Authors: Erica Spindler
Military records were damn difficult to access, but it could be done with a subpoena. Whether the military released them was their call. Scott’s premilitary record was nonexistent. No arrests, no convictions. If he’d had a juvenile record, it had disappeared. He’d made a few calls, done a little legwork. Apparently Scott had been a bit of a hell-raiser, but nothing more than teenage rich kid crap.
No marriages, no children. Graduation with honors from Tulane University. Attended prep school in Virginia.
“Hey, partner.”
Malone looked up at Bayle and smiled. “You find something that’s going to make me stand up and dance?”
She smiled back. “I wish. Actually, I’m starving and hope you are, too.”
“I am. And a break from this sounds really good right now.”
“I know a place that serves out-of-this-world shrimp and grits.”
“You had me at hungry.” He stood and stretched. “Let’s go.”
She drove. The place was a hole-in-the-wall diner called Freddie and the Red-Headed Lady. Pure dive. Sketchy part of town. Heaven-on-earth, down-home cooking. She had the shrimp and grits, he Sista’s soul food omelet with red bean gravy.
“Okay, how did you find this place?” he asked, mopping up the last of the gravy with a chunk of buttermilk biscuit. “I thought we Malones knew all the best local dives.”
“My old boyfriend introduced me to it. He had a nose for places off the beaten track.”
“The beaten track? More like off the gravel path.” He glanced around. “Certainly not a place to see and be seen.”
Something flashed in her eyes, then was gone. “Is that a problem for you?”
“Hell no. I appreciate the introduction, believe me.” He leaned back in his chair as the waitress refilled their coffee cups.
“Can I get y’all anything else?” she asked.
“Not me,” Bayle said and looked at him.
He shook his head. “Me either. It was great.”
The woman hesitated a moment, gaze on Bayle. “I hope you don’t mind me askin’, but are you Detective Karin Bayle?”
“I am.”
The waitress’s eyes filled with tears. “During Katrina you saved my cousin’s life. Brittany Ann Martin. She was trapped in her car.”
“I remember.” She did, he saw by the way her face softened. “How is she?”
“Really good. She just had a baby. A girl. I’m her godmother.”
“Tell her I said hi and congratulations.”
“I will.” The waitress ripped their bill off her pad and stuffed it in her pocket. “This is on me.”
“You don’t have to do that—”
“Yeah, I do. Thank you, Detective.”
“Wow,” Malone said when the waitress was gone. “So that’s what being famous is like.”
“Stop. It’s embarrassing.”
She meant it, he realized, and did as she asked. “You find anything new about Gallier?”
“Not much. Born and raised in New Orleans. Went to public schools, attended the Center for Creative Arts, then Tulane’s Newcomb College on a full scholarship.”
“She didn’t come from money, then?”
“Far from it. Parents are both dead. Dad when she was young. Mom before Katrina. One sib, a sister who lives in Knoxville.”
“Run-ins with the law?”
“Other than the charges leveled on her after Katrina, nada.”
It was hard for him to imagine such a small family, coming from one that extended like the plumes of an oil spill. “Anything else?”
“Her husband’s death made her a rich woman.” She picked up her coffee cup. “What about you? Turn up anything on Scott?”
“Damn little. Wealthy family, old-school New Orleans. A page in the Krewe of Rex. Years later, he was in the royal court. Went to work at the family financial services firm after university.
“I asked around, Scott did his share of hell-raising. Underage drinking, reckless driving, fighting, that sort of thing. I’ll keep digging.”
“They seemed pretty cozy tonight.”
“That they did,” he agreed. “No crime in that, though. What’re you thinking?”
“About Gallier?” He nodded. “There’s something going on there. Whether she’s hiding something, lying or just plain crazy, something’s not right with her.”
“Just my opinion,” he said, “but Scott’s the one who sets off my alarm bells. His story’s too convenient. He just happens to bring her a dog on the same night someone breaks into her house? Please.”
He drummed his fingers on the table. “Twice now she calls us out. Both times we find all the doors and windows locked from the inside. Nothing’s taken or disturbed and Gallier’s unharmed. It’s almost as if someone has a key and is sneaking in to play with her.”
“But why?”
“To terrorize her. Exert control. Make her pay for some slight, real or imagined.”
“Motivated by?”
“Love. Hate. Jealousy. Anger. Shame. All of the above. Her dead husband’s aftershave sealed the deal for me.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Explain.”
“I put myself in her shoes. If I’d lost Stacy that way, and somebody wanted to screw with me, that’d do it. Big time.”
Bayle pursed her lips. “Interesting. Who’s your bet on?”
“How about the in-laws? They failed to get her through legal channels, so they go this route. Makes sense they might have a key to the house. Considering their social and economic stature, they’d hire it done.”
“And murdering Preacher was part of it?”
“Hell, no. Preacher was offed by a badass who’d had enough of his sermons.”
“What about the vandalized windows and Father Girod? Related to Gallier?”
“I’m thinking not. One of those weird coincidences I typically don’t believe in.”
“But you do now?” She folded her arms across her chest. “Why?”
“It just makes more sense to me.”
“No.” Bayle dropped her arms and leaned forward. “I’ll tell you why. Because such a sweet, doe-eyed little thing couldn’t possibly be at the heart of something so ugly.”
“Whoa, hit the brakes. Give me a little credit.”
“Sorry, but she’s the kind of woman men do things for. Things they wouldn’t normally do.”
“Like commit murder?”
“Don’t discount it.”
“I’m not discounting anything at this point. Happy?”
“Works for me.”
His cell phone buzzed. It was Percy. “Hey, bro. Got something good for me?”
“Define
good
.”
Crap.
“Okay, so who got whacked?”
“Anton Gallier.”
“Any relation to—”
“Yup. Her father-in-law.”
“Where?”
“French Quarter. Royal and St. Philip.”
“Bayle and I are on our way.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Tuesday, August 16
9:45
A.M.
Gallier had been gunned down leaving his French Quarter apartment. Since he was married, Malone figured the man called it a corporate apartment, then generously allowed his company to pay for it. In the meantime, it served as his place to party.
He and Bayle ducked under the inner perimeter tape and signed the log. He moved his gaze over the scene. Like all French Quarter buildings, this one was old. Three stories with wraparound balconies. Gallier’s apartment had been a third-floor corner unit.
A sweet place to be during Mardi Gras.
The coroner’s photographer was doing his thing, the CSI team waiting patiently. The scene reminded Malone of one from the original
Godfather
movie: mob guy, dressed to kill, crumpled in the corner of the old-time elevator car. Blood and guts. Big mess.
Percy ambled over. Spencer introduced him to Bayle. “My new partner, Karin Bayle.”
Percy grinned and held out his hand. “My condolences.”
She took his hand, frowning. “Condolences? I don’t—”
“At pulling the dead wood here.”
“Little brother’s under the misconception that he’s funny.” Malone punched him in the arm.
“Know what’s really sad? Dude’s wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit. Custom. Nice threads. Italian wool.” He whistled low, under his breath. “No good to anyone now. That shit’ll never come out.”
A crime scene tech looked over her shoulder at them. “Even if it did, how you gonna repair a hole like that? There’s no reweave to that.”
“Damn shame,” Percy agreed, then turned his attention back to Anton Gallier. “His girlfriend found him. He’d gotten up for a meeting and she’d slept in. Entire building is corporate apartments. Six apartments, two each floor. One elevator, two staircases, one for each side of the building.
“Shot twice,” he went on. “Close range. Both times in the chest. First officer checked his ID. Wallet’s in his jacket, plenty of green. Wearing a wedding ring and a Patek Philippe watch.”
“Certainly wasn’t a robbery,” Bayle said.
“More like a mob-style execution,” Spencer said, thinking again of the gangster movie. “If our perp knew Gallier was here, he waits until he hears the elevator. The door opens and
pop, pop,
he takes care of business. He walks away, not even a drop of blood on him.”
“Let’s find out if any of the other five units were being used last night. If so, maybe somebody saw something this morning. No place to hide here in the lobby, so if our scenario is correct, somebody could have seen him.”
“Let’s ask the folks at the grocery across the street as well. They open early.”
“I’ll get started on that,” Percy offered.
Spencer nodded. “Girlfriend still here?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s recuperating upstairs. I’ve got a uniform with her.”
“Have you questioned her yet?”
“Nope. She’s all yours.”
Spencer collected her name and other pertinent information. He and Bayle took the stairs to the third floor.
The girlfriend sat on the couch, a bottle of artesian water clutched in her hands. She looked more bored than upset and lifted her gaze hopefully when they entered the room.
“Ms. Jessica Zurich, is that right?” Spencer asked.
“Jaz,” she said, “like the music. My middle name’s Ann.”
“Gotcha,” he said. “Very cute.”
She was young. Mid- to late twenties, Malone guessed. Certainly beyond the age of consent, but considering her paramour had been in the neighborhood of his sixth decade, he found the thought of their relationship a little creepy. He supposed they’d had one big thing in common: Gallier’s money.
“I’m Detective Spencer Malone and this is my partner, Detective Karin Bayle. We need to ask you some questions.”
“That’s cool. Is it going to take long, though? I’ve got a lunch appointment.”
No real love there. She was already thinking about lunch.
“You’re obviously very upset,” Bayle said softly. “We’ll make this as quick as possible.”
If the young woman picked up on the sarcasm, she didn’t show it.
“Thanks. I’d like to smoke. Do you mind?”
“Okay by me,” Spencer said. Bayle nodded.
She dug a pack out of her tiny, ridiculously sparkly handbag. “Anton didn’t allow it.”
“I think he’d understand, considering the circumstances.”
She giggled, the sound young and inappropriate. But what about this situation
wasn’t
inappropriate? Malone thought.
She lit up, took a drag, then let out a stream of smoke. Something about the way she sucked in and blew out was decidedly sexual. It was almost like she was giving the damn thing a blow job.
Malone cleared his throat. “Tell me about last night and this morning.”
“Anton and I spent the night here. We’d been out with friends.”
“What did you do?”
She looked momentarily confused, like he was asking what the two of them had done in bed.
He clarified. “With your friends. Where did you go? Who were you with?”
“Some of his business associates. Their girlfriends. We spent most of the night at the Ritz dining room, but we also stopped in a couple clubs. Republic, Club 360.”
“What time did you get back here?”
“Around one. Anton had a meeting in the morning. He let me sleep in.”
“Considerate.”
“He always was.” Regret tinged her voice.
“You didn’t hear anything? Nothing disturbed your sleep?”
“No. Anton said goodbye before he left and I slept like a baby until nine.”
“Anybody else in any of the apartments last night?”
“No clue. I didn’t see anyone.”
“So you got up?”
“Had a cup of coffee and a piece of fruit, called my mother, then showered and dressed.” She took a quick breath, as if preparing herself for something unpleasant. “I called the elevator and … there he was.”
For the first time he heard real emotion in her voice.
“It must have been a shock.”
“It was horrible. The most horrible thing I ever—” She squeezed her eyes shut. Malone suspected she was trying to force the image of Gallier out of her head.
“What did you do then?”
“I called the police.”
“Did you touch him at all? Check his pulse? Anything?”
“Are you kidding?” She shuddered. “That was the last thing I’d do.”
“How did the elevator get back to the ground floor?”
“I reached inside and pressed the button. I wanted it as far away from me as possible.”
“Interesting. Why didn’t you take the stairs and go for help?”
She looked at him blankly. It was obvious the thought hadn’t crossed her mind. Either that, or she hadn’t even realized there were stairs.
“Mr. Gallier was married, wasn’t he?”
She nodded. “For like thirty-five years or something ridiculous like that.” Her lips lifted. “He’d been married longer than I’ve been alive. I always thought that was kind of funny.”
Malone cocked his head. There was something off about her. Her eyes. Her response. He wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Jaz here had a little bump this morning. He’d bet a month’s salary that sparkly little bag concealed something that’d get her sparkly little ass busted.
As if reading his thoughts, Bayle said, “When you got back here last night, you two use any drugs?”
Alarm raced into her eyes. “Why would you say that?”
“It’s just a question. Whether he was using will turn up in the pathology report anyway.”
She tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder. “I don’t use drugs, Detective. Once in a while Anton would have a little something. You know, to aid his performance.”