61
I don’t know whether I had dreamed it or whether it was one of those first thoughts that flash into your head just as you’re waking up.
Whichever it was, I knew I had to call Turk Kavagian, the New Orleans PI. It was early morning, but I couldn’t afford to wait.
When Turk picked up at the other end, I heard the dull roar of a crowded restaurant in the background. Turk was at Mother’s eating some kind of local breakfast fare that he tried to describe to me, something with crawfish and okra. He asked what he could do for me.
“It’s regarding our conversation about Delbert Baldou and that niece of his who he raised like a daughter. Louisa Deidre.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Did she use Delbert’s last name, Baldou?”
At the other end, Turk thought about it for a while. “She may have. Makes sense.”
“Was her biological father’s last name Baldou?”
“Nah. It wasn’t that.”
“Really. What was it?”
“Gaudet. See, her father was only Delbert Baldou’s half brother because they had different fathers. Louisa Deidre was a Gaudet.”
“So her birth name would be Louisa Deidre Gaudet?”
“You’ve got it.”
“Turk, once again, you’ve been great.”
“Hey, that one was easy,” he said.
“For you maybe, but not for me. Thanks again.”
I rounded up Heather, who was sleepy-eyed, and handed her a big coffee laced with espresso along with a little bag that had a sugary piece of bakery inside. Then I told her we had to be on the move.
“I was thinking,” she started out in between slurps of her coffee. “Didn’t Vance Zaduck warn you about talking to people at the DOJ?”
“Only if someone from DOJ reached out to me first.”
“Anyway,” she said, “didn’t that guy, Gil Spencer, also tell you to be careful . . . not to barge into the DOJ and start spilling your story?”
“Right.”
“Okay. Two warnings. So tell me again: why are we heading there?”
“Because this is not about spilling my story. It’s about Louisa Deidre Gaudet’s story.”
We parked the car in a garage and walked along the south facade of the Department of Justice building.
Near the entrance, I halted in front of a bronze statue that was darkened with age. The kind of little statue easily missed by passing traffic and hurried pedestrians. I nodded to it. “Nathan Hale. Hanged by the British when he was caught doing reconnaissance for General George Washington’s army.” I added, “He was just about your age.”
She smirked. “And on that pleasant note . . .”
“But it does raise a question,” I said. “About what we’re willing to live for. And willing to die for.”
She tightened her face. “Not sure. But I know one thing. I don’t want any more young girls victimized, and maybe butchered, by some crazy voodoo cult running an Internet porn service.”
“Well then,” I said, “let’s both of us walk into the DOJ and shake things up.”
There was hesitation on her face. Her eyes were wide, her mouth drawn. She said, “Uh . . . you sure you want me with you?”
“Positive.”
“Okay,” she said. “Just checking.”
We entered and went through the security check in the crowded lobby and handed over our IDs. At the desk the officer asked, “How can I help you?”
“We’re here to see someone in your HTIU office.”
“Both of you?”
“Yes, she’s my research assistant.”
“Trevor Black. Legal investigator.”
“Who exactly are you here to see?”
“Louisa Deidre Gaudet.”
The official at the desk blinked slowly. No smile. “Say again?”
I repeated the name.
Then a flash of recognition on the security officer’s face. “Oh, you mean LD Gaudet?”
I was inching closer to the goal line.
“Yes,” I said energetically. “That’s right. LD.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Not exactly. But she’ll know what this is about.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t allow you inside without an appointment.”
Heather gave me a side-glance. I was preparing to leap over the high jump in front of me. “Well, you see, this is a follow-up from my assistant’s meeting with LD in New Orleans recently. And it’s an emergency. LD considers it a matter of extreme urgency. I know that as a fact. She’s the one who tasked me to work on this project.”
The officer stared at me and tapped a finger on the desk. She pulled out a list, looked it over, then reached for the phone and typed in a short number. I was guessing that it was LD’s extension. The officer lowered her voice to murmur something and listened to the response. Then, very audibly, she repeated my name and listened again to the voice on the other end.
When she put the phone down, she looked me over one more time. Then she double-checked our IDs and typed out two paper tags with our names on them and little metal clips on the tops.
“Make sure you keep them on your person,” she said, handing our name tags to us.
In the elevator, when the doors closed, Heather whispered, “Do you have a plan?”
“It’s a bit sketchy.”
“Okay, but at least a script in your head for what you’re going to say?”
“Not exactly. More like an impression.”
Her eyes widened. “I’d love to hear it.”
“Hope for the hopeless. Encouragement for someone trapped in the past. Healing for the brokenhearted.”
Heather raised an eyebrow. “That sounds more like a sermon.”
I didn’t respond because just then the elevator stopped, the doors opened, and we walked into the busy corridor of the High Technology Investigative Unit.