Authors: Erica Spindler
Malone collected the just-delivered path report and headed for her cubicle. “Hey, partner, got a minute?”
She looked up, simultaneously shoving what she had been looking at into a drawer. Blinking furiously, she waved him in. “Sure.”
Either she had something in her eyes or she’d been crying.
“Are you okay?”
“Absolutely.” She cleared her throat. “What’ve you got?”
“Path report,” he said, dropping it in front of her.
“Vic bled out,” he said as she removed the contents from the file folder. “But if our perp hadn’t gotten him, his own body soon would have.”
“Stage-four cancer,” she said. “Poor bastard.”
Spencer slouched in the chair across from her desk. “It’d spread pretty much everywhere but his brain.”
“Wonder if he knew?”
“Pathologist said he would have been in big-time pain.”
“Seems to me the dude’s gone to a better place. He sure preached that message, anyway.” Bayle glanced back down at the report. “No defensive wounds. Nails were clean. No secondary wound, either.”
“Eliminates the suicide theory.”
She slid the report back into the folder. “Now that I’ve got the facts, I’m ready for the commentary.”
He smiled. He liked her style. “I spoke with Percy this morning. They may have found the murder weapon. A piece of colored glass, in the trash.”
“Hello,” she said, straightening. “Did you say colored glass?”
“I did. Wicked looking. Six inches long, pointed, shaped like a carrot. Tape around the bottom edge, to make a grip. Tape was filthy. Glass had been wiped.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“Very,” he agreed. “What do we have so far on the bloody footprints?”
“Men’s size nine athletic shoe.”
“We know it’s a man’s shoe?”
“Could be a lady’s extra wide, size ten.”
“Big foot. Brand?”
“Nike. I should have the individual model number in the next day or two.”
“I’m thinking, in light of the new evidence we might want to—”
“Yes.”
“You know what I was going to say?”
“That we need to go over to Gallier Glassworks for another round of questioning.”
“The assistant, carpenter and Gallier?”
“My thoughts exactly.” She got to her feet, a slow smile spread across her face. “My God, are we a great team, or what?”
* * *
After stopping for a quick sandwich, they headed for the glass studio. Mira Gallier hadn’t returned, but both her assistant and the carpenter were there.
They started with Deni Watts. Malone let Bayle take the lead. “The piece of glass Preacher found in your recycling bin, do you remember what it looked like?” The young woman said she did, and Bayle went on. “Is it uncommon for there to be remnants of glass that size and shape in the bin?”
“Not at all. We work with glass, Detective. We’re as careful, and as frugal, with the materials as we can be, but we have accidents.”
“Accidents?”
“Breakage. We reuse as much as we can, Mira’s a stickler for that, but a piece like that”—she indicated the photo Bayle had handed her—“there’s nothing we can do with it.”
Bayle made a note, then met the girl’s eyes once more. “How likely would it be that two identical pieces wind up in that bin?”
“Identical? Impossible. You can’t re-create the by-product of an accident.”
“Okay, then two very
similar
pieces?”
The assistant nodded. “It doesn’t happen every day, thank goodness, but it does happen. Once I screwed up a break four times in a row.”
“A break? What’s that?”
“I’ll show you.” She led them into the workroom, to a table with a job in progress laid out on its top. What looked like a pattern—rectangular, maybe two by four feet—was affixed to the table; pieces of colored glass had been cut to fit the pattern. Like a puzzle.
“This isn’t a restoration,” she said. “It’s an original design we’re doing for a home uptown.”
Malone cocked his head. It was simple, a repeating pattern of purple, green and gold fleur-de-lis and clear beveled glass. “Somebody likes Mardi Gras,” he said, referring to both the colors and image.
“That’s our bread and butter, actually. Fleur-de-lis, egrets, magnolias. That’s what most of my students want to start with as well.”
He heard the pride in her voice. “You’re the teacher?”
“And I designed the curriculum. Mira didn’t offer classes before I came on board. We’ve really grown since then.”
“Kudos,” he said.
She smiled. “Thanks.” She selected a square of glass and laid it on the pattern. With a tool that looked like an X-Acto knife, she scored it, tapped the score, then snapped it. “That’s a break,” she said.
Bayle smiled. “You make it look so easy.”
“You want to try it?”
Bayle took a step back. “No, thanks.
Klutz
is my middle name. I imagine it’s easy to get hurt?”
“God, yes. Look at my hands.” She held them out. They were riddled with cuts, scrapes and scars. “You want to be paying attention when you’re doing this. You learn quickly to respect the medium.”
“Where were you last night and early this morning?”
She looked from one of them to the other. “Are you serious?”
“As a judge,” Bayle said.
“Um, let me think…”
“After Preacher attacked Mira and took her cross. It wasn’t that long ago.”
“Right.” She shifted from one foot to the other. “I think I went to a movie.”
“You think you did? Or you did?”
“I did.”
“What did you see?”
She hesitated. “The new Tom Cruise flick. I forget the name.” She laughed nervously. “I’m bad with names.”
“Was it good?” Bayle asked.
“It was okay. I’m not a huge fan.”
“Did you go alone?”
She clasped her hands together and shook her head. “I went with my sister. She is a big fan.”
“What show?”
“The seven o’clock.”
“And after?”
She looked like she might throw up. “Got a daiquiri. At Daiquiris and Creams on Vets.”
“I love those,” Bayle said, smiling. “The White Russians are my favorite.”
“I’m a piña colada girl. That’s what I had last night. We stayed for a while. Listened to some music. I dropped Cyndi off around eleven.”
“We’ll need her full name and a number where we can reach her.”
“I don’t understand. Why?”
“To confirm you were with her during those hours,” Malone said.
“But why?” Her voice rose slightly. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“I’m sure you haven’t,” he said, tone soothing. “We’re just following procedure.”
“That’s what we have to do in a homicide investigation,” Bayle added.
“Homicide,” Deni squeaked.
“Preacher is dead. He was murdered shortly after Mira’s cross was returned.”
“Oh, my God. I need to sit down.”
Instead of going in search of a chair, she plopped down on the floor. Spencer and Bayle exchanged glances. He squatted in front of her. “Are you all right, Ms. Watts?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“You seem pretty upset.”
“It’s just so … awful. I’ve never … met anybody who was … murdered before.”
“I didn’t think you’d met him.”
“Pardon?”
“You said you heard Ms. Gallier scream and ran into the workroom, but Preacher was already gone.”
“That’s right.”
“So you haven’t actually met someone who’s been murdered.”
They’d flustered her. “Not met, you know, but who crossed my path.”
He looked up at Bayle. “You have any more questions?”
“Nope. That’ll do it.”
He looked back at the young woman and smiled. “Thanks, Deni. We really appreciate it. What’s your boyfriend’s name again?”
“Chris.”
Malone nodded as if only just remembering. “He was here yesterday, right?”
She nodded. “But he didn’t see any more than I did.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But as long as we’re waiting for Mira, we might as well chat with him, too.”
Bayle stepped in. “He’s outside, yes?”
She started to stand. “He is. I’ll take you out.”
Malone offered her a hand. “Don’t worry about us, Deni. You have things to do, and we’ve kept you from them long enough. Besides, we know the way.”
She looked as if she was going to argue, took one glance at Bayle and shut her mouth.
They exited the workroom by the back door, simultaneously going for their shades. When they were out of earshot, Malone said, “I’m impressed. How’d you get her to back down so quickly?”
“I gave her my don’t-fuck-with-me look.”
He chuckled. “Who would’ve thought I’d be the good cop in our relationship.”
“I put the
b
in
bitch,
baby.” Her tone grew more serious. “That was a little weird, by the way. She was either hiding something or outright lying. And the way she reacted to learning Preacher had been murdered seemed melodramatic.”
“I agree. And it was pretty obvious she didn’t want us to talk to her boyfriend. I wonder why.”
“Don’t know. Let’s see if we can find out.”
Chris was atop a ladder, painting. They stopped and looked up. “Hey, Chris. Can we talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure. I needed a break anyway.”
He climbed down the ladder and went for the water cooler. He pulled out a gallon jug and drank directly from it.
“How many of those you go through a day?”
“Quite a few. Mira’s always reminding me to stay hydrated.”
“Good advice. How long have you worked for her?”
“Only about six weeks.” He took another long swig from the jug, then set it back in the cooler. “Nicest person I’ve ever worked for. Considerate. Gentle. Cares about people.”
Malone made a note. “How about Deni? How long have you two been a couple?”
He thought a moment. “We’ve been dating four or five months. But yeah, I guess you could call us a couple now.”
“How’d you meet?”
Chris laughed. “In church. At least that’s what my mother likes to say.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No, we did, just not in that context.” He grabbed a towel from the back of his pickup truck and wiped his face. “I was doing some work for the archdiocese and she was there to evaluate a couple windows.”
“You have a faith life, Chris?”
The kid looked surprised. “Wow, that was random, but yeah. You know, without faith, what do you have? Especially after something like Katrina. You know what I mean?”
Malone did. The storm had had a strong effect on people’s faith. For some it had cemented their belief in God; for others, it had broken it.
Chris tossed the towel back over the truck’s tailgate. “Besides, my mother dragged me to mass twice a week for my whole life. She’d kick my ass if I said I didn’t believe.”
Malone laughed. His mother had done the same, dragged each of them to mass and made it clear that nonbelief was the same as stabbing her in the heart.
“I’m with you on that,” Malone said, glancing down at his notes, then back up at the young man. “Yesterday morning, when Ms. Gallier was attacked, you get a look at that guy?”
“That Preacher dude?” He shook his head. “Deni and I were just walking in the front door when Mira screamed.”
“You ever notice a guy like him around here before?”
“Around here? Just the other night, at the Corner Bar.” He paused, as if in thought. “Usually I see those types in the French Quarter and outside Saints games, but I never look hard at them. You know how it is, you can have a bucketful of faith, but you still don’t want to talk to one of those guys.”
Malone did indeed know. He appreciated the handyman’s honesty. “By the way, Chris, where were you late last night?”
“How late?”
“Between ten thirty and five this morning.”
He laughed. “Are you kidding? I was asleep. I’m usually out cold by nine thirty, sometimes earlier than that.”
“Pretty early for a young guy like you,” Malone said.
“You try working out in this heat all day. Completely sucks the life out of me.”
“Was Deni with you?”
“Nope. She and I caught a quick bite to eat after leaving here, then went our separate ways.”
“You know where she was last night?”
“You’d have to ask her that.” He glanced back at the building in progress. “If you’re cool with it, I need to get back to work.”
Malone heard a car door slam. Gallier, he thought. He would like to get to her before Deni spilled everything. “Sure, Chris. Thanks for your help.”
By the time they reached the door to the workroom, Gallier was already there. She looked completely rattled.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to get here, there was an accident on I-10.”
Malone made a mental note to check that. “No problem. While we were waiting we talked to Deni and Chris.”
“About Preacher. Deni told me. She said … he’s dead? That he was murdered. Is that true?”
“Yes. Sometime late yesterday or early this morning.”
She moved her gaze between them, expression uncertain. “That’s when I got my cross back.”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, my God.” She brought a hand to her throat, to her cross. “But how is that possi— I mean … When did you say?”
“About the same time your cross was returned. Would you know anything about that?”
It took a moment for his words to register; he saw the instant they did. Her eyes widened and she went white. “Of course not. How could you think … why would you—”
She crossed to one of the stools set up at the closest worktable. She sat hard.
Her shock looked genuine. Of course, as he was certain Bayle would point out, that didn’t mean squat. Many a guilty-as-hell perp came off as innocent as a choir boy. Or in this case, choir girl.
“What happened?” she managed after a moment, meeting his eyes. “How … where—” Her throat seemed to close over the words.
Bayle answered in her no-nonsense, deal-with-it manner. “How, his throat was slit. Where, a French Quarter john.”
“Something interesting was found at the scene,” Malone said. “A piece of glass almost exactly like the one he attacked you with.”
“Even the same color,” Bayle added.
“Which is why we’re here.”
Gallier looked at them, obviously struggling to connect with where their questions were heading. “Was it … are you saying … was it the murder weapon?”