“Why is that?” Rachel asked.
“For starters, he carried himself a lot nicer than most homeless people who wander around here. The clothes he was wearing were a little disheveled but somewhat clean. His hair was neatly trimmed, and there was a little stubble on his face, but otherwise he was in good shape. I gave him a ten-dollar bill and invited him to eat with me. I had a feeling the guy would have an interesting story. We sat at that table over there.” Keith pointed to a booth a few feet away. “We both ordered dinner, and while we waited to be served, I tried to make some small talk. I started by asking him what his name was and where he was from.”
“What did he say?”
“A strange look crossed his face. I just figured that something bad must have happened to him and he didn’t want to talk about it. So we talked about the weather and sports instead. Or I should say that I talked. He didn’t say much of anything. He didn’t even eat that much. Just a few sips of water and a couple bites of food.”
“What was his mental state like?” Rachel asked.
“He looked a little lost, maybe confused. Thank goodness the food came quick. We ate in silence. I asked him if he needed a lift anywhere when we were done. He said no, thanked me again for the money and the grub, and then hit the restroom. I paid the check, and while I was pulling out, I saw him stumble out to the parking lot. I thought he may have been drinking, but come to think of it, I never smelled any alcohol on him.” Keith shrugged. “That was the last I saw of him until I spotted the flyer.”
“When was that?” Rachel asked.
“The next morning when I left Jackson, I headed out back on the road to Katy. I always stop at the Feed and Fuel near my house. When I headed inside, I saw a flyer on the door with this guy’s face on it. I was shocked. I immediately pulled out my phone and called the tip line.”
Red finished his coffee and pushed the cup aside. “The call came into our hotline, and Janine called me right away. I headed
up to Baton Rouge and met Keith later that morning. Along with the Baton Rouge police department.”
“He never mentioned having a family or living in New Orleans?” Rachel asked.
“The only thing I got out of him was his name. Matt. I remember that because it’s my nephew’s name. Like I said, I figured the guy was down on his luck. With this economy, you’d be surprised how many men and women are on the street looking for work.”
Rachel took a business card out of her purse and slid it across the table to Keith. “Please call me if you remember anything else.”
Keith fingered the card before putting it in his wallet. “I’ve been watching the news. Do you think he killed his wife and kids?”
“We don’t know yet. He may be suffering from memory problems.” Rachel finished her iced tea and put a twenty-dollar bill on top of the check.
“I’d tend to believe that. He looked really lost. Sort of dazed and confused. I hope everything works out and y’all find his family.” Keith stood up to leave. “It was nice to meet you.”
Rachel waited until Keith was out of earshot. “Well, that was a total loss.”
“Not completely,” Red said. “We have established somewhat of a time line. Matt and his family went missing sometime Wednesday evening between six and seven. Keith ran into him in the truck stop parking lot on Thursday evening at eight thirty.”
“What I want to know is how Matt got to Baton Rouge from New Orleans. We’ll head to New Orleans in the morning and start at where Matt’s truck was found.” Rachel looked at her watch. “I need to catch up on my sleep,” she said. “Since we don’t need to go back to the truck stop in the morning now, we can leave around nine tomorrow?”
“I’ll be ready.”
As they pulled into the hotel parking lot, they spotted Agents Krapek and Phipps putting their luggage into a dark sedan. She checked the time. It was almost midnight.
“Leaving already?” Rachel said, surprised.
A quick look passed between both agents. Rachel immediately knew something was wrong. A knot settled in her stomach.
“They’ve found a woman’s body in Houma. No identification yet, but we’re going to check it out,” Phipps said.
“Where is Houma?” Rachel asked.
“It’s about an hour southwest of New Orleans,” Phipps said as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “A lot of swamp. We’ll let you know what we find out.”
Rachel watched as they pulled out of the parking lot. She put her hand on her stomach, regretting the blackened alligator appetizer she’d eaten earlier. “I hope that doesn’t turn out to be Matt O’Malley’s wife.”
“Yeah, me too.” Red took her by the elbow as they walked into the lobby. “Me too.”
R
achel and Red left the hotel early the next morning, when the sunny mid-September air still felt cool. The road to New Orleans was crowded, but they still made good time. An hour and a half later, Red and Rachel pulled into the parking lot where the O’Malley truck was last seen. Red shifted the car into park. As Rachel stepped out, she noticed the heat of the day was already picking up.
She followed Red over to a patch of asphalt. “According to the police report, this is where Matt stopped to check his tire,” he said. “The truck was found with the back hatch opened, a flat rear tire, and a tire iron with specks of blood. His wife Erin’s purse was on the passenger floorboard. The kids’ backpacks, soccer equipment, and a cooler were all in the back. The backseat DVD player was still running.”
Rachel looked up, wishing she could know what Matt O’Malley had seen that evening. Now, in the bright morning sunshine, this place seemed completely ordinary. It was a parking lot bordered by the Mississippi River to the south and a hotel chain to the right. Nearby was another parking lot with an attendant station and signs for a paddleboat river ride. She observed several
people walking around the riverfront and coming in and out of the hotel.
“It’s hard to believe that nobody saw anything. Anywhere around the riverfront in New Orleans is always jumping with tourists.” Rachel had observed a casino, the aquarium, paddleboat operators, several hotels, and the convention center within minutes of the lot. “When the O’Malley family pulled in here around six thirty or seven o’clock in the evening, the sun would just be setting. Plenty of light.” Rachel looked again at the hotel entrance. “Any chance of security cameras?”
“Yeah,” Red answered. “The detective in charge of the case said they checked it out and found nothing in range of the parking lot.”
“Between here and the city park, Matt stopped for gas. Do we know which gas station?” Rachel asked.
“The police traced his credit card, which was used at a local Chevron located a few blocks away on Poydras Street. About a five-minute drive from here.”
“Police talked to the people at the gas station?” Rachel asked, guessing the answer. Red’s experience as a police detective made him a very thorough investigator, and he would have looked at every angle.
“Nothing out of the ordinary there. No working security cameras on the outside of the station. Matt paid at the pump. Didn’t even go inside.”
“Working security cameras inside the gas station?” Rachel asked.
“Just on the inside,” Red confirmed.
Rachel knit her eyebrows together. “Any reason why we shouldn’t look at the tape anyway? Matt may have been followed. We could have Chris look at the tape. See if he notices anyone familiar,” she said.
“Good point. I’ll check with my contact to see if I can get a copy.”
“You got the whole area covered with flyers? Talked to all the tourist joints around here?” Rachel felt sure the answer was
yes,
and that only made her feel more frustrated. How did a whole family just disappear in an area that was crawling with tourists?
“I had the team put a flyer on the window of about every storefront between here and the French Quarter,” Red said, nodding.
“No calls yet on the tip line?”
“We’ve had the usual nut jobs call in. The only solid lead was a person saying they thought they saw the O’Malley kids at a McDonald’s in Lafayette. It’s about two hours from here. Turned it over to the detective working the case here, but nothing came of it.”
Anytime Florida Omni Search got a call for help to find a missing person, they put a team in place immediately to start canvassing the area where the person was last seen. Rachel had a database of thousands of volunteers in almost every major city in the United States. Once they got the call for help on the O’Malley case, Janine and her team had created a flyer that was e-mailed out to the team leader in New Orleans, who in turn printed and distributed the information.
“The team took to the street all weekend handing out flyers and talking to tourists and business owners. Hell, the O’Malley family is well-known in the area. And with the media coverage this case is getting, if someone saw anything, we’d know by now,” Red continued. Rachel sighed. Red sounded as frustrated as Rachel felt. It was one thing to find a missing person, but to find a missing family that vanished into the thin air was another thing.
“I wish we’d get word on the body they found in Houma,” said Rachel. “Hopefully that will give us more to go on than an empty parking lot.”
“I’m sure we’ll hear something soon enough. If not from Krapek, then from Detective Kerry Jones at NOPD. Apparently, Detective Jones knows Chris and Matt from working with them on cases involving O’Malley bond clients, so she’s been good about
sharing information,” said Red. “Let’s take a ride by the O’Malley residence. Maybe something will shake loose there.” Rachel followed Red back to the car, and moments later they were headed for the Garden District.
“Impressive,” said Rachel, as Red pulled up to the wrought iron gate and she got her first view of the O’Malleys’ home through its ornate bars. It was a beautiful Victorian house on a magnificent lot covered in stately oak trees. A police cruiser kept guard just outside the entryway.
“Think we can go in?” Rachel asked.
“Only one way to find out. I’ll be right back.” Red parked behind the cruiser and got out. Rachel watched as he went up to the patrol car and talked to the officer behind the wheel. After a few minutes, he waved for her to get out of the car. She met him at the front gate.
“How’d it go?”
“Good. I had him call Chris O’Malley, and he gave us the green light to go inside. The front door’s unlocked.”
W
hen Rachel entered through the front door, she thought she’d stepped into an issue of
Southern Living
magazine. The spacious foyer was covered with black-and-white marble tiles. To the left was a small parlor that looked rarely used; to the right, a grand dining room with a table that could comfortably sit twelve people, and a magnificent staircase that led to the second floor. Rachel walked straight ahead to a big open kitchen that was straight out of a reality TV cooking show: she spotted stainless steel Viking appliances, black granite countertops, a wood-burning pizza oven, and a wine cooler just in one glance. Off the kitchen area was a small breakfast nook that overlooked the backyard, and a patio with a gorgeous pool. A family room to the right held two comfortable leather couches, a couple of oversize recliners, a plasma TV, a fireplace, and a checkerboard game table.
“Nice house,” Rachel said.
“Chris said his brother put big bucks into renovating after their dad passed away.”
Rachel followed Red out to the backyard. The area around the pool was cleverly landscaped with rocks, waterfalls, and palms so
that it looked like a tropical oasis. At the end of the pool was a built-in stone hot tub, and beyond that, an outdoor kitchen, complete with a grill, sink, stove, and refrigerator. A large flat-panel TV was hoisted over a tiki bar with a palm-thatched roof and four barstools.
“Wow, this puts my Miami home to shame,” Rachel said.
Rachel still kept the large home that she had once shared with her ex-husband and Mallory. She was having trouble coming to terms with the idea of selling it. After the divorce, she’d moved to a small bungalow that was closer to her office. Now it was just her and Maggie, and she didn’t need all the space the old house had. It was time to start letting go of the house, but she wasn’t sure how.
She looked at the second story of the garage. “Guest quarters?”
“Two-bedroom apartment. Chris said that Erin used it as an art studio.”
“Let’s take a peek.” Rachel walked up the wooden stairs and found the door unlocked. The apartment had a small kitchen and living room. Through one door she saw a queen-size bed that was unmade. “Huh, I wonder who sleeps here?”
The other door was closed. She tried the handle. Unlocked. She pushed the door open. Art canvases littered the room. It smelled heavily of paint and turpentine. A drawing board held several sketches. Rachel picked one up.
“Creepy.” The picture was pencil drawn and featured an old cemetery with broken headstones and a foggy background. “This is really unusual. She has these beautiful watercolors of the Mississippi River and jazz musicians but pencil sketches of old graveyards and skulls. It’s almost like two different people were working in this studio.”
“Yeah, check this out.” Rachel turned to where Red was standing and joined him before a small table covered in deep purple velvet and littered with statues and half-burned votive candles.
“What the hell is that?”
“Looks like an altar of some kind.”
Rachel knelt down to take a closer look. The statues were of different shapes and sizes. One was an old man carved from stone. His eyes were misaligned and too big for his head. He was shirtless and his nipples were pierced.
She stood up and wandered over to a small desk. It was neat compared to the rest of the room, with a small stack of bills on one side and a plain notebook on the other. Rachel picked up the notebook, and a business card fluttered to the floor. She bent down to pick it up. The card was plain, black and white, with weird symbols on it.
“Madame Verdene’s Voodoo Shop,” she read aloud. “Located in the French Quarter on St. Peter Street.”
“Maybe that’s where Erin buys her stuff for the altar,” Red said.