Bad Karma In the Big Easy Page 8

  With a puzzled expression Broussard said, “Of what?”

  “Many kinds of love other than that shown by a mother for her child.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

  “I spoke without thinkin’.”

  “Come on. I’ve never known you to say a word that wasn’t careful and considered.”

  “Guess my mind was on...”

  Kit waited expectantly, like a fisherman feeling for a second tug on his line.

  “There’s no way I can truly know what the Hendrins are goin’ through, but when I think about what’s happened to New Orleans, I feel like somethin’ has been ripped out of me. I’ve heard analysts on TV say it’s all gonna be okay because the best parts of the city never flooded. The garden district and the Quarter are fine. But they don’t understand... New Orleans isn’t just those spots, it’s Lakeview, and Bywater, and the Ninth Ward, and Gentilly. It’s not only the trees along St. Charles... its all the trees and all the people. Did you notice how down in the Ninth, where the trees sat in brine for weeks, they’re all dead.... gone, like the people there who’ve lost everything they owned. New Orleans was a state of mind as much as a place... an attitude... a spirit. And it’s vanished. Two hundred years of cookin’ and simmerin’ until it had a thousand flavors that could be sensed, but not described. Then, in the space of a few hours, erased. And I don’t know if it can ever be resurrected.”

  Broussard’s pain layered on top of the Hendrins’ made Kit’s concern about his feelings toward her suddenly seem so petty she vowed not to let herself get distracted like that again.

  Chapter 9

  Halfway to Houma, Broussard suddenly checked the rearview mirror, slammed on the brakes, and pulled onto the shoulder. Appearing agitated, he oozed out of the car.

  “What’s going on?” Kit asked.

  “Minor emergency,” Broussard said, shutting the door.

  Through the windshield, Kit watched him hustle along the shoulder toward some distant point. Having seen this behavior before, she knew what to look for. Sure enough, about fifteen yards ahead there was a dark-colored object in their lane on the highway.

  When Broussard drew even with the object, he ran onto the highway and scooped it up.

  It was just another example of Broussard’s personal turtle rescue and relocation service. He deposited the animal in the brush beside the shoulder and returned to the car.

  “Was he grateful?” Kit asked as Broussard got in.

  “He was so choked up with gratitude he couldn’t speak.”

  THE JACK HORNER CLINIC looked like it was in a remodeled Taco Bell. The sign out front said, If you’re not satisfied with our service we’ll go sit in a corner.

  “Little Jack Horner sat in a... I think they’d be better off just offering a refund,” Kit said as Broussard pulled into a lined parking place on the right. Two other cars occupied slots nearby. Four more vehicles, most likely belonging to the help, were huddled near the back of the building.

  “How about you handle the tough part this time?” Kit said as they prepared to get out.

  Broussard nodded. “That’s fair.”

  On the way inside, they passed a small, grassy area needing the diligent application of a pooper scooper. A pair of otherwise healthy boxwoods in the space had lost all their lower leaves.

  Inside, the place was a typical vet operation. A rack of bagged and canned animal food stood along the far wall. In front of the rack, a couple of flimsy plastic chairs flanked a little plastic table piled with animal magazines. Flyers touting the virtues of animals needing a home decorated a bulletin board on the left wall. The smell of disinfecting chemicals was a pervasive presence. Behind an enclosure to the right, a young woman was typing something into a computer from a chart.

  “Be right with you,” she promised without looking up.

  While waiting, Kit wandered over to the bulletin board, where she saw a picture of a bright-eyed Jack Russell Terrier. Under the photo, a caption said, TALKING DOG, $2500. SPEAKS 5 LANGUAGES. DEMONSTRATION UPON REQUEST. IF NOT COMPLETELY SATISFIED WILL GIVE YOU THE DOG ABSOLUTELY FREE.

  The keyboard clatter stopped and the person who’d been making it said, “Now, how can I help you?”

  “We’re lookin’ for Cindy Babineaux,” Broussard said, as Kit joined him.

  The girl stood, an inquisitive look in her large, brown eyes. “I’m Cindy.”

  Her flowered scrubs didn’t make for a particularly attractive outfit, but with her smooth, olive complexion, long brown hair, and perfect features, Kit doubted any man who saw her would deduct points for it.

  Broussard introduced Kit and then himself, this time adding his title. When Cindy heard the phrase, Medical Examiner, her full lips parted and she took a quick breath.

  “Jennifer Hendrin’s parents told us you might know where the clinic was that handled her pregnancy,” Broussard said.

  But Cindy’s thoughts had become snagged on Broussard’s title.

  “Medical examiner,” she said. “You work on dead bodies... Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has Jen been found?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Cindy’s eyes widened. Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh my God. I’m not ever going to be able to talk to her again, am I?”

  “No.”

  She shook her head as though trying to clear her mind after a punch in the face. “I don’t know what to say. How did she die? Was it... did she have pain?”

  “I’m so sorry you’ve lost your friend. But please understand, I’m not free to discuss any of those details. Just know that by talkin’ to us, you’ll be helpin’ her a great deal.

  “You’re not free to discuss... You’re investigating a crime aren’t you?” She made a faint moaning sound and said, “Oh my God. Jen was murdered. Do you think the clinic had anything to do with it?”

  “We’re just tryin’ to fill in some details of her life prior to her disappearance.”

  She appeared to recall something worth telling. “Did you know Jen went over there asking to see her baby a few weeks after she gave it up?”

  “We hadn’t heard that,” Kit said. “What did they say?”

  “They told her she’d signed a contract giving up all rights to the child and she couldn’t even see him.”

  “How did Jennifer take that news?” Kit asked.

  “She was mad as hell.”

  One of the examination room doors on the left opened and an old woman whose lipstick had bled up into the wrinkles around her lips came out with a poodle straining on its leash. The vet, a slight man with sandy hair, followed. He handed a charge sheet to Cindy and turned to the old woman.

  “You put that solution in Sam’s ears like I said and keep an eye on him. If in a few days, he’s still scratching up there, we’ll take another look.”

  He went back into the room he’d come from and Cindy turned her attention to running the client’s credit card. Watching the young woman work, Kit thought she seemed nervous and unsure of herself, not surprising considering what Broussard had told her.

  While Sam’s owner was occupied with paying the bill, the little dog mounted Broussard’s left leg and began humping it. Apparently accustomed to Sam’s indiscretions, the woman looked down to check on him. She jerked his leash, pulling him free. “Bad Sam. Bad boy.”

  Her pale skin flushing, the woman turned to Broussard and sputtered an apology.

  “I like dogs,” Broussard responded. “And as you can see they’re also quite fond of me.”

  To ensure that Sam behaved himself, the old woman picked him up and kept him in her arms until she’d signed the credit card slip and was out the door.

  Broussard restarted his conversation with Cindy. “A moment ago you told us Jennifer was angry at the surrogacy clinic. We’d like to know more about that.”

  Cindy shrugged. “Nothing more to tell, except that Jen was thinking about getting a lawyer and cha
llenging the contract she signed. Giving up her baby turned out to be harder than she thought. I’m not surprised. Even though it wasn’t technically hers, she carried it inside her for nine months. How could anyone just walk away and forget that?”

  “Unless you’re cold as stone, I don’t see how you could,” Kit said.

  “Do you know where the clinic is located?” Broussard asked.

  “Morgan City.”

  “I don’t suppose you know what street it’s on.”

  “No, but I recall the name. It’s called Surrogacy Central. I remember because I thought it sounded like a hardware store.”

  KIT LOOKED AT BROUSSARD as he fired up the T-Bird’s engine. “So Jennifer was angry at the clinic. That could be a motive for her killing one of the employees there rather than the other way around.”

  Broussard backed the car into a tight turn. “Wonder if the other two victims were surrogates for that clinic.”

  “There’s still no ID on either of them?”

  “No.” He put the car in first and nudged the gas.

  “Then I don’t see any way to find out. Showing people at the clinic photos of the victims the way they look now isn’t going to jog any memories.”

  “I’d like to hear their version of Jennifer’s reaction when they told her she couldn’t see her baby.”

  “Morgan City is what... 40 miles from here? Do you have time to do that?”

  “Things are slowin’ down in St. Gabriel. And I’ve got enough volunteers to cover for me. We’ll drive over to Morgan City and check a phone book for Surrogacy Central. Ask ‘em where they’re located.”

  “Not necessary,” Kit said, digging in her purse. She pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open. “I’ll find out where they are and get us a map from the internet.”

  Broussard shook his head. “Pretty soon we’ll be able to enter a victim’s name into a cell phone and it’ll tell us who the killer is.”

  “Wouldn’t that be great?”

  “Peachy.”

  MORGAN CITY IS DIVIDED by the Atchafalaya, a waterway that, were it not for the control gates north of Baton Rouge, would become the new route for the Mississippi River. Some who live there worry that one day, when the Mississippi is so full it threatens to engulf even more of New Orleans than Katrina took, the water will be diverted into the Atchafalaya, thereby sacrificing Morgan City to save the greater treasure. Apparently, the owners of Surrogacy Central were among those not bothered by this possibility, because they had located their business on Fairview Drive, where a well- cast buzz bait launched from the roof would plunk into the Atchafalaya.

  The business was housed in a white, single-story antebellum home with a columned porch and green shutters. The place was made to look larger than it was by a second, smaller columned porch that extended forward as a dormer from the sloping roof. But the most interesting feature was the FOR RENT banner being taped over the Surrogacy Central sign by a pear-shaped guy in a gray suit.

  Broussard pulled into the oyster-shell paved parking area and he and Kit got out and trekked across the grass to the man working on the banner. He turned as they approached, picked up a cane leaning on the sign, and hobbled toward them.

  He was about five foot seven with curly hair in bangs over his forehead. Seeing him up close, he reminded Kit of a chubby female impersonator she’d once seen in a Bourbon Street club.

  “Duke Delcambre at your service folks,” he said, giving them a little salute. “You have a good eye for real estate, I can already tell that about you. Ad won’t even be in the paper until tomorrow. And here you are. A nose for a bargain...” He chuckled. “Actually two noses. Let me show you around inside before we talk money. What business you two in?”

  “Does that sign mean the clinic is closed?” Broussard asked.

  “They moved everything out two nights ago.”

  Broussard and Kit exchanged a quick glance.

  “Had no idea they were leavin’. Rita blew a tree down over there...” He pointed at an uprooted stump. “I came over to see if the guys I hired to cut it up and haul it away did the job. That’s when I realized the place was empty. Still had a year and a half left on the lease. When I rented it to ‘em, there were other people interested. But the clinic promised they’d be here long term. So I let ‘em have it. It’s a dandy property... roof came through the storms just fine... no leaks at all.”

  “We drove over here hopin’ to talk to the owner of the clinic, or at least to someone in charge,” Broussard said.

  The guy’s face fell. “Oh... Guess I shouldn’t have expected to rent it again that easy. I’d give you the owner’s name, but it wouldn’t do you any good. I called the unlisted contact number I had for him, and learned the phone’s been disconnected. I’m thinkin’ now he probably didn’t even use his real name.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Arthur Loftin. Bet he wasn’t even a doctor like he said. I should have listened to my conscience when they wanted to set up here. Payin’ women to carry someone else’s baby... that’s not Godly. Knew it at the time. But I needed to get some income from the place and I went with the long-term prospects. Legally, they owe me for 18 months rent. Care to guess what my chances are of collectin’ it?”

  “What about employees of the clinic... Any of them live in Morgan City or close by?” Broussard asked.

  “They all commuted. From where, I don’t rightly know.”

  “WHAT DO YOU THINK about that clinic now?” Kit said as Broussard pointed the T-Bird toward New Orleans.

  “Would you see if you can get someone on the line for me with your cell phone?

  “I can try. What’s the number?

  “Don’t know. But the person I want is Dr. Allen Howell, University of Mississippi Medical Center in Jackson. If he’s not available, have him paged.”

  It took Kit four minutes to get Howell’s office on the phone. He returned their page in two. Kit handed the phone to Broussard.

  “Allen... Andy Broussard here... Yeah... It was and still is a bad situation all right, but were copin’. I’m callin’ to ask if you’ve ever heard of a Dr. Arthur Loftin...”

  Kit watched Broussard’s face for some indication of what Howell was saying, but saw nothing there to read.

  “Okay, thanks very much. Say hello to Claudia for me.” Broussard handed the phone back to Kit. “Allen Howell has an encyclopedic knowledge of everyone in reproductive medicine. He’s never heard of Arthur Loftin.”

  “This is all so suspicious... the clinic closing as we learn about its connection to Jennifer... the director likely using a false identity...”

  “I’m not likin’ the smell of it either.”

  “What do we do now? Try to locate this Arthur Loftin?”

  “If it’s an alias as it appears to be, that could be a sinkhole.”

  “This clinic is a real lead. We can’t just let it die.”

  Broussard didn’t reply. But instead withdrew into one of his famous episodes of silent nose stroking while he considered the options before them. Knowing she’d have to wait until he emerged from this cocoon on his own, Kit turned her attention to the passing scenery.

  Two minutes later, the butterfly crawled from his chrysalis and said, “When we get back to New Orleans, let’s take a ride down into the Ninth Ward and see where those three bodies were found.”

  “Is it dry enough to do that? Last I heard the reflooding from Rita wasn’t entirely pumped out.”

  “Let’s try.”

  Chapter 10

  Kit checked the GPS receiver. “We’re getting very close...”

  To avoid any remaining standing water from Rita, they’d entered the Ninth via St. Claude, which ran along the relatively higher ground near the Mississippi. With their credentials, they had no trouble getting past the St. Claude National Guard checkpoint, one of many set up on the Ninth’s perimeter to keep out looters.

  From the checkpoint they’d taken Caffin Street to LeDoux. Still seeing no stand
ing water, they’d proceeded east on LeDoux, against the direction all the floodwaters had come from the breached industrial canal.

  “Bet that’s the spot right there,” Broussard said, pointing to the right, through the windshield of the white T-bird he was driving.

  Kit looked in the direction he was indicating, and saw a large mound of debris piled up against a short chain link fence that ran from the sidewalk toward the back yards of the houses on either side.

  Broussard went past the pile, pulled to the curb, and shut off the engine. He opened his door and maneuvered to get out of the car. Being more nimble and not wedged behind the steering wheel, Kit was already waiting on the mud-caked sidewalk by the time he’d shed the vehicle.

  Together, they walked to the large brush pile that extended all along the fence up to where it passed between the adjacent houses. “Yeah,” Kit said, looking at the receiver, “...this is it.” Wrinkling her nose at the stench, she put the receiver in her pocket and looked at all the stuff caught on the chain link.

  Much of the pile was composed of tree branches. Among the other things embedded in that structure were a lot of little sticks, an old tire, a muddy teddy bear, a kid’s tricycle, and a lot of black bags, presumably filled with garbage. Down about three feet from where she stood, she saw what appeared to be the maggoty carcass of a cat mingling with the remains of a large fish. It was kind of hard to tell what they were because both were covered with a black, undulating carpet of flies. In addition to smelling of death, the area was just as still. They hadn’t seen a single person since they’d left Caffin Street.

  “What we need to know is where those bodies came from,” Broussard said. He turned and looked in the direction of the canal breach. “Obviously, it was up there. But how far?”

  “Can we ever know that?” Kit asked.

  “All depends...”

  “On what?”

  “C’mon.” He headed for the car.

  When they were both settled in their seats, Broussard sent the T-Bird slowly up the street. Kit didn’t ask again what they were looking for because she’d figured out on her own what one of the items might be. A block and a half of filth later, she spotted a likely candidate a moment before he did. “There,” she said, pointing at a large white object lying on the sidewalk.