I nestled into my pillows and pulled the duvet to my chin. I certainly didn’t think I was waiting for a fairy-tale guy, especially since I’d dated Vince. But the hard truth was that every relationship I’d ever been in had ended in disaster. And after spending roughly half my life dating unsuccessfully, it seemed like I might have some sort of problem. The question was, did I come to New Orleans to solve my problem? Or to run from it?
3
“What’s that look for?” I glared at Napoleon, who’d lowered his ears at the sight of my first-day-on-the-job turtleneck and jeans.
He rose from the bearskin rug and hopped onto the chaise lounge.
“If you’re suggesting I wear animal print like that tacky faux zebra, forget it.”
He swallowed and rested his chin on his paws.
“Besides, a brown turtleneck is kind of an animal style.”
Napoleon sighed and closed his eyes.
Anyone who thought I was crazy for talking to a dog hadn’t met my cairn terrier. He had a way of communicating that was almost human.
I entered the kitchen, which was attached to the living room by a half-wall with a breakfast counter, and pulled a cold piece of pizza from the fridge. It was eight thirty a.m., which was the time Veronica and I had agreed we’d leave for the office.
Taking a seat at the kitchen table, I tried to quell my excitement and anxiety. Mostly, I couldn’t wait to see the office building. Before establishing Private Chicks, Inc. two years before, Veronica had settled a personal injury case fresh out of Tulane Law School that netted her a cool one point five million after taxes. Calling that payout her “ticket out of law,” she paid off her student loans, maxed out her 401K, bought the Audi, and put a huge down payment on an old office building at 1200 Decatur Street. The thought of working in a French Quarter office with my best friend—as opposed to a smelly squad car with Stan—was exhilarating. But I was also nervous because I wasn’t sure how I was going to handle the freedom of working as a PI after the rigid schedule and structure of police work.
Would I actually get any work done? Or would I just sit at the nearby Café du Monde drinking chicory coffee and stuffing my face full of beignets?
A knock at the front door interrupted a fantasy I was about to have that involved burning enough calories from all of my investigative legwork to eat a daily half-dozen or so of the pastries—with extra powdered sugar. But the split in my patrol pants weighed heavily on my mind—and my behind—because I was pretty sure I couldn’t blame that on Petra.
I tossed the pizza in the fridge and opened the door to Veronica, who wore a pink-and-black Chanel suit with a vintage black Chanel handbag.
Napoleon might’ve been right about my outfit.
As if to confirm my suspicion, he sat up and wagged his tail when she entered the living room. The traitor.
She flashed her eyes. “I hope you’re ready to get to work, because I just got a call from a new client. He’s going to meet us at four o’clock.”
“Who is he?”“A financial advisor named Ryan Hunter. He’s the primary suspect in the murder of his ex-girlfriend, Jessica Evans. She was found strangled to death at the LaMarca store she managed on Canal Street. The poor woman was only twenty-six.”
“There’s a LaMarca here? I love that store.” I thought back to a trip to Italy I’d taken several years before and the fabulous black leather handbag I’d splurged on at the original LaMarca on Rome’s chic Via Condotti. “You know, I think I heard something about the murder on the radio when I was coming into town.”
“Yeah, it’s been all over the local media for weeks. Come on. I’ll tell you about it on the way to the office.”
After assuring Napoleon that I would be back soon, I locked my apartment door and then got into Veronica’s waiting white Audi convertible.
“So, here’s what I know.” Veronica started the engine of her car and then backed out of the driveway. “Keep in mind that I haven’t seen the police report yet. But from what Ryan told me, and from what I’ve heard on the news, a salesgirl found Jessica’s body when she came to work on the morning of December 13th. She said the back door was unlocked, and Jessica was lying on the floor in the middle of some racks of scarves. Nothing had been taken from the store.”
“You said she was strangled, right?”
“Yeah, with a scarf.”
“Was she killed that morning? Or the day before?”
Veronica took a left turn. “Sometime the night before. Apparently, she’d stayed late after the store closed. The police didn’t release the information about the murder weapon being a scarf, by the way. Someone leaked that to the press. Anyway, Franki, this is big. If we can help clear this guy or even solve the case, we’re golden. Private Chicks, Inc. will be a household name in NOLA.”
“That would be amazing.” I looked out the passenger window so that she wouldn’t see my concern. Everything was happening so fast, and solving a high-profile murder in The Big Easy wouldn’t be easy at all. I hoped I was up to the job.
Veronica turned the Audi onto Decatur Street in the French Quarter and parked in front of a three-story, brown brick building with white doors, green shuttered windows, and a second-floor balcony—the kind that people threw bead necklaces off of during Mardi Gras. “Here we are. Your new headquarters.”
The smell of marinara teased my nostrils as I exited the car and looked around. “I smell my nonna’s kitchen, but I don’t see Private Chicks.”
She giggled. “It’s on the top floor. I rent the first two floors to Nizza, an Italian restaurant and bar.”
My jaw dropped—while salivating. It was classic Veronica—her mind was always so focused on work that she would forget to tell me some of the pertinent details of her life, no matter how momentous they might have been.
I followed her up three long, thigh-busting flights of stairs. By the time we got to the top, I felt certain that each flight would burn off a beignet.
“Our conference room.” She gestured to an unmarked door. “And across the stairwell here is our office.” She led me through an old detective movie-style door that had “Private Chicks” in black letters on frosted glass. “It used to be an apartment, so I turned the living room into the lobby, kept the kitchen and bathroom, and made the two bedrooms down the hall into offices.”
“Nice.” And it was, especially the old brick walls and the two overstuffed couches that faced one another in the center of the room. As soon as I got situated in my new digs, I was going to get situated on those couches.
She pulled her phone from her purse. “Oh, shoot. I need to make a call. Your office is the first door on the right down the hallway. Why don’t you start getting set up?”
“Glad to.” I was so excited to have my own office that I almost bounced down the hallway. And I spent the rest of the day organizing my desk and learning how to use Veronica’s case management software for private investigators.
The lobby bell sounded at a quarter till four as someone entered the living room that served as our lobby. Thinking it was Ryan Hunter, I walked out to greet him. I was met by a young man with a thin, angular face and lanky frame. He looked no more than sixteen or seventeen. He’s clearly not Ryan—that is, unless Jessica Evans was into jailbait.
Veronica walked into the lobby with her handbag and her laptop. “Franki Amato, this is David Savoie. David, Franki is our new investigator.”
He extended a hand with long spindly fingers. “Nice to meet you, Miss Amato.”
“Call me Franki. Please.” I said the last word with a wince—David had a powerful handshake for such a skinny kid.
“Sure thing, Franki.” He flashed a toothy smile.
Veronica perched on a couch. “David is our computer Boy Friday. He can do anything from programming to research. We have him fifteen to twenty hours per week, depending on his school load.”
“Oh, you’re in college?” I’d assumed he was barely in high school.
“Yeah, I go to Tulane. But I c
an see how you’d be confused. People think I’m much older than I really am.” David straightened his posture. “I’m nineteen, but I can pass for twenty-three easy.”
“I can see that,” I lied.
Veronica and I shared a smile at his boyish confidence.
David slid out of his backpack and then his jacket, both of which he tossed onto a nearby desk. He looked like a boy who had grown two feet over the course of a summer, and he was so thin that I was tempted to order him a couple of large pizzas from Nizza.
His gaze went to the laptop on my desk, and he ran over to pick it up. “Dude! That’s your computer? Awwwesooome. Can I help you connect that to the printer, or anything?”
I watched anxiously as he turned my laptop over in his hands. I still owed the credit card company over two thousand dollars for that computer and would never be able to replace it. I snatched it from his grasp. “Thanks, but I took care of that this morning. Right now, Veronica and I are just waiting on a client—”
Our conversation was cut short as a tall, muscular man in his mid-to-late thirties entered the office.
Speak of the devil. Wait. Is Ryan Hunter the devil? I could sense a darkness about the guy, and it wasn’t because he was under police suspicion. His ice blue eyes and cruel mouth spoke volumes about his character.
Veronica rose to greet him. “Ryan Hunter?”
“Yes. Are you Veronica Maggio?”
“I am, and this is my colleague, Franki Amato, and our IT consultant, David Savoie. Franki and I will be handling your case. Let’s walk over to our conference room so we can talk in private.”
Ryan furrowed his thick brow. “Sure.”
I glanced at David before leaving the lobby. His exuberant chatter of moments before had given way to an uneasy silence. Even he seemed disturbed by Ryan Hunter’s presence. I smiled at David and closed the office door behind me.
Veronica led us into a dark wood-paneled conference room. “Can I get you anything, Ryan? Coffee, water, a soda?”
I was reminded of the first time I’d met her—she’d shown up uninvited to a beer bash at my off-campus apartment with a liter of Pepsi, of all things.
Ryan settled into a brown leather chair. “Do you have any bourbon?”
“No, but we have Pepsi.”
What is her deal with Pepsi?
Ryan frowned. “I’ll skip the drink. I don’t have much time anyway.”
“Okay, then. Let’s get started.” Veronica took a seat and opened up her laptop, careful not to break one of her perfectly manicured pink nails. “We have some routine questions that we typically ask our clients. So if you’ll just bear with us for a few minutes, we’d appreciate it.”
Ryan snorted and stared at her.
Veronica seemed unfazed by his rudeness. “So, from what you told me over the phone, you’re the main suspect in the murder of Jessica Evans. Is that correct?”
“I’m the only suspect in Jessica’s murder.”
I leaned forward. “Did you give the police an alibi for the time of the murder?”
He shot me a blank look. “No, because I don’t have one.”
I couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t offer any explanation of his whereabouts. “Do you know if the police have any other leads?”
He frowned. “Either they don’t have any, or, if they do, they’re not interested in investigating them. That’s why I’m here.”
“Okay. We’ll look into that.” Veronica typed a reminder on her laptop. But for now, let’s talk about Jessica. How long had you been seeing her?”
“About six months.” He twisted a paper clip he’d found on the table.
“Did you live together?”
“Yeah, for the last couple months or so. She moved into my place.” He glanced out the window, clearly bored.
“Were the two of you close?” Veronica asked, almost hopefully.“Yes and no.”
I could see that she was getting nowhere fast, so I took over the questioning. “How would you describe your relationship?”“Jessica and I had our ups and downs. Like other couples.”
“What do you mean by ‘downs’?”
Ryan snapped the paper clip in half and tossed it onto the table. “We fought.”
This guy wasn’t going to give an inch, so I pressed the issue. “Can you tell us about the fights?”
He sat up in his chair and cast daggers at me. “What are you getting at, exactly?”It was clear to me that he had something to hide.” I mean, was there anything about your relationship that would cause the police to suspect you?”
He snorted and leaned back into his chair. “Apparently.”
“Were the fights verbal? Or did they get physical?” I was unfazed by his lack of cooperation.
He looked at me hard and said nothing.
“Look, Ryan,” Veronica intervened, probably sensing that I was running out of patience for this guy. “We want to help you, but we can’t do that if you don’t tell us everything we need to know.”
He let out a long sigh. “About a month ago, we had a fight. Things got out of hand, and Jessica called 911.”
Veronica’s eyes widened. “What did you fight about?”
“Money. Jessica was private about money. Well, about everything. I really didn’t know anything about her aside from the fact that she worked at LaMarca. And she always had way too much money for someone who managed a retail store. So I asked her about it. She got defensive, and we started fighting.” He picked up a pen from the table and started twirling it with his fingers.
“Was it a violent fight?”
“I threw her purse at her. She got pissed and lunged at me with a bottle of wine. I bent her wrist until she dropped it, and then I hit her. She fell backward, grabbed her cell phone from her purse, and called the cops.” He spoke as though describing scenes from a boring TV show.
“So, she was afraid of you,” I said, trying only half-heartedly to conceal the contempt I was feeling for him. During my short time as a cop, I’d met enough domestic abusers to last a lifetime.
He laughed and put the pen back on the table. “Let me clarify something. Jessica wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything, least of all me. She called 911 because she was a vindictive bitch.”
I flinched at the phrase.
A muscle worked in Ryan’s square jaw. “She actually had a smile on her face when she made that call.”
Veronica cleared her throat. “I’m not sure I understand. Why would she be smiling?”
He paused for a moment and then gave an ironic smile. “It’s simple. Jessica liked to see people suffer. She enjoyed watching people squirm. I’d pissed her off, so she was going to make me pay. That’s just who she was.”
“Then why were you still dating her?” I asked, despite the fact that I was starting to think Jessica and Ryan were made for one another.
“Because she was beautiful, and she was good in bed.” His tone was matter of fact, as though those were the only criteria to judge a woman by.
Just like a man. “Well, if Jessica was like you say she was, then it’s possible that she had enemies. Do you know of anyone who might’ve had a reason to kill her?”
“Look, I don’t know if she had family or friends, much less enemies. Like I said, she was private. Secretive even.”
Veronica looked at me and then nodded. “All right, Ryan. I think that’s all we need for now. The first thing we’ll do is find out where the police are in the investigation, then we’ll start looking into Jessica’s background to see if we can come up with other leads in the case. We’ll also need to set a time to come by your place to look through Jessica’s things for any clues.”
He frowned. “I’d rather you didn’t. I only recently got the damn police out of my house. And besides, she only had clothes and shoes and stuff. I’ll box it all up and bring it to you next week. You can do whatever you want with it.”
Veronica licked her lips. “Whatever works for you.”
Ryan rose to his feet. “So when
can I expect to hear from you?”
“We’ll call at least twice a week to update you on the investigation and to ask any follow-up questions.”
“I look forward to it.” He nodded and walked out the door.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Wow. That’s an oddly enthusiastic comment from such a reluctant client.”
“Yeah.” Veronica pressed her index finger to her mouth. “What do you make of that guy? He’s a real weirdo, right?”
I leaned back in my chair. “Well, judging from his defensive attitude and the nonchalant way he mentioned that he’d hit Jessica, I’d say he’s a sociopath.”
“We’re going to have to do a full background check on this guy before we do anything else. If it turns out that he’s a convicted felon or something, I’m not sure we want him as a client. I’ll have David start on that.” She closed her laptop.
“Good idea. I can call the detective in charge of the case.”
Veronica burst out laughing. “You’re joking, right? As an ex-cop, you of all people should know that the police don’t work with private investigators.”
I’d only worked as a beat cop in Austin, so I had no idea how detectives interacted with the public on a case. But I had seen a whole lot of Murder, She Wrote episodes where detectives were all too willing to discuss cases with Jessica Fletcher. Not the best example, but still. “You’d think the New Orleans PD would want to help us solve a high-profile murder case.”
“No, they’re afraid we’ll crack the case before they do, which would make them look like fools—and on every news channel in Louisiana.”
“Then how do we get police information?”
“Well, there are public records, which we can access like everyone else, but the police usually black out potentially compromising information on cases that are still under investigation. So, that means we either have to luck into a corrupt detective who’s willing to trade information, or we use Benjamin.”
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 4