Watch Me Die
Authors: Erica Spindler
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The idea for
Watch Me Die
sprang from a newspaper piece about a stained-glass restoration artist and her heroic effort to save New Orleans’s ruined windows after Hurricane Katrina. That artist, Cindy Courage of Attenhofer’s Stained Glass, was kind enough to allow me into her studio. She shared personal accounts of past restorations, verbally and through visual documentation. She attempted to “teach” me the complex process, its history and terminology—even lending me copies of her precious out-of-print reference books. In addition, her Katrina experience inspired me to create Mira Gallier,
Watch Me Die
’s main character. Thank you, Cindy!
Everyone in the New Orleans and Gulf Coast region suffered loss in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, but the lives of some, like my Mira Gallier, were especially tragic. I wanted to honor those who had been so badly hurt by depicting the storm and its aftermath as accurately as possible. Thanks to all those willing to relive the nightmare with me, and also to those who connected me with them: Eva Gaspard, Beth Wolfarth, Linda Weissert, Andi and Patrick Cougevan and Karelis Korte.
No thriller would be complete without a glimpse inside the world of law enforcement. Thanks to the NOPD and Officer Garry Flot for answering my questions.
Huge thanks to my former assistant, Evelyn Marshall, for all the help, support and insight (and for listening to the occasional rant). You will be missed.
A final mention to all the usual suspects: my agent, Evan Marshall; my editor, Jen Weis, and the entire St. Martin’s Press crew; the folks at Hoffman/Miller Advertising; my God for the blessings; and my family and friends for all the love.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
New Orleans, Louisiana
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
1:48
A.M.
He had been alone so long. Among the living but not
of
them.
Until now.
Mary had come back for him. They’d been together all those many years ago, separated by his father’s will and the whole screwed-up, broken-down world.
But that was the past. She was again within his reach, and this time they would not be torn apart.
It had begun.
He climbed the stairs to his grandmother’s bedroom, treading softly, careful not to wake her. Moonlight crept around the edges of the closed drapes, creating bright knifelike slivers on the dark stairs.
He knew these steps so well he could climb them blind. How many hundreds of times had he carried up a tray of food or drink first for his mother, struck down while still so young, now for his grandmother?
He peeked in at her sleeping form. She lay in her bed, head propped up on pillows, coverlet tucked neatly around her. He wrinkled his nose at the smell—of age and illness. She’d become so frail over the past months. So thin, not much more than skin and bones. And weak. Hardly able to lift her head.
Unable to fight him off.
He frowned. Now, why had he thought that? He loved his grandmother; he owed her his life. When his mother had passed, she’d sacrificed everything to raise him. For these past twenty-two years, she had supported and guided him. She had believed in him. In who he was and who he was meant to be.
He shook his head, clearing it. He had told her about Mary’s return. They’d argued. She’d said terrible things about Mary. Ugly, hateful things. Each word had pierced his heart.
But in this, his love for Mary, he would not be swayed.
He crossed to the bed. The jagged moonlight fell across her torso and onto him. He lifted his hands into the light, spreading his fingers.
Blood staining his hands.
The blood of the lamb. Splattering on impact.
You’re troubled.
He blinked at the clearly spoken words. He looked behind him at the empty room, then down at his sleeping grandmother. “Who’s there?” he asked.
You know me. I am the one who’s always with you.
“Father,” he whispered, “is it you?”
Yes, my Son. What troubles you tonight? It has begun. You should rejoice and fear not, for through the Father the Son will be glorified!
“One of your Holy ones, Father. I had to. He came upon me so suddenly—”
A martyr. He will be remembered, sanctified for his role on this day of new beginning.
At his Father’s words, certainty washed over him. Renewed purpose and peace. “Yes, Father. It is indeed the day you foretold and the one I have awaited. I’m in your hands, Father.” He bowed his head. “I am your servant. Direct me.”
Leave the old one now. Remember, only one can stand beside you.
“Mary.”
Yes. Her moment is coming as well.
He eased one of the bed pillows from behind his grandmother’s head. He gazed down at her, drinking in her face, emotion swamping him. What would he do without her?
Tears stinging his eyes, he plumped the pillow and bent and carefully replaced it, cautious not to awaken her.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Good night, Grandma. Sleep well.”
CHAPTER TWO
Tuesday, August 9
8:35
A.M.
Homicide Detective Spencer Malone angled his vintage, cherry red Camaro into the spot between the coroner’s wagon and crime scene van, stopping sharply. Coffee sloshed over the rim of his partner’s coffee cup and onto his paisley shirt.
“Crap, that’s hot! Drive much, Malone?” Detective Tony Sciame blotted the spot with the back of his tie. “And here I wanted to look good for my party.”
Malone cut the engine and shot a grin his way. “No worries, Tony. It blends right in.” He and Tony had been partners for better than six years. Their partnership worked despite the differences in their ages, investigative styles and—thank God—fashion sense.
Had
worked. Today was Tony’s last day on the force.
“Was that a shot?”
“Hell no, partner. Just a fact.” Spencer slung open his door, then looked back at Tony. “You’re still going to look real ‘purty’ for your party.”
“Kiss my ass, Malone.”
They climbed out of the Camaro, slamming their doors in unison. A couple of uniformed officers looked their way.
Located on Carrollton Avenue at Fig Street, Sisters of Mercy Catholic School and Church straddled two distinctly different areas of the city—Uptown and Mid-City. Unfortunately, as the years had passed, the affluent had begun moving farther uptown, leaving Sisters of Mercy to the middle class and the working poor.
Still, it was a beautiful campus occupying a massive amount of land for an urban location. Its buildings, with their stone construction and barrel arches, owed more to Romanesque architecture than the fanciful Creole style the city was known for.
“Always wondered what the inside of this place looked like,” Tony said. “And what do you know? Last day on the job and I get to find out.”
“You’re livin’ right, Tony. No doubt about it.”
They reached the exterior perimeter. Malone recognized the log officer—he and his brother Percy used to raise some serious hell together.
That was the thing about being a Malone. With three brothers, a sister and various other extended family members on the force, he was always running into someone who had a connection with one of his nearest and dearest. Not all of that history was the kind one wanted to be reminded of.
“Yo, Strawberry,” he greeted the man, nicknamed for the birthmark on his ass. “How you doin’, man?”
“Not so bad.” He held out the log. “Hear you’re getting married. Never thought I’d see the day, dude. It’s like the end of an era.”
Tony guffawed. “Trust me, kid, he’s only a legend in his own mind. What’ve we got?”
“Vic’s in the sanctuary. Priest got whacked. Can you believe that shit? Who does that?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out.” They ducked under the tape and followed the walk to the massive double doors and into the church narthex. The interior was cool and hushed. Through the open doors directly ahead, the sanctuary was bathed in colored light.
Malone stepped through. Stained-glass panels lined both side aisles. They were beautiful, but that wasn’t what had him sucking in a sharp breath. Someone had taken a can of spray paint to them.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Tony muttered.
Malone silently seconded the sentiment, then turned his attention to the scene. Twelve glass panels, he counted. The tall, narrow windows looked to be about twelve by five feet; each depicted a scene from the life of Christ.
He backed up, taking in the graffiti on the first window to the left of the entrance, then swiveled slightly to take in the next, gaze moving from one panel to the other until he had visually circled the room. Scrawled on each of the first eleven panels, buried among random marks and shapes, was a single word. On the twelfth, the perp had drawn a smiley face.
“Take a look, Tony. He left us a message: ‘He will come again to judge the living and the dead.’”
“As I live and breathe, one of the Malone boys.”
Spencer turned. Detective Terry Landry stood behind him, grinning from ear to ear. At one time Terry and his brother Quentin had been partners.
“Landry, how the hell are you?”
He slapped him on the back. “Great, man.” He grinned at Tony. “What’re you doing here? I thought you were heading for the big R today.”