Ascension Day

Nel-M kept low, heard two more shots: one missed, but the other hit his back window, shattering it into a thousand ice-pellets.

Breath held, Nel-M did a quick self-check for injuries: pain, blood, flesh or clothing fragments where they shouldn’t be? Nothing. He eased out again and swung off hard at the next cross street.

Nel-M was already fifty yards past the crack house as Rillet came out with Mack Elliott and Jac. They had their hoods yanked off, which Jac could now see were white pillow cases. Rillet stood behind them, looking clownish and ridiculous — though nobody would dare tell him that — in a George Bush mask. Dubbya meets the Ku-Klux Klan in front of a crack house.

‘Yo’ know that car o’ that man?’ Rillet asked.

Mack answered first. ‘No. Never seen him befo’. An’ don’ know the car.’

‘Me neither,’ Jac echoed. ‘Don’t recognize the car or the man.’ Even at first sight, the man inside had been little more than an indistinct shadow. Now he was a good seventy yards away.

Silence again, the George Bush mask giving nothing away. No sign of whether Rillet accepted their claims or not.

But watching the fading brake lights of the Pontiac Bo

25

Soon after Alaysha had put Molly to bed, she took the gun out of her drawer and held it in her hand, turning it slowly, getting the feel of it, flicking the safety catch on and off. A Colt Cobra.38, it felt heavy in her grip, alien, but at the same time reassuring.

Her mother had been anxious about her taking it, getting her to swear on the Mado

‘No, I told you mom. It’s just to frighten him off. He’s not going to come calling with a gun.’

Not him. But the other knock she feared at her door was another matter. They’d have a gun pointed through the gap before the chain was barely off.

She swallowed hard, felt her hand trembling against the weapon in her grip. Sudden concern that if and when it came to it, she wouldn’t have the resolve to actually pull the trigger. She gripped the gun in both hands and stood up, bracing herself in aiming stance, and, after a second, felt the trembling subside; not completely, but enough to squeeze off a shot without missing wildly.

Alaysha went to put the gun back in the drawer, but then at the last second decided it wasn’t a good idea to have it anywhere within Molly’s reach. She opened her wardrobe and put it on a high shelf, tucked under a few of her clothes.

‘Is that Jac McElroy?’

‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

‘I understand that you’re handling the Larry Durrant case?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Because I’ve got some information that I think you’ll find interesting.’

‘Who isthis?’

‘That’s not important. But if you want some information that’ll help crack the case, you might want to talk to me.’

‘That’s very true, I would. So, tell me. What it is you know?’

‘No, not over the phone. It’s too sensitive. We should meet.’

‘Whoever told you that I was handling the Durrant case, should also have told you that I’m not that active on it right now. The plea petition’s already in, so now we’re just waiting on its outcome.’ Jac sighed heavily. ‘But, okay, now you’ve intrigued me — let’s meet.’

They arranged to meet at 12.45 p.m. the next day at a coffee bar on Camp Street. Jac could walk round the corner at lunch-time from work. The man said that he’d be wearing a light-blue jacket and carrying a salmon-pink folder under one arm. It was all spy vs spy stuff, but the next day, sitting by the cafe window sipping at a latte, Jac wasn’t looking out for the man. He knew already that he wouldn’t show.

The idea had come from Stratton’s suggestion about a fake call on his land line to send his snoopers on a wild goose chase, combined with Alaysha’s comment from the other night: ‘ But it’s not just what, Jac, you have no ideawho — just who is trying to kill you? The final catalyst had been seeing the Pontiac Bo

If Jac’s fake caller claimed to have something juicy on the Durrant case, without doubt his snoopers would make sure to be there watching. Bob Stratton, in turn, would then watch them, note their registration number and take photos. More spy stuff, but at least Jac would hopefully, finally, discover who wasn’t keen on him digging too deep into the Durrant case.

The next few days went by in a whirlwind.

As Stratton suggested, Jac waited in the cafe twenty-five minutes past the appointment time before finally leaving. Stratton said that he’d wait no more than fifteen minutes; by then he should have been able to observe all he needed and take more than enough photos. Jac spoke briefly with Stratton on his cell phone shortly after leaving the cafe.

‘It wasa dark maroon Pontiac Bo

Now a description slightly the other way from Durrant than his anonymous e-mailer: less stocky, slightly older.

That night, Jac had another bogus date with Je

Jac felt slightly guilty at the subterfuge, now having met Mr Bromwell. He sat with Je

Six more T or E. Levereaux to go.

Two numbers constantly rang with no answer, and another was on answer-phone the three times he’d tried; he’d left a message on his second call.

The same routine every time: ‘I’m trying to locate a Ted Levereaux that used to live in New Orleans and worked at the Bayou Brew bar in the Ninth Ward between nineteen-ninety and ninety-four.’

And variations on the same answers each time: We’ve never lived anywhere but St Louis. Never worked in a bar. My husband’s an Edward, always known as Eddy. I was only thirteen in ninety, couldn’t work anywhere, let alone a bar. Or just: Sorry, got the wrong person.

Jac felt numbed, worn down by it all, the questions, and now the answers too, starting to become mechanical.

And so when a teen boy’s voice said, ‘One minute — I’ll get my pa,’ Jac took a second to snap his concentration back. He checked on his pad to see which number it was: one of the two that before had rung with no answer.

‘Ted Levereaux.’

Jac felt immediately more anxious, a faint edge and tremor now in his voice, when, with the number of times he’d been through the same introduction, it should have come across as plain and matter-of-fact.

‘God in a bucket, Bayou Brew — that takes me back a ways,’ Levereaux exclaimed. Then, realizing he perhaps should have done it the other way round — question before commitment — a wariness crept into his voice as he asked, ‘And why, pray, might you be enquirin’… Mr McElvey, was it?’