Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller (18 page)

“How do you know this?”

“I was on the research vessel
Beagle.
Your next question will be what was I doing there, and my answer is that I had taken Palmetto into custody in connection with the murder of a woman named Ruth Kalin. He was found in Marblehead, where he was a guest of one of the scientists with the Institute. You can check that out. It’s a matter of record. Palmetto had asked me to let him conduct one last research mission. I agreed. He was right. It was his last mission. Now it’s time for you to talk. Not here; not with the surveillance you have in this office. Let’s go somewhere else.”

“Where?”

Boucher looked at his watch. It was not quite ten in the morning.

“You like beignets?”

They left the offices of Rexcon separately and met at the Café du Monde, the oldest tenant in the famous outdoor French Market. For over two hundred years, beginning with Native Americans and followed by African-Americans, Spanish, French, Italians, Germans,
even Moors from the Holy Land, traders from the world over had engaged in commerce on this spot at the mighty river’s edge. The tradition of trading was continued by the two men who sat by themselves in a far corner with their café au lait and powdered-sugar-coated pastries.

“I don’t need a judge,” Perry said. “I’m not involved in litigation and I don’t expect to be. Besides, I have friends there already.”

“I know what you need,” Boucher said. “You need what Palmetto entrusted to me. Besides, I don’t plan on being a judge much longer. I’ve been asked to take a leave from the bench—as I’m sure you know—and I don’t think I want to go back.”

“What did Palmetto entrust to you?”

“I have his work product, all of it. Extraction of methane hydrate, separation of CO
2
, a system of transporting the methane. Everything he had twenty years ago and everything he’s done since. The man was a genius.”

“What do you want for it?”

Boucher held up his right hand with five fingers spread. Then he raised his left hand—with five fingers spread.

“Ten million?” Perry wheezed.

Boucher nodded and bit into his beignet. He was quick with his napkin to wipe the powdered-sugar ring around his mouth.

“You’ll be making billions,” he said.

“Not for ten years, if then.”

“You know that’s not true. There’s going to be a headlong rush into this energy source. It’s a perfect storm: tension in the Middle East threatening our major oil supply; our four greatest economic rivals—China, Russia, India, and Japan—moving toward the use of methane hydrate; and the unpopularity of offshore drilling after the Gulf oil spill. Palmetto explained to me how methane hydrate extraction
could be accomplished with little or no ecological damage. If the United States is not the first off the mark with extraction and production, there’ll be no expense spared playing catch-up. It will be like the space race all over again.”

Perry wrinkled his nose. “This smells like extortion,” he said.

“Bullshit,” Boucher said. “Palmetto’s dead, the goose that laid the golden egg. I inherited and I’m trying to sell a valuable product at a fair price. You’re not interested? I’ve always wanted to go to India. I bet they’d be glad to see me. I look at how you’ve handled this matter to this point and I have to say I’m glad I’m not one of your shareholders. I think you’re too dumb to run your own company.”

He finished his beignet while Perry fumed.

“I’ve got to see some proof,” Perry said.

“Of course you do. Give me an office, a nice one on the executive floor. I’ll bring in daily reports till you have everything I have. You’ll be making deposits to my nominated account. With the final report, I leave. We won’t be the best of friends, but we’ll trust each other because it would be mad not to. I don’t mean the emotion, I mean
m-a-d:
mutually assured destruction. We’ll have enough on each other that one could put the other away for life. That’s my life insurance policy.”

“I need to think about it.”

“Of course you do.” Boucher stood. “It’s not the perfect plan, but we’ll come to terms. I know we will. You’re predictable.”

After a last dab at the corners of his mouth, Boucher turned and left the table. He did not look back.

B
OUCHER LEFT THE FRENCH
Market. When he turned the first corner and was out of sight of Perry, his legs went weak. He hugged the first lamppost he came to as if he were staggering drunk. Drawing on his wits and pure adrenaline, he had gone toe-to-toe with the killer on his own turf, the man who had almost succeeded in ending his life thousands of leagues under the sea. He let go of the lamp, stood up straight, and took a deep breath. As if to celebrate his accomplishment, two street musicians, one playing a slide trombone, the other a euphonium, started blowing a mean version of “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans.” The judge slipped a twenty into the hat on the sidewalk. The music made him realize it was good to be alive. He turned the corner at the next block and an arm reached out and grabbed him, pulling him into a doorway. It was Fitch.

“You ain’t dead yet, I see,” the detective said.

Boucher wanted to hug him, still elated over his achievement, and grateful in the knowledge that the night before, this man had stood guard over him.

“I wangled a spot inside his company,” he said. “He said he’d think about it, but I’m in, I know it.” He poked his head out of the
doorway and looked around. “You want to join me Sunday for my cleanup run? I’ll tell you all about it then.”

“Pick me up at ten,” Fitch said. “Now go work it off. You’re too damned excited.”

Boucher walked home, changed into his exercise clothes, and got in his truck. He drove to his gym and parked outside. He couldn’t help but think of Ruth Kalin, her brutal murder and the last time he saw her alive. He parked and went inside. Thoughts of the woman’s death stayed with him and anger replaced the nervous elation he had felt earlier, both emotions rooted in the same source—John Perry. He blasted the punching bag for the next hour with such ferocity that the proprietor watching him almost came over to tell him to take it easy, out of concern for both his customer and his equipment.

Sunday morning broke with a sultry, musky dampness. Boucher sat in his courtyard in shorts and a T-shirt, sipping his coffee. This house was not made for a man to live alone, he thought as he picked up his phone and called Malika. They spoke for half an hour. She was in L.A. One of her clients had been offered a movie deal for his novel. It meant big money for both her and the client. This was a first for her and she was excited. Today was a day off. She would be playing tourist. Doing things they should be doing together. He hung up not liking the way his life was going. A sultry breeze blew in his ear and whispered,
So change it.

He picked up Fitch at ten in front of the run-down apartment complex where he lived. For a time both were silent. Fitch spoke first.

“I know why I’m in a bad mood,” he said. “What’s your problem?”

“Malika’s in L.A. doing the town and I’m stuck here with you. You don’t look so cheerful yourself.”

“My doctor says I need to cut down on my drinking.”

“You’ll feel better if you do.”

“I’m also pissed because I’m getting nowhere with the homicides piling up around you. I spoke with an ex-FBI friend who says they wouldn’t help with any of this, even if I asked them. They’d pass on bribing a federal judge because the case is cold and they wouldn’t want a turf war with the DA’s office. He says they’ve got a short list of hot issues and if you’re not the flavor of the month they won’t look at you.”

“That’s not why they won’t help.” Boucher recounted what he had learned about Epson and the FBI.

Fitch sighed. “Don’t know why I’m surprised. Cronyism ain’t unheard of around here. Anyway, what do you plan to do in his offices?”

“I don’t know. Part of this is that old adage about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer. Part is just a feeling that I’m going to find something that will put him away.”

“You—the guy he’d whack in a heartbeat—you think he’s just going to leave incriminating evidence around for you to trip over? You’re dreaming.” He took a cigarette out, then put it back.

“I’m going to be giving him information that’s worth a fortune,” Boucher said. “He’s going to like having me around.”

“I think you’re crazy.” Fitch took out the cigarette again and placed it in his mouth, just sucking on it, not lighting up, then asked, “Where we going?”

“Nowhere. I’m just going to drive along the coast.”

No cleanup today; it was a journey of reflection. Katrina, the oil spill, coastal erosion. Natural and man-made disasters had wreaked havoc on these wetlands and beaches but, as always, there were signs of the resilience of the land and its people. Fishermen still plied their trade on calm waters and couples could be seen walking hand in hand
on sandy beaches. Ibis stood like marble statuary in the shallows and brown pelicans glided effortlessly on gentle air currents. In a single vista were signs of hope, and signs of dire warning. Neither was lost on the two men as they drove.

“Let’s go by my office,” Fitch said. “I want to give you something.”

“The other evening you raised a good point,” Boucher said. “I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for us to be seen together—especially at your office.”

“It’s Sunday afternoon, for Christ’s sake. Anybody who’s not blind, deaf, and dumb is in front of a TV watching the Saints. For just a few precious hours on an autumn weekend everyone can forget about natural and man-made disasters. Martians could land in New Orleans on a Sunday afternoon during football season and nobody would know it. Besides, if Perry or his mob say anything about us being together, tell them you’re still a person of interest in a murder that showed up in your driveway and I’m bugging the shit out of you about it. I agree to question you out of the office, out of respect for who you are and all that. Believe me, they’ll buy that sooner than they’re going to buy your line about being Perry’s new Best Friend Forever or whatever the fuck it is.”

They drove to the Eighth District station.

“Come on,” Fitch said, “it’s in my office.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Boucher said when they entered. “You painted the place.”

The sickly yellow walls were now a fresh eggshell white.

“Yeah, and what else?” Fitch asked. Boucher looked around.

“There’s no ashtray on your desk.”

“Now you know why I’m not Little Mary Sunshine. I’m cutting down on my drinking
and
my smoking. Thank God for great restaurants, ’cause that’s going to be the only joy I’ve got left.”

He sat down at his desk and unlocked the top drawer. “Here,” he said, handing Boucher what looked like a quarter.

“What’s this?”

“Tape it under the insert of your shoe.”

“What’s it for?”

“It’s a GPS locator. It’s for finding your body.”

“That’s a morbid thought,” Boucher said, studying the small thin disk.

“That’s police work,” Fitch said. “Anyway, you want to get Perry, you know it might cost you your life. I don’t want you to die in vain. If I know where your corpse is, I might be able to pin it on him. I said ‘might.’”

Boucher chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Fitch said.

“You as Little Mary Sunshine.”

Fitch declined the offer of a ride back to his apartment. He was going to find a bar with the biggest plasma TV, free pretzels and popcorn, and the cheapest beer. During a Saints game, temperance could take a hike.

Judge Jock Boucher went home and watched the game alone. He got a call at halftime.

“You’re on,” Perry said. “Start tomorrow.”

Boucher called the Massachusetts number Palmetto had given him and uttered two words into the recorder.

“I’m in.”

T
HE WIND SHIFTED DURING
the night and the temperature dropped twenty degrees. With the humidity still high, there was a definite chill in the air when Boucher woke the next morning. This was good. He was ready to go to work. The chill gave him an edge.

Like so many others beginning the normal workday routine, he was on autopilot as he drove to the city center and pulled into the federal courthouse out of habit, albeit a habit of only a few short weeks. The security guard allowed him access without question. He left his truck in the federal building parking lot. Parking privileges had not been taken from him, and it was a short walk of a couple of blocks to the office tower and Perry’s corporate headquarters. This morning, when he got off the elevator at the executive offices floor, the greeting he received was much different than what he’d experienced during his first visit. He was welcomed. The receptionist in the large lobby offered a smile, as did Perry’s two administrative assistants. All three women, he noted, were quite attractive, an observation that had escaped him earlier, when focus—and fear—was concentrated on a mission whose result could have been much different.

“Good morning, Judge Boucher.” The speaker was the woman who had asked his business before. “We were told to expect you. Mr. Perry asked that you be shown right into his office. He’s in a meeting elsewhere but will be with you shortly.”

“I don’t mind waiting here in the lobby.”

“I’m sure you’ll find it more comfortable in his office.” She held the door open for him and showed him into the CEO’s office. Boucher chose a chair next to Perry’s desk and sat down.

“Judge Boucher.” Perry’s voice came from a hidden speaker. The judge turned around, looking for the source.

“I’m on the intercom,” Perry said. “I’m down the hall with my chief geologist, Bert Cantrell. I’d like you to meet him. We’ll be there in two minutes. Did Dawn offer you coffee?”

She came through the door that instant carrying a silver tray and coffee service. “I have it here, Mr. Perry.”

“Thank you, Dawn,” Perry’s disembodied voice said. “See that Judge Boucher has everything he needs.”

“I will, sir.”

She wore a tan skirt, white silk blouse with the top button undone, and beige high heels. Her jewelry was a single strand of pearls and gold scalloped earrings. She wore a stainless steel lady’s Rolex. Her hair was too dark for blond and too light for brown. Golden highlights caught the morning sun. Little makeup, white even teeth. All this Boucher noticed in less than a second. Summation: beautiful.