Too Far Gone (34 page)

97

At five o'clock, under fast-moving clouds, Alexa parked on the street in front of the Tulane Medical Center. As she climbed from the Bucar, a powerful gust of wind that peppered her face with dust also snatched the door from her grasp, slammed it, and, lifting her all-weather coat, flapped it behind her like a flag. A second later, just as abruptly as it had struck, the demon windblast was gone.

With so much on her mind, Alexa had not been monitoring the approaching hurricane. According to the last report she'd heard, it was still six or seven hours away. Now with the leading edges of the feeder bands ruling the skies, it was easy to believe the monster storm was coming.

Alexa knew that she'd better start making a serious effort to wind things up and get out of the city before Katrina came roaring up the Mississippi River. The idea of being trapped in a geographic bowl as it filled with dark water was a sobering thought.

Alexa entered the hospital room where a cleaned-up Sibby Danielson lay in a bed, her wrists and ankles secured with fleece-lined leather restraints. Her long gray hair had dried and had been combed. And she was smiling like a sleeping child.

A young doctor entered and hung a chart off the end of the bed. “She doesn't look like a killer,” he remarked.

“No, she doesn't,” Alexa said. “Did she say anything?”

“Talked total nonsense nonstop until we sedated her. Yakata, yakata, yakata. Took enough happy juice to knock out an elephant. She's built up quite a resistance to it.”

You don't know the half of it.
“What sort of nonsense?” Alexa asked him.

“Gibberish. Rhyming nonsense. A few choice vulgarities peppered in.”

The doctor left the room and Alexa drew close to the bed and stared down at the woman, who looked like a heavier and older version of her daughter, one of New Orleans's wealthiest citizens. Alexa's heart went out to the woman who had spent the past three decades wrapped up in a cocoon of illness. She couldn't imagine the torture this creature had suffered at the hands of the powerful for one night's actions she hadn't been capable of preventing herself from doing. Sibby wasn't evil, but as pure a victim as there was. Alexa felt herself close to tears.

“Sleep, Sibby,” Alexa said, close to tears. “You've earned it.” She picked up her purse, and when she looked back at Sibby, the woman's eyes were open and searching the room wildly.

“Sibby?” Alexa said.

“Sibhon. Sibby. Sibhon.” Her intonation was as flat as a tabletop.

“Sibhon.” Alexa smiled down at her.

Sibby's eyes darted around as though she were looking for someone else, perhaps a point of reference.

Suddenly she fixed Alexa in her gaze. Her lips curled back from her yellowed teeth. “Sibhon. Remember.
Never forget.”

Alexa nodded. “Are you comfortable?”

“Cut the cop. Cut the fog. Sibby. Sibby. Sibby. Here I am. Don't forget. Never quit. Tell the lies. Find them always where they hide. Say the poems. Say the poems. Find the poems.”

“You know a poem?”

Sibby smiled and nodded rapidly. She closed her eyes. “Stop saying I did it. Tell a lie. Stick a needle in Sibby's eye. Fucker man, the fucker man. Put the chopper in my hand. Windy rain. Windy rain. The stinky nurse is here again. Lie bitch, lie bitch, I know the trues. I never lose if I still can choose. The baby comes, the liars go. The smiling cop deserves a blow. Tell the people what you know. Fucker man, the fucker man. Put the chopper in my hand.”

“Sibby, what does that mean?” Alexa asked.

“God is love. Love is God. The Trinity. Heaven is the carrot on the stick. Hell is the bullwhip to keep you straight. The Mother Church is the name brand.”

“Sibby, do you know who put you in the motel?”

“Stop saying she did it. Tell that lie. Stick a needle in Sibby's eye. Fucker man, the fucker man. Put the chopper in my hand. Windy rain. Windy rain. The stinky nurse is here again. Lie bitch, lie bitch, I know the trues. I never lose while I still can choose. The baby comes, the liars go. The smiling cop deserves a blow. Tell the people what you know.”

“Do you remember Dr. LePointe and Nurse Fugate?”

Sibby closed her eyes. “Fucker man, fucker man…”

Alexa felt a surge of excitement shoot through her. She dug into her purse for the mini tape recorder.

98

Alexa raced across town. Nobody had checked out Andy “Doc” Tinsdale's place, and unless somebody did so tonight, the place might not still be there later. He was dead and it was a loose end that would bother her until she saw for herself what was there. She had no warrant and no way to get a warrant. Most of the judges who were smart enough to issue one had long ago left the city.

With her GPS lady's assistance, she arrived at 912 Fulton, her wipers barely able to keep the rain cleared. The hurricane was closing in. If the storm had ever seemed an abstraction to her, it was as real to her now as a section of lead pipe.

She ran through the driving rain to the darkened house and stood on the porch. She picked the lock and let herself inside, slipping on gloves as she did so.

The living room and kitchen held only a recliner, a floor lamp beside it, bookshelves, and a television set with rabbit ears, perched on a spindle-legged table. There was no dining table or chairs, only a TV tray leaned against the wall. The bookcase was comprised of cinder blocks and planks. The shelves held only paperback novels, alphabetized by author. There was not room for one more book on the planks.

The bedroom contained a mattress on box springs. Tinsdale's clothes were neatly folded and in stacks against a wall. A cheap Oriental carpet covered the floor.

The closet held a packed suitcase. Alexa took it to the bed and opened it. Inside, she found clothes, a wig, a passport in the name Douglas Winston, and a plane ticket to Madrid. There was also a brochure in Spanish that showed before-and-after examples of cosmetic surgery.
No wonder he didn't care if he was identified.

Alexa ran her hands over the lining. Using her pocketknife, she cut the lining open and took out a manila envelope. She reached in and removed three sheets of notebook paper, filled front and back with cursive script she now knew well. The pages were the ones that had been removed from Fugate's spiral notebook.

Trembling with excitement, she sat on the edge of the mattress, and read the pages slowly, absorbing the words written by a woman who was stunningly candid, although completely deluded, and perhaps as insane as the people she had spent her career nursing. Alexa was amazed by the same brand of evil that had allowed the Nazis to commit their atrocities to paper and film.

Unbelievably, the entry was dated the night of the LePointe murders. It began,
It was a dark and stormy night….

Before she finished the first page, she understood why Andy Tinsdale had torn these sheets from the diary.

These lone pages were worth many times what the notebook without them was. Anyone with half a brain would never have killed this golden goose.

Not in a million years.

99

At eight o'clock on Sunday evening, Alexa left her hotel for the last time, put her suitcase and valise in the Bucar's trunk, and made her way slowly up St. Charles Avenue. The street was not nearly as deserted as it should have been, with the storm's fury mere hours away. The streetcars were still running, packed with evacuees headed for the Superdome.

It was raining hard, and according to the radio, the wind was gusting to thirty-five miles per hour now. Alexa passed a lone television sound truck parked outside Dr. LePointe's home and pulled up to the gate in front of the mansion. The guard made a call before he opened the gate. Suddenly floodlights blasted her car as a cameraman aimed his camera at her. She ignored the shouted questions from the reporter wearing a raincoat with its storm hood up to protect her hair—a woman who looked like she just wanted to get the hell back to the safety of the TV station.

The Bentley was parked under the portico, aimed out for a fast exit. Alexa parked and strode to LePointe's front door. A solemn black man opened the door and let her inside. Two men in overalls walked the large Turner painting up the hall, turned in the foyer, and carried it upstairs. Alexa supposed they were figuring if New Orleans flooded, the waters couldn't reach the second floor.

“The doctor is in his study, miss. But he is leaving in a few minutes for the airport in Baton Rouge.”

“Thank you,” she told the servant before making for the office in the rear of the mansion. “I'll be brief.”

Dr. LePointe looked up as she entered, closing the door behind her.

“The Bureau will be returning your bonds as soon as they process them,” she told him. “We recovered all but twenty.” She sat down without being invited.

“Twenty thousand?”

“Twenty bonds.”

“What happened to those?”

“I have no idea,” Alexa answered truthfully.

He said, “Not an excessive amount to pay, considering the results.”

Alexa noticed the glass of amber liquid on the desk and realized that LePointe was drunk.

“I suppose you can write it off to the soaring cost of dirty business.”

“You think I care about that money?” He waved his hand dismissively. “Inconsequential.”

“What I think is, it's amazing you can keep from blowing your brains out.”

LePointe smiled thinly and rocked back in his chair. “I suppose it's beyond your experience, and I don't want your understanding or forgiveness. I made misjudgments, but I assure you my intentions were to protect my niece from the ugly truth. Are you here to gloat?”

“I'm going to do everything I can to see that you go to jail.”

“That's a good one. Take your best shot, Agent Keen.”

“I intend to.” Alexa took the recorder out of her purse, turned it on, and sat back to watch LePointe's face.

“Stop saying I did it. Tell a lie. Stick a needle in Sibby's eye. Fucker man, the fucker man. Put the chopper in my hand. Windy rain. Windy rain. The stinky nurse is here again. Lie bitch, lie bitch, I know the trues. I never lose. I still can choose. The baby comes, the liars go. The smiling cop deserves a blow. Tell the people what you know.”

“Do you remember Dr. LePointe?”

“Fucker man, fucker man. Put a chopper in my hand.”

“Sibby, who killed those people in the kitchen?”

“Fucker man.”

“Who brought you to that house where the dead people were?”

“Windy rain.”

“It was stormy that night. Who took you there?”

“Stinky nurse.”

“Nurse Fugate?…Note: Sibby is nodding.”
Alexa's voice was steady.
“Sibby, who chopped up the bodies?”

“Raincoat fucker man. Put the cleaver in my hand.”

“He put the cleaver in your hand after he chopped them up?”

“Fucker man push Sibby down. Bloody blood. Who did it? You did it. Who did it? You did it. Who did it? You did it. No. Lie, lie, lie. Fucker man do. Not Sibby.”

Alexa snapped the recorder off.

LePointe's face had lost its color. He took a drink, then shook his head.

“She's an extremely sick woman.”

“She knows,” Alexa said.

This surprised Dr. LePointe, but he managed to say, “Pure nonsense. Obviously Dorothy can't confirm your suspicion.”

“That's why you and Dorothy kept her a prisoner and tried to destroy her mind. Sibby knew.”

“Sibby heard voices. In fact, if I recall, this fucker man was a voice she listened to. One among many. The voice probably commanded her to kill Curry and Rebecca.”

“Dorothy's pet name for you was Dr. Fuckerman. Even through the fog of her delusions, Sibby knew. Did you make Sibby call you by that name?”

LePointe laughed. “Jesus God. Take that obscene tape and put it in the nearest trash receptacle, where it belongs.”

“I don't know why you killed your brother and his wife that night. Maybe you planned it or maybe you just snapped. There was a storm and the streets were empty. Maybe you killed Curry, and Rebecca came in and you thought you had no choice but to kill her too. Maybe you had Sibby out in the car with Dorothy, or maybe you had her bring Sibby there to you after the murder. It doesn't matter. I know you did it. You made sure Sibby was found there with the cleaver. Maybe Decell was already working for you, or maybe it began that night because he knew, or figured it out. I'm not sure, and it doesn't matter anymore.”

“I don't have to sit here and listen to this.”

“Stand and listen, then. Sibby will get stronger and healthier. She will become more and more lucid. Sibby is the sword of Damocles and she's hanging over your head by a thread. I've made sure she's beyond your reach and I think modern psychiatry can bring her back a little. When it does, her testimony, coupled with the diary and the missing pages I found tonight, will be enough to convince a prosecutor.”

“I loved my brother. I was here that night. All night long, until the police woke me. There were witnesses. Good luck breaking my alibi.”

“Witnesses like your mother? Casey's grandmother?”

“She was away. But my wife and the servants made statements proving I was here.”

“Your witnesses are dead or long gone, I bet. Your wife is in no condition to testify. You're going down. One day very soon. I promise you that. The public is going to learn about it.”

“One day soon.” LePointe held up his glass in salute. “Unless you are arresting me today, I have a plane to catch, Agent Keen. Anyway, why are you here instead of celebrating with Casey?”

“She isn't gone?”

“She isn't leaving. She's perfectly safe.”

“Celebrating what?”

“Ascension to the throne.” He smiled at Alexa. “She's got everything she ever wanted.”

“You can't accept that she can love so completely?”

“Love? You honestly believe she loves Gary West?” He laughed and took a swallow from the glass, a drop dribbling down his chin. “The boy served his purpose, which was as a sperm syringe. He's no more to her than a bull that's conveniently out to pasture.”

“Casey is devastated.” Alexa felt hot anger rising within her.

“She's devastated by joy at her wealth and power.”

“Casey doesn't care about money or power.”

LePointe's laughter was a sudden bark. “Don't feel too badly. She fooled me too, Agent Keen. Like Grace Smythe, another gold-digging bitch. Turns out my daughter is twice the LePointe I am. She's on par with my mother, with her father…uncle…Curry. I didn't have any idea until I saw her standing where you are with the trust's lawyer handy. They had the resignation paper for me to sign. God knows how long she's had it prepared. Hell, I didn't even know Casey was aware of the covenant. I have to hand it to her. Hoisted on my own petard. I'd have done the same thing in her place. Never would have imagined she had it in her.”

“What covenant?”

“Ask her about it. Something my ancestors instituted to prevent any one person from throwing the family's fortunes away, and reputation is part and parcel of the whole shebang.”

“In English?” Alexa said.

“A straightforward morality clause tucked into the family rules and regulations. According to the covenant that I, like all of my predecessors in the last fifty years, signed upon taking control of the family trusts, any LePointe heir loses any rights of participation in or control they have immediately upon doing anything that brings disgrace or casts a scandalous shadow on the family name. Financial irresponsibility that threatens the capital is also covered. Three-point-nine billion last count, give or take a hundred million. All privately held. No public participation or interference. That is
power,
Alexa Keen.”

The amount stunned Alexa.

“I saw the glee in Casey's eyes tonight. And to think I could have paid for an abortion and made this impossible. Her eyes. They were as bright and as icy cold as my own dear mother's.”

LePointe sat bolt upright. “You aren't recording this, are you?”

“No. I'm not.”

“I'm going to tell you something, because you are so smug, you should know. Your poor little rich girl is a monster.”

“I don't believe for one moment that Casey is anything but a victim.” Alexa crossed her arms. “You're drunk.”

“Hardly as intoxicated as I will be in an hour. A cleverly hidden time bomb, best I can figure. She was behind all of it. I can see her handiwork through all of this. That nasty conniving bitch from hell.”

“Casey?”

“My mother. Well, my mother and Casey. My mother believed, as do you, that I had Sibby kill Curry in order to take his place.”

“Didn't you?”

LePointe smiled at Alexa with an I-may-be-drunk-but-I'm-not-crazy look.

“I am of the opinion—and I do not know this for a fact—that Dorothy may have done what you have accused me of in order to help me be all that I could be.” He smiled sourly. “Mother must have told Casey at some point, or left her a letter. My dear mother hated me as much as she loved Curry. And she saw Casey as Curry's daughter…complex biology issues aside.”

“Your mother
knew
Casey was your daughter?”

“Of course she did. She put Casey in Curry and Rebecca's possession against my wishes. I had a constant reminder of my weakness right in my own home. Mother held the real power till the day she died. She told me on her deathbed that I would live to regret what I had done. I thought the old bitch meant God would see to it. She's probably ruling the seventh level of hell about now. She hated me with a passion. She tortured me like you wouldn't believe, but I thought after she was gone, that would be over.”

“I suspect a lot of people hate you,” Alexa said.

“Touché,” he said, draining his glass. “Casey did it all in such a way that nobody can touch her. Brilliant! Perfection in breeding and environment. She didn't inherit her mother's illness, but that would have been better for all concerned.”

He poured another drink from the decanter on his desk.

“No matter how deep you dig, Agent Keen—and she knows you of all people believe she was the victim, so you won't bother to look any deeper than you have. The local cops are way out of their league with her. And so, it appears, is the FBI. Hell, I certainly was. She is a master, and any evidence you find will point to others. Casey is as hard as her grandmother, and my mother was a stainless steel magnolia with a diamond-coated carbide heart.”

“So you say.”

Alexa thought about something. She reached into her purse. “Do you know this man? Andy Tinsdale. The blackmailer. He shot Decell.”

“And Casey shot him. He was in on this? That makes everything fit,” he said, shaking his head. “Of course. I never imagined he was capable of anything. But with her help…”

“Andy Tinsdale was an orderly at River Run. You knew him very well.”

“I never cared to know him. Ask Casey about him. She knew him a lot better than I did. Show her the picture. You already did, didn't you? What did she tell you?”

“That doesn't matter.”

“I think it does, based on your expression. Andy was a creepy little bastard. A sick little fool of the first order. When he was thirteen or so, my gardener caught him with his pants around his ankles masturbating in the tool shed with a pair of Casey's panties on his head.”

“What did that have to do with Casey?”

“She was there watching. Egging him on. He swore she put him up to it. I believed her because she seemed so upset. An actress even then. She said he forced her to watch him. I forbade him ever coming here again, or being within ten miles of Casey. Now I know she put him up to it.”

“How was Tinsdale connected to Dorothy?”

“He's Fugate's bastard. He was raised by Dorothy's brother as his son. Her brother may have been his real father, as far as I know. She gave the miserable creature a job as an orderly on the wards. He had to change his name to get the job, of course. Casey enjoyed his company, probably because she could get him to do anything she liked. I'm sure she hooked up with him recently.”

“You're just trying to make trouble for Casey. You paid the ransom only to get that diary, not to get Gary back.”

“She has him back. Think what you like. Don't you wonder at all why the diary was there for you to find, or why it was released to the media? Don't you at least think it odd that Casey ended up going out there with you, and that she just happened to have a gun with her? Haven't you wondered, if the diary was the reason I paid the ransom, why Gary was kidnapped in the first place? They could have brought the diary and I would have paid them off. Simple business transaction.”

“I assume Gary's abduction was at Grace's request. She was in love with Casey and jealous of anybody near her.”