“I know what you mean.”
“Well, I best take the picture and be on my route.”
I caught I-75 north and headed across the state of Florida back to Ponce Inlet. I watched the traffic behind me, looking for a tail. I pushed the Jeep to near one-hundred miles an hour for a minute, then pulled off the interstate at a rest stop, parking on the side of the building farther from the highway. I watched for cars pulling into the rest stop, those passing in the event a driver might hit his brakes. Three cars entered the parking lot. One had a family of five, including a grandmother. The second car had two teenagers in it. The third was pulling a small boat. Two fishermen shuffled out, faces red from the sun, and walked to the restroom. I started my Jeep, placed the Glock on the passenger seat, and made my way back to the highway.
As I drove north, I now knew that Courtney Burke had been hiding in the trailer before it exploded, she was driving a red Toyota pick-up truck, and she was probably long gone from Gibsonton. On one hand, I wanted to call Detective Dan Grant and tell him what I knew. On the other hand, not so much. If my phone was tapped, my calling Dan would alert killers hunting Courtney. Dan and state police would issue a BOLO and set up a dragnet on major roads leading out of Tampa and Florida.
Since two men hunting Courtney had just died, and because one man giving her a safe haven was murdered, I knew that Courtney could easily be shot to death during a road-side stop. Subject resisting arrest, the report would read. Armed and dangerous. As long as the elimination was not in the immediate scope of the dashboard cameras, cross-fire shootings can be beyond accusation and reprimand.
The presidential election was coming up quickly. Somehow I had to keep Courtney safe until then, and that’s if Senator Logan’s opponent won. What would it mean if Logan won? Would Courtney always be a political liability? If she was found innocent of the charges, would that lessen her embarrassment factor? Andrea Logan would no longer be labeled the possible mother of a serial killer. But that would mean finding Courtney and getting a DNA sample first. That alone would clear the landscape for Logan or destroy it. Were they willing to roll the dice? The two dead guys in the fire spoke volumes. And now, under the circumstances, there was no safe jail or prison to hold her in some kind of protective custody.
I needed to buy a couple of disposable mobile phones, and then make a call to Dave or Dan Grant that would set in motion a trap that would catch hired guns and maybe free Courtney from what I now knew was a death sentence.
51
When Courtney Burke reached New Orleans, the rain that seemed to have followed her since Florida, ended. She’d driven straight through, stopping once to put gas in the truck and to use the restroom. There had been very little news on the radio stations that constantly faded in and out as she drove through the night.
She didn’t know if her face was still plastered everywhere, of if she could move about with relative anonymity. She remembered what Boots had told her: ‘There will be a lot of people trying to locate you. Isaac and I both believe this could be very dangerous for you. Your face is on all the news stations and online. You must be very careful.’
She turned onto Decatur Street, saw the sign for Café Du Monde, and then entered the parking lot. Tourists roamed the streets, hopping horse-drawn carriages, watching street performers and snapping pictures. With so many people about, Courtney thought she’d blend in better in a city like New Orleans.
She parked, slipped on a pair of dark glasses, and a baseball cap Boots had given her. She fixed her hair in a ponytail, and pulled it through the open spot in the back of the hat. She unfolded the piece of paper and read Boot’s writing: Mariah Danford, 41 Dumaine. Courtney got out of the truck and walked towards Café Du Monde.
She could see the three towers of the old St. Louis Cathedral across the park-like setting of Jackson Square, church bells ringing in the distance, the oaks alive with birdsong. Portrait artists were setting up shop on the tree-lined street, opening beach-sized umbrellas, propping up easels. She watched a man wearing a Star Trek T-shirt and black derby twist balloons into animal caricatures. Another performer was dressed in Civil War uniform. His entire body was spray-painted in shades of Confederate gray. He stood motionless, a human statue in the park, only moving his head or arms when an unsuspecting tourist approached to take a picture.
The morning air was filled with the smell of chicory coffee, blooming camellias, and fresh-cut grass. Courtney watched the Mississippi River roll quietly by as horse-drawn carriages traveled down Decatur. She heard the trot of hooves on the pavement and carriage drivers telling riders about the history of the square, the cathedral, and Jax Brewery.
She ordered two beignets and a large café au lait at Café Du Monde. After Courtney paid for them at the counter, she asked the middle-aged woman running the cash register if she knew how to get to Dumaine Street.
“You’re not far, honey,” she said, counting back change. “Five blocks down Decatur and then take a right onto Dumaine.”
Courtney found an empty park bench close to Jackson Square under the shade of old live oaks draped in tousled cloaks of Spanish moss. The beignets, warm and covered in powdered sugar, tasted delicious to her. The hot coffee seemed to flow into her through all her pores, warming her. For the first time since Boots’ murder, she could breathe easier without her lungs feeling as empty as her heart.
“Draw a pretty picture for a pretty lady,” came a voice from behind her.
Courtney turned around and saw a street artist bend in a slight bow from the waist, tipping his medieval Robin Hood-type hat. It was fern green with a red feather wedged into one side of the hatband. He stood straight and grinned, a dark black goatee on his round face, eyes the color of his hat. Courtney thought the man probably weighed close to three-hundred pounds.
He said, “Hello, me lady. You can be my first portrait of the morning. I assure you that all other portraits after you today, and tomorrow for that matter, will pale by comparison. I am Little John, and I’m at your service.”
Courtney swallowed a bite of beignet and looked up at the man, the morning sunlight in his plump face, left eye squinting, the rumble of a tugboat diesel pushing a barge up the Mississippi. “Thanks, but I really don’t need my picture drawn.”
“Why so serious?”
“Just tired, that’s all.”
“It’s more than that. I can tell because I look at faces all day.”
“No offense, but you don’t need to be staring at mine.”
“Since I draw caricatures of people, I look at how faces have certain, let’s say unique qualities, and then I just use pen and ink to embellish them. And because I study faces all day here in front of Jackson square, I’m a pretty good reader.”
“I have to go.”
“Some people read cards, some read palms, and I try to grasp the energy of the person in the time it takes me to sketch out the crux of the face. I always begin with the eyes. Would you mind taking off your sunglasses?”
“I told you I wasn’t interested in having my picture drawn. Please, just go away.”
“I can’t. This is my office, or studio.”
“Then I’ll leave.”
He smiled and angled his head. “Tell you what, I’ll do it for free. Your only cost is the twenty minutes of your life it takes me to capture you on canvas.”
“I don’t want to be captured on canvas.”
“Before I started doing caricatures, I was a police sketch artist. Did thousands of sketches of bad guys and gals just from descriptions people remembered. I find now that it’s hard for me to forget a face I’ve drawn or wanted real bad to draw.” He pulled a phone out of his jean’s pocket and raised it to snap a picture of Courtney.