Louisiana Stalker by J. R. Roberts Page B

bartender said. “I wouldn’t exactly call him a drinker.”
    â€œWell,” Keller said, “nobody else in here looks worth talking to.”
    The bartender looked around at the other three or four customers and said, “You’ve got that right.”
    â€œBy the way,” Keller asked, “do you know who belongs to that carriage outside?”
    â€œSure,” the bartender said, “the fella we’re talkin’ about.”
    â€œWhat a coincidence,” Keller said.
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    When Clint left Cappy’s pied-à-terre, his legs felt weak. The woman was insatiable, and might have convinced him to stay in bed all day, but he needed to get started.
    She watched him dress and teased him with her bare breasts before he finally made his escape. She told him she would be there each and every afternoon, in case he wanted to get in touch with her.
    â€œAlone?” he asked. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to interrupt anything.”
    â€œI will be alone, and very lonely,” she said, “until you come back.”
    â€œI’ll need your husband’s address, Cappy,” he said.
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œI’ll need to talk to him about your problem,” Clint said.
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œI need to convince myself that he’s not behind your troubles.”
    â€œBut why would he—you mean, you think he’s having me followed?”
    â€œI won’t know until I talk to him,” Clint said. “The address?”
    She gave it to him.

NINETEEN
    Simon Devereaux’s office was in a business section of Baton Rouge. Cappy may not have wanted him to talk to her husband because he didn’t believe her, but Clint needed to eliminate the man for his own benefit.
    When he came out of Cappy’s place, he found young Henri waiting there with his carriage.
    â€œLift, sir?”
    â€œWhere have you been?”
    â€œKeeping out of sight, like you said,” the young man answered.
    â€œYou did a good job of it,” Clint said. “I didn’t see any sign of you when I came out before.”
    â€œI saw the lady’s driver head off, so I thought you’d be needing me.”
    â€œGood guess.” Clint climbed into the carriage.
    â€œWhere to?” Henri asked.
    Clint gave him the address Cappy had given him for her husband.
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    After a short drive, they arrived at a three-story building. Clint entered and presented himself to an attractive, middle-aged woman seated behind a desk.
    â€œI’m here to see Mr. Devereaux,” he said.
    â€œDo you have an appointment?”
    â€œI don’t,” Clint said, “but I think he’ll see me.”
    â€œWhy do you think that?” she asked, arching her eyebrows at him.
    â€œBecause it’s about his wife.”
    For a moment a look of disapproval crossed the woman’s face.
    â€œI’ll tell him you’re here. What is your name?”
    â€œClint Adams. Just out of curiosity, what floor is he on?” Clint asked.
    She stood and said, “It doesn’t matter. Mr. Devereaux owns the whole building. But his office is on the floor above us, so if you’ll just wait?”
    â€œYes, of course.”
    She disappeared through a door. Clint looked around. The reception area of the building was better furnished than many high-class hotels he’d been in. Simon Devereaux must have had a lot of money.
    The woman came back and said, “Will you follow me, please?”
    â€œYes, thank you.”
    She took him through that doorway and up a flight of steps to the second floor, then led him to a closed door. She knocked then opened it.
    â€œMr. Devereaux, this is Clint Adams,” she said. “Mr. Adams, Simon Devereaux.”
    â€œThat’s fine, Maddy,” Devereaux said. “Thank you.”
    â€œYes, thank you, Maddy,” Clint said.
    She stared at him