New Orleans Requiem

by D. J. Donaldson

  “There’s a wine-and-cheese reception tonight from six to eight,” Broussard said. “He’ll probably attend that and go to dinner from there.”

  “Where’s he likely to be this afternoon?”

  “If I’m not mistaken, he’s got the four o’clock paper in the Path/Bio session.”

  “Think I’ll pin his tail on there.”

  “I’m expectin’ a call sometime around eight,” Broussard said. “So I was plannin’ on stayin’ close to the phone tonight. But I can’t make it on a few cheese squares and a glass of wine.” He looked at Kit. “How about we go to Grandma O’s for some dinner at five. It’s an uncivilized time to eat, but these are special circumstances.”

  “Fine with me.”

  Kit was too excited to work in her office or go back and listen to papers at the meeting. She needed to get out and do something that didn’t require much thought or concentration. With two hours to kill and remembering Phyllis Merry-man’s comment about walking the dog not being enough of a workout, she strolled over to Maison Blanche on Canal. There, she bought two Liz Claiborne jogging suits, a purchase that made her feel so healthy and responsible, she was able to stop thinking about when she would actually begin exercising. On the way home to change for the reception, she made a detour past the upholsterer to pick up her recovered footstool.

  18

  The partition between ballrooms D and E had been slid back, but there was still not much room for maneuvering. Broussard was in line with Kit’s ticket for a free glass of wine, leaving her to scan the immense crowd for familiar faces. It was the first outing for her ivory bouclé suit with onyx-and-gold buttons, and judging from the attention she was getting, it was working.

  Having felt too dressed up for Grandma O’s, she’d removed her pearl-and-gold earrings at the restaurant and had put them in her vanilla velvet purse. She was about to retrieve them when two men came toward her.

  “Kit, how nice to see you. Since we haven’t run into each other until now, I can only conclude that you’ve been truant.”

  It was D.C. Burrows, the psychiatrist who had been the instructor in the Criminal Psych workshop she’d attended at Johns Hopkins last year. He was a brilliant man but too free with his hands around women. He was as heavy as she’d remembered and still wore a Vandyke beard. His hair was also as long and curly as before, but he’d shaved off his sideburns, which made his hair now look like a furry hat.

  “This is my friend, Dr. Carlyle,” Burrows said. “Whatever you think of me, you’ll think of him.” His companion was tall and thin, with a prominent Adam’s apple. As if to compensate for Burrows’s lack of sideburns, Carlyle’s ran all the way to the angle of his jaw, where they terminated in a little jog, like the end of a hockey stick. Kit barely heard the conversation from that point on because, between the two men, she saw Jason Harvey staring in her direction.

  Finding her so preoccupied, the two men soon moved on, and when they did, Harvey detached himself from the group he was with and came toward her.

  Her mouth went dry and she considered fleeing into the crowd, but before she could act, he was standing in front of her.

  “Dr. Franklyn, I’m Jason Harvey.”

  Forcing herself to act naturally, Kit took his outstretched hand, hoping he wouldn’t notice how cold hers had become.

  “I understand you do double duty here,” he said, “suicide investigator for the medical examiner and psychological profiler for the police.”

  Usually when a man’s eyes made Kit feel uncomfortable, it was because they seemed to be undressing her. But Harvey’s cold gray stare went far deeper and she could feel him inside her brain, probing, searching. Until this moment, the chase had been largely an abstract exercise. Even when they’d begun to suspect it might be Harvey, there had been a distance between her and the reality of it all, mostly because she and Harvey had never met. She had seen him every day this week, often a mere few feet away, but she had always been with friends and he had never spoken to her. It was the difference between watching the tiger comfortably from the other side of the bars and being in the same cage with him.

  “I expect you’ve been a great help in the search for the killer of those three people this week,” Harvey said.

  Kit felt like a small bird being stalked. What was he after?

  “Monster, that’s what he is,” Harvey said, “an animal in human form.”

  And now he’d begun describing himself, toying with her, enjoying the game. . . . Monster was too complimentary a word.

  “Are you close to an arrest?” he said bluntly, keeping any urgency out of his voice. But his eyes gave him away. He wanted the answer to this question far more than he let on.

  She wanted to tell him exactly how close they were, so she could watch his confidence crumble and see fear grow in his eyes. Instead, she lied. “He’s given us very little to work with and what we’ve got doesn’t make much sense.”

  His eyes shifted a little from side to side, as though trying to find a knothole in the fence she’d erected. He said nothing in reply, letting the silence run on until it became palpable.

  As much as he disgusted her, she had to admit it was an excellent response, one that might well make a liar back and fill. But she held her ground, meeting his eyes with her own, ignoring the silence.

  After a short standoff, he said, “I’ve been considering adding a suicide investigator to my own staff. And I think you and I would get along well. There would, of course, be a joint appointment with the police. Would you be interested at, say, twice what you’re making now?”

  This was quite an unexpected turn of the conversation and through her surprise Kit wondered what its purpose was. She decided it was merely misdirection to get the subject off murder and onto safer ground now that he’d found out how they were progressing.

  “I’m quite happy where I am,” Kit said. “But I appreciate the offer.”

  Harvey reached into the side pocket of his jacket and produced a card. When she made no move to take it from him, he reached out, lifted her hand, and pressed it into her palm. “If you change your mind, give me a call.” Then he moved off.

  Kit wanted to fling the card away from her, but, more than that, she didn’t want to arouse his suspicion. Her hand tingled from his touch—the touch of a madman.

  She turned and nearly ran from the room. Outside it, she hurried across the foyer and down a short hall to the ladies’ room. There, her investigative instincts prompted her to examine the card front and back briefly before throwing it in the bin for used towels. She turned on the water, intending to rid herself of the feel of his skin.

  But she hesitated. She had touched the tiger. And under the revulsion, she felt excitement. Surprised by this emotion, she looked at herself in the mirror, wondering where it had come from. Annoyed that he had given her pleasure, she filled her palm with soap and rubbed her hands viciously under the faucet.

  When she had cleaned him away, she dried her hands, put on her earrings, and returned to the reception, finding comfort in the belief that Harvey would likely remain free only a few more hours.

  She looked for Broussard and saw him still in line, now only three away from being served.

  “Hello, Kit.”

  She turned, to see Nick Lawson, in a suit and tie that made his ponytail look even more ridiculous. He leveled his index finger at her.

  “You owe me an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “For not telling me you believed the killer was attending this convention. And after you agreed to keep me posted.”

  “Old habits die hard.”

  “I’ll give you a chance to make it up to me. If the killer keeps to his pattern, he’ll go again tonight. But I get the distinct feeling something’s in the works. How about letting me in on it?”

  This was bad news. If there was one thing they didn’t need right now, it was Nick Lawson poking around.

  “You’re right,” Kit said.

  “About what
. . . something going to happen?”

  “And for being upset at me. After all, we did have an agreement.” She looked around and stepped closer. Sensing he was about to learn something juicy, Lawson turned an ear toward her so he wouldn’t miss a word.

  “First, promise me you won’t get in the way,” she said.

  “I promise.”

  “There’s a trap set for the killer at the Praline Connection in the Faubourg Marigny. I don’t know exactly when it’ll be sprung, but it’s there.” In principle, Kit disliked lying. In practice, it was sometimes necessary, and the two she’d told in the last five minutes didn’t even nudge her conscience. Phyllis Merryman would be proud.

  “Who’s the killer?” Lawson said.

  “We’ll know after the trap is sprung.”

  “What’s the setup?”

  “Gatlin wouldn’t tell me.”

  He leaned back and looked at her skeptically. “Is all this true?”

  Even though she was lying, Kit became angered that he would question her integrity. “Accept it or not, makes no difference to me.”

  He studied her face a few seconds more, during which she tried to look truthful. Finally, he said, “I believe you.”

  Carefully fashioning an expression of concern, she said, “I hope you’re not going over there.”

  “No, but I’ll probably spend the night hanging around the central lockup waiting for them to bring him in. Thanks for the tip.”

  “Just don’t make me regret I gave it to you.”

  As he made for the door, Kit congratulated herself on that last touch.

  “We could use another couple of bartenders,” Broussard said, appearing with a plastic cup of red wine in one hand, white in the other. “I’d complain, but it’s my fault.” He offered her the white wine. “Sorry about the cup; that’s not my fault. What’d Harvey want?”

  “He asked me if we were close to an arrest.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I wanted to scare the pants off him, but instead, I played dumb.”

  “He believe you?”

  “He’s a hard read, but I think so. And get this, he offered me a job.”

  “First thing he ever did that showed any intelligence.”

  Kit’s mouth opened in surprise. “Why . . . could that have been a compliment?”

  The skin above Broussard’s beard grew pink. He rarely put his feelings for people into words, expecting those he was fond of to read his mind. On those odd occasions when he slipped up, Kit always pressed to see how far he’d go.

  “Nice turnout,” he said, looking away.

  One of his less adroit escapes, Kit thought, raising her cup to her lips.

  Hugh Greenwood emerged from the crowd and came over, a plate of assorted cheeses in one hand, a cup of wine in the other. “Care for some?” he said, holding the plate up for Kit.

  Not wanting to have cheese stuck in her teeth for the rest of the night, Kit declined.

  “You might as well take it,” Greenwood said. “I can’t figure out how to get any.”

  “Put the plate on top of your wine,” Kit suggested.

  “And maybe I could twirl a couple of hoops from my left ankle at the same time.”

  Still, he took her suggestion and popped a square of cheddar into his mouth. Then he took the plate off his cup and washed the cheese down with some wine. He gestured to the crowd with his plate. “Care to guess what the major topic of conversation is out there?” He waited briefly and then, when no answer was forthcoming, said, “They’re wondering if this killer can pull off another one. Some even have money riding on it.”

  “That’s bizarre,” Kit said.

  Greenwood shrugged. “You get right down to it, we’re a bizarre group of people. Before I laid out any money, thought I’d see if you had any tips for me.”

  The temptation to crow over the plans unfolding was almost as strong now as when Kit had spoken to Harvey. But she said nothing.

  “Gamblin’ is a vice,” Broussard said. “My tip is . . . don’t do it.”

  Greenwood looked at them suspiciously. “Do I sense that you’re not being entirely open with me?”

  “No two people ever said anything to each other without both of ’em holding back somethin’,” Broussard said. “There anything you’d like to tell us?”

  Greenwood’s face twisted into a parody of a smile. “The best defense is a good offense, eh, Andy? Have it your way. It’s your town and you’re the one under the spotlight. You probably should be careful.” He looked over the crowd. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m having a good time.” Then he wandered off.

  “Strange man,” Kit said. “I get the feeling he wants to be friendly, but he keeps people at arm’s length with gibes like that remark about twirling a hoop and with obtuse little exchanges like you just had with him.”

  “He’s sort of an acquired taste.”

  A heavy hand fell on Broussard’s shoulder. “Thought you might be too busy to make it,” Leo Fleming said. “Kit, you look as cool as ice cream and just as tasty.” He glanced at Broussard and then at Crandall Brooks, who was with him. “Either of you two tell my wife I said that, and I’m a dead man.”

  Fleming’s manner suddenly shifted from jocular to diffident. “Sorry Brookie . . . about mentioning my wife. I wasn’t—”

  “Leo, you’re overdoing it,” Brooks said. “Lighten up.”

  Fleming accepted Brooks’s rebuke with apparent relief.

  “How’d your paper go this afternoon?” Broussard said to Fleming. “Sorry I couldn’t be there to ask you a hard question.”

  “One of my damn slides was in upside down. I must have checked ’em four times before comin’ and one was upside down. I dunno . . . I just dunno how that kind of thing can happen.”

  “You didn’t leave ’em anywhere around Charlie Franks, did you?” Broussard asked.

  “Leo, it was a picture of a saw,” Brooks said. “Who knows when a saw is upside down?”

  “If that’s true, how come you know which one I’m talkin’ about?”

  “Leo, it doesn’t matter,” Brooks said firmly. “Andy, you made any plans for dinner?”

  “Already ate.”

  “So early?”

  “I need to stay by the phone tonight, so I’m headin’ for my room after this.”

  “How about you, Kit? Want to come with Leo and me?”

  “I’ve eaten, too. But thanks for the invitation.”

  “Andy, Leo told me he mentioned the Harvey team to you. Anything come of that?”

  “Let’s just say wheels are turnin’.”

  AT 7:45, HARVEY LEFT the reception alone. Seeing him go, a slim, dark-complexioned man wearing a meeting ID that identified him as Victor Ochoa, a forensic serologist from Phoenix, tossed his plastic cup in the trash and moved in the same direction, well aware that there were half a dozen stairs Harvey could duck down and be gone if he didn’t hustle.

  Harvey bypassed the corridors that would have taken him to those obscure passageways and stepped onto the down escalator behind the Mint Julep lounge. From the top of the moving walkway a few moments later, Ochoa saw Harvey leave the escalator and turn right. Not wanting him to get too far ahead, Ochoa doubled his rate of descent by adding his own speed to that of the moving steps.

  At the plaza mall, Harvey turned left and Ochoa raised his hand to his mouth, simultaneously pressing the TALK button on the radio in his pocket. “Ochoa to code six. Subject is wearing a gray suit and appears to be heading for the Loyola exit.”

  To the rear of the parking lot near the Loyola exit, in a black van with heavily tinted windows and CRESCENT CITY PEST CONTROL lettered on the side, Phil Gatlin unfolded a map of the downtown area and spread it out on the van’s fold-down table. Across Loyola, in a parking lot on the corner, the driver of an unmarked car containing three occupants waited for instructions.

  Gatlin picked up his radio and pressed the TALK button. “Six leader to Ochoa. Is subject carrying
anything?”

  “Negative. Both hands are free.”

  “Nuts,” Gatlin muttered.

  From the driver’s seat of the van, Jack Green said, “What’s wrong?” Because of a florid complexion that made him too noticeable in a crowd, Green was rarely used as a foot soldier, but was usually assigned to drive either the van or a pace car.

  “The pages of newspaper this guy’s been leaving on the bodies have only been folded twice and he couldn’t conceal a page that large on his clothes, which may mean he’s not going to do one tonight.”

  “Maybe he’s got a stash somewhere.”

  “It’s also too early. The others were done after midnight.”

  “He might be thinking to pull a fast one in a dark corner before we’re expecting it.”

  “There he is.”

  They watched Harvey walk past the parking lot driveway, losing him when he passed behind the jasmine-covered lattice panels lining the lot. Aware that the plantings in the neutral ground on Loyola would prevent a clear view of Harvey from the waiting car, Gatlin raised the radio to his lips. “Six leader to Larizzo. Dutch, he’s heading for Poydras. You can get a look now if you go down Loyola. But keep moving and don’t make it obvious.”

  “Larizzo to six leader. Leaving now. . . .” Larizzo pulled onto Loyola and nudged the gas.

  “This is a short guy, right?” Howie Turgeon said from the backseat.

  “Yeah, Slick estimated him at about five ten,” Larizzo replied. “Okay, there he is.”

  “Gonna be hell to keep up with him in the Quarter if it’s crowded.”

  “We could ask him to carry a flag on a stick for you.”

  “Constructive, real constructive,” Turgeon said. “You ain’t gonna be the one gets his ass reamed if we lose him. All you gotta do is drive the car.”

  Nobody liked this duty, least of all Frank Fortier, the detective in the seat beside Larizzo. But he wasn’t going to cry about it like Turgeon.

  Faces front, they passed Harvey and continued on through the Poydras intersection.

  A minute later, Gatlin heard, “Ochoa to code six. Subject has crossed Poydras and turned toward the river.”