by Ed Kovacs
“I’m dedicated to the work. I remain in the group due to my loyalty to Robert and our long-term friendship. I can tolerate a lot. Just look at Patrice.”
Who is tolerating whom?
“So when Drake hooked up with Townsend, did that strain your friendship? He got her pregnant, right?” I asked.
“So I understand.”
“They didn’t have the baby?”
“About this I cannot speak with direct knowledge. That’s a very private affair and not my business. Do I like her? No. Do I understand why he keeps her as his high priestess? No. Perhaps she has bewitched him. But Robert has counseled patience. He says change is coming.”
“What does that mean?”
Hans suddenly looked like a guy who knew he’d said too much. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“For a guy who says voodoo is your destiny, you must know that it’s always been the voodoo queens who held the real power. The men, well, they were kind of window dressing,” I said in a deliberately offhand way.
“There are no absolutes,” said Hans gruffly.
“Do you fill unusual special orders?” asked Honey.
“Such as?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t personally find very much in this world to be unusual. It’s said that in the 1800s, a voodoo priestess’s home here in New Orleans was searched and many dead babies were found, charred black and hanging like hams inside the chimney. I once got a request from a client for a human fetus with a high price to be paid for its delivery.”
Vermack didn’t say whether he filled the order or not. Either way, I was liking him less and less.
“I’m talking about human heads,” Honey said. “Freshly decapitated.”
“I hear it’s lucrative, but no, I don’t deal in those.” Vermack didn’t appear surprised by the question. Drake probably forewarned him of what was coming.
“Who does traffic in that kind of thing?” I asked.
“Greedy people. Maybe Kate, but I really can’t say.”
“Not Drake?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Any idea what this is?” I handed him a photocopy of the sigil painted on my door and on Pravda’s.
“Sure. It’s a sign of Lucifer, also known as the Seal of Satan. This is maybe five hundred years old. It was used to help invoke Lucifer—a visual form of him.”
“So it’s a tool to use against someone?”
“Of course. Who would want Lucifer sicced on them?”
“You’re set up pretty good in New Orleans, Hans. May I call you Hans?” I asked.
“I don’t mind.”
I leaned forward, getting in his face. “So why risk all this by raping that young girl at Drake’s?”
Vermack bristled, backing away. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Georgia Paris,” I said loudly. “The statute of limitations hasn’t expired yet, Hans. A conviction means hard time in a state penitentiary like Angola, where I could make sure it’s known that you raped a teenager. That’ll go down real well with all the fellas inside with you. And you’ll have to register as a sex offender for the rest of your life if you ever got out of that hellhole alive. Think you’ll still like America then?”
“I didn’t rape— She participated voluntarily! And without her testimony, you have no case.” He looked at me with contempt. “And believe me, she won’t testify. She dropped the matter, to say the least. Now get out.”
* * *
The massive, low-hanging, roiling black front of a storm cell charged in from the direction of Lake Pontchartrain and filled the sky with a premature darkness, leaving only fringes of lighter gray on the horizon. Night falling during the day always felt like a cheat to me, as if I were getting shortchanged by the weather gods for reasons not of my doing.
I watched all this transpire as I stood at a corner of Jackson Square waiting for Honey to wrap up a cell call. I was on my second cigarillo when she finally finished.
“And?”
“The surveillance of Drake and Townsend has been pulled. Mackie and Kruger are off the case. Fred Gaudet has been sent back to burglary. You and I have until midnight.”
“The witching hour,” I said, looking into the sky. I felt frustrated by the chief’s decision to close the investigation. “The Tulane president probably came down on the mayor, and the mayor came down on the chief. Politics holds the high hand right now.”
“We could trump politics with damning evidence,” said Honey. “But I don’t see any.”
“What about the gunshots? No one has yet explained away the gunshots.”
“You know that eyewitnesses provide the least credible evidence in most murder investigations.”
“The UPS driver, Jackson, is not the kind of guy to mistake gunshots for something like a truck backfiring. And I’m sure you heard that Mackie and Kruger paid a surprise visit to his house. He’s clean as a whistle, and I can’t believe that he imagined the gunshots or made them up or is somehow involved in all of this.”
“Whatever Jackson did or didn’t hear is not enough to hang a case on. You and I were next door, and we didn’t hear gunshots.”
“‘Next door’ is a relative term. We were hundreds of yards away, and the shots could have been fired before we got out of your unit.”
Honey shrugged. I glanced around Jackson Square. Bundled-up tourists ambled by smiling, not a care in the world except where to stop for the next cocktail. In a way I envied them.
“Are we still on for the raid on the Skulls gang?”
Honey nodded. “SWAT, the VCAT animals, Homicide—the gang will all be there.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky with something.”
“This doesn’t feel like the kind of case where we get lucky.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “I had a sigil on my door when I got home last night. How about you?”
“Yeah. I painted over it before I went to bed. But this morning? It had bled through the paint.”
“Easy explanation,” I said with a grin. “The spray paint our vandal used is metallic based. It’s not so easy to cover with regular paint. Michelle had the right idea last night—use rubbing compound.”
“I don’t like that they found my house.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I know.” Since there was no ashtray around, I snubbed out my butt in a small Japanese-made pocket tin I carried for such occasions. “Somebody really doesn’t want us nosing around, which is why I want to keep nosing.”
“Hans Vermack is a grade-A prick,” observed Honey.
“You think? And telling us he’s an illegal scamming the system. Suggesting he’s trafficked in fetuses. He acts like he can’t be touched.”
“It’s a contempt some people have toward NOPD. Like we’re too incompetent to do anything.” Honey paused, shivering against a stiff, cold breeze. “He said Georgia Paris wouldn’t testify. Should we try to locate her anyway?”
“How? Nothing came up when I put her in the system. I called the number of her guardian in Hattiesburg, but it’s been disconnected. I’ve gone through all the Drake material from Tulane PD and didn’t see anything to follow up on.”
“We’re still at Ninth and Nowhere,” said Honey.
“I know. All we can do is go balls-out until midnight.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Honey and I took separate vehicles to South Carrollton. Becky Valencia’s address was a beautifully refurbished double shotgun nestled between commercial enterprises, including a bank and an auto-parts store. The interior looked as good as the outside: Hardwood floors glowed with polish, bold paint schemes matched perfectly with trim colors, all of the original architectural details were present, and large paintings of Native American art—impressive, powerful images of everyday reservation life—resonated with the interior design. Native basketwork, silversmithed items, fetishes, rattles, and drums of exquisite caliber sat well placed like museum pieces throughout.
“Half the house is my acu
puncture office, the other half is where I live,” said Valencia as we all sat in her front waiting room. “I used to have an office over in the Triangle, but the rent was high and business not that good.”
“I don’t see any gris-gris,” I joked as I scanned the room. A bank of shelves was weighted down with various types of Chinese medicines and other products.
Valencia was an exotic Native American/French/Irish mix. We had quickly learned that her father was a Yaqui Indian medicine man, silversmith, and artist (he had painted all of the artwork in her home), and she had lived on the reservation just outside of Tucson for years as a child. A big-boned female, she had high cheekbones, long black hair, sparkly eyes, and an easy laugh. She came off oddly feminine for someone as tall and solidly built as she was, and I liked her immediately.
“I suppose I’m the only member of the group who doesn’t sell voodoo gear or power objects of some sort, now that you mention it,” she said, smiling. “Just the stuff you’ll find any acupuncturist hawking anywhere in the world.”
“Why did you join the Crimson Throne? And how long have you been a member?” asked Honey.
“It’s been four or five years now. I come from a long line of Yaqui medicine people. My husband and I moved to New Orleans because we felt the city had a dearth of healers and that there was a need. I’ve known Robert Drake most of my life, so naturally I was drawn to the group. I’m not much of a party person, and that’s what New Orleans is all about, so I suppose I had a need to find like-minded people. I don’t care for the black arts, I just want to help people. At first I thought Crimson Throne was a good fit. All of the members had advanced skills, so the level of the work appealed to me. The group was small but powerful. Egos aside, when it was time to do the work, everyone got along.”
“How did you meet Drake?”
“My father met him over thirty years ago in Mexico. Drake was in college then and researching ethnobotany. Over the years, Drake bought artwork my father made, so he was something of a family friend. You see those sterling silver baskets on the mantel?”
“They’re beautiful,” I said. “Exquisite craftsmanship.”
“And worth a small fortune now. Robert has been trying to buy them from me for years, but I won’t sell.”
“You’ve heard me explain the details of Felix and Roscindo’s deaths. What do you think happened?”
“Sounds like they were doing sex magic,” she said simply. “As to what killed them, wouldn’t it have to be an overdose?”
“What do you mean, ‘sex magic’?” asked Honey.
“Sex generates some fabulous energy. If you train yourself to focus that energy, you can use it to achieve goals or desires.”
I could tell Honey thought that was bogus, but she took notes anyway.
“Why do you suspect our victims were doing that?” I asked.
“Because it’s what the Crimson Throne was all about—sex magic. Once a week. All of the members are bisexual. Robert usually led the work, so he didn’t always engage in sex himself.”
“So Felix and Roscindo were naked on the big altar in the room, had orgasms as part of some magical ceremony, but something went wrong?”
“Well, I’m not a policeman, but since you told me there were no signs of foul play, that would be my guess.”
I was starting to think Honey was right, that there was no murder here, and that I needed to have a talk with my instincts.
“Why would they do that when they were supposed to be working on Drake’s house?”
“Not sure, but it seems odd to me. I also don’t understand the gunshots and screams. But it wouldn’t have been unusual for someone else to have been there during the ceremony.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, in almost all of our rituals we use a guide. The guide isn’t always involved in a sex act. Felix and Roscindo may have sent their orgasmic energy to a third person, who would then direct it to whatever the agreed-upon goal of the group was.”
“If you had to take a wild guess as to who this third person might have been, who would you guess?”
“Kate. She really liked working with Felix. But that doesn’t make her a murderer.”
I flashed on Gina Sanchez’s assertion that “the witch” from Drake’s group killed Felix and stole his money.
“You’re telling us a lot about the group,” said Honey. “Didn’t you take a vow—not to speak?”
“When I heard about Roscindo and Felix’s deaths, I decided those vows were null and void. It was time to leave forever. There has been too much dissension, and…”
Valencia just shook her head sadly.
“Could you please expand on that, on why you chose to leave?”
Her conflicted look told me she wasn’t sure if she should tell us more.
“Ms. Valencia, we need your help. Understanding the truth of what happened can lay all this to rest,” I said.
“Kate is always jockeying for power over Robert. She resents his leadership role, I think. Robert himself is fed up with her, and he’s extremely manipulative. As for Hans, he’s only out for himself. Why can’t the members, coming together to supposedly do good deeds, just do the right thing?”
“You said ‘supposedly.’”
“Every week, the group would agree on where the energy would go. So one week, maybe the guide—the leader of the sex-magic session—would send it to a sick person for healing. The next week, maybe someone had a nephew who needed a job, for instance, so the guide would send our collective energy to help the man find work. But I began to suspect that … well, the guides can send the energy wherever they want, can’t they? And there’s no way for the other members of the group to know.”
“Okay, I think I follow you. Let me use the example of money. If the group members do some work to raise money and then hand it over to the leader, the leader is supposed to spend it in an agreed-upon way. But the members don’t really know how the leader is spending it. The leader might be using it for partying or whatever. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes. And Felix and Roscindo were starting to wonder about this, too. I think it’s one of the reasons the group has always had such a high turnover of members.”
“Who were the guides suspected of this wrongdoing?”
“Kate … Hans … and Robert. If Robert hadn’t been a family friend, I would have left long ago.”
Honey shrugged. I knew what she was thinking. “Stealing energy” is not a bookable offense, and none of this meant much to a homicide investigation. At least not yet.
“Did anyone ever confront Kate or Robert or Hans about this?”
“Many times. People who did always left the group.”
Something about all of this bothered me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Why the BDSM set-up in the temple room?” asked Honey.
“It produces very intense sex energy for the magic. Kate and Hans liked to play with that. They can both be very cruel.”
“You’ve had sex with every member of the group?”
“Yes, and every week we usually have a guest join us. Robert is constantly grooming new potential members.”
“Your husband doesn’t mind,” asked Honey, “that you have sex with all these people?”
“Maybe he did. He left me six months ago. He’s disappeared, actually. And when it’s my turn to request where the group energy be sent, I always ask for it to go to heal my relationship with Shane. At the very least I ask for him to make contact and let me know he’s okay. But I don’t think the guides have been sending the energy to achieve my goals.”
“Because your husband hasn’t called?”
Again, she simply shook her head sadly. “Excuse me, but I’ve said enough. And I’m not feeling very well now.”
* * *
Honey joined me at my Bronco as a light, cold rain began to fall, sprinkling absolution on a city that needed all of the cleansing it could get. My thoughts drifted back to the Storm that almost wiped us o
ut, and I remembered talking to some coppers from out of town who had been sent in to help us through the horrible aftermath. They were religious guys and absolutely believed that the hurricane was some kind of Storm karma, divine retribution upon a city with a bad reputation and a violent and corrupt history, including plenty related to voodoo.
I didn’t embrace their position, but I saw their point, because I’m a guy who believes that—generally and eventually—what goes around comes around, in ways unimaginable. We all know about the corruption of our political and religious leaders, but how spiritually bankrupt are we if the persons who are supposed to be our local “adepts” are just shysters preying upon the all-too-human weaknesses of followers like Becky Valencia?
Gee, a person could almost become a cynic.
“How many people did we have to interview before we confirmed it was a sex group?” I said, shaking my head.
“We’re going nowhere fast. But it explains the Georgia Paris business. They bring fresh meat in every week. Georgia went to Drake’s willingly. Maybe Drake drugged her, or maybe she just had too much to drink.”
“And woke up bound and gagged with Hans standing over her holding a cat-o’-nine-tails. At least that’s what she told Tulane PD. She hadn’t bargained for that, but as Carole King once sang, ‘It’s too late, baby.’ So afterward, Paris was righteously angry and wanted to get even with Drake.”
“Vermack’s comment that she’ll never testify?” asked Honey. “Maybe she was paid off. And signed a covenant not to sue or press charges.”
I nodded, now in full retreat from my surety that Georgia Paris had been raped. “Even Donna, the secretary at Tulane, told me anyone going over to Drake’s house knew what was going to happen. And if somebody in Drake’s group was doping unsuspecting females, I think we’d have more than one complaint on record by now.” I had already checked NOPD databases for just such complaints. And there were none mentioned in Fournier’s files, either. “I’m surprised Tony Fournier’s files missed the Georgia Paris affair. And Valencia clammed up before I could ask her about the rape allegations.”
Honey just shrugged as she checked an incoming text. “Good news. We have a confirmed appointment with some badass Mexicans. Let’s hit them.” She looked up at me. “But unless we uncover crucial evidence, screw midnight. I say we call it a wrap on Felix Sanchez and Roscindo Ruiz.”