Who Killed Tiffany Jones?

by Mavis Kaye

  They crept slowly up the stairs, freezing each time the stairs squeaked.

  For the first time in years, Kim wished she had her service revolver. As it was, she had nothing with which to defend herself, not even a can of Mace.

  When they reached the top of the stairs, Kim slowly opened the door.

  She heard a noise that sounded like it was coming from their left. Kim looked down the long, dim hall to the left then to the right. She didn’t see anyone. Motioning for St. Claire to stay right behind her, Kim moved quickly toward the front door, keeping low and hugging the wall.

  The hallway in front of them opened up into a wide foyer. The living room was off to the right, and the door to the left led to the first of two formal dining rooms. Kim hurried past the two doors toward the foyer. When they got to the front door, someone grabbed St. Claire from behind and clamped a hand over her mouth just as she started to scream. Kim whirled around and lunged at the shadowy figure, grabbing the attacker by the neck in a choke hold. Fighting against the weight of two women, the intruder pushed Kim back, banging her head into the oak-paneled wall.

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  a forearm slam into her stomach. She crumpled to the ground and, gagging from the force of the blow, nearly threw up.

  The intruder was very strong, but not much taller or heavier than either of the two women. Kim watched in helpless panic as the attacker turned to St. Claire, grabbed her neck, and began choking her again.

  Another crash upstairs startled both Kim and the intruder, who immediately released St. Claire’s neck and stared toward the top of the stairs. Kim knew that if she didn’t do something in that instant both she and St. Claire would be dead. Ignoring the pain that threatened to double her over, she stumbled to her feet and snatched a lamp from the table by the door. The intruder turned around just in time to throw up a hand and partially deflect the blow as Kim brought the lamp crashing down onto the top of the bobbing, masked head. The intruder sank to the floor, then collapsed in a heap. Kim stepped over the body and rushed to St. Claire.

  She was coughing and dazed, but luckily she was still strong enough to walk. Kim helped her toward the door. On the way out, she grabbed a set of car keys from the table where she’d picked up the lamp. She began to fumble with the dead bolts but found, to her surprise, that they were already unlocked. Throwing open the door, Kim half-dragged, half-carried St. Claire out into the sunlight.

  “Where’s your car?” Kim panted.

  St. Claire couldn’t answer. So she pointed toward a silver convertible Mercedes parked just outside the gate at the corner. The two women struggled toward the street. Kim knew that if they could just make it out of the garden, they would have a chance. Being in the garden was almost as dangerous as being inside the house. She realized that the shady trees and dense foliage that had seemed so beautiful when she’d first looked up at the house were now the perfect cover to shield their attacker from prying eyes.

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  Kim heard someone moving inside the house. But she didn’t turn around. They were just a few feet from the gate. They could make it.

  She unlatched the gate and threw it open in one move. In seconds they were at the car. She unlocked the door, shoved St. Claire in, and closed the door behind her. Then she ran around to the driver’s side and jumped in. Only after she put the key in the ignition and gunned the engine did Kim look back toward the house. She thought she glimpsed a towering man move past the still-opened front door.

  That was all she needed to see. Kim gunned the engine and took off up Prytania, turned onto Camp Street, and headed toward the Quarter.

  When St. Claire was finally able to catch her breath, she told Kim,

  “Go up Chartres Street until you get to St. Louis and make a left.”

  They made the left and traveled for three more blocks before St.

  Claire said, “Pull over.”

  Kim parked the car, and the two women waited. About twenty minutes later, a man turned the corner and walked into a salmon-colored townhouse.

  “It’s him,” St. Claire said frantically.

  Kim turned and saw the man enter the building. It was Mojo. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans and had a knapsack on his back. About fifteen minutes later, he came out of the building and turned left toward Burgundy Street. The knapsack was still slung on his back, but he had changed clothes. He now wore a brown jogging suit.

  Kim and St. Claire followed at a distance as he walked west. After about four more blocks, they saw him head into the St. Louis Cemetery #1.

  They entered the walled cemetery just in time to see Mojo disappear behind a row of 250-year-old above-ground tombs. At the rear of the cemetery, he stopped near one of the newer tombs and looked around. Satisfied that no one was watching, he removed a slab of slate from the back of the tomb and reached inside. St. Claire let out a star-16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 170

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  tled cry of disbelief. It was clear that if this had been part of any plan they had, she didn’t know about it.

  Kim couldn’t see exactly what Mojo was doing behind the tomb, and she was anxious to get closer. But after what had just happened to them, she didn’t dare. Mojo was obviously desperate if he was willing to go to one of the most popular cemeteries in New Orleans in the middle of the day and desecrate one of the tombs.

  After rooting around deep inside the tomb for a minute or two, Mojo seemed to find what he was looking for. He glanced around again quickly and then stuffed a large, dark bag into his leather knapsack. He straightened up, peered down the row for the third time, then rushed toward the entrance of the cemetery. As soon as he’d rounded the corner, Kim and St. Claire dashed over to the tomb. Lester Bennett’s name was engraved on the stone.

  It took both women heaving with all their might to remove the slab of slate that served as a false back to the top level of the tomb. When they moved the slab, a putrid stench rushed out of the tomb so strong and fast that St. Claire doubled over and nearly vomited. Covering her mouth and nose with her hand, Kim looked inside. The coffin had been opened, but she didn’t bother to look into it.

  “He got the rest of the diamonds,” St. Claire mumbled as Kim stepped away from the tomb.

  The women replaced the slab and ran back to the entrance of the cemetery. They were hoping to catch at least a glimpse of Mojo as he made his way down Conti or St. Louis. They didn’t want to lose him in the crowd. Kim thought that she saw him heading around the bend on Basin Street where it turned into Toulouse. She ran into the middle of the road, and St. Claire followed her.

  “Is that him?” Kim asked.

  “Yes. It is. I’m sure of it. We should—”

  But St. Claire never got to finish her sentence. Kim heard the squeal of the car tires and turned her head just in time to see a small, 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 171

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  blue Mazda barreling down on them. Behind the wheel and tinted windshield, she could make out the silhouette of someone with long flowing hair. She reached for St. Claire, but they were too far apart.

  “Watch out!” Kim screamed; there was no time to move.

  St. Claire turned just as the car careered into her, flipping her over the hood before it roared down Basin Street.

  Kim leapt backward, flinging herself against the passenger-side door of an SUV parked behind her, and accidentally slammed her head into the window of the truck. The Mazda missed hitting her by less than a foot.

  A screaming crowd raced toward St. Claire’s twisted body, and a few pedestrians ran down the block to the police sta
tion at the corner.

  Kim’s head exploded with pain. She sank to her knees in the street as blood from the gash on the back of her skull ran down her neck.

  Suddenly there was a crowd standing above her, people telling her to lie still, help was coming. She tried to get up and go see about St.

  Claire, but someone restrained her. She struggled to keep her head clear, but she felt as though she was drifting in the middle of a dream, a terrible nightmare from which she couldn’t escape.

  Moments later, a uniformed policewoman kneeled next to her, checking her pulse and asking if she was okay. The blare of an approaching ambulance siren roared in the background, and Kim could barely hear the officer above the noise. Everything seemed distant and blurry as she felt herself being lifted onto a gurney and rolled toward the ambulance.

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  ,

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  THIRTEEN

  New Orleans/New York—Saturday, August 4

  New Orleans

  Wh e n Ki m awo ke at 11 A.M., she was lying in a bed in the Tulane University Hospital and Clinic. The other bed in the double room was empty. A light gauze bandage was wrapped around her head.

  Except for a slight headache there were no other signs of injury, and aside from a little drowsiness, she felt fine. She had awakened several times during the night, and she knew that at some point doctors had given her a sedative. Now she eased herself up to a sitting position and pressed the bedside button to signal a nurse. When a bouncy young RN appeared, she informed Kim that she had suffered only a mild con-cussion and would be back on her feet in a day or so. After routine temperature and blood pressure tests, she turned to leave.

  “The doctor will be in to see you in minute,” she said. “And, oh, the police want to talk to you also. There’s a detective waiting downstairs.”

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  mind—the intruder, the diamonds, Mojo, then the Mazda speeding toward them. But what had happened to St. Claire? Did she survive, and, if so, where was she?

  The doctor arrived first and confirmed that her injury was not serious; however, as a precaution, he wanted to keep her at the hospital for observation until the next day. He also told her that St. Claire had died en route to the hospital and offered his condolences before leaving.

  The hard-nosed Cajun detective who entered a moment later was not nearly as amenable. Detective Louis Benoit questioned Kim for more than a half hour about the hit-and-run killing, insisting that she must have known the driver because witnesses said the car appeared to be pursuing her and St. Claire. Kim had no intention of revealing anything about Mojo, the diamonds, or the events preceding the attack to the New Orleans police force before she had time to think about it. So she steadfastly insisted that she didn’t know the driver, which was not a lie. She did provide as detailed a description of the assailant as she could, pointing out that all she had seen before she blacked out was the silhouette of a figure with long hair behind the tinted windshield.

  Annoyed with her unwillingness to provide any information about why she had come to New Orleans to see Josephine St. Claire and what had precipitated the attack, Benoit finally threatened to hold Kim as a material witness to the murder. When she revealed that she was a former New York police officer, however, he backed down.

  “Don’t leave New Orleans without informing us,” he said before stomping out.

  When he left, Kim immediately tried dialing Lt. Jackson in New York to report what had happened the previous day. She couldn’t reach him, and, when lunch arrived a few minutes later, she realized she hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. She was famished. She settled back in bed and eagerly devoured the plain, institutional meal. Shortly after the tray was removed, the bedside telephone rang.

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  “Hello?” she said in a questioning tone, surprised that anyone knew where she was.

  “Hallo, Kim,” the singsong Swedish voice replied.

  “Klaus? Klaus Svrenson . . . where are you? And how . . . how did you know I was here?”

  “It didn’t take a genius, my friend. You’ve been all over the local news, and, well, did you think Josephine was working alone? Of course, I knew.”

  Kim paused, noting that he said local news, which suggested he was somewhere in the area. “Right, right,” she said, “but where have you been? You know that everyone, including the police, is out looking for you.”

  “I am aware of that, but, like our friend Ruff Daddy, I’m not anxious to be seen right now. I know all this looks bad for me, but believe it or not, I’m as frightened by these events as Ruff Daddy. I called because I’d like to know if you’ve discovered anything that might help me find out who’s killing these people. I need to protect myself.

  Frankly, Kim, I’m scared.”

  “What? You’re scared!”

  “Of course! That’s why I need to know who you saw at Josephine’s house yesterday. You’re the only one still living who’s seen the killer.

  What happened there? Who was it?”

  “Wait . . . wait a minute. How did you know I was at Josephine’s home. That couldn’t have been on the news since I didn’t tell anyone and Josephine is dead.”

  “As I said, Josephine was not working alone. I know exactly what time you arrived at her house. What I don’t know is what happened inside. Who did you see? That’s the person we should both be looking for.”

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  escaped from the house with someone in pursuit. She was sure that he wasn’t the intruder, the person had been much smaller and far too short. But it might have been someone he sent. Klaus could just be digging for information to determine if she could identify an intruder who might later identify him.

  “Look, Kim, the killer knows who you are now. You’re no safer than I am. Tell me what you know.”

  “First, tell me something. Was it you who set up this whole diamond-smuggling operation, recruiting people from Europe and Africa? How big is it, Klaus? And how could you involve your own wife?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Kim. But that’s not the point now. And, if I did, do you really think I’d talk about it on this phone with that nosy detective lurking around the hospital? It’s time to stop playing at being a cop. It’s foolish. Tell me what you know, and maybe I can help prevent your being hurt.”

  “Why don’t you meet me, Klaus, let’s talk about this. I can help you if you’re involved.”

  “I can only tell you that, after Tiffany’s death, I may have unwit-tingly set all of this in motion. Some of my associates, it seems, are more brutal than I suspected.”

  “What are you sa—”

  “Enough, Kim! I don’t have time for this! And neither do you. If you won’t cooperate, I can’t protect you. You’re on your own.”

  Before Kim could respond, Klaus hung up.

  Frustrated, Kim slammed the receiver down and sat up in bed. She wasn’t sure whether to believe Klaus or not. But if he had found her in the hospital, then the hit-and-run driver could easily do the same thing. Klaus was right about one thing though, she was in danger—

  from the intruder or maybe even from Klaus. She wasn’t safe in the hospital.

  She got up and, on wobbly legs, went to the closet to check for her clothes. Within a half hour she had dressed and slipped out of the hos-16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 177

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  pital. She walked a few blocks before hailing a cab. After stopping at a cut-rate drugstore in the Quarter, where she bought sunglasses and a cheap Afro wig, she continued to the airport. It was after two o’clock when she bought a ticket to New York. While waiting for the plane to depart, she called Lt. Jackson and, this time, got through to him.

  Lt. Jackson was silent as she related in detail everything that happened in New Orleans, including the call from Klaus. When she finished he told her that they had put Kwabena and Mojo under surveillance, but both of them had left New York on Thursday. Since they had no real evidence, neither could be detained. Neither had returned to his knowledge. He would, however, immediately order someone to watch Mojo’s house and store this afternoon.

  “What about you,” he said finally, “are you going to be all right?”

  “Yes,” Kim said. “No one will ever recognize me in this tacky outfit.

  I’m taking a four-thirty flight to LaGuardia. I’ll call when I arrive at my apartment.”

  “Fine, but I’m going to station someone outside, just in case.

  They’ll be waiting when you arrive at your place.”

  “Thanks, Maurice,” Kim laughed. “I knew that deep down you always loved me.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ll talk to you when you get here.”

  New York

  Mojo carefully pulled the curtain away from the side of the window, leaving a half-inch opening. He stooped and peeked through the slit.

  The unmarked police car was still parked across the street from the Old World Music Shop. Mojo stepped away from the window and moved to the rear of the darkened store. Passing through the office, he went to the windowless back room; the lone overhead light was turned on. Mojo sat on the floor next to a large attaché case that he had 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 178

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  packed when he cleaned out the safe, then checked his watch. It was 8:45 P.M. Another hour and he’d be on his way.

  He had arrived in New York earlier that morning, after flying in from New Orleans. Avoiding his Lenox Terrace apartment, he went directly to the record store. No one had been watching the shop, but he entered through the rear, leaving the front door padlocked from the outside and making sure to keep the lights off. He slept in the office. It was during those hours of restless sleep that he determined to get out immediately.