Heart of Lies Read Free Page B

Henson had gone very pale.
    “Are you all right?” he asked. “I know it’s not a pretty tale.”
    “Why are you questioning me, Mr. Abbott? Of all the people in New Orleans?”
    “Like I said, because you are privy to things that happen on the streets. Because you have contact with women from the brothels. You do, don’t you?”
    She closed her eyes and gave a slight shake of her head. “Yes, of course, when they come to us.”
    He had the feeling there was something she was hiding.
    “Would you rather I speak to your husband after all?”
    “No.” She shook her head. “I’m the one who can help you. I grew up in the city.”
    “Have you ever heard the name Megan Lane?”
    Mrs. Henson’s face was completely impassive. Staring across the room, she fingered a small wooden cross hanging from a thong around her neck. “I have no recollection of it.”
    “Have you ever heard the name Dexter Grande?” he asked.
    Her eyes widened. Her hand gripped the cross. She said nothing.
    “Mrs. Henson? Do you know him? Do you know where Grande is?”
    Tom had searched through years of orphanage, school, and cemetery records in his search for Megan Lane. He’d gone through adoption decrees and whatever relevant paperwork had survived the war.
    “Where did you hear that name? Dexter Grande?” Elizabeth Henson whispered.
    “From a woman who works in the archives of the office of the mayor. She helped me comb through the Records of the Disposition of Destitute Children. She had no proof, but she has heard tales of a man named Dexter Grande who ran a gang of street thieves. He was supposed to be a Fagan of sorts, straight out of the pages of Dickens.”
    Tom noticed the woman’s hand trembling as she lowered it to her lap. “Dexter Grande is dead,” she said.
    “You knew him?”
    Her eyes had taken on a faraway look. “I knew him a long time ago. Before the war.”
    “Can you tell me anything? Anything at all?”
    “Dexter Grande fancied himself a mastermind behind a band of street thieves, small children mostly. There were a few trusted older boys, but when they were around fourteen, he sometimes forced them out. Most of them, anyway. Younger children were more malleable and ate less.”
    “How did he come by these children?” Tom had a feeling he already knew but he wanted to hear it firsthand.
    She shrugged. “Anywhere he could. There were so many orphans.” She sighed. “There still are.”
    The records Tom had seen attested to as much. Yellow fever often struck the city with a vengeance. It had in the mid-fifties when Megan Lane disappeared. Relatives too poor to feed orphaned children often turned them over to institutions. From Elizabeth Henson’s reaction, Tom was certain that she knew even more than she was willing to say. He glanced out the window and lowered his voice.
    “Did you belong to Dexter Grande’s street gang?”
    She raised her eyes to meet his. Hers were wide, round, and very blue. Blonde curls showed beneath the brim of her hat. Laura Foster, his client, was a lovely woman too — fair-haired and blue-eyed. This woman could very well be her sister. Elizabeth Hensondid not match the brief description Mrs. Foster had given him, but looks changed over time.
    Was it possible that after meticulously combing through records and interviewing people all over New Orleans, he had inadvertently stumbled upon Megan Lane?
    “Were you part of Grande’s gang of thieves?” he asked again.
    “His tribe.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “He called us his tribe.”
    Us.
    “Did Grande find you in an orphanage?”
    She started to stand, then sank back to the bench as if her legs wouldn’t hold her. She stared through the open doorway to the dark street beyond.
    “No, I know exactly where I came from and I know who my people were. I’m not proud of where I’ve been or what I’ve done, Mr. Abbott. It’s not a story I will tell. Ever. Believe me when I say I’m not the one you are looking