The Valentine Hostage

by Dawn Stewardson

  “What are we going to be doing?” Monique nervously asked. “Storming the Bastille?”

  “I don’t know yet. It depends on what we learn from Danny Dupray. But we need to be prepared. Come on,” he added, heading down the hall, “if Maria’s been here, you’ll like what she brought better.”

  In the bedroom, the bed was strewn with costumes; elaborate headdresses were lined up on the floor.

  “My mother,” he explained, “was never one to throw things out. So Maria probably had thirty years of Mardi Gras ball costumes to choose from.”

  Turning toward the dresser, he picked up the cell phone and pressed it on. Once again, there were messages waiting.

  Monique watched him call in for them, thinking he looked as stressed out as she felt They’d been living on the edge for so long she wasn’t sure how much more she could handle—and seeing those vests in the living room had done nothing to improve her equanimity.

  But she knew they both had to keep going for as long as it took, because there’d be no second chance.

  Ben jotted down a couple of notes, then clicked the phone off.

  “Anything interesting?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh. Our friendly reporter, Farris Quinn, left a message for Anne Gault a couple of hours ago. He heard I was dead, and just wanted to remind you I promised you’d give him an exclusive.”

  That sent a shiver up her spine. Even though she’d been doing her best not to think about it, deep down she’d been aware all along that Ben really could be dead before this was over.

  “But there was another message,” he went on, “that was a lot more positive. Our psychic called this afternoon, because she sensed something more about me.

  Monique’s pulse skipped a beat. Maybe Ben didn’t have much faith in psychics, but everything Cheryl Tremont had said so far had proved right.

  The source of all his trouble had been his twin brother—the relative she’d talked about. And when they’d located Larry, they’d certainly been face-toface with the serious danger she’d predicted.

  “What was it?” Monique asked. “What more did she sense?”

  “Well, she said she has a feeling there’s something that would help me—if I can find it.”

  “What sort of something?”

  “She couldn’t get a clear impression of it, but she’s got a feeling where it is. So, look, I’ve got to go out for a while.”

  “At this time of night?”

  Ben nodded, rummaging through the bottom drawer of the dresser.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I saw a flashlight someplace, and I’m pretty sure it was in here.”

  A moment later, he turned back toward her, the flashlight in his hand. “I figure we’ll be pretty safe tomorrow. In costumes and masks, we’ll basically be able to go wherever we want. But if we can’t get to the bottom of things by then…”

  When he simply ended that thought with a shrug, she said, “If we can’t, then what?”

  “Well…let’s face it, the cops are bound to check Larry’s fingerprints against the records of mine. And as soon as they do, the entire NOPD will be searching the city for me again. Even identical twins don’t have identical fingerprints, so there’s no time to waste.”

  “All right, then, let’s get going.”

  “No, not you. And just before you tell me you thought we were finally clear on things,” he added quickly, “whatever this is that Cheryl has a feeling about, she says it’s in St. Louis Cemetery Number One. And New Orleans cemeteries are hangouts for muggers and addicts. They aren’t safe during the day, let alone at night.”

  Even though an unsafe cemetery was one of the last places in the world Monique wanted to find herself, she screwed up all her courage and said, “If they’re not safe, do you really think I’d let you go alone?”

  Tuesday, February 11 2:07 a.m.

  BEN WRAPPED HIS ARM tightly around Monique’s waist as they headed up Conti Street.

  Despite the time, the bars were all packed and the streets were still jammed with people. Most of them were simply celebrating the first hours of Mardi Gras, but more than a few would be pickpockets and muggers working the crowd.

  “This vest is hot,” Monique said. “And heavy.”

  “Never mind, the important thing is that it’s bullet proof. If we run into trouble, you’ll be glad of it.”

  When he’d insisted they wear them, he’d thought Monique was going to back off on going with him. But he’d been wrong. She had more guts than any other woman he’d ever met.

  “How much farther?” she asked.

  “We’re almost there. It’s just outside the Quarter— near Louis Armstrong Park.”

  They walked the rest of the way in silence, and as they came within sight of the cemetery’s walls Ben could feel his heart beating faster. In contrast to the neon brightness of the Quarter, the cemetery was pitch-black. Inside it, there would be only slivers of moonlight and the flashlight to see by.

  “The gate’s locked,” he said, trying it. “We’ll have to go over the wall.”

  He boosted Monique over first, then followed her.

  “It’s all vaults,” she murmured uneasily as he hit the ground.

  “Uh-huh. A lot of New Orleans is below sea level. So until they mastered drainage pipe systems, most burials were above ground.” And all those vaults and crypts, he thought, absently patting his gun, afforded terrific hiding places for lowlifes.

  Unzipping his jacket, he pulled out the flashlight and turned it on. “You carry this.” He handed it to her, then undipped the Walther from his belt

  “You think we’ll need that?” she whispered in a frightened voice.

  “I hope not.” He took her hand and they started forward into the darkness.

  “This place isn’t exactly small, is it,” she murmured. “Did Cheryl have any idea where you should look?”

  “She said near the tomb of Marie Laveau—which I know is up ahead here someplace.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because it’s a famous site. Marie Laveau was a powerful voodoo queen.”

  Monique made a funny little noise in her throat, and when he glanced at her he decided terrified wasn’t too strong a word to describe her expression. It made him wish to hell she’d stayed in the apartment.

  “And do we have any idea exactly what we’re looking for?” she whispered.

  “Cheryl said it was something metal. And that it was hidden in a vault that had the word pray or prayer or praying or something like that written on it. She couldn’t tell exactly what it was.”

  “Aah. Well, there’s probably only one vault with some form of the word prayer on it in this entire place,” Monique muttered wryly.

  When he glanced at her again, she gave him a frightened-looking smile. He stopped, overwhelmed by an urge to kiss her. Then an owl hooted and they both jumped.

  “Come on,” he said, starting forward again. The faster they got out of here, the better.

  “Metal,” she murmured after they’d walked a few more yards. “Half of these tombs have wrought-iron fences around them. Could that be what Cheryl meant?”

  “I don’t think so. She definitely said the thing that would help me was metal, and I can’t see how it would be a fence. That,” he added, “is Marie Laveau’s tomb. That big stone one ahead to the left.”

  Monique shone the flashlight’s beam on it. “Oh, Ben, it’s all covered in X marks. If it’s a famous site, shouldn’t they be looking after it better?”

  “It’s not actually desecrated. Those marks are supposed to bring good luck. And, apparently, whenever they’re wiped off they immediately reappear.”

  “Like… magic?”

  “Black magic, I guess. That’s what voodoo’s based on.

  “Oh, Lord, I don’t like that sort of oogly-boogly stuff any more than I like this cemetery. So let’s just find whatever it is we’re looking for.”

  She shakily aimed the flashlight at the
vault nearest Marie Laveau’s. It was much smaller and dark, with nothing written on it about praying.

  They checked out a few others, then came across an inscription that read, Our prayers are with you.

  “Ben? This could be it.”

  The vault was another small one, made of marble. Following the beam of the flashlight with his hands, he carefully felt over every square inch of the surface.

  “I can’t feel anything loose,” he finally muttered. “And Cheryl said what we want is hidden inside a vault.”

  “Then this isn’t it.” When Monique turned the flashlight toward the next tomb, Ben heard her breath catch.

  “Oh, my Lord,” she whispered. “Look.”

  He stared in disbelief at the inscription captured by the beam. They were looking at the tomb of someone named Etienne Dupray.

  Stepping closer, Ben opened the little wrought-iron gate in front of it.

  “This one is it,” Monique whispered “This one has to be it.”

  The vault was covered with some kind of stucco surface that had crumbled in places, exposing the brick construction beneath. His hands trembling, he began smoothing them across the front. Then he tried the sides. Finally, they moved to the back, his hope fading that they were really going to find anything.

  Monique swept the surface slowly with the light, then focused the beam on the bottom corner. Almost hidden by ground cover was a place where a few bricks were visible. “Try there,” she suggested.

  Ben knelt and slowly felt around the area. When he discovered a couple of bricks that felt loose, a surge of adrenaline swept him.

  He wiggled them back and forth, gradually easing them out Then he cautiously reached into the space, hoping to hell some snake wasn’t making its home inside.

  “Is there anything there?” Monique whispered over his shoulder.

  He touched something wooden. There was barely room to slide his fingers alongside it and manoeuvre it out, but he finally managed to.

  “A wooden box,” Monique said, shining the light on it. “But Cheryl said metal.”

  “Maybe inside.” The box was about the size and shape that a set of steak knives would come in—and swollen tightly shut by the humid New Orleans air. He gradually worked it open and folded back the soft cloth that was wrapped around whatever it contained—revealing a gun.

  He simply stared at it, afraid to even hope it was what it possibly could be.

  “Ben? Is this what can help you?”

  “I…don’t know. But it’s a Beretta 9 mm. And do you remember from my trial? What kind of gun the ballistics people said killed my parents?’’

  “Oh, Lord,” she whispered. “It was a Beretta 9 mm. So this could be the missing murder weapon.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tuesday, February 11

  12:59 p.m.

  Monique opened her eyes enough that she could see the bedside clock, then sat bolt upright in disbelief.

  Beside her, Ben made a groaning noise.

  “Wake up,” she told him, “it’s late.” She rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom, wondering how they could possibly have slept through the raucous sounds of merriment that were drifting up from the street below.

  Mardi Gras was obviously in full swing, and they’d intended to be up well before this. But they hadn’t gotten to bed until almost four in the morning, and the fact that they’d been running on empty for what seemed like forever had clearly caught up with them.

  She dashed in and out of the shower. Then, while Ben showered, she blow-dried her hair and mentally reviewed the plans they’d made on their way home from the cemetery last night

  When he emerged, his gorgeously muscled body gleaming wet, she simply gazed at him for a moment—thinking he was the sexiest man on earth. Then he wrapped a towel around his waist and she forced her thoughts back to their plans.

  “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing about the gun?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “You’re sure I shouldn’t take it to the police? I mean, if it really is the murder weapon, then it’s evidence and—”

  “Exactly. And if you showed up claiming to have the murder weapon from the DeCarlo killings, the cops would slap you into an interrogation room faster than you could say Augustine’s. Besides, I don’t trust the NOPD. There are so many crooked cops on the force that if we gave them the gun it might disappear.”

  “But you do trust Farris Quinn.”

  “Monique, we’ve already been through this. I don’t know how far I can trust him. But we’ve got to give that gun to somebody for safekeeping—just in case.”

  She nodded uneasily, not wanting to think that just in case was just in case they ended up dead. Even if that happened, Ben still wanted his innocence proven.

  “And if I gave it to Maria or Dezi,” he went on, “when one of them eventually gave it to the cops… Well, it would just get a lot more attention if it came from Farris Quinn. Especially if he wrote an article about it for the paper before he turned it over. Then the police would be forced to handle things on the up and up.”

  “I guess you’re right. So I’d better see if I can get hold of him.” She headed into the bedroom and punched his cellular number into the phone.

  “Quinn,” he answered after a couple of rings.

  “Mr. Quinn, it’s Anne Gault. Ben DeCarlo’s friend.”

  “Aah. I’m sorry about what happened, Ms. Gault I was hoping he really was innocent—and that he could prove it And not just because I’d get a great story.”

  “Yes…well, I certainly hadn’t forgotten we promised you a story regardless of the ending. But I’m afraid I can’t give it to you quite yet.”

  “Oh?”

  “No, I need just a little more time.”

  “You know, Ms. Gault, the more time you take the more likely that some other reporter will scoop me and—”

  “I’ve got something I want to give you for safekeeping, Mr. Quinn. Something no other reporter is going to have. And it’s an extremely important piece of the story.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t want to get into that over the phone, but will you meet me at the Times-Picayune in an hour?”

  “You’d better make it an hour and a half,” Ben whispered from the doorway. “The crowds out there are ferocious.”

  “No, an hour and a half’s better,” she said into the phone. “Will you be there?”

  “All right,” Quinn said slowly. “I’ll see you at three-fifteen in the newsroom.”

  “The Times-Picayune” Ben told her, pulling on his jeans as she put down the phone, “is over on Howard, in the business district. I’ll walk you out of the Quarter to where you can catch a cab. Quinn’s sharp enough that he might recognize me, so if we want everyone to keep thinking I’m lying in a Vegas morgue I’d better not push my luck by going with you.”

  BEN HAD SAID the Mardi Gras morning parades were long over and the early evening ones were hours away, but Monique doubted a single person had gone home or to a hotel in between.

  There were more people in the Quarter than she’d have thought possible, some wearing costumes and masks, some not Many of them were so wobbly they must have been drinking for days, but they were still caught up in the exuberant mood of Carnival.

  Since she and Ben hadn’t had anything to eat, they grabbed some fresh crayfish from a masked street pedlar and ate them as they walked out to Canal Street—their progress at one point impeded by none other than Pete Fountain, winding his way through the crowd with a group Ben told her was Pete’s Half Fast Marching Club.

  From Canal, they walked over to Gravier where the traffic was semibelievable. Ben hailed a cab, then took the wooden box from beneath his jacket and handed it to her.

  “Make sure you tell Quinn you’re hoping there are prints on the gun, so he shouldn’t touch it. And that he should guard it with his life. No, better yet, tell him it might be worth a Pulitzer to him if he keeps it safe.”

 
Monique gave Ben a long kiss, then climbed into the taxi. Looking back at him as the cab pulled away, she tried not to think about what would happen if it turned out they were trusting Farris Quinn when they shouldn’t.

  By the time she reached the Times-Picayune it was a few minutes after three-fifteen, so she hurried into the building and got directions from the security guard who had her sign in.

  Quinn, a rough-around-the-edges type in his midthirties, was waiting in the newsroom. He flashed his photo ID at her, his eyes not leaving her face. And even though she was wearing her wig and glasses, she had the uneasy feeling that he was sure he’d seen her before—and was trying to figure out where.

  Finally, he focused on the box she was clutching to her chest. “That’s what you want me to look after for you?” he asked.

  Glancing around, she didn’t see anyone else who seemed even remotely interested in their conversation. “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “What is it?”

  She took a deep breath. “It’s a gun. A Beretta 9 mm. And I think it’s the weapon that was used to kill Bethany and Antonio DeCarlo.”

  “Really,” Quinn said evenly. “And what makes you think that?”

  “Mr. Quinn, I can’t go into the details right now. Please just keep it safe. And don’t touch it in case there are fingerprints. And if anything happens to us, hand it over to the police. But before you do, make sure there’s enough publicity that they can’t just turn a blind eye.”

  “Us,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said if anything happens to us.”

  Her heart began to hammer and she could feel her face growing warm.

  “Was that really Ben DeCarlo they killed last night?”

  She simply nodded, afraid to say anything more in case she made another slip.

  Quinn eyed her suspiciously. “How did you get hold of the gun?”

  Now what did she say? That a psychic had led them to it?

  “I got a tip about where it was,” she settled on.

  “And where was it?” When she hesitated, he added, “If I turn it over to the police, and you expect them to follow up, it would help if they knew.”