Murder in the Garden District (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries) (11 page)

I sat down hard on the couch.

“That’s a—”

“Digital camera, yes. You’re welcome. I just got it in the mail today—it’s so cool. And how cool is it that I got a chance to use it already! Now we can download the pictures on your computer. I got a good one of the passenger, I think, but I wasn’t able to get the driver.”

She reached into the filthy backpack over her left shoulder and dug out a cord, then sat at the computer, plugged the cord into a port and attached it to her watch.

“Which reminds me, boss. What have you done to warrant being watched by the Feds?”

“The
Feds
?”

“Maybe not Feds specifically, but they reeked of law enforcement. I don’t think they were NOPD. We get plenty of them at the Catbox Club and I know ’em when I see ’em. They’re usually lousy tippers.”

She frowned at the computer screen. Her fingers flew over the keyboard.

“Which is really annoying, since our tax dollars pay their salary. I say cut out the middleman and I’ll just tip myself, thank you very much. Ah, there we go.”

I looked over her shoulder as the pictures downloaded and she moved them into a folder she created on the desktop. She quickly named the folder “Feds,” opened it, highlighted all the pictures, and opened them.

“That thing takes pretty damned good pictures,” I said.

“You can get one at surveillance.com,” she said as she enlarged the pictures. “They have all kinds of cool stuff on there.”

There were shots of the car, and one good shot of the guy in the passenger seat. He looked to be about thirty-five, with dark, brush cut black hair, a square jaw, thin lips, and strong cheekbones. He wore a dark jacket over a dark tie and a white shirt. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. Abby was right. If he wasn’t a Federal agent, I’d eat her watch camera.

“Print that one out. Did you get one of the license plate?”

“Of course I did. Do I look like an amateur? It should be the next picture.”

She clicked it open and printed it.

“I’ll have Jephtha trace the plate when I get home.”

“Nice work, Abby.”

I removed the pictures from the printer tray and took them to the couch. It was entirely possible that whatever agency these guys worked for, they weren’t after
me
. I couldn’t think of anything I might have done to warrant being watched. And they weren’t
following
me—I would have noticed that. They were just watching my apartment.

But watching for what? And why? It was more than a little unsettling.

Had I done something to warrant Federal involvement? These days, who knew what would pique their interest?

“That’s another lunch you owe me,” Abby said. She lit a cigarette and plopped into my reclining chair. “And when I tell you about my afternoon, you’re not only going to buy me dinner at Commander’s, you’re going to give me a raise.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” I responded as usual, placing the pictures on the coffee table.

“You don’t want to hear about my little chat with Carey Sheehan? You could always wait for the report. I was writing it up when you called.”

“Don’t tempt me to fire you.”

“Pooh.”

She blew smoke in a steady stream up into the ceiling fan.

“All right. After I left Slice this afternoon I went home and checked on a few things. The Sheehans aren’t Catholic, so where would they send their kids?”

“Newman.”

Newman was a private school on Jefferson Avenue where wealthy Uptown non-Catholics sent their kids.

“Okay, of course they go to Newman, that didn’t require a lot of thinking.” She flicked ash into the carved glass ashtray on the coffee table. “Or, rather, Alais went there, Carey still does. He’s on the swim team. I found out when they practice, and headed over there and waited. I did the schoolgirl look, as you suggested. And you were right, Carey is very hormonal. He’s going to be a looker when he grows up.”

“Spare me the pedophilic details.” She made a face.

“I waited until he was heading for his bicycle, then called his name. I pretended I was an old friend of his sister’s, and was wondering how Alais was doing. I’d lost her cell number, and was only in town for a couple of days before I left to go back to school, and it would be great to see her. Luckily, one of the kids yelled at us before Carey could ask my name.
Hey, Carey, is that
your babysitter?
I remember the type. I hated them when I was in high school. Poor Carey turned beet red. So, I put my arm around him, kissed him on the cheek, and looked the asshole right in the face. ‘I’m his date,’ I told him, ‘and he’s more of a man than you’ll ever be.’ You should have seen the look that smug little bastard gave me. Of course, Carey was grateful, so I suggested we go for coffee. We went to the CC’s at the corner of Jefferson and Magazine.

“That’s one lonely kid, Chanse. All the other kids at swim practice were in groups, laughing and joking and horsing around. Carey was by himself. No one talked to him or anything. I felt bad for him. He kind of reminds me of what Jephtha must have been like at that age—kind of geeky, all bones and angles.”

“That sounds like Jephtha now,” I teased her.

She gave me the finger, and went on with her story.

“We sat in a back booth at CC’s. He just shrugged when I offered my condolences about his stepfather. I got the sense he wasn’t very close to Wendell. I wanted to ask about his real dad, but didn’t want to tip my hand, so I asked about Alais again. That’s when it got really interesting.

“Alais hasn’t left the house since she came back from Ole Miss. She hardly leaves her room. A shrink comes by three times a week to talk to her. Carey doesn’t know what it’s all about, but his mother and his grandmother are really worried. He thinks she got into some kind of trouble at Ole Miss. How did he say it? She was completely different when she’d come home for spring break. Then she was always in a good mood, always wanting to go somewhere and take him with her. She was in love, always talking about this boy she was dating. Sometimes she’d sneak out late at night to meet him. Their parents had no clue. I used to do that, too.”

“Did she ever mention the boy’s name?”

“For some reason she was keeping it all a secret. She didn’t want the parents to know she was seeing someone. From what you’ve told me about the family, the boy was probably someone they wouldn’t consider suitable for her. Anyway, poor Carey said Alais was his only real friend, and he’d been looking forward to the summer so they could have more fun. But she came home looking really sick—pale, listless. She doesn’t talk to anyone, just stays in her home. She doesn’t even turn on her cell phone. If any of her friends call the house, she won’t talk to them.

 “He looked so sad. My heart almost broke for the poor kid. And then he saw what time it was, mumbled something, and tore out of there. I guess his mother keeps him on a tight leash.”

Her eyes glinted. I sensed that she hadn’t finished.

“And?” I said.

“Before he left, Cary told me that Alais was a Kappa up at Ole Miss. So, I called the Kappa house and spoke to the housemother. I am so glad I never joined a sorority! If Mrs. Fisk is any indication of what housemothers are like, God help sorority girls. Very judgmental, and into all their business. I pretended I was Janna Sheehan.”

“Nicely done, Abby. You never cease to amaze me.”

She stuck her tongue out.

“Thank you. It
was
a damned good job. I said I was calling because I knew she’d be concerned about Alais and would want an update on how she was doing. It was a risk, but it’s not like I was going to see her in person. I figured a housemother would have a maternal interest in the girls. I also figured that it wouldn’t even occur to the Sheehans to let the housemother know how Alais was doing. If I was wrong, I could just hang up. No harm, no foul, right? But I was right. Mrs. Fisk hasn’t heard a word from the Sheehans or Alais since the girl came home, and did she ever want to talk. I told her that Alais wasn’t getting any better, she was being medicated for depression, and her shrink was at his wit’s end because she told him nothing. Did Mrs. Fisk know anything that could help the poor girl out?”

She leaned forward. “You’re going to
love
this, Chanse.”

“You’ve pretty much already earned a dinner at Commander’s,” I said.

“Great. So, Mrs. Fisk tells me, ‘Poor Alais hasn’t been the same since her boyfriend died.’”

“Let me guess—he fell down the stairs and broke his neck,” I said, half joking.

She looked like she’d swallowed a canary, and it had been quite tasty.

“No, but could you imagine if he had? Once that woman started talking, she wouldn’t stop. Most of it was nonsense, but I finally got his name out of her. I found as much as I could about it on the local paper’s website.”

She reached into her backpack, pulled out a folder and handed it to me. I opened the folder. A handsome young black face stared at me, next to the headline, STUDENT KILLED IN ROBBERY. He was wearing a jacket and tie—it looked like a school photo—and seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. His name was Jerrell Perrilloux and he was from New Orleans.

“He was found on a Sunday morning when he didn’t show up for work at Starbucks,” Abby explained. “His manager kept calling him, and was worried when he got no answer. So after work he went by Jerrell’s apartment to check on him. The door was ajar and he found the body. Jerrell’s computer and cell phone were missing, but nothing else.”

“Poor kid,” I said.

I rifled through the printouts. The police had no leads. He’d last been seen on a Saturday afternoon, by the girl he was dating, but her name wasn’t released to the papers—no doubt the fine hand of the Sheehan family, although it seemed odd that they had strings to pull in upstate Mississippi.

“I can see why Alais is having problems,” I said.

“Mrs. Fisk—the racist bitch—made it clear she didn’t approve of Alais’s taste in boys. And apparently some of Alais’s sorority sisters didn’t much care for the notion of one of their Kappa sisters dating a black boy. The police questioned all of them, but found nothing. Alais and Jerrell pretty much kept as low a profile as they could in a little town like Oxford.”

“Maybe the romance started before then. Did you—”

“I was just getting started on looking into him when you called,” she interrupted. “Jerrell went to Warren Easton, and I don’t imagine students at Newman have much call to mix with public school kids—at least not if Cordelia was their grandmother. And Jerrell was a year ahead of Alais at Ole Miss. I’ll get back to work on it at home.”

She slid the picture of the car’s license plate into her bag.

“Anything else? Should I catch up to Carey again? I didn’t really ask him about what happened Monday night.”

“Give that a rest for now. See what you can find out about Jerrell and his family.”

I filled her in on my conversation with Loren. He’d been clear we were to stay away from the Sheehan family, but Jerrell Perrilloux wasn’t a Sheehan.

“So keep looking into this kid—it may be nothing, but…”

Abby hoisted her backpack over her shoulder.

“It’s interesting how people who get close to the Sheehan family keep dying,” she finished my thought dryly, adding, “I hope that doesn’t include you and me.”

“That makes two of us,” I said.

Truly, timing is everything. When a bullet whizzes past you unexpectedly, it doesn’t happen in slow motion. Time doesn’t stand still. One moment, you are peering through your blinds before starting to turn away. In a matter of seconds, you hear the crack of the gun and the window shatters.

I felt the bullet buzz past my ear and heard it crash into a wall somewhere behind me. Instinct was already driving me downward as awareness dawned of what had happened. My hands were over my head, my heart was pounding and my ears were ringing as shattered glass rained over my body. I hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud.

But I felt nothing. As my mind formed coherent thoughts again, I wondered if another bullet was coming.

I’d stayed up late rehashing what Abby told me. About an hour after she’d left, she’d e-mailed me her report on her conversations with Carey Sheehan and Mrs. Fisk. I’d read them several times, and drank more of Loren’s vodka. There was something there I couldn’t find, and sometimes a bit of vodka helps lubricate my thought process. I’d finally given up around one in the morning and gone to bed, figuring that whatever was there might be clearer after a good night’s sleep. I didn’t set the alarm. My mind was exhausted from processing information, and it wouldn’t hurt to allow myself some extra rest. So I’d woken up late this morning.

I’d just put an English muffin in the toaster when I had the bright idea of checking to see if the car was there again. Still in my underwear, I’d opened the door blinds and looked. There was no car, and as I’d turned away, thinking,
You really are getting paranoid
, the window exploded.

I lay on the floor taking deep breaths, to slow my heart rate. I was having a major adrenaline rush. My hands and legs were shaking. In that state, I would be an easy target for the shooter—if, in fact, he were still out there waiting for another shot at me. My gun was across the room, locked in my desk drawer. I checked to see if I could make it to the desk without being in view. The door blinds flapped in the breeze. I heard normal morning traffic outside on Camp Street. The front gate hadn’t squeaked, so no one had come inside. But the shooter might decide to finish the job. My cell phone was sitting on my desk. I had to get there.