“Well, maybe there was supposed to be something in it, but there
wasn’t.”
“That would figure if her husband was double-crossing her.”
“How’s that?”
Sawyer sipped his coffee and then stood up. “If Archer is on the run,
one would think he is either planning to bring his family along at a
later date or dump them. Right?”
“Okay, I’m following you.”
“So if his wife thought he was on that plane, maybe on the initial leg
of his getaway run, then that would jibe with her being despondent over
the plane crash. She really thinks he’s dead.”
“But the money?”
“Right. If Sidney Archer knew what her husband had done, maybe had even
helped him pull it off somehow, she would want to get her hands on the
money. It would help get her over her grief, I’m thinking. Then she
sees the bag on TV.”
“But what could be in the bag? Not the cash.”
“No, but it could have been something to point her in the direction of
the money. Archer was a computer whiz. Maybe the location of a
computer file on a floppy where all the info on the money is stored. A
Swiss bank account number. An airport locker key card. It could be
anything, Ray.”
“Well, we didn’t find anything remotely like that.”
“It wouldn’t necessarily be in that bag. She saw it on TV and thought
she could get her hands on it.”
“So you really think she was in on this thing from the get-go?”
Sawyer sat back down wearily. “I don’t know, Ray. I’ve got no strong
feeling either way on it.” That wasn’t exactly true, but Sawyer had no
desire to discuss certain disturbing thoughts with his partner.
“So what about the plane crash? How does that tie in?”
Sawyer’s response was abrupt. “Who knows if it does? They could be
unrelated. Maybe he paid to have it sabotaged to cover his tracks.
That’s what Frank Hardy thinks happened.” Sawyer had stepped over to the
window while he was speaking. What he saw on the street outside made
him want to end the phone call quickly.
“Anything else, Ray?”
“Nope, that’s it.”
“Good, because I gotta run.” Sawyer hung up the phone, manned the camera
himself and started clicking away. Then he stepped back to the window
and watched while Paul Brophy, looking searchingly up and down the
street, climbed the steps of the LaFitte Guest House and went inside.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The typical noise and merriment usually associated with Jackson Square
would have made a stark contrast to the more modest proceedings of the
Quarter at ‘this time of the morning. Musicians, jugglers and
unicyclists, tarot card readers and artists ranging in talent from
superb to mediocre competed for the attention and dollars of the few
tourists who had braved the inclement weather.
Sidney Archer walked in front of the triple-steepled St. Louis
Cathedral on her way to find food. She was also following her husband’s
instructions: If he had not contacted her at the hotel by eleven ^.M.
she was to go to Jackson Square. The bronze equestrian statue of Andrew
Jackson, which had lent dignity to the square for the last 140 years,
loomed large over her as she made her way to the French Market Place on
Decatur Street. She had visited the city several times before, during
her college and law school days when she had been young enough to
survive Mardis Gras and even to enjoy and participate in its atmosphere
of drunken extravagance.
Minutes later she sat near the riverfront sipping hot coffee and biting
unenthusiastically into a fluffy, butter-filled croissant, idly watching
the barges and tugs along the mighty Mississippi as they made slow
progress toward the enormous bridge in the near distance.
Within a hundred yards of her, on either side, were positioned teams of
FBI agents. Listening equipment discreetly pointed in her direction was
capable of capturing virtually every word spoken by or to her.
For a few minutes Sidney Archer remained alone. She quietly finished
her coffee and studied the muscular river with its rain-swollen banks
and stiff whitecaps.
“Three dollars and fifty cents says I can tell you where you got your