“Alex Callahan.”
She shakes the keys. “Well, Mr. Callahan – I could let you in. Of course, I’d have to stay there with you. How long is this going to take?”
I shrug. “It could take a while.”
“Hunh.” She looks at me.
“I have an appointment at four-thirty.”
She twists a ring on her pinky. “Well, since I have to sit there, I think it’s only fair if you pay for my time, don’t you?”
“I guess so.”
“So you pay me ten dollars an hour,” she says, “’cause otherwise, I could just go watch TV, right?”
“Right.”
“Plus,” Jezebel says, “I’ll help you look. I’m experienced – so that’s why I’m worth ten bucks an hour. I’ve done courthouse searches for Pinky Streiber.”
“Who’s Pinky Streiber?”
“He’s a private investigator,” she says. “You’ve never heard of him?”
“No.”
“He’s legendary,” she insists. “He really is. So-” She sticks out her hand. The fingernails are a shiny black, the polish half chipped away. “Deal?”
She takes me upstairs. I explain what I’m looking for. “What I really need is the name of Charley Vermillion’s lawyer. I’d like to talk to him… or her.”
“That should be on there with the published notice, although sometimes they just list whoever in the firm took it over to file it. And right away I can save you some time,” she says, selecting a key and opening an oak door. “The paper only publishes arrests and suits once a week. Wednesday.”
Jezebel finds it at 3:48. “Binnnnnnnn-go!” she shouts, and then continues in a revved-up voice. “Am I good or am I good? January ninth, 2000. Case number four-nine-six-eight-seven Division A: Charles Jimmie Vermillion vs. Port Sulfur Forensic Facility, et. al., filed by Francis-” She stops suddenly. “Oh, shit. Pardon my mouth.”
“What’s it say?”
“Filed by Francis Bergeron,” she says. “Frankie Bergeron. I hope you don’t need to talk to him real bad.”
“Why?”
“He’s dead – that’s why. Car crash. Over by Des Allemands. Single car accident. Went flying into the bayou. Frankie was a very aggressive driver, so you can take your pick: Some kind of road rage incident, or was he just going too fast and misjudged the curve? No witnesses ever came forward. Hey – what’s the matter?”
I shake my head. “Every time I think I’m getting somewhere with this thing, I hit a dead end.”
“Well, Frankie Bergeron sure is a dead end, but Pinky says there’s always another way to find something out.”
“That would be the courthouse.”
“Oh, yeah. This was your last hope. I am so sorry, Mr. Callahan.”
“Maybe Bergeron’s firm would have records,” I say, more to myself than to Jezebel. “Do you know who he worked for?”
“Lacey and Bergeron. Right here in Belle Chasse. You could call Mr. Lacey. I’ll get you his telephone number. Don’t call him after say… oh…” She twirls a Rolodex, tapping one thumb against her lower lip and then writes the number on a Post-it. “Don’t call him after three. Maybe two. He drinks a little.”
She hands me the Post-it. Her handwriting is clear and beautiful. We spend a few minutes replacing the cartons of newspapers we’ve been going through, Jezebel locks up, and I fork over thirty-five bucks. “I almost feel bad about taking this,” she says. “I mean, Frankie Bergeron…”
“Deal’s a deal.”
She folds the money in half and then in half again, then pinches it between her thumb and forefinger. “Then again, I don’t think this thirty-five dollars would really cheer you up all that much, am I right?”
I shake my head. “Thanks for the help.”
She pushes the money into the back of her jeans, then sticks out her hand. “Well, then, good luck, Mr. Callahan. Maybe things will turn around. Pinky says they always do in an investigation if you just keep pounding it.”
“I hope he’s right.”
“Where’s your appointment?
“Tupelo Street.”
“Where you going, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’m going to see a lawyer. Lester Flood.”
She considers that. “First year back from Tulane, but Les is a good enough guy.” She looks at her nails. “Tell him Jez Henton says hey. You know how to get there?”
Jezebel’s directions deliver me within four minutes to the offices of Hawes, Halliday, and Flood, which are housed in a charming old brick building on a street that – judging from the proliferation of shingles – is obviously the preferred location of the legal establishment in Belle Chasse.
I wait ten minutes, and then I’m shown into Lester Flood’s office. It’s charming in that southern way, highly polished antiques, beautiful but worn rugs, and very high ceilings. There’s a collection of snow globes on a side table.
Flood doesn’t look much older than Jezebel. “Mr. Callahan,” he says. “Les Flood.” We shake hands and he gestures to a chair.
“Now,” he says, “what can I do for you?”
It takes me fifteen minutes to tell him. He jots down notes on a yellow legal pad, and occasionally asks me to spell a name or clarify something. When I’m finished, I give him a copy of the rabbit photo. He regards it for a moment or two, then slides it to one side. He taps his pad with his pen.
“I don’t know,” he says, pressing his lips together. “I can take this on; I will take this on if you decide to go that way, but…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. The court requires strong evidence and a pressing need to compel disclosure of information about a hospital patient – which this individual was.” He winces. “I have to say I don’t like our chances.”
“Why not? This is strong evidence. And there sure as hell is a pressing need. My sons.”
He drums his fingers on the legal pad. “I am sympathetic to your position. I might even agree with you. But there are a lot of suppositions in your theory.”
“Such as?”
“Well, for starters – you don’t know that the abductor of your children left the origami rabbit on your dresser. You never noticed it before they were abducted, but it could have been there before, am I right?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You a hundred percent sure?”
“I am now.”
He nods. “Yeah. Sure you are. But that’s reversing things, isn’t it? The argument will be that your son could have gotten the thing elsewhere. From a kid, a neighbor, who knows?”
“But he didn’t.”
He nods. “You understand I’m playing devil’s advocate here. I agree that the rabbit is unusual, and that finding a replica of the one found in your house at the facility in Port Sulfur is suggestive. Especially given the links between that facility and the Ramirez murders and the parallels between the Ramirez case and your own. But there’s an awful lot of dots to connect in there. And there are no rabbits in either of the other cases. So it all could be coincidence, which is what the defense will argue. There were no prints on the rabbit found in your home, right?”
I nod.
He presses his lips together. “You also know that there’s another suit out there against the Port Sulfur facility.”
“The Ramirez family.”
“Yes. And the facility felt it was in good standing there. They appealed the lower court’s decision to release that fellow. Lost the appeal. They had to let the guy go. What else could they do?”
“We’re talking about Vermillion.”
“Right, Vermillion. We might not like it, but releasing men like that is compelled by law. Now, you can argue – as the attorneys for the Ramirez family do – that the man should not have been released. But that’s hindsight and a fallacy. Post hoc, ergo propter hoc. ‘After this, therefore because of this.’ He killed two kids, therefore you shouldn’t have released him. And anyway, why blame the facility: They didn’t really want to release. To complicate everything, the whole thing’s in a mess right now because the defense records went up in smoke. I heard that the Ramirez legal team has actually agreed to share its files with defense so that the case can continue.”