Authors: Erica Spindler
“Detectives,” the manager said, tone hushed. “Thank you for coming so quickly. We hope to get this taken care of quietly, before the guests become aware there’s a problem.”
“We understand,” Malone said.
“This is my head of security, Hector Tabor. He will accompany you to the twelfth floor and room 1212. Hotel policy demands a member of our staff remain with law enforcement at all times.”
Malone nodded and Tabor showed them to the elevator.
On the ride up, Malone worked to center himself and his thoughts. He needed to focus on this scene, unemotionally, not on the past or his relationship with Bayle.
Come to it clean, Malone. Do it.
The elevator doors opened with a soft
whoosh
. Room 1212 lay dead ahead on the right. He didn’t need to count down or check room numbers. The NOPD officer standing sentinel outside the door told him everything he needed to know.
He let his breath out in a resigned sigh. Percy, standing beside him, made a similar sound. The officer looked their way, nodded in recognition. Joey Petron. Nice guy. Solid cop.
There’d be no jokes at this scene. No smiling or banter. Just a heavy silence.
“We the first?” Malone asked.
“You are. CSI’s on the way. Contacted the Coroner’s Office. Her superior officer’s been notified.”
Malone didn’t bother telling him that “her superior officer” was also his own. He signed them both in. “Anything else we should know?”
He shook his head. “Damn shame. I feel real bad about this.”
Welcome to the club.
Malone and Percy entered the room, Tabor following. Bayle had rented a suite. They made their way through the elegantly appointed living room and into the bedroom. She’d shot herself with her service weapon. One bullet to her right temple.
He stopped at the end of the bed, struggling to catch his breath, fighting not to be sick, though it had been years since that had happened. In a strange way he felt grateful for the nausea—he still had enough humanity to feel ill at the sight of a colleague in this state.
He wondered if Percy felt the same. A quick glance his way suggested he did.
Percy spoke first. “Downstairs, they said she’d checked in around one thirty this afternoon. Took the suite for one night.”
“Has she left the room since?”
“They didn’t know but offered the elevator surveillance tapes.”
Malone glanced at the service cart parked by the bed. She’d ordered champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries. Only one glass, he noted. He pointed that out to Percy, who nodded and took out his notebook. “I’ll double-check that with room service.”
“Do we know what time she ordered room service?”
“Three o’clock,” Tabor offered. “She accepted delivery twenty-five minutes later.”
Malone glanced Tabor’s way. Although he stood in the bedroom doorway, his gaze was fixed on a point on the wall opposite the bed. Two things hit Malone at once: Bayle had made the decision to do this shortly after their argument, and there was no way she’d killed Jasper or nabbed Gallier.
Malone moved his gaze back to her. She had showered. Her hair was still wrapped in a towel, turban style. The turban had slipped as her head had jerked with the force of impact, then fell back against the velvet headboard. She wore one of the hotel’s fluffy white robes. Both it and the towel were soaked with blood and dotted with brain matter. The headboard was in a similar condition.
Her hand was still on the gun. Malone moved closer to get a better look. “Gun powder residue,” he said. “No doubt she pulled the trigger.”
On the dresser, in a neat pile, she had stacked her shield, key ring, ID badge and wallet. Beside that, a small leather-bound book.
“No note here,” Percy said. “I’ll take a look around.”
Malone fitted on gloves and crossed to the dresser. A journal, he saw, and picked it up.
The entries dated from February 2004 to November 2006. Bayle and Jeff Gallier had met at the Columns Hotel bar. At first she hadn’t known he was married; she’d been so smitten by the time he’d told her that she’d bought his tired tale about his marriage being over.
As he read, Malone learned Bayle had wrestled with being “the other woman,” had broken up with Gallier a number of times, but he’d always wooed her back.
Malone supposed he should feel good that he’d been suspicious of her, that he’d questioned her motives. He didn’t. He was embarrassed for her. Angry with Jeff Gallier for being such an asshole, the kind of guy who gave them all a bad name. And furious with Bayle for allowing herself to be manipulated that way.
He read on, two things becoming obvious as he did: Bayle had been obsessively in love with Jeff Gallier and to an equal degree she’d hated his wife.
He flipped forward, to her writings in the weeks after Katrina. They were short, sporadic entries. At first they conveyed her concern for her lover’s welfare and her frantic attempts to contact him, following with the knowledge that he was “missing,” presumed dead.
Through her words, he learned that Bayle believed Jeff had confessed his affair to Mira, then in a jealous rage, she had killed him—and used the storm’s chaos to hide it.
Malone turned to the next entry and stopped, surprised. Bayle had gone to Anton Gallier with her suspicions. She had provided the inspiration for the man’s campaign against his daughter-in-law.
But that last entry was not her last. “I found the note, Percy. It’s right here in her journal.”
“Mary Mother of God.”
Aunt Patti.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. She looked stricken.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he said.
She met his eyes, the expression in hers steely. “Step back, Detective. I was her commanding officer, of course I had to come.”
Malone acknowledged his mistake. “Of course, Captain. I was out of line.”
“You found the note?”
He nodded and held out the journal, open to the last entry. “Just now. Haven’t even read it yet.”
She crossed to him, and the three of them read it together.
To Whoever finds this first—my money’s on Malone, but if it’s not, get it to him, please.
You are one astute son of a bitch, you know that? You saw through my shit right away—I respect you for that. Don’t think for a minute you had anything to do with this, it was all me. The jig was up, you know? I was over it. The grief and anger. The hatred. The games—life, I guess. I’d just had fucking enough of it.
I was just screwing with Gallier’s mind. The aftershave, the phone call—a brilliant use of a saved voice message, if I do say so myself. I wanted to punish her. I wanted to drive her crazy. The way I was being driven crazy. I wanted her to miss him, the way I was missing him. In the end, looks like she moved on and I never did. Even though she was still living in his house … I used to imagine sometimes that I … we used to meet there and I … You know what? Fuck this.
Ciao, partner
They simultaneously finished reading and lifted their heads. None of them spoke. Malone supposed it was because Bayle had just said it all. And because it was such a waste. A great cop. A hero. It just didn’t make any sense.
CSI arrived. The techs entered without their usual banter. As they came in, the three of them filed out. Once clear of the bedroom, Captain O’Shay broke their silence. “Shake it off, Detectives. We’ve got a perp out there who’s already killed five people and, we presume, intends to kill two more. What’s our next step?”
Before Malone could respond, his cell phone went off.
“Detective? This is Sister Sarah Elisabeth, from Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows.”
“Sister?” he said in surprise, glancing at his watch. “Is everything all right?”
“It’s late, I know, but I was in prayer and the Lord spoke to me.”
“I’m sorry, Sister, what?”
“You said I should call if I recognized someone from that list you left me. God had to give me a nudge, but I realize I do know one of these people.”
He was aware of Captain O’Shay and Percy waiting. Of the danger Mira Gallier was in, that others’ lives might depend on him.
“I hate to hurry you, Sister, but time’s not on my side here. Who—”
“Christopher,” she answered. “Chris Johns. It didn’t ring a bell, because Christopher’s the only name I knew him by.” She laughed. “He was such a sweet, helpful young man I always called him Saint Christopher. He installed all the pews in the sanctuary.”
Chris Johns.
In that moment, Malone believed in miracles. “I’ve got to go, Sister, but thank you. You’ve helped more than you can imagine.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Friday, August 19
1:40
A.M.
The first thing Mira became aware of was a stabbing pain. Behind her eyes. At the back of her head. She moaned and tried to roll onto her side. Her body refused to cooperate, her limbs were leaden, her hands and feet numb.
Not leaden, she remembered. Bound. Tightly. Her wrists behind her back; her ankles. At least he had removed the gag.
Absolute, unadulterated terror rocketed through her. Panic with it. She fought against her bindings, pain shooting through her head, shoulders and back as she did.
After a couple minutes she stopped, out of breath, tears streaming down her cheeks. This couldn’t be happening. But it was. Chris was the Judgment Day killer. He’d brought her here, wherever that was. A sob passed her lips.
Get a grip, Mira. Breathe. Freaking out isn’t going to help.
She squeezed her eyes shut. She had to get out of this. There had to be a way.
Keeping the panic at bay, she moved her gaze over the room. Totally black, save for traces of moonlight peeking in around window coverings.
She certainly wasn’t home, or anyplace else she recognized. The air was stale. Old and dusty and rancid. It made her throat and nose burn.
“You’re awake.”
“Chris?” She turned her head in the direction the voice had come from. More blackness. “I can’t see you.”
“I’ll come closer.”
She heard his footsteps. Soft-soled shoes, not the work boots from earlier. He was almost on top of her when he came into view. The face she knew but suddenly didn’t recognize. It was the strangest feeling, surreal and frightening.
Who was this person?
“Please untie me.”
“I can’t,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “I’m sorry.”
She wanted to sob and scream. She held both back. “It hurts, Chris. My hands and feet are numb. Please untie me. I won’t run, I promise.”
“He told me not to trust you. Because of the demons.”
“Who told you that?” she asked. “It’s not true. It’s not! Please believe me.”
He lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “Father, what should I do?” He paused, as if listening. “But she promises she won’t run.”
Again the pause, then his face puckered with regret. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “It’s too soon.”
“What do you mean?” She struggled to free her arms. “Untie me, Chris. Please.”
He looked distressed. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Mary. I can’t.”
“Why are you calling me that?”
“It’ll all be over soon. Then we’ll be together.”
Do not fall apart. Figure out what he wants and give it to him.
“My wrists and ankles really hurt,” she whispered. “You can trust me. I trust you.”
He studied her, expression hopeful. She realized that he wanted to believe her. That he longed to trust her. It was something.
“Please,” she pleaded, batting her eyes at him.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The question threw her. “You know who I am. You know me.”
“I do,” he said softly, squatting beside her. He reached out and traced his fingers over her cheek. “But I need you to tell me.”
Her every nerve ending recoiled at his touch, but she managed to keep it from showing. “I’m your friend, Mira Gallier.”
His expression tightened, he snatched his hand away and stood. “You need your sleep.”
“No—” Her voice broke on a sob. “Please, Chris.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s the Evil One. Until his demons are expelled, you can’t see who you really are.”
With that, he turned and left her alone in the dark.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Friday, August 19
6:05
A.M.
Murky daylight peered around the edges of the blackout paper. Flashes of lightning intensified the light, giving Mira glimpses of the far corners of the room that was her prison. And, maybe, the place she would spend the last minutes of her life.
Mira squeezed her eyes shut against the thought. She couldn’t go there. If she did, she might not be able to muster the strength she’d need to get out of this.
An incredibly bright flash lit up the room. Two windows, Mira saw. Old, with heavy casings. The kind of molding found in homes all over the city. She lifted her gaze to the high ceiling. A large medallion in the center.
In a state of disrepair. Cracks in the plaster. Water marks. Patches of mold.
Was that what she smelled? Moisture? Moldly plaster?
After Chris left, she hadn’t slept except for minutes when she’d drifted off against her will. She’d spent those long, dark hours fighting back terror by working on the predicament she was in.
She had to convince Chris to let her go. To do that she had to make him believe he could trust her.
How?
Mira had come to the conclusion that pleading wasn’t going to work. Nor was approaching him from a sane perspective. She had to meet him where he lived, the place inside his head where all this made perfect sense.
Remember, Mira. Figure it out.
He’d called her Mary. He’d felt bad for not being able to believe her. He’d wanted to let her go. But couldn’t because his father told him so. His Heavenly Father, judging by the way he had lifted his gaze heavenward.
He believed he was Christ.
Returned to judge the living and the dead. That’s why he’d graffitied the Creed on the Sisters of Mercy windows. It’s why he had left the words
Judgment Day
by Preacher’s body.