Chapter Sixty-Three
New Orleans
THE MOON HUNG low over the Quarter, casting long shadows across Gloria’s backyard. Upstairs, above the garage, blackout curtains hung from a clothesline, enclosing the makeshift darkroom in a soft, red glow. The air smelled faintly of vinegar and chemical fixing agent.
Belle moved with quiet precision, her hands gloved, her voice steady.
“Gloria taught me this years ago,” she said, gently agitating the tray. “You know, before music and fine-line tattoo artistry, I had a photography phase. Didn’t last long. But I remember the steps.”
Walker stood just inside the curtain, arms folded, watching the image emerge in the developer tray, an image he had taken with Gloria’s old Nikon F2 from the boxcar overlooking Dorado Freight.
The black-and-white photo sharpened slowly, revealing three figures in the foreground: a male and female in FBI windbreakers and another man in a tight suit, hands on his hips, jacket open to reveal the badge on his belt.
Behind all three, out of focus, lay the twisted wreckage of a truck and minivan. Bodies littered the ground.
“That’s Bates all right,” Belle said, lifting the print with tongs and sliding it into the stop bath. “The other photo is him getting out of an unmarked.”
Walker memorized the license plate.
“He’s the one I showed you from the Garden District press conference,” she said.
Walker leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “I remember. And the FBI people?”
Belle peeled off her gloves, dried her hands, and picked up her phone. She snapped a photo of the print and opened Google Images. A few keystrokes later, the screen lit up.
“Reverse image search,” she explained. “Let’s see what we get.”
Walker stepped beside her, watching over her shoulder.
She was dressed in a black ribbed flared skirt and matching tight ribbed colored shirt buttoned to the neck.
Belle had made Walker take a shower after his arrival while she prepared the makeshift darkroom, after which he had changed into more of Alexandre’s old clothes, jeans and a musty work shirt.
The results populated quickly. Photos from a gala at the Four Seasons, a fundraiser for a youth development charity called New Leaf, filled Belle’s screen.
“There,” Walker said, pointing. “That’s Jarrett Stanton.”
Belle paged through the gallery. “Stanton. Walt Kimbel. Derek Matheson. Bates. And there’s the DA, Irene Isaacson. She gave the keynote. Everybody was there.”
Walker turned toward the desk, where Connor’s Moleskine journal lay open beside Gloria’s Royal De Luxe typewriter.
Notes and clippings were scattered across the notebook, marked up in red and blue ink.
Walker had added additional pages to his own research, typing out fragments of intel and cross-referencing names, dates, and locations.
“Go back to that gala site,” he said.
She paged through the gallery. “Here you go; the rogues’ gallery.” She turned the screen toward Walker. “Isaacson and Matheson are ten feet apart. Looks like she’s staring daggers at him.”
Walker’s jaw tightened. “What do we know about Matheson’s relationship with her?”
“Let me do this on my laptop,” Belle said, moving to sit cross-legged on the bed. Her fingers flew across the keys. “According to this New Orleans gossip blog, she and Matheson had an affair. Both divorced over it. The flame went out after that.”
She clicked again, her brow furrowing. She typed additional key words into the search bar.
“There’s something else. This LSU political science site lists major political contributions.
Genyra Pharmaceuticals donated five million dollars to Isaacson’s Super PAC called T-JAW.
Truth, Justice, and the American Way. Legal, it says, because it was a Super PAC, not an official campaign. ”
She flipped another page. “Connor thought he was working his way up to one company, Genyra. Of course, we know now that it was three firms in partnership: Nectar, Dorado, and then Genyra.”
“I think it’s time for me to pay Matheson a visit,” he said quietly. “If the DA’s involved, he’ll give her up.”
Belle’s finger tabbed to another site. “Well, you can’t do it today. He’s in Dallas, giving a speech at a biotech conference.”
Walker raised an eyebrow. “Amazing what you can learn with that thing.”
“The internet?” she smirked. “Yeah, Chris. It’s kind of useful.”
He scooted closer, studying the screen. “Can it tell us where Isaacson is?”
Belle typed again, scanning. “Not right now, no. But I can tell you she’ll be in Baton Rouge tomorrow night, giving a speech at the Shaw Center for the Arts. Five-thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner.”
Walker nodded slowly as they scrolled through the center’s website.
“How far is that place?” he asked.
“About eighty miles from here.”
“I wonder if Bates will be there. Maybe Stanton? They were all in the New Leaf fundraiser photos.”
“I don’t know. It’s possible. What are you thinking?”
“I need to get out of the city. Every moment I’m with you I’m putting you in danger.”
“We are just steps away from being able to implicate everyone involved in this thing. We are so close to finishing what Connor started.”
“I need to think through next steps, but I need to do it away from you and Gloria.”
“Let me help you. We are almost there.”
“I know, but I’ve put you at too much risk already. I’ll finish writing up Connor’s exposé and then you can help by arranging a meeting for me with that newspaper reporter, what was his name? Greer?”
“That’s right.”
“We might have enough to hand this off to him, get it out in the open.”
“And then what?”
“What do you mean?”
“They are not going to let you go.”
“Let me worry about that. How far is your family cabin from Baton Rouge?”
“Not far, about an hour drive from here, in the middle of the Jean Lafitte Nature Preserve. I’ll write out directions. I haven’t been out there in years, but I remember cell service sucks.”
“What’s that name mean? Who is Jean Lafitte?” Walker asked.
“He was a famous pirate.”
“Perfect.”