Sleeping With the Crawfish Read online

  “Tenured associate professor of physiology. Ten years in the department. That’s as much context as I got. Hardly enough to help us decide anything.”

  “Well, I think it’s door one. What are we going to do about it?”

  “Yesterday, when I heard the prison board had whitewashed the investigation, I called the governor and told him what was going on.”

  “The governor himself or an aide?”

  “Himself. Before he was elected, we served on a hospital board together. He was mad as a cornered cottonmouth when he heard my story. Said he’d personally look into the problem. I’ll call him again and tell him what you’ve turned up. How’s that?”

  “Sounds pretty good . . . for now.”

  The door was barely shut behind Kit when Broussard made his call. Learning that the governor would be in a meeting for at least another thirty minutes, he left his number, then plucked a lemon ball from the bowl on his desk and tucked it in his cheek. From a side drawer, he took out Nick Lawson’s article on the stolen body and read it again, his face glowing with as much irritation as the first time he’d seen it.

  That night, Kit slept fitfully, dreaming that Lucky somehow wandered into a pit of alligators and she had to jump in and rescue him. When she woke, he was sleeping peacefully under her arm.

  At odd times throughout the next morning, while she worked in the photo gallery, snatches of her first trip to Courville flashed into her head: the bright lights suddenly appearing behind her, the sickening feeling of her car rolling over, fighting for her life in the inky water, her foot caught, fear clotting in her throat. Running in and out between those memories were little gnomes with their names stitched on their shirts: Relief, Gratitude, Horror, Sorrow, Disbelief. . . . But the busiest gnome of all was Anger. She’d nearly been killed. Her life obviously meant nothing to the Guillorys and Hubly. She’d been manipulated and put at risk, as if she didn’t matter.

  “Kit, are you all right?”

  She turned and looked at Nolen.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You haven’t moved for three minutes.”

  “Daydreaming, I guess.”

  “I wanted to tell you I had a temporary fix made this mornin’ on that crack in your ceilin’ so the loose piece wouldn’t fall. We’re tryin’ to get some plaster washers so we can screw it to the lath, but it’ll be a few days before they get here. Meanwhile, what we did is just temporary, so don’t think it’s gonna stay that way.”

  “I can’t wait to see it.”

  “Temporary—keep sayin’ that to yourself. I’m goin’ out for a hot dog. Want one . . . my treat?”

  “No thanks, but you can get one for Lucky.”

  “How’s he take it?”

  “Real plain . . . no bun.”

  “Be right back.”

  Three minutes later, Broussard called.

  “Can you come over here today, at three o’clock?”

  “I don’t know. What for?”

  “Somebody wants to talk to you.”

  “Who?”

  “They asked me not to say.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I don’t know. But considerin’ who it is, I think you should come.”

  Having complete trust in the old pathologist’s judgment, she agreed.

  When Nolen returned, she negotiated the time off, then took Lucky his hot dog, which he consumed with nearly as much enjoyment as Nolen had shown eating his.

  Going upstairs to make lunch, she opened her front door and saw that the temporary “fix” Nolen had arranged for the ceiling was a two-by-four T brace, just the decorating touch the place needed. Feeling very depressed about her life, she heated some canned soup and toasted a bagel for lunch. As she ate, curiosity about who it was that wanted to talk to her nibbled at the edges of her depression until that dark state became a tattered remnant without influence.

  KIT KNOCKED AND WAS invited in.

  She found Broussard behind his desk and two other men in the visitors’ chairs in front of it. They both got up and turned to look at her. She was shocked at who one of them was. She didn’t recognize the other.

  The familiar man came toward her, hands outstretched, his famous smile working.

  “Dr. Franklyn, how good it is to meet you at last.” He took her hand in both of his. “I’m Earl Bellair. The fine citizens of this state generously allow me to live in the governor’s mansion.”

  “Yes, sir. I recognized you.”

  Bellair was in his early fifties, but his hair was already pure white, a contradiction to a face that looked far younger than his real age. He wore glasses with oversized lenses, which allowed an unobstructed view of hazel eyes so open and deep, it seemed you could see all the way to his heart. It wasn’t his face, though, that had earned him Kit’s vote two years earlier, but his strong position on preservation of the coastal ecology and his indignation at the state’s long history of corruption in its public officials.

  A lot of people in Louisiana distrust men in suits. Bellair was dressed in the outfit that had become his trademark during the campaign—khaki pants and a velour pullover, the two buttons at the neck open. Despite his casual dress, Kit wished she’d worn a dress instead of a blouse and slacks.

  Bellair released her hand and gestured to the other man. “This is Brian Tabor, my personal aide. Brian was with the Army Intelligence Corps for eight years and the Baton Rouge Police Department for twelve, six of those in the Narcotics Unit.”

  Tabor was not an unattractive man. He was trim and she kind of liked his mustache. But he sure didn’t look like a man with his record. Probably in his late forties, he was of average height, had major hair loss, and soft features that made him look like a pharmacist. He was dressed as casually as the governor, in slacks and an Izod pullover.

  “Dr. Franklyn . . .”

  Tabor offered a warm hand and Kit took it. His movements were confident and economical. Looking into his eyes, she saw sharp intelligence and felt him evaluating her.

  “Dr. Franklyn, please . . .” Bellair turned his chair toward her and motioned her into it. Tabor arranged the other chair for the governor so it faced hers, then retreated to the table holding Broussard’s microscope, where he perched on the corner.

  “Kit . . . may I call you that?” the governor said, sitting.

  “Of course.”

  “It’s only fair, then, that you call me Earl.” He leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. “Andy has told me everything that happened to you in Courville and about the confusion regarding the convict at Angola. I’ve also discussed this with the head of the prison board. And I have to say, I’m unhappy about everything I’ve heard. Brian’s looked into the matter and has turned up some disturbing things. I won’t burden you with what they are, but I’m convinced something very wrong is going on at the prison. I’m afraid, too, that its tentacles reach far into my administration. And I’m not going to stand for it.”

  “What will you do?”

  “To a degree, that depends on you.”

  “Why me?”

  Bellair looked over his shoulder. “Brian . . .”

  Tabor left his perch and pulled a rolling chair over to join them. “Fifty miles west of here, in Thibodaux, there’s a small research institute called Agrilabs. Supposedly, they’re working on ways to increase meat production in cattle and pigs, but I can’t find any evidence they’ve ever bought a single calf or own one pig.”

  Kit was confused. “What does that have to do with me?”

  “I can’t tell you the details, but I’ve found a paper connection between Agrilabs and the funeral home in Courville. I’ve gone as far as I can, though, by myself. Now, I need help. That’s where you come in. The institute is looking for a research assistant with experience in gel electrophoresis and column chromatography. I believe that during your training at Tulane, you worked part-time in a lab where that’s exactly what you did.”

  “You’ve been investigating me?”

/>   “It’s my job, nothing personal.”

  “And you want to send me into that institute as what . . . a spy?”

  “That’s as good a word as any, I guess,” Tabor said.

  Kit stared at Tabor, then at Bellair, then at Broussard, her mouth open in disbelief.

  “We know they’ve been looking for someone to fill this position for months,” Tabor said. “Thibodaux is small and doesn’t have many people with laboratory skills. With your background, we believe they’d hire you on the spot.”

  Kit’s head was swimming from the absurdity of their suggestion.

  “You think they’re dealing drugs?”

  “We’re pretty sure it’s not that,” Tabor said.

  “I know we’re asking a lot,” Bellair said. “But considering what they did to you, we thought you might appreciate a chance to even things up.”

  Broussard could tell Bellair’s words had found a home. Therefore, he was not surprised when Kit set her jaw and said, “I’m listening.”

  10

  “We don’t think anyone from Courville ever visits the institute,” Tabor said. “So the risk of you being recognized from that direction is remote.” He got up and retrieved a briefcase from behind Kit’s chair and sat back down with it in his lap. He snapped it open and took out a piece of paper. “Do you recognize any of these names?”

  Kit took the list and read the twenty names on it.

  “I don’t know any of these people,” she said, handing the list back.

  “Good. Those are the institute employees. None of them lives in New Orleans, so there’s no chance they’d know you, either.”

  He put the list back in his briefcase and took out a manila envelope. “This contains a copy of your new résumé, a new Social Security card, and a new driver’s license.”

  Kit opened the envelope and looked at the résumé. “Kate Martin?”

  “That’s who you’ll be if you decide to do this. The phone numbers listed for your references will be answered by our people.”

  “And this will work?”

  “Most employers these days don’t even bother to check references. And these people will be so glad to see you, they probably won’t care where you worked previously.”

  “What, exactly, do you want me to do?”

  “We want you to tap the director’s phone.” When he said “phone,” his hand went to his ear and he made a telephone with his thumb and little finger.

  “I don’t know anything about—”

  He dipped again into his briefcase and withdrew a zip-top plastic bag containing some equipment. “There’s practically nothing to know.” He opened the plastic bag and withdrew a plug. “This is a duplex phone jack. You’ll simply unplug the existing phone line, plug the duplex into the existing jack, and reconnect the phone line to one of the two openings in the duplex—it doesn’t matter which one.” He put the duplex down and got out a small putty-colored box and a loose wire with a phone jack on one end and a round metal connector on the other. “This is a voice-activated tape recorder. The round end of this wire goes into the recorder here. It’s just a push-pull connection. When it’s in place, the recorder is ready to function. The opposite end of the wire goes into the free opening in the duplex. You’ll mount the recorder on the underside of the low table the phone sits on by removing this protective strip, which covers an adhesive.”

  “Isn’t that terribly obvious?” Kit asked. “I mean, all anybody has to do is look at the phone jack to see there’s an extra wire coming out of it.”

  “The jack is fairly high on the wall behind the table holding the phone. The only way anyone could see the extra wire is if they got down on their hands and knees and looked under the table.”

  “Suppose they move the table?”

  “Then the plan fails. There’s a small amount of slippage in every endeavor.”

  “How do you know so much about the arrangement of furniture in the director’s office?”

  “We’ve had a man in there posing as a phone repairman.” He repeated the telephone gesture he’d made earlier.

  “Why didn’t he do this?”

  “There was someone watching everything he did. Then, too, there’s the problem of tape retrieval.”

  “Retrieval?”

  “This is a self-contained unit. The conversations recorded aren’t relayed anywhere. They’re stored on the tape inside.”

  “So periodically, someone has to get the tape and put in a fresh one.”

  “Right. Hence the need for that person to be an employee.” Tabor reached into the bag again and brought out another recorder. “The adhesive strip is Velcro-coated on the outside. There’s a matching strip on the recorders. You just pull one recorder off and put the other on. The recorders themselves”—he pressed the play button and they all heard the tinny sounds of “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees—“are dual units. If anyone was to examine them—if, say, you were caught with one, it appears to be an ordinary tape player with one of your favorite songs on it.”

  Kit rolled her eyes. “Puh-lease.”

  Tabor grinned and shut off the tape. “Okay, then . . . one of Kate Martin’s favorite songs. The recorded conversations will be on a different tape that can be accessed only by a special player. That way, the recorders can’t be used to incriminate you.”

  “Why don’t you just break in at night and do all this?”

  “We’ve accessed the building but have been thwarted by the security door on the director’s lab. To make this work, we can’t be leaving evidence we’ve broken in. And so far, we haven’t found a way to do that.”

  “And you can’t tap the line outside the building?”

  “No.”

  “Would I need to change my appearance?”

  “You could put your hair up and maybe use a little makeup just to minimize your individual visual cues on the off chance someone who’s seen you before might pass through the room. That’s about it.”

  “This résumé you gave me says I live in Thibodaux.”

  “We’ve rented a house there for you.”

  “What made you so sure I’d agree to help?”

  Tabor shrugged. “We had to have a local address for the résumé.”

  “Would I have to live in Thibodaux? Couldn’t I stay in my New Orleans apartment?”

  Tabor considered the question, then said, “I think that’d be all right.”

  Now Bellair spoke. “Kit, you should understand that because we don’t know what these people are doing, we have no idea how high the stakes are. They could be high enough that they would do almost anything to protect themselves.”

  “Which is why you’d have to agree to wear this,” Tabor said. He put the bag of recording equipment back in his briefcase and brought out a holstered pistol. “This is designed to be worn above your ankle under slacks like those you’ve got on. There’s padding that permits air circulation on the part that rides against your skin, so it won’t be an irritant. The gun itself”—he loosened a Velcro strap and slipped a sleek chrome revolver from the holster—“is a thirty-eight-caliber Ladysmith. Small, lightweight, and reliable. Capacity, six rounds.”

  He slid the gun back into the holster. “After an hour or so, you won’t even know it’s there. If you agree to help, I’ll take you out to a firing range and show you how to use it. It’s very simple.”

  Now this was really getting serious. “Couldn’t I wear a radio or something? I mean if I do it. . . . I’m not a gun person.”

  “A radio wouldn’t be practical,” Tabor said. “If you get in a jam, by the time anyone could get to you, it might be too late. I’m not going to honey-coat this. You’ll have to be prepared to take care of yourself.”

  This was too much . . . too bizarre. Going undercover wearing a gun . . . She was a clerk in a photo gallery, for God’s sake. She looked at Broussard, who’d said nothing. “What do you think?”

  “Frankly, I wish you wouldn’t do it.”

  She turned to
Bellair. “Suppose I say no.”

  “I wouldn’t think any the less of you. It could mean, though, that we’ll never get to the bottom of this.”

  Kit sat there with three pairs of eyes watching her intently. A .38 . . . like some goofy TV show. Jesus . . . Forget it. . . .

  But then the water of Snake Bayou began dripping over her misgivings.

  They’d totaled her car and almost killed her.

  The water came faster. . . .

  She heard Hubly’s hand strike his wife. Women, it seemed, weren’t people to these cretins.

  The water was gushing now in spurts that scoured at the foundation of her reluctance.

  Smug, self-satisfied bottom-feeders . . . wife-beaters . . .

  The footings under her reservations shifted.

  Well, they’d picked on the wrong woman this time.

  Chin raised, she looked at Tabor, then at Bellair. “I’m in.”

  “Are you also looking into the death of the Tennessee professor?” Broussard asked.

  “That’s beyond my geographical concern,” Bellair replied. “Besides, wasn’t that ruled a heart attack?”

  “So I was told, but whoever made that call could have missed something.”

  “We’ve got our hands full with difficulties in Louisiana. I don’t feel much like taking on Mississippi and Tennessee problems, too.”

  Broussard pressed the point. “It is a related event, possibly a significant one.”

  Bellair’s eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”

  “The Picayune has given me a good roastin’ over the loss of that body, so I’m personally involved in this, too.”

  Bellair looked at him for a long minute, then said, “When does your plane leave?”

  “Monday mornin’. Phil Gatlin has arranged for someone he knows in the Memphis Homicide Division to give me a hand.”

  “Since you’re already going up there”—Tabor reached again into his briefcase and gave Broussard his business card—“I’d appreciate being kept informed of what you learn. That’s my pager number. When you hear two tones, enter the number you’re calling from, including the area code if you’re out of five-oh-four. I’ll usually return your call within fifteen minutes.” He turned and gave a card to Kit.