Authors: Erica Spindler
“Come, let me show you where our beautiful lady will reside.”
“Your beautiful lady?”
“The Magdalene window. Come.”
Malone walked with her. She commented on this and that as they walked, detailing present updates and past damage. He heard the love in her voice, but surprisingly not pain, regret or even fatigue.
He commented on this. She shook her head. “God has a plan for everything. Who am I to question that?”
She swung open one of the sanctuary’s double doors. Inside, she made a sweeping gesture, taking in the wall of boarded-up windows. “Soon, this room will be filled with colored light.”
Her hand caught his attention, small and gnarled. Rheumatoid arthritis. He’d seen the devastation the disease had wrought many times before.
She saw his gaze and smiled. “We all have our crosses to bear. It’s how we carry them that reveals our character. And our faith.”
“I didn’t mean to stare. My grandmother suffered with the disease. I know how difficult it can be.”
“‘I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me,’” she quoted. “Philippians 4:13. And what I cannot do, He provides an angel to do it for me.”
He cleared his throat. “And the Magdalene window, did God provide an angel for that?”
“You know He did. Mira Gallier.” She crossed to an aisle of pews, genuflected and crossed herself, then slipped into the pew and sat. He followed her.
“What you don’t know, Detective, is how He brought us together. It was a miracle.”
Malone found her devotion charming. Humoring her, he told her to go on.
“I can see you don’t believe in miracles, Detective.”
“It’s that obvious?”
“I’ll tell you my story, then you decide.” She didn’t wait for him to comment, simply went on. “As I’m sure you know, Katrina took all this away. Not just our church, but our people. Our community.
“Our building broken, our beautiful windows destroyed. There was nothing left. We were inundated with the water. And oil from the Murphy spill.”
Adding insult to injury, Malone remembered. One of the oil company’s storage tanks had come loose and spilled a million-plus gallons. Anything within two miles of the facility had been affected.
“Time passed. Our parishioners were gone. Even Father Clementine had been forced to go.
“So here our beautiful lady lay in pieces, moldering, fouled by oil. A year passed. Then two. I prayed every day, Detective. I prayed for a miracle. A way to save our church and restore our windows. One day, as I prayed outside the church, a sudden gust of wind blew a page from the
Times-Picayune
against my ankles. I bent and retrieved it and there she was. My angel.”
“Mira Gallier?”
“Yes.” She crossed herself, then went on. “An article about her restoration of the city’s stained-glass windows. And I knew she was the one God had sent to me.”
“That’s quite a story.”
“Not a story.” She smiled serenely. “A miracle.”
He wished he could believe that way. He wished he could accept the idea of an ultimate power for good and in miracles. He told her so.
She reached out and covered one of his hands with her deformed one. “There’s only one thing that separates a believer from a nonbeliever.”
“And what’s that, Sister?”
“You already know,” she said softly. “Faith.”
He wanted to tell her it wasn’t that easy. That it was hard to have unshakable faith in good in the face of unrelenting evil, day in and day out.
Instead, he asked, “Sister, was anyone else a part of getting the Magdalene window into Mira Gallier’s hands?”
She shook her head. “Just me and the Almighty.”
“Did anyone else show a special interest in it?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“How about transportation of the pieces?”
“She arranged all of it.”
“I’m going to read you some names. If you know any of these people, or if they have any connection to your window, let me know.”
The names were people close to Mira, the victims and anyone else associated with the case.
He began with Scott, then moved on to Deni Watts.
“I know her,” she said. “She’s the one who took window measurements. I talked to her on the phone just last week.”
“What about?”
“The windows. When we should expect to have them installed.”
“Did she give you a date?”
She shook her head. “She said Mira wanted to wait until after hurricane season.”
He went on, naming Chris Johns, Dr. Adele Jasper and Anton Gallier.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know any of them.”
“Ever heard of a street evangelist called Preacher?”
When she replied again in the negative, he passed Latrobe by her, then, surprising himself, Karin Bayle.
“What was that last name?” she asked.
“Karin Bayle.”
“It sounds sort of familiar, but … no. I’m so sorry.”
“Are you certain?”
“I think so.”
He handed her the list and one of his cards. “Keep these. If something jogs your memory, call me.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Thursday, August 18
Noon
Back at HQ, Malone made his way up to ISD. The department was like a ghost town—everybody was either out on call or out to lunch. Not Bayle, however. He found her at her desk.
“Hey, partner,” he said. “The list from Sisters of Mercy show up yet?”
“Nope. But it’s early.”
“Just wishful thinking.” He perched on the edge of her desk. “What do you have there?”
She angled it so he could read it. “Coroner’s report on Latrobe. She died of natural causes. Cardiac arrest.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. Hollister called it at the scene. Autopsy showed this wasn’t her first heart attack.”
“So our guy did, literally, scare her to death.”
“Or he found her conveniently dead, marked her forehead and left.”
“Maybe.” He thumbed through the report. “No marks on her body or other signs of trauma. No defensive wounds; nails were clean.”
“Which adds up to a big fat nothing for us to work with.”
“Lab get anything on the lipstick?”
Bayle slid over another report. “Estée Lauder. Coral Sunrise. Actually, it’s a discontinued color. Techs found three more tubes upstairs. All three brand-new, never been used.”
Malone frowned. “How does that happen?”
“Easy. She learns from her usual salesgirl that her color is being discontinued. So she buys up whatever’s left. We girls do that all the time.”
“No shit,” he said again. “I wonder if Stacy does that?”
“Ask her. My bet’s on yes.” Bayle leaned back in her chair. “How’d it go in Chalmette?”
“Interesting.” He held her gaze. “Have you been out to Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows or met Sister Sarah Elisabeth?”
She didn’t even blink. “Never. Why?”
“She’s a hoot, that’s all. It’s worth the trip just to meet her.”
“Did you get anything we could use?”
“Nada.”
“Could she be our killer?”
Malone had to laugh, as a picture of the Yoda-like nun wielding a gun or a deadly shard of glass entered his mind.
Bayle looked irritated. “Maybe you should explain why that’s funny?”
“Sorry. You sort of had to be there. She would have needed to ask Preacher to get on his knees to be able to reach his throat to slit it. Plus, she’s about a thousand years old.”
Bayle frowned slightly. “I’ve got a question, Malone. Donna St. Cloud called a little bit ago. She said Stacy was asking some questions about me. My history. My breakdown. You know anything about that?”
He hadn’t expected this, especially after the things St. Cloud had said. But he didn’t let it throw him. “You know I do.”
“What the hell, Malone? What’s that all about?”
“I had some questions.”
“You could have asked me.”
“Really? I’ll ask now. Why’d you break down?”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder stemming from Katrina.”
“Nothing to do with some guy? A rich, Uptown guy?”
Her steady gaze faltered a bit. “What does that have to do with anything? And why would it be any of your damn business if it had?”
“If it influenced your performance on this case, you bet it’d be my business.”
“It’s not. That’s bullshit.”
“Did you have an affair with Connor Scott? Is he the guy who broke your heart? The first time I saw you together, is that what I picked up on?”
“This is outrageous!” She stood and started past him.
He caught her arm. “Is that why you haven’t been able to move past Mira Gallier as lead suspect? Because he was in love with her then and he’s still in love with her?”
“Let go of my arm.”
“Answer me.”
“No! Okay? I did not have an affair with Scott. He is just who I said, a coworker of the guy who did break my heart. You’re right, you got me, the breakup sent me into a tailspin, then Katrina sent me over the edge.”
“What was his name?”
“None of your damn business.”
“His name?”
“James,” she said, yanking her arm free. “Sterling. Look him up. I’m sure he’d love to talk to you. Excuse me, I’m going to lunch.”
She stalked past him, then stopped and looked back. “Nice trust, Malone. Appreciate it. As soon as we’re finished with this case, I’ll ask for a change.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Thursday, August 18
2:05
P.M.
Malone admitted it. He’d screwed up. Handled the whole thing with Bayle wrong. Going behind her back that way. It unraveled the very fabric of what a partnership was supposed to be.
Honesty and trust. The unshakable belief that even if everybody else out there turned their back on you without a second thought, your partner would still be there.
Actually, Bayle had taken it damn well. If their roles had been reversed, he’d have been furious. Wait for the investigation to conclude before severing the relationship? Hell, no. He would have demanded she be removed from the case and another partner assigned. Immediately.
Time to eat some humble pie, Malone.
He owed her an apology.
She hadn’t returned from lunch, he learned. Back at his desk, he dialed her cell. He hadn’t really expected her to pick up for him, so he wasn’t surprised when the device clicked over to voice mail.
“Okay,” he said, “I’m a jackass, I admit it. I’m sorry. Call me back.” Oddly enough, his desk phone jangled just as he ended the cell call. “Malone.”
“Detective Spencer Malone?” a woman asked.
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“My name’s Dr. Adele Jasper. I’m Mira Gallier’s therapist. I wonder if we could meet?”
He grabbed his notebook and a pen. “What’s this in reference to?”
“I think you know.”
“It would help if you could give me something specific.”
“Never mind, this was a mistake.”
“When?” he said quickly. “I could meet you now.”
“No, I have a two thirty appointment. A new client. Let’s say three forty-five?”
He agreed, and she gave him her address.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Thursday, August 18
3:35
P.M.
Malone pulled up at the Uptown address. Located just off the Avenue, on Soniat Street. It was a lovely, tree-shaded property, not over-the-top but solid. Dr. Adele Jasper practiced out of the carriage house behind the home.
Percy was waiting for him, Bayle was not. He muttered an oath. He’d called her again, left the time and address. He’d been certain she’d be here. Bayle might be hopping mad at him, but she’d made it clear she wasn’t giving up on this investigation.
He glanced at his watch. He was early. She could still be en route.
Malone met his brother. “Where’s your partner?” Percy asked.
“Maybe on her way. I’m not sure.”
Percy cocked an eyebrow. “What’s up?”
“We had a disagreement. I questioned her integrity and went behind her back. She’s pretty pissed off.”
Percy knew him well enough not to comment. “Should we wait?”
Malone glanced at his watch again, then shook his head. “She’s smart. She’ll catch up.”
They followed the path around to the carriage house’s entrance. They entered a waiting room, a buzzer sounding as they did. Jasper had outfitted it with elegant but comfortable furnishings in a muted, soothing color scheme. Several chairs, a coffee table with a fan of trendy magazines, a small writing desk with a chair and a phone.
A sign hung on the closed door at the back of the room:
DO NOT DISTURB. IN SESSION.
“No receptionist,” Percy said. “An open door. Risky, considering crime in the area.”
Malone moved his gaze over the room. He indicated the camera mounted in the corner and trained on the door. “Not that risky. Bet there’s one in front, too.”
Malone wandered over to the magazines.
Southern Living, Metropolitan Home, Vogue.
Pretty obvious the demographics of Jasper’s clients. Not a
Field & Stream
or
Sports Illustrated
in sight.
He glanced at the time and frowned. Three fifty. “She said her appointment was coming in at two thirty.”
“So?”
“Aren’t these sessions usually an hour?”
“They are on TV. Maybe her client was late?”
Malone slid his gaze toward the closed door, then the camera. “Something’s not right. She knows we’re here. If her session was going to run this long over—”
“She’d let us know.”
They crossed to the door, drawing their weapons. Malone knocked. “Dr. Jasper? Detective Malone.”
She didn’t reply. He tried the door while Percy covered him. It opened. The interior boasted large windows, cypress wood floors and high ceilings.
It would have been a lovely environment to work in.
Would have been. Past tense. Just like Adele Jasper.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Thursday, August 18
4:10
P.M.
Jasper had put up a fight. Malone swept his gaze over the scene. Furniture toppled, knickknacks broken, a smear of blood across the wall, a framed Crescent City Classic poster, glass shattered. Jasper lay sprawled in front of the desk, hands frozen claws, face bloodied.