Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 03 - Trick Question (4 page)

“I’m sorry, I got held by traffic.”

“Hi, Daddy,” she said cheerfully. “Don’t worry, I’ve been having a good time.” A stuffed artichoke, full of seasoned bread crumbs and tiny shrimp, sat half demolished on the table in front of her. Debbie had always had a good appetite. Tubby had been watching her put away astounding platters of food for twenty years. She had gotten her big shoulders from him, but she managed to stay slim, like her mother.

Tubby sat down and ordered a beer. He liked the ceiling fans, the bull horns over the bar, the Charles Bronson movie playing on the television, the bottles of Crystal hot sauce on the tables – just about everything in this place.

“It never changes,” he said happily.

“Remember when we used to all come here on Saturday nights?” Debbie recalled, bringing up a good memory of when the family had all been together – before he and Mattie split up.

“Yeah. You never would order anything but lasagna. We could never get you to even try anything else.”

“I’m going to have it tonight, too.” She laughed. She still wore her brown hair long, and it bounced around when she talked. Tubby’s heart filled up.

He grinned.

“What are you looking at?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “So tell me some current events. Did you ever find your mother?”

A few weeks ago Debbie had invited him, her sisters, and Mattie to a “family” dinner to christen Debbie’s new apartment. She had hinted that Mattie had some big news to relate, and Tubby had dutifully attended. Mattie, however, had stood them up. They finally decided to eat anyway, but they were worried until she called in about dessert time. Her excuse had been a bad headache. Everybody shrugged – that’s Mom. Tubby had been relieved, because he didn’t socialize much with Mattie, but he was also oddly disappointed. He had wanted to know what her news was.

Debbie didn’t answer because the waiter came.

“Stuffed merlitons,” Tubby said. “You know they grow these on the roof over their carport?” He always tried to sample the city’s backyard squash when it was in season.

Debbie ordered lasagna.

They went back to work on the artichoke.

“She’s not lost. You ought to talk to her,” she said, poking a stray crumb into her mouth with a sensibly manicured nail.

“What for?” Tubby asked.

“Just to stay in touch,” Debbie said enigmatically.

“Sweet pea,” Tubby explained, “your mother and I stay in touch just as much as we want to. She’s doing okay with her life, and I’m doing the best I can with mine. You can’t expect more than that.”

“Okay. Just a suggestion,” Debbie said, and went back to eating.

“I am curious, of course,” Tubby said matter-of-factly, “about the latest gossip. Is she dating someone?”

“I thought you didn’t want to stay in touch with her.”

“I’d just rather do it through you,” he said.

“Hah!”

“So tell me,” he said.

“Okay. It’s no big secret since they’re starting to go out in public. She has been dating. I thought you would have heard about it by now anyway.”

No. Mattie’s comings and goings were not exactly headline material.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” he asked.

“You know him.”

Uh-oh.

“Who is it?” He braced himself.

“Dr. Margolis.”

“Byron Margolis? Jynx Margolis’s ex-husband?” Tubby yelled. He was temporarily in shock. “That man’s a complete turkey.”

“Oh, Daddy.” Debbie dismissed him.

“No, really. He treated Jynx like dirt, and he hates me like poison.”

“That’s because you were his wife’s divorce lawyer.”

“Right, and I had to chase him all over creation to get him to reveal his income and pay up.”

“Well, maybe that’s why you have a bad opinion of him. He’s been very polite to me.”

“You’ve seen him?” Tubby demanded. Was his own daughter a traitor?

“Why yes,” she said, surprised. “I didn’t think you would mind.”

“But…” Tubby sputtered. And why should he mind?

“You don’t want her to date?” Debbie asked.

“Of course I do,” Tubby declared, but he didn’t. This would all require more time to digest.

“So? What?” Debbie asked.

“Nothing, I guess,” Tubby said more calmly. “I just wonder if he’s trying to use your mother to get back at me.”

“Because you helped his wife get a divorce? Daddy, maybe you’re not quite that important.”

Could it be?

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “Look, let’s eat.”

His merlitons had arrived, pale green receptacles for crabmeat and boiled shrimp. “I could give up red meat,” he commented to no one in particular.

“So, to change the subject, how are you?” he asked, savoring a first mouthful.

“So, since you asked, maybe not so good.” She picked at her lasagna.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m possibly pregnant.”

His fork clattered off the plate and hit the floor.

She was watching him, the humor gone from her eyes.

“Are you going to tell me more?” he asked finally.

“Yes. I’m probably two months pregnant. The father is probably Marcos.”

“Probably?” His voice was rising.

“I didn’t mean it that way.” She blushed. “Marcos is the father. I just don’t know if I’m going to have the baby.”

“What does Marcos have to say?” Tubby asked, trying to sound calm.

“He says he wants to get married.”

“And you?”

“I told him I’d think about it. I’m not sure I know him well enough yet.”

“Good God,” Tubby said. “You must know him pretty well.”

Debbie laughed a little.

Tubby thought about what a young girl she was and what an old man he was, and shook his head.

“I’m not sure he’s mature enough to get married,” Debbie added.

“You’ve got some tough decisions to make,” was all he could manage to say.

“You used to tell me that’s what life’s all about,” she replied sagely.

His eyes fogged up.

“Is everything all right?” Sal inquired heartily, leaning over the table, his arms and tomato-stained apron like a tent around them, and a big friendly smile on his round face.

As he walked back across the park, all Tubby could think about was children having babies. Was it realistic to think that Debbie could care for a child? She had a good head, some of the time, and a good heart, but where was the money going to come from? Watching all the ladies pushing their colorful strollers around the lagoon, the dads showing their little boys how to toss bread at the ducks, reminded him of all the work involved in raising a baby. He bet he’d end up having to take care of that kid himself.

Flowers looked sleepy.

“I got here as fast as I could,” he said. “The message from Cherrylynn was that this was an emergency.”

It was after hours, and Tubby was standing over his desk with his sleeves rolled up and his shirt collar open. He had the pieces of the Cletus Busters file spread out, hoping to conjure up some brilliant idea from the scattered notes O’Rourke had managed to collect. When Flowers walked in he was trying to make sense of what Mickey had jotted down about Cletus finding the body.

He shook Flowers’s oversized hand. People thought of Tubby as big, but Flowers was bigger. And younger, taller, darker, handsomer, and in better shape. Flowers, whose real name was Sanre Fueres, worked out regularly, as befitted his image as a macho, ex-FBI, big-city private investigator. Why is a barely-thirty-year-old man “ex-FBI”? Tubby had never asked.

“Thanks for coming.”

“You call, I’m here. Have you got a new case for me?”

“Yes, and a very interesting one.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’ve been staking out a young woman’s apartment in Slidell for two days trying to get photographs of her boyfriend. I think he’s in there, but he’s not coming up for air. You think they’re having a party?”

“He probably came out as soon as you left.”

“I hope so, ’cause my man Charlie is waiting down the street with the big Nikon three-hundred-millimeter lens.”

“You lead an exciting life, Flowers.”

“Too exciting. Last week I was watching this house trailer on Chef Menteur Highway, and this guy came flying out with a damn shotgun. I got careless and he spotted me. He comes charging across the lawn in his underwear like he’s hitting the beach on D-Day.”

“What did you do?”

“I peeled rubber. Hit the road, Jack. Gone pecan. I had my old Cherokee around the corner and out of sight in about one and a half seconds, and I haven’t been back. I got a good picture of him though, crashing out the door and pumping shells in his gun.”

“The neighbors must have gotten quite an eyeful.”

“They were running for cover, sure enough.” Flowers laughed.

“Well, now I need you for some real investigative work. I’ve got a murder trial coming up in a week, unless I can get it postponed, and I’ve got to prepare my case virtually from scratch.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Pull up a chair and start taking notes.”

Flowers took a leather-covered notebook from the pocket of his Saints windbreaker and sat. The old chair creaked.

Tubby stood looking out the window at the ring of city lights that marked the shoreline of Lake Pontchartrain at night, and he started talking.

“The victim is a doctor at New Orleans Medical Center. His name is Whitney Valentine. He’s what they call a research pathologist. He finds special diseases nobody ever heard of and figures out what makes them kill people, that sort of thing. He lived here in New Orleans for five years, and he graduated from Tulane. Originally he’s from Seattle. He’s got a wife in the suburbs.

“My client is a nobody – a janitor at the medical center. He’s been there three years. Evidently he has a prior from selling crack or something. They didn’t know about that when he was hired. Every night he cleans up the labs, including the one where Dr. Valentine worked. Four months ago, on September twenty-second, it’s a Sunday night, he goes into the lab like usual and opens the freezer cabinet they got built into the wall. I haven’t seen it so I can’t be too clear on the specifics. Out comes Dr. Valentine.”

Tubby told Flowers how the doctor’s head had come loose.

“That’s a new twist,” the detective said in admiration.

“Ain’t it though,” Tubby agreed. “A real turn of events. Busters says it wasn’t him that twisted it though. He didn’t touch it, even. Apparently to freeze a body hard enough for that to happen takes a couple of days. The coroner says Dr. Valentine had to be put in the closet no later than the previous Friday night.”

“Was he already dead when he was put inside?”

“Not sure. Dead or unconscious. He may have been stuck with something like an ice pick before he was frozen.”

“How did the police decide it was Busters?”

“He was the most available target, is what I think. But he was working Friday and had the opportunity. He seemed to be fleeing the scene when a security guard discovered him, in the lab, with the corpse. He has a drug prior. His fingerprints are on just about every drawer and cabinet in the place where drugs might be kept. The cops searched his house on Piety Street and found some bottles of pills from the medical center, and some other paraphernalia. And he had no business going into that freezer.”

“But no confession?” Flowers was writing fast.

“No. He denied everything. I’ve got to go see him at Parish Prison tomorrow. I haven’t met him or heard his side of the story yet.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“First thing is get some background on Dr. Valentine. You know what to look for. Talk to his wife. The police report identifies one colleague by name, Randolph Swincter, M.D. He works in the same lab. See him. Find out what you can and report back.”

“How about your client? Should I check on him?”

“Not yet. I’ll see what he has to say first.”

“You say your trial is in a week?” Flowers said, meaning, “Did you screw something up, Tubby?”

Tubby didn’t explain.

“Right,” he said. “I’m going to throw myself on the mercy of the court and beg for more time. But you need to assume the worst. Jump in with both feet.”

“Geronimo!” Flowers said, and vanished out the door.

Fast-moving for a big dude, Tubby thought to himself. Man, it sure was fun having a detective on the case. Now how the hell was he going to pay for him?

Now for phase two. He dialed the number for the Times-Picayune.

“Kathy Jeansonne, please.”

“Hello, Kathy,” he said when he got the reporter on the line. “You remember the case about the doctor over at the New Orleans Medical School who got frozen to death?”

“Yeah, and beheaded,” she said eagerly.

“Well, I just wanted to let you know I’m involved….”

A good day, he reflected as he drove uptown. The Dubonnet name might soon be back on the front page. And Cherrylynn had accused him of letting his law practice slide. Feeling lucky, he decided to call up Jynx Margolis when he got home to see what she might be up to this time of night.

But she was so outraged when he told her that her ex-husband was dating Tubby’s ex-wife that he wished he had gone straight to bed.

“That absolute bastard,” she said, her voice full of venom. “It’s just his way of getting back at me.”

“That’s what I thought at first, Jynx,” he replied, trying to soothe her, “but probably we have nothing to do with it. Probably they just met and they like each other.”

“Sure, and rats sing. You don’t think Mattie may be trying to hurt you just a wee little bit? Or make you a tad jealous?”

To be truthful, that angle hadn’t occurred to him.

“I don’t honestly know,” he said. “She would have to be awfully devious for that, not to mention still interested in me.” Neither of which, come to think of it, did he find that hard to believe.

“You should tell her to watch out for herself,” Jynx warned. “Byron sometimes gets violent.”

“Yeah. You told me that. You painted him as a pretty coldhearted son of a bitch.”

“He was sweet when we got married,” Jynx admitted, “but he turned bad as I got older. He doesn’t like wrinkles.”

“Mattie has a few.”

“That’s one more reason to think he’s just doing this to hurt you or me. His tastes run to early bloomers.”