Showdown in Mudbug

by Jana DeLeon

  It was almost eleven p.m. before Raissa finished her business and headed back to her apartment. The street from the parking lot to her shop was dimly lit, and Raissa stayed alert, knowing that anything was possible on a dark New Orleans street. Normally, she tried to limit her nightly excursions, but the people she needed to see didn’t do daytime. Unfortunately, her investigative trip hadn’t yielded her the information she’d hoped for.

  She was certain she knew who had taken those girls but had never been able to prove it. She’d been close, so close, to the answer—or so she believed—when everything had fallen apart. She’d tried for years to shut those bright blue eyes from her mind, but in her dreams they still haunted her. Why were they taken, and what horrible things had happened to them that they couldn’t remember?

  But even though Melissa Franco’s disappearance was exactly the same as the others, no one had seen the man she suspected. Not for at least six months, best she could figure, which troubled Raissa more than she wanted to admit. Granted, New Orleans wasn’t his territory, but he had family here and was the lead man in Baton Rouge for Louisiana’s most notorious mobster. Sonny Hebert valued trust above everything else. If no one had seen Monk in six months, then what did that mean? She could think of only one possibility, and it involved a trash bag, rocks, and the Mississippi River.

  She was half a block from her shop when she saw a shadow move in front of the alley. She stopped for a moment and studied the street, looking for another sign of movement in the shadows, listening for a sound that might tell her whether it had been animal or human.

  There was nothing but silence.

  You’re overly alert. But even thinking it didn’t alleviate the uneasy feeling she had as she studied the alley. And since that uneasy feeling had saved her butt more times than she could count, she wasn’t about to start ignoring it now.

  She slipped her pistol from the holster on her ankle and edged closer to the building, silently creeping toward the alley. It seemed even her breathing echoed in the stale night air, and she paused just long enough to control her breaths. Five more steps.

  She eased up to the corner and studied the shadows that stretched out onto the sidewalk in front of the opening. No movement. Then she focused all her attention on listening, trying to decipher any noise that might indicate the threat her body so clearly felt was there. She waited five seconds, six seconds, seven—and then she heard it. The tiny shuffle of feet on the cement. Barely a whisper. But unmistakable.

  She gripped her pistol with both hands and lifted it to her shoulder. Taking one deep, silent breath, she whirled around the corner and came pistol to face with a man.

  He threw his hands in the air as soon as he saw her gun, and the sheer terror on his face made Raissa wonder if she’d mistaken a simple bum for a professional killer. But a quick glance disqualified the bum theory. Blue jeans, T-shirt, and tennis shoes weren’t exactly a tuxedo, but they were clean and the man’s hair was short, his face completely shaven. This was no bum.

  He stared at her, his eyes wide, and finally tried to speak. “Raissa? Raissa Bordeaux…right?”

  She studied him for a moment. Something about him looked familiar, but she was certain she’d never met him before. She never forgot a face. “Who are you and how do you know my name?”

  The man’s eyes widened even more and he swallowed. “My name’s Hank. Hank Henry.”

  And suddenly Raissa realized that she’d seen a picture of him in the Mudbug newspaper. Hank Henry—the disappearing ex-husband of her friend Maryse and son of the recently risen Helena Henry—was a legend in Mudbug. Mostly for being a coward and an idiot, not exactly the sort of legacy most people wanted to leave behind. Good-looking, smooth talking, and utterly useless was exactly how Maryse had described her ex, and taking a closer look at him, Raissa decided she’d probably agree with the “good-looking” assessment, but the smooth talking was nowhere in sight.

  Apparently pistols pointed at his head gave Hank stage fright.

  But then, given his propensity for activities that were not necessarily legal and his never-ending shortage of cash, Raissa wasn’t convinced that his lurking in the alley was benign. After all, he’d been hiding out for years, and his mother’s death had only profited charities and not her wayward son. Why show up now? “What do you want?”

  “I need to talk to you. It’s important. I…well, I…I think you might be in danger.”

  Raissa narrowed her eyes at him. “From who?”

  Hank’s gaze darted between the gun and Raissa. He swallowed again and looked at her. “Sonny Hebert,” he whispered.

  Raissa sucked in a breath, her heart pounding in her chest. She glanced behind her, then back at Hank. Whatever else Hank Henry might be, the one thing Raissa was certain about was that he wasn’t a killer. “I think you better come with me.” She tucked the gun in her waistband and motioned for Hank to follow. He gave her a nod and fell in behind her.

  A couple of minutes later, Hank was seated at her tiny kitchen table, and she set two glasses of scotch on the table with the rest of the bottle between them. “I figured this wasn’t the sort of conversation that called for coffee or tea.”

  Hank looked grateful but not the least bit relieved. Whatever had him hiding in a dark alley waiting to accost a woman he didn’t really know must be heavy, which was worrisome at best. The Hank Henry she’d always heard about was usually in minor trouble, but nothing of the sort that had him stalking women and looking as jumpy as a cat. “How do you know Sonny Hebert?”

  Hank froze for a second, then stared down at the table. “Look, I did some stupid things in the past. Really stupid. I had a gambling problem, and I owed the wrong people money.”

  “You borrowed money from the Hebert family to gamble? That’s not a problem—that’s a death wish.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? But I swear, when I made the deal, I had no idea the Heberts were behind it. It was one of their cousins, different last name, and I didn’t make the connection until it was too late.”

  “So all this hiding out you’ve been doing isn’t from the Mudbug police.”

  “Heck, no. Spending some time in the Mudbug jail would be a relief compared to this, but I can’t get caught staying anywhere too long, especially in places I can’t walk out of. Know what I mean?”

  Raissa nodded. Oh yeah, she knew exactly what Hank meant. Anyone could get caught—and in jail, you were a sitting duck.

  “Another month and I’ll have all my fines in Mudbug paid, so it won’t be an issue.” Hank leaned forward a bit in his chair and looked directly at Raissa. “Ms. Bordeaux, you don’t have to believe a word I say, but I want you to know that I’m clean. Been clean for over a year. I did some time in rehab—different name, of course, and nowhere near New Orleans. I’m a changed man, and I want to live a different life, but I can’t do that with the Heberts looking for me under every cypress tree in Louisiana.”

  “How much do you owe them?”

  Hank raised both hands in the air. “Nothing! I swear I don’t owe them a dime. We had a deal, and I worked off my debt. Working off that debt is what sent me to rehab. I’m not a great man, and I know my morals are lacking, but I don’t have the stomach for the way those men live. I had to get clean. There wasn’t any other choice.”

  Raissa frowned. “So if you don’t owe them, what do they want?”

  “They keep asking me to do stuff…jobs, you know? I’ve told ’em I’m straight and I don’t want any trouble, but seems like whenever I go to one of my old haunts, there’s always one of the family hanging around.”

  “There’s plenty of people who’d be happy to do Hebert’s bidding and take the paycheck. So why keep bothering you?”

  Hank blew out a breath. “I think it’s because they think I know something.”

  “Know what?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. But they keep asking these strange questions about people in Mudbug and stuff.”

  Raissa me
ntally counted to five. “So they’re asking you questions, trying to get you to admit to something they think you know, but you don’t know what that something is?

  Hank nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I guess I saw or heard something I wasn’t supposed to, but hell, how am I supposed to know which thing it was? These people didn’t do picnics and bowling league. It could be anything.”

  Raissa tapped one finger on the table and stared at the wall behind Hank. “No, it couldn’t be anything. You were privy to the inner workings of a mob family for a while and, I’m sure, saw plenty. But whatever they’re afraid you know, I’ll bet it doesn’t have anything to do with extortion, or loan-sharking, or even murder.”

  “What then?”

  “Something worse, much worse.”

  Hank’s eyes widened, and Raissa knew exactly what he was wondering—what’s worse than murder? If only she had an answer. “So,” Raissa continued, “you said you thought I was in danger from the Heberts. What makes you think that?”

  Hank lifted his glass and downed the rest of the contents. Hand shaking, he placed the glass back down on the table. “Because they asked me to kill you.”

  Chapter Three

  Raissa slammed her scotch glass onto the table. “They asked you to kill me?”

  Hank nodded, clearly frightened. “Not you by name, exactly, but they said that friend of my ex-wife’s that was a psychic…but they were clear that it wasn’t Sabine. I told ’em no, straight out. I ain’t never killed no one, and I ain’t about to start.”

  Raissa narrowed her eyes at Hank. “How did you find me?”

  “I remembered Sabine saying your shop name before, so I looked it up.” His eyes widened. “Oh, shit. I led them right to you, didn’t I?” He jumped up from the table. “Jesus, I didn’t even think—How could I be so stupid?”

  Raissa rose from her chair and placed her hand on Hank’s arm. “Don’t worry about it. They know about your connection to me, so they already know how to find me, I’m sure.”

  Hank stared at her for a moment, still not quite buying it. Finally, he blew out a breath and sank back into the chair. “Then why come to me at all? If the Heberts want you gone, and they know who you are and where to find you, they could have already handled this. Why ask me when they already knew I wasn’t going to do it?”

  Raissa sat back down and thought for a minute. “I think, given my connection to Maryse, they figured you would warn me.”

  Hank still looked doubtful. “You’re saying they’re sending you a message? What message?”

  Raissa’s jaw involuntarily clenched. “That if I don’t disappear on my own, they’re going to help me.”

  Zach sat low in his car just down the road from Raissa’s shop. He’d seen her coming down the block and wondered why she stopped before reaching her building. When she slipped the pistol from her ankle holster, he’d been ready to bolt from the car, but something had stopped him. The ankle holster for one. Sure, plenty of people carried in New Orleans, and a single woman living in a downtown apartment would be remiss not to have some form of protection, but an ankle holster was definitely not the most common place for a woman to carry a gun.

  And it was the way she moved—as if she’d been trained for exactly what she was doing.

  Against his better judgment, he’d waited as she entered the alley, giving her ten seconds before he hurried to assist. When the seconds had passed and she hadn’t appeared, he cursed himself and his stupidity and eased out of the car and across the street. He crouched behind a mailbox and listened. For a moment, all he heard was the regular noises of the street—paper rustling on the sidewalk, the sound of car engines in the distance—but then it trickled down to him. The sound of voices.

  So Raissa’s instincts had been right. There had been someone in the alley, but apparently that someone was more interested in talking than in something more insidious. He was just about to move closer when Raissa and a man stepped out of the alley and hurried to her building. Her pistol was tucked in the waistband of her jeans, and she didn’t seem the least bit concerned about protecting herself from the man who followed her.

  She glanced his way as she unlocked the door to her shop, and he ducked behind the mailbox, hoping she hadn’t seen him. A couple of seconds later, he heard the door click shut. He watched until he saw the light in the upstairs apartment come on. Deciding Raissa was done with whatever she was up to that night, he crept back across the street and climbed into his car.

  Zach hadn’t recognized the man who had been hiding in the alley, but Raissa must have known him well enough to let him in her apartment. Which made him wonder why the man hadn’t called or simply rung her doorbell. Why lurk around the corner, running the risk of being shot?

  Zach looked up at the apartment again. The light was on in the front room, and Zach could make out a silhouette of the man sitting at a table. A minute later, Raissa set glasses on the table and joined him. Surely, if the guy was a friend or boyfriend he wouldn’t have been hiding in an alley. Which left business.

  He looked down at his watch.

  Kinda late for a business meeting. He watched another thirty minutes and finally saw them rise from the table. A minute later, the man slipped out the front door, scanned the street, then took off in the direction of a lone truck parked at the other corner. Zach hunched down in his seat so the man wouldn’t notice him as he drove past.

  He watched the rearview mirror until the man had turned the corner, then started his car and took off after him. The truck turned again at the end of the next block, and Zach pressed the accelerator. His quarry was entering the highway, which gave Zach the perfect chance to get his license plate without being made.

  He followed the truck onto the highway and eased beside it in the next lane. Zach gave brief thanks that the license plate was clean and easily readable and jotted the number down before continuing on the highway past him. Two exits later, he merged right and exited the highway, heading for the police station. It should be almost empty this time of night. A great time to run a plate without someone looking over his shoulder and asking questions.

  Only one cop manned the front desk when he walked into the station. Zach gave him a nod and went to his own desk. It only took a minute to open the database and plug in the truck’s license plate. Another minute and he was looking at pages of information on one Hank Henry. He scanned the pages, shaking his head. This Hank was a piece of work, and stupid.

  He seemed to have the uncanny ability to be involved with the wrong thing at the wrong time.

  But for over a year, his record was clean as a whistle. Interesting.

  He checked another database, but no prison system had a Hank Henry listed as a recent resident. So the question remained: what was a man of questionable background and character doing hiding outside Raissa’s store? And why did she invite him inside for drinks?

  Questions he couldn’t answer. Not yet. But Raissa Bordeaux definitely required more looking into.

  It was a bright and sunny morning in Mudbug when Raissa pushed open the door to the Mudbug Hotel. Little bells tinkled above, alerting anyone inside to her entrance. No one was at the front counter, but she’d barely stepped inside before she heard Mildred, the hotel owner, yell, “Raissa, we’re in the office. Come on back.”

  Raissa stepped down the hall, wondering who “we” was. For whatever absurd reason, Helena had insisted Raissa meet her at the hotel to “discuss an action plan.”

  Since Hank’s visit last night, Raissa figured she had much bigger things to deal with than forming an “action plan” with a ghost, but on second thought, she decided an invisible partner did come with some advantages. Raissa had assumed the ghost intended to meet her outside the hotel, but after several minutes of waiting, she decided to try inside, even though she had no good explanation for Mildred as to why she’d be visiting her hotel in Mudbug when Raissa should have been preparing to open her shop in New Orleans.

  Based on Mildred’s greeting, an ex
planation wasn’t necessary. Which meant that Helena must have talked to Sabine or Maryse, or both, and they were waiting at the hotel to come up with a plan. At the end of the hall, she stepped through an open doorway and into Mildred’s office. The hotel owner was perched in a huge office chair behind her desk, eating a muffin and playing cards. Even more disturbing was her opponent.

  Helena Henry sat across the desk from Mildred, grumbling about her hand. “I see you three doughnut holes and raise you one muffin.” Helena was dressed in a long, flowing, pink gown made of some type of gauzy material. On her head sat a wide floppy hat in the same shade of pink as the dress, with a ring of white and red roses around the top.

  Mildred looked up at Raissa and smiled. “I’m making Helena earn her breakfast.”

  Raissa stared for a couple of seconds, not sure what to even think—way beyond having anything to say. “You can see Helena?” she asked Mildred.

  “Oh, yeah. She turned up like a bad penny right after my car wreck.” Mildred motioned to Raissa to take the seat next to Helena. “Already poured you a cup of coffee. Might as well have a seat and drink a bit.”

  Raissa slid into the chair, still a bit numb. “And you’re okay with this? I mean, I always got the impression you didn’t go in for anything remotely out of this world.”

  “Absolutely right, but what the heck was I supposed to do? You can’t exactly refute the evidence, especially when it’s loud and eating you out of hotel and home.” She disposed of two cards and pushed some doughnut holes and a minimuffin into the stack of food in the middle of the desk. “Call.”

  Raissa looked over at Helena, who studied Mildred’s face, most certainly trying to determine if her doughnut holes and muffin were now at risk. “What in the world are you wearing, Helena? Yesterday you just had on jeans and a T-shirt.”

  Helena waved a hand in dismissal. “I take Mondays off.”

  “Off from what?”

  “From my wardrobe-through-the-ages adventures. Oh, it sounds like fun when you start, but it’s actually a lot harder than you think to come up with something creative every day. Last month, I did music through the ages MTV-style. This month is classic movies through the ages.”