by Martha Reed
“Let go!” Gee struggled to break Jane’s grip. “I want to see.”
“No, Gee, no, you don’t. We need to call Dupree.”
“No, please, no.” Gee moaned as her shoulders slumped. “I don’t want it to be Dee. Not Dee, too. Not Dee.”
“I know, honey. I know.” Grasping Gee’s shoulders, Jane guided her closer to the wall to avoid further contaminating the scene. “We need to follow protocol.” She pushed her through the bamboo screen. “Do this the right way.”
“Fuck!” Gee shook free. Staggering down the aisle, she threw open the front door and fell against the arcade’s cast iron railing.
“Don’t move,” Jane ordered, digging out her phone. Pickup, Dupree. I need you. Her heart hammered so fiercely she heard the two beats in her ears.
“Ms. Byrne? A pleasure. What have you got for me?” Dupree drawled, sounding so self-assured he seemed to be speaking from an alternate universe. “Did you remember something more?”
“Dupree?” Jane squeaked. Shutting her eyes tight, she focused on precise reporting. “Gigi Pascoe and I are at Delilah Gardere’s shop, Le Maison Gris in Jackson Square. We found Dee’s keys in the door and we entered the shop approximately fifteen minutes ago. I called it in as a burglary.” The tension released and she started to tremble. “We found Delilah Gardere, Dupree. You need to get here, stat. It’s bad, Dupree, worse than you can imagine. Bring CSI. Hurry.”
She heard his chair squeal.
“Jackson Square? ETA ten minutes. Stay put.”
Gee puked a Niagara of yellow bile onto the flagstones. A passing tourist couple glanced up with obvious disgust. Groaning, Gee slowly straightened. Wiping her mouth, she aggressively flipped them off.
“He’s coming?” She croaked.
Jane rested her hand on Gee’s broad back. “Ten minutes.”
“Holy crap.” Pinching her eyes shut, Gee wiped her mouth with her palm. “You’re sure that was Dee?”
“Yes, honey, I’m sure. I saw her face.” I’m not going to mention what else I saw in there.
“Fuck!” Gee gripped the railing. “You ever see anything like that before?”
“Twice. When I was a cop.” Jane admitted. “A DD nailed a Jeep full of kids and the case that tripped me into PTSD.”
“But that was meant for me.” Gee jabbed her trembling finger. “Those handprints on the walls? That’s the freak show from my dream.”
“I agree.” And it gets worse.
“You do? Good. You agree with me.” Gee combed her fingers through her hair. “I’m not hallucinating?”
“No. That set-up was too specific to be random.”
“Who did that?” Gee voice rose to a shriek. “Who is after me?” She scrubbed her face with her hands. “Fucker! Come after me then, not my friends!”
A light bulb went off. “Gee? Who did you tell your dream to? Those are the ones we need to be looking at.”
“Only everyone!” Pressing her temples with both fists, Gee looked up, startled. “What if he goes after Pops or Maman next? Or Aunt Babette?” Dropping her fists, she paled. “Jesus! My head is splitting. I need a smoke.” She patted her pockets. “Left them in The Boat.”
“We can’t leave. We need to wait for Dupree.”
“I’ll be right back.” She snapped. “I’m only going over there.”
Gee purposefully bee-lined across Jackson Square. How much do I really trust her? A cool shadow of doubt shaded Jane’s soul. What if she takes off and leaves me holding the bag?
Her CSI training flashed a red alert as she locked the shop door. “Wait for me!”
Chapter Forty
Jane caught up with Gee by the mule carriage stand.
“I don’t need a minder.” Gee snapped, ignoring the pedestrian crosswalk and dodging across Decatur Street like a toreador as she snaked around the tent pole stakes of The French Quarter Market shops. “I said I’d be right back.”
“I locked it up.” Rolling her shoulders, Jane tried to loosen up. Glancing toward Canal Street, she hoped to see the marked NOPD unit or Dupree’s Crown Vic. I need help. Where is he?
Gee strode around The Boat, heading purposefully for the glove box on the passenger side before gasping and pulling up short.
“What the fuck?” She choked. Her face filled with fury as she pointed at the door. “Who did this?” She screamed. “Who trashed my car?”
Triangle shaped crimson enamel chips lay scattered on the asphalt between the two fat white-walled tires. The words DIE BITCH were keyed into the panel’s cranberry paint.
Die Bitch? Icy fear prickled Jane’s skin like sleet. Could Ryan Embry be behind this? Because that’s what he called me after our date.
Gee marched toward an Asian vendor selling scarves. “Did you see who did this? Did you see who keyed my car?”
“No, mister.” The vendor shrank back, her hands defensively curling into claws. “I didn’t see no one touching your car.”
Jane grabbed Gee’s arm. “He’s been watching us, Gee.” She knew the stats. 65% of criminals return to the crime scene thinking they’ve overlooked something critical or because they like watching the event unfold. Taking that risk gives them an extra thrill. “He was standing here, watching us while we were in Dee’s shop. Gee, listen to me.” Jane tightened her grip. “Listen! I think Ryan Embry might be the killer, the one we want.”
“Ryan?” Gee blinked. “Why do you say that?”
“Because he screamed ‘Die Bitch’ at me the night of our fight.”
“You think Ryan did this?” Gee looked stunned. “Come on! Maybe they saw something.” She ran toward the artists clustered in the Square. “Sir? Sir?” She ran up to the artist selling the strangely gray paintings. “Did you see anyone messing with that red Eldorado?”
“I might’ve seen something, Cap.” He toyed with the bristling whiskers on his chin. “If I tells you, will I get a tip?”
Gee’s neck flushed mottled red from her shoulders to her ears. She opened her mouth to speak and then snapped it shut. Tugging out her wallet, she flashed her cash. “Fourteen bucks. It’s all I’ve got.”
“I don’t know that I saw much of anything for only fourteen dollars.” The old man cannily studied her need with his rheumy eyes, pointing his knuckly finger at The French Market arcade. “I know they gots an ATM machine.”
“Wait.” Jane unzipped her backpack. “I’ll add another ten.”
He grasped the money. “Twenty-four dollars might do it.”
“What did you see?” Gee demanded.
“I did see a couple over there admiring your car. She looked pleased, but I don’t think she did nothing to it.” He tucked the folded bills into his shirt pocket. “They was only standing there for less than a minute.”
“What did they look like?” Gee pursued. “Black, white? Short, tall?”
“Distinguishing features?” Jane scanned the crowd. “Ball caps, beards, or tattoos?”
He chuckled at their obvious impatience. “Well, they was both white and she wasn’t wearing no beard that I could see. He had a Saints ball cap on, but good luck with that. Half the men walking around the Square are wearing them.” Sticking his splayed brush into a coffee can half-filled with turpentine, he gave the oily liquid a stir. “You two cops?”
“No.” Jane stated. “But we need to locate them if they’re still around.”
“There was one other guy, a weedy looking fella wearing a uniform like maybe he was a janitor or something over at The Market.”
“A uniform?” Gee looked puzzled. “What color uniform?”
“Don’t rightly know, Cap. Might’a been gray, or green, or maybe even blue.”
“What do you mean ‘maybe even blue’?” Gee shouted.
“Stop yelling.” The old man winced. “Nothing wrong with my ears. It’s my eyes that’re failing.”
Jane scanned his odd gray scale paintings. “Gee? He’s color blind.”
“Only been my cross to bear my entire life. Ru
ns through every boy in my family.”
“Would you recognize these people if you saw them again?” Jane asked. “In a line up?”
“Don’t rightly know. All them white boys looks about the same to me.”
He shifted uneasily as Dupree’s Crown Vic Police Interceptor roared up. Dupree had the blue and red strobes flashing below his windshield tint line and from the grill. He was leading a marked NOPD unit and a Coroner’s CSI van.
“Definitely not.” The old man spat. “If it means talking to the po-lice.”
“Don’t leave,” Jane said as Dupree and team double-parked at the curb. “He’s gonna want to talk to you.”
“Catch me if you can, sweetheart.” Lifting the lid on his plastic toolbox, he started packing up his paint tubes. “That’s all I gots to say.”
Dupree spotted them. Clambering out of the Crown Vic, he met them halfway across the flagstones, already yelling.
“I told you to stay put.” He pointed at The Pontalba Building as he directed his team. “Seal off that sidewalk. The vic is in the shop.”
“She’s in the storeroom, Dupree.” Shutting her eyes, Jane recalled the red horror. “Rolled up in a rug. She’s been scalped.”
Gee’s face turned ashy. “Was that what that was?”
“We think the killer was watching us from Gee’s car.” Jane pointed her chin. “While we were inside.”
Dupree glanced at The Market. “What makes you say that?”
“He left us a message.” Gee spat.
“Take me to the freshest point.” Dupree noted the black pods hanging from the Jackson Square buildings. “We might catch a break. Maybe we got video.”
He followed Gee around The Boat’s front bumper. Squatting, he studied the DIE BITCH damage and slowly rose. “He’s not stupid. This side of the car is sheltered from the cameras and the Square. He could duck down and no one would see him working on it.”
“He’s getting away with everything.” Gee reached a shaking hand into The Boat. “He killed Fancy and Dee, and now this.”
“Don’t touch it!” Dupree commanded. “Until my forensics team signs off.”
Gee snatched her hand back. “What? Like my fingerprints aren’t already on it? It’s my fucking car, Dupree.”
She turned the knob. The glove box popped open like a wampum biscuit can, filled to the brim with crumpled brown paper.
“What the fuck is this?” Gee tugged on the damp SuperCenter grocery sack. “I didn’t put this in here.”
“No, Gee. Don’t.” Jane warned as an array of horrifying possibilities filled her brain.
“What is this?” Reaching into the stained sack, Gee lifted a shapeless hairy blonde bundle of curls as her face turned battleship gray. “Jesus, God! It’s Fancy’s wig!”
Chapter Forty-One
“He’s taking trophies,” Jane stated.
“He’s fucking with me, Jane.” Gee finished her café au lait. Setting the empty cup on the tiled floor between her feet, she rested her elbows on her knees. “He’s fucking with us.”
“I agree.” Jane chewed her lip. Dupree had summoned them to the Central City station on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard for a case update and a follow-up interview. It was standard protocol, but fresh worry bubbled her nerves. She could see Dupree in his glassed-in office, but she couldn’t hear him. He was animatedly yelling into his phone while thumping his fist against his desk.
Gee scratched her palm. “Three people dead in less than a week? Dupree’d better give us some fucking details. I want to know what they’re doing about this.”
“And Cal Johnson’s still missing, too,” Jane squirmed, shifting uncomfortably on her seat. The rolled edge of the chair kept biting into her thighs. Did they pick these godawful chairs on purpose? To deliberately keep us on edge while we wait?
“What if Ryan is behind this?” Gee stood. “Can’t they watch him? I know he hates me for being trans. Said I betrayed him.” She started pacing. “Like it’s something I could change. Like I ever had a choice. I could see him doing this, lashing out to punish me.” She paused, resting her hands on her hips. “He’s plenty smart and wound way too tight. Always has been. Cheryl sees to that. She’s on him like a hen with one chick. We need to tell Dupree.”
“Tell Dupree what?”
Detective Bordelon turned the corner carrying a Styrofoam cup. Jane smelled the burnt odor of the bitter office brew and her paranoia twitched. How long was Bordelon standing there? What else did he hear us say?
Gee pointed her index finger. “We think Ryan Embry might be the killer.”
“Interesting.” Bordelon stared over the rim of his cup. “What makes you say that?”
“Because he screamed ‘Die Bitch’ at me the other day,” Jane stated.
“And that was keyed into my car where we found Fancy’s wig.”
“Detective Bordelon,” Jane reasoned, “as a POI he connects the dots.”
Gee turned, looking curious. “POI?”
“‘Person of Interest,’” Jane explained. “A key suspect.”
“You may be right.” Crumpling the cup, the detective tossed it into the trash. Raising his hand, he flicked a ‘come here’ gesture at Dupree.
His partner hung up the phone. Opening the door, Dupree stepped into the hall. “What’ve we got?”
“Tell him what you just told me.”
“We think Ryan Embry might be the killer.” Gee clasped both hands behind her back.
“He was at Leslie Pascoe’s party.” Jane started ticking the points off her fingers. “He fought with Fancy Abellard, he has a long-standing grudge against Gee, and Delilah would’ve trusted him enough to turn her back on him.”
“True.” Bordelon tugged his ear. “But I don’t see a connection to the two murders at Guardian Storage or the ATPP.”
“The ATPP is a secret organization,” Jane argued. “You’re never going to know if he’s a member and now he’s pissed at me.”
“You? Why is he pissed at you?”
“We had a bad date,” Jane stated. “Did you see Ryan on the tapes from Jackson Square?”
“No.” Dupree pinched the bridge of his nose. “So far they’re inconclusive. Spent six hours reviewing them last night. Felix? Let’s bring Embry in, have a talk. I want to hear his side of things.”
Bordelon checked his wristwatch. “It’s still early. I’ll run by his house. Might catch him before he leaves for work.”
“If Ryan’s not home,” Jane rolled up on her toes, “he works for Delta Electric. Get a warrant. They can tell you exactly where he is based on the GPS in his service van.”
“It’s too early to ask the judge for a warrant.” Dupree scowled. “We don’t have probable cause. And you know a little too much about everything.” He pointed to the center of his chest. “It would be a preliminary interview, the same thing we’re having with you.”
“I’ll go bring him in.” Bordelon marched sturdily for the lobby.
“Watch yourself, Felix.” Dupree stepped back into his office. Grasping his laptop with one hand, he shut the office door with the other. “Follow me. Let’s take this to Conference Room A. There’s room to breathe.” He strode down the hall, pushing a faux maple door open with his elbow. “After you.”
Jane followed Gee in. The windowless room was approximately twelve by fourteen feet. It held a Formica-topped table and six ergonomic chairs. Jane sniffed. I’m impressed. Still smells like fresh paint. Usually interview rooms stink like sweat, shit, and fear. “Nice digs.”
“Still new.” Dupree pulled out a chair, but he remained standing. “This building’s about the only good thing to come outta Katrina.”
Setting his laptop on the table, he hovered one hand over an inset communication panel. “Do either of you object to me taping our conversation? Saves me the trouble of taking notes.”
“I don’t mind.” Gee shrugged. “Do what you need to do. Let’s get it done.”
Jane leaned forward. “Do we need a
lawyer?”
“You can certainly have one present if you like, but this is not an arrest.” Dupree sat. “For now, this conversation is purely voluntary.”
Jane’s paranoia flared up again. “How’s this? I’ll listen to your questions, but I may decide to not answer them.”
“That’s entirely your call.” Dupree flipped a toggle switch and a dime-sized red indicator light blinked on. “Detective Antwon Dupree, preliminary interview with Gigi Pascoe and Jane Byrne, Friday, December 16, 2016, 9:21 a.m. You start.” He settled back. “Do you have any questions for me?”
“Cut to the chase.” Gee swallowed thickly. “What did he do to Dee?”
“I need to warn you.” Dupree swiped the touch screen. “The Deputy Coroner’s report is graphic.”
Gee braced her calves against the chair. “This is important to me. I need to know.”
Dupree tented his fingers. “First off, we’re not sure the killer’s a ‘he.’ That shop is a public space. A lot of DNA got spilled. The CSI said she collected more then 120 samples from that storeroom alone.”
“How was Dee killed?” Gee insisted.
Dupree cleared his throat. “Preliminary autopsy results indicate blunt force trauma to the base of the skull. Ms. Gardere also had a defensive fracture in the ulna of her right arm and six broken fingers with cuts and abrasions on both wrists.”
“She was restrained.” Jane shuddered, horrified. That’s my worst fucking nightmare, getting restrained by zip ties. What could be worse than feeling trapped?
“Yes. Judging from the bruising, we believe the killer used duct tape and some type of small-bore wire, possibly baling wire or something similar.”
Gee straightened. “But Dee fought back?”
“Judging from the defensive pre-mortem injuries she sustained, that answer is ‘yes.’”
“I hope she marked him up good.” Gee scrabbled her feet against the floor. “By God, if Ryan did this, I’m going to kill him, I swear to God.”
Stop saying that, Gee! Dupree is recording your every word and you gave him permission to do it.