Viktor Watt took three days to find a suitable apartment, all the while reveling in his own madness. It wasn’t the raving, lunatic style madness of a gunman. There was no spontaneity to his urges, no impulsive action. Rather, Watt enjoyed the planning, the delicate operational style he created within his own mind. There was a certain joy his madness brought him, a perspective separating him from the masses. On any given day, he could sit back and see what others around him couldn’t see. The vulnerability of a housewife in a parking lot, the helplessness of a young coed too inexperienced to lock her window at night. He saw what others didn’t, a constant parade of potential victims, all tasty and young, vibrant with life, passing his door every day. He mingled among them, talked to them and counseled them. Most saw him as a mentor. He was a wolf among the sheep.
Raised in Europe, the product of a doting mother and alcoholic father, Watt spent the better part of his youth wandering the streets of one capital or another. His father, an engaging industrialist with a taste for good bourbon and
violence, was a monster. Thankfully, he was gone most of the time, only returning to beat his son, or his wife, or both of them together. At 10 years old Watt realized his mother bordered on the feeble minded, a weak woman, easily manipulated. Or perhaps his father made her that way. Growing up, he was drawn to gritty streets, the back alleys where the only rules were to survive, take what you want, and leave the weak to suffer from their own inadequacy. He was a good student, making his way through a top school in Paris, where he spent his days at University earning good grades and the respect of his professors while ravaging the prostitutes he found in the littered streets.
His first kill was a young American he found standing at the gate to Pere Lachaise cemetery. She was clutching a map, a confused look on her face. He smiled at her. The friendly smile gave her the confidence to approach him, map in hand. She was looking to visit the grave of Jim Morrison, couldn’t find it, could he help?
“Certainly,” he said. He had a vision of her slender neck twisting under his hands. “Head straight up this street, take the first two right turns, then the first left. It’s a little off to the side. You’ll see the barricades. They fence it off to keep people from damaging it anymore.”
“Thanks. I’m not good with maps.” She was a small girl, slightly built, wearin
g a yellow tank top and jeans. She was also talkative now that the ice was broken. “This is my first trip to Paris and all my friends said I had to come see the grave and take pictures. I’m not a big Doors fan though.”
“Everyone is a fan of The Doors,” Watt said. “At least t
he tourist industry in Paris is. Lots of people come just to see his grave. Come on, I’ll show you where it is. I have the day off anyway. Where else have you been?”
It was just that easy. She was a young and naïve young traveler with wealthy parents
and no street smarts. The Paris trip was a graduation gift. He spent the day with her, taking in the Eiffel Tower, the Old Paris streets of Rue Clere, and the bustling shopping district around the Arc de Triomphe, walking the twelve radiating streets among throngs of tourists and vendors and merchandise peddlers. They ate lunch on Boulevard Housmann, dinner on Boulevard de Charrone at a small café where the waiter had excellent manners, and a generous hand with the wine. The neighborhood clattered around them. He paced himself. She drank freely. He offered to walk her back to her hotel. She accepted.
The killing was easy, the sex afterward delightful. When it was finished he stroked her hair, took a shower in the small room, let it run while he rummaged through her things. He took the money, left the rest. He had plenty of money but there was no use leaving it behind. Before he left he bent
over the bed where the girl lie sprawled, eyes staring at a ceiling she wouldn’t see again, and kissed her on the forehead. “I hope you enjoyed your trip to Paris,” he whispered in her ear. “C’est la vie.”
Four years and some number of dead women
women later he left Paris with a degree in European history, took a job in the United States at the University of New Orleans, a young and growing commuter college in a city with deep connections to France. His pedigree was perfect, his personality pleasing. The University was happy to have him and he was happy to be surrounded by flocks of young and eager minds with lithe bodies and the easygoing party atmosphere of the Crescent City. Perfect.
For Victor Watt, who now saw himself as The Artist, Cindy Kelt was the next step in the evolution of his art. The spontaneous killings of opportunity had to end. He was a respected professor in a growing college. He had too much to lose now. Everything must be planned, a battle of wits against both his victim and the police. He played a simultaneous game in which he was both the hunter and hunted. He would stalk his victim, set her up, and reap the rewards. He knew his activity would catch the attention of someone in authority. Soon he would be the prey. He intended to stay several steps ahead. The thought excited him though he knew he had to be careful.
Two days after his encounter with Kelt
, he spent the day looking for apartments. He found one just off Elysian Fields in a lower middle class neighborhood, just right for a newly divorced man starting over. A woman answered the bell, dragging herself to the door with a cane on each hand and a cigarette dangling from her lips. She was wearing a flowered housedress with ashes spreading like a bib under a chin rolling down in waves.
“Yeah?” she said.
“I see you have an apartment to let,” Watt said. “I’d like to take a look at it if I could. I’m looking for a place close to the University for the summer session.” He was wearing a Saints baseball cap, sunglasses, and a white T-shirt.
“You a student? I’m telling you right off I don’t put up with any parties. Had enough of that with the last people. Always playing their music and people coming and going in the middle of the night.”
“No, M’am, I won’t have any of that. I’m only here for the summer session and don’t know anybody in town yet. I’ll only need the place for three months if that’s alright.”
“I only take cash. No checks. Been burned like that too.”
“I understand. Cash is fine. If I like the place that is. Is it furnished?”
“Got a bed and some tables. A sofa and coffee table in the living room. Nothing’ fancy but college students don’t need fancy.”
“Can I take a look at it?”
She eyed him up and down.
There was no long hair sticking out from the cap and no outrageous clothes. Livia Schumaker was no fool and she smelled money. The room had been empty for six months because she wouldn’t put up with any foolishness. This kid looked clean, maybe a little older than most of the kids who came knocking on her door looking for a cheap place to party while in school. He was decently dressed and polite.
“You heard me when I said cash, right?”
“Yes, M’am. I heard you. I can do cash. But I really have to see it first, please.”
Another look. “Wait here.” She shuffled off into the house, leaving Watt standing at the door. He could hear a game show playing on a TV somewhere. The house smelled
of cigarettes and beans cooked in an open pot. She came back clutching a small gold key, handing it over reluctantly.
“You’ll have to let yourself in. I don’t get around so good anymore. Bring the key right back.”
Twenty minutes later, he had the key in his pocket and Livia Schumaker had a hundred dollars in the pocket of her flowered housedress. A strictly cash transaction, no ID necessary. The place was perfect. There was a covered garage in back and a rear entrance. The backyard was a jungle. Livia didn’t spend money on a place nobody else could see. If he wanted to cut it that was fine with her. The rest of the rent, and a deposit, were due in a week. He left smiling. A week was plenty of time. He wouldn’t need that long.
“What you need is some practical experience. I can’t just send you overseas without some working knowledge of how a police department operates,” Wesl
ing said. She was in her office. Cassie Reynold sat across from her in front of her desk.
“Why do I need that? I have no intention of having anything to do with a police department. You need someone dead. God knows I know how to do that. I spent three years with you sending me through every kind of weapons training and tactical training you could throw at me. I already know how to kill people. Don’t you remember Virginia?”
“This isn’t Virginia. This is a completely different thing. You’re not running around like a loose cannon anymore. When you go after a target, there’s going to be a ton of people investigating it afterward. There won’t be anyone over there to cover anything up for you like I did in Virginia. You have to do everything yourself. You can’t make any mistakes. I’ll give you ID, money, and get you a cold weapon. After that, you’re on your own. Getting away clean is just as important as getting the job done. I want you back here with no problems.”
“Afraid of losing your Ace in the Hole?” Cassie asked.
Wesling put down the folder she was holding. “That was uncalled for.” She softened her tone. “Listen, after Virginia, after Ronnie died, I would have helped you anyway. You know that. It was you made the decision to take this path. If you wanted to disappear forever, I would have helped you do that. You chose to join this organization. Why, after what we put you through, I don’t know. It was your choice. If you want out, tell me now and I’ll get you out. Once you take the assignment there’s no going back. What do you want to do? You’re either in or out. If you’re in you take orders from me. There’s no other way to do it.”
Cassie said nothing. Wesling always told her the truth, no matter the situation. During the long weeks after Virginia, Wesling had seen to it that Cassie had time to think. No pressure, no commitment asked. The decision to take up the profession of killing seemed like the only thing left to her. She was good at it and she knew it. Where it came from, even she didn’t k
now. Those killings though, stemmed from necessity, the need to defend herself and Ronnie and their future. With him gone, she saw no future, had given in to what she saw as her fate. This was cold blooded killing for political gain, or national security, or the whim of some unknown bureaucrat somewhere for reasons they probably didn’t even know. She saw no other way out and nothing else seemed possible.
“Okay. If you say it’s necessary I’ll do it. What do I have to do?”
Wesling turned back to the folder. “I’ve got a contact in the New Orleans Police Department. They’ve agreed to let you work with one of their detectives, a guy in Homicide. His name is Kurt Dupond. My contact says he’s one of the best they have. You’ll be operating as a new agent receiving training in a cooperative effort with Federal authorities. Go along, learn as much as you can. Then we’ll talk about the overseas assignment. We’ve got some time on that.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Reed, “ Dupond said. “Don’t I have enough on my plate? I’ve got this Lakefront thing I’m working on. I don’t have the time or patience to be dealing with breaking in a Fed rookie.”
“Cooperation with Federal authorities is essential to maintaining a good relationship with the people who decide on funding, Kurt,” Alton Reed intoned. He was playing politician, a job he loved. “You know we depend on funding. The city doesn’t have enough money to get us the things we need. We have to have those Fed dollars. If we don’t cooperate with them, they don’t cooperate with us.”
“Give the guy to Blake. He doesn’t have much going on. I’m not a babysitter”
“First of all, Blake is an idiot and he’s going on leave. Second of all, I was asked to provide a top notch investigator and that’s you. Finally, it’s not a guy. It’s a woman, and they tell me she’s sharp as a tack. She just doesn’t have any experience. That’s where you come in.”
“Making friends, Alton?” Dupond shot back. “The kind of friends who might be able to help if you wanted to run for say, Mayor, in a few years? Governor maybe after that? Senator?”
“Well, it certainly won’t hurt to play along. Take her with you, teach her a few things. Then we cut her loose. It’s part of the job. You’ll live through it.”
“What do you get out of it?” Dupond asked again.
“The department gets some money for new equipment in the forensics lab. I get some new friends. You get a feather in your cap and a commendation on your sheet. Everyone is happy.”
Dupond was ready to fight more when Adan stuck his head in the door. “Sorry, Chief. Just got a call. We got a guy on the phone says he went to check on an apartment for his neighbor. Says there a woman dead in the apartment.” He looked at Dupond. “He also says she’s tied to the bed. Like Chaisson.”
Watt’s apartment was in West End, in a block of units that looked out over Lake Ponchartrain. It was upscale for a college professor but since the death of his parents and the money his drunken but very efficient father had left, the price was easily affordable. A small sailboat he used on weekends rocked against the dock behind the apartments. He was sitting on the terrace watching the waves, reliving the very satisfying experience of Cindy Kelt.
She answered on the second ring. He was calling from a pay phone outside the University cafeteria, a precaution in the event the police checked her phone records. With thousands of students and hundreds of professors and associates and university workers
, there was no chance of tracing the call back to him.