Ciji Ware (38 page)

“More to the point,” King said tersely, “we didn’t have time to get a copy of that smoking gun memo. But it sure goes a long way to prove that Grover’s definitely up to his usual tricks, trying to use his money to influence folks.”

“But we still don’t have the hard evidence,” Corlis reminded him. “And we nearly got
caught
red-handed,” she added under her breath, wondering how Andy Zamora would feel if his star reporter got hauled away to jail for breaking and entering, handcuffed to Grover Jeffries’s archenemy.

Dangerous. This was getting very dangerous on about ten levels
,
she thought worriedly.

Virgil appeared to be reading her mind.

“Let’s do the interview with the Jeffrieses and then get outta here,” he said gruffly. He turned to King and said, “Do us a favor buddy… and get lost.”

King disappeared into the crowd of masked revelers. The remaining musketeers soon found themselves back inside Grover’s inner sanctum, a suitably quiet spot in which to ask Mr. and Mrs. Jeffries about their worthy goals for the symphony organization that Bonita Jeffries chaired.

During the interview Lafayette Marchand, who was dashingly attired as a red devil, stood to one side and looked on approvingly as his clients settled into two handsomely upholstered chairs opposite Grover’s mammoth desk and began to speak enthusiastically about their generous support of the arts in the New Orleans community.

At the conclusion of the interview, Virgil asked, “Okay if I photograph some of the pictures on the wall and stuff like that? I’ll use ’em later for cutaways with the story, okay, Mr. Marchand?” His eye was glued to his camera’s lens piece.

“Fine… fine,” the public relations consultant agreed.

The incriminating memo with Jeffries’s handwritten directives to virtually pay off key public officials was no longer in sight on the desk, and now that the interview was at an end, she couldn’t get a good view of Grover Jeffries’s in- and out-boxes without drawing attention to herself. However, she was relieved when the cameraman took close-ups of various items on Grover’s chrome-accented, slate desktop. That way she at least had footage over which she—as the TV correspondent—could narrate, at some point in the future, an account of having
seen
the damning document with her own eyes in Jeffries’s office—even if she didn’t have physical possession of a copy.

“We do so appreciate your covering this event,” gushed Bonita as the crew packed up their gear. The hostess eyed Corlis closely. “Doesn’t that mustache
itch
,
dear?” Then she added quickly, “Of course, we really appreciate y’all in the media coming in costume, too!”

“Actually, it does itch. Quite a bit. Is it all right with you, Mrs. Jeffries,” Corlis asked politely, “if the crew tapes some party atmosphere out there on the dance floor?”

“Why, I’d be mighty pleased if you
would
!”
Bonita responded with enthusiasm.

“More fun than doing a story about those bleeding heart malcontents at the university, eh, Corlis?” Grover said pointedly.

“While we’re on that subject, Mr. Jeffries,” Corlis replied, “I’d like to get your views on the growing controversy about your future plans for the Canal Street project that we hear is on your drawing boards.” She looked over at Marchand expectantly. “There are a lot of intriguing rumors about a twenty-eight-story hotel you want to build there. How do you plan to corral the necessary votes to get the Planning Commission to downzone a declared historic district so you can demolish the existing structures?”

Jeffries’s expression revealed surprise that the reporter was privy to these developments, but he quickly switched to a look of disgust. “Have you
seen
those buildings?” he demanded. “They’re about the ugliest things in all of New Orleans! I’d be doing this town a favor to get rid of ’em!”

“I’ve seen
behind
the metal screen, Mr. Jeffries,” she said quietly. “There are eleven perfectly preserved Greek Revival facades that apparently go back to the first half of the nineteenth century.”

Grover’s gaze hardened, but before the veteran developer could reply, Jeffries’s public relations mouthpiece smoothly intervened.

“I’d be most happy to supply you with plenty of solid background material on the major economic benefits that the city will derive from our plans for that entire area,” Marchand assured her. Then he added, “I’m sure that when the time is right, we can arrange an on-camera interview about that, don’t you think, Grover?”

Jeffries eyed Corlis skeptically.

“Give her the new press kit,” he said grudgingly. “If she’ll promise to
read
it, maybe we can talk sometime later.”

“It’s my
job
to ask questions, Mr. Jeffries,” Corlis said with a level gaze.

“Yeah, right,” Grover grunted.

Corlis quickly exited Grover’s office. Once outside, she scanned the crowded dance floor for a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired man wearing a sword and sporting a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with feathers.

“Need a little something to settle your nerves?” a voice said behind her. “There’s a bourbon and branch water-laced punch that will knock your socks off.”

She whirled around in time to catch King, his face concealed once again by his black mask. He bowed from the waist and made a sweeping flourish with his feathered hat. Laughing, she offered a mock bow in return. Just then Jack Ebert threaded his way through the undulating throng of dancers.

“King, dance with me!” she demanded. “Quickly! Jack’s coming this way. I don’t want to have to deal with that creep twice in one night.”

Instantly King took her in his arms. The pair was oblivious to the odd picture they made dressed as two musketeers in tunics, capes, and thigh-high boots, swaying to the rhythms of a homogenized rendition of Dr. John’s howling “Goin’ Back to New Orleans.”

“To do this to Dr. John is sacrilege,” King noted, inclining his head in the direction of the stodgy band and some dancers of advanced years making fools of themselves in public. Meanwhile, Corlis was conscious both of Jack’s hovering presence and King’s warm embrace as he whirled her around the dance floor.

“Why won’t Jack Ebert just get lost?” she complained. King followed her gaze. The menacing Phantom of the Opera was leaning against one wall and staring directly at them. “I swear that man should get the Lounge Lizard award. All he ever does is lurk about.” She glanced defiantly over King’s shoulder and locked stares with her fellow journalist, who eventually had the grace to look in another direction.

“What do you think Jack was doing in Grover Jeffries’s study?” King wondered aloud as he skillfully avoided a collision with another couple dressed as Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog.

“Mr. Poison Pen? I don’t know.” Then she had a curious thought. “Maybe he’s after the same information we are?”

“Possibly,” King replied as he maneuvered between a gyrating twosome attired in identical chartreuse-and-pink clown costumes. “Didn’t you tell me he was writing about architecture now for
Arts This Week
?”

“That’s right,” Corlis confirmed, startled. Then she shrugged. “I suppose he could be doing some decent investigative reporting for a change, instead of just his usual slicing and dicing.”

“I seriously doubt it,” King scoffed. “Jack invariably looks for the easy way in all things. He probably saw us go in there… and wherever
you
are, sugar, there’s usually a good story close by.” He glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “He’s gone now. Shall we find Virgil and Manny and hit the road?”

Within minutes, the foursome made their exit down the front steps of the mansion just as a silver-haired, well-built figure dressed entirely in red accosted them at the circular drive. Lafayette Marchand was waiting for the valet parking attendants to deliver his car.

“Hello, again,” Marchand called out. Corlis sensed that Grover Jeffries’s media adviser had been closely observing one of her three companions. “Is that you, King? I wasn’t dead sure, because of that wig… not to mention the mask. Good to see you,” he said, walking toward them. “May I say that you all look quite spectacular as seventeenth-century French noblemen.”

“You seem to know your history,” King replied coolly.

“With a name like Lafayette, I was rather forced into it,” Marchand responded pleasantly. The older man paused then added, “I didn’t see you here before, King, but I take it from the looks of your coordinated costumes that y’all came here together.” Corlis glanced quickly at the other musketeers, but nobody said anything. “Well,” Marchand continued, “I’m actually glad for this unexpected opportunity to speak with you, son. I hope you’ll take this as it’s intended.”

“As
what’s
intended?” King asked sharply.

Surprisingly, Corlis thought, Lafayette Marchand’s attitude held no hint of threat or condescension. In fact, the older man’s blue eyes had an almost benevolent aspect to them as he addressed King.

“I have some concerns about your position as an associate professor at the university should you involve yourself in any further public campaigns against Jeffries Industries.”

“Now, why would you have those kinds of concerns, Laf, unless you were part of the pressure that’s being exerted on the dean to deny me tenure and get me thrown out?”

Corlis placed a restraining hand just above one of King’s lacy cuffs. Had his job at the university actually been threatened? She felt a flash of anger at the notion and forced herself to inhale slowly.

King Duvallon can fight his own battles, dearie.

Oddly, Lafayette Marchand shifted his attention just then to Corlis and her television crew, as if he wished to gain their support. Then he glanced back at King. “You have a perfect right to your opinions, of course, King,” he said, “and you have a perfect right to act on your conscience—especially when I’m sure that your intent is to protect historic buildings. I merely speak on a personal basis.” His face grew grave, and he laid his hand lightly on King’s shoulder. “Remember, now, I know how hard you’ve worked for that PhD, son.” King’s icy stare slid from Marchand’s face to the man’s hand that had remained resting on his shoulder. However, Marchand didn’t seem to notice and continued speaking. “There’s no need to sabotage your future at the university. Grover Jeffries
hears
you,” he emphasized. “And once you’ve gotten tenure, he cannot hurt you as seriously.”

“You mean
you
can’t hurt me as seriously, don’t you, Laf?” King asked evenly. “Because everybody knows you’re Jeffries’s mouthpiece. The hired flak that’s supposed to make a highway robber look like a civic hero at every opportunity.” He regarded his godfather with more curiosity than malice. “On a
personal
basis, Lafayette,” he drawled sarcastically, “I actually don’t know how you can stomach it, working for a guy like him. But then, we all make choices in life, don’t we?” He turned toward Corlis and the two crewmen. “Are we outta here, or what?”

And without further conversation, the four musketeers turned their backs on Lafayette Marchand and strolled down the drive toward St. Charles Avenue. As King walked beside her, Corlis sensed he was struggling with feelings both of anger and melancholy, but he remained silent. It must be hard, she thought, for him to accept what Marchand did for a living these days.

Once inside the news van, however, King’s customary good humor returned. He asked her if she’d seen anything else interesting when she went back into Grover’s office to shoot the interview.

“Actually, yes,” she said with a thoughtful expression. “It was really weird, though.”

“What was?”

“Grover took a few moments to clean off his desk just prior to my interviewing him.”

“So?”

“Virgil was busy shooting ‘B’ roll while Grover fiddled with a pen and fussed around with papers on his desk, and so on… you know, close-ups we can use to cut away to when we edit the interview. Well, anyway,” Corlis continued, “Grover initialed a one-page something-or-other and slipped it into his out-box. It was a single sheet with columns and words typed on it.”

“So? You said he was cleaning off his desk, right?” King said, shrugging.

She heaved a sigh of resignation. “Anyway, whatever that one-pager was, it had a headline at the top that I could just barely read upside down. It said: ‘Writing Assignments.’”

“Maybe after we all left the office the first time tonight, Lafayette Marchand presented Grover with his monthly bill?” King suggested. “He was right there in Grover’s office when you did the interview, correct?”

“Oh…” Corlis replied, crestfallen. “That’s probably it. I’ll bet that Marchand doubles as a ghostwriter for the guy, as well as handling his regular PR. Grover’s always giving keynote speeches at the Petroleum Club and places like that.”

In the middle of this exchange, Virgil suddenly floored the accelerator in order to speed through a yellow light. Corlis grabbed hold of King’s arm.