Watching her make her way past a group of Carnival celebrators, his pulse began to race. In another minute or two, he’d know if she’d gotten the name he so desperately needed.
Not that he expected The Nose had leaned on those detectives personally. He’d have had someone else do his dirty work. But if Monique had learned who that someone was, it would be a good starting place.
Ben strode over to the door, and as the sound of her footsteps neared the apartment he checked the peephole to make sure nobody else was in sight. Then he opened the door—doing his best not to appear overly expectant.
Apparently, his best wasn’t very good, because she took one look at him and said, “I don’t know yet Roger Tatavi was a complete waste of time,” she added, shutting the door. “But Lloyd Granger is thinking it over.”
Ben wrapped his arms around her and held her close, telling himself that thinking it over was a hell of a lot better than nothing.
“Then he admitted someone convinced him to drop my case?” he asked, letting her go so she could take off her coat
“No, he didn’t admit a thing. But he was interested in how high the Ear would go if, as he put it, such a person existed. And he promised to call me, one way or another.”
“Did he say when?”
“No.”
She stood eying him. “What?” he asked.
“You dyed your hair while I was gone.”
“And it makes me look different enough?”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “It’s a lot darker. And if I trim it for you—change the style—I think it’ll be as good as the wig. I miss the blond streaks, though,” she added, reaching to touch where they’d been.
Catching her hand in his, he drew her close to kiss her. But just as he was about to the cell phone started ringing and they both froze.
Then he glanced at it, sitting on the coffee table. “It could be Dezi,” he said, looking at Monique again. “Or Maria.”
“Or Granger.”
“Right So you’d better answer it”.
Her heart in her throat, Monique hurried over to the table and grabbed the phone. “Anne Gault,” she said.
“Lloyd Granger, Ms. Gault”
She nodded to Ben. “Yes, Mr. Granger. Thanks for calling so quickly.”
He grunted an acknowledgment of that, then said, “Don’t get your hopes up, because we haven’t got a deal.”
Her heart sank.
“But I’m going to give you a little free advice, in case you don’t know what a dangerous game you’re playing.”
“Pardon me?”
“The National Ear’s never heard of you. And they haven’t got a story on Ben DeCarlo in the works.”
Frantically, she tried to think of a way to save the situation. With the Ear publishing in Florida, they’d figured they’d be safe—that between the hour’s time difference and going into a weekend, nobody would be in the tabloid’s offices. But what did she say now that Granger was on to her?
“Did you actually think I wouldn’t check?” he was continuing. “When I’m a detective?”
“I…I’m sorry,” she said, still thinking furiously. “I’m actually writing the DeCarlo article on spec, just hoping to sell it But I didn’t think you’d agree to see me if I said that”.
“Yeah? And a freelance writer has twenty thousand bucks to pay for a name? You think I was born yesterday?”
“I—"
“Look, I know you’re not writing any damn article. And I’ve got a pretty good idea what you are doing. But like I said, you’d better keep in mind you’re playing a dangerous game. New Orleans is a rough town. And if you ask the wrong person the wrong question, you’ll end up in the Mississippi—wearing cement shoes.”
Granger clicked off in her ear.
She put down the phone, blinking back tears.
“No go?” Ben said quietly.
She shook her head. “He checked with the Ear.”
“Dammit. How did he get hold of anybody?”
“Well, as he pointed out, he is a detective.” One of her tears escaped and she wiped it away.
A second later, Ben was beside her. “It’s okay,” he whispered, drawing her into his arms. “You did your best We’ll just have to try a different angle.”
“But now we’ll be into those people who aren’t up for Citizen of the Year awards,” she said against his chest.
“Not necessarily. I’ve got one other possibility who’s not pond scum. His name’s Farris Quinn, and he’s a reporter with the Times-Picayune. He might be willing to help me out.”
Or, Monique couldn’t keep from thinking, he might call the cops on you.
FARRIS QUINN WASN’T AT the newspaper offices, but whoever answered the line was happy to give Ben his cellular number.
“Okay,” he said, glancing along the couch at Monique before he punched the number in. “We know what we want him to do, and there’s no way he’ll realize I’m right here in New Orleans. So we’re not missing anything this time, are we?”
He waited while she thought things through once more. After it had taken Lloyd Granger all of half an hour to learn there was no Anne Gault with the Ear, neither of them wanted another screwup.
“You’re absolutely positive nobody can trace that cellular number?”
“If anyone managed to, they’d find it belongs to a woman who doesn’t exist and that the bills go to a post office box number.”
‘Then I think we should be okay,” she said slowly. “But, you know, you haven’t told me why you figure this Quinn might be willing to help.”
“Because he’s the one who wrote that article I told you about.”
“The one about someone trying to kill Brently Gleason?”
“Right. So he’s got to be convinced this whole case is fishy enough to make bouillabaisse out of. Plus, right after my parents were murdered, when all the other reporters were calling for my head on a plate, Quinn wrote a few pieces that were downright rational.”
“Saying?”
“Well, he pointed out that I was an intelligent man with no history of insanity or drug abuse. And he asked a lot of obvious questions nobody else bothered to—including the cops. The same sort of questions my defense team asked during my trials. Why would a man like me kill his parents at all, let alone in Augustine’s at high noon? And why would I kill my mother, when it was only my father I’d been having conflict with?”
“I asked those questions myself,” Monique said. “Even back when I was certain you were guilty as sin. But you seemed so angry in that restaurant
“Sorry,” she added quickly, “that was just a slip of the tongue. I meant, he seemed so angry.”
“It’s okay.” It was a slip that had made his bones go cold, though.
“He seemed so angry,” she went on, “it wasn’t hard to believe he was a man who’d lost all perspective.”
“And, of course, he knew exactly what to say. To make people think he was me, I mean.”
The words, Ben was certain, would be etched in his brain forever. At the time, the papers had printed them over and over again. Then the witnesses had repeated them in court.
I won’t run for the Senate, the killer had told Antonio DeCarlo. I’m sick of you interfering in my life. You may run this town, but you don’t run me!
“Ben? Who would have known just what to say? Could there be a clue in that?”
“No, I don’t think so. My father and I had been having that argument for a while, and it was pretty common knowledge he wanted me to go into politics.”
“Why did he?”
“Well, you know what business he was in. And people like him sometimes need political favors. So he decided that since I’d refused to follow in his footsteps, I should get elected to a position where I could at least help him out from time to time.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. You have no idea what those people are like, Monique.”
“And why aren’t you? I mean, I’m very g
lad you’re not, but growing up under your father’s influence…”
“I don’t know why. Maybe it was my mother, but for some reason I developed a decent sense of right and wrong. And after I realized what my father was, back when I was just a kid, it changed everything between us.
“I…hated is too strong a word, but I never felt close to him after that. I always wished he was a bricklayer or a teacher or anything except part of the Dixie Mafia. But never, in a million years, would I have killed him.”
“I know,” Monique said softly. “So let’s get on with proving that”
Ben draped his arm over her shoulder and gave her a long, lingering kiss, wishing he could spend the rest of the evening doing nothing but kissing her. Then he reluctantly reached for the phone and called Farris Quinn.
“Quinn,” the man answered in a harried voice.
“Do you have a few minutes?”
“Who is this?”
“Ben DeCarlo.”
There was a silence, then Quinn said, “How do I know that? Tell me something that wasn’t in the news.”
“Do you have a pencil handy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay, take down this number—555-1623. It’s my sister’s unlisted line. Call and say I told you to ask how she got the scar on her right thigh. When she was a kid, she tripped carrying a big pair of scissors.”
“How do I know I’ll really be talking to her?”
“Go pay her a visit if you’d rather.”
“I’ll start with a phone call. So give me your number and I’ll get back to you once I’ve talked to her.”
“Uh-uh. We’ll talk first, and then you can check me out with her. I’m not in the country, and there’s no point in running up your long distance bill.”
The reporter gave a short bark of a laugh, then muttered, “Real thoughtful of you.”
“You know I can’t let anyone find out where I am, Quinn. But I need help. I want to prove I’m innocent, and that’s a pretty tall order when I don’t dare come anywhere within a thousand miles of New Orleans.”
“And you want me to help you?”
“Yes. You cover a lot of crime stories. Which means you know a lot of cops.”
“Some.”
“Well, a woman named Felicia Williams was murdered the night before I escaped. The cops found her body in an alley, and I need to find out whatever they know about that killing. Suspects, any evidence, whatever there is.” Anything, he silently added, that might lead me to her killer.
“She had something to do with your escape?”
“No.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie. Maybe she was supposed to have helped with it, but she hadn’t been there outside the courthouse to meet him.
“So why do you want to know about her murder?”
“I can’t tell you that right now.”
“Then why should I go poking around for you?”
“Because I’m hot news. And if I can track down the man who actually killed my parents, you’ll get an exclusive from me.”
“And if you can’t?”
‘I’ll still give you a story. You’ve got my word on it. And if anything happens to me,” he added, glancing at Monique, “there’s somebody else who’ll tell you everything I could have.”
“Who?”
“A friend in New Orleans. Her name is Anne, and I’m going to give you her number,” he added, rattling off the cell phone number. “You can get a message to me, through her, after you find out about Felicia.”
Ben waited a moment, and when the reporter didn’t reply, he said, “I’m really not guilty, Quinn. If you help me, you’ll be helping find the true killer.”
There was another silence, then Quinn said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Putting down the phone, Ben reached for Monique’s hand. “He went for it.”
“Oh, Ben,” she whispered, giving him a hard hug. Then she drew back a little, her arms still loosely around his neck, and said, “I started wondering about something while I was listening.”
“Uh-huh?”
“When you first told me about this idea, you said The Nose had to be behind Felicia’s murder. That he’d somehow heard about your escape plan and was trying to thwart it.”
Ben nodded.
“Well, why wouldn’t he have just called the police and told them you were going to try an escape? They’d have had every cop in the city surrounding that courthouse.”
“You’re right, they would. But I told you earlier, you have no idea what people like The Nose are like. You don’t think the way they do.
“See, whoever he is, the cops are his enemies. So he’d never give them the satisfaction of gunning me down in the street. He wanted to take care of things his own way.”
“But his plan didn’t work. You got away without Felicia’s help, so he had her killed for nothing.”
“And, trust me, he thought absolutely nothing of doing it. As for his plan, maybe he had some backup that failed or… I don’t know, Monique. All I know is that he’s someone who hated my father enough to kill him. And hated me enough to frame me.”
“How many people like that can there be?”
He shrugged. “A lot of people hated my father. But I have no idea who’d hate me that much.”
ACCORDING TO BEN, during the last couple of weeks before Fat Tuesday there were parades in various parts of New Orleans every day and night. One of the biggest was on Canal Street that evening, and he’d said there was no point in going out until it was over and the crowds dispersed a little.
After dinner, standing out on the balcony with him and looking along Royal to Canal, Monique saw what he meant. The French Quarter was wall-to-wall people, and thousands of spectators had been lined up on Canal long before the first glittering float passed—the one carrying the parade’s king, costumed like Henry
VIII.
It was followed by an endless stream of others, many lit by torches, all bearing elaborately costumed people. Between the floats, inarching bands strutted their stuff, while police on motorcycles and horses tried to keep some semblance of order.
The parade was as noisy as it was colorful, and when there were breaks in the music the air was filled with the sound of onlookers screaming, “Throw me something, mister!"—prompting the maskers on the floats to toss strings of plastic beads and other favors.
“This city,” Ben said, wrapping his arm around Monique’s waist, “goes so crazy for two weeks each year that a lot of Orleanians can’t stand it So they spend Carnival skiing in Colorado and call themselves the Krewe of Aspen.”
“Krewe?”
“It’s what the societies that sponsor the parades are called.”
She nodded, then looked toward Canal again—realizing she’d been so caught up in the excitement that she’d momentarily stopped thinking about their plans for later.
But the prospect of paying a visit to Sandor Rossi’s apartment was front and center in her mind once more. And it made her more than a little nervous, even though she knew it was the next logical move.
They had to learn who’d made him decide not to testify. If they could do hat, they’d have The Nose’s identity. Or at least the identity of one of his top men. But to find out what they wanted, they had to find Rossi, so Ben figured they should check his place for clues about where he’d gone.
Of course, as they’d speculated earlier, Rossi might be floating in Lake Pontchartrain. And that thought made her stomach queasy. Lloyd Granger had warned her she was playing a dangerous game. He could well have added that it was one she had no experience at.
“The parade has to be almost done”, Ben said, turning away from the railing. “So I’ll go give Dezi a call and make sure there’s still been no sign of Rossi.”
“Wouldn’t Dezi have called you, if there had been?”
“Yeah…I guess you’re right. Which means we might as well just head over to the apartment and see what we can find.”
He stood eying her for a moment,
finally taking her hands and drawing her into his arms. “It’ll be safe,” he said against her hair. “The cops really do think I’m a million miles away. They’ve stopped watching Maria, and Dezi’s certain they’re not hanging around the wine bar anymore, either. So there’s no way they’ll be staking out Rossi’s apartment”
“But how do we get in?”
“With this.” Ben produced a key from his pocket. “Somebody borrowed the super’s master key for long enough to make a copy.”
“Somebody?”
“A friend of a friend.”
A friend of either Dezi or Maria, she knew he meant, but it didn’t matter where the key had come from. What mattered was that at least they wouldn’t have to stand out in the hallway trying to open Rossi’s door with a credit card or nail file.
She went into the bedroom to put her Cleopatra wig and glasses on again, and when she came back out Ben was on the balcony once more, gazing down onto the street.
“It’s going to be bumper-to-bumper traffic for a while yet,” he told her. “We’ll make better time by walking a few blocks before we catch a cab.”
Grabbing their coats, they headed down to the street, fears tumbling all over one another in Monique’s mind.
This was the first time Ben had been out of the apartment since they’d arrived—the first real test of his disguise. What if it wasn’t as good as they thought and someone recognized him? Or what if the police did have Rossi’s apartment staked out? Or what if…
She swallowed hard. What if Rossi hadn’t skipped town and wasn’t floating in Lake Pontchartrain, either? What if they walked into his apartment and found his dead body?
10:43 p.m.
SANDOR ROSSI LIVED in a low-rise building up near Bayou St. John, which according to Ben was the only remaining bayou in New Orleans.
When the copied master key worked at the entrance, Monique’s rapid pulse began to slow a little. And when they passed no one on their way to Rossi’s apartment, it dropped almost back to normal.
Ben unlocked the door and turned on the light, revealing a neat living room without, to her vast relief, a corpse on the floor. But this wasn’t the only room.
The Valentine Hostage Page 9