by Susan Fleet
She felt like a mule had kicked her. Convincing Emily that her father was never coming home would clearly be an ongoing project.
“We have a lot to do tomorrow, Emily. We're going to see Grammy in Luling. Won't that be fun?”
“Aren't I going to school?”
“Not tomorrow. In a few days. Tomorrow I need you to make a birthday wish-list for me, and a list of the kids you want to invite to the party so I can get the invitations.” And order the cake, and buy the presents and wrap them, and make the arrangements for Robbie's memorial service.
She bent down and gave Emily another kiss. “I need to go take off my makeup and go to bed. Sleep tight, sweetheart. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mom. You're not going to go away, are you?”
Her breath hitched in a sob and her throat constricted. Fighting tears, she said, “Emily, I'm not going away. I'm going to stay right here with you and the new baby.” And René.
Trembling with exhaustion, she shut out the light, tiptoed out of Emily's room, went downstairs and burst into tears.
_____
9:35 PM
When Frank picked Kelly up at the airport, she gave him a quick kiss, got in his car and said, “I saw the news about Gates on TV. What happened?”
“Tell you all about it later.” He didn't want to think about it now. He wanted to take Kelly home and make love to her. “Tell me about your trip.”
By the time she finished telling him about her high school reunion and visits with her relatives, they were at her house. When they went inside, Kelly left her suitcase in the living room and went straight to the refrigerator. “I need a beer. You want one?”
“Sure.” He sat at the kitchen table, his eyes feasting on her. She looked as gorgeous as ever, slim and trim in her travel outfit: black leggings and a turquoise jersey that set off her short dark hair. She opened two bottles of Sam Adams and brought them to the table.
“Sit here,” he said, and pulled her onto his lap.
She laughed and put her arms around his neck. “You missed me, huh?”
“Like you wouldn't believe.” He kissed her, a deep probing kiss, savoring the sweetness of her mouth. Ten days she'd been gone, but it felt like ten years since her bare skin had touched his.
He pulled up her jersey, unhooked her bra and caressed her breasts, relishing the warmth of her smooth bare skin. She moaned and pulled his mouth down to her breasts. Inhaling her fresh-vanilla scent, he licked her nipples and caressed her back. “You've got too many clothes on,” he murmured. “Let's go to bed, save the beers for later.”
They went in her bedroom and ten seconds later they were naked, their clothes piled in a heap on the floor. When Kelly saw the bandage on his left arm, she frowned. “What's that?”
“Nothing to worry about.” He pulled back the bedclothes, jumped in bed and held out his arms. She got on top of him and kissed him, moaning softly, urging him on. He plunged inside her, reveling in the slick wetness, her body as ready as his. They might argue about some things, but after four years their lovemaking was as fresh and passionate as ever, no holds barred, nothing held back.
Ten minutes later, they lay on the bed in companionable silence. Sated and relaxed, he reached for the Sam Adams bottle on the bedside table, took two swallows and looked at Kelly.
She smiled and traced a finger down his cheek. “Now that we've had our Missed-You-Like-Crazy celebration, tell me what happened to your arm.”
He laughed. “Aw gee, do I have to? Relax and enjoy your beer.”
A familiar glint flashed in her sea-green eyes, a warning sign he knew all too well. He loved her feisty nature, but this was no time to mess with it. He leaned down and kissed her.
“Okay, but get comfortable. It might take a while.”
They propped their pillows against the headboard. Snuggled together, their naked bodies touching, they chugged Sam Adams while he told her about his frustrating search for Darin Thanh, aka Ponytail, Donna and René hunting for the kidnapper’s house, René packing a gun, intent on killing Darin.
“Can't say that I blame him,” Kelly said, “but what if Darin had a gun?”
“Fortunately, he wasn't there. René left him a note and they went home. But when he got a phone call and left with the gun, Donna freaked out, called Blanche and gave her Darin's address. When Blanche called me, I was already in Kenner, so I headed for his house, but then ...” To tease her, he paused and drank some beer.
“What?? Jesus, Frank, tell me!”
“I spotted Ponytail in Donna's car and followed him.”
“By yourself?” Kelly said, frowning at him. “Did you call for backup?”
Kelly being Kelly. She was well aware of his risk-taking tendencies.
“Of course. I sent Kenyon and David to secure the house in Kenner, called Vobitch for backup. But when I got to Hunter Firearms, Darin had already shot Gates. He was barely alive when I got to him. The guy was a prick, but I felt bad for him. He told me to tell Emily he loved her.”
Even now, thinking about it bothered him. Maybe it hit too close to home. What if his luck ran out and he got shot? Would he be asking someone to tell his daughter Maureen that he loved her?
“Where was Darin?” Kelly asked.
“Trying to escape with a million bucks in a suitcase. But before I went inside, I let the air out of the tires on Donna's car. And you'll be happy to know I also put on my Kevlar vest.”
Kelly's eyes turned somber. “Fine, but a vest won’t protect your head, Frank.” She touched the bandage on his arm. “What happened?”
“I chased Darin into the warehouse. He shot at me, but he only had two rounds left. One went wild. The other one hit a forklift, tore off a chunk of metal that sliced up my arm. No big deal. Only seven stitches.”
“No big deal,” Kelly muttered. “Jesus, Frank, I leave town for ten days, and you almost get yourself killed. Where's Darin now?”
“At East Jefferson Hospital with two NOPD officers posted outside his room.”
“Congratulations!” Kelly said, beaming at him. “You solved the case.”
“Not quite. We still don't know who Donald Duck is. Tomorrow I'm going to the hospital to question Darin.”
CHAPTER 47
MONDAY November 1 – 8:10 AM
Frank slipped into his chair in the Homicide office and took the lid off his coffee container. It took longer to get here from Kelly's house, but that wasn’t the reason he was late. He'd woken up feeling frisky, nudged Kelly awake, and they had enjoyed a slower, more exquisite version of last night's lovemaking, taking their time to make it last.
“How's Kelly?” Kenyon said, deadpan, his eyes fixed on his computer screen. After a moment, he looked over and grinned. “Mmm, mmm, mmm. Sappy smile like that, must have been a splendid reunion.”
From his desk in the corner, David chortled, “Injured arm and all.”
Kenyon rumbled a laugh. “Where there's a will there's a way.”
“Just call me super-stud,” Frank said, enjoying the camaraderie, the District-8 homicide team psyched, happy that they'd cracked the Gates case.
Saturday night Vobitch had told them to take Sunday off and get their reports to him on Monday. David had supervised the search of Darin's van. In the rear compartment they'd found a baseball bat with blood stains on it. Kenyon had overseen the crime scene techs as they searched the house. They’d found Donna's purse in the kitchen and several incriminating documents on Darin's laptop.
Relaxed and happy, he sipped his coffee, thinking about Kelly. A sappy smile? Hell yes. His arm was a little sore but the rest of him felt fine.
His desk phone buzzed and the internal line lit up. When he answered, Vobitch said, “Frank, I got news. Come in my office.”
Judging by the clipped words, he knew something was up. He grabbed his coffee and headed for Vobitch's office. When he stepped inside, Vobitch was seated at his desk, looked like hadn't slept all night, his face haggard and unshaven, gray stubble
dotting his cheeks and jaw.
Frank took the chair beside the desk. “What's going on? You look exhausted.”
Vobitch glowered at him, his slate-gray eyes bloodshot. “Been up since four. Got a call from the hospital administrator I talked to Saturday night. Darin's dead.”
Stunned, Frank said, “Jesus! What the hell happened?”
“According to the NOPD uniforms posted outside his room, a female nurse went in the room at two and Darin was fine. At three-thirty, one cop left to take a leak. A minute later a male nurse comes along with one of those clipboards, had on green scrubs same as the other nurse, goes in Darin's room, comes out ten minutes later and disappears. Four o’clock the female nurse goes in to do her scheduled check and Darin's dead, no pulse, no heartbeat.”
“The male nurse,” he said.
“That's what I figure. Nobody else went in there. No official COD yet, but I talked to the nurse that found him. She said it looked like someone snuffed him with a pillow. His eyes had those hemorrhages, like you see with asphyxiation victims.”
“Did the cop give you a description of the male nurse?”
Vobitch grimaced. “Yeah, such as it was. Average height, average build, five-seven or five-eight, weighed 150 or so. The only distinctive feature, he had red hair.”
“Might have been a wig. What about his voice?”
“Nothing. The guy never opened his mouth. I called the head honcho who runs the hospital, rousted him out of bed and told him to get over there. Pissy-assed guy tried to give me grief, but I bulldozed him, had him print out a list of the doctors and nurses on duty between six PM Saturday through the Sunday overnight.” Vobitch flashed his evil smile. “You ready for this?”
Frank puffed his cheeks. “Probably not. Dazzle me.”
“East Jefferson Hospital employs a male nurse named Leonard Picou.”
Another shocker. Frank sat there, his heart going 100 miles an hour, the puzzle pieces falling into place.
“Was he working Sunday night?”
“No, but he worked the four to midnight shift Saturday night.”
“Damn! Remember the male nurse who went in the room across the hall from Rose? At the time, I felt like he looked familiar. I've never met René, but his picture is on his website. How old is Leonard? Maybe he's René's brother.”
“Thirty-five.” Vobitch sipped his coffee. “So. You think René went trick or treating at East Jefferson Hospital last night?”
“Yes. In a red wig.” Frank rose to his feet. “Let's get over there. I want to talk to the nurse.”
“Hold on. East Jefferson Hospital is in Jefferson Parrish. Not our jurisdiction. The Jefferson Parrish Sheriff's department is running the show.” Vobitch waved a hand. “Along with the hospital, of course. The head honcho assured me they'd do a thorough investigation. Wouldn't want any of their personnel offing patients.”
A sharp rap sounded on the door and Kenyon Miller burst into the office. His earlier jovial demeanor had disappeared, replaced by a grim expression.
Dismayed, Frank sank back in his chair. What else can go wrong?
“Sorry to interrupt,” Kenyon said, “but this is important.”
“Not a problem,” Vobitch said. “What's up?”
“Nothing good. Sam Thompson just came in the office with his wife.” Kenyon set a paper bag on Vobitch’s desk. “That's his service weapon. His wife's afraid to leave him alone, said he almost ate his gun last night. He's Donald Duck.”
“Damn!” Vobitch said. “Get him in here.”
After Kenyon left, Frank said, “That sucks.”
“Sure as hell does.” Vobitch raked his fingers through his silvery hair. “You suspected him all along, but I never thought an NOPD cop would be involved in this. Jesus, what a mess.”
The door opened and Sam Thompson entered the office, dressed in civvies. A petite Caucasian woman gripped his hand. His wife, Frank assumed. He offered his chair, but she shook her head and stood beside her husband. She was a foot shorter than Sam, five-six and slender, dressed in a green-plaid skirt and a white blouse. An attractive woman, but her eyes were bloodshot, looked like she'd been crying.
Clearly distraught, Kenyon stood on the other side of Sam, frowning, his face solemn. Sam put his badge on Vobitch's desk and stepped back.
“I'm sorry,” he said in a deep quiet voice. “I know I shouldn't have got involved with that guy.”
“Why did you?” Vobitch said evenly, fixing him with a look.
Kenyon started to speak, but Sam silenced him with his hand. “We needed money. My son's disabled and even with both of us working …” He put his arm around his wife. “We barely make ends meet. But I never thought Darin would kill the boy. Never. That just made me sick.”
“So you let Emily and Donna go,” Frank said.
Sam nodded, his dark eyes anguished. “I was afraid he'd kill them, too. Darin called my cellphone after I let them go, but I didn't answer. Didn't want nothing more to do with the bastard. But I got no excuses. I shouldn't have done what I done. Now I got to face the music.”
“He's a good man,” Abby said in a tremulous voice. “A wonderful husband and father.”
Vobitch tapped his pen on his desk, his brow creased in a frown. “You're right, Sam. Time to face the music. But you let two hostages go, probably saved their lives, came in voluntarily and turned yourself in, so that should work in your favor.”
Moved by Sam's obvious distress, Frank said, “Have you got a lawyer?”
“No, sir. We don't have much money, probably use a public defender.”
“We'll see about that,” Kenyon said. “Get the patrolman's association to set up a fundraiser.” To Vobitch, he said, “You want me to take Sam to an interview room and record his statement?”
“Yes,” Vobitch said. Clearly troubled, he heaved a sigh, gazing at Sam and his wife. “Thanks for coming clean about your involvement, Sam. It takes guts to do that, but you did the right thing. Thanks for standing by him, Mrs. Thompson. You're doing the right thing, too.”
“I can't imagine doing anything else,” Abby said.
“Let's go record your statement,” Kenyon said. “Get that over with.”
As they turned to leave Vobitch said, “Hold on a second. Here's some news that might interest you, Sam. Darin is dead.”
Sam stiffened. “Dead? Last night on the news they said his wounds weren't life-threatening.”
“They weren't,” Frank said. “Someone went in his hospital room early this morning and killed him.”
Sam stared at him like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Appearing equally stunned, Kenyon took Sam and Abby out of the office and shut the door.
In the silence, Frank sat there, staring into space, feeling like he just got off a roller-coaster. After getting the news that Darin was dead, he had feared they might never find the other kidnapper. Now they knew who he was, but Frank wasn't happy it turned out to be Sam.
Vobitch seemed equally subdued, sitting at his desk, stone-faced, a muscle moving in his jaw as he stared into space.
Breaking the silence, Frank said, “I'm glad you told him.”
Vobitch scratched the stubble on his jaw and shrugged. “Sam probably wanted to kill the bastard himself, but it's clear that he didn't. His wife was with him, so he's got an alibi.”
“Sam might have an alibi. The question is, does René?”
“I don't know and I don't give a fuck. If he offed that slimy no-good scumbag, he did us all a favor.”
Frank thought a moment and said, “My sentiments exactly.”
CHAPTER 48
TUESDAY November 2 – 2:00 PM
The sweet scent of white lilies filled the tiny Unitarian church in Luling. Dressed in a dark suit and tie, Frank sat in a wooden pew near the back, recalling his mother's funeral, one of the saddest days of his life. He hated funerals, but he wanted to be here. He owed Robbie that much at least.
Claudia Cohen wasn't here nor was Raven Woodson. The memori
al service was invitation only, no public notices posted anywhere. Blanche had invited him, saying she appreciated what he'd done to capture Robbie's killer. He’d thanked her and told her that she and Donna had helped by giving him Darin's address.
Up front near the altar a dozen or so mourners occupied pews on either side of the center aisle, several of Blanche's close friends and four young men in dark suits, members of René's band. In the front pew on the right, Emily sat between Donna and René, wearing a white dress. Sunlight slanting through a stained glass window fell on Donna's face. Blanche sat beside her. Both women wore simple black dresses with cap sleeves and both were in tears.
Stone-faced, René stared straight ahead at Robbie's casket, a polished-maple box with burnished gold handles. The child-sized casket stood on a low pedestal. A heartbreaking sight.
The minister strode onto the altar, his black robe billowing. He mounted the pulpit and invited them to stand. After the first blessing, he asked them to be seated, put on wire-rimmed spectacles and began his eulogy for Robbie. Lost in thought, Frank only heard fragments—a good son, an outstanding student, a budding musician.
At the conclusion of his eulogy, the minister left the pulpit, settled onto a high-backed upholstered chair and nodded at René.
René kissed Donna, rose to his feet and went to an electronic keyboard on the altar flanked by bouquets of white lilies. He seemed nervous, wiping his hands on his black trousers, then putting them on the keyboard. He noodled some chords, as though working up the courage to play, then launched into a familiar tune, beloved by millions.
Your Song by Elton John. René played it all the way through.
Then, in a light tenor voice he began to sing. But not Elton John's words.
René had written his own lyrics.
“Robbie wasn't a big boy … but he was always in my heart …”
Frank's throat thickened. He sank back against the seat and shut his eyes, but he couldn't block out the lyrics.
“You loved your mother, Robbie, and she loved you, too …