Forbidden Fruit (6 page)

S
antos sat in the N.O.P.D. Homicide Division's waiting area, staring at the scarred linoleum floor beneath his feet. Shock and grief warred inside him, creating a kind of aching numbness, a pain so great he could no longer feel.

His mother was dead. Brutally murdered seven days ago. Stabbed sixteen times—in her chest and throat, her abdomen and back, in places too vile to be printed in the newspaper.

He bit down on the sound of grief that rushed to his lips, bit down so hard his teeth and jaw ached. The linoleum swam before his eyes. He fought off the tears, although in the last week he had learned that fighting the visible signs of his grief neither conquered nor lessened the pain.

Around him a sort of controlled chaos reigned. Officers came and went, a variety of perps in tow; family members of both victims and criminals milled about the waiting area; and lawyers, like sharks smelling blood, seemed to be everywhere at once. The noise level stayed at a dull, busy roar, punctuated by the occasional wail of anger or grief. Above it all, the desk sergeant's booming voice drilled directions, be it to civilians or fellow officers. Any moment, Santos expected to hear him shout, “Okay kid, Detective Patterson will see you now.”

Santos had been through this before. He and Patterson were becoming big friends.
Right.
Santos flexed his fingers, the urge to hit someone or something—preferably Patterson's arrogant mug—barreling through him.

From both the
Times Picayune
and the
State's Item,
he had learned the details of the murder. They had described where and how Lucia Santos had been stabbed. They had detailed the events of the last night of her life—she had gone to work at Club 69, where she danced nights; she had picked up a john, who had come home with her; she had been killed after intercourse. They had found a half-eaten apple beside the bed.

They had called her a prostitute. They had speculated that she had been killed by the john.

After Santos had read the story, he'd thrown up. Then he had gotten angry. Something about the tiny articles—less than three paragraphs each—had had an
“Oh, well,”
quality to them.
“Just another dead hooker. Who gives a shit?”

He had called the papers, called the reporters who had written
that.
His mother was not a prostitute, he had told the man. She was an exotic dancer. She'd been his mother. He had loved her.

“Sorry for your loss, kid,” they had both said. “But I write 'em as I see 'em.”

The police hadn't been any better. He had called. At first they had been kind, if condescending. They had patiently explained how the system worked. They had nothing new; they were doing their best. They had even questioned him; they had checked out his alibi. Then they had blown him off, same as they would a pesky insect.

Don't call us,
they had all but said.
We'll call you.

Santos would be damned if he would let them do that to him; he sure as hell wouldn't allow them to do that to his mother. Just because they thought she was nothing but another dead hooker.

He had called them every day—at least once. He had stopped by the station. Now, after a week of taking his calls and visits, they were less kind, less patient. No leads, no lucky breaks. On to a new victim.

Her body was barely in the ground, and they had closed the case. They hadn't told him that, but Santos knew it to be true. Some things didn't have to be spoken to be real.

Who cared about a nobody hooker?

Who gave a shit?

Santos dropped his head into his hands, his mother's image filling his head. He pictured her the way she had looked that last time he'd seen her. With his mind's eye could see her looking over her shoulder at him, smiling, waving goodbye.

He hadn't kissed her goodbye. He hadn't told her he loved her. He had thought himself too grown-up for that.

His eyes burned, and he pressed his lips tightly together. He kept his tears at bay, but the image in his head changed, shifted, becoming the nightmare images he awoke from every night, awoke from bathed in sweat, tears on his cheeks. Slasher-flick images of his mother and her attacker; his mother calling out for her son, begging Santos to come help her. And then he saw his mother as she had been when he'd ripped away the white sheet.

She had cried out for him; he hadn't been there for her. He had laughed at her fears. He had done what he wanted to, without concern for her feelings. Without concern for her safety.

And now she was dead.

Guilt clawed at him. He brought the heels of his hands to his eyes. She had been with that john because of him—because he needed school clothes and expensive doctor visits. She was dead because he hadn't been there to save her.

Had her last thoughts been of him? he wondered for what seemed like the millionth time. Had she been angry with him? Disappointed? Tears lodged in his throat, choking him. Why had he disobeyed her? Why had he stayed so late with Tina?

He hadn't remembered Tina until two days later and only then because the police had made him recount every detail of the night his mother had been murdered. They hadn't found her, but several of the other kids had verified his alibi.

Too caught up in his own pain, he had wondered only fleetingly what had happened to the girl, wondered if she had gone home and what she had thought when he hadn't returned for her. Those wonderings always dissolved into his own guilt and shame. His own pain.

If he had been home, his mother would be alive.

He knew it, deep down in his gut. It was his fault his mother was dead.

“You okay, Victor?”

Santos looked up into the kind eyes of the baby-faced officer from the other night. Jacobs, his badge said. The man had been more than decent to him, he had gone beyond his duty as an officer to try to comfort him. Santos's vision blurred; he tried to speak but couldn't.

The cop put his hand on his shoulder. “I'm really sorry, Victor. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Santos fisted his fingers, fighting for control. “Find her killer.”

The man's face registered regret. “I'm sorry. We're trying.”

“Right. Tell me another one.”

Officer Jacobs ignored his sarcasm. “I know how tough this must be for you.”

“Do you?” Santos asked, helpless anger rising in him. “Was your mother brutally murdered? Was her murder all but ignored? Treated like nothing but a…a two-bit, page-six news item?” Santos's voice thickened with grief. “And did you know in your heart that you could have prevented her death, if only…if only you had been home. If only you hadn't been—”

“Whoa, Victor. Hold it.” Jacobs sat beside him. “What do you mean, you could have prevented it?”

“What do you think I mean?” Santos clenched his hands harder, his eyes and throat burning with unshed tears. “If I'd been home…maybe the guy wouldn't have done it. Maybe my being there would have scared him away. Or, I could have fought him. I could have helped her, I know I—”

“You could have gotten killed, too. You probably would have.” The cop looked him straight in the eyes. “Listen to me, Victor. This man, whoever he is, is a vicious killer. The kind not likely to be scared off by a boy. This was not a random act of violence. He came home with your mother, planning to kill her. He's smart. We know that because he didn't leave any evidence. Because he made sure he wasn't seen. Our guess is, he's done this before. If you had been there, he would have adjusted his plan to include killing you. Those are the facts, Victor. Ugly as they are.”

“But, I could have—”

“No. You couldn't. If you had been in that apartment, you'd be dead. Period.”

“At least I would have been there, at least I could have tried to help her. At least she would have known that I…that I—” His voice broke, and embarrassed, he looked away.

“She knew you loved her, Victor. And she wouldn't have wanted you dead.” He patted Santos's clenched hands. “Let's go talk to Detective Patterson. Maybe there's something new.”

“I doubt it. All I've gotten from him is the runaround.”

Today was no different. More runaround. More bullshit. Santos stared at the detective, fury rampaging through him. He longed to lunge at the man. It would feel good, even though the burly officer would probably have him on his knees and cuffed before he landed the first blow.

But if he did manage to get in just one blow, it would be worth it, Santos thought, itching to try. It would be worth any amount of pain or punishment, if he could erase the man's arrogant, disinterested expression for just one moment.

“Look,” Patterson was saying, “I know she was important to you, but I have other, more pressing cases. If we find anything, we'll act on it.”

Santos jumped to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor. “You son of a bitch, you're not even trying. The only way you're going to get something, is if the killer waltzes in here and confesses.”

The detective folded his arms across his chest and cocked an eyebrow. “It happens.”

Jacobs put his hand on Santos's arm, as if sensing how close to violence he was, then shot his fellow officer a narrow-eyed glance. “Victor, we are trying. I promise you. But there's nothing for us to go on. I told you, this guy was smart.”

“So you're just going to let him go free? He's out there. Don't you care, doesn't that mean anything to you?”

“Yeah, it does. I hate it. And so does Patterson. But all we can do is follow the leads we have and wait.”

Santos shook his head. “Wait? What do you—”

“He'll do it again,” Patterson interrupted dismissively, returning to the seat behind his desk. “He'll do it again, and maybe he'll make a mistake. And then we'll get him.”

Santos stared at the detective, disgust and hatred roiling inside him. “Why bust your asses on this, the guy's only killing hookers. Right?” He fisted his fingers. “You think she was nothing. You think she was just a nobody hooker, so her murder doesn't matter. Well, it does matter.” Santos took a step toward Patterson's desk. “She was my mother, you bastard. I care. I give a shit.”

“Victor—” Jacobs caught his arm “—come on. I'll buy you a Coke.”

Santos jerked his arm free of the cop's grasp, not taking his gaze from Patterson's. He narrowed his eyes. “I'm going to find out who did this. Do you understand? I'm going to find out who killed my mother, and I'm going to make him pay.”

The detective made a sound of annoyed exasperation. “What can you do, Victor? You're a kid.” He shook his head. “You'll end up getting yourself killed. Leave the police work to us.”

Santos bristled at both the man's words and tone. “I would leave it to you, if you were doing anything.”

The detective's jaw tightened, all traces of understanding gone from his expression. “Look, I've had it with you. We're doing all we can, now beat it. I've got work to.”

“No problem,
Detective.
” Santos took a step closer to the officer's desk, feeling like his equal, no longer intimidated by the man's size, his position. The feeling was heady, empowering. Suddenly, he understood what it was to be a man instead of a boy. “But remember this, I don't know how or when, but I'm going to find the bastard who killed her, and I'm going to make him pay.” He placed his hands on the desk, his gaze still unflinching on the other man's. “And that's a promise, Detective Patterson.”

New Orleans, Louisiana

1974

T
o seven-year-old Glory Alexandra St. Germaine, the world was both a magical and frightening place. A place filled with everything a girl could want: beautiful dresses with lace, ribbons and bows; fine dolls with silky hair that she could brush; riding lessons and her own pony; real china tea sets for the parties she gave in the gazebo, and anything else she might point to and say she desired.

Her daddy was a part of that world, the most magical and wonderful thing of all. When she was with him, she was certain nothing ugly or unhappy could touch her. With her daddy, she felt safe and so special—like she was the most special girl ever. He called her his precious poppet, and although she thought the name too babyish for a soon-to-be third-grader and complained whenever he called her that in front of other people, secretly she liked it.

Her mother never called her by anything but her given names.

Glory shifted on the hard wooden chair, her bottom numb from sitting so long in the corner. Her corner. The bad-girl corner.

Glory sighed and stubbed the toe of her mary jane against the gleaming wooden floor, careful not to make a scuff. Her mother would inspect the area after releasing Glory from her punishment, just to make sure she hadn't been up to mischief during her penance. After all, her time in the corner was to be spent on prayer and self-reflection. Her mother had told her that at least a million times.
“Glory Alexandra St. Germaine,”
her mother would say,
“you sit in that corner and think about what you've done. You sit there and think about what the Lord expects from His good little girls.”

Glory sighed again. Other mothers called their daughters sweetheart or darling or love. She had heard them. Glory drew her eyebrows together, searching her memory, trying to recall even one time her mother had called her by one of those sweet names.

As always, she drew a blank.

Because her mother didn't love her.

Glory brought her knees to her chest and laid her head against them. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could close out her thoughts as easily, wishing she could shut out the truth. But she couldn't, and her thoughts made her feel afraid. And sad. They changed her world from a wonderful, magical place, to one that was dark and confusing. The one that frightened.

Many times she had tried to reassure herself that, of course, her mother loved her. Hope St. Germaine was simply a different kind of mama, one who didn't like to hold or be held, one who believed discipline was more important than affection.

But Glory didn't believe her own assurances, deep in her heart she knew what was true, no matter how much it hurt.

Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked against them. Why didn't her mother love her? What had she done to displease her? She tried to be a good girl, she tried to be everything her mother wanted her to be. But, somehow, no matter how hard she tried, she always fell short. She either laughed too loudly or too much. She ran when her mother wanted her to walk, sang when her mother wanted prayer. Even when pleasing other people, she disappointed her mother.

Glory sighed again. Her mother thought wanting others to like her, letting them do things for her, was wicked. But Glory didn't try to do that. With others, she got her way with nothing more than a smile; with others, she won affection without even trying.

Glory dropped her feet to the floor, longing to get off her chair and run and play. She loved to laugh. She loved to sing and dance and skip, her hair flying behind her. Mama said showing off that way was wicked, too. She said that wanting to be the center of attention was not what the Lord expected of His children.

Glory tried so hard to remember that, but sometimes she forgot. Like today. She squeezed her fingers into fists. Why couldn't she remember, the way her mama wanted her to?

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away. At least her mother would be up to collect her soon. She could see by the gathering shadows that it was getting near dinnertime, and her mama's punishments always ended in time for Glory to take part in the evening meal.

Her stomach growled at the thought of food, and she rubbed it, her mouth watering for the toasted cheese sandwiches Cook had prepared for lunch. The sandwiches she had missed because of her bad, wicked behavior.

“Mama,” Glory called. “Please, may I come out? I'll be good, I promise.”

Silence answered her. She bit down on her lip, so hungry her tummy hurt. She longed to suck on a finger, but her mother had caught her at that once and punished her again. Glory wrapped her arms around herself, struggling to deny the urge. Unclean, she reminded herself. Sucking on flesh was wicked, unclean behavior.

She heard the key in the lock and turned expectantly. “Mama?”

“No, precious. It's Daddy.”

“Daddy!” She flew out of the chair and raced toward him. With her father, she didn't have to ask permission to leave her corner. With her father she didn't have to apologize or explain what she had learned during her penance. Her daddy always loved her, no matter what.

He swung her into his arms and hugged her tightly. She hugged him just as tightly, feeling as if the day had just begun, sunny and full of promise.

When he set her away from him, she knew by his expression that tonight she would hear her parents' raised voices. Her father would call her mother too harsh, she would call him lenient. Her mother said that if left to him, Glory would grow up evil and wanton.

Her parents' fights always ended the same way—with absolute silence. Once, Glory had crept down the hall and listened at their bedroom door. She had heard her father groaning, as if he were in great pain. She had heard her mother's breathless laugh. The sound had been triumphant and had seemed full of power.

Something inside the bedroom had fallen, hitting the floor with a crash. Terrified, Glory had scurried back to her own room, climbed onto her bed and under the covers, drawing them tightly over her head.

Breathing hard, heart thundering, she had waited—for her mother to come and punish her; for the morning when she would learn that her daddy was hurt or dead. What would she do if she lost her daddy? she had wondered. How could she live without him?

She couldn't, Glory had realized. She would die herself.

She hadn't slept for the rest of that night, the fears roiling inside her, colliding, stealing everything but her ability to cry.

“Precious?” Her father tipped her face up to his, his expression concerned. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Tears flooded her eyes, and she hung her head. “But I…I was bad, Daddy. I'm sorry.”

He didn't respond, but when she peeked up at him, she saw that his throat was working, as if he wanted to say something. She lowered her eyes once more. “I picked some flowers from the garden and gave them to Mr. Riley. He's so nice to me, and I wanted to make him smile. He looks so sad sometimes. I'm sorry. I won't do it again.”

Her father squatted in front of her and tipped her chin up. “It's all right, precious. We have plenty of flowers in the garden. And it's good to want people to be happy. I told your mommy that you can pick as many as you like and give them to whomever you like. She just didn't know.” His mouth tightened. “Do you understand, Glory?”

“Yes, Daddy. I understand.”

And she did, because they had been through this many times before. But it was her father who didn't understand. If she did as he said she could, whether it was picking the flowers, or running down the church steps after mass, or playing hide-and-seek without permission, her mother wouldn't punish her, but she would still look at her in
that way.
The way that made Glory feel ugly and bad. The way that made her want to curl up and die for shame.

Glory shuddered. She couldn't bear that look from her mother, it was worse, much worse, than any amount of time in her corner, any amount of physical reproach.

So, despite her father's assurances, she wouldn't pick flowers for Mr. Riley or anybody else—until she forgot again and acted without thinking first.

“I have an idea,” her father said suddenly. “How about going to dinner at the hotel tonight? We'll go to the Renaissance Room.”

Glory could hardly believe her ears. Every Sunday after mass, for as long as she could remember, her father took her down to the French Market for
beignets
and caféau lait. Just the two of them. Afterward, they went to the St. Charles, and he walked her through, explaining every aspect of the workings of the hotel to her, letting her spot-check the café dining room, pretending not to notice when she sneaked nuts from behind the bar or chocolate mints from the cleaning carts.

But he had never taken her to the Renaissance Room, the hotel's five-star restaurant. Her mother said she wasn't old enough, that she was too ill-mannered for the elegant restaurant.

“The Renaissance Room?” Glory repeated. “Could we really?”

He tapped the end of her nose. “We really could.”

Glory remembered her mother, and her spirits sank a bit. Visiting the hotel wasn't nearly so fun with her mother. When her mother accompanied them, Glory had to be quiet, as good girls are seen and not heard. She had to concentrate on her table manners, remembering to sip and nibble and use her napkin often. When her mother accompanied them, the usually friendly hotel staff was stiff and solemn; they never winked at her or gave her treats.

Glory bowed her head. “Mama says I'm too young for the Renaissance Room.”

“We won't invite her,” he said, tilting her face back up to his. “It'll be just you and me.” He grinned. “But remember, you'll have to wear a dress. And your good shoes, the ones that pinch.”

Glory didn't care if she had to wear mousetraps on her feet, she still wanted to go. She threw her arms around her father, unable to suppress her excitement. “Thank you, Daddy. Thank you!”

 

Glory did, indeed, wear the shoes that pinched. She and her father had only just arrived at the hotel, and already her toes hurt. Ignoring the discomfort, she gazed up at the St. Charles's balconied facade, her chest tight with a combination of pride and awe. Glory loved the St. Charles, everything about it, from the old, paneled elevators that creaked as they took passengers up to the thirteen guest floors, to the constant flow of people moving through the lobby, to the way it always smelled, of furniture polish and flowers.

Everyone here liked her. Here she could laugh and skip and have as many yummy minty chocolates as she wanted; here she could roam about at will, without worry of a scolding.

And, too, she loved the hotel because it was completely her father's. Everything here had been touched by him, and in a strange way, to her, bore his resemblance. She felt safe in the hotel, as if her father's arms were wrapped protectively around her.

Sometimes Glory thought that as much as she and her father loved the St. Charles, her mother hated it. Because she had no influence here, no say in how Philip ran the hotel. On a couple of occasions, Glory had heard her mother make a suggestion concerning the hotel, and Philip had responded sharply, in a way Glory never heard him speak to his wife.

The valet rushed over and opened her car door. He smiled. “Hello, Miss Glory. How are you tonight?”

She returned his smile, feeling very much like a grown-up lady. “Very good, thank you.”

Her father came around the car and handed the valet his keys. “We'll be a couple hours, Eric.” Her father took her hand. “Ready, poppet?”

She nodded and they crossed the sidewalk to the hotel's grand, leaded-glass doors. The doorman greeted Glory with a wide grin. “Evening, Miss St. Germaine. It's nice to see you again.”

She returned his greeting, acting as adult as she knew how. “Thank you, Edward. It's nice to see you again, too. We've come for dinner.” She lowered her voice reverently. “We're going to the Renaissance Room.”

“Very good.” He opened the door for them. “I hear the strawberry sundae is excellent tonight.” He winked at her, and she giggled.

Her father laced their fingers and together they stepped into the St. Charles's sweeping front lobby. As always, her first moment in the hotel took her breath away. It was so beautiful, so grand. Above their heads, a huge chandelier sparkled like a thousand diamonds; under their feet, thick oriental carpets cushioned each step. The brass fixtures gleamed, the solid cypress woodwork had been waxed to a high shine.

Her mother called the hotel's decor tasteful opulence; Glory thought it, simply, the most beautiful place in the world.

“You did very well out there, Glory,” her father murmured, squeezing her hand lightly. “I'm proud of you. You'll be a wonderful general manager one day.”

Glory beamed up at him, feeling about to burst with pride. Her father had been bringing her here since she had been old enough to walk beside him; he had talked her through almost every aspect of the day-to-day running of the hotel. Many of those she didn't understand, but she always listened raptly, enthralled as much by what her father was saying as by the fact that he was saying it to her.