by Anne Frasier
Elise's breathing was weird and shallow; her palms were sweaty.
As a detective, she'd faced a lot of dangerous people in her years without a fluttering pulse or a rise in blood pressure, but this was the hardest thing she'd ever done.
As the room gradually lightened and objects became more distinct, she stepped inside. "Thanks for agreeing to see me." Her voice was tight, but nothing someone who didn't know her would notice.
The woman who was her mother lit a cigarette with a small butane lighter and tossed the lighter on the table. It had been too fast for Elise to get a good look at her. Shoulder-length hair. Possibly dark. That was all.
"When Strata Luna called," Loralie said, "I told her no. Told her I couldn't face you, couldn't see you, but when I thought about not seeing you ... well, I would have regretted it. Plus I owe you this."
She sure as hell did.
Elise crossed the room, the soles of her shoes sounding hollow on the wooden floor.
There wasn't much furniture. No pictures on the walls. No rugs. Nothing to absorb the sound.
The table was small and narrow. Elise pulled out the only other chair—a fragile, brittle antique—and sat down, her legs shaking.
Loralie leaned back and crossed her arms, the cigarette held between two fingers. "She was right. You do look like him."
Now Elise could see that the woman's thin face was framed with frizzy gray hair, that her eyes were a faded hazel. She looked sixty, but couldn't have been over fifty.
Just your regular eyes, Elise noted. And a regular face. Hard, something Dust Bowl about it. That
defeated-by-life kind of thing. No, it was beyond defeat. She was someone who'd moved on to total acceptance—which to Elise's mind was worse.
"Weird, isn't it?" Loralie took a long drag and blew the smoke at the ceiling with a twist of pale lips. "Seeing me. I've always known who you were, so I never had to wonder." She knocked the ashes into a glass tray overflowing with butts.
Had she been sitting there for hours, smoking one cigarette after the other while waiting for Elise?
"Strata Luna put a curse on me when I was pregnant with you. Did she tell you that?"
"No."
"Said it was because I was teasing and tempting her man."
"Jackson Sweet?"
"Yeah, except Jackson Sweet wasn't anybody's man. He was a free spirit. Wasn't my fault that he wanted me. And I sure as hell wasn't going to turn him down." She let out a single burst of laughter at the absurdity of the idea.
The shaking had stopped. A calm that Elise sometimes experienced under duress had come to her rescue, helping her through the moment. Things moved slower. She had time to think, analyze, react.
"Was Jackson Sweet my father?"
"At that time, I wasn't a prostitute. And I hadn't been with another man for almost a year. There is no way you could be anybody's kid but Jackson's."
Elise took a deep breath. Okay. So there it was. Her parentage laid out once and for all. "Was the curse the reason you left me in a cemetery?"
"I was scared the whole time I was pregnant. I was just a kid. And when someone as powerful as Strata Luna puts a curse on you, it gets your attention. I went to Jackson and begged him to reverse it, but he just laughed. Said Strata Luna had no power over him or his child. But then he got sick, and I was afraid the curse had crossed some barrier and reached all the way to him. And when you were born and I saw your eyes, I went a little crazy and thought it had reached all the way to his child. I figured if I threw you away, offered you up as a sacrifice, then Jackson would get well."
"What were Jackson Sweet's eyes like?" They couldn't have been like Elise's; otherwise Loralie wouldn't have freaked out.
"Brown. Dark brown. I don't know where you got your eyes. Nobody in my family had eyes like that. Jackson had a granny who was a root doctor. People said she had square pupils. I saw a picture of her once, but her eyes were hidden by dark blue conjurer shades. The same shades she passed down to Jackson."
Elise's now. "What did you do after he died?"
"I wanted everything to stop, and got real sick because I wasn't taking care of myself. I did a lot of bad things, a lot of bad drugs. Lived on the street for several years and finally ended up in a hospital for loonies. There was a nun there who told me about this place. Thought maybe I could stay here awhile, because I didn't have any money or anywhere to go."
And she'd been there ever since. . . . "Have you ever thought about leaving?"
"A couple of times, but it's nice here. Peaceful. Safe. I take care of the grounds for my room and board. It works out."
"Do you mind if I have one?" Elise indicated the cigarettes.
Loralie slid the pack and lighter across the table. "You shouldn't smoke."
"Someone else recently told me that." Elise tapped out a cigarette and lit it. Nonfilter. Loralie was serious about her smoking.
"Would you like something to drink?" Loralie asked, bracing her hands on the table, prepared to shove herself to her feet. "Water, maybe?"
Elise shook her head, picked a piece of tobacco off her tongue. The nicotine went straight to her bloodstream, making her heart pound.
"I want you to know I thought about you." Loralie settled back in her chair, pulled out a fresh cigarette, and lit it with the old one. The smoke was getting thick. "I knew you were okay. Knew you were with a good family, and that you had a better life than you would have had with me."
That was true. The family that took her in had never been mean to her. Elise had simply never fit, never adapted. Which was strange because humans were extremely adaptable. It was as if, like some endangered species, she'd stubbornly clung to an unknown heritage.
The conversation shifted and Elise talked a little about herself and Audrey. Then it was over. Loralie announced it was time for Elise to go.
Elise stubbed out her cigarette. It had been a strong one, and she felt light-headed. "Maybe I'll visit again." She would bring a few things from the outside world. A carton of cigarettes. Pralines and chocolate.
Loralie met her gaze without blinking. "It would be better if you didn't," she said bluntly. "This has been hard for me."
Elise was disappointed but understood. Loralie was hiding from the world and her past. Closure was something they'd both needed, and now it was done. Now it was over.
"Could you send me a picture?" Loralie asked. "Of yourself and Audrey? And if you see Strata Luna, tell her I don't bear her any grudge. She's had a lot of heartache in her life. A curse can really backfire, can't it? Instead of chasing after me, she should have been painting her window and doorframes blue and laying down a trick so evil wouldn't follow."
Elise let herself out.
As she drove back down the overgrown road, David called on her cell phone.
"A body's washed up on Tybee Island," he told her.
The good news just kept coming.
Chapter 38
Tybee Island wasn't in the Savannah Police Department's jurisdiction, but small municipalities often requested assistance in the case of a suspicious death.
Following the directions they'd been given, David drove the unmarked car along a flat, paved road.
"There." Elise pointed to a cluster of vehicles.
This part of the island was sandy, with very little vegetation. A few blades of cordgrass grew defiantly here and there, along with Spanish bayonet.
A Georgia Bureau of Investigation crime scene team was on location, a large area already taped off. Three canopies had been set up for shade and privacy.
"No media yet," David commented, shutting off the engine and slipping from the air-conditioned car. He'd parked the length of a football field away so that when the crowd showed up, he and Elise could get out.
"They've established a wide barrier," Elise said with appreciation. "That'll keep the morbid curiosity seekers under control."
They approached one of the officers standing guard.
"What's the story?" David asked. "Who
found the body?"
"Local family, out for a walk on the beach."
"Male or female?" Elise asked.
"Female."
David looked at Elise. She could tell what he was thinking. Another victim that didn't fit the TTX killer's MO.
The sand was powder-fine and deep. She and Gould trudged through it, finally reaching a firm, packed area where the tide had gone out.
A bureau agent extracted himself from the crowd and eyed David and Elise with suspicion.
They flipped open jackets to display their badges, then let their clothing fall back into place. "Savannah Police Department."
"I'm Agent Spaulding of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, Homicide Division." He passed a piece of paper to someone nearby. "The coroner's taking forever," he complained, jabbing a pen over his shoulder in the direction of the woman he was discussing. "Thinks she's Dr. Quincy or something."
Agent Spaulding spread his legs, rocking slightly in a typical military pose. With tablet in hand, he asked, "How do you spell your names?"
They gave him their names and badge numbers.
He took down the information, then appraised them both while chewing on the end of his pen. He finally narrowed his focus exclusively to David. "You're the Yankee, aren't you?"
"If I remember my history correctly," David said,"there haven't been any Yankees in this country for well over a century."
"Yep," the agent said, giving Elise a look that was supposed to convey that they were on the same team. "He's the guy I've been hearing about."
"And what are people saying?" David asked.
"Let's go," Elise told her partner, before he said something he shouldn't and ended up with a complaint lodged against him. Spaulding obviously represented the small minority of investigators who'd gone into the business for status, and he saw David as a male invading his territory.
David refused to look in her direction. "I'll bet they've been saying I'm rude. That's it, isn't it?"
He didn't sound mad, only entertained. But he was mad. Elise could tell.
"That's right," the agent admitted.
"And that I'm not a team player."
"You said it, not me."
"And that I don't care about the cases I'm working on." David's voice was rising, his anger becoming more obvious, even to someone who didn't know him well. "And that I'm unstable. Was unstable on the list?"
"Get away from me," Spaulding told him. He looked at Elise. "Get your partner away from me."
"David." She hoped she wasn't going to have to haul him out of there by the shirt collar. "Come on."
He nodded. Without giving the agent another glance, they turned and walked toward the crime scene.
Elise thought they were home free when David spun around. "Hey, buddy!" he shouted. "The fucking Civil War is over! It's over!"
Major Hoffman would be delighted when that complaint crossed her desk, Elise thought as they turned and continued on their way.
"Sorry," David said. "But I've had it with that bullshit."
It appeared that the body hadn't yet been moved. Nude. Face up. Bloated and discolored. Caked with sand.
Photos were being taken. Agents were diagramming the position.
The GBI had good crime scene investigators. She and David weren't there to process the scene, only to observe and offer suggestions and assistance where it might be warranted.
A young woman with a blond ponytail was dressed in khaki shorts and a white T-shirt that said coroner across the back in black letters.
The victim had long dark hair. The face was grotesquely swollen and disfigured, the body mangled, most likely from the pounding of the surf. It would be hard to determine cause of death.
Everyone was engrossed in discussing elements of the situation, from tide flow to how long the body had been in the water.
"Ready for the other side," the coroner announced, a Polaroid camera in her hand. The body was rolled to its stomach.
Cameras clicked.
"What's that?" Someone pointed.
Elise and David leaned closer.
On the corpse's lower spine, half hidden by sand, was the Black Tupelo design.
Elise looked at David. He was staring at the body.
She pulled out her phone and put in a call to headquarters. "Hi, Eli. I need to know if anyone has been reported missing in the last few days. I'm particularly interested in any females."
She waited while he accessed the information.
It turned out there was one. She thanked him and slowly hung up.
David was still staring at the body, at the logo on the spine.
"Let's get out of here," she told him.
He didn't respond.
"David." She grabbed his arm.
He lifted his head, a dazed expression on his ashen face. Birds circled and cried overhead.
"We have to go," she told him firmly.
Her words finally sank in. He nodded numbly and stumbled toward her. Side by side, they trudged through the sand toward the car.
"It's Flora, isn't it?" he finally asked.
"Strata Luna reported her missing last night," Elise told him. "We didn't hear about it because not enough time has passed to make it an official missing-persons case."
"I knew it. I mean, I had a feeling right from the first. When I saw the dark hair I just had a feeling."
"Prostitutes live an untraditional lifestyle," Elise said, looking for words of reassurance. "They go missing all the time, only to turn up wondering what the fuss was all about."
"They should be able to ID the body fairly quickly," he said robotically.
She nodded. "Then we'll know."
"I was with her night before last." He glanced up to gauge Elise's reaction.
She must have appeared dismayed, because he repeated what he'd just said, this time with a twisted, self-defeated smile.
"I thought you were going to quit seeing her," Elise said. "I thought you had quit seeing her."
"She was waiting for me when I got home. It was just something that happened."
He looked in the direction of the crime scene. Toward a mangled corpse that may have been Flora. He closed his eyes and tipped back his head, as if trying to erase the image from his memory. "My life is so fucked," he whispered. "I don't know.... Sometimes it feels like I'm a magnet for bad things." He straightened and looked at her, as if she might have an answer. "Who's the 'Peanuts' kid? The one with the cloud of dirt around him?"
"Pig Pen?"
"Yeah. I'm that kid. But instead of dirt, it's bad stuff. Following me around."
She should have been formulating possibilities, mentally gathering a list of people to interview. She could have at least been trying to make him feel better, but the only thing she could think about was the curse Strata Luna had put on him.
She'd always surmised that curses only worked if the recipient believed. Kind of like a placebo. Now she wasn't sure, because David was right. His life was fucked.
Chapter 39
Starsky, of the Starsky and Hutch team, rapped on the open office door. "Got a positive ID on the Tybee Island body," he said, clinging to the doorframe.
David swiveled around in the chair so his back was to the detective.
"Flora Martinez," Starsky announced.
Something big and solid dropped in the pit of David's stomach. Even though he'd known it was going to be her, subconsciously he'd been holding out hope that it wasn't. "Thanks for the information," David said, staring at the fish screen saver in front of him.
Jesus. Flora.
Was her murder his fault? Was it somehow connected to the TTX case? Or was it the result of her dangerous lifestyle, completely unrelated to him or the investigation?
"That's not all," Starsky added. "The GBI's been looking into things, and it seems they want you brought downstairs for questioning."
David wasn't surprised. What was a surprise was how quickly they'd connected a few random dots.
He got to his
feet, rolled down his sleeves, and slipped into his jacket. When he stepped into the hall, he saw that Hutch had been lurking a few feet away, practically rubbing his palms together.
The Yankee was going down.
It was a long way from his third-floor office to the interrogation room.
A regular gauntlet.
Curious workers filled doorways. People stood in clusters around drinking fountains and rest rooms. Familiar and unfamiliar faces jumped in and out of focus. In front of him, the hall was silent. But then, behind his back as he passed, whispers began.
David's personal history seemed to have taken on a life of its own, becoming an entity that filled the brick building. Everyone was talking about David Gould, discussing and debating the issue.
"I don't understand why they sent him here in the first place after being under psychiatric care."
"That doesn't mean anything," another voice argued. "Half the force should be seeing a therapist."
Ha-ha-ha.
"Did you hear about his kid?"
"He has a kid?"
A story like David's couldn't remain a secret forever. The truth had finally followed him to Savannah.
"Had. Dead. Killed by his wife. That's why he left the FBI. Had a breakdown. Snapped. They sent him back home to Cleveland. Cleveland didn't want him, so what do they do? Send him to us."
Don't listen, David told himself.
But he couldn't help it. They were all enjoying this too fucking much.
Don't think.
He couldn't help that either.
He was an outsider. The white horse in a black herd. The one the other horses killed for being different. It wasn't just that he was from the North. Some of his coworkers also took a twisted pleasure in seeing an FBI agent crash and burn.
In the interrogation room, Agent Spaulding, from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, was waiting for him. Starsky and Hutch were also in on the event.
Great. His three favorite people were going to be involved in questioning him. A regular David Gould Fan Club.
The assholes should have felt uncomfortable, interviewing one of their own, but even though they weren't smiling, David got the idea they were struggling like hell to keep a lid on their excitement.