“Things are coming together now, Gabe. I'm going over to Rene's house and take a look at the file on your parents' murders.”
“Be careful. That monster's still out there somewhere. He's probably the one who threw those grenades. If he's killing off surviving victims, he'd want me dead, and you're hot on his trail. Two birds with one stone. Nick was just collateral damage.”
“You just rest and don't go anywhere. When Black gets back, tell him I've gone to Rene's house to get the file. I'll be home in a little while. Tell him not to worry. I'll be fine.”
“He does worry. He's not going to like you taking off by yourself.”
“I know.”
“You got a pretty nice thing goin' here. He's good to you. And he's been good to me, and he doesn't know me from a hole in the ground. But I appreciate it.”
“Yeah, I know. I'm sorry I had to ask you these questions, Gabe. Bring everything back like that.”
“Just get him. For Sophie. I want to get him for her. No telling what he did to her when he found her that night. I try not to think about that part.”
“Get some rest. I'll bring the case file in and let you look over it, if you want to.”
“Be careful. This guy's good. He's gone a long time without getting caught. And now he's probably pretty anxious, thinkin' that you're getting too close. Just be alert.”
“Oh, I will, trust me. I've learned that the hard way.”
And that was true. She wasn't going to take any stupid chances. She wanted to live a while longer. But this guy. He was pure evil and they had to bring him down. They would, too; she was sure of it now. His brutal little maze of terror was going to be out of business very soon.
A Very Scary Man
Malice was absolutely furious. Nothing was going according to plan. Nothing. Claire Morgan was still on the case, even after he'd warned her off with that voodoo doll with her picture on it. Why the hell she hadn't been jerked off the case was the real question. He was irritated to damn death about that, and then what did she do? She found another one of his survivors almost at once and paid her a visit, too. It was just a matter of time before she and her partner started putting two and two together and suspecting him.
So now dear little sexy Wendy had to go, too, whether he liked it or not. But he did like it. It was high time that he cleaned house anyway. He had been young and stupid back then when he'd let them get away, and the biggest fool who ever lived to allow them to keep living all these years. There had been countless times in the past when he could have killed Madonna and Wendy without getting caught. Now it had become more risky, but it was something that had to be done. Quickly and efficiently and without leaving any evidence behind.
So he planned out the attack, thoroughly, examining every possible exigency as he'd learned to do. This time he chose just after dark when everybody in Mimosa Circle was either preparing their evening meal or settling down in front of the television set for their favorite primetime programming. He had cased out the place for several nights and found it to be very quiet at that particular time. It would be fairly easy to approach her house without being deemed an intruder. He came in through the woods behind the complex on foot, climbed the fence, and made his way to her place, avoiding streetlights and keeping in the shadows. No one was around except one jogger passing an intersection a good ways down the street, the place very quiet and peaceful. No going up and knocking on the front door this time. Wendy's neighbors lived way too close for that. Besides, Wendy was a lot smarter than Madonna Christien. She wouldn't let him in so easily. But he had no problem getting inside her apartment. He just picked the lock on her back door and cut the chains with his bolt cutter. He had become quite adept at breaking and entering, especially at picking locks, practicing daily until it only took him a few seconds. He entered silently, his bag of voodoo gear in tow.
Once inside her apartment, he looked around and realized that she was upstairs. He crept stealthily up the steps, pulling on his heavy leather gloves. She was in her bedroom, sorting through the clothes hanging inside her closet. She never even saw him coming. He crept up behind her and hit her in the back of her head with one hard fisted blow. She went down in a heap, too stunned to resist his assault, and he took his time beating her to within an inch of her life before he grew tired of it. She had become a problem for him all right, and he didn't like problems. He used the glow of the little night light beside her bed to sew her eyes and mouth shut, a nice touch since he was effectively hushing her up for good.
After that, he had plenty of time to paint her face and molest her body a bit before she died, and then he straddled her waist and strangled her until the bones in her throat cracked and gave way under the pressure of his thumbs. He got off on that sound every single time he heard it. After he was sure she was dead, he spent time cleaning up after himself and setting up the altar downstairs in the foyer. He made it as identical as he could to the one he'd fashioned for Madonna at the LeFevreses' old house. Murder had become as easy as pie for him, a highly enjoyable pastime. He felt better now that she was dead and could tell no tales. Loose lips sunk ships, and all that jazz. So now, he was going to have to remedy that, once and for all, by killing any and all of his survivors. There weren't all that many; he was too good at what he did for that.
Even better, Claire Morgan was still running around in circles. He was fairly certain she didn't know what the hell was going on, and he wasn't leaving her any clues to go by. Let her think it was some voodoo-obsessed crazy, getting off on sewing up lips and eyelids. And maybe this time, when they found a second doll with Claire's picture pinned to it, maybe then her stupid sheriff would come to his senses and assign the case to somebody else. Better yet, he might assign her young and inexperienced partner to run things. That would be even better.
If not, he would just have to kill her, too. He smiled at that thought. Actually that wasn't such a bad idea. He would just murder her, or better yet, maybe he could capture her and throw her inside his maze. Talk about a worthy opponent to pit against his cruel games. It would be quite the interesting challenge to see if she could outwit him. Yeah, he had to find a way to get her out to his little island paradise in the swamp, where they could get to know each other really well. There were all sorts of things he could show her. She wanted to know what his victims suffered? Well, he'd just show her.
Decided on his next course of action, he packed up his gear, wiped down Wendy's place for any DNA he might have left, relocked the back door, and then faded into the night, very satisfied with his night's work. Sometimes murder was just too damn easy for words.
Chapter Twenty-five
It only took Claire a minute or two to drive to Rene's house. He lived in the Quarter, too, in an old home with an inner courtyard like Black's. It wasn't as big and fancy and expensively furnished, but it had been handed down in his family for years. She pulled up and parked across the street. Lights were on upstairs in his living room behind the white wrought-iron balcony that overlooked the street. Underneath Rene's gallery at street level, there was an automatic garage door with a pedestrian portal right beside it, one affixed with a buzzer to ring for admittance. She pressed the button, then stepped back and looked up at the second-floor balcony. A couple of minutes later, Rene leaned over the railing and peered down at her.
“Hey, Claire. C'mon up.”
From somewhere inside, she heard a click as he automatically unlocked the door, and she entered a dark hallway, then climbed a narrow enclosed stair to the living area. Rene met her at the top of the steps. He was home for the evening, dressed in a charcoal-gray nylon running suit marked on the back with NOPD in big white letters. He wore scuffed black leather slippers and held a cocktail in his hand, a dry martini with three green olives on a toothpick.
“Well, this's an unexpected pleasure,” he said to her. “I didn't expect you to show up so soon. How about sittin' down and havin' a drink with me?”
“No, thanks. I've got a few questions I want to ask you and then I need to see that murder file.”
Rene nodded and sipped his drink. Claire walked past him into his living room. It was large and spacious and airy with well-worn, apricot-colored couches facing each other. A black grand piano claimed one corner, and expensive modern art covered the walls. Claire had been there once for a Fourth of July celebration when she'd lived with the LeFevreses. It hadn't changed much at all.
“Nice place, Rene. Looks the same as years ago.”
“My mama had good taste. I can't take the credit for the furnishings. Sure you don't want that drink? Martini? I've got more in the pitcher, ready to pour.”
“I don't think so.” Enough of the pleasantries, already. She turned and waited for him to meet her gaze. “I really need to see that file, Rene. It is here, right?”
Instead of answering her question, he turned around and walked to a dry bar built inside a tall antique rosewood cabinet. He said nothing as he refilled his stemmed glass from a small cut-glass pitcher. He ate the olives, then skewered three more and plopped them into his fresh drink. Claire said nothing, either, just waited. But she didn't like his delay in answering and felt like it was an excuse to think of a reason to deny her the file. Her impatience was simmering, ready to erupt into a full boil.
Rene took a sip and looked at her over the rim of his glass. Then he heaved an audible sigh. “Sit down, Claire. Let's talk about this, calmly and rationally. You got to know how sorry I am about all this. Gabe's like a son to me. Come on, have a drink.”
“I said that I don't want a drink. I want to see that file.”
“Sit down, please.”
Claire sat down on the sofa. Rene took his place on a black leather club chair directly across from her. Apparently, he had been reading when she rang the bell. An open book sat on the hassock in front of him, a thick biography of Andrew Jackson, alongside Rene's black-rimmed reading glasses.
“Okay, what do you wanna see?”
“First off, I want to see the murder file you compiled on the LeFevres murders. I know you buried the facts of the crime at Clyde's request, in order to protect Gabe. But you still have it, don't you?”
Rene still procrastinated. He wasn't keen on discussing the subject. He no doubt felt that he had put it to bed a long time ago and didn't want to wake it up. “I didn't destroy anything. Everything the police came up with I've got right here in my safe. I took the whole thing out of storage after the case was sealed and went cold. Nobody knows about that, and nobody can know. I've come too far in my career to get busted for stealing a police file going back twenty years.” He frowned some, obviously perturbed at the thought, and then he drained his glass and leaned toward her. “Claire, I've got to warn you. The photos in that file are pretty hard to look out. I know how much you loved the LeFevreses.”
“Go get it, Rene, please. It might help me bring in a serial killer who's been on the loose way too long.”
“God, it's just hard to deal with this all over again.”
Rene hesitated, wasted more time, the story dragging out as slow as twenty-degree molasses. Claire tried to be patient, but the problem was, she wasn't patient.
“There's something else, too. Something even Clyde and Gabe and the other guys don't know. I've never been able to bring myself to tell them. It's just too ugly.”
Claire tensed for the coming blow. Then she realized there couldn't be anything worse than what she'd already heard. Ugly seemed to be the word of the day. So, okay, bring it on, the next chapter in this sordid tale. “All right, let's hear it.”
“I uncovered some dirt on Bobby. Something real bad. I didn't like it. You won't, either.”
Claire mentally braced herself. She did not like where this was going. She'd been hit with so many curveballs during the last week that she felt like a Major League backstop.
“I hate to say this, but, well, he got himself in trouble, involved with the Mob operating out of Algiers. He went on the take.”
As a cop, that hit Claire pretty hard. She found it hard to believe, too. And again Black's black-sheep brother was cropping up in the investigation, which was never good. “I can't imagine that. He was as straight as they come.”
“I found evidence of it and confronted him. He begged me not to tell Kristen, but I told him that I couldn't let it ride, that I had to take him in. He wouldn't let that happen. Couldn't stand for her to know he was dirty.” He paused again, looked unhappy, and his next words dragged out, his voice heavy with sorrow. “You know what I think happened? I think he killed Kristen and then committed suicide.”
Well now, that scenario certainly didn't jibe with what Gabe had just told her. “So now you're telling me that they weren't murdered?”
“I can't prove it, no. But they were killed with a .45 and his service weapon was right there beside him.”
“Did the ballistics check out?”
“They were inconclusive, but I think he wanted to end it all and couldn't bear to leave her behind. You know how he felt about her.”
Yeah?
Only thing was, none of that made a lick of sense. And it sure didn't measure up with Gabe's version of witnessing a masked man kill his parents. “That's not what Gabe saw. And if it was a murder/suicide, who took Gabe and Sophie? And why?”
“Gabe saw the murder? He remembers what happened to him? Why, he never even mentioned it to any of us.”
“No, he kept it to himself. He wanted to find the killer and avenge his family.”
“So he can identify him?” Rene sounded excited at the idea. “We can get him?”
“No, the killer wore a mask. He thinks he can recognize his voice though.”
“Man, no wonder he takes the chances he does. I'm sorry he remembered. It had to have been horrible. The way we found his parents out in the bayous with the kids missing, and all that. We searched out there for days, but didn't find a damn thing until Gabe finally showed up, half dead, his memory gone.”
“Yeah, I know all that. Just give me that file, Rene. Let me read through it. Maybe I'll see something that you've always been too close to see.”
Rene didn't argue further. He got up and left the room. Claire stood up, too, restless and full of suppressed emotion. All this was coming at her a little too fast and too furiously. Too many angles, too many theories that just didn't add up the way they should.
Moving over to the open French doors, she inhaled the cool night air. Somewhere nearby, she could hear Christmas music. “Jingle Bell Rock.” A happy sound. She wished she were happy. She wished this case hadn't come up now. She wished she and Black could put up that huge evergreen tree he'd brought from New York or go shopping at the Riverwalk Marketplace or have some fun groping each other under some mistletoe, something, anything that was cheerful and pleasant. It sure would beat looking at a police file with horrible pictures of dead people she had loved dearly. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the wail of police sirens that drowned out the happy sounds of Christmas. Well, that was just par for the course. She only hoped the NOPD wasn't headed for her house.
She glanced down at the round glass-topped table beside her. It displayed lots of framed photographs. She bent down and looked at each one in turn. Many were of Rene himself, at places unknown, young and handsome, rugged and tanned. A few more were of him in his dress police uniform, both recent and long ago when he had been a rookie patrol officer. Yet another was one with Bobby LeFevres. The two men were posed together beside a black-and-white police car with a third man that she didn't recognize. Grinning arrogantly at the camera, both dark and good-looking and proud. She wondered who the other man was. He wasn't in uniform, but he had his arm hooked familiarly around Bobby's neck. She put the picture down and found a smaller one, in a shiny silver frame, sitting behind the others. She picked it up.
It portrayed a group of young friends, having fun and posing, grabbing each other. Rene, Bobby and Kristen LeFevres, and the fourth person looked like a very young Clyde LeFevres, displaying his usual irrepressible smile. All looked to be carefree teenagers, laughing, as they sat together on the front steps of an old house. Rene had on a maroon and white letter jacket with a football letter and had his arm draped around Kristen's shoulders. Bobby sat one step down, leaning against Kristen's legs and wearing a similar letter jacket with football insignia. Kristen had her fingers entwined in Bobby's thick black hair.
All of them were smiling straight into the camera. Claire marveled at how much Gabe now looked like his dad had back then, both having those ultra-intense brown eyes. Also wearing an identical letter jacket, Clyde was sitting in front of Kristen, smoking a cigarette, turned slightly and looking adoringly up at her. They had all been in love with her, Claire suddenly realized, all three men. And she had been so beautiful back then, with her pale blond hair and clear green eyes and quick smile. She had been beautiful when Claire lived in their home, too. Claire remembered that about her.
She examined the house behind them in the photo, trying to see if it was the one she'd lived in with them and the location of the Christien crime scene. It looked very old, rundown, peeling white paint, some of the wood splintered or boards completely ripped off. Up on the porch behind them, there was a boarded-up front door, but then she saw it, and her heartbeat slowed to a standstill. A fancy fleur-de-lis was carved into the newel post just behind where they sat. She brought the photo up closer to her eyes, and then she held it underneath the lamp, just to make sure she wasn't seeing things. There was no doubt. The carving was the very same fleur-de-lis that she'd seen earlier. The snapshot had been taken on the front steps of Rose Arbor, Jack Holliday's plantation house out on River Road.
“You like that picture, eh? That was back in our first year in high school. We were all freshmen. Except for Clyde, he's a junior in that picture, not long before he went to sea.” Rene stood in the threshold of the corridor. He had a large black three-ring binder in his hand.
Claire held up the photograph. “Where was this taken, Rene?”
“We were out at an old abandoned plantation house on the river. We used to hang out there all the time, pickin' up pecans off the ground and sellin' them for change.” He laughed. “And then we'd all go to the movies together. All of us guys used to fight over who got to sit by Kristie. Times were pretty simple back then. I miss those guys. The way we were then. We couldn't've imagined what the future was bringin' down the road. Good thing, too.”
“Who took the picture?”
“Nat, I guess. I don't remember. He's always been a good friend of Clyde's, older than him, though. Back then he was the caretaker and lived somewhere down behind that house, still does, I think. It's Jack Holliday's now, you know. His family bought it a long time ago and restored it. They call it Rose Arbor.”
“Yeah, I met Old Nat out there. Who carved that fleur-de-lis on the banister?”
“Nat did, I think. He likes to carve things, does good work, too, or used to. Don't know about now. He carved Kristie a fleur-de-lis necklace, too. Her mom decided to bury her in it.” Rene shook his head. “That was a sad time for all of us.”
“Do you remember when the place was restored?”
“No. It's always been a beautiful house place, up there on the hill overlookin' the Mississippi. We had lots of good times out there. Nat was pretty good about givin' us the run of the place. As long as we didn't break out any windows or steal anything off the property, he let us be.”
“So he was the caretaker that far back?”
“Yeah. He loves that place.”
“Is that the murder file?”
“Yeah, and everything's still here.”
Claire took it from him and sat down in a chair beside a bronze floor lamp, the glass shade painted with beautiful pink roses. Rene poured himself another drink, but this time he didn't offer her one. Then he lounged down on the couch where she had been earlier. She put the binder on her knees and opened the front cover. It was mainly composed of graphic crime scene photographs, all right, all of them old Polaroid insta-prints, now faded and curling around the edges. At the back of the notebook, she found some typewritten reports, the paper also yellowed with age.