Showdown in Mudbug (4 page)

Mildred refilled her coffee cup, pulled a bottle of scotch from the bottom drawer of her desk, and poured a generous amount into her coffee. She handed the bottle to Helena, who took a huge gulp straight from the bottle, then doctored her own coffee and passed
the bottle to Raissa. Raissa, who had never been one to drink after another person, wasn’t quite sure the ghost counted, but it still bothered her on too many levels, so she passed on the whiskey altogether.

“Okay,” Mildred said, “so there’s a bit of a setback in our original thinking, but there’s no cause to panic.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Helena said. “Hell, I’m panicked, and I’m already dead.”

Mildred frowned. “Well, at least they can’t kill you twice.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Raissa said. “I died nine and a half years ago when one of the Hebert clan put a bullet through my chest. They resuscitated me in the ambulance. On paper, I’ve been dead ever since. So in this case, if the Heberts get me, then technically they have killed me twice.”

“We’re not going to let that happen,” Mildred said, her voice growing strong again. “I promise you, Raissa, we will see you through this. The first thing we have to do is find you someplace safe.”

Raissa laughed. “I know you mean well, and I love you for it, but I’m trained to hide, and they still found me.”

“I didn’t say you should hide, since you’re right, that’s obviously not going to work. But I
do
think relocating to a more defensible location would help.”

“You mean move? No, I can’t move. I have a business to run—”

“
Which
,” Mildred interrupted, “you’ve already offered to cut down to part time to cover Sabine’s store for her honeymoon. Sabine will be at Beau’s place in New Orleans to night, and they fly out tomorrow. There’s no reason for you not to move here temporarily.”

“I don’t know,” Raissa said, her mind racing with all
the reasons that involving more people in her mess was a really bad idea.

“You should do it,” Helena urged. “It’s not like just anyone can come and go in Mudbug without being noticed. And you could stay at the hotel.”

Raissa struggled to come up with a good argument, but had to admit that the idea wasn’t the worst one she’d heard. In fact, it came with the advantages Mildred had mentioned and a few that she hadn’t thought about. Finally, she nodded. “Okay. I’ll move, but just for the rest of the week, and I’ll still have to commute to my store a couple of times. I can reschedule my readings, but I don’t want to cancel on my regular customers.”

Mildred frowned, and Raissa knew she’d wanted a full-time commitment, but it was something that Raissa just couldn’t offer without lying. One, because remaining in Mudbug wouldn’t allow her to do the investigating she needed to do in New Orleans, and two, because if her situation even came remotely close to putting her friends in danger, then Raissa was out of Mudbug like a gunshot.

“What about your family, Raissa?” Mildred asked. “Do they know where you are?”

“My parents are both dead, and we weren’t really tight with any relatives. So there’s no one missing me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Mildred nodded and studied her for a couple of seconds. Finally, she sighed. “You’re not going to bow out until you find that missing girl, are you? It’s somehow tied in to your past and the Heberts’.”

“I think so,” Raissa said, “but I’ve never had any proof.”

Helena’s eyes widened. “There have been others…other little girls that were taken?”

“There were others before Melissa.”

Mildred swallowed, then cleared her throat. “What happened to them?”

“They were returned a week later without a mark on them and no memory of what happened to them after their abduction. There’s a very narrow window of opportunity to catch this guy and stop this from happening again.” Raissa rose from her chair, already mentally packing a bag of necessities for her stay in Mudbug. “I have to go home and get some things. One of my conditions for staying here is that you let me rig the hotel with security. It can all be done with fingernail-size lenses and infrared. I won’t install anything in the guest rooms, except for my own, but I insist on rigging at least the outside of your quarters, Mildred, or I won’t stay here at all.”

Mildred nodded. “What ever you think is best.”

“Good,” Raissa said, “because as much as I want to find out what happened to those girls, I’d prefer it not be firsthand. Abduction is not on my list of things to do, and it’s doubtful I’d come back without a mark on me…if I came back at all.”

Mildred narrowed her eyes at Raissa. “I don’t suppose you really are psychic, right? I mean, not that I wouldn’t find that a bit creepy, but, well, we already have a ghost. I guess I’m willing to consider any edge we might have, even the strange ones.”

“I wish I were,” Raissa said, “but it’s all a very clever front. Or at least, I used to think it was.”

“But all those things you knew…How did you guess all those things and get them right? No one’s that lucky.”

Raissa smiled. “It was never luck. I’m a highly skilled computer hacker and an expert at surveillance. Someone asks me what’s wrong with their marriage, I
follow the husband and find the girlfriend, or the doctor’s office. Then I hack the girlfriend’s computer, since usually women don’t destroy the evidence, like mushy e-mails, that the cheating husband asks them to. Or I hack the doctor’s office and find out what he’s being treated for. I feed them enough information to sound like a vision but send them off on the right track for exposing whatever is going on.”

“No shit.” Helena stared at Raissa in admiration. “That whole psychic gig is a genius way to use those skills. I take back every time I called you a nutbag.”

Raissa laughed. “Thanks, Helena. Coming from you that means…well, damned near nothing, but I’ll take it anyway.” Raissa rose from her chair. “Are we done here? Everyone satisfied with the master plan?”

Mildred looked over at Helena who nodded. “I’m as satisfied as I’m getting,” Mildred said. “But I really wish you’d reconsider staying here full-time.”

“No can do, Mildred. I’m not trying to upset anyone, but this whole thing is far bigger than just me.”

Mildred straightened up in her chair and stared at Raissa, her eyes wide. “You’re going to try to catch that guy, aren’t you? You have no intention of lying low or leaving this to the cops.”

“This may be my last chance,” Raissa said. “Think about those girls. Think about their mothers. And then tell me what I should do.”

Mildred was silent for a couple of seconds, and Raissa knew her mind was racing to find an argument, anything that would hold up to Raissa’s logic. Raissa also knew that Maryse and Sabine, Mildred’s surrogate daughters, would be lodged in her mind, too. Finally, Mildred slumped back in her chair and nodded. “I don’t like it, but I shouldn’t expect anything less from
you.” She rose from her chair and surprised Raissa by giving her a hug.

“I don’t even know if you have any family or if they even know you’re alive,” Mildred said as she released her, “but I want you to know that I consider you my family, another one of my girls. I’m not going to ask you to promise not to do anything dangerous, but I
am
going to make you promise not to die on us.”

Raissa’s eyes moistened and she rubbed her nose with one finger, sniffling. “That’s a promise I’ll be happy to make.” She gave Mildred’s hand a squeeze, then hurried out of the hotel before she embarrassed herself by becoming just another weepy woman.

At two thirty
P.M.
, Raissa closed the door to her shop after her last appointment and put the
CLOSED
sign in the window. There were a million things that had to be done before she could commence her part-time-living adventures in the Mudbug Hotel, but one absolutely couldn’t wait.

She entered her upstairs apartment and opened the closet, scrutinizing her choices. This excursion wasn’t exactly a jeans-and-T-shirt sort of call, not unless she wanted to stick out by a mile. She made her selections, then began a midafternoon transformation.

Twenty minutes later, she peeked through her shop blinds, scanning the street for Detective Blanchard’s unmarked police car. Clear. Thank God. She left her shop and drove to a corner bar on a seedy side of town. Unlike most bars, this one was always open and always had clientele. It tended to cater to people who didn’t keep regular business hours—drug dealers, hookers, petty thieves, and not-so-petty thieves—just the kind of people she was looking to see.

She was certain she made quite a picture walking down the sidewalk to the bar. The whistles and catcalls confirmed her choice of the short, tight, black leather skirt and blue sparkly top with a plunging neckline. Her six-inch stilettos put her right at six foot two, and the platinum wig put the finishing touches on the entire getup.

Satisfied that she looked like any other working girl, she opened the door and walked into the bar. The man she was looking for was sitting at the counter and he gave her a mental undressing as she walked in. She gave him the ole come-hither smile and walked to the back of the empty bar, shaking her hips as she strolled. She slid into a high-backed booth in the corner and waited for her prey to take the bait.

It didn’t take long.

Spider, as he was called by the Hebert family, was predictable, if anything. And creepy, hence the nickname. A minute later—just enough time for her to slide her 9-millimeter from her handbag—he rounded the corner and peeked into her booth. Raissa was ready.

She reached up with one hand and pulled him into the booth by his hair. Spider screeched a bit but then leered over at her. “You like to play rough, do you? I can get into that.”

Under the table, Raissa shoved her weapon into Spider’s crotch. “Rough is my favorite,” she whispered, “but I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing.”

Spider’s eyes widened with shock or fright, or both. He had always been a coward. “Wha—what do you want? I ain’t done nothing to you.”

“I want information, Spider,” Raissa said in her normal voice and had the pleasure of watching the blood drain from the man’s face.

“Taylor?” The man stared at her. “No fucking way. You’re supposed to be dead. They told me you was dead.”

“I’m sure they did, and likely things would be much more con ve nient if that were true, especially for you. But I’m sorry to tell you that I’m very much alive and still have a bullet scar on my chest from your nine.”
She pressed the gun a bit harder into his crotch. “I owe you, you know.”

“C’mon now,” Spider begged, sweat forming on his brow. “We can work something out. What do you need? ID, passport? I can get you a new life.”

Raissa laughed. “You think I’ve been walking around for the last nine years as Taylor Lane? I had a new identity the moment I got released from the hospital.” She smiled at him. “We’re going to work something out, though. I want information.”

“What kind of information?”

“Where can I find Monk?”

Spider swallowed. “Ain’t nobody seen Monk in at least six months.”

“Bullshit.” Maurice Marsella, aka Monk, was Sonny’s right hand. “Is he in the joint?”

“No. I swear, ain’t nobody seen him. I pay Lenny now. He said I wasn’t gonna ask no questions about the change, and I ain’t gonna.”

“You must have heard something.” She pressed the gun harder against his jeans until he flinched. “What’s the word on the street?”

Spider leaned in and whispered. “You gotta promise you won’t say this came from me.”

“I’m hardly going to pay Sonny a visit. I think your secret is safe with me.”

Spider looked around the empty bar, then back at Raissa. “Word is that Sonny had him offed, that Monk’s at the bottom of the Mississippi.”

Raissa frowned. This didn’t fit into her suspicions at all. “You’re sure?”

“All I know is, Lenny’s taken over all of Monk’s territory. Ain’t nobody seen Monk in half a year, and ain’t no one mentions his name in front of Sonny.”

“So who’s got his stuff—you know, from his house?”

Spider shrugged. “Sonny, I guess. What didn’t burn. Whole place went up in flames…well, I guess it’s been about six months ago.”

Raissa looked Spider directly in the eyes. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

“Hell, no. I ain’t heard exactly what happened to Monk, and I ain’t likely to. Nothing to lie about.” Spider licked his lips and glanced over at the entrance to the bar. “Does Sonny know you’re back?”

Raissa nodded.

Spider let out his breath in a whoosh. “Thank God. I mean, I wouldn’t want to be the one carrying that news. As far as I’m concerned, I never seen you, okay?”

“Not exactly. I still have enough on you to put you away for a long time. I can pull that evidence out if I want to.”

“What do you want from me? I already told you I didn’t know nothin’.”

Raissa reached into her bra with her free hand and pulled out a card with her cell number on it. She handed it to Spider. “You don’t know anything
yet
. But if you hear anything at all about Monk or that little girl that’s missing, you’ll call me. Right?”

The blood rushed from Spider’s face. “You don’t think Sonny has anything to do with that little girl…Oh shit, you do. I ain’t got nothing to do with hurting kids, and I never would. I got some standards, even if you don’t believe it.”

“Just keep your eyes and ears open. If you come across anything out of the ordinary, then you give me a call. The phone’s unregistered, so no one will ever track it back to me.”

“Out of the ordinary?”

“Anything that’s not business as usual. And I mean
anything
. If Sonny wears a white suit or calls his mother on any day other than Sunday, I want to know.”

Spider nodded but still looked confused. Raissa could hardly blame him. The last time she’d seen Spider, he’d put a single bullet through her chest. Raissa had still threatened to kill him while she was standing there bleeding.

“Go on,” Raissa said and nodded toward the door. “I need to leave, and it’s probably better for you if we’re not seen together.” Spider jumped up as if he’d been shot, and Raissa realized she’d never removed the gun from his crotch. What a shame.

She slipped the gun back into her bag and had started to slide out of the booth when Zach Blanchard slid in beside her.

He gave her the once-over, and Raissa could feel a blush starting on her very-exposed chest. “Ms. Bordeaux,” he said with a smile. “That’s an interesting outfit for a psychic.”

“Well, psychics are rarely boring.”

“It was even more interesting when you threatened that man with castration by Glock.”

Shit!

“He owed me for a tarot reading.” She shrugged. “I have this
thing
about old debts.”

Zach raised his eyebrows. “I bet.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a ton of things to do.”

Zach studied her for a couple of seconds. “You know, I could haul you in for assault on that man.”

“Well, now, that would be your word against mine, and I’m not going to admit to being that close to Spider’s crotch any more than you’re going to admit looking at it.”

Zach blanched. “You really know how to hurt a man.” He glanced at her hands, then the empty table. “Barehanded, and there’s not a thing I can take with me to run a print. You’re sharp, but you’re not going to be able to avoid me forever.”

An idea flashed through Raissa’s mind, and before rational thought took over she ran her index finger along her lips, coating the tip with bright red lipstick. Zach’s eyes widened as he followed her finger along the sexy pout of her mouth and sweat began to form on his brow. She leaned close to him and rolled her finger on his cheek, leaving a perfect print.

She slipped up from the booth seat and perched on the edge of the table, looking down at him. Giving him a wink, she spun around on the table and slid her long legs onto the floor. She pulled her skirt down to a barely legal level and leaned over the booth, placing her lips next to his ear.

“When you come to question me later,” she whispered, “wear a uniform, and definitely bring handcuffs.”

Unable to speak, Zach watched Raissa walk out of the bar, her curves swaying with every step in the sexy, spiked heels. His body had responded to her in all inappropriate manners, especially considering he was on duty. Especially considering she was a suspect.

His face still tingled where she’d left her print, and he tried to block his mind from recalling the way she’d run that finger across her lips and the look in her eyes as she’d done it.

Too late.

He groaned and waved a hand at a waitress at the far end of the bar. What he wanted was a scotch. What he was going to settle for was a piece of Scotch tape to
remove the fingerprint from his cheek. No way was he walking into the CSI unit sporting a lipstick print on his face. There were some things a man could never live down.

He wondered briefly where he’d stashed his old patrolman’s uniforms and if they still fit.

She’s a suspect.

He blew out a breath. The sooner he ran that print, the better. God forbid he came up with nothing, because he was certain his spare handcuffs were in his glove box.

Hank Henry pulled the business card from his pocket and checked the address once more. This was the place. He parked his truck and walked across the street to the construction site, scanning the workers for the owner, a guy named Chuck. He finally located the man on the side of the building and introduced himself.

Chuck gave him the once-over, then lit a cigarette. “Pauley says you do some damned fine cabinet work.”

Hank nodded. “I’m glad Pauley’s happy with his cabinets.”

“Pauley also said you do some damned fine drugs and some not-so-fine petty crimes.”

Hank gritted his teeth and counted to three.
You have to expect this given your past. Don’t take the bait.
“Well, sir, that would have been absolutely correct if you’d spoke to me a year ago.”

The foreman blew out a puff of smoke and squinted at Hank. “Got clean, huh? I can respect that.” He crushed out his cigarette on the side of the building and motioned Hank inside. “Place is gonna be some sort of clinic. Every room in the place is going to need cabinets, and they didn’t want those cheap white prefab jobs. Said it was ‘too clinical,’ whatever the hell
that’s supposed to mean. The place
is
a clinic, after all.”

Hank nodded and poked his head into a couple of different rooms. After rehab, Hank understood exactly what
too clinical
meant. The center he’d been in was a restored Colonial mansion, and the people running it had taken a “home” approach to getting clean and their counseling. For the first time in his life, Hank had felt like a member of a family, right down to the chore list and sharing dinner every eve ning.

“Looks nice,” Hank said, wishing he had the clout to actually score the job.

“Think it’s something you can handle?”

Surprised, Hank looked at the foreman. “You’re serious?”

“Of course, I’m serious. Did you think I had you come all the way down here just for me to smoke a cigarette and run my mouth?”

“Yes…no…I mean, I figured you were talking to me as a favor to Pauley. I guess I didn’t figure you were serious about hiring me.”

“Hell, I like Pauley, but not enough to hire any excon or reformed druggie he tosses out to me. My reputation’s good in this town, and I want it to stay that way. Truth is, I saw the work you did at Pauley’s bar, and it’s some of the best I’ve seen in years. I like that you took the time to customize those cabinets particularly for the same feel as the bar, but higher scale. Really classed the place up, but without making the rest of it look shabby in comparison.”

Hank smiled, pleased that Chuck had latched on to the very thing Hank had been attempting to do with Pauley’s bar. “Thank you, sir. I really appreciate that, especially coming from you. Pauley says you’re pretty well sought after for this sort of work.”

Chuck nodded. “Stay pretty much booked.” He pointed his finger at Hank. “If you’re serious about being straight, I can help you make a name for yourself. You got the talent. If you have the discipline, you could have a hell of a career.”

Hank stared at Chuck, feeling almost dizzy over his words. A second chance at life. And not just any life—a great life, doing something he loved to do. It was almost too good to be true, and before he could stop himself, he started mentally calculating all the ways he could screw it up.

Stop it.

He forced his whirling mind to a stop. This was a golden opportunity. Some people never got one at all. He’d been given plenty and pissed them all away. If he didn’t make this one work, then he’d have to put a hit out with the Heberts on himself. “You really think I could make a living doing this?”

Chuck laughed. “Are you kidding me? With your talent, you could get rich doing this. So what do you say? You interested in this job?”

Hank smiled until his jaw ached. “Damn straight.”

Chuck stuck his hand out, and Hank shook it. “Be here tomorrow morning around nine, and we can go over the plans and the owner’s ‘vision’ for the clinic. The owner will want to be here for that. She’s nice, though—doesn’t pick things apart and ask a lot of questions like most women.” He elbowed Hank in the ribs. “She’s cute, too.”

Hank shook his head. “I just got divorced from a great woman who I wasn’t even married to for a month before I ran out on her. I’m not looking to ruin anyone else’s life.”

Chuck laughed. “Sounds like what I told my wife twenty years ago, but she did okay.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow at nine.”