Chapter 14

COOKED BOOKS

When I called the office to check in the next morning, Earlene told me Mrs. Daigrepont had left a message for me to call her. Surprised and a little concerned, I hung up and dialed right away.

“I’m glad you called,” Marlisa said. “I might actually have some information for you.” She sounded upbeat, so that was a load off my mind.

“Great. Let’s meet and talk about it.”

“I have a couple errands to run, but you can come by my house a little later today if you like. Maybe in a couple hours or so?”

I jotted her address on my hand, then jogged down the levee and crammed myself into the tiny shower. I took just a moment or two longer than usual shaving and blow-drying my hair, convincing myself it was the polite thing to do. I slapped on some Brut, an extravagance I hadn’t thought of lately. Placide didn’t comment, but I noticed a double take when I slid into the passenger seat. Must be the Brut, I thought, feeling a little sheepish.

The sky was a clear, crisp blue, as oil field industry trucks and tankers roared by us on Highway 90. The rare kind of winter day in Louisiana when the humidity drops so low that the sky is lapis lazuli, and everything looks like it’s just been scrubbed. Even the Canadian geese, here for the winter, seemed to soar with renewed zest in their precise V formation across the azure background, three shades deeper than our usual grayish-blue sky bleached out by 90% humidity. Or maybe it just looked brighter since I was on my way to see Marlisa.

Back in New Iberia, we crossed the bayou at Bridge Street and found Marlisa’s small house on the corner under an ancient live oak. Placide promised to be in sight when I needed him.

Marlisa appeared at the door in bare feet, jeans, and a red USL T-shirt, her hair hiked up into a loose ponytail, with stray wisps falling on her cheeks and neck. She led me to the dinette set, where papers littered the width of the modest table.

“H, I’ve learned a few things about Armstrong since we spoke,” she said.

“I’m all ears.”

“For one thing, Sapphire is leveraged to the hilt. The business was failing, with no new contracts. The books are doctored so that Armstrong could lie about the company’s losses. It looks to me like he’s been selling off the company, piece by piece.”

“Who would have guessed?” I said sardonically. “Where did that tidbit of information come from?”

“From my friend Christie. Yesterday she came by, all upset, with a manila folder of papers. She told me her husband, the Sapphire accountant, had discovered that the books don’t add up, so he’s worried. Millions of dollars have disappeared, and the numbers have been doctored to make the profits look much greater on paper than they actually are. Creditors are rolling in now wanting what’s due, but the bulk of the money is probably in some offshore account somewhere. She’s afraid they’ll suspect her husband. Of course, I had to promise her I wouldn’t mention a word of this to anyone, or she wouldn’t have shown me any of this.”

“My lips are sealed. I know Armstrong has some high-profile CPA on Wall Street. Armstrong’s not about to trust a local young New Iberia accountant with his actual earnings. It’ll take a full audit to get to the bottom of it, and by the time it gets to that point, everyone will know about the fraud. If Christie’s husband’s nose is clean, he shouldn’t have anything to worry about. This just gives my suspicion some teeth,” I said, looking up at her from one of the pages. “Thanks, Marlisa. This will really be useful.”

“I didn’t even think to offer you a glass of iced tea, H.”

“That would hit the spot,” I said, glad for the chance to visit a few minutes longer.

She returned with two tall glasses, ice clinking, and set one in front of me, searching my face for a reaction as I glanced through the pages.

“How did your friend manage to get her hands on all this?” I took a long sip and slouched back in the chair.

“After the building was damaged, her husband had to move his office into their home temporarily. He’s been having trouble sleeping, so she bugged him until he finally told her what was bothering him. While he was bass fishing last weekend, she Xeroxed a copy of some of the pages and brought them to me because she’s frightened for him. I guess she needed to confide in someone. And you’re the only other person I can trust, so I decided I’d hand it over to you.”

“I’m glad you know you can trust me. But it does put you in some danger if anyone learns you saw this. I’d get this back to Christie as soon as you can.”

“Oh, these copies are for you. I don’t even want this stuff in my house!”

“This could really be helpful. Thanks!”

“Christie never trusted Sapphire, either. I know Charles saw it, too, but he would never tell me how bad it was. He didn’t want to worry me, but that worried me all the more. I just…” Her voice trailed off, and I knew she still had a hard time talking about Charles.

“I’m sorry this is bringing up bad memories, Marlisa,” I said, reaching out to pat her hand that lay limp on top of a stack of papers.

“Christie feels the same as I do,” she said, quickly composing herself, “and she’s been worried sick about her husband, especially since this bombshell dropped.” Marlisa didn’t pull her hand away, so mine lingered a second or two longer than necessary.

“Well, try to stay in touch with her,” I added, pulling my hand away finally.

“Oh, I will. She’s my only ally. Besides you, that is. But she’s afraid for her husband.”

“As long as he didn’t have prior knowledge, he won’t be accountable. But he should report this to the MSHA, ASAP. Right now, they seem to think Sapphire is squeaky clean. I suspect some ally of Armstrong outside the company was cooking the books, someone who’s in as deep as Armstrong is. Those books were cooked long before they ever got to Christie’s husband. Armstrong pulled the same thing in Tennessee, so it’s not surprising. Probably the same Wall Street CPA. So far, Armstrong has robbed two companies blind with impunity, so he’s obviously got some connections in high places. I’d love to nail him.

“Thanks for getting me these,” I continued, patting the folder and standing to leave. “At least it gives us some proof of what I’ve been suspecting all along. These records should prove a good motive for a planned inundation to get the insurance money. The inconvenient part for those responsible is the unfortunate loss of life. In my book, we’re looking at murder. Eventually, someone will listen.”

“I’m happy if I could help.”

“I’ll be in touch, Marlisa.”

“I’m glad,” she said as she stood on tiptoe and kissed me on the cheek.

Taken aback, I walked on air out to where Placide waited for me.

~

My investigation was taking much longer than I expected and becoming ever more complex. That afternoon, I reluctantly called my XO and asked for an emergency leave extension. “I believe I’m getting closer to proving my father was murdered, but I’m not getting any help from law enforcement,” I told him. “I’m hoping to use some of the leave time I’ve been saving.”

“I understand, Major. In my experience, not all law enforcement is above corruption. I’ll go ahead and fill out the forms for the record. Do what you need to do but get back here as soon as you can.”

“Will do, sir. Thanks for understanding.”

Saturday morning, Placide and I decided to bundle up, pack the ice chest, and shove off for a weekend of trolling through our refuge in the swamp. Nothing could ease the agony of waiting like the endless expanse of sky and water; the croaking and cawing swamp life; the thick cypress groves keeping us hidden; the slosh of gentle waves on the side of the boat. Placide stood watch while fly-fishing, and I slouched back and skimmed through the papers Marlisa had given me.

I’m no accountant, but even I could spot some of these old-school tricks. The balance sheets were so doctored that accounting fraud lit up like casino neon. Revenues were accelerated and expenses were delayed. Assets simply vanished from the pages. The same non-recurring expenses were subtracted yearly. This was going to be an accountant’s nightmare to unravel. But I knew enough to know it would prove to be incriminating evidence in court of a failing business, robbed blind before its final crumbling.

My mind was awash with corporate fraud, so I picked up a rod and joined Placide on the stern, snagging enough white crappie between us to fry a mess for supper and emptying my mind of the whole sordid affair for the rest of the day.

We reluctantly docked at our slip on Sunday evening, back to our reality, but more rested than I’d felt in weeks. I touched base with Candace from the levee phone at our agreed-upon time to see if she’d learned anything yet. It seemed my only dependable contacts were women. Or at least the only ones who hadn’t ended up dead.

“I need to see you,” she said, sounding urgent. We planned to meet for coffee at the Tiger Truck Stop in Grosse Tête, about fifteen miles east of Baton Rouge, the next morning before she went to work, though she said she would have only a few minutes.

“I was hoping you’d call, H,” she said when she plopped down at my table in the corner of the diner.

“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you some coffee. I hope that will be OK?” She nodded, then reached for some sugar packets. “Have you learned something?” I continued.

“Quite a bit. First of all, Carl is Joseph’s brother; you were right. Carl was the lead attorney for the Calco-Aloco merger. They were on a conference call on Friday. And Joseph had a call from someone in the White House last Monday. He flew to Washington for two days right after that.”

My pulse raced. “Any idea what the meeting was about?”

“I can’t ask him directly, but he’s worried about something, that much is clear. He had me book him a flight to Nassau tomorrow and a hotel for three days.”

“The Bahamas?”

“Yes.”

“Round trip?”

“Yes. He didn’t book his wife on the flight. And right at Christmas, too! It sounded bogus to me.”

“I agree. Where he’s staying?”

“He’s at the Sheraton British Colonial.”

“Look, Candace, can you describe Joseph Haggerty to me?” I asked, my mind racing.

“Better than that. I brought this trade publication. Haggerty’s picture is on page seven. He’s the third from the left with Treasury Secretary Arnold Huff and some other men at the Hall of Distinction Ceremony at LSU,” she said, opening the slick magazine to a page with the corner bent down, and laying it on the table in front of me.

“So, Secretary Huff is involved, too. Nice work, Candace. No wonder Haggerty requested you! I’m impressed!”

“Thanks, but now I suspect it was more likely he hired me because he knew Gremillion had some goods on him and he wanted to be able to keep his eye on me. The picture is a little small, but maybe you can get an idea of what he looks like. See here?” she said, pointing to the picture of a short bald man. “He’s nearly bald, large wire frame glasses.”

“This is a big help,” I said.

“There’s one other thing, H.”

“Oh?”

“A man named Dallas Matherne came in yesterday while Mr. Haggerty was out of the office. He asked me to tell Mr. Haggerty that he hadn’t received his ticket.”

“His ticket?”

“Yes. Then he handed me a number and asked me to have Haggerty call him.”

“A number? This is fantastic!”

“The odd thing is, I was just heading out to go to lunch and he walked out with me and offered to buy me lunch. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to flirt with me, or if maybe he was trying to pry information out of me. That’s when I thought maybe I could get some information from him, so I agreed.”

“You went to lunch with him? Well, tell all!”

“I didn’t learn much at first, but I decided he was flirting, so I played along. He started getting talkative when he ordered a second beer. He was angry, he said, because they were sending him away to Costa Rica. San José. When I asked why, he said they wanted to get rid of him just because he missed work one day.”

“I think it was more complicated than he let on.”

“I figured. He asked me if I’d meet him for a drink after work today. I said OK. That’s why I wanted to see you, to see if there’s anything you want me to try to ask him.”

“Do I? Where to start? First, give me Matherne’s number. Then, I guess, see if he’ll tell you who is sending him to Costa Rica, and why. Be casual about it, though. We know Haggerty is involved, but didn’t you say he mentioned ‘they’?”

“Yes, ‘they.’ Here’s the number he gave me. I’ll see what I can find out this evening. One thing’s for sure; he doesn’t act like a married man. OK, H, I’ve got to get to work.”

“This is fantastic, Candace.” I wrote down the office number. “Let Earlene or me know if you learn anything more tonight. But please be careful!” I said, as she grabbed her bag and hurried to the door.

“I have a job for you,” I told Placide on the ride back to Henderson. “I need a flight to Nassau, Bahamas, tomorrow, and a room at the Sheraton British Colonial until the day after Christmas. Remember to register me as Hank Lee. Oh, and you’ll need to have Earlene get out some more cash for me. Also, please give Earlene this phone number today. It’s Dallas Matherne’s number, and I have a sneaky suspicion he might be leaving the states any day now.”

Placide just glanced sideways at me, speechless.

That evening, I went over my notes so far. Could this really go all the way to the White House?

I arrived in Nassau late Tuesday afternoon, grabbed a cab for a wild ride down Bay Street, swerving in and out in heavy traffic. When I got out of the taxi, I was bathed by a balmy sea breeze and the charming British dialect of the dark-skinned natives who greeted me outside the hotel. Assailed by a passing thought of Midge and our quick get-away to the Outer Banks once on liberty, I immediately pushed that thought out, but if one had time to kill and wanted a romantic weekend, this seemed a likely place. That thought was followed immediately by thoughts of Marlisa’s quick stolen kiss. She was every bit as dangerous as Midge, I warned myself as I quashed that thought, as well.

The hotel lobby sparkled like a lady of the evening. Twinkling garlands adorned every pillar and indoor palm tree, while canned Christmas carols and the scent of pine permeated the cavernous lobby. I passed several pairs of Christmas honeymooners, arm in arm, looking to me like mere children, as I carried my bag to my room on the third floor. I hung my sport coat and my few shirts and slacks in the closet; shoved my skivvies, bathing suit, and some shorts and T-shirts into a dresser drawer; and threw my Dopp kit on the bathroom counter. I unpacked the Minox I brought along, hopefully to snap some evidence.

I figured Haggerty was likely to frequent some of the numerous watering holes at the hotel. An adult beverage and a bite to eat were in order for me as well after the long trip from New Orleans, with an hour and a half wait in Miami. I hadn’t eaten anything but airline peanuts since Louisiana.

I leafed through the social directory in my room and decided on the Patio Bar and Grill, the most casual choice, probably the most likely spot for Haggerty to show up at this hour. After a quick shower, I pulled on some shorts and a Polo shirt, pocketed my camera, and headed down.

I wasn’t positive it was Haggerty, but a short bald guy with large wire frame glasses sat at the bar talking to another man over one of those tall exotic island drinks with a paper parasol hanging out the side. Haggerty had no way of knowing me, so I had nothing to risk by getting close. I took a seat at a table behind a post and unfolded the morning paper. I was in a good spot to grab a clandestine pic.

I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I did catch Haggerty calling out, “See you tomorrow morning, Warren,” to the one who had stood to leave.

It had to be Joseph Haggerty and Warren Armstrong. That was the only Warren I had heard about. Now I knew for certain that Joseph Haggerty was not only tied to big oil, he was also tied to the salt company. One company was as corrupt as the other. With such huge stakes, anyone who got close to the truth was disposable. Collateral damage.

Later that afternoon, with too much time to kill, I walked out to the beach and rented one of a long line of chaise lounges with awnings. I kicked off my topsiders while a steel drum played a calypso tune in the distance. Looked as though I’d have an evening to kill. The balmy breeze off the water made it feel more like Easter than Christmas. I put my hands behind my head and watched for thirty minutes or so as two young island boys in cutoffs recruited tourists, then dove for conch shells for them. One of the young boys saw me smiling in their direction and began playing peek-a-boo with me around the corner of the lifeguard stand. I finally motioned him over. “You can dive for a shell for me,” I told him.

“Which shell you like, Mister?” he beamed. “You show me the one you like, and I’ll get it for you. Five dollars.”

I followed them out onto the pier, where dozens of multi-colored shells sparkled in filtered sunlight under three feet of water so clear you could see the bottom. “That one,” I said, pointing to the most colorful shell I spotted.

“Sure, Mister,” said the smallest of the two, who couldn’t have been more than six or seven. He dove without a splash into the crystal blue. Within moments he surfaced, a large coral-colored conch shell held high over his head and a smile as wide as the shell itself. “Here, Mister. You like?”

“It’s beautiful. Good job,” I smiled, handing him a five after he hoisted himself easily onto the pier.

“Thanks.” He grinned, stretching out the bill for a closer look, then tucking it into a zipper pouch pinned to the inside of his shorts. The two boys walked on, beaming as they looked for their next mark.

I tucked the shell under my arm and returned to the lounge chair. I opened the Nassau Guardian newspaper I’d picked up in the lobby. An article in section two caught my eye, about the oil exploration that Calco Oil had begun in the ‘70s and continued today, using new digital seismic survey technology to test the Great Carbonate Banks of the Bahamas for future oil drilling. I pondered whether these enterprising youngsters would have to face a future on the oil rigs a decade or so from now. How long would this water remain pristine once big oil got its hands on it? Hopefully, the Bahamians would be smart enough to resist a fate like Louisiana’s, in the interest of their laid-back lifestyle and their tourist industry if nothing else.

Calypso music rang out from the beachfront bar as young scantily clad honeymooners scuffed through the sand looking for shells, or ran in and out of the waves, or sat sipping Fog Cutters in shared chaise lounges. A volleyball game was in full swing a little farther down the beach, complete with giggling young bikini-clad American wenches, which meant the young studs were nearby flexing and posing, too. Hopefully, this vibrant tourism industry could fend off the encroachment of big oil, I thought drowsily, drifting off.

I woke up as dusk was settling in brilliant pink and orange hues over the now calm ocean waves and the beach. Along with the twilight, a hush had settled over the day’s festivities, interrupted only by the plaintive cries of gulls hovering low over the surf looking for dinner. The volleyball games were winding down and the laughs were more pensive now, as young couples began to disperse to plan their evening’s activities and romance. This was not the place to visit alone, I thought. Anyway, it was time to get back to my room and shower. Maybe get a drink downstairs later to unwind.

When I walked into my room, the message light on my phone was blinking, so I called the front desk and got a callback message from Aunt Ethel’s number. After the hotel operator placed the call, Placide picked up on the second ring.

“Placide?”

“Yessir, H,” answered the familiar voice on the other end. “We have a little emergency here.”

“Oh, no. What happened, Placide?”

“It’s your Aunt. A couple of thugs have been nosing around here wanting to know where you were. She told them she didn’t know nothing, but them folks didn’t believe her. Roughed her up a little but didn’t hurt her.”

“What did they do to her?”

“Pushed her around, is all. Said if you didn’t contact a certain number by noon tomorrow, they’d be back for more. And they told her if she called the law, she’d be dead. Louis is pretty upset, and Ethel just keeps on crying.”

“Oh, crap. And I’m not there to help. What’s the number?”

He read it off and added, “Don’t worry. I’m going to stay out here at the house. They’re hunting you down, though, that’s for sure.”

I told Placide that he was as much a target as I. “Don’t worry,” he responded. “I reckon I can take care of myself. Been doing it a lot of years. You just do what you have to do there.”

“Thanks for the heads up. You be careful, too.” I hung up, realizing the situation was becoming even more dire. I dialed the operator and placed the call to the number Placide had given me.

“Yes?” came the deep voice on the other end.

“This is Major Doucet.”

“Doucet. One warning and only one. Stay the hell out of business you don’t belong in. One word that you or that giant bodyguard of your daddy’s is still snoopin’ around, and your aunt buys the farm. Hear?”

“I thought you were gunning for Placide and me.”

“We decided to up the ante. Maybe that old lady will get your attention better.”

“Who are you?”

“Someone you don’t want to know. Now, do I have your word?”

“You have my word,” I lied, anxious to get off the phone before they traced it.

I needed to get home ASAP, but I was stuck here for a few more days. Placide would be with Ethel and Louis, so they’d be OK. I showered and went back down to the Patio Bar to collect my thoughts while I had a quiet drink alone.

The next morning, I got a cup of coffee to go and read the paper in the hotel lobby. About 0800 hours, I watched as Haggerty and Armstrong exited the elevator and headed out front for a taxi. I grabbed the one behind them and told the driver to follow that car.

“Yes sir,” the cabbie said, and we headed up Bay Street after them. When Haggerty’s cab pulled in at the Coral Harbor Golf Course a half-hour later, I realized I’d have to let them go for now. I decided I’d do some Christmas shopping and try to beat them back to the Nineteenth Hole, where I figured they’d probably stop for drinks and lunch.

“Take me to the shopping district,” I told my cabbie, and we headed back toward town. He agreed to pick me up at the same corner at 1100 hours. That gave me a few hours to browse the shops, pick up a couple of trinkets for Aunt Ethel and Earlene, and grab a cup of joe at some beachside bistro before I went back to the clubhouse for lunch.