13

 

Wednesday, 11:00 AM

Teenagers didn’t own the patent on texting and driving. Wes had fought the urge to type one himself since leaving the rental car place down the street from the hotel. Jessica was right about not pushing himself on Lisa—as hard as it was for him to do. That’s why he’d let her alone the past five years. He’d already composed a polite message in his head. Something he might send an old friend after a chance meeting. He would wish his daughter the best, say it had been good to see her, and leave it at that. Besides, she might need some time to cool her heels since he’d opened his mouth and inadvertently blabbed about his covert queries into her life.

Downtown New Orleans came into view as Interstate 10 veered southward. The most obvious landmark, the Mercedes-Benz Dome, home of the football team, The Saints, dwarfed the buildings around it. In the far view, the gray steel hulk of the Crescent City Bridge spanned the Mississippi River, connecting New Orleans and the cities of Gretna and Belle Chasse.

He checked his watch, 11:05, then slid the arrow across the bottom of his phone with his thumb and opened Maps. The closest exit dumped out onto Poydras Street, next to the football stadium. He took it, drove up Poydras, and found a spot to park the Malibu on St. Charles Avenue, one block from the Federal District Courthouse.

Frank “Bubba” Broussard was the craziest, life-loving man Wes had ever met. He grew up on the bayou. After four years in the Corps, he took advantage of the G.I. Bill, sold crawfish on the side, and put himself through law school at LSU. He ran traps before and after classes, sorted and bagged them, and marketed the end product. Pure determination.

Bubba was a federal prosecutor and a friend. He counted on the man’s workaholic habits to have him planted behind his desk in his office. Wes wanted to surprise him.

He dialed Bubba’s office number. It rang twice. “Mr. Broussard’s office. This is Vanessa.”

He thought about keeping the tone formal, but the Mister-mister stuff might not get him in the door. “Could I speak to Bubba, please? This is Wes Hansen, an old associate who’d like to touch base.”

“One moment, Mr. Hansen.”

Elevator music had changed over the years. The tune in the background picked up Adele singing “Rolling in the Deep.” A good song. He had it on his phone.

The music stopped. “Who dat, Wes? Brother, where are you?”

His long-time friend made Wes smile. A crawfish-and-cornbread-fed Cajun through and through, and he sounded like it, but honest and sharp as a tack. “I’m sitting in a rental car two hundred yards from your office.”

“You’re kiddin’ me. What da world brought you down here, work or pleasure?”

“Cole Blackwell. I wanted to express my appreciation for the reference.”

“Well, what do you know ’bout dat. Cole asked me if I knew a PI. I told him I knew a sorry Marine who couldn’t find a starving dog on the streets of Bagdad using a side of beef for bait.” Bubba spoke eloquently when he had to, but around friends, he could slip into a bayou brogue of dis and dats.

“If you’re trying to get my goat, you’ll have to get up earlier in the morning. What’s your day look like? Have you got time for lunch?”

“Dern, wish you’d called earlier. Can’t do it, not this week. Got BP in my hair. After the Deepwater Horizon burned and sank, killing eleven men and making the mess the oil caused, dat means big problems, not British Petroleum. How long are you going to be here?”

There was a loaded question. He hoped for Cole and his daughter’s sake, not long. He wanted to get his guy and go home. “I don’t know yet. Can I pester you for a favor?”

“You know better than that. What can I do for you?”

“I need to look at recent air travelers and check the more obvious things, like parking and traffic violations. Still have my e-mail address?”

“Yep, got it. I’ll have you a contact before six. My cell phone number is in my signature if you don’t still have it. Call me some evening. We’ll make plans for dinner. Rae would love to see you. I’ve got nothing Saturday. We’d like to see you at the house.”

“I’ll do it, thanks. Hey, one more thing. Point me to some good food. Local cuisine.”

“Dragos for oysters, Red Fish Grill if you hit Bourbon Street. Ruth’s Chris for steaks, Copland’s—”

“Whoa, thanks, that’s enough. I hope we’re not here long enough to eat at all of those.”

“There’s a hundred more.”

“No, that’s good for now.”

“OK then. Hey, for me. Cole didn’t give me the details, but I know you’re not looking for a runaway, and you didn’t fly down here to thank me for a job reference.”

“You’re right. I don’t know much now, but when I do, I promise I won’t leave you out of the loop. It’s bigger than the NOPD.”

“What kind of big?”

“My gut tells me it’s about the size of the BP in your hair right now.”