Chapter 10
Emile Cardot popped immediately on a Tracer search, unlike Emile Chambers.
The paper trail was hazy. Duane went by Duane Constanza, Duane Chambers, and Remi said Constanza wasn’t his real name either, so there might be another.
Much of it was done improperly, so pinpointing when they took on different names was hard.
By searching for Cardots, I unearthed Emile’s mother and brother.
They were either still living or their deaths hadn’t been reported, which ran in the family.
Her mother Madeleine lived in southern Ohio.
Her brother Theo had moved a lot, but apparently settled in northern Virginia after marrying a gal named Piper Evans.
As I snooped, Elijah Betts walked in without knocking, Edgar’s son.
He was an adult who couldn’t grow up, and I hadn’t seen him since I helped him out of a jam last year.
He wore sneakers and a sweatsuit, which was better than his old outfit of flip-flops and shorts.
Big guy, like he worked out and ate too much.
He had green eyes that were wide-set. Yesterday his father told me he worked part-time for his mother as a private detective, and now here he was.
It wasn’t that I disliked him, but that I liked him more when he wasn’t around. His ennui tested my patience.
“What’s up, my guy,” he said. He carried a laptop, open.
“Elijah. I hate that moniker,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Improve your elocution.”
“Dead ass, man, I forgot how weird you talk.” He wore his hair in short rope-like braids that we used to call dreadlocks when we were insensitive but now called dreads or locs. “Low key, you use the dumbest words.”
“Good to see you too. Your slouch has improved.”
“My girl Jasmine don’t like it when I slouch. My mom says it’s cute though,” he said.
“Your mom’s wrong.”
“What happened to your head?”
“Work stuff,” I said.
“Is your dog here?” He glanced around like he might be eaten to death.
“She is not.”
“What kinda work stuff?” he said.
“I was being obdurate. So were some prisoners.”
“Huh?”
“Elijah,” I said brightly. “What brings you?”
“I made you a landing page,” he said.
“No thanks.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“A place to set my ink blotter,” I said.
“A what? My guy. I mean, my man. It’s a website where people can find out about you.”
“I have one of those. I wish I didn’t.”
“The one you got is ass, it’s just about work stuff. You’re more than that, you need more than the work one. AI pulls from different sources. I made you a page with all the news articles about you, plus a section where you can write down the weird shit you say.”
“Thanks, Elijah. I appreciate it. I always wanted one of those,” I said.
“You capping?”
“Go home.”
“Look. I called the page Mackenzie’s Minutes. That’s fire, right?”
“Alliteration.”
“You were in that podcast series everybody liked, about the murder, Rumors Around Roanoke, so I put a link to it. There’s quotes from you and stuff. Remember you told me, a guy can do anything when he’s gotta?” said Elijah.
“I would die before I said that.”
“Yeah you did.”
“I said a man can do anything, anything, but not until he has to,” I said.
He frowned at his screen. “Oh. I’ll fix it.”
“Or delete the whole thing,” I offered helpfully.
“You said you liked A Few Good Men, yeah? The movie?”
“Sure.”
“Yeah that. We argued about truth. You remember? You can’t handle the truth?”
“I remember, Elijah,” I said.
“So I put that down here.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
“What’s your favorite music?”
“Depends on the circumstance.”
“Who’s your favorite social media influencer?” he said.
“Shut up.”
“Mackenzie. Man, I’m bringing you into the digital age. You need this.”
“Are you attempting to boost my career as a way of paying me back, because when I bailed you out of your mess there was a lot of violence and you feel grateful?”
He shrugged. I forgot, he was great at shrugging. “Maybe. I don’t know. So what?”
“Here’s what I’d like, if you’re feeling grateful. Forget this project. Marry that girl. Work two jobs for the next two years, work until you’re tired and your hands hurt. Then, two years from now, come back and buy me a beer, and we’ll discuss your next steps.”
He closed the computer. “You’ll like it more when I’m finished. ChatGPT, Claude, whatever, they can all pull from it. That’s all that matters.”
“Maybe to a dying world.”
He stood and nodded at my bruised face. “You need help? Some guys jump you? I’ll watch your back. Want to know my rate?”
“A lady I respect told me, never disclose your hourly rate.”
“Why not?” he said.
“Ask her, not me. I suspect it has to do with, if you’re worth it then you don’t need to mention it. Or maybe she was being coy.”
“Does coy mean like, intelligent?”
“In this case, kinda.”
“This lady, she cute?” he said.
“The cutest.”