Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller (7 page)

He watched her walk away, T. S. Eliot’s words ringing in his ear. He rubbed his cheek where she had kissed him. It burned like he’d been branded.

Boucher headed back to his new gym to work the excesses of the day out of his system. After nearly an hour with the punching bag, he
followed with twenty minutes in the sauna. He drank no less than four full glasses of water, and felt himself purged. He showered and dressed.

There were still two or three men working out when he left. A liquor store several doors down was doing a brisk business, but all other commercial activity in the strip mall was done for the day. He walked to his truck, unlocked the door, and climbed behind the wheel. He sat on it before he saw it and jumped, hitting his head on the roof of the cab. Someone had placed a package inside his vehicle. He pulled it out from under him and looked at it. A large envelope, papers inside. He checked his doors and windows for a break-in; everything was secure. But someone had gotten in. A car passed behind him, its lights briefly illuminating his cab before it went on its way. He glanced at the first sheet, the dim light of the parking lot just enough for him to read the title. He replaced it carefully in the envelope. This package deserved special care; Dexter Jessup had died for it. It was the report he never gave, the document that got him killed, which Ruth Kalin had guarded with her life for two decades. He would see her again, this he knew for sure. And when he did he would ask her where in the hell she learned how to break into a 2004 Ford F-150 FX4, his pride and joy.

J
UDGE BOUCHER’S TRUCK COULD
barely squeeze into the narrow drive alongside his house, but he considered himself lucky to have as much space as he did. Built in the 1820s, his “raised center hall house with Doric columns and twin staircases,” as guidebooks described it, was one of the landmarks of the French Quarter, and had originally included gardens on both sides, a rarity at the time, as landscaping was usually kept in back, out of sight from pedestrian traffic. In addition to the utilitarian driveway, the venerable property included a Spanish-style courtyard, and former slave quarters—the only part of the house he didn’t like and consciously ignored. He had spared no expense furnishing the home with original period furniture and was a prized client for a number of antique dealers around the country. The house had been owned by many historical residents, including a Confederate general and a major twentieth-century author.

This literary feature was particularly appealing to the woman who came to the front door to greet him after hearing his truck pull into the drive. Seeing her, Jock bounded from his truck and up the stairs to the main entrance like the track star he once had been. They embraced between the Doric columns.

“I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow,” he said. He took her hands and looked into her face, not sure of what he saw.

“I finished early and thought I’d surprise you. I hope I did the right thing.”

That was it; there was doubt in her eyes. “Why on earth would you say something like that?”

“There was a woman,” she said. “When the taxi pulled up, there was a woman. It looked like she was hanging around waiting for you. She looked frightened when she saw me, and took off. Jock, if you’re seeing someone else . . .”

“Was she about your height, with short curly black hair, some gray?”

“It was dark. I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I know who it was, and no, I am not seeing anyone. I have to get something out of the truck. Go on in, I’ll be with you in a second.” He turned before descending the stairs. “Thanks for the surprise. Malika, I’m delighted you’re here.”

Malika Chopra was the first woman he had dated since losing his wife to breast cancer five years ago. They had been seeing each other for almost a year now, though their relationship was the long-distance kind. Jock couldn’t travel because of his work, and Malika was always on her way to or from somewhere. But their reunions kept the magic going. Malika’s beauty was breathtaking. Born in Mumbai, educated in England and the United States, she was carving out her own niche, creating a new position in the rapidly changing world of publishing. Quasi-agent, quasi-publisher, she represented authors, both novelists and screenwriters.

Later, after they had kissed and made up for lost time and sat in their robes before the salon’s original brick fireplace, Malika tried to joke about the woman she’d seen on her arrival, but she quickly sensed it was a serious matter and didn’t push.

“Actually,” Jock said, “this is unusual. I can never talk about my work with you because I don’t discuss pending cases. But this one is ancient history. The woman you saw worked for a lawyer who was murdered decades ago.” He told her of Palmetto, Judge Epson’s death, his meeting with Ruth Kalin—and the envelope sitting on the coffee table at their feet.

“I have no idea why she came here. We met earlier this evening. She could have spoken to me when I went back to the gym but instead she somehow got into my truck and left this. I don’t know why she didn’t talk to me there—unless someone scared her away. Then she came here and ran away a second time? I don’t get it.”

“I could tell something was on your mind other than me,” Malika said.

She gave a sideward glance and a shake of her head toward the bedroom, through the open door of which could be seen an antique two-poster bed with recently rumpled sheets.

“Oh, no,” he said.

“It wasn’t a total disappointment,” she said, running the nail of her index finger around the curve of his mouth to his chin, down his neck to his chest, then his stomach. “But you did seem distracted.”

“Second chance?” he asked.

“Of course.” Hand in hand, they returned to the bedroom, and as they had been on nights such as this for almost two hundred years, the lights in the house on Chartres Street were extinguished. He focused on his lovemaking, then both soon fell asleep.

Jock woke hours before dawn, giving himself enough time to explore the contents of the package Ruth Kalin had placed in his truck. He had even more questions than before. There was more than Dexter’s report in the package. There was something else that looked like a research project she must have worked on for years.
There were graphs and charts. Jock had no idea what they meant. He put the package in his safe, the most secure he’d ever been able to find. The kitchen refrigerator was built on hidden extension slides; a stopper underneath was locked or released with a light kick, and the fridge could be pulled out with no effort. A wall safe was installed behind, with a combination unforgettable and easy to dial from an angle, 6-6-6, the number of the beast.

Jock put the package in the safe, then walked out his back door to the courtyard and its statue of Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. He paused before the old stone piece and mused. Dexter Jessup had gathered enough evidence to implicate a sitting federal judge in a serious crime. He had been a lawyer, not a professional investigator. If he had been able to gather such evidence with his limited resources—and no doubt he had at least intimated to the FBI what he had found in order to be granted a meeting with them—then why had they not followed through, especially after his murder? Maybe, like Judge Wundt had suggested, they wanted something to hold over Judge Epson. That was a scary thought.

“But I really don’t have the slightest idea,” he said aloud.

The silent Saint Jude’s hand was raised in benediction.

The first thing Jock did on reaching his office that Friday morning was call the Federal Records Center in Fort Worth, giving the case number and requesting the complete file on Palmetto’s lawsuit. Being as old as it was, the case was not available in the district court’s computerized Case Management/Electronic Case Files System or on PACER, the Internet Public Access to Court Electronic Records system. Only the original paper file was available. Boucher was told
he would have a copy on Monday. Direct requests from jurists received priority.

The clerk had been working archives for ten years and he had never seen a similar instruction: the file contained a number he was to call if it was ever requested. This he did, giving the name of the party requesting the case files.

B
Y THE END OF
the day Friday, Judge Boucher was exhausted. He had put in fifteen-hour days. He had a weekend guest, and needed a break. He bade his stunned staff farewell at four p.m. that afternoon and headed home.

“Hello, house, His Honor is home.”

Malika rested her head on the back of the sofa. Jock bent down and gave her an upside-down kiss.

“Any strange women hanging around today?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t have noticed them if there were,” she said. Next to her on the sofa were several advance reader copies of books scheduled for publication, called ARCs in the trade, and a laptop, BlackBerry, and an iPad. All were proof she’d had no problem keeping herself busy.

“You up for an evening out?” he asked.

“Toujours, monsieur. Où voulez-vous aller?”

“
Tu.
With a lover it’s
tu,
not
vous.
”

She rose from the sofa and walked into his arms. “Where do ‘
tu’
want to go,
mon amour
?”

He locked the fingers of both hands behind her back and began to sway. “I want to dance some zydeco, eat some crawfish, and drink
cheap beer. I want to show you a Cajun good time. Tonight, we return to my roots.” He released her after a quick kiss, walked into the kitchen, and returned with two beers.

“There’s a funky place near Lake Pontchartrain. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen, I guarantee.” He pronounced it
gar-on-TEE.
“This old icehouse fills up on Friday nights with some of the most unique people in all the United States, black Cajuns.”

Malika had learned about Cajuns on her first date with Jock Boucher: descendants of French expelled from Acadia, which was now northeastern Canada, in the late eighteenth century. Many of them emigrated to Louisiana. She knew that black Cajuns were descendants of slaves from the twenty-two Cajun parishes around New Orleans, and many of them lived in small isolated communities deep in the bayous.

“Will they be speaking French?”

“Some of them speak French using idioms from the time of Voltaire.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. And the music. Zydeco, it’s as unique as the people.”

They toasted with their beer cans. “I like seeing you this way,” Malika said.

“What way?”

“Exuberant. It suits you.”

“You mean more than my judicial bearing?”

“I would like for you to leave your judicial bearing outside the door of this house, or better still, leave it in your courtroom.”

“You got it, babe.” He looked at his watch. “We need to get ready. It’s a bit of a drive. Dancing doesn’t start till later, but we’ve got to eat first.”

“What do I wear to this, what did you call it, icehouse?”

Jock smiled. “The dress code is pretty eclectic. Some folks are elderly and—these are poor people, you understand—they come wearing their best-night-out clothes. Some of the older men wear zoot suits they’ve had since the fifties, padded shoulders, double-pleated trousers, wide-brimmed hats, pointy-toed balmorals and brogues that must have cost them a fortune back in the day.” He shook his head with wonder. “Wow, those cats are cool. Tonight,
ma chérie,
we are going to
laissez les bons temps rouler
! And you just watch your man strut his . . . exuberance.”

She excused herself to dress and returned minutes later completely transformed. She wore a scarlet silk tunic with extensive gold embroidery resembling a Coptic cross from the neck to her waist, with more embroidery at the hems of the flared sleeves. The tunic covered her hips and was worn over capri pants of the same-colored silk, which fit like a second skin. On her feet were golden slippers.

“It’s a kurti,” she said to her stunned admirer. “You like it?”

“They’re going to love you on the bayou,” Jock said.

As they drove from the city to Lake Pontchartrain, Malika listened to the story of Judge Boucher’s family, none of whom had ever traveled more than one hundred miles from their small community of Toulouse.

“It had been named by some pioneer planter for the city in France, but none of the folks living there could read, and none had ever been anywhere. They were descendants of slaves. When someone from the capital showed up and asked them what the name of their little town was, they told him, and a sign was put up. The sign read
TOO LOOSE
, and nobody knew it till my grandfather got himself a sixth-grade education. I was sent to live with relatives in New Orleans
when Mom died. Dad stayed there running his little store till he passed away. Nothing left of the village now.”

“I bet your father was proud of you,” Malika said.

“He was proud enough to burst, but he would tell me that my grandfather must be rolling over in his grave. Grandpappy favored the other side of the law.”

They reached the bayou country and its two-lane causeways built on levees crossing one mangrove swamp, then another. Small towns formed where spits of raised dry land separated the marshes. Dusk had fallen, and before them a garish neon sign blinked next to a shack on the side of the road.

KISS MY ASS, SUCK MY HEAD, EAT ME,
the sign read.

“Looks like just the place,” Jock said, and pulled into a gravel-covered parking lot. He killed the engine and turned to his passenger. “Honey, you are about to learn the fine art of eating crawfish.”

They were early to the crawfish boil, but not the first customers. A mom, dad, and three kids were digging into a small mountain of the shrimplike crustaceans. They looked up at the new arrivals, the children wide-eyed until the mother told them not to stare at people and to eat their dinner. They did as they were told.

“I’m surprised to see children here,” Malika said, “with that crude sign out front. In fact, I’m surprised that kind of language is allowed on a public road.” The waitress coming to seat them wore the same crude commands on her T-shirt.