Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller (20 page)

“So I can’t use my personal cell phone? I have a friend; that’s the way she contacts me.”

“You can’t use it till this is over. It won’t be too long. Now move. You’re in a public parking lot and you look suspicious just sitting there in your truck.”

“You know where I am now?”

“I do and I know it’s going to cost you fifteen dollars to get out of that lot if you don’t move in the next three minutes. Get on home. I just saved you five bucks.”

“One more question.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s my blood pressure?”

“One-twenty over seventy. Pulse seventy-five. You’re good.”

“I’ll be damned,” Boucher said. “I was only kidding.”

“Like I told you, we’ve got apps for everything.”

He wouldn’t be calling Malika, and now she couldn’t call him—at least not on his own cell phone. But she knew his home number. She could call him there. He went home and spent the afternoon conversing with Palmetto on their super cells. It wasn’t so much a conversation as it was a science class. The information he would be handing over tomorrow was pretty much Palmetto’s pride and joy, his raison d’être in life. He had developed a system for recovery, collection, storage, and transportation of methane hydrate using materials never employed in the energy industry. He took pains preparing his protégé.

“They’re the same principles we’ve been using for the last hundred years,” Palmetto said. “There’s almost always gas associated with oil. GOSPs—gas/oil separating plants—are used in the production of oil to remove contaminants and to capture the associated gas for commercial use. That’s what I did, I just did it underwater; very deep underwater. And I’m separating gases from gases, not from petroleum. Otherwise, it’s much the same. Oil at the wellhead is under pressure; methane hydrate at the bottom of the ocean is under pressure. You already know that the bathysphere is the best design for
deep-sea pressure, but obviously we can’t use titanium for every aspect of underwater production, it’s far too expensive. What I’ve been working on for the past twenty years are components that can withstand those extreme pressures. You with me?” he asked.

“So far,” Boucher said.

“I started experimenting with carbon fiber. You know what that is?”

“They use it to make race cars.”

“Racing, aerospace—it’s used in many industries. It’s strong under high pressure, it’s light, which is an advantage transporting it over the open ocean, and it’s even useful in filtration of certain gases. I have developed carbon fiber with various polymers to be used at different depths and for different purposes: pipes for transmission, bathysphere-shaped chambers for depressurization and processing. I can build an entire underwater plant from carbon fiber and polymers. When we’re finished with a site, we can pack up and move on without leaving so much as a footprint on the ocean floor. In a nutshell, Jock, the variety of carbon-fiber-based components is the essence of my process.”

“Is that what they were trying to get from you in that lawsuit?”

“Twenty years ago I was just getting started. I’ve done a lot of work since then. But yes; that’s what got Dexter Jessup killed.”

“Now you’re just going to give it to them?”

“I’m going to give them just enough to whet their appetite. Anyway, you are going to put them out of business before they can use it.”

“I thank you for your vote of confidence but you know this is no sure thing.”

“I don’t want to hear you say that again,” Palmetto said. “Think positive and we’ll make it happen. Always remember, you are not alone.”

“I’m never alone with that damn phone in my pocket.” He hung up and looked at his watch. Evening was nigh. He’d spent the whole afternoon at home and his landline had not rung. Not once.

As much as they love the Quarter, residents of New Orleans sometimes prefer to relax in more subtle surroundings, and when they do, the Garden District is the locale of choice. It was an old plantation till the 1830s. Wealthy Anglos bought homes there because they didn’t want to live with the French and the Creoles in the Quarter. Originally there were two homes per block, each with large gardens, hence the name. It still has one of the largest collections of antebellum southern mansions in the entire country. At the end of the nineteenth century, many of the lots were subdivided, and Victorian homes were built between the older residences.

Boucher needed to get away from home and the phone that did not ring and wanted a different ambience. He drove up St. Charles Avenue to the Columns Hotel, where the bar catered to those seeking sedate sophistication—and could claim one of the best bartenders anywhere. It was officially called the Victorian Lounge. One entered the room through twelve-foot, three-hundred-pound mahogany doors. The former dining room of the original owners of the mansion, it offered a mahogany bar, and fifteen-foot ceilings from which hung the original German stained-glass chandelier. Queen Anne–inspired wood panels adorned the ceiling and an ancient-Greek-inspired frescoed frieze covered the wall. This was no ordinary bar.

Though not a regular, he was recognized by the bartender and greeted as he took a seat.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Judge,” the bartender said. “How’s it goin’?”

“Can’t complain, Mike. How are things with you?”

“I don’t owe my bookie; figure I’m ahead of the game. What can I get you?”

“How about a bourbon with a splash of bitters?”

“Brand?”

“Maker’s Mark will be fine, thanks.”

The best bartenders have two things in common: one, a good pour, and two, knowing when a customer wants to talk and when he doesn’t. Judge Boucher wanted to chat and Mike was just about to oblige but then stepped back and moved to the far end of the bar. Boucher noticed this and, as he sipped his drink, sensed someone standing next to the bar stool on his right. He did not look.

“Good evening, Judge.” The woman’s voice addressing him was familiar. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in here.”

He turned to face her. “Dawn. It’s nice . . .” Not another word came out. She was standing close to him and it was like being poked with a cattle prod. The way she looked, from twenty feet away she would have had the same effect. Dressed for evening, she was stunning, wearing the simplest of black cocktail dresses, a diamond necklace and pavé diamond earrings, no watch, and a platinum ring with a huge pearl set in diamonds. Her hair looked softer in the subdued lighting, a strand falling down her forehead, just begging to be put in place. He refrained, the temptation almost too much.

“Yes,” she said. “This is a nice place. It’s my favorite, though I don’t hang around in bars all that much. Do I, Mike?” she asked the bartender.

Mike saw an invitation being extended and approached them. “You don’t come by often enough for me, Miss Fallon. You know Judge Boucher?”

“We’ve recently met,” she said, “though not in social circumstances. He doesn’t seem to recognize me out of uniform, so I guess I’d better order my own drink.”

Boucher snapped to her none too subtle hint. “No, please. What would you like? Would you care to sit down?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’ve never mastered the art of mounting and dismounting bar stools in form-fitting evening wear. How about a table?”

The lounge was not crowded and there were several tables available. Dawn ordered a champagne cocktail and they moved from the bar. He pulled out a chair for her, then seated himself. The bartender brought their glasses.

“I went to a gallery opening of an artist I like,” she said as if answering a question—or addressing a speculation—“and was on my way home. I live nearby. I am not spying on you. I’m not supposed to begin that assignment until tomorrow. What brings you to my neighborhood?”

“You live nearby?” Boucher asked, flustered and unable to string more than five words together.

“I live in a mausoleum my family has owned since 1895. It’s a few blocks from here.” She sipped her champagne. “You?”

“I have a place in the Quarter. My home is old too.” He sipped his bourbon for courage. “But I love it. I love places with history.”

“Well, mine certainly has that. It was a bordello before my family bought it; the fanciest house in the Garden District. I’ve gotten rather obsessed with it, I’m afraid. Other than the kitchen, bathrooms, and essential electricity, I’ve kept everything faithful to the period. All the furniture is authentic. I’ve restored it as a stately home, not a turn-of-the-century cathouse.”

Boucher chuckled and took a hard hit from his glass to settle
himself. “How long have you worked for Rexcon?” It was a question he didn’t want to ask, but trying to avoid it made it all-consuming.

“Next month will be my tenth anniversary. I started with them after graduating from Wharton, and I went to business school right out of college. Before you try to guess my age I have to tell you I received advance placement and finished Tulane in two years.”

He did the math in his head.

“I’m thirty-four,” she said before he had concluded his calculations. “Never married, not even close; I’m an old maid. And you? Are your bones starting to creak yet?”

“So far everything seems to be in working order. I know I’m getting old, though, because I only know the names of a few current movie stars and none of the new recording artists.”

That led to a discussion of favorite music, and the next time he glanced at his watch, an hour had passed. “Have you had dinner?” he asked.

“No, and I’m famished.”

“Do you have a favorite restaurant?”

“Commander’s Palace,” she said without hesitation.

Another talent of top bartenders: they know when their clients are ready for their check. Mike was walking toward them with the bill before Boucher even turned around to call him. He paid and they made their exit, Dawn slipping her arm in his as if out of habit. Walking along St. Charles Avenue, Dawn pointed out architectural details that gave the old homes their character.

“I’ve always loved Victorian architecture,” she said. “Places like this.”

They stood before a massive blue and white gingerbread structure with gables, a corner turret, and matching awnings: a Victorian masterpiece, Commander’s Palace.

“I’m sure you’ve eaten here before,” Dawn said.

“It’s been a while. I remember celebrating here when I received the news that I’d passed the bar exam.”

“So it’s a special place for you too. Good.”

Dawn was greeted by the maître d’ like visiting royalty, and it wasn’t all affectation, old families in New Orleans being revered. They were seated and Boucher excused himself to go to the men’s room. He was drying his hands when he heard the voice coming from inside his sport coat.

“You picked a bad time to get up. She’s making a call from her cell right now and you’re out of range.”

“Palmetto? The phone didn’t ring and I sure as hell didn’t answer it.”

“It’s always on. You’re monitored constantly. Don’t complain about it. It’s your security guard.”

“I thought I might enjoy an evening out.”

“Yeah, and of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world she walks into yours. Surely you’re not that naïve.”

At that moment a man came in to use the restroom. Palmetto went silent. But when it was again just the two of them he was back on.

“I don’t mind you enjoying the evening, but for God’s sake ask her something more on point. Get off the damned antiques, okay?”

Boucher said, “I don’t like this.”

“Maybe you don’t, but at the end of the day it’s what’s going to keep you on the green side of the grass. Now get back in there and get her talking. And by the way, I think she likes you.”

“That’s none of your goddamned business,” he muttered, but Palmetto seemed to have signed off.

Returning to his seat, he noticed Dawn was closing her purse,
probably putting her cell phone away. He’d been out of range in the men’s room, otherwise Palmetto would have known who she’d called and what she’d said. He had to admit the obvious: they had not met by chance this evening, despite what she had told him.

“I just called my boss,” she said as he sat down. “I told him we were together and he told me to get as much information out of you as I could. I said I’d try, but I lied. Like I said, I wasn’t supposed to start spying on you till tomorrow. Do you mind if we just enjoy the evening?”

“That suits me just fine.”
Screw Palmetto,
he thought.

They ordered, and while waiting for their dinner he asked about her background, and if she had any family.

“I’m the end of the Fallon line in New Orleans,” she said. “I had an older brother, but he was killed in Iraq. The house and I are all that’s left. Your turn.”

“I’m it too. I grew up in a small black Cajun town on the bayou. I was an only child; lost my mother when I was young and my father a few years ago. At least he lived long enough to see me become a judge. It meant a lot to him.”

“I’m sure it did. But you’re not a judge now, are you? I mean, working for Rexcon, obviously that’s not a part of your judicial duties.”

“I’m taking a break,” he said, making it clear he didn’t want to say anything more on the subject. She dropped it.

“What do you do at Rexcon, when you’re not minding stray visitors like me?” he asked.

“Mostly SEC compliance stuff. A lot of forms. Very dull. Ah, just in the nick of time, before I bored you to death.”

The waiter arrived with their dinner and the conversation turned to food, particularly that in front of them. Commander’s Palace was
world-renowned for its Creole cuisine, and for the fact that the majority of its ingredients were local; “one hundred miles from dirt to plate” was their credo.

“Your ancestors must be turning over in their graves, your being here with me,” Boucher said, picturing them looking down on the mixed-race couple.

“You’re so right. If I was caught out in public in their neighborhood with a Cajun, it would have caused a scandal. And a black Cajun? They’d have banished me. But I’m color-blind and those days are gone, thank goodness.”

She made the remark in such an unaffected way. It made him smile.

After their dinner he walked her home, and like a young suitor he stood on the front porch as she unlocked the door with its beveled glass inserts, wondering if there would be a kiss, and if so on the cheek or the lips.