Chapter Ten
CHAPTER TEN
A fter close to three hours of trudging from office supply store to office supply store, Jack was one part exhausted and his feet hurt and one part fascinated with Gator. The man obviously knew everybody. Oh, not just a few of the local people around the area where Salem lived. The Cajun knew everybody . Sales clerks, mail people, customers strolling the aisles of the stores, even tourists who stopped to look in shop windows seemed to know the man, and everybody wanted to stop and chat.
He’d also learned that Gator had a knack for ferreting out information from even the most reluctant characters. A couple of the frazzled sales clerks working the copying center at the shops initially hadn’t wanted to share information, but once Gator put on his interrogator’s hat, within minutes they told him everything they knew, including tidbits about their health, the cousin’s upcoming wedding, the best fishing spot in the local bayou, even who was having an affair with the local church deacon.
Too bad none of them had info on their mystery photographer.
The nice thing about their jaunt through the area was Jack learned a lot about the lay of the land, where the interesting shops were, places he’d explore later at his leisure. Maybe bring Salem with him, though she was probably familiar with all the ones that piqued his interest. Seeing them through her eyes would be worthwhile.
“Let’s try one more place I know. It’s not far, but it’s close to a couple of motels where a nonlocal might hole up.”
“Works for me.”
They walked a couple blocks north, and while the area became less touristy and a bit more rundown, it still held its own quaint charm. Jack loved the way the wrought iron scrolled in decorative swirls over windows and balconies, some painted bright cheerful colors while others maintained the blackened patina. The stuccoed walls had begun showing signs of age, the ravages of time and weather, chips and chunks missing from the buildings’ exteriors. Weathered shutters with cracked and peeling paint hung like ghostly sentinels on either side of windows.
Jack spotted two motels standing like soldiers across from one another, both looking like the kinds of places families with kids wouldn’t stop at. Each one stood two floors high, with a couple of vending machines for drinks and snacks—all of which had out of order signs attached and flapping in the light breeze. While they didn’t give off the rent-by-the-hour vibe, he doubted most of the customers passing through stayed more than a night. If he had to guess, he’d say both setups were utilized by people wanting to live out of the public eye, mostly off the grid, renting by the week or by the month, nothing long term.
Each parking lot contained about a half dozen cars, and one sported a few motorcycles. Jack was familiar with the setup. He’d run into more than his fair share of these kinds of places when he’d worked in Texas. Surprisingly, this was exactly the kind of place criminals frequented, thinking they’d stay under the radar. Nine times out of ten it didn’t work.
“Stores right over there,” Gator pointed just past the motel on the right. There was a liquor store directly beside the motel, its neon lights blinking in a garish display, advertising their wares. Next door to it was a store selling condoms, proclaiming they had the best prices and selection in town. Jack chuckled softly, thinking how apropos, having a prophylactic store beside a seedy motel. Probably did a pretty good business.
The office supply store wasn’t one of the big chain ones. Instead, it seemed to be more of a repair shop for office equipment, and it advertised on the sign by the door that it bought and sold refurbished computers and printers. It wasn’t as rundown as its surrounding buildings, and Jack wondered if they’d made a mistake coming to this out-of-the-way spot. It didn’t look like the place to have a high-quality photo printer on site, not with all the used computers and prints, adding machines and a couple of film projectors sitting bunched up on every available shelf.
It was eerily quiet inside. No customers lingered in the aisles, chitchatting about everything under the sun like they’d encountered in the bigger stores. A lone clerk sat behind a cash register, tinkering with his cellphone.
“Afternoon. Anything I can help you folks with?” He asked the question without looking up, his gaze never leaving his phone’s screen. Jack never understood the fascination with them. He got along fine with his shoved in his pocket. When he needed to make a call, he pulled it out and used it. If he needed to look something up and get information online, he did. Then he put it away. If he wanted to play games, he waited until he got home and did it on the big screen.
“Afternoon, Wilson.”
Wilson’s head shot up at the sound of Gator’s Cajun drawl. Jack hid his smirk behind his hand. He’d seen it happen time after time that afternoon, people falling all over themselves the minute Gator deigned to speak to them.
“Mr. Gator! Sorry I didn’t notice you come in. What can I help you with? You looking to buy a computer? A printer? I can hook you up with something really special, and I’ll get you the best price in town. Guaranteed.”
“Not today, Wilson. This is my friend, Jack.” Gator gestured toward him, and Jack watched Wilson swallow, the prominent Adam’s apple in his throat moving with the action. “We’re looking for some information, and I’m hoping you can help.”
“Anything I can do, Mr. Gator. What do ya need?”
Gator patted the manila envelope containing the pictures. “Wondering if you’ve had anybody come in, asking to have some photographs printed recently. High quality paper, color prints.”
Wilson visibly swallowed again, this time Jack noticed his hands slide off the countertop and go underneath, out of view. He didn’t like not being able to see Wilson’s hands, it made him antsy. Guy could reach for anything under the counter, and he wasn’t carrying yet, waiting for the Louisiana paperwork to come through. Samuel had expedited his license, but it still took more than a day or two.
“I…I don’t get a lot of folks wanting pictures. Everybody’s got fancy printers at home now, high speed, high quality, color photo ink.”
Gator nodded and waited, watching Wilson. Letting the guy sweat, without saying a word. He’d watched Gator all afternoon, adeptly playing each person they spoke with, judging when to talk and when to listen, and apparently he read Wilson as the nervous type who’d probably spill his guts if the pressure got too much.
It didn’t take long for Wilson to break.
“Did have somebody come in and ask for photos. Can I, um, can I see what you’ve got? I’ll be able to tell if they were printed here.”
Without a word, Gator handed the envelope to Wilson, who pulled the pictures free. A wave of relief spread across his ruddy face.
“Do you recognize those pictures,” Jack asked.
“Yeah. I printed these off a flash drive this morning. A rush job.” He gave Jack a crooked smile before adding, “I was worried you were looking for some different pictures. Some that weren’t quite so…normal.”
“Wilson, did you recognize the person who had the pictures printed?” Gator’s deep voice shifted Wilson’s attention back to him, and his head bobbed up and down rapidly.
“Oh, yeah. It was Bubba Hebert. Came in this morning asking if I could print the pictures and put a rush on them. Wanted them while he waited. Seemed in an awful big hurry.” Wilson handed the envelope with the pictures back to Gator. “Paid me extra for the rush job. Now that you mention it, he did seem a bit excited about getting those photos. And he flashed a wad of cash big as a horse around. Peeled a couple hundreds off and handed them over without a problem.”
“Bubba Hebert? I thought he was still in Angola.”
“Nah, he got out about six weeks ago. His brother, Buddy, he’s still there, got another five years.”
Gator tapped the envelope against his hand at the news. Good thing he knew these people and could keep the names straight. Buddy, Bubba. Who’d be next, Bambi?
“Any idea where Bubba’s staying at? I know his momma done moved to Metairie a couple years ago, and his sister married Lamar Haskins and moved to Mississippi.”
Wilson smirked, placing his hands on the counter and leaning forward, saying in a conspiratorial whisper, “You didn’t hear it from me, because I can’t afford for him to show up and trash the place…or worse, but he’s staying across the street. Got a room there paying week by week. Earl said he’s paid cash, caught up on his rent just the other day. Why he’d stay in a dump like that when he’s flush with all that cash don’t make sense. I’d be staying at the Ritz-Carlton downtown if it was me.”
Gator shot a look at Jack, one brow raised. Giving him a subtle nod, Jack quietly headed toward the door to wait for Gator to wrap up his questioning. He had enough information, and his hands itched to get hold of this Bubba Hebert. If he was flashing cash, as Wilson purported he was, then somebody paid him to put those cameras in Salem’s apartment. He needed proof that it was the Amirs behind it.
“You sure you guys don’t need anything. Laptop? Portable printer? DVD player? I’ll give ’em to you at cost.”
“No, thanks, Wilson. Simply needed the info. You tell your daddy I said hello, and we need to go fishing again real soon.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Gator. I bet he’ll like that.” Wilson scrambled from behind the counter as Gator walked toward the door where Jack stood waiting. As soon as they stepped outside, he heard the deadbolt click. Guess Wilson didn’t want any more customers. Either that or he was afraid Bubba Hebert might come back.
“I know Earl, the manager, at the motel. Should be able to give us Bubba’s room number if he hasn’t checked out.”
“What are the odds you think he’s still hanging around?”
Gator shot him a look. “I have a feeling he’ll still be there. Even flush with cash, Bubba’s going to want to lay low at least for a day or two. Unless he was paid enough to leave the country, Bubba’s more apt to head to Shreveport to the casinos. I doubt he’s had time to make travel plans yet. I bet he doesn’t think anybody’s going to catch up to him this soon. Of course, he’s not expecting Samuel and C.S.S. to be on the case this soon. We don’t tend to waste time.”
“Another good reason for me to want to work there.” Jack’s quick steps matched Gator’s. “Neither do I.”
Gator’s buddy, Earl, grinned as soon as Gator opened the door to the manager’s office. He gave a big belly laugh, his whole body shaking with each bellow. The cigar clamped between his teeth threatened to fall out, but he clamped his hand around the unlit stogie and plopped it into an overflowing ashtray sitting on the check-in counter’s lower shelf.
“Gator Boudreau! Been wondering how long it’d take you to darken my doorstep.”
“Earl. I see you’ve lost a few pounds since the last time I saw you. Been dieting?”
Earl patted his enormous belly with both hands. The way Jack figured, the man had to be over four hundred pounds easy. “Down thirty pounds. Stella’s got me on a new high protein diet. At least this time she’s feeding me meat instead of a bunch of lettuce leaves. And she packs me meals so I don’t cheat. Of course, staying away from the vending machines gets mighty hard when the hunger pangs hit.” Easing his bulk down onto the office chair behind the desk, he grinned again. “Bet you’re looking for Bubba Hebert, am I right?”
“That’s right. Heard he was staying here.”
“Now, Gator, you know I can’t tell you who’s staying at my place. Confidentiality and all that. Now, I can’t stop you if you happen to see names listed in the registration, if I’m not at my desk, can I?” Earl stood, placing an old-fashioned bound ledger on the top shelf of the registration desk, making sure it was opened and face up. Jack almost laughed at the oh-so-serious expression on the other man’s face. Told him more than words that he wanted Bubba Hebert away from his motel, and this was the best way to have it happen without the cops getting involved. Smart man.
“Absolutely right, Earl. Bet you’re about ready to take a smoke break, aren’t you?”
“That’s the plan, Gator. That’s the plan. Oh, but you should know, if—and I’m not confirming or denying anything—but if Bubba Hebert was staying here, I would think he’s getting ready to hit the road ASAP.” Earl walked to the glass front door and peered out. “And if Bubba Hebert was staying here, he might be driving a 2018 navy blue Chrysler 300. And it might be parked in front of room 108. If he was staying here, that is.”
Without waiting for any questions, Earl sauntered through the manager’s office and into the back, closing the door behind him. Gator waited about half a second before glancing at the page before tearing it from the registration book, folding it, and putting it in his pocket. Turning, he sauntered out the front door without pausing and headed toward the Chrysler 300, parked exactly where Earl said it would be. The trunk was open and two black plastic garbage bags sat side-by-side inside.
The door to room 108 opened and a tall, almost skeletally thin man came out, a khaki green duffle clutched in one hand. He stopped cold when he spotted Jack and Gator.
“Ah, hell,” he muttered before dropping the duffle on the ground and took off running. He’d barely made it more than a few steps before he landed face first on the asphalt, having tripped over Gator’s outstretched foot. Jack winced at the sound of the guy landing hard enough he actually bounced.
Bubba slowly rolled over onto his back and stared up at Gator as he put a foot on Bubba’s chest.
“Afternoon, Bubba. Going someplace?”
“No. No, sir. Was just planning to—”
“I think you were planning to come with me and have a little chat, isn’t that right?”
Bubba laid his head back against the asphalt and heaved a loud sigh. “Yes, sir, guess I am.”
“Right answer. Bubba, this is Jack. Bet he’s got a few questions for you too.”
It was hard for Jack to keep a straight face because Bubba looked like he was about to pee his pants. He was just glad Gator was on his side, because he’d hate to have the older man as an enemy.
“Sure do, Gator.” Jack held a hand out to Bubba, and helped him to his feet, and together with Gator, took him back to his room, stopping long enough to close the trunk on the Chrysler 300.
Now it was time to get some answers.