Hoffman was about five feet ten inches tall with dark complexion and the serious look cops have to cultivate to be successful on the street, especially if your beat is Bourbon Street. He looked trim and fit and I would guess his age to be early forties. Perps would think twice before messing with Officer Hoffman.
We were having early morning lattes at a table in a back corner of Café Du Monde, the world-famous open-air coffee house beneath the Mississippi River levee on the edge of the French Quarter. We were deep in conversation about Tennessee football and last week’s game. Having worked the Knoxville police force for nine years, Hoffman had become a fan even though he had grown up in Louisiana.
“So,” he finally said. “You didn’t come all this way to talk Tennessee football. What’s on your mind?”
I slid my file and personal notes on the Ed Sanders accident across the table. While he read it, I quietly sipped my latte that was just beginning to cool enough to drink. When Hoffman finished he slid the file back and stared at me for a few seconds in silence.
“Mary Sanders ask you to look into this?”
I nodded. It was, at least, a partial truth.
“She never thought it was an accident,” Bud said.
“What did you think?”
“Initially, there were some things that I thought didn’t add up.”
“For instance?”
He looked out toward the levee and let out a deep breath.
“I’m out on I-640 cruising toward Broadway early in the morning,” he began. “I come around this long sweeping curve and I think I see a flash. Then I see car taillights about a half mile up ahead on the side of the road. I get a little closer and it looks like a fire, so I hit the lights. The car at the side of the road takes off. I get to the spot where the car was and I see another car engulfed in flames down over the embankment. At that point I have a decision to make.”
“Chase the car or look for survivors.”
“Exactly! So I decide the car that left probably just stopped to see what was going on and I spooked it when I hit the lights.”
He was a lot more animated than when we first started talking.
“Didn’t make much difference,” I interrupted. “You would have still had to check out the accident.”
“Exactly!” he said again with emphasis.
“So I go over the hill and look and see if I can find anyone and I find Ed Sanders who was apparently thrown from the car. I check for life signs. None. Looks like a broken neck. So I call it in and while I’m waiting I look for skid marks. None. So I figure he must have fallen asleep at the wheel and run off the road.”
“Did you check the car for other passengers?”
“Tried to. The fire was hotter than hell and had already set the brush around it on fire, so I couldn’t get that close. Wouldn’t have made much difference. Nobody could have survived inside that inferno.”
“What made you think it might not have been an accident?”
“No one particular thing,” he said and paused. “Combination of things. No skid marks but upon examining the grass on the side of the road it appeared the car was going very slow. You follow?”
“Yeah. If the car had been going at least the speed limit it would have sailed some distance before touching ground,” I answered.
“Exactly! And the fire was extremely hot and there was already a lot of burning around the car.”
“Like it had help,” I offered. “And it had only just started because you saw the flash.”
“Exactly!” Bud said. He was in love with the word. I imagined he drove some people at the precinct crazy. Maybe it was why he was no longer in Knoxville. Still, he seemed to have a good grasp of what had transpired.
“And then I started thinking about the car pulling away and later Mary came to me convinced it was murder. I guess she told you her reasons?”
I nodded. He was winding down.
“So for Mary I did some checking and could find nothing to support murder. He certainly had been drinking. The history was there and everyone was convinced it was an accident. If it was murder it was well concealed and there were no leads.”
He paused again. “But, it could have been an accident.”
“Did the coroner’s report confirm the broken neck?”
“Yes. And head injury consistent with being thrown from the car.”
We sat in silence and drank our lattes and watched one very well built young lady pass by on the sidewalk not far from our table and smiled that knowing smile at each other that only men can share.
“Why did you leave Knoxville?” I asked.
“Change of scenery.”
“Politics?”
He started to say “exactly” but caught himself.
“Politics,” he nodded.
I returned to the Residence Inn to find Sandy hard at work trying to balance her checkbook. I had witnessed this scenario before. I knew enough to keep quiet so I tiptoed to the couch with the latest Spenser novel and sat down to read. I occasionally heard “shit” or “damn” and then I heard a rather loud scream.
I buried my head deeper in my book and tried to look inconspicuous. It didn’t work. I felt Sandy sit down beside me. I looked up. She was wearing that expression I had seen before, a sweet, sexy, helpless look.
“I need help,” she purred.
“No way.”
“Please,” she pleaded.
The “please” was dripping with female seductiveness. I was destined to cave in but I wanted to put up a good fight.
“How long has it been since you balanced that thing?”
“A couple of months,” she said weakly.
“Couple of months!”
“Help me do this and there will be a reward for you after,” she said, rubbing up against me. I had to bite my tongue to keep a straight face. She knew she had me.
With as much seriousness as I could muster I asked, “What reward?”
“Use your imagination,” she whispered close to my ear.
“I have a very active imagination,” I said.
“I know. So do I.”
“Then let’s take a look at this checkbook of yours.”
We stayed in the Big Easy the entire week, finally leaving the following Sunday. Each day after Tuesday we decided to stay “one more day” until Sandy finally said she had to go home. I felt like we were on our honeymoon rather than what it was, a final fling. We made love twice a day in every conceivable way. We walked every block of the French Quarter and I felt like we stopped in every store. We spent hours at the flea market. I say we when I really mean Sandy. I was just tagging along enjoying watching her delighting in all the things to see, to touch, to decide upon. Every night we picked out a different, but equally famous, French Quarter restaurant and had exquisite meals. We talked about everything except the move and what was to become of us. Sunday came all too soon.
On the flight home, Sandy was staring out the window apparently lost in thought.
“Good time?” I asked. She turned toward me.
“A very good time,” she smiled. It was a sad smile.