Too Far Gone

6

When Manseur’s cell phone rang, Jackson Evans frowned. After a few seconds spent listening, Manseur held the phone aside and said, “Sorry, I have to deal with this. Detective Kennedy, if you could take Agent Keen inside to get the ball rolling with Mrs. West, I’m right behind you.”

Jackson Evans nodded his approval. “Dr. LePointe, please call me if you need anything. And I mean anything at all. Detective Manseur will be keeping me up to speed on the investigation. Feel free to call me anytime you feel the need.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Superintendent Evans.”

Evans reached into his pocket and took out a card case made of brass. Opening it, he reached behind the front cards to remove one that was clearly different from the ones in front. It was printed on an expensive parchment and looked to be engraved, not offset-printed. He handed it to LePointe. “My private numbers.”

Dr. LePointe pocketed the card and, without saying anything further to the superintendent of police, led Alexa and Detective Kennedy through the house’s wide hallway back to an open kitchen where two women, one with dark hair and the other a blonde, sat at a table. The blonde held a fair-skinned towheaded child whose eyes were exact replicas of her mother’s-except the mother’s showed evidence of tears.

Casey West possessed the sort of classical beauty that inspired artists, allowed peasants to end in royal beds, and started wars. Her features, framed by curtains of perfectly straight white-blond hair that was gathered into a wide ponytail, were perfectly balanced. Her almond-shaped green eyes were tinted pink from crying.

“This is Casey, my niece,” LePointe told them. “Casey, this is Detective Kennedy of Missing Persons, and FBI Special Agent Alexa Keen, who has kindly consented to give the local authorities her expert assistance.”

Casey West managed a worried half smile. “FBI? So you think Gary was kidnapped?” She locked eyes with Alexa. “Is he all right? You know something, don’t you?”

“No, Casey,” LePointe said firmly. “Agent Keen is merely a friend of Detective Manseur’s. The man Jackson Evans told us was handling this.”

“What sort of FBI agent are you?”

“The regular sort, I’m afraid,” Alexa answered.

“She’s here for a law enforcement seminar,” Kennedy said. “She gave a lecture on techniques for identifying and resolving abductions.”

Alexa saw LePointe roll his eyes toward the ceiling.

“Abductions?” Casey asked, fear in her eyes.

“Nobody has suggested that your husband was abducted. I’m just here to observe and advise if it becomes necessary. You are in very capable hands,” Alexa said. “It’s purely by coincidence that I’m here.”

The other woman, whom Dr. LePointe had failed to introduce, had pasty skin that stood in stark contrast to her sculpted black pageboy and pencil-thin eyebrows. The turtleneck sweater, her shimmering lipstick, and the smears of rouge on each of her round cheeks were identical shades of red. The brown irises of her eyes were almost as dark as her hair and her fingernails. A row of pearl-shaped gold studs curved up the edge of her left ear from its heavy lobe to the crest. She watched them with the wide-eyed intensity of a child having her first trip to the circus.

“I not yew-ah fren,” the blond child said.

“You’re not my friend?” Kennedy replied, feigning disappointment.

The child shook her head violently.

“She doesn’t mean she isn’t your friend,” the dark-haired woman said, smiling. “Deana picked the expression up from an older child at school.”

“Well, that’s good,” Detective Kennedy said. “I hate to make enemies of pretty young girls.”

Deana stuck out her tongue. She was at that age where it was hard to tell whether or not she understood the impact of her words, or was repeating some phrase or action that earned a reaction from adults.

Detective Kennedy, who was all elbows and knees, took a seat across from Casey and immediately worried with the precise position of his eyeglasses.

“I not yew-ah fren,” Deana said again, poking out her lower lip.

Casey hugged the child to her. “Okay, Deana. That’s enough of that.”

Dr. LePointe looked at the woman beside his niece, waved his hand, and said, “Grace, please take Deana to her room.”

The woman turned to look at LePointe, her eyes filled with disappointment.

“Grace,” Casey said, “would you please get Deana ready for bed?”

“I’d be delighted, Casey,” the still unintroduced Grace said. She stood, opened her arms, and the little girl transferred herself easily into the other woman’s arms, clinging to her. Alexa saw for the first time that the child was naked. Alexa wondered if Grace was the child’s nanny.

As they left the room, LePointe said, frowning, “Put a diaper on the child.”

Casey smiled and looked at Alexa. “She takes them off. Sometimes Gary and I let it ride. We’re only firm with the important things. Discipline is a tricky issue. Clothing is sometimes optional. Gary and I want Deana to feel free to express herself.”

Alexa sat down beside Kennedy, diagonally across the table from Casey. Alexa’s view through the wall of French doors was of a large formal garden, which formed a protective horseshoe around a swimming pool. A pool house with a slate roof stood at the far end of the pool, connected by a glassed-in corridor. A ten-foot-tall wall of brick appeared to enclose the entire property.

“Coffee?” Casey offered.

“None for me,” Kennedy said immediately.

Alexa shook her head. She wanted to fade into the background and take in the reactions of Casey and her uncle to Kennedy’s questions.

“So, Mrs. West,” Kennedy said, opening his notebook, “I was told only that your husband failed to show up for dinner?”

“Our family has dinner at six,” Dr. LePointe said. He stood with his back to the counter, watching.

“Routine is especially important for children,” Casey said.

“Important for everybody in a civilized society,” LePointe added.

“We try to always eat as a family,” Casey told them. “Most times we manage to do so.”

“Does the entire LePointe family eat together here?” Kennedy asked, smiling up at the doctor.

“My wife and I eat together in our home.”

“Dinner at six,” Kennedy said as he wrote it down. “Your house is on St. Charles, isn’t it, Dr. LePointe?”

“Our family home has been there since the street was put in,” LePointe answered. “The original structure burned to the ground in 1855. The one there now was completed just in time, as the War Between the States made stonemasons and detail craftsmen a rarity. It wasn’t adequately furnished until after that conflict, as the furniture was imported and there were far more profitable cargoes to be shipped than chairs and tables.”

In Alexa’s mind, where Dr. LePointe lived seemed totally irrelevant to the case at hand.

“It isn’t at all like Gary to be late,” Casey said.

“Casey, he’s missed dinners before,” Dr. LePointe corrected. He took a seat at the head of the table, with Casey on his right, Kennedy on his left.

“He always calls to tell me if he’s not going to make it on time,” she countered, defensively. “I’ve called his cell phone for hours, but it went straight to message. He rarely turns it on anyway. He carries it for emergencies. Anyway, I found it in our bedroom. Gary hadn’t even taken it with him.”

LePointe frowned.

“When did you see him last?” Kennedy asked.

“We had lunch at R amp;O’s.”

“Arnaud’s?” Kennedy said, starting to write that down.

“R and O’s, out on the Lakefront. We eat lunch there together every Friday. Except when we’re out of town,” Casey said.

“Or when Christmas falls on Friday?” Kennedy asked, seemingly serious.

“It’s where we had our first meal in New Orleans together. That was five years ago. We usually have the seafood gumbo and a beer. I guess it’s a ritual.”

“Gumbo’s very good there,” Kennedy said, straightening his glasses. “Best in the city for the money. Good chopped salad too.”

Casey nodded absently.

“You left the restaurant together?” Kennedy asked.

“Well, we were in separate vehicles. I’d been working all morning, so Gary had Deana. She came with him. Gary left a few minutes before I did. I had to go by my studio to do some paperwork on a show I’m shipping out of the country next week,” Casey said. “I had Deana with me. I met Grace there.”

“Grace is your nanny?” Kennedy halted his note-scribbling.

“Nanny?” Casey smiled. “No. Grace is my personal assistant. We don’t have a nanny. I have sitters who come when I need them. Grace has been my dearest friend since elementary school.”

“Where is your studio?” Kennedy asked.

“On Magazine Street.”

“I saw some of your snapshots at the Contemporary Arts Center one time,” he added.

“Formal portraits,” LePointe corrected.

“It’s like a hobby for you?” Kennedy persisted. “Taking pictures. Or are you a professional?”

“The photography keeps me occupied,” Casey said, “but I don’t think I’m a professional, because I don’t make money at it.”

LePointe said, “Casey’s portrait work is in every museum collection worth mentioning. We’re extremely proud of Casey’s artistic accomplishments-her body of work. Can we please get back on point?”

“I meant no offense,” Kennedy said.

“Portrait series?” Alexa said. “Would that be similar to Richard Avedon’s portraits? Subjects with some common association?”

Casey nodded, her eyes springing to life. “I’m hardly in Avedon’s class. I work in color. Longshoremen, homeless people, veterans, racists, midwives, artists, evangelists, carpenters…”

“Senators, cabinet members, ex-presidents and their wives,” LePointe added.

Alexa was fascinated by LePointe’s incessant need to elevate his niece’s importance.

Casey’s face flushed. Alexa wondered if Dr. LePointe’s friends accommodated his niece as a favor to him. Perhaps he used his influence to make sure her work made the right private and museum collections, and the right galleries. Unless she really was that good, and Alexa had seen nothing to indicate she was, his patronage could certainly account for her success. Wouldn’t it be something, Alexa thought, if a woman as attractive, wealthy, seemingly intelligent had real artistic talent as well?

“So R amp;O’s at lunch was the last time you saw your husband? Or spoke to him?” Kennedy asked.

Casey nodded. “And nobody’s seen him. I’ve called everybody I could think of. Sometimes he gets with friends and loses track of the time.”

“How much did he have to drink at lunch?”

Dr. LePointe looked down at his hands, twisted his heavy gold signet ring.

“One beer,” Casey said.

“And before you met him at the restaurant?” Kennedy asked.

“Gary never drinks before five.”

“Except at lunch,” Kennedy said.

“On Fridays. It’s part of the tradition.”

“Do you have a recent picture of him?” Kennedy asked. “A physical description?”

“I have hundreds of recent pictures. Gary’s five-ten. He weighs one fifty. Blond hair in a ponytail. A patch of hair beneath his lower lip. I have a picture I took a week ago.”

“What do you think happened to your husband?” Alexa asked Casey.

“I don’t know,” she said, looking up. “Maybe he’s in a hospital with amnesia.”

“Have you called the hospitals?” Kyler Kennedy asked.

“Grace and I called all of them before I contacted the police. We found no one matching his description,” Casey said, her eyes showing pain. “Please, you have to find him. He’d come home or call if he could, I know he would.”

LePointe reached over and put his hand on Casey’s shoulder.

“Mrs. West,” Kennedy started, “I know this may be a bad time to ask this, but do you know if your husband may have been seeing anyone?”

“What?” Casey snapped immediately. “You mean another woman? Of course not! We love each other.”

“You can forget that line of questioning,” Dr. LePointe said. “It’s inappropriate.”

“Sorry, it’s just that sometimes men-” Kennedy started.

“Gary isn’t like most men,” Casey said.

“I believe that’s more than enough information to get you started,” Dr. LePointe interrupted.

“There are more questions that need to be asked,” Kennedy said.

“Perhaps later when Casey is stronger. It’s very late and she’s upset and tired. I don’t think you’ll learn anything else of value here tonight.”

“I’m fine, Unko,” Casey protested.

Alexa caught Dr. LePointe’s reaction to his niece’s use of Unko, which had to be a pet name he didn’t care for.

“Ask whatever you like,” Casey said. “We have nothing to hide. If my husband were seeing anybody, I’d know. He is usually right here with Deana and me. He doesn’t spend enough time away from us for that sort of thing. And he’s incapable of subterfuge or deceit.”

LePointe said, “It’s likely Gary will come in or call any moment.”

Kyler Kennedy closed his notebook and stood abruptly. “Of course,” he said. “More than enough to get started. Thanks for your time, Mrs. LePointe.”

“West,” Casey corrected.

“We need the make and model of the car he was driving and the license number,” Alexa said.

Casey handed Alexa a sheet of paper she’d made up with that information on it, as well as Gary’s description.

“We’ll show ourselves to the door,” Kennedy said. “If you think of anything…” He placed his card on the table. “Twenty-four hours a day.”

“I want to go on, if you need more information,” Casey said.

“The picture,” Kennedy said as he stood.

“I’ll send it in the morning,” LePointe said. “Now, my niece needs to get some rest.”

“But-” Casey protested.

“It’s settled,” LePointe said authoritatively. “I’m the doctor. I’ll have the picture dropped off at your office, Detective. If that’s acceptable?”

“Certainly, sir,” Kennedy said.

“Will you be working on finding Gary, Agent Keen?” Casey asked.

“I’m due to leave in the morning,” Alexa said. “Actually, I should get back to the Marriott.”

Casey crossed the room, took a framed picture from the shelves, slipped it out of the frame, and handed Kennedy the picture, at an angle that precluded Alexa from seeing it.

“You are in good hands, Mrs. West,” Alexa said, and left Casey, LePointe, and Kennedy in the kitchen. As she strode up the hallway toward the front door, her footsteps muted by the Oriental runners, she looked at the art on the walls for the first time. She loved art and had taken an advanced art appreciation class in college, so she knew that the paintings she saw were very valuable. Out of the ten paintings she saw on her way out, she recognized a Joan Miro oil she had seen in a book of his work, and a Marc Chagall. There was a large Rothko oil in the dining room. In a den she saw several framed Avedon photographs, including an incredibly large picture of Andy Warhol’s wounded torso. The mantel in that room held dozens of framed pictures, most of which included Gary West. He was a strikingly handsome man.

When Alexa exited the house, Manseur was walking back from the street. The superintendent and the other detectives had left or were driving away.

“So, what you think?” he asked her.

“I think I need to go back to the hotel.”

“So, you think there’s anything to this?” he asked her as they walked toward the gate. “Do you think he could have been abducted?”

“I think you have a D11 on your hands.”

“That FBI jargon for something?”

“It’s a model of a bulldozer,” Alexa said. “I’m referring to Dr. LePointe. I suspect he’s right that Gary West will come home. If not, maybe Dr. LePointe will allow your Detective Kennedy to start some sort of investigation. Two things I can tell you for certain.”

“What’s that?”

“Casey West worships her husband, and Dr. LePointe is accustomed to calling the tunes.”