“They don’t mind Cherry talking to the police?” Juanita says.
“Long story. She’s been giving us information for years and we leave her and the neighborhood alone. Mutual non-aggression pact. Works well.”
“Lawless.”
“All vice crimes. Bullshit statues.”
“You’re a homicide man through and through.”
As they climb in, Juanita looks back toward Cherry’s place.
“Cherry’s a man,” Beau says.
“Seriously.”
“Don’t mean to be crude, but she’s well hung. I’m surprised she didn’t whip it out to shock you with a look at some real BBC.”
Beau turns on the AC and eases the SUV away from the curb.
“BBC?”
“You don’t surf the net enough,” Beau adds. “BBC – big black cock.”
“You search for BBC?”
He shakes his head. “Even when I tell my search engine to block pop-up windows, a set of boobs will pop on screen, along with a dick or two.”
A yellow Camaro runs the stop sign at Euterpe Street, but Beau sees it coming and eases off, keeps to the left and misses it. Juanita reaches for the siren switch.
“No. No,” Beau says. “We don’t do traffic stops in Homicide or CIU.”
He waits for it and she doesn’t let him down when she finally says, “Cherry said she owes you. What for?”
“It’s a long series of stories.”
“I got time.”
Tuesday
• New Orleans Marina, 4:42 a.m.
Jodie Kintyre gets Alizée to wake Beau, who reaches across the bed to answer his cell.
“You up?”
“At four a.m.? No.”
“It’s almost five and Jefferson Parish posts their autopsies at six on the dot.”
Beau slowly sits up and Stella scrambles off the foot of the bed. “JP?”
“Body popped up next to the Causeway Bridge. Young woman with a garrote marks around her neck. They’re posting her at Ochsner this morning.”
Beau climbs out of bed. “Garroted?”
“A Katrina buddy in JPSO Homicide called me. That BOLO you put out your first day as a Chief Inspector to all area agencies. Well he read it.” Her voice grates over the words ‘Chief Inspector’.
“We’ll be there. Thanks.”
“I’ll see you there.” Her voice is icy now. He’s in for it. Hell, he should have gone straight to her and tell her he was leaving the squad. Beau disliked farewells more than just about anything. And it wasn’t farewell. He was still in the same squad room. Almost.
When he was eighteen his mother left for South Dakota after his Papa died and he couldn’t stop the tears. And he was a college man by then. Not that he would cry in the Detective Bureau, but farewells – he didn’t want to see it in Jodie’s eyes. Leaving.
Beau calls Juanita, puts on a pot of coffee and climbs into the shower. The BOLO – Be On The Lookout – was simple, asking all agencies in Louisiana, Texas, Arkansas and Mississippi to watch out for any strangulations of young women. It was a long shot. When was the last time someone was professionally garroted around here? Judy Allure, that’s it.
He shaved Sunday so doesn’t bother. He feeds and waters Stella, gives her pets and rubs. He microwaves a couple breakfast burritos, munches them down with his coffee-and-chicory, wonders about some of the stuff Jessie said last night on the phone. She’s a wild one, all right. Some of her exhibitionist antics with Lizette LaStanza caused Beau to be quiet and listen. Apparently the now-famous final painting by Janvier Cortez, friend of Picasso and Dali, hangs in LaStanza’s mansion on Exposition Boulevard. THE BLUE NUDE is an oil painting of a young woman’s naked torso in multiple shades of blue and it’s Lizette who posed for the old man in his studio, now an art shrine on Royal Street.
Last year Jessie posed nude for a group of young artists in that studio, bright sunlight streaming through French doors that looks out on Saint Anthony’s Garden and the rear of Saint Louis Cathedral. The artists included students from UNO and Southern U. and Cortez’s teenaged grandson.
“It’s so titillating walking around naked in front of people.” Her voice was sexy and he wished she were there. The wily vixen probably figured that. “I’ve posed sexier. I’ll tell you about it later.”
Damn. Talk about titillating. She’s got my dick throbbing over the phone.
Tuesday
• Jefferson Highway, 6:03 a.m.
The most important piece of evidence in any murder case – the body of the victim – had been scrubbed clean by the salt water of Lake Pontchartrain for over a week according to the Jefferson Parish pathologist, who speaks through his mask into the microphone hanging above the stainless steel autopsy table in Ochsner Foundation Hospital in Metairie.
“… the body of a nude, well nourished female in her twenties of mixed race. She appears to be part Caucasian and part Aboriginal, Polynesian or Austronesian. She’s five-two in length and weighs about one hundred pounds with twelve inches of dark brown, wavy hair on her head.” He’s guessing the weight with the body all bloated.
Beau leans over and whispers in Jodie’s ear, “Austronesian?”
“You got me.”
Beau notes to ask the pathologist after the post. He moves up to the body sees two marks around the windpipe, same marks that were on Judy’s body. He’d already asked. No garrote found with the body.
Jodie wears a dark blue blouse, black jeans, Beretta in a holster on her right hip, her yellow-blond hair in its typical page boy cut. She is still a striking, slim woman with those wide set hazel eyes. Cat eyes.
Juanita wears one of her new tactical skirts, the color is called tundra, a mix of brown and green. It’s fitted and looks nice on her. The khaki polo shirt makes her look almost top heavy. Beau notices this because the women had checked each other out big time when they met outside the autopsy room fifteen minutes earlier. Juanita’s hair hangs in long curls and her dark complexion looks better with brownish-red lipstick.
Beau is wise enough to know this is all superficial but when he looks good, he feels better and knows women feel the same way. Humans like to look good. Why he’s thinking of all this he’s not sure. Something to do with being involved with a stunner like Jessie, he supposes.
The initial meeting with Jodie wasn’t friendly, Jodie tapping Beau’s sternum with a bony fist before they stepped into the autopsy room. “We need to talk later. If you have time, Mr. Chief Inspector.”
Damn. Trouble with females this early in the morning. Stella was miffed he was leaving so early, she swatted him with her claws as he moved past the sofa so he had to stop and rub his nose against hers, started to pick her up but she gave him her low, disapproving growl.
Two Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office Homicide Detectives come in a few minutes late, introduce themselves as Bryan Turner and Joe Guevara. Turner’s late-thirties, Guevara not quite thirty. A heavy-set crime lab technician follows them in. Turner is Jodie’s Katrina buddy, linked up with her in the tumult after the big storm drew agencies, or what was left of law enforcement agencies, together. He is Jodie’s MO, tall, blond, square jawed, looking a little like Robert Redford.
Juanita and Guevara exchange curious looks. His skin tone seems to match hers exactly. He also has brown eyes, is a stocky fellow but not fat. He’s muscular, stands maybe five-nine, while Turner’s six feet.
“So you’re the infamous Detective John Raven Beau.” Turner shakes Beau’s hand.
Jodie injects, “That’s Chief Inspector Beau now. He outranks all of us. Even you, I think.”
Oh, this is going well.
Back to the body, the focus becomes the garrote markings which are photographed. The victim’s small purse is wrapped around her ankle, actually tied there and the crime lab tech opens it and carefully removes its contents.
“He wanted her identified,” Juanita states the obvious.
“And wanted her found,” Jodie adds. “Dump a body in th
e river and it may not surface until its so far downstream no one sees it and it goes all the way to the gulf. Dump a body in the lake and it’ll pop right up after a few days.”
There’s a Louisiana driver’s license. Angel Goode, white female, twenty-two years old, living on Poeyfarre Street. Very pretty face. Turner turns to Jodie and she tells him its in the warehouse district. Downtown New Orleans.
“Looks like we’ll be working together,” Turner says with obvious relief. The body popped in Jefferson Parish. It’s their murder but she’s from the city.
They all step back as the body is laid open with a scalpel and the stink fills the small room. Jodie backs into Beau, turns and grabs his short sleeve, leads him into the hallway. She lets go, huffs loudly, turns and those cat eyes are narrowed.
“Not a word. I get it through a department e-mail.”
“I tried your cell.”
“I was on vacation and my cell was off.”
“You’re on the day shift. I looked around but you haven’t been there. I wanted to tell you face to face.”
“Chief Inspector? Who ever heard of such a thing? What, working cold cases?”
“Just the one.”
She stares at him.
“It won’t last,” he says. “Too radical to last.”
She shakes her head and goes back in. She pulls Turner aside and talks softly to him. When they peck each other on the lips, it is all clear to Beau now. Her M.O. He knew it. She won’t look at Beau on the way out and he smiles at her anyway.
Before they leave, Beau asks the pathologist. “What are Austronesians?”
“Populate islands from the Indian Ocean through the islands below southeast Asia into the Pacific.”
• Poeyfarre Street, 10:11 a.m.
The converted warehouse runs along a narrow one-way street a few blocks from the river. A brownstone with forty-one apartments and a manager with who looks suspiciously like Elvis, not the skinny, hip Elvis, but the fat, sweaty Elvis.
Can’t people tell when their toupee is bad?
The manager’s bouffant hair draws Beau’s eyes, like a bad wreck, as the man stands in the main entrance of the warehouse.
“I can’t let you in until I read the search warrant.”
Beau steps around the JP dicks, towers over the fat fuck. It had taken two hours to type out the warrant and find a judge and standing on the stoop under a hot sun is not what Beau’s going to do.
“Read it while we search. Give me the key or I kick in the door and you’ll have to buy a new one.”
“You’ll have to push past me.” The man doesn’t look up from the warrant. Beau glances at Guevara and they each grab an arm and walk the man into the hall, shove him against the wall.
“Which way?”
The man nods to his right.
“Key.” Beau holds out his hand and the man fishes a set of keys from his baggy shorts, tells them its apartment 15, far end of the hall, key has the number on it. They know the apartment number.
When they step in, it doesn’t take a detective to see the apartment’s a crash pad. The bed is made, closet with three dresses, two pairs of shoes, a make-up box on the vanity, hair brush with no strands of hair. In the dresser they find two brassieres and matching panties, two jogging shorts, two tee-shirts, plain with no writing on them. In the refrigerator they find a half-gallon of skim milk that expired two weeks ago, a carton of eggs with two missing, bacon, four small cartons of yogurt and a bag of grapes.
Juanita finds an Australian passport taped under the dresser. She same pretty face from the driver’s license smiles in the passport picture, the passport issued with the name Angelina Goolime. There is a safety deposit key taped next to the passport.
“No bank name on it,” Guevara says.
“We have someone who can ID the bank,” says Beau. “He’ll help you with the search warrant as well.”
Turner, who’d been canvassing the hall, steps back in, thumbing through his notebook. “Six neighbors and none has ever seen her.”
“I’ll see how she paid her rent,” Juanita volunteers and heads for the manager’s office.
• Police Headquarters, 5:03 p.m.
Angel Goode paid six months rent in advance, in cash.
Beau sits behind his desk, Juanita at hers, Guevara next to her, Turner standing and leaning against the door frame.
“We’ll go with you back and canvass the apartment house tonight.” Beau tells Turner, digs into a side pocket of his tactical pants, smiles as he pulls out a ring of keys. “I forgot to give these back to fat Elvis.” He turns to Juanita and says, “OK. Where is this Costa Rican restaurant?”
“Echeverria’s. Oak Street.”
Alizée sings J’en Ai Marre and Beau digs his cell from a different pocket. He knows it’s Jessie as he’s assigned that ring tone to her now, opting for Alizée’s first hit Moi Lolita for his regular ring tone.
“Hey, Babe,” he answers.
“You too busy for supper?”
“We’re about to head to a Costa Rican restaurant on Oak Street. Echeverria’s. Can you join us?”
“I’ll be there.”
Turner waits for him to disconnect, holds up the passport, says, “We need to call the police or state department, whatever they have in Sydney, Australia.”
“I think the capital is Melbourne,” Juanita says.
Guevara shakes his head. “It’s Canberra.” He pulls his iPhone out and fishes for an app. A minute later he explains Australia is fifteen hours ahead of New Orleans. He looks at Juanita, smiles. “It’s 8 a.m. there.”
“We’ll wait until after supper to call.” Beau stands, slips his phone back in its pocket. “We’ll come back here and use a land line so there’s no roaming fee.”
Such are communications in the 21st Century.
• Oak Street, 5:47 p.m.
Jessie is the last one to arrive, breezing into the small restaurant wearing a frilly maroon minidress with small white polka dots, wrap-around sunglasses and black heels. She takes off her glasses as Beau starts to stand, puts her hand on his shoulder to push him down, pull her long hair from her face as she leans forward and plants a kiss on his lips. One of the young busboys is right there to pull her chair out for her.
She picks up a menu, looks at her man and says, “Love this lipstick.” She looks at the only other woman present and says, “Doesn’t rub off even when we French kiss. You must be Juanita. Nice skirt.”
Juanita smiles but can’t tell if that was a compliment or a typical catty remark she’s used to getting from pretty girls in high school. The woman’s hair is straight and long, only a few inches from her waist. Is she some sort of model?
“Costa Rican cuisine,” Jessie says. “Hope you can help us, Juanita. John says you’re the smart one in CIU.”
Juanita explains she’s eaten here and makes recommendations, which all follow. She notices Turner and Guevara not paying much attention to Jessie. Beau is focused on Jessie and the young waiter and busboy who obviously haven’t seen a girl who looks like a movie star before.
Sweet iced teas all around, sweet cornbread with butter. Beau loves cornbread and this stuff’s wonderful. Juanita orders for them in Spanish from a waiter who doesn’t look at her as he watches Jessie flirting with Beau.
“Hope he was listening.”
Jessie shakes her head at Juanita. “Looking at me instead of paying attention.” Back to Beau she ways, “So, what brings JPs out here?”
He tells her about the body in the lake and what they’ve been up to. Assisting JPSO. Beau and LaStanza told her a little about the first murder but no one knows the connection with the Secretary of the Interior.
Beau has to stop eating cornbread or he’ll fill up on it.
“So what have you been up to?” he says.
He can’t stop his heart from racing.
Damn, she looks great and that sparkle in her eyes when she looks at me. If LaStanza’s right and she’s a maneater, I’m in BFT. Big Fu
ckin’ Trouble.
She lowers her voice. “I’ve been with Lizette and her father all day. They made me an offer its going to be hard to refuse.”
He waits as another bus-boy refills her iced tea that doesn’t need refilling. She looks around, sees where the boy is looking and chuckles, lifts up her ass and tucks the miniskirt under her. When she sat, the wide skirt caught on the chair, leaving her panties in plain sight.
She puts her elbow up on the table, cups her chin in hand and tells Beau, “My PI days might be coming to an end.”
“Yeah?”
“Apparently I’ll be able to use my Business Management degree after all.”
The food comes. Juanita has her favorite tilapia with pineapples served with black beans and rice. Both JPs have beef tenderloin with Costa Rican coffee balsamic fig glaze while Beau opts for pork tenderloin with Costa Rican coffee glaze. Jessie orders the tilapia but asks for Russian potato salad instead of the beans. For someone used to savory and spicy Cajun, Creole and New Orleans cooking, Beau did not expect a meal this delicious.
Is that a glint of mischief in Jessie’s eyes?
“Mr. Guevara, are you related to Ché?”
“No. He was Argentinean while my family came from Granada to Louisiana with Governor Galvez.” The Latino detective looks at Juanita now. “Actually my ancestor Ernesto Guevara was killed at the Battle of New Orleans fighting the British. Ché’s real name was Ernesto by the way.” He shrugs and Jessie will have to ask Lizette about this. Lizette’s father and mother each had an ancestor at the battle and if anyone was an expert about the battle, it is Lizette who’s writing a book about it.
“Are you married, Mr. Guevara?”
“No.”
“In love with anyone?”
Beau and Turner both laugh.
“No.”
“What about you, Inspector Juanita Cruz?”
Juanita shakes her head, looks to her partner for help but he’s not getting in the way.
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