Joe gave her a ten count to see if she would deny it, qualify it, something. When she didn’t, he got out, opened the backseat door, and reached in to take her arm. “Till we get to the bottom of this,
you’re registered here under the name of Ms. Jones, and your roommate is a federal marshal named Gwen.”
Chapter 23
Late Sunday afternoon, the Terrebonne Parish SO determined that all the evidence had been collected from the now-famous bar. The crime scene tape was removed and the establishment was permitted to reopen.
Word spread quickly, and soon the parking lot couldn’t accommodate the customers who drove for miles to see where Friday night’s drama had taken place.
The bartender recruited customers who could be trusted with the cash register to help him fill orders while he retold his story that contained the juicy details media sources had omitted from their reports.
But the evening really belonged to star witness Royce Sherman. The pool table where he’d been playing with his buddies when he decided to approach Jordan Bennett became center ring.
“Little did I know that my move on her would sic the feds on my ass. Not to mention”—he slung an arm across his live-in’s shoulders in a gesture so broad that he sloshed his third Jack and Coke on her new tank top—“getting me in dutch with my old lady here.”
His old lady wasn’t amused, but his audience was spellbound as he gave them a spectacularly appended version of his conversation with Jordie. He relished his newfound celebrity. No one would ever call him a loser or ne’er-do-well again. His name had appeared more than once in the Times-Picayune. Even his mean ol’ daddy had been impressed when an interview with him was aired as the lead story on the ten o’clock news Saturday night.
As the evening wore on, the crowd became thicker. No one noticed the man who came in with a group to which he didn’t belong, then separated himself from it and sought out the darkest corner of the bar in which to lurk.
It was the farthest point from the jukebox. He didn’t go near the gregarious bartender, never ordered a drink, just watched Royce and listened to his tale, which grew a little taller with each retelling, and Royce’s role got larger.
“I didn’t know nothin’ about the fraud case. I had to Google Billy Panella to find out his connection to this gal.” Here, his eyes bugged. “Whoa! Dude. Her brother’s gotta be the dimmest bulb in the box to double-cross this Panella character. That TV reporter asked me did I think Panella sent Bolden and that other guy to exact his revenge on Josh Bennett. Hell yeah, I told him. But I threw a wrench in it by talking to her. If his sister’s still alive, Bennett’s got me to thank.”
“You can say that again, Royce,” muttered the man backed into the corner.
Royce’s old lady finally had enough of his braggadocio. She suggested that it was time for them to go. When Royce said he wasn’t ready yet, she insisted that they go. Royce ignored her. She then shouted an ultimatum: Either he leave with her right then or not bother coming home at all.
Royce saluted her a so long. This time, he slung his arm across the shoulders of a starry-eyed young woman who’d been more appreciative of and attentive to his story.
Royce’s live-in stalked out, accompanied by two female friends who lent full support to her grand exit. The man in the corner overheard them urging her to change her door locks and telling her that she would be better off never to see that asshole again.
Another hour passed. Royce Sherman became drunker, and the young woman more in thrall of him. In a particularly amorous move, she reached up and used his stringy goatee to pull his face down to hers. They kissed while the crowed hooted and hollered encouragement.
The spectacle almost caused the man in the corner to miss the incoming call on his cell phone. While glad that the phone, which had been dormant all day, was finally vibrating inside his pants pocket, he was equally annoyed that the call was so late in coming. He sidestepped his way along the wall till he reached the door, then gratefully pushed through.
He took the phone from his pocket and, as he threaded his way across the parking lot toward his car, glanced down at the phone’s LED. Unknown Caller. But it could be only one person: Shaw Kinnard. And he would be calling for only one reason: He’d killed Jordie and wanted to be compensated.
He was about to answer when he paused to reconsider. In any transaction, whoever held out the longest gained the upper hand. Up till now Kinnard had had it. This time, let him grow anxious.
He only had to wait for three minutes before the phone vibrated again. Leering with self-satisfaction, he took the electrolarynx from his pocket and pressed it against his voice box. “You had better be calling to tell me she’s dead.”
“’Fraid not, Billy.”
It wasn’t the hired gun’s voice.
“This is Special Agent Joe Wiley, FBI, New Orleans office.”
“Fuck!” The expletive was out before he could control his reaction. While he was at it, he filled the feeb’s ear with a few more.
Seemingly unimpressed with the profane litany, the agent talked over him in a conversational tone. “The media hasn’t broken the story yet, so you’re getting an exclusive. Shaw Kinnard has been arrested. Jordie Bennett is alive and well and in our protective custody. So your reprisal scheme is kaput. And it only gets better, Mr. Panella.
“Josh Bennett is still at large, but he’s been in touch with me personally, and—you probably won’t find this surprising—once again he’s ratting you out. You know that he’s a chicken liver at heart. He’ll sell you—”
Seeing red, he didn’t wait to hear the rest of whatever the federal agent had to say, but immediately disconnected, then flipped the phone over and removed the battery. He walked toward the bayou until he got close enough to make a good overhand pitch that plopped both the phone and the battery into the water.
Every blood vessel expanding with fury, he returned to his car where he could sit and mull over the call and its dire implications. He couldn’t dismiss or underestimate them. The news of Jordie’s rescue might not have been broadcast yet, but the fed had sounded too smug not to be believed.
This was definitely a kick in the teeth. Clearly, retaining Mickey Bolden and his onetime partner had been a mistake. But that was water under the bridge. He must think forward, not backward.