oblivious as the entrance to room 114 cracked open. Carson opened his own door and crouched behind the vehicle, his silenced Glock ready. The report of a 9mm pistol shattered the morning air, and Lawry dropped to the pavement, the left side of his head missing. Any twinge of guilt Carson might have felt was neutralized by the knowledge that the dirty cop wasn’t planning to let him walk away alive.
Hicks turned to see Carson’s muzzle aimed at him. It was the last thing he saw before the slug in his forehead propelled him backward into the motel room.
Carson launched himself across the parking lot and into the narrow room, entering low with his gun in front. He nudged the body inside with his legs as he scoped out the room’s interior.
Just as his brain registered that the main room was empty, a petite figure emerged from the bathroom. Cold blue eyes stared at him from a doll-like face.
“Your father sent me,” he said.
She took a step backward.
“We have to go. The police will be here any minute. Grab your things.”
The woman took a shuddering breath and nodded. She cast one more wary glance at Carson and then turned to disappear into the bathroom. “It’s not about the money, is it?” she asked.