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“Can I ask,” I venture, not wanting to rub salt into his wound. “Why didn’t you call the press conference the moment you got the ransom note? Why has it taken you twenty-four hours to reach this decision?”
His shoulders slump and he walks around to the other side of the couch, collapsing into the large cushions. He puts his head in his hands and starts to openly weep.
“I’m not a bad father,” he says through his tears. “I didn’t wait to prolong her torture.”
“I didn’t think you did,” I tell him. “Not for one second. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Forget I said anything.”
“No,” he says weakly. “It’s a fair question. At first, I thought maybe it was a joke. An awful, poorly executed joke. My wife is always complaining that she wants to retire and spend more time with our daughter. She really thinks my career is the reason we don’t see her enough.
“But once the shock wore off, I knew it was legitimate. Right down to the serial killer letters. I didn’t tell my wife or my staff or anyone. I sent them all away. Until this story started running a few minutes ago, they probably didn’t even know. Christ, Bridgette is probably beside herself right now.”
“You did what you thought you had to do,” I tell him.
“I thought I’d get you to hand her over and that would be that,” he says with a sad smile. “That’s obviously not how it turned out. Then, after I saw you, I thought, ‘Maybe this fellow can really help me. Maybe there’s hope.’ I don’t blame you, of course,” he says with a nod. “It was too much to expect.
“But I suppose the real reason I waited was because I truly love this city. I want to do what’s best for it. I’m sorry if that means I’ve caused you more stress than you needed, but I want to leave this city better than I found it. I was born and raised here, my heart beats to the jazz they play in the streets. I really thought I could still help people.”
He pauses for a moment and looks down at his shaking hand. This situation has taken a physical toll on him. Even when she gets home safely, and we will bring her home safely, he’s going to be dealing with the effects of this for years to come.
“Besides, I’ve come out hard on crime,” he says weakly. “If I give up at the first sign of trouble, people will think I’m a hypocrite. They’ll always remember me as the man who gave up, the man who let his personal life get in the way of his political promises.”
He gets up from the couch and walks over to the distant side of the living room. For the first time, I notice an end table with expensive bottles carefully placed on top. It doesn’t look like a bar cart, more like a museum display. Even from a distance, I can see that they’re vintage, probably gifts he’s acquired over the years. He picks up one of the bottles and stares at it longingly.
“An ambassador from France gave me this,” he says. “It’s a hundred and fifty thousand dollar bottle of cognac. It costs more than my first home.”
I whistle lowly, not sure exactly where he’s going with this. But I recognize a desperate man who needs space to process his feelings. He needs this.
“I always thought if my political career didn’t work out, I’d sell this bottle for cash. It’s my backup plan. Not that it’s as much money in this economy. A hundred and fifty K won’t buy me a double-wide trailer on the bayou.”
“Maybe a single wide,” I joke.
He opens the bottle slowly, regretfully, and takes a drink straight from it. He doesn’t even give it a moment to breathe. He swallows and his face screws up.
“Awful stuff,” he sputters, replacing the lid on the bottle and putting it back on the shelf. “Tastes like piss. Can you believe someone would waste so much money for shitty brandy?”
“You don’t have to do this,” I tell him sympathetically. “Give me a few more hours, I know we can find her.”
He shakes his head sadly. “We both know it’s over, Seer. You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t. They got to you too, didn’t they?”
“You’re a good man,” I tell him earnestly. “If you weren’t, they wouldn’t have to use Melissa to blackmail you. They—”
I stop short. Davis Thompson’s face still fills the screen, a determined look on his face. The caption reads:Davis Thompson: “We can’t let the terrorists win.” Well, if he isn’t the king of catchy phrases.
“Give me one hour,” I tell him, heading toward the door. “Cancel the press conference and shred your resignation. I’m going to bring her back.”
He follows me to the front door, looking confused and wary. Maybe it’s a longshot, but the feeling in my gut tells me that I’m right on the money with this.
“Please, Mayor Prudent,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster. “Screw your promise to me, screw our deal. I told you, I’m a father and I want to help you. I promise that I’ll have Melissa back to you before the night is over or you can shut down the Ruthless Kings and kick us all out of New Orleans.”
“That’s one hell of an offer,” he says, a hint of a smile on his face. “But I’m not holding my breath. You have an hour, then I’m starting the press conference.”
“It’s all I need,” I promise, pulling on my helmet and jumping on my bike. There’s a lot of ground to cover in an hour.
I race home and immediately call Pocus. I really, really don’t want to be wrong, but I do have to cover all my bases. I ask him to take Bones and check out the Bayou Reapers’ old hideout. Bones needs to get out of the house or he’s going to break something. Maybe even someone. And Pocus is the person I trust most in the world. He doesn’t ask questions, just agrees to come as soon as possible and get Bones.
I find Bones still in Snake’s office and tell him the new plan. He looks at me skeptically, but he’s never been one to question my authority. He sighs and slowly exits the room, heading straight for the front door.
Snake looks up at me with gratefulness. “What’s up, Prez?” he asks, his face lit up with curiosity. “Do you have a lead?”
