_____
Seated at her kitchen table in Parades-A-Plenty, Mrs. Reilly mopped up the last bit of gravy from her Willow Tree turkey pot pie with a piece of bread. Some turkey farm up in New England made the frozen pies, and they were delicious, big chunks of turkey meat, carrots and potatoes in a thick creamy sauce tucked inside a flaky crust. The label said it was supposed to serve two. Two little people, maybe.
She eyed the small TV set on her kitchen counter. The mayor was urging everyone to leave town right away. She wished she hadn’t called her son and told him not to come for her. April West had said she'd drive her to Houston tomorrow, but how did she know if the girl was reliable?
That girl was strange. Saying she had an interview at Loyola to teach some course about weird religions. Saying she didn't use credit cards. Wearing a Yankee T-shirt. That's what she was. A damn Yankee.
When a commercial came on, she opened the square box that sat on the counter and took out the cake she’d bought at the bakery on St. Charles Avenue. Her mouth watered. German chocolate cake with chocolate butter frosting. Her favorite. With a long sharp knife, she sliced off a thick piece, set it on a plate and glanced at the TV.
Another commercial was running. The national news would be on at six-thirty and she didn’t want to miss it. Britney Spears and her husband were fighting again. It served her right. Those skimpy costumes she wore made her look like a harlot.
Mrs. Reilly set the plate on the table and lumbered down the hall to the bathroom. While she was on the toilet, the sketch of Natalie Brixton appeared on the screen.
The national news was just starting when she returned to the table, her bladder comfortably relieved. But her mind wasn’t. There was something odd about that girl. April West didn’t look old enough to be a college professor.
She had a good mind to call Loyola first thing tomorrow and check up on her. But if the mayor ordered a mandatory evacuation, all the offices at Loyola would be closed.
She picked up a fork and dug into her German chocolate cake.
CHAPTER 30
New Orleans
Clenching his teeth, Clint Hammer peered through the window of the wide-body Boeing 747. Rain pelted the glass. Barely visible in the darkness, the flashing red lights of a baggage cart approached the plane. About fucking time! Now maybe the flight crew would open the doors.
When they arrived at the gate, the pilot had apologized for being twelve minutes late and said their flight was the last to land Louis Armstrong Airport due to the hurricane. As if he didn’t know. He’d had a helluva time booking a seat. Unwilling to strand their equipment, none of the other airlines were flying into New Orleans.
Continental Flight 2043 was full. When the cabin door opened, only two other people got up to leave. He followed them and hustled up a slanted walkway to the gate area. A gate agent was checking in three passengers. After they boarded, Flight 2043 would fly to Houston with a planeload of passengers eager to escape the hurricane threat.
Towing his carry-on suitcase with one hand, he slung his laptop over his shoulder, walked through the deserted gate area and stopped at the seats reserved for handicapped passengers. He set his laptop on the flat gray platform between two seats, dug out his cell and punched in Jason’s number.
Jason picked up right away. “Hey, boss, how’s it going?”
“I just landed in New Orleans. What have you got for me?”
“There must be five hundred hotels in New Orleans and half the desk clerks won’t talk to me. They just say they’re not taking any reservations because of the storm and hang up.”
“Keep trying,” Hammer snarled. “I don’t give a fuck if it takes all night. Find April West and call me, no matter what time it is.”
He shut his cell and rode an escalator down to baggage claim. An Avis shuttle bus would ferry him to the rental car lot. Earlier he'd managed to book the last available car. New Orleans residents hell-bent on leaving town before the storm hit had rented the rest.
He ground his teeth, molar against molar. If they didn’t have his car, heads would roll. At this hour he’d never get a cab. His pal at the local Homeland Security Office had booked him a hotel room, but only for one night. After that all bets were off, thanks to fucking Hurricane Josephine which had now entered the Gulf, a Category-Four, the last he’d heard.
Where was April West?
Was she riding out the storm in some hotel room?
What if she had evacuated? Christ on a crutch, he'd never find her!
But then he thought: April West didn't evacuate. April West was a killer, and killers don't abandon their evil plans. April West had come to New Orleans to kill someone. He didn't know who, but he really didn't give a shit. The bitch had murdered his friend in cold blood and he was going to get her.
He yawned and set out for the Avis shuttle bus. It had been a long day. He was ready for a stiff drink and some shuteye.
_____
At ten-thirty she slipped onto the same stool she'd occupied last night at the end of the bar. The music, a punishing disco beat, sent stabbing pain through her head. The GoGo Bar was packed, men hooting and whistling at two scantily-clad women dancing seductively onstage. The redheaded barman was mixing drinks for an anxious-looking waiter at the service area. A minute later he came to her and said, his voice barely audible over the music, “What can I get for you?”
“A glass of your house red and an ice-water chaser.”
He grabbed a wine bottle from the shelf behind the bar, splashed wine into a glass, set it before her and went to get her ice water.
When he came back with it, she said, “Is Chip here?”
“I think he’s in the office.” He turned to leave, but she touched his arm.
“Could you buzz him and tell him I’m here?”
He gave her a dead-eyed stare. “I’ve got thirsty customers waiting.” He returned to the service area where another waiter waited with a tray.
Disappointed, she sipped her ice water. Clouds of cigarette smoke hung over the room. Her head throbbed in time with the music. Chip was in his office, but he didn’t know she was here and she had no way to tell him. Unlike last night, the red-haired bartender seemed cool and distant. All she could do was wait and hope that Chip would come out of his office.
Mercifully, the disco music stopped when show ended at eleven. Amidst whoops and applause, the dancers took their bows. The bartender was slammed, filling multiple drink orders for thirsty patrons, who seemed unconcerned about the hurricane. Maybe they figured work would be cancelled tomorrow.
There were no TV sets in the bar, so she had no idea what was happening with Josephine. If she had her laptop she could take it in the restroom and check, but she'd left it in her room with her suitcase. She didn't dare lock them in the trunk of her car. One news program she’d seen had warned that thieves often stole cars parked on the street during evacuations. She'd locked her diary and clothes in her suitcase, but left her Yankee T-shirt and a pair of jeans hanging in the closet in case Mrs. Reilly checked her room while she was out.
At eleven-thirty the lights dimmed and the abrasive disco beat began. Two different dancers came onstage, smiling their seductive smiles, prancing around in six-inch stiletto heels. Seeing them took her back to her dancing-in-the-dark days at Platinum-Plus Gentlemen's Club. A disco beat, smoke-filled air and dirty-minded men with greedy eyes who wanted her to give them a lap dance, deceived by her feigned pleasure as she ground herself against their crotch until they came.
She didn't want to think about that depressing chapter of her life, or the other chapters for that matter. Being paid to have sex with men in Paris had been just as ugly, though the money was better. On the verge of exhaustion, she massaged her aching temples. She couldn't go on like this. The angry ancestor spirits were punishing her, putting Tex Conroy in her path, then Oliver James, sending hurricanes to thwart her. And Detective Renzi was still after her, the hunter that wouldn't give up.
She tried to imagine what life would have been like if she'd lived a normal life with normal parents. Imagined them taking her to Disneyland, praising her when she got all A's in high school and got inducted into the National Honor Society. What if she'd gone to college, found a job as an art teacher and met some smart handsome guy? What if she'd gotten married and had two kids?
But those kinds of fantasies happened to other girls, not her.
Nursing her ice water, she endured the hour-long show. No sign of Chip.
By the time the show ended she felt nauseous. Her ears hurt and her head felt like someone had beaten it with a sledgehammer. Tears stung her eyes. She had sold her body to earn the money to pay a PI to get her mother's murder file, had spent months researching BoBo, only to have him die. Even then, she didn't give up. She'd focused on a new target, BoBo's son, Chip. Then she'd worked even harder to earn enough money to execute her mission.
She sucked up some ice water. Her discovery that Arnold Peterson was BoBo's friend had been a major triumph. But Peterson was only a stepping-stone. Now, just when her goal was within reach, a hurricane was going to thwart her. How could it end this way?
Another show would begin at one a.m. but she couldn’t endure another minute in this place. She signaled the bartender for the check. She would take a cab back to Parades-A-Plenty. At this hour, Banshee would be asleep. It would be easy to sneak up to her room, grab her laptop and suitcase, get in her car and leave New Orleans.
“Hello, dawlin. What are you doing here?”
Chip’s voice. She thought her heart would jump out of her chest.
Gathering herself, she gave him a seductive smile. This was no time to act like an ingénue, this was crunch time.
“Waiting for you.”
He slid onto the barstool beside hers. “I sure didn’t expect to see you here tonight, dawlin.”
“The bartender said you were in your office, but when I asked him to tell you I was here, he wouldn’t.”
His steely-blue eyes turned frosty. “Damn right. Curly knows who butters
his
bread.”
A musky scent emanated from him, some cologne she couldn’t identify. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow, exposing tanned, well-muscled forearms. On his left hand he wore a gold wedding band, on his right a college ring with a large sapphire. He gave her a broad smile, showing his shiny pearly-whites.
“I saw you come in at ten-thirty, dawlin. Did you enjoy the show?”
The security cameras
. The bastard had known she was here all along. Alarm bells clanged in her mind. BoBo was a ruthless killer and this was his chip-off-the-old-block son. An aura of power emanated from him. Seated beside him, she felt small. Insignificant. Could she overpower him? He was bigger and stronger.
But she was smarter and more motivated. Her will was stronger than his. Years of disappointments and trials had made it so.
“Your dancers are fantastic,” she said.
Tell them what they want to hear.
“Not many gals come here to watch the show. Well, a few do, but they’re the type that, you know, swing the other way.” He gave her a speculative look. “You’re not one of those, are you?”
She removed her Vera Wang glasses and gave him a seductive smile. “No, I’m not.”
“I didn’t think so. So tell me what you're doing here.”
She ran her tongue over her bottom lip “You look like you’ve been working too hard, Chip.”
“Dawlin, you have no idea. Had to cancel the grand opening of my new bar. Damn shame, all the money I spent on it, but what can I do?”
She touched his forearm, a light touch to show she was interested.
“That’s too bad, but there’ll be another opening won’t there?”
Not if she could help it.
“Once Josephine does her thing there will.” He gave her another speculative look.
She knew that look, had seen it often from many men, knew that it meant her chances to complete her mission were improving.
“I put Marla and the kids on a flight to Chicago. Had a God-awful time getting them seats. Everybody’s in a panic to leave town. First thing tomorrow morning I’ll hop on my corporate jet at Lakefront Airport and join them.”
She could hardly believe her luck. His wife was in Chicago. Chip would stay in New Orleans tonight, but he was leaving tomorrow morning. If she had any hope of achieving her goal, it had to be tonight.
She traced a finger down the inside of his forearm. “You look like you’re ready for some fun. What with your wife being gone and all.”
He studied her, expressionless. His eyes, blank reflecting pools, revealed nothing. For an instant she feared she'd come on too strong. But then a subtle change came over him, a slight relaxation of his face muscles, a thrust of his chest as he straightened on his barstool.
Had she been inexperienced with men, she might have missed it. But she knew the signs and she knew what they meant: partly pride of sexual conquest and partly desire, but most of all, pride in his power over her.
His eyes locked on hers. “What did you have in mind, April?”
She shrugged her shoulders, a sensual move that never failed to excite men, and made her eyes go wide with promise.
“I thought maybe we could go somewhere and relax.”
He put his arm around her, leaned close and whispered in her ear, “I like your style, April. We’re gonna have fun. I gotta take care of some details, might take a half-hour or so. My car’s parked out back. I’ll pick you up outside the front door in forty-five minutes. How’s that sound?”
She flashed another seductive smile. “That sounds perfect.”