The motel room held no obvious clues, and Alexa doubted the techs would find any meaningful fingerprints in the hundreds they would likely collect there. It was clear the maids didn’t bother to wipe the counters between hourly visitors.
The police plane that was using a receiver to search the lakes and swampy areas between New Orleans and Baton Rouge a grid at a time hadn’t picked up the signal from the GPS by nine A.M.
Every available police officer in the region was pulling traffic duty, while the nonstop tourist-driven party on Bourbon Street was still going strong. Katrina wouldn’t even notice that she was blowing intoxicated revelers into Mississippi.
From Charity Hospital, Alexa had followed Manseur back to headquarters and she’d collapsed immediately on the couch in his office and fallen into a fitful sleep. Her dreams were filled with Grace Smythe, Casey West, LePointe, and a menacing giant. When she awoke, two hours later, she was alone. She got up, found the restroom, used the toilet, and washed her hands and her face.
Back in Manseur’s office, she poured a cup of coffee from the pot Manseur had made and stared at the stacks of phone logs they had left on the conference table the afternoon before. Manseur had highlighted the numbers of interest, and she flipped through them again, looking for something in them that would make everything fit together.
Had Grace and Doc’s relationship been purely business? Lovers would probably have talked longer. She wondered how the two of them had met. It was most likely that Doc had instigated the plan to sell Fugate’s notebook to LePointe, since Doc was directly connected by photographs to Fugate. But Alexa was troubled. Why had they kidnapped Gary West? Or had Casey been Grace’s target? Grace clearly had an obsession with Casey. Whatever the motive, killing Gary should have worked. Now, with Grace dead, they might never know her true motive. Unlike Fugate, Grace hadn’t left a diary to fill in Alexa. But had she left one in another form?
Did Grace, Doc, or Sibby kill Fugate to get their hands on the notebook, or had Leland Ticholet done it at their bidding? There was photographic evidence that Fugate had known Doc for most of his life. There was no doubt of the notebook’s value as an instrument that would guarantee the payment of the ransom. Were the three missing pages enough on their own to hold in reserve in case more leverage was necessary? Or to allow them to go back to the well? Had Dorothy Fugate torn the pages out ages ago because she’d made a mistake? Or had she written something on them she felt the need to destroy?
Doc Doe-whoever he was-must have been connected to Ticholet through Fugate and her nursing position at River Run. He must have recruited the violent man for the job. What inducement did Doc offer him? What was a big payday to a fisherman/trapper? A few hundred? Drugs?
Manseur strode in and sat heavily behind his desk. “Brace yourself. Notebook’s out of the bag. It-”
Jackson Evans walked in before Manseur finished his warning. He forced a smile at Alexa.
“Michael tells me you found a diary at the West crime scene.”
Alexa was struck dumb by what appeared to be a betrayal. “I’m sorry?”
“I’ll take charge of it and make sure it’s handled properly.”
“For safekeeping?” Alexa asked, sarcastically.
“It’s evidence, Agent Keen. In a homicide.”
“It’s evidence taken from a crime scene outside your jurisdiction, but clearly within mine. It directly relates to a kidnapping, extortion, conspiracy to commit murder, and using the wires in furtherance of those crimes. You will get a look at that notebook only after it is fingerprinted by my lab and its authenticity is established.”
“May I ask where it is now?”
“In the possession of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“I see. Fine,” Evans said, clapping his hands together. He was seemingly nonplussed by the news. “All in all, I think this was a successful if somewhat unorthodox joint operation. I’ll make sure your director knows you performed professionally and I’ll send a letter of praise for your jacket. You have my personal thanks and I’m sure that of the Wests. I suppose you’ll want to get packed and head back to Washington while the getting’s still possible. If you can find a seat on a flight out.” He looked at his watch.
“I’ll do that. And I’ll have a copy of the notebook sent to you as soon as we’ve fingerprinted it.”
“The notebook’s a moot point,” Manseur said glumly.
“It is? Why?” Alexa asked.
“Because,” Evans said, “despite the fact that moot actually means arguable, every TV station and newspaper already has it. Or will by noon. It’s going to be all over the news very shortly.”
“How?” Alexa asked, the heat of confusion rising within her.
“Copies were delivered to them.”
“Delivered how?”
“In the morning’s mail,” Manseur said.
Alexa grabbed her purse. “I’m out of here.”
“Where are you going?” Manseur asked.
“I have to get to Casey before she hears about the diary from a reporter. All they have are photocopies; it will take some footwork on their part to verify the pages are authentic. They’ll learn the psychiatric-nurse author is dead and that Sibby has been found. They’ll be cautious about confirming before they attack Dr. LePointe, but once they smell that he’s vulnerable, it’s too big a story not to run.”
Alexa reached and picked up an evidence envelope from the table that contained the picture of Doc and Grace. She left the two men and made a beeline for the stairs.
Manseur caught up with her. “You thought I ratted you out,” he said. “Before Evans told you about the deliveries to the press.”
“It never crossed my mind, Michael. Well, just for a split second I was…Obviously the kidnappers were planning all along to take LePointe’s money and kill Gary West and LePointe. And since the copies arrived in today’s mail, the delivery mechanism was in motion before last night.”
“But the notebook might never be authenticated if Doc had given LePointe the original.”
“True. But it would have made LePointe squirm nonetheless. And there’s the missing pages. I don’t think Dorothy took them out. They’re consecutive pages. One event-or a couple of them that are worse for LePointe than what we have. The position of them datewise is crucial. I missed it at first. Those pages would have been written twenty-six years ago.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Alexa’s brain was racing as she went over avenues of investigation out loud. “Michael, we have to identify Doc. Maybe Doc visited the hospital with Fugate. He recruited Leland. That would take more than one or occasional visits. We know he was connected to Fugate and somehow to Grace. Casey told me she took pictures at River Run and that Grace flirted with an orderly. She’s been seeing someone and Casey didn’t meet him. Maybe Doc isn’t a doctor. Maybe Doc is just a nickname. I think he was an orderly at River Run. It fits. Talk to Whitfield or Veronica, if you can find her, and see which orderly he could have been. Can you do that for me? And get an address for him.”
Alexa left Manseur behind her on the stairwell. As she hurried to her car, she dialed Casey’s cell phone. She had to contact Casey and tell her she was coming.
75
Traffic was light and Alexa saw no evidence of a door-to-door forced evacuation as she drove into Casey’s neighborhood. No cops stopped Alexa’s car to demand to know why she hadn’t yet fled the endangered city. The guard Decell had stationed there was ignoring the reporters clustered outside Casey’s gate. Several yelled at Alexa as she walked past them.
“Mrs. West is expecting me,” she told the guard, who looked like a Midwestern college quarterback with perfect teeth.
“She’s inside,” the guard said.
The front door was opened by another guard, who accompanied Alexa back to the kitchen, where a woman in a white uniform was cooking lunch. Casey sat at the table holding her daughter in her lap.