enough to share.”
“That’s what I’m hoping,” he said as he sauntered off.
“Hey, Charles?” I called after him. “No more breaking and entering, okay? Next time I might not be so nice.”
He waved an acknowledgment. I took it to mean he wouldn’t pick the locks unless he thought it was important.
It was back up three flights of stairs for me. I made sure the outer door was shut and the lock caught, then trudged up the steps.
Just as I entered my door, my office phone rang. Like it had been when Prejean threatened me. Could he know when I entered?
I debated not answering it, then let it ring long enough for the answering machine to kick in. This was an “innocent” way of recording the phone conversation.
“Knight Agency,” I said, easing down the message volume so I wasn’t speaking over myself.
“Micky, I tried your cell but you didn’t answer.” Cordelia.
“I was just walking some clients out and left my cell up here,” I explained. And reminded myself that I needed to have my cell phone with me at all times. What if I’d found Prejean downstairs about to light a match? “What’s up?” She rarely calls me during the day.
“I need to hit you up for a detective favor.”
“Okay,” I said cautiously.
“If you can do it,” she added.
I was relieved to hear that. Even sane and sensible people like Cordelia can have TV versions of private detectives.
“Tell me what it is and I’ll let you know.”
“Some patients have gone missing. Well, not really missing, but one in particular missed his last appointment and he needs to be closely monitored.”
“Can you give me his name and address?”
“Can you come up here and meet with us?”
Other than not wanting to bother with driving there—and finding parking—there was no reason not to. I did owe her a big favor for foisting Andy—and Torbin’s worry and anger—on her last night.
“Sure, where should I meet you?”
She gave me an office address on Prytania, up near Touro Infirmary. It was one of the few that hadn’t flooded.
So, time to go down the stairs again. I double-locked my door and set the alarm. Mr. Charles Williams was less likely to stay for coffee with a high-pitched whine ringing in his ears.
It took me almost half an hour to get there, much of the time taken by red lights and idiot drivers. I had to go through the CBD, Central Business District, with its heavy traffic and skim by the French Quarter with its tourists, drunks, and worst of all, drunken tourists jaywalking off the sidewalk—yes, cars will drive down these historic streets. No, worst of all was drunken tourists at eleven in the morning. Although to be fair, more than a few tourists have been known to be merrily drinking the night away waiting for last call to send them stumbling home only to notice a new light and realize it’s the sun coming up.
What, they don’t have a twenty-four-hour bar in Oshkosh?
There is a pay lot, but I’d discovered there is free parking on the street a few blocks away for anyone willing to walk those blocks.
The address was one of the older office buildings in the area. It had a creaky elevator that took me to the fifth floor, where her office was. Technically it wasn’t her office; she was on temporary assignment, covering for a doctor on maternity leave. That was a lot of what she did these days, floating from positions like this as if she was reluctant to obligate herself to something more permanent. At times I wondered what that said about her commitment to New Orleans, or being a doctor. Or to me. But I mostly let it be. It was her path to find.
I had to wander around two corners before finding the reception desk. It was in a cramped room with tall stacks of medical records against the walls.
I gave my name and asked for Cordelia. The phone rang and the receptionist pointed me to the waiting room.
You’re making me wait to do you a favor , I groused silently. It had been at least three minutes. She
“That’s what I’m hoping,” he said as he sauntered off.
“Hey, Charles?” I called after him. “No more breaking and entering, okay? Next time I might not be so nice.”
He waved an acknowledgment. I took it to mean he wouldn’t pick the locks unless he thought it was important.
It was back up three flights of stairs for me. I made sure the outer door was shut and the lock caught, then trudged up the steps.
Just as I entered my door, my office phone rang. Like it had been when Prejean threatened me. Could he know when I entered?
I debated not answering it, then let it ring long enough for the answering machine to kick in. This was an “innocent” way of recording the phone conversation.
“Knight Agency,” I said, easing down the message volume so I wasn’t speaking over myself.
“Micky, I tried your cell but you didn’t answer.” Cordelia.
“I was just walking some clients out and left my cell up here,” I explained. And reminded myself that I needed to have my cell phone with me at all times. What if I’d found Prejean downstairs about to light a match? “What’s up?” She rarely calls me during the day.
“I need to hit you up for a detective favor.”
“Okay,” I said cautiously.
“If you can do it,” she added.
I was relieved to hear that. Even sane and sensible people like Cordelia can have TV versions of private detectives.
“Tell me what it is and I’ll let you know.”
“Some patients have gone missing. Well, not really missing, but one in particular missed his last appointment and he needs to be closely monitored.”
“Can you give me his name and address?”
“Can you come up here and meet with us?”
Other than not wanting to bother with driving there—and finding parking—there was no reason not to. I did owe her a big favor for foisting Andy—and Torbin’s worry and anger—on her last night.
“Sure, where should I meet you?”
She gave me an office address on Prytania, up near Touro Infirmary. It was one of the few that hadn’t flooded.
So, time to go down the stairs again. I double-locked my door and set the alarm. Mr. Charles Williams was less likely to stay for coffee with a high-pitched whine ringing in his ears.
It took me almost half an hour to get there, much of the time taken by red lights and idiot drivers. I had to go through the CBD, Central Business District, with its heavy traffic and skim by the French Quarter with its tourists, drunks, and worst of all, drunken tourists jaywalking off the sidewalk—yes, cars will drive down these historic streets. No, worst of all was drunken tourists at eleven in the morning. Although to be fair, more than a few tourists have been known to be merrily drinking the night away waiting for last call to send them stumbling home only to notice a new light and realize it’s the sun coming up.
What, they don’t have a twenty-four-hour bar in Oshkosh?
There is a pay lot, but I’d discovered there is free parking on the street a few blocks away for anyone willing to walk those blocks.
The address was one of the older office buildings in the area. It had a creaky elevator that took me to the fifth floor, where her office was. Technically it wasn’t her office; she was on temporary assignment, covering for a doctor on maternity leave. That was a lot of what she did these days, floating from positions like this as if she was reluctant to obligate herself to something more permanent. At times I wondered what that said about her commitment to New Orleans, or being a doctor. Or to me. But I mostly let it be. It was her path to find.
I had to wander around two corners before finding the reception desk. It was in a cramped room with tall stacks of medical records against the walls.
I gave my name and asked for Cordelia. The phone rang and the receptionist pointed me to the waiting room.
You’re making me wait to do you a favor , I groused silently. It had been at least three minutes. She
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