“You don’t believe me?”
“You just up and chose tonight of all nights to hire a car—I saw you had one waiting on you—and come to New Orleans to have dinner in a restaurant you’d never tried before? I findthatvery coincidental.”
“Why would I lie about it?”
“You tell me, Dylan. Why would you lie?”
She sat up straighter, more defensively. “I’ve never been there before tonight. And I’d like to know what difference it makes to you where I ate dinner?”
“It makes a difference because it was that particular restaurant, and because you were in the company of and looking chummy with its owner, Roland Malone.”
Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. “You know Roland?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” he said, deadpan. “But you know him, don’t you? Pretty good, too, from the looks of it.”
He waited, but she remained silent.
Though it pained his injury, he leaned forward across the console, moving closer to her. “I’ll save you the trouble of answering from behind the shield of professional privilege with a lie, or a half-truth, or an evasion.
“I don’t know what else Roland Malone is to you. Bosom buddy. Dutch uncle. Money lender. Sugar daddy,” he said tightly. “But I know that he’s your patient. He’s sat on that comfy sofa with all the throw pillows and has shared with you his deepest, darkest secrets.”
He reached into a self-fashioned pocket he’d added to the inside of the baggy trousers. From it, he took his badge, palmed it, and held it up close to her face. “And, Dr. Reede, what I want to know from you is what Roland Malone has confided.”
Chapter 19
The first two police officers on the scene of the altercation in the median were joined by two more.
Roland told them that what he’d witnessed had amounted to nothing more than a shouting match and a little pushing and shoving, and that the woman had screamed only because she was concerned for her child’s safety.
“Who started it?” one of the officers asked.
“Beats me. By the time I realized something was going on, it was over. One went one way, one the other.”
“Can you give us descriptions?”
He shook his head. “One ran in that direction,” he said, pointing to the far side of the street. “Lost sight of him right away. The homeless guy nearly got run over crossing the street.”
“Could you describe him?”
He shrugged. “Homeless. They all look alike.”
The young cop smiled wryly. “Thank you, Mr. Malone. I hope the rest of your evening is uneventful.”
Roland had then returned to his restaurant, where he’d assured his clientele that the incident had been blown out of proportion and had turned out to be nothing more serious than a squabble. He apologized for the interruption of their meal and offered everyone a drink on the house.
He’d ordered his staff to carry on as though nothing had happened. “Don’t talk about it among yourselves or with customers. I don’t want something made of nothing, understand?”
He’d then taken up his traditional place at the entrance in order to bid goodbye to diners as they left. From that vantage point, he could monitor the police activity in the median and on both sides of the boulevard.
He also had trusted and well-paid informants in the neighborhood and within the NOPD who’d kept him updated on progress, or the lack thereof.
He’d been told that the homeless man involved had disappeared. Few had seen him well enough to provide a description, and those were conflicting. Not even his age and ethnicity had been established. The truck driver who’d almost struck him identified him only as a “fuckin’ moron.”
The last report that Roland had received was that the homeless man was yet to be found and probably never would be because he didn’t want to be.
Likewise, the fleet-footed second party had also vanished before anyone had gotten a good look at him. One man told police he looked like a teenager. “Thirteen, fourteen, maybe. Hassled the homeless guy for the hell of it is my guess.”
The officers must have come to the same conclusion. No real harm had been done. The damaged truck didn’t belong to the driver, but to the company he worked for, and it was insured. The woman and her little boy had had a fright, but were fine.After an hour and a half, the officers drove off in their squad cars. A police report would be filed, and that would be the end of it.
