I was so numb with shock, fear, and worry, I didn’t even have a parting shot for the cops. If I were a cruel person, I could have put a serious dent in Washington’s career prospects by mentioning his filial connection to a certain Times-Picayune reporter. Around the time of my arrest last spring, I had figured out that it was him who was feeding Dodson information. Washington didn’t know I knew. Knowing this helped keep me from removing the smug smirk from his face with a shiny new Stanley box cutter whenever I saw him. Knowledge is power.
I took a minute to organize my thoughts. I had too many coming from different directions. It was time to start small. Which problem to tackle first? The sore throat. I made some tea, and after ten minutes of hunting, found a piece of paper and a pen to scratch notes on. Michael had offered to buy me a palmtop device once--he used his for almost everything--but I turned him down. For brainstorming, I went low-tech.
Who? I thought. The first major question in every news story I’d ever written. Lots of different people in this Gordian knot of a problem, though I wasn’t sure the solution Alexander used would apply. MacKay, Michael, the redhead. Was she part of it? I blew my nose and remembered her sniffing and mentally slapped myself for not making the connection sooner. At least one person in that equation was still snorting cocaine, I bet. I had never suspected Michael of any drug use. Neither he nor his apartment ever smelled like smoke of any kind. Except for when the toaster caught fire. I also knew his body pretty well and I was damn sure there were no track marks. Unless he was shooting between his toes he hadn’t graduated to heroin. Going back to gateway drugs for a moment, I had never seen him get the munchies associated with smoking dope. He also didn’t sniff like the redhead. What was her name? It had something to do with red.
Who would benefit from MacKay’s death, and who could give me more information? The ex-wife might benefit if she was a trustee for money left to her daughter, but I couldn’t think of a reason she would talk to me. Dodson was uncommunicative right now; so much for that alliance. No, what I needed was some insight into Ian’s family. My best bet for that was Madeleine. She had been friendly. She also didn’t like the sniffing redhead, which gave her a higher score in my book. I didn’t have a last name, but someone did, and I was just going to have to find a way to find that person.
The where and the when had to be Sunday, somewhere in or near the Quarter for MacKay to have made it to Bloody Murder before passing out. Could Michael have been involved somehow? I couldn’t believe that. He wasn’t a violent man, for one thing. The only time I’d seen him hit anyone was when a hired thug was attempting to kidnap me.
How? There was another good question. How did MacKay’s family get a death certificate without a body? How did MacKay plan to continue existing under the radar? He’d have to have a large amount of cash or a fake I.D. set up. Marie and I had discussed that. If my dad was any example, it wasn’t hard to find.
Why, though? Insurance money? The cash from a large policy could certainly be used to pay off debts, if the amount was big enough. Funerals were not cheap. My parents’ funeral had cost me over twelve thousand dollars and that had been several years ago. If the reason for the deception was debt, New Orleans was full of opportunities to get into it, specifically casinos, both legal and not. Gambling could get a person into serious money trouble. Serious money trouble could lead to loan sharks, which were also something that pointed to organized crime. Or could MacKay be hiding some other crime besides drug dealing? Or maybe should I go in the other direction, and he was in the Witless, er, Witness, Protection Program. A side effect of dating a geek, I was developing a horrible tendency to pun. Or was that a tendency to pun horribly? Was there a difference?
MacKay could not have done this alone, I decided. The redhead had to be in on it. So nice, so considerate, taking care of all the arrangements. Saving the family from all the bother, and staying firmly in control of the situation. Unusual deaths--like foul play--warranted an autopsy, so if it wasn’t Witness Protection, someone in the Medical Examiner’s office was either in on the scheme from the beginning or was paid off handsomely for the death certificate. Since the redhead paid off the bartender, she was obviously comfortable throwing money at problems. This might be a good place to start.
I had been on the right track when I’d asked Dodson to find out who had performed MacKay’s autopsy, I was sure of it. It was after nine. I called Dodson’s number and got his voicemail. “Nate, Zo Smith. When you find out who did that autopsy, have someone check his or her bank account.” Hopefully that would spark his investigative instincts. When I’d been a reporter, I was like a terrier with a rat when I was on a hot story.
And now, back to the Internet. Something interesting I’d seen in the Times-Picayune’s obituaries on Wednesday occurred to me. Besides the obits, one could sign the guestbook online if one wished. A nice way for people who couldn’t make it to at least make their condolences known, I thought. Some entries simply were a name; others talked about Ian. I felt a little funny reading them, like I was intruding on people’s grief. Then I felt a surge of anger, similar to the one I felt when I knew for sure my father was still alive. How dare MacKay trick people like this? Curiosity rose up to do battle with the anger and as always, won the battle by a knockout. What would make someone go to such desperate lengths? The same reasons you might commit a murder, really--love, money, revenge, or to cover up another crime.
Ian’s guestbook had two dozen entries. Michael hadn’t made one. Neither had the redhead. I was sure I’d know her name if I saw it. One entry from a Chas Dupree mentioned raising a glass to him at Lucy’s. The end of the email address said rr.la.com--Roadrunner in Louisiana, so odds were good Lucy’s was a local place. Marie might know it. I’d be surprised if she didn’t, actually. Several posts were simply names and some had email addresses, but there was no detail as to who they were or how they knew the not-exactly deceased. Others were too far away to get to the funeral on such short notice. Madeleine didn’t have an entry, but “I’m going to miss you, big brother, love V.,” could only have come from Vanessa.
I clicked on the link and sent her a polite email saying I wanted to thank Madeleine for driving me, could she either pass along my email address or my phone number? An old southern family would be big on manners. At least I hoped so. The MacKays had been in the New Orleans area longer than Marie’s family, so it was a reasonable assumption. Joyce had been the epitome of formal southern society etiquette. It would only be polite to pass on the message.
An attack of coughing interrupted my train of thought. My body was rebelling against being vertical. Enough for now, I thought. Jerry could wait. I wanted my energy at its peak when I let him have it.