“When it comes to business I don’t kid around. Would you like an appetizer? On Sunday we do a mini-log of Vermont cheddar cheese rolled in chopped pecans.” Without waiting for an answer, he snapped his fingers and their waiter instantly appeared. “Bring us the featured appetizer.”
“Yes sir, Mister B,” said the waiter, and scurried away.
Chip leaned back and gave her a heavy-lidded look. “April West, huh? Where you from, dawlin?”
“I love how guys talk down here. Is everyone ‘dawlin’?” Easing into seduction mode.
“Waaahl, I don’t know about other guys. If I like a person that happens to be female, I call her dawlin. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
Be who they want you to be. Smile. Flatter them.
"Boston University's an expensive school. Your folks must have money."
She wanted to squeeze his balls into little wrinkled prunes.
Money? No, my mother didn't have money. That's why she had to sell herself to your father.
"Not really. I went there on a scholarship."
"Good for you." A broad confident smile displayed his pearly-whites. "I got a partial scholarship to Loyola. Pops paid the rest. He never went to college. He was too busy working."
The waiter appeared with their appetizer, a four-inch roll of cheese studded with chopped pecans on a white porcelain plate rimmed with a thin maroon stripe. Two sterling-silver cheese knives sat on small matching plates beside a basket of bread slices.
“Dig in, dawlin,” Chip said. "You're gonna love it."
She sliced off a bit of cheese, spread it on a slice of warm bread and took a bite. “Incredible,” she said. "Tangy and sweet at the same time."
“Knew you’d like it, dawlin.” His bushy blond eyebrows knit in a frown. He took out a cell phone and answered. “What’s up?”
If only she hadn't left her glass of ice water on the bar. She was dying of thirst, partly from nerves, partly from talking, mostly from worrying how to seduce Chip into seeing her again. In private.
Whoever called was doing most of the talking. Chip listened, frowning. After a minute, he shut the phone. “Damn Josephine.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You ever see that movie
Nikita
?”
Her heart almost stopped. The French film featured a female assassin named Nikita, and her code name was Josephine. “I don’t think so,” she said.
“Waaahl we got a goddamned killer storm named Josephine headed our way. Forecasters say it might be worse than Katrina, mayor’s about ready to order an evacuation." His fleshy lips thinned to a line. "And I got a grand opening set for Friday. Already spent a bundle on it. Now I gotta cancel.”
Acid boiled into her stomach. Cancel? No! Not when she was so close to completing her mission. She forced herself to be calm, dredged up a smile. “Why? You can’t be sure the storm will hit New Orleans.”
“Can’t be sure it won’t, either, and if people evacuate, who’ll come to the opening?” He patted his mouth with a napkin and slid out of the padded-leather bench. “Sorry, dawlin, but I’ve got work to do. You set right there and enjoy your drink and your appetizer and the show.”
A lightning bolt of panic hit her. “But wait! You said . . ." He looked at her, his Prussian-blue eyes frosty. "I know you’ve got problems to deal with, but can we talk again? About the article?”
“Sure can, dawlin, but not till the damn storm blows over. Enjoyed your company, April, I truly did.” Chip Beaubien turned and walked away.
A black pit of despair swallowed her. She wanted to run after him, plead with him. But that would be stupid. That would destroy the confident persona she had crafted.
How could this happen when she was so close to her goal?
A vision of the gargoyles atop Notre Dame Cathedral swam before her eyes, eyes that shimmered with tears. The gargoyles mocked her, accusing her, like the angry Vietnamese ancestor spirits.
For twenty years her life had been tainted by her mother's violent death. Ever since high school she had focused on one goal: Avenging her mother, who'd been brutally murdered by a monster.
But the devastated ten-year-old was a distant memory now.
That little girl had turned into a monster. A killer. And for what?
She took the well-thumbed snapshot of her mother out her wallet. Mom smiling into the camera on her wedding day. Mom waiting for her murder to be avenged. She felt so ashamed.
“Sorry, Mom,” she whispered.
The soft jazz on the sound system cut out abruptly, replaced by loud music with a disco beat. The lights dimmed and spotlight
s
red, mauve and pin
k
darted around the stage. The brassy music grew louder. Amidst loud cymbal crashes, two long-legged women pranced onstage, aiming sexy smiles at the men who ogled them, their skimpy sequin-studded costumes minimized to show off their endowments.
She felt like she was back at Platinum-Plus Gentlemen’s Club, felt like her life had come full circle. And she had nothing to show for it.
She took the straws out of her Kamikaze, raised the glass to her mouth, drained the liquid and left.
CHAPTER 28
Monday, 18 August
“How’re you doing, Evelyn?” After six days of getting her voicemail, Frank wanted to ask his ex-wife why she’d been avoiding him, but why stir up trouble? He was glad she'd finally answered, but he wasn't looking forward to this conversation.
“Okay, I guess. It’s raining up here.”
As if bad weather determined your life. Miller was out of the office, but another detective could walk in any minute so he cut to the chase.
“We need to talk about your finances.”
“What about them?”
“Why didn’t you pay the real estate taxes on the house?”
“What do you mean?”
“What I said. Why didn’t you pay the taxes? I send you money for that every month.”
“How do you know I didn’t pay them?”
“Never mind how I know. If you don’t pay the real estate taxes, they’ll put a lien on the property. You could lose the house.”
“What gives you the right to check up on me?”
“I paid the mortgage on that house for twenty years, that’s what.”
“And I kept
that house
neat and clean for you for twenty years. Did you forget that? And took care of Maureen, too, while you were working.”
Already the conversation had descended into bitterness. “I don’t want to get into the same old arguments. During the divorce proceedings we signed a legally binding financial agreement. I send you money twice a month, and part of that money is so you can pay the real estate taxes on the house.”
“I have other expenses.”
“Like sending money to some Catholic charity every month?”
“So what if I do? The Church is a great comfort to me.”
Acid flamed his gut. “You need to pay the bills before you send three hundred dollars to your favorite religious cult every month.”
Uh-oh. Silence on the other end. Big mistake, calling it a religious cult.
“The Catholic Church is not a religious cult and you know it, Frank. How did you find out I sent them money? Wait, I know. You’re a big important police detective. You can find out anything you want.”
“Evelyn, listen carefully, because I’m only going to say this once. I paid your delinquent tax bill, but I’m not going to do it again. You want to lose the house and wind up living on the street?” He instantly regretted the question. Evelyn had enough panic attacks, calling him in the middle of the night, worried that some burglar that might get into the house and rape her.
“Don’t say things like that. You’re trying to scare me.”
“No, I'm telling you to be more responsible. When you get my check, put it in the bank and pay your bills before you spend it on frills.”
“Frills?” she said, her voice shaking with outrage. “You call it frills, helping the Church do good work?”
Good work?
All the Catholic Church did was brainwash little girls into thinking sex was bad and procreation was the only reason to have sex.
“Evelyn, I’m going to hang up now. Think about what I said.”
Shaking from the effort it took not to put his fist through a wall, fearing he'd explode if he didn’t do something physical, he left the station and strode through the Café Beignet patio. The air was thick with humidity and dark clouds loomed overhead, but the tables were crowded as usual, toddlers, teens and adults enjoying beignets dusted with powdered sugar.
At a table in the corner a woman with auburn hair sat with her back to the tall wrought-iron fence that lined the sidewalk, her face hidden behind a copy of today’s
Times-Picayune
. She wore a New York Yankees baseball cap and a Yankees T-shirt. No beignets for the Yankee fan, just a bottle of iced tea.
Infuriated by his maddening conversation with Evelyn, he entered the café and got in line. Something plinked at his mind, a vague sense that he’d missed something, something about the Yankee fan. When he finally reached the counter five minutes later, he ordered a double-shot of Americano to go. Jingling his keys, he leaned against the wall to wait.
You’re a big important police detective. You can find out anything you want.
Evelyn could be as stubborn as a mule sometimes. He didn’t want to call his lawyer in Boston, but if she kept pissing his money away without paying the taxes on the house, he would.
_____
She watched him stride into the café. She had always been attracted to vigorous dynamic men, men like Willem and Oliver. Renzi appeared fit and muscular, energetic, and quite attractive despite his hawk-like nose. High cheek bones creased his angular face below dark piercing eyes, eyes that had momentarily flashed her way. Dangerous.
Taking risks was one thing, but this was foolhardy. Renzi was a hunter and she was his prey. But something had drawn her here, an urge she couldn’t define. Did she have a secret desire to be punished for her crimes?
A sudden shiver wracked her. Maybe she was thinking about Renzi because Renzi was thinking about her.
Last night’s crushing disappointment had cast her into a black pit of despair. At dawn she had retrieved the latest update on Hurricane Josephine. After a hurricane hunter-plane flew over the eye of the storm at five a.m., forecasters had upgraded it to a Category-4 hurricane. Fueled by 145 mph winds, Josephine was now headed for Cuba. She dressed and went downstairs. No sign of Banshee, thank goodness. Her head was throbbing, a hangover from the Kamikaze she’d downed last night.
She'd taken the St. Charles Avenue streetcar to the French Quarter. Hoping to dispel her bleak mood, she walked down to the Mississippi River. Early morning fog swirled over the mile-wide waters. Hidden by the fog, a ship honking a mournful warning.
It reminded her of the time Mom took her here to see the Fourth of July fireworks. Three months earlier, a week after her tenth birthday, Mom had quit her job at the pancake house and began leaving her alone at night. She missed going to the pancake house, missed pouring all the syrup she wanted over a big waffle. But Mom said that job didn't pay enough. When the fireworks lit up the sky, Mom got excited like everyone else. But the fireworks made her sad, especially the orange ones that burst high above the river. It seemed like the sky was weeping.
Even now she could picture the orange plumes and their slow descent, sputtering out as they fell into the water like dead cinders.
Sputtering out like her plan. Her mission was dead in the water, thwarted by Hurricane Josephine.
Thoroughly discouraged, she had walked to the Eighth District Station on Royal Street. Renzi's station. She bought a newspaper and a bottle of ice tea at Cafe Beignet and sat in the courtyard facing the station. When Renzi came out the door, she'd thought her heart would stop. Fortunately, her survival instinct kicked in and she'd hidden her face behind the
Times-Picayune
.
Every story on the front page was about Hurricane Josephine and a possible evacuation. One New Orleans resident said he wouldn’t leave. “I sat in a twenty-mile backup two weeks ago when I evacuated for Gloria, and I ain't gonna do it again. I’m staying right here.”
The mayor hadn't ordered one yet. He was waiting to see what happened after Josephine hit Cuba. The forecasters offered three possibilities. After entering the Gulf, the storm might veer west and hit the Yucatan Peninsular. Or veer east and hit the Florida Keys. Or, the worst case scenario, Hurricane Josephine might barrel into New Orleans with all its terrible fury.
If the mayor ordered an evacuation, Chip would cancel the opening of his new Go-Go Bar. End of story. Mission over. She clenched her jaw. She refused to abandon her mission, not while there was still a glimmer of hope. Somehow she would find a way to seduce Chip, get him alone and kill him.
And Renzi couldn't stop her. He had his own problems. In an article on the Metro page,
District Attorney Roger Demaris criticized the NOPD investigation of the Peterson murder, specifically Homicide Detective Frank Renzi. Demaris said a car registered to June Carson, a person of interest, had been found in the Atlanta airport parking garage. Nothing about Robin Adair’s car. Nothing about April West. Nothing about a similar murder in Boston.
But the next quote chilled her. “Now that a federal agency is interested in the case," Demaris said, "I think we’ll get some action.”
Federal agency. What agency? The CIA? She could understand why the CIA might get involved in the murder of former CIA agent Oliver James, but there was only one reason why a CIA agent would contact District Attorney Roger Demaris. Somehow they had linked the murder of Oliver James to the murders in New Orleans.
She picked up the paper and her bottle of ice tea and left the cafe.
Better not tempt fate. Frank Renzi might reappear any minute.
_____
He paid for his double-shot of Americano, left Café Beignet and walked through the patio back to the station. Several customers were still noshing sugar-covered beignets, but the Yankee fan was gone. He couldn't shake the vague feeling that he’d missed something.
Unable to dismiss the thought, he mounted the stairs to the Eighth District Station, stopped on the top step and looked down Royal Street, his view partially obscured by the wrought-iron fence along the sidewalk. Then he spotted her. The woman in the Yankee cap, heading east, deeper into the heart of the French Quarter, walking fast.
Long legs. Long strides. Damn! He knew that walk.
The woman in the security video. He set the coffee container on the landing and bolted down the steps, but when he reached the sidewalk, she had disappeared. He sprinted to the next intersection and stopped. He looked left, didn’t see her. Did she know he'd spotted her?
To his right, four tourists in shorts and flamboyant T-shirts wandered toward him. No one in a Yankee cap and T-shirt.
Which way had she gone?
The street to his right bordered the State Supreme Court building. Nowhere to hide in that direction, but the street to his left was lined with bars, restaurants, and boutiques that sold souvenirs. Worse, Bourbon Street was one block away with dozens of places to hide. And she had a big head start.
Cursing, he ran toward Bourbon, his feet pounding the pavement. He stopped at an antique store, looked in the window, didn't see her. He peered through the wide-open door of the bar next door. Three men sat at the bar watching TV. He kept going, running flat out now.
Damn it, he had to catch her. Two days till the deadline. If he didn't deliver a suspect by Wednesday noon, Demaris would yank him and Vobitch and the rest of the NOPD detectives off the case and give it to the State cops.
Two tourists on the sidewalk saw him coming and ducked out of the way. At the corner of Bourbon he paused, breathing hard, eyes darting everywhere. No sign of the woman with the distinctive long-legged stride. Even at ten in the morning, Bourbon Street was busy. If she ducked into a bar or some tourist-trap souvenir joint, he’d never find her.
Damn it to hell. He was positive she was the woman in the security video, and now that he'd gotten over his stupidity and denial, he was certain the woman was Natalie Brixton. Doggedly determined, he kept going, slower now, pausing to look inside every rinky-dink tourist trap.
Natalie was in New Orleans and she wasn’t a tourist.
She was here to kill someone. But who?
At this point he was certain she'd killed Arnold Peterson, Tex Conroy and Oliver James. She might also have pushed her cousin Randy off a cliff. Justified homicide for a rapist? In her mind maybe.
But not according to law, and Franklin Sullivan Renzi had taken an oath to uphold the law no matter how despicable the victim might have been.
Oblivious to the tourists swirling around him, he crossed the street to check the bars and shops along the other sidewalk. Honky-tonk music wafted out of a strip joint. He eased inside, let his eyes adjust to the gloom, surveyed the room. No women, just three men seated at the bar. No dancers onstage. They were probably waiting for more customers.
With single-minded purpose, he left and peered into a small shop that sold souvenir T-shirts. A clerk stood behind the counter. No customers.
Discouraged, he kept walking. He was positive Natalie Brixton was in New Orleans, and he believed he knew why. To avenge her mother’s murder, a case that had gone unsolved for twenty years.
Jane Fontenot’s prime suspect was dead, but maybe Jane was wrong.
Maybe BoBo Beaubien wasn’t the man that killed Jeannette Brixton.
But if BoBo didn’t kill her, who did?
Maybe Natalie knew.
If she did, she sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him.