“Bastard,” Forrest muttered. He got up and closed the door, then returned to his desk and lit a Marlboro in violation of regulations.
In truth, Mackiever was right. The drug gangs hadn’t yet started to return, and if Forrest had his way, they never would. He’d already taken advantage of the storm to eliminate a few dangerous witnesses and business competitors. He’d been well paid for some of those actions, while others he’d carried out to settle personal scores. His cousin Billy’s meth operation, for example, would run unchallenged for at least a year in the southern half of the state. But Forrest had far bigger plans, and if his patrons wanted state troopers patrolling the streets of New Orleans, he’d do his best to give them that.
Thinking of Billy brought the informant’s phone call back into his mind. Taking out his secure cell phone, Forrest called Alphonse Ozan.
“Talk to me, boss,” the Redbone said.
Ozan’s voice brought back a memory of last night: pulling away from Cherie Delaune’s house trailer, after giving the Redbone thirty minutes alone with her. “How’d it go?” Forrest had asked. “You ruin her?” Ozan had laughed and said, “Oh, yeah, boss. Next time Ricky try to hit that, he gon’ fall in.”
Forrest forced the lurid scene out of his mind. “I want you to find out everything there is to know about the mayor of Natchez, Mississippi. Especially people with grudges against him. A former prosecutor always has a shitload of enemies rotting in prison. You need to check Texas, mainly.”
“No problem,” Ozan said, sounding enthusiastic. “I bet Huntsville is full of guys who’d like to carve his liver for him.”
“If we’re lucky, some of his old pals have wound up in Angola in the past few years.”
Ozan laughed. “True dat, boss.”
“Call Snake, too. He’s gonna hear that Henry Sexton and Cage went to see Sheriff Dennis with some bone they pulled out of the Jericho Hole, and I don’t want him to panic. Reiterate what I said last night: nobody touches Henry Sexton unless I give the word. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Find out about Cage’s fiancée, too. The newspaper publisher.”
“Lookin’ forward to it, boss. She’s a hot one, that girl. I seen pictures.”
Forrest ended the call there, but Ozan’s predatory laughter echoed in his ears for a long time.
CHAPTER 36
“I CAN’T BELIEVE you kept this from me!” Caitlin snaps, her eyes flashing with anger. “What else have you held back?”
She’s talking about Glenn Morehouse and his interview with Henry Sexton. There’s nothing quite like confronting an angry and intelligent woman who also happens to be your lover.
“You obviously figured out Morehouse was a Double Eagle on your own,” I point out. “I didn’t need to tell you.”
“But the time I lost.”
“Are you in a race?”
“Oh, come on. That’s all journalism is, and with Shad or Lincoln tipping out-of-town papers, this story’s going to break fast.”
“You want to take over Henry’s story, don’t you? And you swore to me that you wouldn’t.”
Caitlin is one of those rare people who never seem to blink, and now she focuses on me with the eerie intensity of a serpent watching a bird it intends to devour. “I didn’t know how big this thing was when I made that promise. I want to know what else hasn’t been made public.”
I shouldn’t answer, but Caitlin has already begun to work her way into the story. Overnight she’s become an expert on the Double Eagle group. And while she’s been unable to discover anything incriminating on Brody Royal or Forrest Knox, she’s focused on the fact that the female whistle-blowers from Royal Insurance who disappeared two years ago vanished in exactly the same way that Jimmy Revels and Luther Davis did in 1968: without a trace—just like several other Double Eagle victims. Caitlin is already convinced that Brody Royal has been the directing power behind the Double Eagles since the murder of Albert Norris, and she doesn’t know a fraction of what I do.
“Who do the Jericho Hole bones belong to?” she presses. “Jimmy Revels?”
“The bones Kirk brought up probably belong to Luther Davis. He was the larger of the two men by far.”
She mulls this over with a resentful frown. Despite all I’ve confided to her, she seems to believe that I’m trying to sabotage her career in favor of a man I barely know. It’s clear that nothing less than full disclosure will satisfy her, and on that point I must disappoint her.
“Caitlin, I told you about Luther’s bones because it’s only a matter of time before the story gets out—from Sheriff Dennis’s office, probably. I gave you Brody Royal and Forrest Knox in spite of promising Henry I wouldn’t. But that’s it, at least for now. And you can’t print any of that, remember? Not until Henry does.”
Two pinks moons appear high on her cheeks. “Henry Sexton is a fine investigative reporter, but he works for a weekly newspaper. A tiny shop in the middle of nowhere. It’s read by five thousand people, many of whom would prefer he didn’t delve into the things that obsess him.”
“You can’t take over Henry’s story. And I won’t help you try.”
She leans forward, and I feel myself pulling away from her. “Penn, this story is big. Bigger than Henry. Bigger than you or me, bigger even than your father. There’s a secret history here, and yesterday’s deaths are going bring it roaring back into the headlines.”
“It’s the murder charges against Dad that will do that. Viola’s death would hardly rate a mention in your paper.”
She winces at this but doesn’t argue. Nor does she address my central point. “The FBI taking possession of Morehouse’s body is unprecedented,” she says. “John Kaiser is treating this like a terrorism case.”