by Deborah Camp
At the hotel, darkness seemed to have consumed Levi. He had that “worry line” between his eyes that meant he was collapsing into himself. Never a good sign. Trudy tried to draw him out, but he announced that he was going to take a nap and headed straight for the bed.
Feeling restless and more than a little hungry, Trudy had left him a note, and went to find something delicious to bring back for them. New Orleans streets were filled with savory aromas. Around every corner was a new scent of something being cooked or baked or delivered to a dining table. Trudy walked a couple of blocks, stopping every so often to see what delicacies were being offered in the cafés and restaurants she passed. She spotted a line of food trucks and crossed the street to get a better look. The spicy scent of cayenne, chili, and sizzling beef drew her to a bright yellow and red truck with the name Border Line Eats – Tex Mex at Its Best blazoned along the side of it.
She got in line, watching as a good-looking Latino with heavily inked arms handed bowls of chili and plates of tacos and fajitas and fried rice to the customers in front of her. When it was her turn, she eyed the menu and made some quick decisions.
“Hi there. I’ll take two taco salads and a pint of chili with cheese.”
He aimed a finger at her, his dark eyes sparkling in the sunlight. His thick, spiky eye lashes made her think of Levi. “You got it.”
“It smells fantastic.”
“Tastes even better,” he assured her, his hands moving with lightning speed as he prepared the food. He glanced at a young man working beside him. “Dip up the chili, Carlos.”
“Hello there.”
Trudy turned around to see who had spoken and laughed when she saw the woman with navy blue hair standing in line behind her. “Detective Bonifay! Wow. Small world.”
“You have great taste in food.” Bonifay smiled and winked at the Latin chef. “Hey, babe.”
Babe? Trudy glanced from her to the chef. “So, you two know each other.”
“We do.” Bonifay grinned. “He’s my husband Raoul Vasquez. Raoul, this is the psychic lady I told you about. Remember?”
“Oh yeah. Sure.” He smiled and gave a nod. “Want some lunch, Alice?”
“Yes. My usual. And the usual for Rodie, too. Make them to go.” She glanced around. “You alone?”
“Yes. Levi’s at the hotel. We’ve been busy the past couple of days.”
“On the case?”
Trudy nodded.
“Make any headway?”
“Some. The séance with Forté in attendance is tomorrow night.”
“Here you go,” Raoul said, handing her a big brown paper sack.
“Thanks.” She gave him a twenty and then stepped away to let him take other orders. “Keep the change.”
“Let me give you a lift back to your hotel. My car’s right over there.” Alice Bonifay nodded to a black Toyota Camry parked across the street.
“Great. Thanks.”
The detective received her own big sack of food, but didn’t pay the chef. “You’re picking up Tamsin from daycare today. Don’t forget.”
He pursed his lips, sending her a kiss. “We’ll see you later, cariño. Be careful out there.”
In the car, the mouth-watering smells of the food made Trudy’s stomach growl loudly and she and Bonifay both broke out in giggles.
“Were you a steady customer and that’s how you met him?” Trudy asked.
“You got it. I bought lunch or dinner from him several times a week for nearly six months before he . . . well, I told him he should ask me out.” She grinned, shaking her head. “I was a uniformed cop then and he liked me, but he couldn’t see himself dating a police officer. His dad is doing time for armed robbery – a repeat offender. Been in prison for most of Raoul’s life. His mother and grandmother raised him and his seven siblings. His mom is an ER nurse.” She grinned. “Anyway, Raoul and I went out and then we went out again and then he started staying over. Four months later, I’m knocked up and we’re getting married. That was two years ago.”
“Tamsin. That’s your daughter?”
She nodded. “She’s a little hot tamale, that one.”
“Are you planning on seven?”
“God, no!” Her eyes widened comically. “I think my uterus would fall out. I might have one more munchkin, but that’s it.”
Seeing the street where they needed to turn up ahead, Trudy leaned forward. “Oh, we’re staying at the –.”
“Soniat House. Yeah. I know.” Bonifay quirked her pierced eyebrow. “It’s my business to know such things.” She executed the turn onto Chartres Street and pulled the car up to the curb in front of the hotel. “The séance is on, huh? Find out anything interesting from the victims’ families you two have visited?” Again, that eyebrow arched in a haughty, know-it-all way.
Trudy hesitated, wondering what to tell and what to wait and tell. Something in Bonifay’s direct, unblinking gaze made her feel confident. “Quite a bit. We know that Desmond Forté murdered them.”
Bonifay narrowed her eyes to dark slits. “Did you tell them that? The relatives?”
“No. We have no proof, so we can’t go around accusing Forté of anything.”
Bonifay nodded and the tension around her mouth lessened. “Good. All we need is for one of them to decide to confront Forté and do something stupid – like bring a loaded gun with them. The people you’ve talked to so far, their loved ones were killed a few years back when Forté was still mobile. Anything stand out about them?”
“Some things were similar – the place, for instance. The murders seem to have happened in the same location – or very similar. But other things are different. I’ve connected with someone a couple of times who isn’t in a wheelchair, but he has murdered before.”
Bonifay drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and stared out the windshield at passing tourists, couples, and a few very drunk guys singing a Taylor Swift song as they staggered along. “Yeah, I figure he has a partner in crime. They could have been working together all along, but now the other guy has to go it alone.” She looked at the hotel with its classic French Quarter terraces. “Well, I know you’ll enjoy your lunch. Raoul is a damn fine chef.”
“I’m looking forward to diving into this.” Trudy opened the car door, but turned back to the detective. “I can prepare you a report of our findings after the séance, if you want. Some police officers are glad to have them and others toss them in the garbage. You won’t hurt my feelings if you tell me, ‘thanks, but no thanks.’”
“Sure, I’ll add them to our files. Might be something in them we can build on.”
“Okay, well, thanks for the lift.” Trudy eased out of the car, lunch bag in hand. She bent down a little to see the detective. “I bet you and Detective Dupree make a great team.”
Bonifay nodded. “It works for us. He’s Yellow Pages and I’m smartphone.” She squinted at Trudy. “What about you and Wolfe? Do you two make it work?”
“Yes. I’m much better at what I do because of Levi. Approaching these open cases from both angles – the killer and his victims – helps us zero in more quickly than if we work them alone. Any advice concerning Desmond Forté? I admit, I’m nervous about meeting him.”
Bonifay wrinkled her nose. “He’s a pompous asshole. He thinks he’s smarter, more accomplished, and worthier than anyone else in the room.”
“Oh, lovely.” Trudy sighed and closed the car door. She watched Bonifay pull away. Her brake lights flashed and she tooted the car’s horn at the singing drunks to get them out of her way. They yelled at her, “sorry all to hell, honey,” “hey there, sweetie, kiss my ass” as she drove past them, flashing the single-finger salute.
Inside their hotel room, Trudy set the bags of food on the coffee table and tiptoed to the bedroom, only to find the bed empty of Levi, but rumpled by a restless inhabitant. She was about to look for a note when she heard a door open. Dashing back into the salon, she sent Levi a quizzical look as he shut the door behind him. His hair and
his dark blue t-shirt were damp with sweat. He wore running shorts and athletic shoes. She took a few moments to admire the long muscles flexing in his legs before lifting her gaze to his face again.
“I thought you needed a nap.”
“I did.” He sucked in a breath. “But I couldn’t sleep. Who were you with just now?” He nodded toward the balcony windows. “Out there.”
“I ran into Detective Bonifay. Her husband runs the food truck where I bought us some lunch.” She sat on the sofa and opened the first bag, giving it a long sniff. “This all smells delicious. Grab a shower and let’s eat.”
“You go ahead.” He strode into the bedroom, chugging a bottle of water as he went.
Trudy sat for a second, taking everything in, then sprang up from the sofa and followed him into the bedroom where he was peeling off his t-shirt and slinging it aside as if it were something he detested. “What’s going on, Levi?”
His gaze whipped around to her and the vertical line between his eyes deepened. “Nothing. I’m beat. What did you tell the detective?”
“Tell her?” She shrugged. “I told her that the séance was set up.” She blinked in confusion when he tossed her a surly glare. “What?”
“So, did you also tell her that we think Forté is the murderer?”
“Yes . . . one of them, anyway.”
He puffed out a breath of pure aggravation and strode into the bathroom. Before he turned on the shower, he shouted out to her, “Dupree and Bonifay have given us shit, so why share anything with them at this point?”
Trudy sat on the bed, dissecting his words and his actions over the past couple of days. Something was eating at him. Last night he’d been particularly restless. At one point, she’d awakened to an empty bed. She’d found him sitting on the balcony and she’d felt his keyed-up energy, although he’d denied it. He’d been on a fairly even keel since before Christmas and she’d hoped that his darker moods were behind him. She’d been wrong. The darkness had him in its steely grip again and she needed to break through to him.
Levi liked to exercise, but when he ran to the point of exhaustion in the middle of the day, that wasn’t a need for good health kicking in. Nope. It was his PTSD kicking his ass.
The shower spray stopped and she heard him thumping around in the bathroom before he appeared again, a towel around his waist. He arched a brow at her and she returned the gesture.
“So, I ask you again. What’s going on? What’s got you all morose and pissed off?”
“I thought you were hungry.” He waved a hand as if shooing her. “Go on. Eat.”
She set her jaw against his orders. “I’m more interested in hearing your answer to my question.” When he spun around and started back for the bathroom, Trudy shot up from the bed. “No. Stop!”
He did, but didn’t turn to face her.
Trudy forced herself to a calmer state. “Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out. Let’s be friends. Talk to me.”
“I’m going to get dressed. Then we’ll eat. Okay?”
His clipped tone built the wall around him even higher. She itched to scale it and bash him on his hard head with her sword of righteousness. But she didn’t. First, she’d eat. Then she’d attack.
In the other room, she set about removing the food from the sack and setting it out on the small table on the balcony between two chairs. It was a nice afternoon with just enough breeze to make it pleasant but not enough to blow napkins and paper plates away. She opened a couple of cans of soda pop and sat in one of the chairs to impatiently wait for him. He joined her a few minutes later, dressed in black jeans and a slate gray shirt.
“Mexican,” he noted, sitting in the other chair and examining the food. He selected one of the taco salads and a fork. “Didn’t realize I was hungry until just now.”
Trudy dug into the other salad and didn’t try to make conversation. She glanced at him occasionally to gauge his temperament. Even when he was pointedly not looking at her, that crease was between his eyes, and his mood was as dark as sin, even then she loved every delectable inch of him.
“I can feel you staring a hole through me,” he commented, still not looking at her.
“I find you highly attractive.”
One corner of his mouth quirked up. “That’s good to know.”
“The food’s delicious, isn’t it?”
He nodded, taking another big bite of the salad as he reached for the soda can.
“Will you talk to Dr. McClain about whatever is going on inside you?”
His chest rose and fell with a quick sigh. “Of course, but it’s not new ground. The good doctor and I have gone over it and over it.”
“But you won’t talk to me about it?”
He drank some of the soda, his gaze skipping over the rooftops across the street. “You just won’t let go, will you? When it comes to my fucked-up-ness, you’re like flypaper.”
“How can I understand or even attempt to help if you don’t open up to me?”
“It’s not your job to help me.”
“It’s not your job to help me, either. That’s how you want it? We let each other stumble around in the dark, blindly groping for something we’re keeping from each other?”
He squinted and then ran a hand down his face before setting his nearly empty plate aside and sprawling back into the chair. “PTSD is difficult to describe. I get anxious. Overwhelmingly anxious. I can feel myself falling into a pit of depression, but I’m helpless. I can’t find a handhold or a foothold. It’s freefalling. I know that certain things can make it worse.”
“Such as?”
“Sometimes when I connect with several victims, one after the other, their experiences trigger my own. Memories that I’ve buried deep inside so I wouldn’t have to relive them, pop free and I’m back there.” He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. “Back when I was a child and powerless.”
Why hadn’t this occurred to her? Of course, the horrible experiences of victims would unearth his own! “This isn’t good for you. Has Dr. McClain ever suggested that you stop?”
His gaze slid to her. “Stop what? Being a psychic?” He scoffed at that. “Yeah. Sure. That’ll happen. You tried that most of your life, Trudy. You should know better than anyone that you can’t stop being what you are, who you are.”
“But it can’t be good for you to relive when you were a child.”
He shrugged. “Actually, Dr. McClain believes that remembering it all can be cathartic. Trying not to remember certainly hasn’t worked.”
“Maybe we should postpone everything for a few days. You know, head back to Atlanta and let you work on your building projects and leave all this behind until your head is clear.”
He chuckled without humor. “Until my head is clear, huh? That’s not happening any time soon.” He sat up and propped his elbows on his knees. Depression shuttered his eyes and rounded his wide shoulders. “I don’t like to talk about this with you because . . . well, because I don’t like for you to think about how screwed up I am. I told you, Tru, PTSD doesn’t magically disappear. This is going to take time. Years. Maybe all my years.”
“You’re moving forward, though. I’m proud of you.”
“We’ll have to return home in a few days for the Armhurst party. But, we’re staying here for now. There’s the séance and we’re sure not cancelling that.”
She pasted on a smile. “I have a gorgeous gown for it and I think you’ll approve.”
“I wouldn’t mind if you went naked, but others might find it jarring.” He picked up his plate again and finished off the taco salad.
“I got a squeal of a deal on it.”
His gave her a long side-eye and she saw the glint of anger. “Trudy, you don’t have to be Bargain Basement Betty anymore. I want you to look like a million bucks. Got it?” He released a huff of breath. “So, from what you’ve said, you spent your money instead of charging it on my card like I asked you to do.”
Asked? More like ordered. She glanced
away from him, feeling the muscles in her face stiffen. “It’s so nice out here, isn’t it?”
“Have you noticed how we talk about my hang-ups, but we never discuss yours?”
“Seems like we do.” She tried to keep the rancor from her tone, but failed. “I recall having conversations about money before and being told how to shop and what to spend.”
“I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about you. More precisely, your poor self-image. Don’t you think you’re worth a full-priced, designer original dress? I do. I know you are.”
She folded her arms against her chest and stared at the building across the street without even seeing it. “Look, I enjoy shopping for bargains, okay? And I want to spend my own money just like you spend your money. Yes, I have image issues – same as most of the female population. Deal with it.”
“You deal with it.” He swiped a hand through the air. “Quit acting as if it’s normal for you to feel physically inadequate because it’s not normal. Not when a woman looks like you do.” He shifted, turning to face her. “When I first looked at you, I looked at you as I do every female.” His gaze seared her from head to toe. “Great legs, nice ass, perky tits, pretty face, . . .yeah, definitely fuckable.” He drew in a breath. “But then you looked at me – eyes to eyes – and my heart lurched forward. Those green eyes of yours and the way you didn’t just look at me – you fucking saw me. Nailed me. Knocked me off my feet – off my game.”
She puffed out an incredulous laugh. “What? What are you saying? Love at first sight stuff? Come on, Wolfe.”
“No, not love. Lust, yeah. I wanted you right then and right there. But it was more. You were more. I didn’t know what love was, so I didn’t know what was going on with me. All I knew was that you were infinitely interesting and alluring. I couldn’t stop thinking about you . . . wanting you. And I’m not alone in this, Trudy. I see men looking at you and I want to gouge their damned eyes out. They admire your perfect butt and long legs and pretty tits—.”
“Oh jeez, stop.”
“—and I know they want you. Some of them are on my payroll and it’s all I can do not to fire their leering asses.”