Rise by Moonlight

by Nancy Gideon

  A vicious sweep of his arm cleared all the bright-eyed illusions of a happy family from his desktop.

  – – –

  “Where is she?” Brady demanded as the door opened.

  The stoic guardian blocking the way into the elegant Business District suite never blinked. “Hello, Daddy. Nice to see you. You looked good on television.”

  He bulldozed by Olivia, shouting, “Genevieve! You can’t hide from me!”

  “Hide?” A sleek figure swathed in rippling Givenchy silk and perfume emerged from the next room. “Warren, dear, I have nothing to hide from.” His hope that she was ignorant of the events in his office ended with her soft, “But you did and should have.”

  He didn’t try to defend himself. “I need your help.”

  She glided over to the sideboard to pour a hefty glass of bourbon which he took in less than steady hands, bolting it down. “A little late to come for advice, now that this is a clean-up situation rather than a repair.”

  Seeing his power crumbling, Brady scrambled in an attempt at damage control. “I can still be of use to you. I know these beasts you’re struggling to suppress. I can earn back your trust, help with your final solution. I have contacts and influence—”

  She smiled, the gesture reminiscent of Karen Crawford’s condescending smirk. “The Terriots have proven to be rather wily and persistent enemies. You underestimated them. I will not. I can’t let them use you as a weapon against me. Once you’re out of the way, they’ll see no need to risk their safety on pointless retribution.”

  His shoulders rose and crumpled in defeat. “Send me North, Genevieve. I’m ready to escape this place and these lowly creatures.”

  “I agree. I’m not unmerciful.” She studied him for a long moment then promised, “I’ll arrange things.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  News reached Cee Cee at her desk as a slow-rising tide of excited whispers surged into a tsunami of chaos. She glanced at her partner, who shrugged as the wave swept toward them.

  If she hadn’t been sitting down, she’d have been swept away. Gripping the uniform’s sleeve before he could carry the mind-blanking news any farther, she demanded, “Where did they find him?”

  “In his home office.”

  She and Babineau exchanged wide-eyed looks as the messenger continued his tidal surge down the row of desks.

  “Suicide? That’s nice and neat.”

  She nodded, too stunned to process the fact of Warren Brady’s ignominious death. She and Babineau joined the group clustering around a fellow detective’s desk. Eyes widened as they watched a replay of Karen Crawford’s interview as unidentified callers ripped through their former commissioner with fierce intent, their words composing his death warrant before the court had its chance to try him.

  Justice swift and sure. And final.

  Before they could speculate farther, a call brought the partners to Atcliff’s office.

  “Caissie, you’re Officer in Charge since Babineau was a potential witness. Keep his contribution minimal. Dovion is on scene. Handle this,” he charged, tone grim, expression unblinking. “Lock it down. Contain it and wrap it quickly. No loose ends. No mistakes. No speculation. Don’t give the press anything else to feed on.”

  “Yes, sir,” Babineau answered for them.

  – – –

  The main drive of the Garden District home was filled with official vehicles while press clogged the street and sidewalks. A beat cop directed them to one of the few remaining parking spots with a philosophical, “Get ready for the shit show.”

  The halls of the mansion were bustling with various personnel. News media had yet to penetrate the active scene. Cee Cee paused at the wide staircase where a stoic Ophelia Brady sat within the curl of her mate/husband’s arm. When Cee Cee bent close to express condolences, she was met by a clear-eyed stare.

  “We need to talk, Detective Caissie.”

  “Did you witness what happened?” Images of her own father’s violent death blasted through her memory, threatening her calm façade. She wouldn’t wish that on this lovely innocent.

  Ophelia shook her head, clarifying, “I called it in.”

  When the detectives glanced at Kip, he said, “I wasn’t here. Phe called me after she reported it.”

  Gently, Babineau asked the young woman, “Were you in the home at the time, Miss Brady?”

  “No. I found him . . . that way. After.”

  Cee Cee nodded. Good. One less complication. “Did you enter the room or touch the body?” She didn’t need to explain the complexity of the question. Did you compromise the scene?

  Ophelia took a shaky breath. “No. I could tell from the doorway there was nothing I could do.”

  Smart girl. “Have you been interviewed yet?”

  “Briefly by the first men on the scene, but not officially.”

  “Okay.” Cee Cee pressed one of her cold, still hands. The first shivers of shock hadn’t settled in yet. But they would. “Don’t speak to anyone but me or Detective Babineau.” She looked to Kip. “Take her back to the Towers. Let no one in but us. No calls, no company. No discussion of what’s happened here.”

  He nodded, adding a respectful, “Yes, ma’am,” before cupping his hands beneath Ophelia’s elbows and lifting her to her feet. She leaned into his supportive embrace, but before he could guide her away, she reached out to touch Cee Cee’s arm.

  “Please see he’s treated with respect.”

  One grieving daughter to another, she vowed, “I will.”

  – – –

  Dev Dovion had secured the scene, shooing out all who could possibly contaminate it, including the first responders once they’d briefed him. When the ME spotted the two detectives in the doorway, he gestured them in after noting their presence for the record and confirming they’d taken proper precautions.

  After a quick assessment, Babineau sighed. “Well, that’s one way to avoid a prison term.”

  Cee Cee’s practiced gaze detailed the event laid out in grisly fashion. “But did he choose it, or did someone pick it for him?” She looked to the coroner. “Whatchu got, Dev?”

  “Estimated TOD an hour, no more than three ago. I’ll narrow that down once I take him home with me. Cause of death single GSW, looks to be self-inflicted from the placement of the weapon after discharge.” He gestured to the gun on the floor beside the victim’s chair instead of still in curled fingers on the desktop. “My guess is that’s his service piece. I’ll confirm, pull prints, test for gunshot residue, and get that to you ASAP.

  “First responders attempted to render aid, found no breathing, no pulse, no muscle tone in the eyes, and were smart enough to get the hell out without touching anything else before calling it in. I secured the scene upon arrival, recognized and protected the evidence as there was no aid to be rendered.”

  The victim was Warren Brady, and whether he’d taken the coward’s route or someone else had decided the destination for him was the question.

  He still wore his dress uniform from the taping of Crawford’s damning interview. Coincidence, ending his life where he’d effectively ended his career and chance for redemption? His body had been knocked back by the force of the round entering through the roof of his mouth and exiting the top of his flung-back head. Glassy eyes stared up at nothing in particular. The drapes pulled across the window behind the big desk were redecorated with blood and brain matter.

  “Any sign he may have had help with this life ending decision?” Babineau asked as shrewd gaze tracked the trajectory.

  Devion scowled. “It would seem half the local entertainment industry trooped in and out of the room this morning, but we’ll see what the evidence can narrow down for us. Once I have a list of everyone who was here with Ms. Crawford and detailed statements of their purpose and whereabouts, I can better determine if anyone other than the commissioner was in the room at the TOD. You know the drill. I’m treating this as a potential homicide unless the evidence proves otherwise.”
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  Cee Cee considered the implications and said quietly, “There are those who may want to rush that ruling of suicide.”

  Dovion smiled. “You know me, Charlotte. I’m as easy to rush as a tax refund. This scene and this case will be treated the same way I handle all my investigations. The answers’ll come from the evidence, not for the sake of convenience or reputation. Go. Do your job and leave me to mine. Once I get the obvious physical evidence bagged and recorded, I’ll get the techs busy with photographs, measurements, and sketches. I’ll need this room examined with the same magnifying glass we’ll be under.”

  Cee Cee nodded.

  By the time they exited the room, her requested team had arrived. All stops had been pulled out regarding manpower to get the incident processed and concluded with every due diligence. Having assigned the tasks of canvassing the grounds and neighborhood and obtaining phone and electronic records, she and Babineau did a sweep of the house, checking for potential surveillance via the security cams only to come up empty. Apparently, Brady had shut off all electronic access to his private spaces after the disastrous interview. He’d dismissed his personal staff and had left the premises, according to a neighbor, to go . . . where? To do what? See whom? Had he returned alone or with someone else? He had all the secretive markings of someone getting ready to bolt.

  To start filling in those blanks, they went to the Towers to talk to Ophelia Brady. She and Kip were alone in Rico’s apartment, the owners next door at Colin’s to give them privacy while Charlotte’s official interview was recorded. Ophelia had seen Crawford’s program. Her call to her father had gone unanswered, but he’d contacted her less than an hour later, asking her to come to the house, alone.

  “He sounded agitated and . . . sad. He didn’t say why he wanted to see me but . . . I think it was to say goodbye.”

  “Was it something he said that had you thinking that? Please be specific, Ms. Brady,” Cee Cee coaxed.

  “Just a feeling, Detective. A father-daughter thing. Not much rattled my father, but something had.”

  “The interview?”

  Slowly, she withdrew her hand from Kip’s to wipe at her eyes, but her response was steady and strong. “It was damning but he’s . . . he was a fighter. He’d be putting another plan in place.”

  “Perhaps,” Cee Cee inserted gently, “he did.”

  “To kill himself? My father had too much ego to let someone like Karen Crawford take him down. He’d never allow anyone to think of him as a coward.”

  “He left the house after the interview. Any idea where he would have gone?”

  “No. He never confided his personal or professional business to me.”

  Cee Cee nodded and continued the questions. “When you arrived, did you notice anything unusual?”

  “The gates were open. There was no one at the door. My father is . . . was a stickler for his privacy. And considering the interview he’d given, he’d be expecting a lot more press. He wouldn’t have just let anyone walk in. He always had someone stationed at the front door and usually outside his office, especially if he was in a meeting and didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Did you notice anything out of place or unusual as you approached?”

  “The doors to my father’s study were open. He never leaves them open.”

  “Even though he’d asked you to come?”

  “No. He liked the impression that you were asking for an audience and needed his permission to enter.” Another wry smile.

  “Any voices or sounds of any kind as you approached?”

  “No.”

  Tone gentling, the Officer in Charge asked, “Describe what you saw as you reached those open doors. Take your time.”

  Voice strong, yet trembling slightly at times, Ophelia relayed the impressions she had taken in with stunned then horrified eyes, those that matched the current scene. She’d seen no indication that anyone had been with him.

  “Did you enter the room or touch the body?”

  “No. He was beyond help. I didn’t want to contaminate the scene.” A faint tug at thinned lips. “Cop’s daughter.”

  “And what did you do next?”

  “I placed a 9-1-1 call and waited at the front door for them to arrive.”

  She relayed calling Kip and described his one-time place within the household, and also placing an unanswered call to her sister, Olivia, all very crisp and clear.

  “Ms. Brady, do you know of anyone who would want your father dead?”

  A choked-off laugh. “You can start with anyone who’s been a guest of the NOLA PD.” She wiped at her eyes. “Other than that, my father had strong opinions and took some unpopular stands, both professionally and personally. I’d say the list is fairly long and not exclusive to criminals.”

  “Do you know of anyone who’s threatened him, either personally or professionally, anyone who might want him dead?”

  “I’d start with Carmen Blutafino, who was mentioned in the interview, and work my way down, Detective. I wasn’t privy to his hate mail. He isolated us from that side of his life.”

  “To your knowledge, did your father suffer from depression or ever contemplate self-harm?”

  “No. He had a strong attachment to his life.”

  “And his family?”

  Hesitation then a flat, “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you believe his actions are directly related to the charges he has pending?”

  “I believe that’s up to you to determine.”

  Babineau nodded to his partner who concluded the interview and stopped the tape. She pressed the hand of their now visibly shaken witness. “Is there more, off the record?”

  Ophelia looked her straight on as she vowed, “He didn’t kill himself. I think we all know that. He became a liability to those he ran with, one that had to be silenced after this morning’s interview and the connections it made.”

  “Blutafino?” Babineau suggested.

  “Perhaps, but I think more likely, it’s closer to home.”

  Cee Cee sat back, silencing Babineau with a raised hand before he could speak. “Who, Ophelia?”

  “I know things,” she said quietly. “I always have. My sister and I have always shared an unusual bond, psychic twins, I guess. I know when she’s near. I can feel her. My sister, Olivia, killed our father for Genevieve Savorie, just as she did our mother.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  After dodging reporters and co-workers alike through the lunch hour, Devlin Dovion thumbed through his collection of show tunes looking for an appropriate soundtrack for his celebrity guest star. He smiled. Chicago. Rubbing at his bad knee after being on his feet all morning, he turned away from his vintage CD player to gown up. Smiling as the chorus of “He had it coming” began, he turned, coming face-to-face with an unexpected visitor.

  “Christ on a Cracker, Savoie, you nearly put me on one of my own tables!”

  “Sorry. Charlotte always threatens to put a bell on me.”

  Giving his heart rate time to decelerate, Dovion glanced around to make sure they were alone. “You can’t be here.”

  “Do you have a minute before you get started? It’s important.”

  “I can’t discuss this case with you. You know better.”

  “I do, and this isn’t that, at least not directly. This is personal.” Meaning that someone foremost in both their hearts.

  “Only a minute.”

  Max accepted that warning with a nod and followed Dovion to his chaotic office where pictures of his family and Charlotte Caissie were prominent. He took the uncomfortable chair he was directed to.

  “Is this about the baby?”

  The concern in the other man’s voice eased Max’s tension. “No. Something else. You know Charlotte better than just about anyone, and I trust you to keep a confidence for her sake, not my own.”

  “You know I will. She’s family. Like one of my own kids.”

  “There are so few folks she’s let herself love.”

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nbsp; “And this involves one of them.” When Max nodded, Dovion prompted, “Are you going to make me guess?”

  “Warren Brady and Carmen Blutafino have been robbing, terrorizing and extorting the city for decades.”

  “That’s not news anymore.” Worry clouded the ME’s gaze as he waited for the other Italian loafer to drop.

  “Byron Atcliff is involved with them. He killed Tommy Caissie to earn his way in.” After a long moment passed and Dovion had yet to blink, Max added, “The man she calls her uncle murdered her father to keep him from testifying. And he also killed a witness who knew of his involvement in one of her current cases. How can I tell her that, especially now?”

  Dovion exhaled in a rush then grew somber. “You’re certain of this?”

  “Yes. Both a witness to Pomerelli’s murder and Simon Cummings confirmed it. What am I supposed to do? Tear down the only thing she believes in?”

  The ME slumped back in his chair to consider the question. After a pensive moment, he replied, “That’s not quite true, Max. She believes in you, and she believes in the law and the work she’s doing for the citizens of this city. To discover Atcliff is a false god will be a blow, both personally and professionally, but she’ll survive it and be stronger for it. She has us to support her. Will she blame the messenger? If that worries you, it shouldn’t.”

  Max exhaled, the shoulders of his immaculately fitted suit drooping, looking as uncertain and helpless as he had over a barbeque grill in Alain Babineau’s driveway the first time they’d met, at a loss with the mysteries of human emotion. “Being with me has made her life difficult enough.”

  “No.” Dovion laughed, shaking his wiry haired head. “Being with you brought the shades of gray she needs into her to life, instead of just rigid black and white. She’s found the compassion a good public servant needs to be righteous instead of always right. You supporting her makes that easier. But to find out you’ve hidden something this important to protect her, now that she won’t take well. And I wouldn’t want to be you if that happens.”