Mike skimmed the story, looking for a clue to the reporter's source and found it in the last paragraph. "Despite an eyewitness who saw the murderer, the police have made no arrests." Iris? She'd called Bea yesterday, something about a man near the victim's apartment. A teaser at the end of the story directed the reader to Reunited lovers on page B-1.
With growing disbelief, Mike read the story of Roger and Geneviève Devereux, who married briefly when they were young and foolish and reunited in old age only to be separated by violent death. The story was a ludicrous fantasy that could have been designed to infuriate the Devereux family. No wonder Walt was laughing. If he weren't in the shadow of the guillotine, he'd be laughing too. He checked his message. Vernon wanted to see him ASAP. He called Beatrice.
"The cat is out of the bag."
"Out of the bag and peeing on the carpet. It has to be Iris. I'm sorry, Mike."
"It's not your fault, nor is it mine, but I want a briefing on your meeting with Iris before I meet with Vernon."
"Let me go with you. I'm the one who interviewed her."
"Come on. You can brief me in the elevator."
"It won't take long. I've told you about the interview. She rescheduled the meeting."
The moment they cleared his office door, Vernon gestured toward the now familiar newspaper lying on his desk. "Have you seen this? If not, you're the only two people in New Orleans who haven't." Before either could respond, he continued, "What about the interview? On the fucking ten o'clock news? Did you see that?" He clenched and unclenched his jaw.
Mike looked at Bea, who shook her head. He answered for both of them. "This is the first we've heard about a television interview."
"No one told me either or we'd have had this meeting last night. Watch this." The Super pointed at a screen set up behind the conference table. "I had a copy of the tape sent over."
After a brief series of sputters and crackles, the picture emerged. A young woman sat in silhouette with her face blurred and answered the reporter's questions in a soft voice. As she spoke, the camera moved from the long hair falling across her face to her hands folded demurely in her lap, and then lingered on her shapely legs, crossed and tucked to the side. The gist of the interview was that she had seen a well-dressed older man lurking near the elevator closest to the victim's apartment at approximately the time of the murder. It wasn't definitive, but she and the reporter made the most of it.
"I saw the killer." She shuddered, and the camera panned to the newscaster.
Vernon turned it off. "What the hell's going on?"
Bea answered. "The woman is Iris Burton, an aide at Sunny Gardens who was friends with the victim. She discovered the body. I interviewed her Tuesday but she didn't mention seeing this man because he looked as if he belonged. She called yesterday and told me about him." Bea shook her head in dismay. "Her description is vague enough to fit any number of men who could have any number of innocent reasons to be there, but if I were the killer and saw that interview... That was so dumb."
"We'd better bring her in for her own protection." Mike looked at his watch. "Her shift ends at ten. She should still be there."
"She's coming here after she gets off," Bea said. "She was supposed to come in yesterday afternoon, but she cancelled, said she had a conflict."
Vernon reached in his pocket for a fresh piece of chewing gum. There was a knock on the door, and his secretary stuck her head in.
"Sorry to interrupt, but there's an urgent message for Captain Robinson. A man named Doug Chastain says Iris is dead. He's holding on line three."
Bea gasped and Vernon shoved his phone across the desk.
Mike picked up. "Have you called 911?"
"I called you," Chastain said. "I don't want a bunch of sirens screaming in here like they did Sunday morning."
"I'm going to dispatch an ambulance."
"Don't bother. The girl is dead. If you don't believe me, I'll put our nurse on. She checked for vital signs and found none."
"What happened?"
"Someone shot her." Chastain emphasized shot, as if such a thing was beyond belief.
"Where is she?"
"In the employee parking lot. A group of early morning walkers saw her lying in a pool of blood. They got the nurse."
"Don't let anyone else near the body. Keep people out of the parking lot. A patrol car will be there shortly. Detective Washington and I are on our way." He hung up.
"That was fast," Vernon said.
"Again," Mike said. The first victim had been killed less than twenty-four hours after the discovery of the old bones.
"That poor foolish child," Bea murmured.
"If you'd arrested the killer yesterday, she'd still be alive." Vernon's words were harsher than his tone. "Keep me posted."
Mike used the phone while Bea drove. He briefed Bill Lukas and gave him Tony Burke's contact information. "See if you can find him, see how he reacts to the news of Iris's death. I don't expect him to say anything incriminating, but we'd be remiss if we didn't follow up. Detective Washington and I are on our way to the scene. Meet us there, when you finish with Burke."
"The killer knows his or her way around Sunny Gardens," Bea said.
"Another employee or a resident," Mike agreed. "Or a frequent visitor. For example, Tony Burke. Regardless of what he said about his mother, he helped her move in and visited her twice before the Saturday night argument."
"Iris told me she'd never met Tony."
"That doesn't mean he didn't know about her and couldn't find out when she came to work."
"What about Roger Devereux?"
"It's hard to believe he's capable of such organized behavior or has access to a gun, but we know he's capable of violence."
Two patrol cars, blue lights flashing, had blocked off the far side of the Sunny Gardens employee parking lot. Bea took the closest parking space and they walked over to where two uniformed officers stood.
Mike showed his badge. "Where is she?"
The officer gestured toward an aged sedan, its driver-side door ajar. "On the ground next to that old Chevy. He must have popped her the minute she exited the car."
A young woman lay crumpled on her side, her hair matted with blood. Streaks of blood on the car door showed where she'd fallen forward and slid down. A pool of blood, beginning to dry around the edges, surrounded her head and shoulders. More blood soaked her white nurse's uniform. Mike knelt for a closer look. An exit wound in the center of her forehead and one on her right cheek said she'd been shot twice from behind. He'd guess at close range; forensics would probably find powder burns on her hair. She had been pretty. He looked up and Bea answered the question written on his face.
"It's Iris." She turned away, head bowed.
"We're going inside," he told the uniformed officer. "Don't let anyone—I don't care who they are or who they know—near the body until the SOC unit gets here. Refer any questions or objections to Detective Washington. She's in charge." That he was standing behind her went without saying.
He kept a firm hand on Beatrice's arm as they walked up to the building. "Are you going to be okay?" As far as he knew, this was her first homicide victim.
"I hope she never knew what hit her."
"I doubt she did."
The crowd in the reception area parted like the Red Sea before Moses when they walked in. The receptionist's face was tight with shock. "Mr. Chastain is in his office," she said. "I'll call him."
"We know the way, thank you." He kept walking.
Dwight Chastain greeted them with an angry outburst. "She never should have talked to reporters."
Mike responded with a cold stare, and Bea's glare could have burned holes through steel.
"I don't mean to be unsympathetic," Chastain said, "but I'm in a very difficult situation. I have to explain Iris's indiscretion to the Devereux family."
"Would you rather talk to Iris's family?" Mike said.
The last of Chastain's bluster melted. "She was so young,
so foolish."
"Detective Washington is in charge. She and Detective Lukas will each need a room for interviews. They'll be talking to the women who found Iris's body, the security guards, and any other staff or residents who thought they'd seen or heard something relevant."
"Of course, we'll do all we can to help in your investigation."
"I'll start upstairs," Bea said, "with the Memory Garden staff."
Chastain started to object, and Mike assured him that the police department would not initiate contact with Roger Devereux without first notifying his family. "Do you object to Detective Washington interviewing your staff?"
"I'm trying to do the right thing." Chastain's voice had a defensive whine.
"The right thing is to help us find the killer," Mike said. "Can you get me a copy of Iris's HR file? I'm looking for information on her next of kin."
"Of course." Chastain hurried off to fetch the file.
Mike got the car keys from Beatrice, who could ride back with Bill Lukas. "Soon as I get her file, I'm going back to headquarters. Call me if you need me."
A stack of messages waited on his desk. He pushed them aside and opened Iris's file. Her job application listed her address. He sent a team to secure the site, and kept reading. Her parents lived in Catahoula, a very small town in Northwest Louisiana. He called the Catahoula police station.
"Carol Burton taught me high school English, and I know Bill from Rotary." The chief's worried tone said he didn't expect good news from New Orleans Homicide. "Why are you calling? I hope nothing's happened to that little girl of theirs."
"Iris was murdered early this morning. I'm looking for help notifying her family."
"I'll do it. Fill me in." His tone was grim.
"Thank you." Mike passed on what they knew. "It appears that her assailant surprised her and that death was instantaneous."
"She was their only child."
"We'll hold her body until we hear from them." Mike passed on his contact information and thanked the chief again before hanging up. He didn't envy him the next several hours.
He fixed himself a fresh pot of coffee and turned to the message slips. Paul Gilbert had called on an urgent matter concerning Laura Bethea. He returned the call, and Paul delivered the expected message.
"The Devereux family is furious about the publicity linking them to Geneviève Burke, and Laura blames you, personally, for that newspaper story. She's demanding your head. Apparently you and she had a tête-à-tête."
"I met with Mrs. Bethea at her request. However, neither I nor anyone else working here was the source of that story. And you should know that. Have you or she seen the television interview?"
"Apparently Laura has. I've only heard about it. I presume the woman interviewed was employed by Sunny Gardens."
Mike remained silent.
"She'll lose her job over this. The family won't be satisfied with less."
"She lost her life. She was shot dead in the Sunny Gardens parking lot early this morning."
It was Paul's turn to be silent.
"Which is where I was when you called."
"Yours is a brutal business, Mike."
"Homicide is brutal. My business is to arrest and convict the brutes."
"I'll do what I can to keep the family appeased. At the moment their greatest outrage is directed within, at poor Laura. When you have time, I'd like to talk to you about her."
"I have time right now."
"What I have to say is really an apologia. Laura is a good person doing her best in a bad situation. She and Roger have always been close. He was an indulgent uncle and after her father died, a surrogate father. When Roger became ill, their roles reversed. She's been a devoted caretaker, but I'm sure it's taken a toll." He paused. "I'm no longer representing Roger."
"She mentioned that."
"I understand why you had to talk to her. I also understand that you have no obligation to inform me about the conversation."
"She discussed Roger and Geneviève's divorce." And how she could link that sad and sordid tale to the romantic drivel in the newspaper story was beyond him.
"As I told you before, I was a child when they divorced. I don't know anything about the circumstances."
"I imagine your father could tell you. Have you asked him about Geneviève's lovers?"
"I'm working on it, but surely after this latest killing..."
"The question becomes more urgent."
"I'll speak to my father again."
"Let me know what he says."
Mike poured a fresh cup of coffee and gave himself a five minute break before addressing the case files on his desk. Once he had satisfied himself that everything else was moving ahead, he turned back to the Burke—now the Burke-Burton—homicide and the notes he'd written during Claire's call.
He doubted that horses had anything to do with Geneviève Burke's murder. If someone stole a horse up in Saint Helene, it was the concern of the local sheriff's office, not New Orleans Homicide. But he owed Claire an apology, and it would carry more weight after he'd talked to Winslow. He dialed the number she'd given him and, when a man answered, identified himself and asked to speak to Kyle Winslow.
"I'm Winslow." His voice was tight with nerves, a not uncommon response to a call from the police.
"I understand that you worked for Geneviève Burke."
Silence.
"What exactly did you do for Mrs. Burke?" Claire had said he was a trainer. Talking about his job should settle him down and lead to a discussion of horses. Instead, the innocuous question produced a surprising response.
"I've been expecting your call. The neighbor copied down my license plate, didn't he?"
CHAPTER 20
"Good Morning, Walkers, Elaine Reed speaking."
"I'm hoping you can help me." Claire said. "There's a horse I'm considering, and I want to check his background before I commit to buying him,"
"Are you a member?"
"No. I found you in an encyclopedia of organizations at the library. But I'm hoping you can help me anyway."
"I'll try." The woman confirmed that the association maintained a registry of Tennessee Walking Horses. They also kept records of competitions, at least the major ones. "Is the seller one of our members?"
"I don't know. That's really my problem, I don't know anything about the seller, and he says the horses' papers are in a safe deposit box over in Georgia." My real problem is I didn't think this through. What a lame story. "He says the horse has won several shows, but he hasn't anything to prove it. I'm not sure he's telling the truth, and I wondered if there's a way to check."
"It sounds to me as if you'd be better off buying a horse from a seller you trust. Or at least waiting until this seller can produce the papers you want to see."
"But I really like this horse, and the price is so good that I'm afraid someone else will come along and buy him if I drag my feet."
"No papers and a 'good price'. Are you sure this horse wasn't stolen?"
"Oh, no." Claire almost dropped the phone. That was exactly what she thought. "The seller is a reputable businessman. He just doesn't have time for a horse."
"Do you know the horse's name, which shows?"
"No." Silence from the other end. "He's a three-year-old stallion, black with a white blaze, eighteen hands tall. He won his first show when he was just a colt. Like eight weeks old."
"Have you ever owned a horse before?"
"No." This was true. Despite years of determined efforts she'd never been able to convince her parents to buy her one.
"Buying a horse is nothing to be done lightly." The woman shifted into lecture mode. "You're taking on a great deal of responsibility, expensive responsibility. The purchase price is just the beginning. Stallions can be particularly difficult. I suggest you learn more about what it takes before you buy this horse or any other."
"I've been riding all my life and I know what's involved, but I didn't know about Tennessee Walking Horses until I looked
at this one. He's gorgeous and he has an amazingly smooth gait, a natural big lick." Claire was talking fast and thinking faster. "If I came to your office, could I try to find him in your files?" She knew enough to find Geneviève's horse among the registered three-year-old stallions. Worst case, she could narrow it down to a few horses.
"Are you near-by?"
"I live in New Orleans, but I'll be keeping the horse on a farm a few miles out. I've already made arrangements." What had begun as a simple lie was growing into a complex fabrication.
"If you want to drive all the way up here, I'll try to help you. We're open weekdays nine to twelve and one to five. Anyone in town can direct you to our offices."
Claire thanked her and hung up. She wasn't a good liar and if she never had to make another call like that, she'd be a happy woman.
Going to Tennessee was a last resort. First she'd give Kyle another chance to tell the truth about Fast Eddie. During her lunch break, she called him and asked if he'd like some help with the horses Saturday afternoon.
"Come on up. I'll be here all day," he said.
"I'll probably get there around two. Okay?"
"Two's fine." Kyle never wasted words, but today there was a different undertone.
Claire couldn't tell if he was in a bad mood or just had other things on his mind. She asked if he'd sold any of the horses.
"We can talk about horses when you come up. See you Saturday."
"Okay."
By mid-afternoon, Claire had walked through both houses with the plumber and was in Tony's kitchen, sketching out alternatives for the stove-refrigerator-sink triangle. Things were moving along nicely. The demolition crew should finish knocking down the back stoop today, which would put them on schedule. Tony had given her pictures of kitchens filled with freestanding cupboards and appliances, an Italian villa in New Orleans. Adapting that look to the smaller dimensions of this kitchen would be a challenge, but more authentic than a modern kitchen with its walls of matching cabinets, and she was excited by the prospect. She felt someone watching her, turned around and saw Tony.
"Sorry I didn't make it by yesterday afternoon," he said. "I stopped by late, after you'd left. You're right about the wood floor."
Secrets, Lies & Homicide Page 13