Page 171 of The Fourth Option
“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 JeanLafitte 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.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
THE CAROUSEL BARcreaked beneath him, gradually revolving. Every fifteen minutes, the circular bar made a full rotation, its polished brass rail and painted horses gliding past velvet drapes and mirrored walls. The ceiling above was a swirl of gold leaf and carnival blue, and the bar itself was an antique merry-go-round, lit like a stage.
Cornelius Bates sat alone, bourbon in hand, watching the world orbit around him. The Hotel Monteleone was his haunt, classy with craft cocktails and eccentric enough to make him look like a solid rock of masculinity. It was a few minutes past eight. He had walked over from the office, needing a drink and a distraction after the news that Fulgencio Vargas’s refinery had gone up in smoke. It had to be Chris Walker. He was destroying everything they had worked so hard to build.
Across the room, seated at a window table overlooking Royal Street, a pair of women caught his eye. The older one wore pearls and a linen blouse, her posture regal, a glass of wine in hand. The younger, dark-eyed, early thirties, legs crossed, sipping a French 75, was something else entirely. The younger one hadn’t looked his way yet, but she would.
His phone buzzed. He frowned and pulled it from his coat pocket.
“Bates,” he answered curtly.
“Sorry to bother you, sir,” came Sergeant Strickland’s voice on the other end.
“What is it?”
“Traffic cam in Metairie picked up an AMC Eagle following Walt Kimbel’s Mercedes just before the murder. Male driver. Ball cap. Alone.”
“What the fuck is an AMC Eagle?”
“I had to look it up. It looks like an old station wagon with wood paneling except with a lift and bigger tires. Some piece of shit from the eighties.”
“You get a plate?”
“Yeah. Registered to a woman near the Quarter. Gloria Travois. Old lady. A widow, lives alone.”
“An old woman is helping him?”
“Maybe.”
“Or he stole her car.”
“Also, more good news,” Strickland continued. “State Police just responded to the Metairie PD’s alert. Vehicle with that plate passed over the Huey Long Bridge about twenty minutes ago. Headed northwest.”
Bates felt the bourbon sour in his gut.
He did not want other departments involved. This was his mess to clean up, his case. He stepped off the slowly rotating platform and into the hotel lobby.
“He’s leaving town.”
“Appears that way, sir.”
“Call my contact at LSP,” Bates said. “Captain Hagerty. Tell him this is an undercover op and part of an ongoing interagency investigation. Location alerts go to me only.”
We need to eliminate this problem before he gets picked up by another department.
“Understood,” Strickland said. “You want to talk to this Mrs. Travois tonight?”
