The End Of Desire argi-8

by M. R. Sellars

  “Simple, White Man. Much as I’d prefer your happy ass was in Saint Louis where I can keep an eye on ya’, the murder didn’t happen here. It happened there.”

  “Here?”

  “Yeah, there. In New Orleans.”

  “Where here?” I demanded.

  “Ain’t important, Row. It’s bein’ investigated and they’re keepin’ us in the loop.”

  “Fine. That’s lovely. I’d expect nothing less. Now, where did it happen?”

  “I’m not tellin’ ya’.”

  “Why not?”

  “‘Cause if I do, you’ll try ta’ find a way ta’ get into it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He half chuckled. “How? ‘Cause I know you, that’s how. Besides, if that ain’t your plan, whaddaya need to know the particulars for?”

  I couldn’t dispute either point, so I asked, “Yeah, so what if I do? Maybe if I check out the crime scene, I can pick up on something they can’t see. You know how that tends to happen with me.”

  “Yeah, I do. But, the scene’s a week old.”

  “A week?!” I exclaimed. “Why in the hell are we just now hearing about it?”

  “NCIC backlog, Row,” he explained. “Not to mention a hurricane and a flood which I’m sure you noticed. NOLA PD is swamped. Too much crime, not enough time or coppers for that matter. It just got entered, and that’s only ‘cause a fresh volunteer from KC is down there, and he remembered somethin’ about one of our bulletins that made ‘im do a little diggin’.”

  “Well, I’ve pulled impressions from old crime scenes before. So that’s not really an issue.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  His stonewalling was really pushing me to the edge, but I knew I wasn’t getting anywhere with the direct approach, so I changed my plan of attack, “Well, are you certain it’s her?”

  “Until they finish processin’ evidence, no. And with things the way they are down there, that could take awhile. But I did talk ta’ the copper workin’ the case myself. The victim was male, found in a room at a no-tell motel just like the two here, and he was tied ta’ the bed kinky-sex style. From all indications, he was tortured ta’ death, which we know is ‘er favorite pastime. Still waitin’ on autopsy results, somethin’ else that could take awhile, but from what I understand she worked ‘im over good. He also said they found hair that sounds like it could be a match. And, if that ain’t enough, she carved one of ‘er pictures inta’ his chest.”

  “A veve?”

  “Yeah. The heart-shaped one.”

  The hair on the back of my neck prickled at the mention of the symbol. It was definitely one of her calling cards.

  “It figures,” I mumbled, and then launched into an appeal, “Listen, Ben, even if the scene is a week old, maybe if I just had a look?”

  “Uh-huh, how ‘bout no.”

  “Dammit, Ben.”

  “Jeezus, Row, just give it a rest. Hell, what makes ya’ think they’d even let ya’ into the scene anyway?”

  “Easy. You could call them back. I mean I’m already here after all. Don’t you cops have some kind of fraternal code about helping one another out?”

  “That’s just for speedin’ tickets.”

  “I’m serious, Ben.”

  “I know ya’ are, but even if I did call, I’m gonna tell ‘em what? My buddy the Witch is in town and wants ta’ come by and look at the gore fest? It don’t work that way and you know it,” he told me. “On top of that, what you do in Saint Louis doesn’t necessarily fly elsewhere. Shit, it doesn’t always fly here and you know that too, in spades.”

  “Then what about Constance?” I pressed, “She’s federal. What if she made the call?”

  I was talking about Special Agent Constance Mandalay of the FBI. She was also a good friend, not to mention that she and Ben had been in an on again, off again relationship ever since his divorce. Even so, I didn’t feel guilty about asking him to get her involved in this because she was already in it up to her neck anyway. It wasn’t as if I was asking him to use his personal influence over her, not that he really had any based on what I’d witnessed of their relationship.

  “Not happenin’,” he replied. In my mind’s eye I could see him shaking his head as he spoke. He continued before I could object again, “Look, Row, like I said. It’s bein’ investigated. The MCS and the Feebs are in the loop. There ain’t shit you or I can do about it, and so there’s no need in you tryin’ ta’ get in somewhere that you’re not welcome.”

  “So what’s to keep me from checking the newspaper and finding the location?”

  “Nothin’,” he grunted. “Except maybe the fact that they didn’t run a story on it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I asked.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted ta’ know how easy it was gonna be for you ta’ get inta’ trouble.”

  “Well, why didn’t it make the papers?”

  “Victim was a street person, and there’s plenty of other shit goin’ on down there right now. It just wasn’t considered newsworthy.”

  “Okay, so what if I just go to the local police myself?” I countered.

  “Knock yourself out,” he harrumphed. “But I can tell ya’ right now you’ll just be wastin’ your breath ‘cause I already told ‘em ya’ might try that. Look, Row, you ain’t packin’ a badge, so you’re just another civilian ta’ them. The coppers down there are short-staffed and under siege for fuck’s sake. They ain’t got time ta’ deal with ya’.” He paused briefly to allow the comment to sink in, then continued, “Besides, I thought you were s’posed ta’ be down there chasin’ a ghost, right?”

  “A Lwa,” I corrected. “They’re deified spirits within Vodoun religious practice.”

  “Yeah, well that’s just another friggin’ word for ghost in my book.”

  “Uh-huh. And I also wouldn’t exactly call it chasing. I’m just looking for her history. It’s really more like genealogical research if you want to know the truth.”

  “Chasin’ or not, it’s what ya’ went down there for, right?”

  I drew in a deep breath. I really couldn’t argue with him too much because it really was the reason I’d come here. After a bloated silence, I huffed out my agreement almost as one word, “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Then that’s what ya’ need ta’ concentrate on. You do the Witch stuff, and let us do the cop stuff.”

  Even though I knew continuing to argue with him was futile, I decided to press my friend just a bit further on the subject. “So, tell me something. If I can’t help then why did you even bother telling me about this, Ben?”

  “Figured since you were there, ya’ had an off chance of hearin’ about it anyway. Thought I’d see if I could get to ya’ first.”

  “But…”

  He cut me off. “No but’s, Row. It was a judgment call.”

  “So how’d you make that call?”

  “How else? I flipped a friggin’ coin.”

  “What a novel approach.”

  “Like I said. Judgment call. Heads I tell ya’ what I can and deal with ya’ bein’ pissed, or tails I don’t tell ya’ and still deal with ya’ bein’ pissed ‘cause I didn’t. For me it was lose-lose no matter what I did.”

  “Glad to know I’m worth so much consideration,” I grumbled.

  “It was a no-brainer, Row. I got bad guys ta’ catch. Better I spend my time thinkin’ about that instead of whether I want ya’ torqued at me now or torqued at me later.”

  “Yeah, I know you’re right,” I conceded.

  “If you wanna know the truth,” he offered. “I didn’t actually flip a coin. I was gonna tell ya’ anyway.”

  “Why, because you figured I’d probably already heard about it?”

  “No… Actually, ‘cause I’m a bit worried about ya’.”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Because you’re afraid I’m going to go looking for her?”

  “Jeezus, White Man, I keep tryin’ ta’ t
ell ya’ I ain’t stupid. Hell, I know you’re gonna go lookin’ for her. What I’m afraid of is that you’re actually gonna find ‘er.”

  *****

  I had to give Ben credit; he definitely knew me as well as anyone could-except for my wife, of course. I was definitely going to look for Annalise, and finding her was my ultimate goal. I had absolutely no idea how I was going to accomplish this, but I knew where I was going to start. Therefore, I had no more hung up with him than I was heading out the door in search of a way to get into the local crime scene. What I was going to be able to do at almost 2:30 in the morning was yet another mystery, especially considering the fact that I didn’t even know exactly where the crime scene was located. However, I had an idea, and since I wasn’t going to be able to sleep for a variety of reasons, I decided I might as well get started.

  I had no doubt my friend was correct in his assessment that I wouldn’t be welcomed with open arms, so the head-on approach wasn’t even an option. Especially since I wasn’t going to get any support from him or Constance where that was concerned. This was something I would have to do on my own, with subterfuge. As my wife had recently pointed out, I wasn’t a very good liar, so that was yet another hurdle I would need to face. Unfortunately, deceit was going to be necessary because the truth was simply too insane to be believed.

  I had just pulled my door shut when my next-door neighbor stepped out of her room and, not paying attention to where she was going, stumbled directly into me. She jumped back with a yelp, teetering on a pair of platform heels that looked a half-size too big. Regaining her composure, she shuffled then leaned against the doorjamb. I wasn’t sure if she was doing it for balance, or if she was trying to look alluring. Maybe it was both, although she wasn’t accomplishing the latter-in my eyes at least. Either way, she simply looked me over and smiled.

  I muttered, “Sorry,” then gave her a nod and started for my car.

  “Gotta light, Mistuh?” she asked before I’d made it two steps.

  Even though it was against my better judgment, I stopped and looked back at her. In the dim swath of yellow spilling from the overhead light, I could see enough of her face to tell that her vacant eyes were fixed with a substance-induced glaze. I didn’t really want to know which substance. Her vinyl skirt was too short, her top too tight, and her makeup too thick. She looked like she was in her late forties, but something about her felt like she was maybe all of fifteen.

  I rummaged quickly in my pocket, withdrew a book of matches and tossed them the short distance to her. She missed the catch even though my aim was dead on, so she stooped to pick them up. While she was doing so, I took a quick glance around to make sure I wasn’t being set up for a mugging or some such and then hurried on to my vehicle.

  As she stood again, she let out a hoarse giggle and called after me, “Ah won’t bite, shuga. Unless tha’s what ya’ wan’ me ta’ do.”

  By now I had the car door open and since I had originally backed in was just getting ready to turn and slip into the driver’s seat. Out of reflex, I shook my head while saying across the top of the sedan, “No thanks.”

  I heard her reply as I was pulling the door shut.

  “Ya’ sure ya’ not lookin’ fuh comp’ny, bay-bee?”

  If she said anything after that, I didn’t hear it because the windows were up, the engine was running, and I was already pulling out of the parking space.

  CHAPTER 3:

  Ben had given me something to go on whether he realized it or not. It was tenuous, I admit, but it was something. He’d told me they found the victim in a motel room, specifically, the no-tell type. So, that was where I would start my search.

  When I first set out, I even gave serious consideration to the fact that the murder might have happened right where I was staying. In fact, I was less than a mile up Airline Highway when I literally thought about turning around and going back, imagining for a moment I might be able to exchange some cash for information from my next-door neighbor. That sort of transaction would probably make me her easiest client of the night. Of course, that would all hinge on whether or not she actually knew anything, and she hadn’t struck me as the type to stay up on current events that weren’t a part of her immediate future. Besides, at the rate she’d been going, she had most likely already found someone in need of her particular brand of personal services by now, and I would have to wait until I could catch her between clients. In my mind, standing around waiting for that to happen wasn’t exactly an enticing prospect considering the fact that I was sure to be faced with extricating myself from another sort of proposition yet again. On top of that, it didn’t sound particularly safe either. But, in the end it wasn’t fear or even the distaste that kept me from making the U-turn. There was a niggling hunch in the back of my head, and it kept telling me that I needed to look somewhere else. So, I listened to it.

  I had seen the crime scenes in Saint Louis; therefore, I knew the types of venues the killer chose. While they were certainly establishments of the hourly rate persuasion, they were more along the lines of seedy in a quaint, un-redecorated sense-things like outdated, mismatched furniture and paint or wallpaper that hadn’t been in style for over twenty years. But, the important point was that they were clean. They definitely weren’t anything on the order of the squalid hole where I had taken up temporary residence.

  There was a gut feeling I had about Annalise, or maybe it was her alter ego, Miranda, for all I knew. Perhaps both. It was the product of an ethereal connection I’d made at the second Saint Louis crime scene, and all I could say was that I had picked up an impression. That impression had now formed itself into a theory. To me, it seemed she saw herself as above such a place as the Airline Courts. In fact, I was dead certain she perceived herself as above most everything and everyone.

  Even so, she still picked motels well known for clandestine meetings of a sexual nature for her kills. There could be a handful of logical reasons for this, not the least of which was the fact that she could almost count on absolute privacy, given the nature of the business. But, logic wasn’t what drove a serial killer. Something the experts liked to call a stressor was the motivational culprit.

  So, while the logical reasons may well be factors, if my feeling was correct, she was choosing them for an altogether different, and very specific reason-that being nostalgia. My guess was that, in typical serial killer form, she was attempting to recreate something from her past, possibly even her first kill.

  The question that remained for me was which one of them was responsible? Based on the period of the motels, it almost had to be an event in Annalise’s life, since everything so far indicated Miranda had been dead for better than a century and a half. But then, why was Miranda seizing on it?

  Of course, that was just another part of the big, scary puzzle.

  I’m sure my theory wasn’t new. The FBI profilers had more than likely come up with the very same idea, or something close. However, mine was based on observation and a quick brush with the Twilight Zone , as my friend would say. So, when all was said and done, I had no credentials to back it up; therefore, it was really just a mental stab in the dark. Still, it was all I had to work with, and right or wrong, it narrowed down my possibilities significantly.

  Or, so I thought.

  That last assessment changed the moment I pulled into a combination gas station/mini-mart and thumbed through the hotel listings in a tattered phone book. Even after discounting all lodging that was obviously upscale or I knew to be a reasonably respectable chain that didn’t fit the image I had kludged together, there was an exorbitant number of local motels that I didn’t know enough about to confidently exclude. In fact, I gave up on my cursory count when I hit 50 and there were still more to go.

  What started out in my head as a promising slip up by Ben had now turned into a daunting task that my exhausted brain wasn’t at all interested in tackling. It then crossed my mind that my friend hadn’t actually slipped up. He probably already knew how overwhelmi
ng it would be.

  Of course, even if the list had only been a dozen or so locations as I had hoped, I still had yet to figure out how I was going to determine which one actually was the scene of the homicide. Calling the numbers and asking if they’d recently had a murder in one of their rooms didn’t present itself as a terribly attractive or even productive option. Nor did driving to each one and hoping for a psychic impression to tell me when I’d arrived where I needed to be. Given the way my head already felt, I probably wouldn’t be aware of one if it happened anyway.

  I still had an option though. Ben had told me they didn’t run a story in the paper, but I wasn’t entirely sure I believed him. He could have been lying, which was something he was more than willing to do if he felt it was in the best interest of the person he was trying to protect, namely me.

  If that was the case and it actually had been reported in the newspaper, maybe it would point me to the correct place. I knew that idea was full of if’s and maybe’s, but it was really my best option at this point. However, it was also something that wasn’t going to happen at this hour. It would have to wait until well after sunrise when I took my planned trip to the New Orleans Public Library because the paper I needed would be nearly a week old, and that would probably be the only place I could get my hands on it, if at all.

  I actually felt my shoulders fall in a physical response to the realization. The growing weariness had been held at bay by sheer will, and that was now crumbling in the face of failure. The extra high dose of aspirin I had taken wasn’t helping either. While it was only doing a little to dull the edge on my headache, it was definitely going a long way toward enhancing my exhaustion. I caught myself yawning as I stood at the payphone and knew what little energy I had left was draining from me as if someone had just pulled a cork to let it out.

  Now that I had to postpone this nocturnal quest, my thoughts were relegated to returning to my motel room, so I could at least try to get a few hours sleep. I ripped the pages from the phone book and stuffed them into my pocket, just in case, then turned and started back toward my car. Before I made it as far as the front bumper I stifled two more eye-squinting yawns.