Authors: Erica Spindler
True to that promise, he was back in moments, though those moments seemed unbearably long.
“The cruiser is on its way and so am I.” On his end she heard the slam of a car door, then an engine roaring to life. “There was a unit not three blocks from you, so you should be hearing sirens about now.”
As his words registered, the scream of a police siren reached her. “I hear them!”
“Good. Now wait where you are until they’re at your door. They’ll identify themselves. Understand?”
A minute later they arrived. She ran for the door, still clutching her cell phone to her ear. She flung the door open. The two patrolmen ordered her to wait outside, then entered the house. As she stepped onto the porch, Detective Malone skidded to a stop in a red Camaro, cherry light on top flashing crazily.
As he hurried up the walk, she suddenly felt calm.
When he reached her, he smiled and indicated her phone, still pressed to her ear. “You can hang up now,” he said.
She felt like an idiot even as she said, “Okay. Bye.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Saturday, August 13
3:05
A.M.
A search of the house turned up nothing. Except the cross, hanging on the bedside light, just as she’d described. Malone thanked the patrolmen, then crossed to where Gallier stood, shivering despite the steaminess of the night.
He held out the necklace. “I don’t think we’ll be needing this. It’s been wiped.”
She fastened it around her neck. “Thank you.”
“House is clear. Windows are all locked. No forced entry.” He noticed that even though the necklace was fastened, she kept a hand over the cross.
“Did you lock the doors before going to bed?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“So how’d he get in?”
She shook her head, obviously surprised by the question. “I don’t know.”
“Just to be certain, think back. When you let the officers in the front door, was it locked?”
She dragged a hand through her short hair, which only enhanced her bed head. Some women rolled out of bed looking adorable, some trampled. Gallier fell into the first category.
“I ran to the door.” She said it as much, it seemed, to herself as to him. “I had the phone pressed to my right ear. I reached out … flipped the dead bolt, then pulled the door open.”
She looked him in the eyes. “It was locked. Definitely.”
Malone searched her expression. “So how did Preacher get in?”
“Did you check the kitchen windows? The ones that face the courtyard? I opened one tonight. The far one.”
“Let’s check it again.”
It was locked. Malone slid his gaze over the room, noting the two wineglasses on the counter by the sink, an empty bottle beside them.
He indicated the glasses. “What time did your company leave?”
“Around ten.”
“Could he have left the necklace?”
“No,” she snapped. “Someone you called Preacher ripped it off my neck yesterday morning. And how do you know my company was a he?”
“Just took a shot.” He moved his gaze over the room again, before settling it back on her. “Let me ask you another question, Ms. Gallier. Are you positive you were wearing the cross when you had your encounter with Preacher?”
“Yes. I don’t take it off.”
“Are you certain this is the same piece of jewelry?”
“Yes! My husband bought it for me while we were on our honeymoon in Portugal. I’ve never seen another one like it. Why don’t you believe me?”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you, but I have to look at this from every angle.”
“Including the she’s-a-total-whack angle?”
“It happens.”
“I’m not crazy. I always wear that cross. I even shower with it on.”
“Okay. There’s not much I can tell you at this point. We’ll keep looking for Preacher and bring him in when we find him. I suggest you be more vigilant than ever about safety. Set your alarm. Double-check door and window locks, here and at your studio. If Preacher has targeted you for some reason—”
“Targeted me? For what?”
“That I don’t know. But if he’s visited you twice, it’s no longer random. You have a dog, Ms. Gallier?”
“I did. A golden retriever. I lost her in the storm.”
At his hip, his cell phone vibrated. His brother Percy, he saw, looking at the display. “Excuse me.”
He took the call. “Malone here.”
“Hey, bro. You at a scene?”
“Just leaving.”
“Good. I’ve got something for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Not what, who. We found Preacher. Unfortunately, he’s dead.”
“Where?”
“French Quarter. Public restrooms on Decatur.”
“Just down from Café Du Monde?”
“The very ones. Later.”
Malone hung up and turned to Mira. He saw the questions in her eyes but ignored them. “I’ve got to go.” He started toward the door. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, but if something comes up, call me or 911.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Saturday, August 13
4:15
A.M.
Preacher had met his end in a men’s room. Public restrooms in the French Quarter were few and far between—which could explain why so many drunks used the street as a urinal.
A few of the most dedicated of partiers were still about, mingling with the unfortunate folks heading into work. They gaped at the scene—patrol units, lights flashing, coroner’s wagon and yellow crime scene tape stretched across the mouth of the alleyway like a drunken grin.
Malone greeted the first officer, then signed the scene log. “My brother around?”
“In the can with the vic. You’ll want booties.”
Malone nodded.
He got some from a tech, slipped them on and made his way there. Hazmat booties meant one of two things: a need to keep the scene free of contamination or to protect yourself from it. He saw right away that in this case, the booties applied to the latter. An adult human possessed five to six liters of blood. It looked to Malone like every bit of that was pooled around Preacher’s body.
The coroner’s photographer was just finishing up. Percy stood at the periphery, waiting.
Malone greeted him with a punch to his shoulder. “Rebound.” Percy was four years younger, better looking, more athletic and much taller—just shy of six foot five. His height, years playing basketball and knack for hooking up with recently single women had earned him the nickname.
Malone was close to all of his six siblings, but his bond with Percy was special. They just “got” each other.
Percy turned and smiled. “Hey, man.”
“Thanks for the heads-up on this.”
“Glad to help.”
Malone indicated the body crumpled in front of the far sink. “Crazy bastard. Looks like he preached to the wrong badass.”
“Appears that way. Check out the love note. Far side of the body.”
Malone made his way around. Scrawled in blood were the words
Jugment Day
.
Malone glanced back at his brother. “Somebody flunked spelling.”
“That tells us something about our perp. Obviously not a rocket scientist or PhD.”
“Judgment day,” Malone mused. “What are we talking about here?”
“The end. The day you face your maker.”
“The day Preacher here spent his life telling folks about.”
“Maybe somebody finally had enough of the sermons?”
The photographer had finished, and Ray Hollister, the coroner’s investigator, had taken over. Malone and Percy moved closer.
“He was stabbed in the throat,” Hollister said. “Right in the carotid artery.”
“That explains the blood.”
Hollister fell silent again and Percy glanced at Spencer. “Looking a little haggard, my man. How’s Stacy?”
“Healing physically. Still struggling in other areas.”
Percy nodded. “That’s to be expected, I think.”
“Is it? I’m a little worried. It seems to be getting worse, not better.”
“She’ll pull through. Stacy’s made of some tough stuff.”
Spencer thought of her worry about turning into a mushy girly-girl. Ironic, considering. “You’re right,” he said. “She will.”
His tone lacked conviction and Percy frowned. “Dude, we’re talking about the woman who agreed to the whole white dress, extravaganza thing, which she dreaded, just because she knew Mom would pitch a holy fit if you eloped.” He clapped him on the back. “Show some faith.”
“Thanks for putting it that way. You’re right. I just hate to see her hurting.”
Hollister, squatting by the body, looked over his shoulder at them, clearly annoyed. “Malones one and two, you want to pay a little attention to Mr. Preacher here? The sooner I can wrap this up, the sooner I get back to bed.”
“Like
that’s
going to happen,” Spencer said. “Besides, me and Rebound are in the middle of a family reunion.”
“Every scene is a Malone family reunion. It’s getting old, okay?” The man grinned. “By the way, Spencer, I expect an invitation. After putting up with your shit all these years, I’m expecting a meal and free booze. Lots of free booze.”
Spencer groaned. Percy laughed and fitted on Latex gloves. “What’ve we got?”
Hollister studied the wound. “Looks as if our vic was standing at the sink and was attacked from behind. Deep wound. Ragged edges.” Using a metal probe, he eased the wound open. “Pulling the weapon out did as much damage as the initial strike.”
Percy looked at him. “Blood spray over the sink, wall, mirror. His assailant wouldn’t have walked away clean.”
A fact made plain by bloody footprints leaving the scene.
“So the middle of the French Quarter, perp walks out like that. Ballsy.”
“We are talking the French Quarter.” Percy frowned. “I’m thinking, it wouldn’t have even been that late. Friday night, there should have been a good number of people around. Somebody should’ve seen something.”
“Our perp could’ve used that to his advantage,” Hollister offered. “Blended into the crowd.”
“Could Preacher have done it to himself?” Malone asked. “You know, Judgment Day. Making a statement.”
“So how’d he write the message in blood?”
“Cut himself somewhere before doing the deed.”
They both looked at Hollister. “Problematic. A wound like this, he would have lost all voluntary function almost immediately. Plus, where’s the weapon?”
“Besides, bro, we’ve got bloody footprints leaving the scene.”
“Who discovered the body?”
“A gutter punk, about forty minutes ago. Ran out screaming. That drew the attention of a bartender on his way home from work. He called it in.”
“And the gutter punk?”
“Gone.”
“Could be his footprints?”
“I’m not ruling anything out yet,” Percy said. “The dude was crazy, and it would take crazy to do that to yourself.”
Malone looked back at Hollister. “What do you think, how long’s he been dead?”
“A few hours. Rigor mortis is under way, lividity is evident. We’ll get his internal temperature at the morgue.”
Malone glanced at his watch. “It’s after four now. Any chance he could have been on Frenchmen and Esplanade at one, one thirty?”
“Three hours ago?” Hollister shook his head. “Not impossible, but it’d be tight.”
“What’s up?” Percy asked.
Instead of answering, Malone asked a question of his own. “You go through his pockets yet?”
“First officer checked for an ID. But otherwise, no, we haven’t done a complete search. What’re you looking for?”
“A cross necklace. Lady’s. Preacher snatched it yesterday morning; the victim said he returned it tonight between one and one thirty in the Marigny. I’m just looking for confirmation.”
His brother nodded. “I’ll give you a call when I know for sure.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Saturday, August 13
8:40
A.M.
“You and I have to talk.”
Malone looked up from his computer screen. Bayle stood in his cubicle doorway, a PJ’s coffee cup in her hand and fire in her eyes. “What’s up, partner?”
“Funny you’re calling me that this morning. A laugh riot.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Preacher’s dead, and you don’t call me? You go to the scene and don’t notify me? What the fuck, Malone?”
“I didn’t see any reason to wake you in the middle of the night.”
She closed the distance to his desk and plunked down her cup. She bent so they were nose to nose. “I’m not some fragile princess who needs her beauty sleep. I’m your partner. This is
our
case, not just yours. Got that?”
She was right. But her in-his-face approach still got his back up.
“Noted.”
“That’s it? What the hell were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t, okay? My bad. Sorry.”
She collected herself. For the first time, he saw that she wasn’t just angry but hurt as well.
Truth was, he didn’t blame her. No way he would have excluded Tony that way. His irritation evaporated. “It won’t happen again.”
“Thank you.”
The fire seemed to go out of her. She grabbed her coffee and sank onto the chair in front of his desk. “My guess is, one of your sibs called you about Preacher. Which one?”
“Percy.”
“Fill me in.”
He did, beginning with the means of death and ending with Percy’s promise of a call when he had a report.
“Judgment Day?”
“Without the
d
in
Judgment.
”
“Theories?”
“Two. First, someone who’d had enough of Preacher’s preaching followed him into the john and offed him. Second, he offed himself to make a statement. Far-fetched but intriguing.”
“He have the cross on him?” she asked.
“That’s the thing—Gallier got it back last night.”
“Excuse me?” She waited, paper cup poised halfway to her lips, eyebrow cocked.
“Gallier called me last night in a panic. The necklace was back, hanging on her nightstand lamp. She figured Preacher had somehow gotten into her house and left it.”
“Wow, and here I thought you’d only excluded me from one call. I really do owe you for my good night’s sleep.”