Bayou Corruption (16 page)

Burl. Jackson's boss.

Alyssa's heart hiccuped. “And did you?”

“I left that night. Drove back to Lagniappe. I stopped at the café to have a sip of coffee.” He ran a finger over his pointed chin. “I was only there about twenty or thirty minutes before I headed home. The minute I stepped out of my car, someone assaulted me.”

Her stomach twisted. “And you think it's because you were asking questions on the dock?”

“I'm positive. They never found my attacker. To tell the truth, I don't think they looked very hard. The officer who worked my case was the replacement Roger Thibodeaux named personally.” He gave a snort. “You figure it out.”

This sounded too close to home.

“So, you didn't follow up anymore?”

“For about two years, no. I focused on trying to heal and let it go.”

“But now?”

“Now, I feel it's up to me to expose the truth.”

“But you never found any proof of drug smuggling. Even with the DEA.” She tapped the end of her pen against her notebook. “Is it possible, Mr. Lewis, that you're wrong? That there never has been any smuggling going on?”

“Anything's possible. But do I believe that? Not for a minute.” He certainly sounded convinced.

“How does this tie with Senator Mouton?”

“The senator is over the port authority. He's overseen it for nearly two decades. When I started my own investigation, several staffers from his office called and ordered me to stop asking questions.”

“Did they threaten you? Did you go to the police?”

He shook his head. “They didn't come right out and threaten me. More like an implied warning. And I didn't go to the police because, at that time, I had nothing to offer them.”

“I see.”

“When I finally became really vocal this past year about my investigation, Senator Mouton formed a committee to look into my allegations.”

“And?”

“They found nothing. Big surprise.”

“You don't think the senator is sincere about probing into the matter?”

“Not at all.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “The way I see it, the senator is involved in this smuggling up to his snobbish ears.”

“How do you figure?”

“He's always had connections to the rice plant manager. I've done some digging. Back before Roger Thibodeaux took over, Joey Blu had the position. Thirteen years ago, Joey died in a plane crash accident. The assistant manager took over. His name was Kevin Arnold. Now, Kevin was a bit younger and an upstanding Christian man.”

“Was?” She didn't like where this seemed to be headed.

“Yeah. He noticed some discrepancies with the weight numbers of shipments. The irregularities spurred him to start asking questions. Someone told him to speak to me, which he did. We talked about what I suspected, and he figured I was right. He called some reporter at the New Orleans paper to help him uncover the truth. Two nights after that, someone murdered him in his own driveway.”

Nausea burned her stomach. “His own driveway?”

“Kinda familiar, isn't it? Now you can see why I let the matter drop after I was attacked in my driveway.”

“How's this tie to Senator Mouton?”

“Sheriff Thibodeaux investigated, if you could call it that. Within a few days, he closed the case. Unsolved.” He rested his chin in his palms. “Next thing I hear, Roger's retired and is named manager at the rice plant, on Senator Mouton's personal recommendation.”

“And you verified this?”

“Of course. Not only that, but the last act Roger Thibodeaux performed as sheriff was to hire his nephew Martin Gocheaux as deputy—the officer who worked my case. And from what I've learned since, the port hired on one of Roger's other nephews to work the night shift on the dock.”

Mr. Lewis stood and gave her a penetrating stare. “You tell me, Ms. LeBlanc. It all sounds rather convenient, doesn't it?”

“W
hat are we looking for?” CoCo whispered.

Silence prevailed in the library, save for the occasional book falling, pages fluttering, or conversations murmuring. Alyssa sat before the microfiche machine, scrolling through the front section of the local paper for the week after her parents were killed.

Murdered.

“I don't know. Anything that strikes you as odd.”

CoCo mumbled, turning her machine's knob, fast-forwarding to the next page. She had taken the parish paper while Alyssa ran through the tiny Lagniappe weekly edition. She should be grateful the library had a microfiche machine, even if it had been there since the Dark Ages.

Alyssa had spent the time waiting for CoCo to return from her morning run by writing up another interview with Mr. Lewis and sending the article to Simon. She wished she could include what she'd learned this morning, but couldn't betray her source's confidence. Even if she didn't yet know if she believed him or not.

How many articles could a small town have about a local talent show and a church bake sale?

Then a headline grabbed her attention.

Rice Plant Manager Shot in Chest.

Alyssa magnified the article and read. Her heart raced, pumping adrenaline into her veins.

Big surprise. This coincided with what Lewis had told her. She maneuvered the screen to identify the date. She gasped, pinpricks of dread assaulting her conscience.

Kevin Arnold had been murdered the same night as her parents.

“What?” CoCo whispered and looked over Alyssa's shoulder.

Alyssa waited for her sister to finish reading.

“I don't get how this is important.”

“Mr. Lewis told me that Mr. Arnold had been the plant manager before Roger Thibodeaux.” Alyssa fought to organize all the data in her mind. “For him to be shot and killed the same night as the car crash…well, it just seems too much of a coincidence, don't you think?”

“Hmm. Maybe.”

“Keep looking and see what you find out in your paper.”

“All I've found is the article on the car accident that states you were rushed to the hospital.”

“Does it tell if the sheriff launched an investigation?”

CoCo pursed her lips as she read. “No. Not that I can tell.”

“See if there's an article about Mr. Arnold's murder.”

Her sister nodded. “Yep, right here on the next page. Doesn't give much more information than what your paper stated.” She leaned back in her chair, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I understand how it looks, but I'm not getting a connection.”

“We have to dig deeper.”

CoCo glanced at her watch. “I'm gonna have to dig later. I promised Luc and Felicia I'd help them plan the party. Somebody has to stand up to their mother.”

“What party?”

“Felicia and Frank's engagement party, silly. It's this weekend. I hope you're planning on attending.”

“Sure.” Unless she'd returned home by then. Somehow, the idea of leaving Lagniappe didn't excite her as much as it would have last week. She didn't have her usual, overwhelming need to get away. And on this trip, she definitely had even more reason to hate the bayou and want to go home. Her about-face didn't make sense. Why wasn't she chomping at the bit to get outta here?

Because of the case? The story? Or, Jackson Devereaux?

She didn't want to analyze her emotions just yet. Not over him. Alyssa allowed her sister to help her out of the library to the Jeep. The swelling on her ankle had gone down, but soreness still throbbed occasionally. Meanwhile, her mind flipped through her mental filing cabinet of information. There had to be a link between Kevin Arnold's murder and her parents'—she just knew it. Now she had to uncover it.

CoCo dropped her off at home before heading to the Trahan house. Alyssa reviewed her notes again. Where was the connection? Frustration filled her after two hours. She tossed her notes aside and wandered downstairs to check on her grandmother.

Grandmere stood at the stove, stirring a pot of gumbo. The tang of seafood hovered in the air, blending with the aroma of pepper and spices. How many times in her teen years had she come into the kitchen to find Grandmere cooking comforting meals? Never once understanding Alyssa's embarrassment over her family, Grandmere offered love and comfort the best way she knew. How often had Alyssa lashed out in anger over her situation—lashed out at the one person who always had a hug for her and love to offer? Could she recall a single time she'd told Grandmere she loved her? Aside from when Grandpere died? Remorse choked her.

What if she'd lost her grandmother this past week? Without letting her know what lurked under the surface in her heart? What had always been in her heart, even if her immature mind wouldn't allow her to recognize it, much less admit it? Love and gratitude burst through her. Alyssa wrapped her arms around her grandmother, hugging her from behind.

“My,
ma chère,
that's nice.” Grandmere leaned back into the embrace.

“I love you, Grandmere.” The words were so emotion-riddled that Alyssa barely managed to squeak them out.

“
Je t'aime,
too, child.”

Tara chose that moment to explode into the kitchen, slamming the screen door in her wake. “Something smells marvelous.” She bounded into the room, her youthfulness brightening the space. She grinned at Alyssa. “You aren't helping cook, are you?”

Alyssa crinkled her nose. “No, Ms. Smarty-pants.”

“Whew, what a relief.” Tara chuckled. “Grandmere, you need me to help you with anything?”

“
Non,
child. It's all set. Only has to simmer for a couple of hours.”

“I'm gonna run out to the shed for a bit.”

“Need my help?” Interest flashed into Grandmere's face.

Tara grinned. “I can always use your help, yes.”

Cold seeped into Alyssa's bones as she lowered herself to a chair, easing the weight off her ankle. “You're going out there to do that voodoo stuff, aren't you?”

“Leave it alone,” Tara snapped. Her eyes blazed with both annoyance and anger.

“But it's nonsense. Silly parlor-type games.”

“Then why does it bother you so much, Al?”

“Because people think we're crazy.” There, she'd said it. Finally, after trapping her pain in her heart for so many years, she'd let it out.

“Is that why you hate it here so, child?” Sadness glistened in Grandmere's eyes.

Tears burned Alyssa's eyes. “People think we're bonkers…odd and different.”

“Oh,
ma chère,
of course we're different.”

“I don't like being different.”

Suddenly, she'd drifted back to high school.

“Alyssa LeBlanc makes straight A's because her grandmother puts hexes on her teachers,” a bouncy cheerleader quipped.

“Too bad her grandma can't whip up a love potion so Alyssa can get a date.” The head cheerleader, director of these girls who made Alyssa's life miserable, glared at her with contempt.

“Maybe she could get her big sister to do that. I hear she's learning from grandma,” one of the other girls in the clique said.

“Yeah, I heard that, too.” The head cheerleader smiled. “What about you, Ally? Are you gonna cast a spell on me now?”

Their laughter filled her head, her heart. She wanted the hall to close in and swallow her.

“What are you so afraid of, child?”

Alyssa snapped her attention to her grandmother, back to the present. “I just don't want to be laughed at anymore.” Tears spilled from her eyes. She swiped them away, hating that anyone, even her family, bore witness to her weakness.

“Who laughed at you?” Tara's tone changed from one of accusing to concern.

“Nobody.” Great, another traumatic memory to keep the ones from her past company. Joy and rapture.

“I'm going to put a protection ring around you,” Tara said, her back stiff.

“No, don't even th—”

Her words fell on deaf ears as Tara stormed from the house. Alyssa stared at her grandmother. “Grandmere, I know this is what you do, but it's wrong. Can't you see that?”

“Oh, child, it's not just what I do. It's who I am.” Her grandmother smiled and touched her cheek. “It'll be okay,
ma chère.
All is well.”

Alyssa watched Grandmere follow Tara to the shed.

No, nothing was okay. Nothing could be considered well.

Least of all her emotional state.

 

Jackson staggered from the docks, down the gangplank and to his truck. He'd gotten all the copies he could make in the office. Time was running out. The fake social security number would return any day now, and then the jig would be up. Jackson steered into the parking lot of the local diner. He sat in a booth in the back of the small eatery and ordered coffee. Alone, he pulled out the copies of the bills he'd made and studied them.

Every single one of them connected to a shipment from the rice plant. Registering the dates, he could almost verify they coincided with the days Bubba found the money in the bayou. In the bill of lading's account receivable notations, under the plant's address, were the initials R.T. The person at the plant who'd checked the shipment on the truck to send to the dock. Jackson flipped through the papers again. All of the bills had the initials R.T.

The waitress swooped by with his coffee and left. Jackson stared at the copies again.

Maybe this R.T. at the rice plant could shed some light on the matter.

R.T….

Roger Thibodeaux!

 

Why couldn't she sleep?

Maybe since she knew she drew closer to the truth, the knowledge caused her restlessness. Or could it be because Jackson Devereaux's image kept flitting into her mind? Alyssa tossed the comforter aside and padded to her laptop on the desk. No pain shot up from her ankle. She must have merely stressed it.

Could the time have come to tell him about her mother and that he'd taken the job she'd coveted? That she'd vowed five years ago to best him?

Her sister's voice drummed in her ears.
Take everything to God.

Alyssa started to push the notion aside, but stopped. CoCo had such peace, seemed so content with life. Could her personal relationship with God have something to do with the tranquility?

Yearning rose up in her chest. She wanted that peace. Wanted that calmness and acceptance. Wanted to be loved for herself.

Alyssa lowered her head and closed her eyes, and prayed to the God of her sister.