But they had to let him go. Not enough evidence to convict.”
“What about Lash Goebel? They must have been following him.”
“For sure. He had a file six inches thick. But nothing to connect him to the others. There was one interesting fact about him, however.”
“What’s that?”
“He was dying. Pancreatic cancer. I guess the killer did him a favor.”
“Keep digging Nick, I’ll get back to you.”
Sam flipped down the earpiece on his iPhone.
“So what’s the poop? C’mon let’s have it,” Esther nagged.
“After you left the Water Club, I dropped in on Tynan Wesley. It turned out to be a very informative visit.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, in the first place I believe our suspicions were confirmed about Lentz being victim number eight of the crossword murderer. The puzzle unquestionably identifies him.”
“How did you find out?” Esther asked.
“Wesley knew Lentz well from when he worked for Wesley at the American Standard. He positively identified Lentz as the victim in a flash.”
“You’re kidding,” Esther remarked.
“But as we speculated in the Water Club, what’s really bizarre is that Lentz himself must have realized that he was the intended victim. And he also must have known the time and place of his demise.”
“Then I still don’t understand . . . if Lentz knew he was the victim, why didn’t he tell you? Why didn’t he tell the police?”
“I’m not sure. Could be that Lentz thought he could stop the murderer on his own. He may have had some reason for wanting to keep the police out of it. Then there was something else that Wesley brought up.”
“What, Sam?”
“The killer mentioned the Pulers in the puzzle.”
“The Pulers? Sounds familiar.”
“It should. They were a left wing environmentalist group that headed a campaign against the building of nuclear power plants near large urban areas. They were based in Chicago at the time that Lentz was Op-Ed editor of the Chicago Sun Times. Apparently Lentz was a vocal critic of the group. He wrote a series of articles attacking them. What’s more intriguing is that most of the members of the group were killed in a mysterious house fire.”
“Sam, is it possible that a surviving member of the group is killing those who were responsible for setting the fire?”
“That’s an excellent theory, except for one thing. Nick checked the Bureau’s files and it turns out that two of the victims were Pulers. One of them was Everton Lebraun, the first victim, and the second was . . .”
“Eleanor Moreau,” Esther interjected.”
“That’s correct,” Sam replied.
“That has to be more than a coincidence, Sam.”
“If the same person who killed Lentz also killed Lebraun and Moreau, it has to be for a different reason.”
The jet began to taxi to the runway. Sam and Esther buckled their seat belts in anticipation of the takeoff.
“We’ll be taking off in just a few minutes, folks. I’m Captain O’Connor. My co-pilot is Captain Thomas. Your flight attendant is Jeannie Fenton. She’ll be back to see to your needs once we’re in the air. I’ll speak to you again when we’re ready to takeoff.” The plane moved to its position at the end of the runway, waiting for clearance. “Okay, folks, we’re clear for takeoff. Please be seated and fasten your seatbelts.”
The three jet engines roared while the plane held its position. The pilot pulled back on the throttle and they began to taxi down the runway. The Learjet picked up speed quickly and rose like a feather into the clear night sky. They reached cruising altitude in less than five minutes. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain said, “we’ve reached our cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet. We’ve got beautiful weather all the way across the Atlantic and a strong tail wind at our backs courtesy of the jet stream. We should reach Monaco in seven hours. I’ll be back to visit with you shortly.”
“That was a smooth takeoff, Esther,” Sam commented. “This is the latest model Learjet 43A, the engine purrs like my pussycat.”
“You mean that nasty Siamese cat that looks at me like I am invading his space every single time I visit you. That’s why we spend much time together in my place.”
“The engine may be quiet, but my ears are popping,” Esther replied.
“I’m sorry, I meant to give you a pair of these before we took off.” Sam pulled out a pair of pressure equalizers he had purchased at the drug store.
Esther took them from Sam and carefully read the back of the box. “According to the directions these have to be inserted before take-off,” she snapped, curling her eyebrows in an arch of scorn.
“Why don’t we both get some rest before you throw me out of the plane?” Sam answered, defensively, giving her a smile, with those steely blue eyes that always penetrated her armor.
Esther rested her head on Sam’s shoulder. They slept for about an hour before the flight attendant softly asked if they would like to order dinner. Sam had the filet mignon, Esther the Cajun bluefish. They polished off a full bottle of champagne. After dining, Esther excused herself and went to the ladies room. Sam took out the file on Eleanor Moreau, determined to finally read it.
Eleanor Moreau was born March 15, 1962, in Lafayette Louisiana. Her father was Stefan Chevalier, the wealthy wine merchant, and vintner of the wine that bears his name. She grew up in a bilingual home, French-English, located in the Hermitage district of Southern Louisiana, a suburb of New Orleans, noted for its courtly mansions that had survived the civil war. Eleanor was an excellent student and a fine student athlete, making second court on the Lafayette tennis team. But her passion was photography and politics. Though she had missed by over a decade, the radical 60s, she still managed to join several left-wing organizations at Louisiana State University. It was at a meeting of La Groupe Seconde, a French social democratic club where she met Eliot Moreau. Eliot, a political science major from Quebec, ardently advocated the secession of the Province from Canada. He spoke passionately at rallies and wrote a series of articles in the school newspaper justifying his separatist views. Eleanor would frequently photograph him at these rallies and the two struck up a relationship, which eventually led to their marriage after graduation.
Eliot attended law school at McGill University in Montreal, while Eleanor became a photographer for Scuff Magazine. Scuff covered the heavy metal bands and served up a healthy course of radicalism to its youthful constituency. Eleanor spent a good deal of time away from home following musicians on tour, attending biker conventions and demonstrations in favor of environmental causes. Politically, she and Eliot seemed to be drifting in opposite directions. Eliot abandoned his secessionist views in order to pursue a career in federal politics while Eleanor took up the banner of Greenpeace, a group dedicated to the preservation of whales. Whale riding presented a fascinating subject
