“Not as long as we hoped.”
“How?” I asked.
“We ain’t certain. Here” —he motioned toward the large monitor— “see the time stamp?”
I did. It said 9:22. That was nearly an hour after Emma signed the certificate.
“That’s when Jaxon and his other man were recovered. Boudreau and Ingalls were left afloat. Then before midnight, near the same spot, they were recovered. They should have been taken out with the tide. Either they know the bayou better than we expected or someone who knows the bayou was their guardian angel.”
My eyes met Leon’s. “Jezebel?”
“Not sure.”
“Tell me your gut feeling, Leon.”
“If she’s calling any of the Louisiana bayou home, the inhabitants know she’s there.”
While there were well-known communities within the bayou, there was also the less known—the people who have hidden in plain sight for generations upon generations. Centuries of history and survival had given them the means to live within their own culture, impervious to the advancements of the world around them.
“And you think that they’re looking out for her and for Boudreau and Ingalls.”
Leon nodded. “It is the only way we can come up with for their quick escape.”
“Where did the tracker go after the landing?”
“Nowhere.” Leon pointed to the screen. “Jaxon went back this morning. The clothes both Ingalls and Boudreau were wearing were left in the boat, pulled up into the muck.”
“Fuck. For us to find.”
“Seems that way.”
“If we’re connecting dots here,” I said, standing and pacing the width of the office and back. “Boudreau and Ingalls came here to stop the wedding or maybe to confirm Emma’s presence. They didn’t stop the wedding, but they saw and spoke to Emma. They know she’s alive and well in New Orleans. My men took them on what was meant to be a brush with death and in under four hours they were rescued. And...” I emphasized the conjunction. “they left the clothes for us to find, a fuck-you to us.” I turned my attention to Leon. “Am I missing something?”
“Based on the time they were rescued, in my opinion, they are both suspects in Judge McBride’s death.”
I nodded. “If they didn’t instigate his death, they could confirm his presence here last night.” I turned to Leon. “What are your connections in the bayou?”
“Tara’s folks. Generations of Choctaw. Creole in their blood.”
“Would they give up information if Jezebel is among them?”
His nostrils flared as he inhaled and exhaled. “They live their own lives and speak their own language. The politics of New Orleans or the damn country means nothing to them. They’re separate.”
“You’re saying they don’t give a fuck if a Boudreau or a Ramses runs the greater New Orleans parishes.”
“Doesn’t affect them.”
“Then we need to figure out a way to affect them.”
My phone vibrated. Pulling it from my pant pocket, I read the screen. The message was from Ian Knolls.
“MISS EMMA HAS MOVED SOME OF HER THINGS TO THE THIRD-FLOOR SUITE.”
I read the message twice before hitting the call button. My gaze met Leon’s as I realized he was present. Not that it mattered. He knew I fucked up and now it seemed Ian did too. “Talk to me,” I said as the call connected.
“Miss Emma has moved to the third-floor suite, boss.”
My head shook. “Why?”