by Owen Mullen
I took a step forward and spoke to Ellen. ‘Take it easy, baby. It’s gonna be all right.’
She didn’t believe me, and she wasn’t alone.
Boutte was wired to the moon, rocking on the balls of his feet like a boxer, pumped and ready. He leaned forward with his eyes still on me, took one of Ellen’s bare breasts in his free hand and rolled the nipple in his calloused paw: the grin came back. She turned her face away, and I heard her sob. All the while, the knife stayed at her throat, poised to end her life for something she’d had no part of.
Julian switched his attention to the other breast and whistled his appreciation. ‘Oh, man. Sweet. You’re a lucky guy, Detective.’
Juli Boutte wasn’t the first madman I’d faced down, though I’d never had such a personal stake in it. He was about to mutilate the woman I loved.
I kept my voice even.
‘I’ve changed my mind, Julian. I’m gonna kill you, however this shakes out.’
That show of bravado amused him. The manic dance routine got dropped. He put one finger under Ellen’s chin and raised her head in a delicate exhibition of power; getting set. But he was having fun and didn’t want it to end. Ellen trembled. Fear made her seem smaller. Her eyes pleaded with me to save her; I felt helpless. Watching Boutte doing what he was doing to her made me want to be sick.
Boutte said, ‘Gonna give you the same chance you gave Ced. Her blood’ll be on your shoes before you get a shot off.’
‘Only thing is, you won’t be alive to enjoy it. Give yourself up or get wasted right here right now because – hard or easy – I’m taking you down. Depend on it. Your brother made the wrong call. Wondering if it runs in the family. You know, like an idiot gene or something.’
Julian went into his dance, winding himself up, but the performance lacked conviction. Maybe the drugs were wearing off or maybe he was realising that, as it stood, he’d brought a knife to a gunfight: either way, he was faking it. He licked his lips. Like his brother, he probably had a piece in the waistband of his pants and was remembering how much good that had done Cedric.
We stared at each other in a silence broken by Ellen moaning quietly from behind the gag. Boutte wiped a hand on his jeans and changed his grip on the knife, as a thin film of sweat appeared on his brow. I guessed he had mortality on his mind. Bad thoughts for a moment like this. The odds were with him, but he was cracking.
In my years on the force, I’d seen plenty push it as far as it would go, and there was one thing I was absolutely sure of: nobody wants to die.
From somewhere, his faith returned with a recklessness that defied reason. He’d killed his last victim and got away; he could do it again. Boutte’s free hand moved behind the chair, in position to tip it forward, just as he’d done in Algiers.
Déjà vu, all over again.
I ignored Ellen and concentrated on the black man behind her. ‘Don’t, Juli. Don’t make me do this.’
Julian’s eyes glazed over, and I knew I was talking to myself. He wasn’t there anymore. And the nightmare played out: the hammer cocked, as loud as a tree falling in the rainforest. The chair tilted forward and balanced on the front legs. Ellen had somehow struggled free of the gag and was screaming. All I saw was the thin line dripping red on her white skin. Behind her, Juli Boutte’s face seemed as big as a Mardi Gras float: a huge target I couldn’t try to hit, because Ellen was too close.
The spell was broken by Fitzpatrick bursting through the door. For a vital second, Boutte was off guard. He broke cover and gave me something to aim at. I hit him high on the shoulder and dived to catch Ellen pitching towards the floor. Boutte dropped the blade and staggered away.
Fitz shouted, and this time, there were witnesses. ‘Stay where you are, Julian, or join Cedric in the morgue!’
No surprise. I was right: Julian didn’t want to die after all.
When the ambulance came to take her to hospital, Ellen wouldn’t let me go with her. I put it down to shock, and I guess some of it was.
But deep inside, I knew better.
17
At eight o’clock in the evening, I was putting new strings on my guitar, and Lowell was asleep in an armchair with Ry Cooder playing low in the background, when a knock at the front door took me by surprise. We didn’t get many visitors. Lowell raised his head, and my first thought was Julian Boutte. It would tickle a psycho like him to arrive like a normal person while anyone sane would expect him to come in the middle of the night. I slipped my gun out of its holster, moved towards the window and looked out.
A figure stood in the shadow underneath the porch, and it wasn’t Boutte; it was Stella. I opened the door, and she turned her eyes wide and wild in the fading light.
Before I could speak, she let me have it.
‘Thought you’d be man enough to tell me to my face, Delaney.’
I checked the road over her shoulder. Apart from a few parked cars, it was empty. ‘Tell you what, Stel?’
Her features twisted, and the words rushed out, hot and harsh. ‘Don’t give me your BS. You know what I mean.’
‘You’re wrong, I don’t.’
I stepped into the hall, and she followed. Lowell rushed to meet her, licking her hand and wagging his tail. Stella took a break from calling me names to pat him, and for a moment, it looked as if the attack was over. Wrong.
‘Look. It’s been fun. We might even have been in love.’
‘We are.’
She ignored me.
‘Too bad there are things between us.’
‘Things like what?’
Stella waved her arms at the room. ‘Different stuff we both bring to the party. Can’t be helped. And anyway, it doesn’t matter now.’
This was running out of control. Her cheeks flushed, and her voice cracked. ‘I’m thinking about going back to New York.’
‘Thinking about going or going?’
‘Going.’
I stared at her. ‘When?’
‘A month, six weeks. Soon as I can wrap up the business and sell the house.’
‘So, the jury’s back and the verdict’s in?’
‘It isn’t like that.’ She sighed. ‘Let’s be honest, shall we? Things have cooled. Okay. It happens. But I never imagined you of all people would be such a coward.’
I got the impression the speech had been rehearsed.
‘Stella. Where’s this coming from?’
She sailed on. ‘Right people, wrong time. Too bad.’
‘And in the meantime?’
‘That’s why I’m here. What do you think?’
I loved her and didn’t want to lose her, that’s what I thought.
‘Would’ve preferred to be in on the New York decision.’
‘Except you would’ve found reasons for me to stay, even though it’s over.’
‘It isn’t over!’
Stella smiled a sad half-smile. ‘Isn’t it? From the beginning, I knew there was something. Couldn’t put my finger on it, so I didn’t ask. You didn’t tell me.’
‘Stella …’
‘You’ve kept me on the outside. I haven’t even met your family, for Christ’s sake. Now, you need space, and I’m supposed to put my life on hold.’
Lowell was standing beside her; his head tilted, waiting to hear what I had to say for myself. Suddenly, it was two against one.
‘Stella. Something’s going on right now. I can’t explain, but I will soon. I promise.’
She shook her head.
‘Sorry, Delaney. A girl can only take so much. Enough is enough. For a while there, I really believed we had something. I was wrong. I’m going back home. It’s where I belong.’
Lowell whined and brushed against her.
‘Do you want to go home?’
‘Truthfully? Yes, I do. Being here doesn’t feel right now.’
‘And New York will?’
Chilly little questions like that wouldn’t help.
‘I’ve no idea. It’ll be close. Closer than New Orleans.’
/>
We watched her walk into the night. When she was gone, Lowell went into the other room and stayed there. He’d just lost a friend and wasn’t speaking to me.
I’d been here before, and I couldn’t believe it was happening a second time.
Seven Years Earlier
The wedding had been big news, somehow managing to find its way into most conversations Ellen and I had. My job was to listen and look interested. Input wasn’t required, except to pretend to be cool about being overcharged on everything from the bride’s bouquet to the meal. The only thing not costing a fortune was the band: Danny and the rest of the guys had offered to do the gig as a present to us. Fitzpatrick agreed to be my best man with the nonchalance of a friend who assumed the honour was always going to be his. Of course, he was right.
Until Ellen Ames, marriage wasn’t something I’d ever considered. But with Ellen, to tell the truth, the more I thought about it, the better I liked the idea.
The scene at the shotgun in Algiers went down six weeks before we were set to make it legal. Forty-three days to be exact, in case anybody was counting.
And anybody was. I was.
Thanks to Julian Boutte, it never happened.
I’d lost count of the nights spent lying in the dark going over it, knowing that if Cedric hadn’t grabbed for his gun, my whole life would’ve taken a different route.
But after …
After, there was only a noise in my head and a feeling in my gut I carried round like a dirty secret.
Ellen’s hair grew back, and on the surface, she seemed to have recovered. But talking about it was beyond her, and when she finally did, I heard resentment in every line she spoke. In the circumstances, the wedding couldn’t go ahead. The official line we told our friends was that it had been postponed; we both knew different. Pretty soon, the big day didn’t get a mention anymore. Ellen wasn’t the same woman; her nerves were shot; she jumped at the slightest sound. We stopped sleeping together and spent more and more time apart. On Sundays, browsing the antique shops on Royale, I often caught her nervously glancing over her shoulder, looking for Julian Boutte.
My solution was a dog. Well-meant but not very original in the aftermath of such trauma. I found what I was looking for in a pet shop off Decatur: a tan-and-white mongrel with deep brown eyes and an attitude the other pups around him lacked. To please me, Ellen made a good stab at welcoming him. But really, I realised it would take more than a cute little mutt to return her to me. She named him Lowell, and the two of them rubbed along well enough for a while without forming much of a bond.
Ellen couldn’t. Not with the dog, not with me, not with anyone.
She’d lost the ability to trust and with it, to love.
Four months after the Boutte brothers destroyed our lives, I came home one evening to find a taxi purring outside the house and Ellen waiting for me. The look on her face told me what she was going to say as her fingers pulled, almost angrily, at the handkerchief in her hand. And she had a right to be angry.
‘Before you speak, I have to get this out. I can’t marry you. I can’t marry anybody.’
‘Ellen …’
She held out her hands to shield herself from me. ‘All I want is to get away from here. I won’t ever be able to come to terms with what you do.’
‘But I’ve quit the department. I’m not a cop anymore.’
She shook her head, slowly, as if she was hearing a lie. ‘You don’t have a badge, but we both know there’s no difference. You’re still involved, Delaney. And you always will be.’
I took a step towards her, and she moved away. Ellen was afraid of me and everything she thought I represented. Pleading didn’t help, though I tried.
‘I’ll get another job. Whatever’s right. Just don’t go.’
She let her arms fall to her sides. For a moment, I believed I’d reached her. I hadn’t. What Julian Boutte put her through couldn’t be forgotten; it would always be there. Always be between us.
She said, ‘I don’t blame you. But please, don’t ask me to live in your world. Please don’t ask me to do that, Delaney.’
I babbled like an idiot. Clutching at straws. ‘What about the dog? What about Lowell?’
Ellen almost smiled. ‘He’ll be all right. You can look after each other. Besides, I don’t like animals.’
‘You never told me.’
‘You never asked.’
‘Will you write, so I know you’re okay?’
She hesitated, unwilling to offer false hope. ‘… Yes.’
I watched the taxi pull away from the sidewalk. There had been no tears. Ellen was glad to be leaving. She didn’t turn her head. Didn’t look back.
And I never saw her again.
Cal and I met in the Cafe Du Monde around nine-thirty. Before that, we’d spoken on the telephone. Both of us were cautious and the conversation lasted less than a minute.
I arrived first. Earlier, I’d mooched around the Quarter on my own, stopping off at a few bars where I was a stranger. In one, I had a Diet Coke, in another a coffee, sitting on a barstool watching a hockey game from Canada. The time passed. Twice I took out my phone on the point of calling Stella. Both times something stopped me.
Cal was wearing a dark-blue windcheater and jeans, looking more relaxed. He slid into the booth beside me and ordered black coffee and beignets.
‘Anything?’
‘Nothing helpful. An anonymous caller tipped them off something big was going down. Hill used his cell to inform the station-house what they were about. Around ten, they entered the building. Hill was killed with a single shot to the head. Clark got it in the chest. When a patrol car arrived, both officers were dead.’
‘Any sign of drugs in the flat?’
‘Nope. Cops: zero. Bad guys: two. Or it would be, if we didn’t know better.’
‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about it being convenient.’
‘Well, isn’t it? Just when we’re about to interrupt their little number, they get killed? How’s that for timing?’
His eyes were bright. His skin was clear; a different Cal from last time
‘The options are limited to two. If Hill and Clark were freelancing, working alone, then it’s over. Your traders get their quiet lives back. If not, if they were only soldiers, just the bag-men, that means the people behind the whole thing are still out there. We’re talking about an awful lot of cash here. A big prize. Somebody’s behind it.’
I said, ‘Somebody in the department?’
‘Don’t know about that. The traders got the police connection from Hill and Clark, maybe whoever’s running the scam is using NOPD officers, perhaps they were the only ones involved. Could be nothing to do with cops, apart from two bad apples, which would mean the operation is organised and run by people we haven’t even thought about yet.’
‘Either way, the evidence trail’s gone cold.’
‘Literally. Everybody’s hot to put down the animal that killed two cops. To be expected. My guess is nobody’s gonna find anything.’
‘So, what now?’
‘Wait and see. If it’s over, it’s over. If two new punks are drafted in, and it’s business as usual, then we go back and deal with them same as we would have with Hill and his pal.’
‘And if they’re cops too?’
‘Then, it’s goodnight for them. It’s got to be, Delaney. There’s more at stake than just the crime. I want these guys stopped. Whatever it takes.’
I called Cilla Bartholomew the next day and told her the news, leaving out the details along with my suspicion. Two bad apples – as Cal called them – got theirs. Was that the same as the scam closing down? Maybe another pair of perps were already on their way to begin the first day in the new job.
‘So soon? Thank you, Mr Delaney, thank you.’
I was about to hang up when she added a question.
‘Is it over? Really over?’
I replied as honestly as I could. ‘I hope so.’
But
what did I know?
18
Another Saturday and another tinsel-covered hall swarming with moms and dads and their noisy kids. Either these people didn’t watch the news, or they lived in a La-La land where nothing could touch them. Or maybe I’d been a cop too long.
This morning, we were in Chalmette, where the Battle of New Orleans was actually fought. Until now, Catherine had been as good as her word about keeping it simple. I wondered how long that would last, given Molly’s enthusiasm for the whole thing. Winning helped, of course. Last time, we’d lost – something that didn’t sit well in the Lothian household – and it explained why I was hearing talk about a new song.
Lowell stayed home with his radio: selections from Annie weren’t his groove. Or mine, but I didn’t have a choice. And I never did call Stella, which was a mistake. She didn’t call me either, although I hoped she would. I did hear from Cilla Bartholomew. She sounded upbeat.
‘All clear.’
‘Great. Let me know if anything changes.’
‘I will, and send us your bill, Mr Delaney.’
‘Plenty of time for that.’
I left Ray and Catherine with Molly and did some scouting, trying to figure how the killer avoided being seen. Somebody must notice something, even if they didn’t recognise it.
I had an idea so obvious, it made me want to shout it out: a disguise. If the attacker covered his own identity by pretending to be someone else, that would allow him to move around without being discovered. What could it be? A workman? A father, perhaps? No, a woman; had to be. There were women everywhere you turned at these gigs. He could go undetected if he dressed as a woman. Who would notice?
I examined every female of any age searching for something that didn’t ring true: a voice, a walk, a look; something. After an hour, I was a whole lot cooler on my idea. Plenty of women, none of them remotely unnatural.
I wandered back to the main hall, probably more suspicious-looking than anybody there. Molly came on and blew the house down. Back on top and happy to be there.
I didn’t fool myself into believing a killer who committed crimes across five states was likely to turn up at an event when I was there. The odds were against it.