Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller (11 page)

“I’ve already written this guide”—she held up a piece of paper. “It explains everything, but sure, let me show you. Oh, wait, I almost forgot. This came for you by messenger.”

She handed him a sealed envelope. Fine stationery. Not office supply. Certainly not a government document. He opened the gummed lip and pulled out an invitation with a coat of arms embossed in gold, beneath which, in florid script, was one word:
DUMONT.
He and a guest were invited to dinner Saturday. Smoking. RSVP. He stared, puzzled.

“Something wrong?” Mildred asked.

“It’s a dinner invitation. It says ‘smoking.’ ” He showed her the card. “I don’t smoke.”

Mildred tittered. “It means that you are requested to wear a smoking jacket. I haven’t seen this term used in quite a while. A smoking jacket is what Hugh Hefner wears with his pajamas, but in Europe—on the continent, at least—what many call a ‘smoking’ is what we would call a tuxedo jacket. Like the white one Humphrey Bogart wore in
Casablanca.
I would say the dress requirement is a step up from a business suit. Who are these . . . Oh, the Dumonts. Now I understand. They were never ones to shy away from pretension, those Dumonts.”

“So you think I should rent a tuxedo for this dinner?”

“If you don’t own a white tuxedo jacket, I would suggest you purchase one. I think every gentleman should have both
a black tuxedo and a white tux jacket in his wardrobe. White is especially useful in this climate. You can wear it with black dress slacks if you don’t own a tuxedo.”

“Thank you for your advice.”

“I do have another suggestion. Do you plan to bring a date?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should encourage her to bedazzle them. The Dumonts are hard to impress, but when it happens, they don’t forget.”

“It sounds like you know them.”

“Ray Dumont’s uncle was mad about me when I was young. I led him on, then dropped him for the man I married.” She tossed her head and looked up for a moment, gazing somewhere in her distant past. Boucher recognized the aspect of one who once was the belle of the ball. The reminiscence faded. “This day is almost done,” she said. “May I respectfully suggest that you get busy?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ ‘Ma’am’ is for old maids.”

Mildred explained her filing system, which was logical and simple. She offered to work late, but Boucher was adamant in his refusal. He was looking forward to a little solitude and some hard work. The total silence heightened his concentration, and though the tasks were insulting to his intellect and ability, they had to be done. They would have been just as demeaning to the judge who assigned
them. He gave his best effort to chores that he too would have delegated to others. More than once he came across a seemingly insignificant detail that could have had larger repercussions in a case. Several times he caught minute errors that could have sent a contested matter in a wrong direction. And over the hours he once again came to appreciate the details of jurisprudence, the intricacies that seemed so tedious but, when ignored, could lead to errors, even abuse of the system. Once again he was honing that tool he’d valued as a younger man, but which had become dull due, he had to admit, to his own arrogance. That invaluable tool? A fine-tooth comb.

It was after three a.m. when the ink began swimming before his eyes and he had to call it quits. The federal marshal looked at him curiously as he left the building and walked alone to the parking lot. Boucher’s Ford F-150 was right there in the prime spot, under lights, safe and sound. Earlier that evening it had been under surveillance by a man who was unable to match Judge Boucher’s late-night stamina, a man who had already gone to his rest. His mission not accomplished this evening, he would bide his time.

•  •  •

Boucher had set his internal clock to wake him the next morning, and it did almost to the minute. Having worked as late as he had, he felt no compunction to race and instead fixed himself a breakfast of fried egg with runny yolk, one
piece of buttered toast, and freshly ground coffee made with his French press. The only thing missing was fresh juice. After sponging his plate clean of yolk with the toast, he slowly enjoyed a second cup of coffee while he watched news on the small TV he kept in the kitchen. Then it was the morning mechanics, push-ups, sit-ups, shower, shave, and dress, then out. Mildred was beaming when he got to his office. She didn’t need to say a thing; “that’s more like it” was written all over her face.

“I’ll need to return some of these files to the respective judges now that you’ve finished them,” she said, swooping an armful of manila folders into her arms. “I’ll be gone a while. Is there anything I can get you?”

“Do you think they have orange juice in the cafeteria vending machines?” Boucher asked.

“I’m sure it’s not fresh, but I’ll see what they have,” she said. “You don’t mind answering your phone while I’m gone?”

“Not at all.”

Boucher had no problem making his own calls either. He picked up the phone and dialed the number of the oil-spill claims administrator. He identified himself. The woman put him on hold, then came back online.

“I’m sorry sir, but Mr. Thompson is—”

“You tell Mr. Thompson that District Judge Jock Boucher will be in his office at ten o’clock Monday morning to review each and every disbursement he has made to
date and to review his procedures as well. If he is not there, he will be meeting me on my territory, the subject of a bench warrant. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. See you Monday. Have a nice weekend.” He hung up the phone rather forcefully. It felt good.

He neither made nor received another phone call for the rest of the working day, with the exception of a text message from Malika, confirming her flight arrival time that evening. With new application to the work he had disparaged, Boucher basked in the adulation of his assistant for the remainder of the day as he churned out document after document. The hours sped. It was five o’clock.

“Mildred,” he said, “I think we’ve earned our salaries today. Let’s close up shop.”

“I can stay,” she offered.

“But I cannot. My girlfriend is flying in this evening.”

“Oh” was all she said, and began clearing her desk.

His ears perked at what might have been the flat tone of disappointment; then he realized it was Friday syndrome. Lonely people whose jobs are the center of their lives don’t always look forward to weekends.

“I’ll have to come in early Monday,” he said, “and get a few more things finished. I have a ten o’clock meeting with the administrator of the oil-spill funds.”

“I can be here early if you need me.”

“It would be helpful, but I don’t want to impose.”

“It’s no imposition at all. I’ll be here at eight.”

He bade her a good weekend and left her to lock up. She was already gearing up for Monday’s early start.

He walked to the parking lot. The man who’d missed him last night now walked right past him, looking down, his hat covering his face. Their shoulders almost touched. At any spot along the city blocks between the federal complex and the public parking lot, he could have done it. A gun or a knife; either would have worked. Each had pros and cons. The gun’s benefits were obvious, but heads turned instinctively at the sound of a gunshot. They’d be turning and staring at him the moment the bullet was entering Boucher’s body. The knife was silent, but the physical aspect made many shun its use as a murder weapon. Boucher was fit, that was obvious. Against the judge’s fitness weighed the element of surprise. Fitness was not a factor when you didn’t see it coming. He watched Boucher drive away in his gray pickup. He knew where the judge was going, and at his own pace, he’d follow him there. There was no hurry. Trying to conceive, to construct, the perfect opportunity had given him a sense of purpose he’d never known. He’d almost hate to see it come to an end. But it would. And soon.

•  •  •

They had reached an understanding early in their relationship. Malika did not expect to be picked up at the airport.
She traveled light and had no problem with taxis. Their reunions took place not in public but behind the closed doors of Boucher’s home. All was ready when he heard the taxi pull up out front. He’d chilled the champagne; an assortment of fruits and cheeses were plated and prepared to serve. He had bought and arranged flowers, putting the roses aside for special use. From the vermilion blooms, he’d plucked petals and strewn them in a trail from the doorway, across the living room floor, and down the hallway to the bedroom. He turned down the duvet and scattered rose petals across his fine cotton sheets. On the nightstands were two scented candles. Their purchase had caused him no small amount of reflection as he had stood in the small specialty shop and asked himself: Was cinnamon sexy? It reminded him of breakfast as a child, saved for special mornings. Bread going stale was toasted rather than thrown away, spread with soft butter, and the spice mixed with sugar was sprinkled on each warm slice. Running to the table whenever it was served was a delightful memory. He lit the candles. Once again the scent of the spice inspired a hunger—but this time not one born of childhood reminiscences. He was dressed simply in chinos, blue oxford shirt, and loafers, no socks—one less article of clothing to remove if this reunion held true to form. He would know soon enough.

“Hi, stranger.” Malika stood in the doorway for a second and stepped inside. The taxi driver was right behind her and set her single piece of luggage inside the door, then closed it and departed.

Beyond radiant, the woman glowed. Her dark brown hair fell over her shoulders, on which was draped a red scoop-neck dress of layered silk, no jewelry. Her footwear: six-inch stiletto pumps, the bold color matching her dress. She reached behind her back, and the dress fell to her feet like a feather, revealing her in all her loveliness. Jock stood in stunned silence as he stared at her soft skin, the hue of cinnamon, the color that had subliminally dictated his candle choice. He raised his hand to his chin to make sure his mouth was not gaping, recalled that breathing was an essential life function, and gasped at her beauty.

“You’ll have to come to me,” Malika said. “I’m not taking another step in these things.”

He fumbled awkwardly at his shirt, then ripped it from his body, sending buttons flying in all directions. He was more adept with his trousers, which fell to the floor as he slipped off his loafers and walked to her. He picked her up in his arms and carried her along the red-petal trail to the bedroom, placing her gently on the bed against a mound of pillows.

“Candles and rose petals,” she said. “Very well done, Jo—” The last consonant was lost as his lips came crushing down on hers.

Hours later, passion spent, they sat before the fireplace in terry-cloth robes, sipping champagne, the traditional finale to their reunion and commencement of their “together again” stage.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Boucher said.

“I was beginning to wonder.”

“Well, wonder no more. To prove my love, I’ll sip champagne from your slipper.” He picked up one of the six-inch heels.

“Sip away. I won’t be wearing those again.”

He examined the shoe. “I can’t believe you wore these in the airport.”

“I didn’t,” she said. “I slipped into the dress in the ladies’ room after we landed, and I put the shoes on in the taxi. I wanted to get your mind away from wherever it’s been lately. You’ve sounded so disconnected.”

Boucher sighed. “Can we talk about it in the morning? You just got here.”

She ran her fingertips across his cheek. “We don’t have to talk about it at all. What I was saying is that I want to pull you away from that world, if I can. There’s a sadness in your eyes, Jock. I don’t know how it got there. Maybe I don’t want to know.”

He kissed her fingertips and changed the subject. “We’re invited to dinner tomorrow night at the home of the richest family in New Orleans, the Dumonts. The invitation calls for a smoking, which my assistant tells me really means a tuxedo jacket.”

“They call them that in Europe. Jock, I don’t have anything formal.”

“And I don’t own a tux. I know it’s an imposition, but
would you mind if we spent our first day together shopping?”

Malika smiled and reached for her champagne. “I guess every relationship requires sacrifice, doesn’t it? Besides, I need to buy you a new shirt.”

•  •  •

The man had been watching the house when the taxi pulled up and the woman got out. He sauntered away, unhurried, unfazed. Time was on his side.

S
HOPPING IS A GOOD
test of a relationship. Enduring the ordeal, even finding humor in it, is a good indication of how a couple will fare with sterner challenges. They survived their day at the malls. For the evening with the Dumonts, Malika chose a black silk strapless gown and black satin flats with a crystal ornament. The lady did protest but then accepted Jock’s gift of a diamond necklace with matching earrings. His jacket was a perfect fit. He remarked on the number of pockets in the lining.

“It’s a smoker,” Malika said. “You have a pocket for a cigarette case, one for your lighter, and one for your cards of introduction, usually carried in a case of gold or silver. There are often pockets for a
portefeuille,
that’s French for billfold, for glasses, and pen.”

“I do have a billfold. I guess I could carry my cell phone in one of the other pockets.”

“There you go.”

His new white tux jacket brought on a very bad Bogart impression when he put it on that evening. “Here’s looking at you, kid,” he said upon the arrival of the chauffeured limo the Dumonts had sent for them.

“I hate myself every time I use the word, but wow,” Malika said as the limousine pulled up to the entrance of the Dumont home. They rang the bell and were granted entry by a uniformed butler who could have walked off the stage of a British sitcom but for his pure New Orleans accent, distinctly Southern but with an insouciant elongation of vowels that reminded her a bit of the South Jersey shore.