“Meow. Rowl.”
“Bad day, little girl?”
“Rowl.”
“Dogs? Sharks? Coyotes?”
“Meow. Rowwwl.”
“But you are safe in here, aren’t you?”
Beau reaches down and pets Stella’s head and she head-butts his hand and purrs louder now. She nibbles his fingers. Love bites. He heads for her food dish. There’s still dried food there and her water dish is almost full.
“I bet you cat-napped all day, didn’t you?”
“Meow. Rowl.” Stella sniffs her food, takes a bite as Beau moves to his refrigerator, pulls out two burritos he’d taken from the freezer that morning, unwraps them, puts them on a dish and slides them into the microwave. He turns on the oven and digs out a pack of frozen French fries. He’ll bake them.
Later – after supper and after Stella has a treat of wet cat food, Beau opens a bottle of Abita beer, settles on his sofa in front of the TV and flips channels until he finds something in black and white and stops. It’s a movie with Glenn Ford and William Holden. A stagecoach is held up and Ford and Holden decide to rob the robbers and take off with the loot.
He mutes the TV, picks up his cell phone and Jessie Carini’s card. Her cell number is penciled on back. He punches in the number. He’s about to hang up when there’s no answer after the fourth ring because voice mail should be for emergencies.
“Hello?”
“Oh,” he says, “Hello. Jessie?”
“I love that accent, John. Is this your cell number?”
Again with the accent.
“Yes. I got your statement.” He hears voices in the background. “Sorry. Am I interrupting something?”
Stella jumps up on the sofa arm and starts nuzzling his ear.
“Interrupting? I do have company.”
“I’ll call back.”
“No.” The background voices go away. “My company is 007. I think Daniel Craig’s too short to be Bond. What do you think?”
“I never measured him.” He takes a hit of beer.
She laughs, then asks if her statement was OK.
“Yeah. Accurate and to the point. No fluff.”
“That’s me.” Her voice is lower now. “So that’s why you called?”
“Actually I wanted to know if you’ll have dinner with me Saturday night.”
Stella starts licking Beau’s hair and he pulls away, pets her face and head. She purrs again.
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Jessie says. “I’ll text my address. What time Saturday?”
“Six?”
“Fine.”
He hears her breathing now, listens as Stella head-butts his cheek.
“What’s that buzzing?”
“It’s purring. I have a cat. A bad girl.”
Jessie laughs again. “Sounds like me. What’s her name?”
He tells her, like in the play. “Stelllllaaaaa.” He tells her how he found her as a kitten. When he finishes the story he hears Jessie let out a long breath.
“So, what are you wearing, little boy?”
Stella bites his ear and he’s got a maneater here and on the phone.
Shoulda opted for coffee instead of beer.
Tuesday
• Police Headquarters, 8:48 a.m.
Their new office had been a large file room Beau didn’t know existed, in a back corner of the Detective Bureau Squad room, next to the wall of windows that looks even more ragged since Katrina with most of its exterior tint blown away. The new office walls had been wiped down, the floor mopped, two government-issue gray metal desks put in, along with filing cabinets with drawers half open to show they are empty. The desks abut each other, face to face, a dark gray telephone on each. A chair sits on the side of each desk, with desk chairs behind each.
“Which desk do you want?” Juanita says.
“I’ll face the door.”
They sit and begin unloading their briefcases, not touching the large file on Beau’s desk. There are two larger than normal silver keys next to the file. Must be for the office door. He slides one to Juanita.
She catches his eye. “How do I look?”
“You look good.”
He didn’t realize her hair was that long and she put some sort of curl in it. He’s never seen her with makeup, red lipstick and she did a good job, not too much.
“Whaddya mean? Good. Do I look like I’m cruising for a date or do I look like I command authority?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. Is this too much makeup, the skirt too short?”
The skirt-suit isn’t too snug, the skirt just above the knees.
“You look good.”
“You’re no help.”
Beau chuckles. “What? I’m in charge of your fashion statement. You look fine. If you looked bad, I’d tell you.”
“Whaddya mean, bad? As in bad looking woman or bad looking cop?”
“I’m about to go over and bang my head against the wall.”
“Why would you do that?”
I coulda picked Mike Gonzales or Tim Rothman. No one gives a fuck what they look like.
“I know you didn’t choose me because of my gender. Or did you?”
“I chose you for your insecurity.”
“What?”
“I chose you over more experienced detectives because of your brain, not your looks.”
“So you think my looks aren’t good.”
Is that a smirk on her lips?
He opens a drawer, picks out a paperclip and flips it at her, missing her by inches. “You’re messing with me, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. I know I look good.”
Jesus, every female I know messes with me.
He didn’t know she had a sense of humor. Beau reaches into his canvas briefcase, pulls out the envelope from the Interior Secretary, slides the briefcase into an empty desk drawer and pulls the big file on his desk close.
“You have any more questions about your outfits, go ask Jodie. She wears skirt-suits all the time.”
“Oh. Oh. Yeah. Miss skinny blond who looks like a magazine model.”
Damn, I shoulda quit while I was ahead.
Juanita’s paperclip bounces off Beau’s head. Detective-Sergeant Jodie Kintyre broke Beau into Homicide, was his first partner and he’d been waiting for her to come around, say something about his move from her squad to this new CIU.
The envelope from the Secretary of the Interior is unsealed, a single page inside. Beau read it last night, pulls it out and reads it aloud –
“My daughter was Judith Elizabeth Crumit. Born August 5, 1990, in Boston. Educated in Catholic grammar schools. One year at Boston College before dropping out to be a free-lance model for photographers in Boston, New York. Judy performed in at least two X-rated movies before moving to explicit sex films. She denied it and ran away to San Francisco, returning briefly last year.
“Judy lost touch with childhood friends years ago. We know of no long-term relationship with anyone. When she was young, she liked old movies. Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant especially.
“We had no idea she was in New Orleans.
“Please find out who did this to my little girl.”
It is signed – B
“Is it handwritten or typed?”
Beau passes the Secretary’s handwritten note across the desks. He reaches over and pulls the large file close. A Post-it stuck to the front of the file reads: Good luck! You’re gonna need it.
Passing pages to Juanita after he reads through the file, they sit at their desks, going over the initial police report, crime lab analysis, coroner’s autopsy report and the follow-up reports by detectives who worked the case on and off for six months before giving up. The toxicology report found no illicit drugs in the body and her blood alcohol level was .075 grams. That’s below the legal limit. She could have driven legally so she wasn’t bombed.
“We’ll need a coffee pot in here,” Juanita says later, still looking at what
she’s reading.
Beau, still reading, goes, “Yeah.”
Both jot notes as they read, slowly, taking their time. There’s no rush.
The daughter of Secretary of the Treasury Beverly Brookings had a Louisiana driver’s license under the name Judy Allure, her red hair described in the autopsy report as having an orange tint. She was found strangled in a second floor suite of the Hotel DeSaix, a small, high-priced place on Toulouse Street in the Quarter. Thirty-three fingerprints or partial prints were lifted from the room, along with six dissimilar hairs and a bag full of loose fibers and strands. Two of the prints were the victim’s, four from hotel staff, five identified as previous occupants. All with out-of-state alibis. Which left twenty-two unidentified. Judy had rented the room herself for a three day stand, brought an overnight case and had an unknown number of johns visit her, all in suits. Hotel surveillance cameras functioned well, however cameras positioned in the ceiling provided a good view of the top of the men’s heads but no face shots. The camera system locked up twice during Judy’s stay, once for an hour, once for six hours. The only hall camera was so far away from the door of Judy’s suite, none of the men entering her room could be identified even by their mothers.
Additionally, the rooms of Hotel DeSaix have a long balcony around back and very sturdy stairs up to those balconies that overlook a wide alley. She could have let additional johns in the back way through French doors opening to the balcony. A sixty-two year old hotel night clerk, questioned four times, recognized Judy Allure as a ‘semi-regular’ high-priced call girl. She’d told him as much and he admitted receiving a generous tip from her during each stay. No one complained so he let ‘em go to it. This is New Orleans, after all, not Disneyland.
In the crime scene photos, Judy lay across the bed, arms and legs twisted. She wore a long, silk white nightgown and was barefoot. She was garroted, her larynx crushed, two deep marks from the knots used in a garrote. Her tongue protruded, thick and gray. Two of her fingernails were broken and the only scrapings beneath revealed gray fibers from clothing. He must have worn long-sleeves or a jacket.
Two bottle of Scotch were in the room – a quart of Chivas Regal and an even more expensive fifth of Johnnie Walker blue label.
“You like Scotch?” Juanita says.
“I’m more of a beer man. Plain. Simple.”
“I thought Native Americans are supposed to avoid all alcoholic beverages.” The smirk is back.
“I only drink on my Cajun side.”
“I’m partial to Scotch.”
“No tequila?”
“Ha.”
The original investigating detective, abrasive Val Paradis, did a surprisingly good job with the case, eliminating all known suspects and narrowing the time of death as early that particular Sunday morning. He had run into a wall.
Later – Beau looks up as the new commander of the Homicide Division steps into their office. Captain Mark Land had been LaStanza’s first partner in Homicide and is himself a legend on the department. A bear-sized Napolitano Italian with a thick moustache, Land could actually morph into a grizzly and had broken a few desks, chairs, trash cans, one water cooler, two computer keyboards and a large computer monitor in his career. Not to mention several doors during search warrants.
“We haven’t met,” Mark tells Juanita who stands to shake his hand and they introduce one another. The captain tugs up his brown pants.
Why do men who look like grizzlies wear brown?
“Your office is sufficient?”
“It’s good,” Beau answers. “Thanks.”
A sly smirk comes to the captain’s mouth. “I’ve been told the way it is. The new chief’s hell on wheels, ain’t she?”
“So you met her.”
“Oh, yes.”
“You’re in here snooping to see what we’re up to, ain’t you?”
“Oh, yes.” Mark grins now.
Beau gives him a deadpan look.
“Not giving me anything.”
Beau doesn’t react.
Mark nods to the papers scattered on the desks. “Critical Investigations Unit. What? Cold case Unit. What?”
Beau’s face remains expressionless. “If we need anything, we’ll let you know.”
Mark laughs, backing away, hands up. “Yes, sir. Inspector.”
“That’s Chief Inspector.” Beau’s kidding of course, but Juanita can’t tell by this expression.
The captain laughs so loud, he has to stop and put his hands on the nearest desk in the squad room.
Beau tells Juanita, “It’s killing him not knowing what we’re up to.”
“Is he a micromanager?”
“No. He’s just nosy as hell.” Beau stands and stretches. “I don’t have to mention it but I will. We don’t say a word about her being the Secretary’s daughter to anyone. Let’s get some lunch.”
They lock the door on the way out, noticing the lock isn’t a standard, brass department lock, but a big stainless steel contraption and the key works well. The lock’s thick dead bolt slaps into place with a solid-sounding thump.
Lunch consists of plates of rabbit jambalayas from Boissant’s, a tiny Cajun place that specializes in wild game. Alligator sauce picante. Venison etouffeé. Muskrat gumbo. No way he could get Juanita to even try anything with nutria.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “We going to Echeverria’s. Genuine Costa Rican cuisine.
“Sounds good to me.”
Later – As they get back from lunch a call comes through on Beau’s cell.
“This is Curtis Edwards. Are you in your office?”
“Yep.”
“Good. I’ve something for you.”
Edwards comes a few minutes later carrying two white boxes.
“A gift to the ravaged NOPD from Apple computers.” Edwards lays a box atop each desk. “I’ll show you how to use these.”
Inside are identical Macintosh MacBook Pro laptop computers with aluminum bodies.
• New Orleans Marina, 7:22 p.m.
Before Beau finishes the giant burger he’d picked up from the last Burger Chef hamburger joint in the U.S., according to its manager, and the incredible extra long shoe-string French fries, Stella jumps up on the table to mooch a little beef.
“I gave you a wet treat, didn’t I?”
She pretends she doesn’t understand, refuses to look down at the empty bowl next to Beau’s chair he points to. He’d given her a half-can of Friskies seafood tasty-treat with tuna and ocean whitefish.
Beau shoves the last bite of burger into his mouth. Stella actually taps his lips with her paw and chitters at him. He scoops her up and does what he knows will annoy her, cause her to leave him alone. He hugs her. She purrs, snuggles back for a few seconds, has enough and starts to squirm. No purring now.
“No, Baby. Stay with me.” Beau rubs his cheek against her face.
Stella makes a growling sound.
“You like this.” He tucks her into his left arm and grabs a couple fries, dips them in ketchup and eats them. Stella squirms again and he nuzzles her and after a while she starts growling louder.
“You don’t mean that.” He rubs her face with his free hand, rubs the fur atop her head. She keeps growling. He wipes his free hand on a napkin, spears several fries with a fork, dips and eats them.
Stella manages to get around to nibble the hand holding her. Not love nibbles, more firm.
“Meow. Rowl. Rowl.”
“You want me to let you down?”
He uses both hands now, holds Stella just above the carpet.
“You want me to let go?”
She starts moving her legs to get started only she’s still inches above the carpet.
“Go ahead, Baby. You can go.”
“Rowl. Rowl.”
I know. It isn’t working, is it?
She gives up, stops running in place and Beau let her down. She turns and swats the nearest hand. It’s a love swat. If it wasn’t he’d have felt claws, the tips at least. The sw
at was her way of getting the last word. She jumps up on the sofa and grooms herself, putting her ruffled fur back into place and Beau cleans up, reaches into the fridge for another Abita beer, twists off the cap and goes back to the table, opens his note book to look at the notes from the Judy Allure case. He thinks of calling Jessie but they talked last night for almost an hour and he doesn’t want to crowd her. Yet he keeps thinking about her.
Why not send a text? Remind her he’s thinking of her.
He flips his notebook to a clean sheet and tries to remember the clever thing he wanted to tell her. He’d thought of it earlier. Damn. What was it? He goes back to reading the notes. It takes a while but he finally thinks of something cool to tell Jessie.
He jots – “Thought of something clever to tell you today but forgot before I wrote it down so I decided to not call and bother you.”
Damn that’s bad.
He tears out the page, tosses it, missing the trash can. Stella is on it right away, swatting the balled-up sheet of paper, slapping it across the cabin.
Alizée starts singing on Beau’s cell and he looks at the number, doesn’t recognize it, answers anyway, “Hello.”
“It’s Juanita. You’re not busy are you?”
“No, what’s up?”
“I just spent two hundred-fifty dollars online buying tactical skirts. You wanna start wearing polo shirts?”
“No. I like dress shirts with casual pants. Wear what you wanna wear.”
“OK. See you in the a.m.”
He knows he shouldn’t ask but does anyway. “What the hell is a tactical skirt?”
“Oh, its made of RipStop material with a wide belt for weapon, etcetera. Comes in different lengths. Even comes in a mini-length. Can you believe it?”
“Sure. All the fashionable police models wear it.”
“You don’t even know what they look like. They come in A-line and straight-fitted.”
Whatever the hell that means. I’ll wait. She’ll tell me.
“A-line is fitted up top, wider at the bottom, flows down and looks like an ‘A’. Straight-fitted is snug, pencil slim. I ordered the straight-fitted. I have nice hips.”
Nude in Red Page 3