Caught

by Tessa Vidal

  He didn't have to spell it out. The threat was clear. He'd already killed a cop. Framing a movie star wasn't even a blip on his conscience.

  Well, fuck that. I jutted out my chin. “Stolen property, my ass. A phone that belongs to my girlfriend and a fake stone worth a few dollars. Nobody's bringing that case to trial.” Too late, I remembered to bite my tongue. I shouldn't have called Ronnie my girlfriend.

  “A fake stone that's a key piece of evidence in a high-dollar criminal court case in Los Angeles. You could be extradited home to stand trial for obstructing an FBI investigation. Not to mention, girlfriend, you could stand trial in New Orleans for accessory to murder before the fact. You drove Veronica Rales a long way in your own car to meet her victim.”

  Oh, for fuck's sake. Ronnie could've taken out her so-called victim back home in LA, if that's the kind of person Ronnie was. “You can't scare me. But I admit you can confuse me. If we really are alone, if nobody's really listening, then prove it. Tell me something. If you want answers, you've got to share. You've always got to give if you want to get.”

  He shrugged. “What would you like me to tell you?”

  “How did you plant that stuff on me? The phone? The fake alexandrite?”

  There really was an old-fashioned clock ticking somewhere. When I turned, I could see it high on the wall behind me where the client's attorney could keep an eye on the official passage of time.

  “You have to give me something,” I said. “Besides telling me I'll stay out of jail for crimes I didn't commit in the first place. That's sort of just not good enough.”

  “Fair enough. I'm a reasonable man.” The reasonable man had a chilly gray smile. “Your security people hired some extra contractors. They may have made a mistake in the paperwork because one of them wasn't a real security professional. He was a close-in magician who usually works the French Quarter.”

  “Hmm. I'll bet they had some help from the FBI in making that mistake.”

  He shrugged again.

  “The guard on the back door to the smoking patio,” I said. Everyone had to walk past that guy. Ronnie too if she'd gone out to the shed. He'd swiped the phone from her and later planted it on me. He must have already gotten the stone directly from Matt.

  “No one ever said you were a stupid girl.”

  “But the magician didn't kill Bailey Flowers,” I said. “You did. Somehow, you added yourself to the security team as well. FBI must be good at the art of disguise because she never saw you there.”

  “Veronica Rales killed Bailey Flowers.”

  The old clock tick-tocked some more. An obnoxious sound. There wasn't any point in calling him on the lie.

  “What do you want with Ronnie?” I asked. “I can see why you got sick and tired of Flowers. You're getting toward retirement age, but she was younger and still as fascinated with manipulating women as she was with getting the money. She didn't want to quit, and you couldn't leave her out there without your supervision. It would be too easy for her to ride the train off the rails and pull the whole catastrophe down on both of you.”

  Dauphin cleared his throat but didn't seem inclined to expand on my theory.

  Tick-tock.

  “You saw an opportunity when Flowers came to you with evidence I was Malory Maine. You could throw me and Veronica together, set the stage for a sorry little triangle. Kill Bailey, and Veronica gets the blame. Then you're free to waltz off into the sunset. That about right?”

  His face was a perfect gray blank. The guy wasn't giving me anything. No wonder he'd been able to pull off this masquerade for over a decade.

  “It's all right,” I said. “Talk or don't talk. You don't have to say a word. You can see I know everything. You needed to get rid of Flowers. No way she was going to quit stealing gems just because her pet FBI agent got tired of laundering them for her. But having Ronnie running around rogue in the wild isn't any better. She could pop up with the goods against you at any time.”

  I let the pause last this time. It was his turn to break.

  “That's quite the speech,” he finally said. “But it seems to me you're the one under arrest, and I'm the one who's going to walk free in...” He looked at the clock on the wall behind me. “Twenty-two minutes.”

  “Tell me why you want Ronnie.”

  “She's a killer, and the FBI likes to arrest killers. We're funny that way.”

  “Then I'll tell you. You can't bring her to trial, and you can't leave her out there in the wild doing God knows what. What you can do is find her, kill her, drop the body in some bayou where it will never be found, and maybe spread a little of your ill-gotten gains here and there to create a trail of rumors. People will report seeing Veronica Rales living here and there high on the hog in some foreign land, but law enforcement will never quite catch up to her.”

  He drummed his fingers on the table. “You're smart. Smarter than Bailey Flowers. We could have worked together in another life and a better world.”

  “We can still work together. If you want me to give you Veronica Rales, you have to give me something.” I opened my green eyes wide to hold his gray gaze. “And not just my fucking freedom. I already had my fucking freedom. You have to give me something more.”

  “What do you want?”

  “The DeWitte Red Beryl.”

  “It's long gone.”

  Well, I knew the DeWitte was a longshot. “Then I want the Stroganov Alexandrite. The real one. In fact, I want both of them, side by side. If I don't see them together, how do I know you're not trying to palm off the fake?”

  He hesitated.

  “You need Veronica Rales before somebody else gets to her first,” I said. “And I'm the only one who can deliver that. That's why you're here.”

  He exhaled loudly. “Deal.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ronnie

  The airport is a funny place to change identities. Cameras everywhere, and New Orleans International wasn't exactly the biggest transportation hub to begin with. But there were some advantages to the chaos of spring break. Especially for an expert close-in magician.

  I liberated a pair of cheap wrap-around mirror-shades from a tourist's bag. Lifted a shiny blue windbreaker from the back of a chair. A forgotten straw hat meant to tag along on somebody's island vacation completed the look. Joining a little clump of older people, I leaned into a silver-haired lady to ask her some nonsense about the best tourist bars.

  And, yes, I felt a little bad, since picking pockets wasn't a fine example of using my powers for good, but I was in a fight for survival here. Not just my survival, but Clary's too.

  To the security camera, it would look like I was part of the group I latched onto, like maybe I was somebody's daughter or baby sister. Especially when I helpfully jumped into their ride-share van. “The Riverfront Hilton is exactly where I'm staying,” I burbled. “Let me ride along, and I'll pay half the fare.”

  That fast, Veronica Rales, wanted FBI agent on the run, was left behind inside the airport. Meet Kitty Kait, happy spring breaker eager to check out the world-famous French Quarter. It had been a few years since I let my alter ego out to play, and she was eager to stretch her legs.

  The misdirection wouldn't stand up forever, but it would buy me time.

  At the hotel entrance, I bopped off in the direction of the casino across the way. At some point while crossing the street in the press of the crowd, I lost the hat and the windbreaker. Profile breaking. It would be harder to pick me up on area surveillance cameras as the same person.

  I went in one door, drifted past a bank or three of noisy slot machines, and then out another. Mardi Gras was over, but there were still plenty of tourists around. It was easy to blend.

  For a time I simply walked and thought and thought and walked some more.

  Cash is always easy to get when you're a close-in magician. A wallet with a credit card and a license belonging to somebody who looked enough like me to let me check into a nearby hotel wasn't too tough either.<
br />
  A smartphone that didn't demand a password, an iris scan, or a fingerprint was less easy.

  Another slim wallet yielded something almost as valuable― a New Orleans public library card. It was too late to use it tonight, but there was always tomorrow. And, somewhere along the way, I picked up a scarf and a different pair of glasses. Sunglasses at night is still a thing in a party town.

  Sleep was a challenge, but I forced myself to lay down and close my eyes. Around four thirty in the morning, I slipped out of the hotel never to return. The owner of the credit card would report it missing at some point, and I needed to be gone when she did. French Quarter bars never close, so I found a dark place to pay cash for an eight-dollar beer that gave me the right to loiter.

  My phone and my gun were an aching absence.

  Wondering what was happening to Clary ached even more.

  Later in the morning, I found myself on the doorstep of the public library along with a number of the city's homeless. It opened only three minutes late. Shortly thereafter, I was inside using my shiny new library card to scan onto a public computer. A pop-up informed me I had internet access for one hour. Twitter got me caught up fast. A dead LAPD lieutenant in a garden shed was pretty big news. The same cop dead behind the historical home where Clarissa and Tay-Tay were making their latest romantic suspense vehicle was even bigger.

  Tay-Tay? I'm sure he loves that nick.

  The New Orleans Police Department press conference told me no more than I already knew. Los Angeles Police Officer Bailey Flowers was discovered dead from a single gunshot wound to the chest in the shed behind a garden on the location of a Claus Keller-directed film set. One of the crew's doormen, as well as actor Taylor Tercelle, reported seeing FBI Special Agent Veronica Rales disappear in the direction of where the body was later found. NOPD, LAPD, and the FBI now considered the special agent in question a so-called person of interest in the death of Lieutenant Flowers.

  I was last seen on surveillance cameras entering the Louis Armstrong International Airport and had vanished shortly thereafter. There was no record I'd boarded a flight under my legal name, and it was unclear where I'd gone or if I was even still in the country.

  The public was advised to be on the lookout. Inform the proper authorities. Under no circumstances should you attempt to approach the agent yourself, since she was presumed to be armed and dangerous.

  Yeah, I wish.

  My Glock was still locked away in the Fleetwood's gun safe, and I wasn't interested in procuring any of the many junk handguns floating around the New Orleans black market. Special Agent Rales was about as dangerous as my pocket-picking alter ego Kitty Kait.

  At least they used a flattering photo. Even though they'd cropped the image to focus on my face, I knew instantly where it came from. Me and Clary that first day outside Happy Heaven Dog Rescue. I looked happy. There weren't many images in existence where I was smiling like that.

  “Happy” was never a word that applied to me. I'd been dedicated. Hard-driving. Determined. All good words. All good things to be. Maybe I'd thought they were good enough substitutes for “happy.”

  LAPD and FBI hadn't yet issued official statements. I didn't envy their publicists. They'd be scrambling behind the scenes to put a positive spin on this mess. If I could be captured and induced to confess before they had to schedule their own pressers, I'd make a lot of people's day.

  With the official media releases less than helpful, I skimmed through more of the gossip press.

  Tercelle was caught on video outside a Mid-City bar, a cigarette in his hand and a glower on his face.

  “Is it true you found the body?” The reporter was off-screen, but her relentlessly cheerful nails-on-chalkboard voice knew how to carry.

  “I am totally traumatized,” he said. “As you can see, I started smoking again.”

  “And we were all so proud of you for quitting.”

  I snorted. That boy had never quit for longer than twenty minutes.

  “Did you know the victim?”

  He shook his head. “I never saw her before. They say she came out from Hollywood, but I don't know how she got onto our set. Too many eyes watching an emerald, not enough eyes watching the people, if you ask me.”

  The reporter made a sympathetic noise to encourage him to keep going. Stars could ramble during an interview if they were big enough and the hour was late enough. Sound bytes were for Twitter and the six o'clock news.

  “It was so horrible.” He took another drag on the cigarette. “So much blood. All I wanted to do was take a nice Instagram in front of a red barn.”

  “Is it true you deleted your Instagram account?”

  “No, Joelly, but I'm on hiatus. Just not in the mood to take a lot of selfies right now. You know?”

  “I know your true fans will respect your deep feelings, Taylor.”

  Oh, brother.

  There were a few other reports. Nothing terribly helpful. Claus Keller's publicist said the final day of shooting would be paused for a day to allow his stars to recover from the shock of finding the body and giving their statements to police.

  Clarissa Stanton spoke to a local TV station. “I think people should withhold judgment and give the New Orleans police time to do their jobs.” For such a brief statement, it set off quite the firestorm.

  “Does that mean you think Veronica Rales is innocent?” asked one reporter.

  “Who do you think killed Lieutenant Flowers if Special Agent Rales is innocent?” shouted another.

  “It means I don't think anyone should be tried in the court of public opinion. I have no further comment.”

  Yukon, tail curled high, swished off beside her.

  There was nothing about Clary being arrested or identified as Malory Maine. Nothing about her possible involvement with me or the crime I was accused of. That was a relief.

  Also, it was a little odd. Clary and I had spent a lot of time together, and plenty of people knew it.

  Was she being pressured behind the scenes? Were the cops setting up something? Did they think they stood a better chance of bringing me in if she was on the street?

  Sure, they did. They undoubtedly had twenty-four/seven surveillance on Clarissa. Especially if they knew I didn't have my phone. Watching her could be their best possible opportunity to nab me.

  I created a new Gmail account, but I doubted she'd get my message. A big star like Clary might not even read her own email. A publicist would do that.

  I thought of her Instagram, but I'd only used it as a phone app. If there was a way to message her from a public PC, I didn't know what it was.

  Going back to the movie set was an instant ticket to jail. So was returning to the bed and breakfast where we'd been booked while they filmed the plantation house sequences.

  Returning to Tercelle's unscripted interview, I considered something I'd seen in the background. A pale gold dog on a harness, his upcurled tail an out-of-focus blur. An accidental capture, or a deliberate message from Clary?

  The wrap party was scheduled for tomorrow night.

  Maybe at that very bar.

  Ten minutes left of internet time was plenty long enough to get me a list of the likeliest places.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Clary

  Matt Dauphin had vanished and Whittaker Sims not yet arrived when a New Orleans police deputy showed me the exit door. She alternately avoided my eyes and stole sheepish glances at my famous figure.

  To my amazement, I learned movie star Clarissa Stanton had never been arrested. I'd been detained for questioning. The contents of my handbag had been collected and inventoried in error, and now they were being returned to me.

  This wasn't entirely due to the efforts of my erstwhile fake attorney. The social influence of director Claus Keller and brooding, beautiful co-star Taylor Tercelle had applied their own kind of pressure. Nobody in New Orleans, a town where police officers and even judges often got film cameos, wanted to piss off Hollywood before they had
to.

  As I examined my bag, I saw that Ronnie's phone had vanished, as had the fake alexandrite. Now that was Dauphin's doing. His little gesture of goodwill. Evidence he didn't intend to bring an FBI case against me.

  Not that I ever believed he did. Kill me, sure. Put me on the stand in a public courtroom? Not this time. I knew too much.

  The only reason I was alive right this minute was so he could use me to lure in Ronnie. It didn't take a rocket scientist to work that one out. He planned to kill us both and dump us somewhere we'd never be found. As long as we left behind no bodies, the case would turn ice cold. Everyone would believe we'd vanished together somewhere over the rainbow to party away our ill-gotten gains.

  With Flowers dead, with me and Ronnie gone, he wouldn't even suffer a touch of neck strain from glancing over his shoulder. Talk about the perfect crime. A couple of years from now, Matt Dauphin planned to find himself on a yacht somewhere in a blue sea, millions of stolen dollars angst-free in his bank account.

  Not gonna happen, man. I don't care how big and bad and FBI you are.

  Just not gonna happen.

  You've stepped on the face of the last woman for the last time.

  There was a TV interview, the buzz of curious crew and cast members, Claus fussing over me and telling me to get my rest...

  All a blur.

  My mind kept circling around what would happen now that I was out. He expected me to find Ronnie. How could I do that? I didn't know where she was. All I could do was wait for her to make the first move.

  And Matt would be waiting for her too. How could I warn her? Maybe I didn't have to. If she was on the run, she already knew.

  Around three in the morning, I woke in a cold sweat. Yukon sat up too. I grabbed my singing phone.

  Of course it wasn't Ronnie. She didn't have her phone anymore.