Louisiana Bigshot

to his house while his wife was out of town, tied him up, and force-fed him a bunch of pills. Guess he took care of the whiskey himself. Anyway, they squeezed Nora and she cracked. Said she had a boyfriend—car salesman named Carl Frobisher.”
    Eddie snorted. “Hmmph. No accounting for taste.”
    “You got that right. I mean, why bother?”
    “If you were a man, I’d probably have an answer for ya.”
    “Well, anyhow, she strikes some kind of deal with the DA, says the boyfriend hired a hit man to do the job, and Carl ends up taking the fall. He admits to hiring a hit man, all right—guy he met in a bar named Stan.”
    “Oh crap, excuse my French. I think I see where this is going. I guess there’s no point asking Stan’s last name.”
    “You got it—no point in hell. Carl said he knew the guy only as Stan—gave him a thousand dollars up front and never saw him again, never did pay him the rest of his money.”
    “Which was? I’m just curious.”
    “A big two thousand dollars—three thousand to kill a husband.”
    “It’s about what I figured.” He picked up the police sketch. “So this is Stan?”
    “Yeah. They never found him. Or his friend.”
    “Friend?”
    “There were two of them, remember? Just like in Babalu’s case. Almost the same kind of deal, too. Forced overdose.”
    “Well, that’s all well and good, Ms. Wallis. All well and good. Stan’s the man who followed me, and he’s a hit man you can get for a pack of cigarettes. Real good news. So, what’s the trick here? How’d you find him?”
    “Easy. I figured if you were a prosecutor, you’d come across more lowlifes than the average guy. In fact, you’d be uniquely positioned to find yourself a hit man. All you’d have to do would be to take a walk down memory lane.”
    Eddie snapped to attention, eyebags jiggling. “Buddy Calhoun prosecuted Carl Frobisher? That what you’re saying?”
    Talba nodded, feeling slightly smug in spite of herself. “Yep. But I had to find out the old-fashioned way. No computers involved.” She paused. “And there’s a lot more.”
    Eddie pounded his hand on his chest. “I don’t know if I can handle it.”
    “You know how New Orleans tends to forgive and forget. Remember that other woman tried to kill her husband a few years ago? That was murder-for-hire too. She’s still loose, still has the same old friends, still gets her picture in the paper. So I decided to check out Mrs. Nora Dwyer. Now, Carl Frobisher wasn’t much, but the husband seemed like a pretty respectable guy. Lawyer here in town—Gerard Dwyer. I figured Nora probably had some bucks, knew a few people; she might pick up the pieces and move on.”
    Eddie raised an eyebrow.
    “I was right. I found her photograph on the society page no less than four times in recent years, once in a gorgeous evening dress at some gala, posing with John Earl Macquet in a tux. Incidentally, I saw John Earl at Clayton’s funeral—along with Buddy Calhoun.”
    “Phew.” Eddie leaned back against the seat of the car. “Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.”
    It was a lot to digest, and Talba knew it. She just let him be quiet for awhile, while he took it in.
    She’d dropped a name to reckon with. John Earl Macquet was one of the biggest businessmen in New Orleans—a town not noted for big business. Macquet was in shipping; and shipping was one of the oldest, largest, most respected businesses in the city. He’d been at Clayton’s funeral. He was a big supporter of Buddy Calhoun.
    None of which was the point. That was what Eddie was struggling with. She knew he knew Macquet’s story, but he’d sort of half-forgotten it. The businessman had recently lost his wife. Finally, Eddie said, “Now, how’d John Earl’s wife die? Refresh my recollection, would ya?”
    “The maid found her dead one morning when John Earl was out of town. Pills and alcohol. ’Course everybody knew she was pretty much of a drunk.”
    “Oh, yeah. It’s coming back to me.”
    “Well, I’m sorry to say there’s more. I figured since I’d done such a good job on Nora, why stop now? So I went ahead and did a little more research on John Earl. And guess what?”
    “I give up. I don’t know.” Eddie let go of the wheel and flung his hands into the air. “You tell me. He’s got a brother named Stan?”
    “Not that I know of. But Mrs. Macquet’s untimely demise is not the only tragedy in his life.”
    “Oh, Christ.”
    “His company’s CFO was shot and killed a few