Polly Iyer - Diana Racine 03 - Backlash

by Polly Iyer

  Chenault laughed, then stopped when Lucier stared at him. “Sorry, but I keep thinking how spooky it must be to have a girlfriend like her.”

  “She’s never given me a reading. No need. She knows me all too well.”

  “Not once?”

  “If she has, she didn’t tell me.”

  “She have any vibes about Moran’s killer?”

  “No.”

  “Then why’s she going to Moran’s house if not to help the police?”

  “We were giving it a shot. We’re trying Henry Winstead’s car next. You’ve heard about that one, haven’t you?”

  “The drunk in Bayou St. John? Sounds more like guilt catching up with the guy for killing a whole family. Why, you think his death and Moran’s are connected?”

  “Probably not. We’re thinking someone in Winstead’s victims’ family paid him back.”

  “You mean out of revenge? I’d understand if they did.” Chenault polished off the last of his lunch and pushed his empty plate aside. His phone beeped again, and again he ignored the message. “Gotta go. Hope your lady gets lucky.”

  “Luck has nothing to do with it.”

  “Guess not. It’s still creepy.” He got up. “We should do lunch again sometime, Ernie.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Don’t bet on it.

  Chenault waved to a couple of people across the room and strutted out the door. What about the guy set Lucier’s antennae on high alert? He wondered whether old feelings for him were getting in the way of his objectivity. Chenault’s cocky strut, smug attitude, and perfectly groomed hair irritated the hell out of him.

  He threw a tip on the table, which Chenault failed to do, and left. If Chenault was involved in Moran’s murder, Winstead’s, or both, he was a cold bastard.

  Lucier pictured Mathieu Soulé with the hole in his forehead. Then he pictured Chenault behind bars.

  Better leave the visions to Diana.

  Chapter Twelve

  Who’s the Boss?

  Hodge finally got through to Chenault. “Call me back on the other phone.”

  “I couldn’t talk,” Chenault said when he called Hodge back. “I was at lunch with Ernie Lucier.”

  “Lucier? What the hell did he want?”

  Chenault repeated the lunch conversation. “Someone at Kitty’s saw me pick up Moran after work. I couldn’t deny we were friends.”

  Shit. “Moran’s email account is protected like the Pentagon’s, but I bet he sent the email to someone else because he knew he was doomed.”

  “Lucier also mentioned Winstead.”

  Hodge paused a long time, wiped the sweat off his forehead. “He’s fishing, but we’re still in deep shit. I’ll keep working on Moran’s email when I get home today.”

  Hodge hung up. Lucier was onto Chenault. Tying Chenault to Moran and mentioning Winstead was a bad sign.

  Hodge punched in one number, waited for an answer, and explained what had happened. “He wanted to keep his relationship with Moran secret.”

  “I make it my business to know everything about the men I work with. Lucier won’t quit. That’s not his style.”

  “If he has something concrete,” Hodge said, “Chenault will give us all up to save his ass. That’s his style. Don’t even mention Alba. I don’t think either one of us feels like spending the rest of our lives on death row, waiting for the needle.”

  “The way I see it, we have no choice.”

  Hodge’s stomach turned over. “Christ.”

  A long silence preceded “The problem will end there.”

  Hodge agreed. He didn’t see any other way. It came down to Chenault and Alba against the rest of them and the good of the mission.

  “We need to discuss this, the sooner the better. Are you free tonight?”

  “I can be,” Hodge said.

  “Good. Contact the others. We can kill two birds with one stone.”

  An adage couldn’t be more perfectly stated. “You’re the boss.”

  “Don’t forget it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Blue Door

  Lucier returned to an empty office. Halloran was checking out the family members of Winstead’s and Soulé’s victims. Beecher and Cash were searching the Lower Ninth Ward for an abandoned house with a blue door, probably hanging on its hinges or kicked to the ground.

  Lucier wanted to question Chenault’s alibis, Hodge, Feldman, and Alba, without involving an outsider. He’d wait for his team to return. In the meantime, work had piled up on his desk demanding his attention.

  Two hours later, Beecher called. “Abandoned house, blue door, black tarp. Called it in.”

  Yes. Lucier’s adrenaline took over. “Address?”

  Beecher told him.

  “On my way.”

  * * * * *

  When Lucier arrived on the scene, Beecher and Cash were about to canvass what remained of the neighborhood.

  “Seeing what’s around, I doubt we’ll get anywhere,” Beecher said. “But we’d be remiss if we didn’t try.”

  Lucier had moved to New Orleans in his early teens from Cambridge, Massachusetts. He loved his adopted city, but every time he saw neglected areas like this, he struggled to hold back the anger. Greed, politics, and apathy were the great curses in modern-day America, and the victims were those without a voice, mainly the poor. The Lower Ninth Ward proved a good example.

  “You never know,” he said.

  “Didn’t I just see you?” Charlie Cothran said, arriving on the scene shortly after Lucier.

  “This is your lucky day, Charlie,” Lucier said.

  “I was about to go home, but when I heard this might be the guy you mentioned, I said I’d take the call to see for myself.”

  “They unwrapped the tarp enough to make sure,” Lucier said. “It’s him all right.”

  “Let’s take a closer look.”

  With no electricity, the CSU set up lights inside the shuttered house. Lucier and Cothran walked into the back corner where the body lay covered except for the head. The foul smell turned Lucier’s stomach; so did the visual.

  Cothran bent down and, with the help of one of the techs, unwrapped the tarp, shaking his head when he observed Mathieu Soulé’s deteriorated body. “Guess he won’t be raping any more eleven-year-old innocents, will he?”

  “Other than the fact he’s dead, the penis jammed in his mouth makes that a no-brainer, which I’m sure was the point.”

  “Don’t know who’s sicker, the murderer or the victim,” Cothran said. “Better get on with my job.”

  “I’m going to check with Barlow.” Lucier considered Boots Barlow the best crime scene tech in all of New Orleans. He found her outside studying the ground wearing booties over her ever-present boots, hence the nickname. “What do you think, Boots?”

  “Oh, hi, Lieutenant. Don’t think. Know. Two people. They parked on dirt. Nothing unusual about the tire treads, but the footprints are another story.”

  “Why?”

  “The ground is hard because we’ve had almost no rain, but it’s soft enough to show they were wearing booties to cover shoe treads.”

  “You mean like cops wear at a crime scene?” He put out his foot. “Like these?”

  “And these.” She put out her foot too.

  “What about the tarp?”

  “I didn’t want to mess with it until Doc did his thing. I’ll go over it at the lab, but two guys wearing booties are going to be wearing gloves. I doubt I’ll find anything. These guys were careful. I may find something on the victim though.”

  “Lieutenant,” Cothran called from the door of the house. “Could you come here, please?”

  “Catch you later, Boots. Let me know what you find.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Lucier walked back to the house.

  “Take a gander.”

  Cothran had turned the body. A beer bottle protruded from Soulé’s rectum. “As if they had to make their point again.”

  * * * * *

&
nbsp; Later, when Lucier and his team returned to the district, he asked, “Okay, anyone know Alba or Feldman?”

  “I was at the academy with Alba,” Cash said. “Nice guy but a little on the light side.”

  “What do you mean?” Lucier asked.

  “A dimwit,” Beecher said.

  Cash shook his head. “Not exactly. He was fine with the physical stuff, but some things took him longer to absorb. Frankly, I was surprised he passed the tests.”

  “What’d I tell you? A dimwit.”

  Lucier shook his head. “Sam, it’s better if you don’t use words like that.”

  “Oh, I forgot,” Beecher said. “I’m supposed to be politically correct. Okay, how’s this? He’s stupid.”

  “Closer,” Cash said.

  “Jeez.” Lucier pinched the bridge of his nose. “We need to get statements from these three to corroborate they were with Chenault the night Moran was murdered.”

  “You gotta know by now that Chenault covered his ass with these three,” Beecher said. “If he lied to you, they’re all in on this.”

  “In on what?” Cash asked. “You think Chenault killed Moran, Lieutenant? He’s a cop.”

  “I don’t think anything, but Emile at Miss Kitty’s fudged about Chenault picking up Moran the night he was killed. Miss Kitty didn’t want to get involved, and said Emile was mistaken. So did Chenault. He gave these three guys as alibis. Cash, since you know Alba, get his statement.”

  “We go to the same gym.”

  “I don’t want to wait until you run into him. Track him down. If the others are at their districts, get them alone. Tell them if they won’t answer your questions unofficially, you’ll make it official.”

  “Okay.”

  “What’s up?” Halloran said, sauntering into Lucier’s office. “What am I missing?”

  “How’d your interviews go with the ―” Lucier checked his notebook ―” Donat family?”

  “No one in that family hit Winstead,” Halloran said. “I’ve never seen a more timid group of churchgoers. They weren’t sorry Winstead was dead, but if I’m wrong about them, I’d better give up police work.”

  “And the girl’s family?”

  “Her father was thrilled Soulé took a bullet. Said he wished he’d taken him out himself, but he didn’t. No tears shed in either case, but their reactions seemed honest.”

  Lucier drew a line across his notebook. “I knew it was a long shot. A cop’s life isn’t that easy. Sam, interview Feldman tomorrow morning. Halloran, you take Hodge.”

  “What are you going to do?” Beecher said.

  “I’m going to check out a woman by the name of Jaycee Diamond. She’s a ―”

  “Stripper,” Cash said.

  All three men zeroed in on the youngest member of their team.

  “Hey, I’m single, okay? She’s got the biggest ―” He cupped his hands to demonstrate.

  “Never mind,” Lucier said. “Go.”

  “On my way.”

  Beecher watched Cash leave. “Oh, to be young again.”

  “I won’t mention that to your wife,” Halloran said.

  “Much appreciated,” Beecher said as the two older cops left Lucier’s office.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pay Attention to the Hackles

  Savoring a steak at a local diner, Chenault dug his ringing phone out of his pocket.

  “You got the other phone with you?” Hodge asked.

  “It’s in the car.”

  “Get it.”

  “I just started eating.”

  “Someone’s going to call you.” The line went dead.

  That meant the boss. Hodge’s tone rankled him. Since when had he become the boss’s secondhand man? Chenault wolfed down a few more bites, threw some bills on the table, and hurried to his car. He got there in time to pull the safe phone from his glove box. As always, the readout said “Private.”

  “You need to take care of Alba, tonight. You know Restview Cemetery?”

  “Off Read Boulevard?”

  “Yeah. Meet us there at ten, and bring Alba. Tell him I called for a meeting. He’ll believe you. Drive all the way to the back.”

  “Why a cemetery?”

  “That’s where dead people are buried. Understand?”

  “Jesus, I hate ―”

  “Just do it, Chenault. That’s an order. And take the phone with you in case there’s a change of plans. Do not leave it in your car.”

  “Okay, but ―” The call disconnected.

  Chenault didn’t have a good feeling. Ever since he’d killed Moran, he’d been on edge. It was a senseless murder, but what else could he do? Everything had gotten out of control. They were supposed to right judicial wrongs, punish those who needed punishment, like he had arranged to punish his father. Instead, they were murdering friends. Covering their mistakes only created another mistake, each one bringing them closer to discovery.

  Would it stop at Alba? If Alba’s email is discovered with my name on it, will I be next?

  Good thing he didn’t finish his dinner. The bad feeling unsettled his already queasy stomach even more. Could this be a trap? If so, he wouldn’t go unprepared.

  He called Alba and told him about the evening’s plan and that he’d pick him up in a couple of hours, after he checked in at the site of a home invasion.

  “Why at a cemetery?” Alba asked.

  “Restview is out of the way. No one will see us.”

  Alba hesitated. “Okay. My shift is over. I’ll grab a bite of dinner and be ready when you get here.”

  Chenault should never have recruited the guy in the first place, but Alba’s story of childhood abuse convinced him he was a good choice. Alba was his mistake, it seemed right he should be the one to take him out.

  Too fricking late for regrets.

  An out-of-the-way place to meet. It sure as hell was. He checked his weapon, then added an ankle holster with a .22 for good measure.

  * * * * *

  Chenault picked up Alba at nine-fifteen. He wanted to arrive at the meeting place early, get a feel for the area, but Hodge’s car was already parked in front of the tree-lined border in back. So much for arriving early. Clouds sifted across the half-moon, shrouding the old cemetery in an eerie darkness. Tombstones, monuments, and grave markers placed every which way with no pattern exaggerated the spooky atmosphere.

  Two dark figures, no more than shadows, leaned against the car, waiting. Chenault parked next to them, and he and Alba got out. The air smelled damp and earthy, raising the hackles on Chenault’s neck. Tight-lipped, he nodded to Hodge, then at the boss who rested against the SUV with his hands in his pockets.

  Something was off. Tension filled the air and wrapped tightly around Chenault’s chest. Hodge wouldn’t look him in the eye, and when he finally glanced Chenault’s way, his friend appeared almost apologetic.

  “Why’d we have to come out here?” Alba said.

  “To get a few things straight.”

  “Yeah, I screwed up. A stupid mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  “Exactly. It won’t happen again.”

  The boss’s tight, clipped words set an ominous tone. This meeting wasn’t only to silence Alba. Hodge slid his hand into his pocket, putting Chenault on high alert. He knew what was coming down even before his old friend pulled a gun from his pocket. Chenault drew his, but he was a fraction of a second too late. The first time Denny Chenault had ever been late on the draw.

  The blast pierced the quiet night.

  “Why?” he cried out.

  Pain burned into his chest like molten lava, and he crumpled to the cold ground. So, so cold. He should have known. He should have.

  Another shot.

  “What ―”

  Chenault heard Alba’s unfinished sentence, felt the young man’s body thump next to his. Chenault tried to move, to lift the gun still in his hand. A hard shoe kicked it away. Helpless, his breath laboring in short spurts, sucking dirt into his mouth, he closed
his eyes to a darker world.

  He thought Hodge said, “Sorry, Denny.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Little Kink

  The next morning, Lucier parked in front of a small, well-kept house on the outskirts of the city. He could have called ahead, but he didn’t want Jaycee Diamond calling Chenault to double check what she should say. He rang the bell, and a tall, statuesque woman answered the door with very little on. A strapless stretch top and shorts cut as high as possible and still be decent.

  Diamond looked him up and down with an appreciative leer.

  “Hell-lo,” she drawled. “What can I do for you?”

  Lucier flipped open his badge case. “Lieutenant Lucier, Ms. Diamond. May I ask you a few questions?”

  “Oh, a cop. What a disappointment. Sure. Come on in. Have a seat.”

  He followed her into a neat living room of chintz and dark wicker and settled into a comfy club chair. Jaycee sank into an overstuffed sofa.

  “I won’t take up much of your time,” he said.

  “I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m strictly legal. I strip for a living, nothing more.”

  “That’s not why I’m here. I understand you’re friends with Dennis Chenault.”

  “Denny? Sure. We’ve gone out a few times.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “He’s a cop. You should know more about him than I do.”

  “But not in the same way.”

  “We’ve gone out to dinner. Nice places.”

  “And after dinner?”

  “I didn’t realize cops beat around the bush so much. You want to know if we’ve had sex?”

  “I wouldn’t presume to ask,” Lucier said, feeling mildly uncomfortable now. He should have planned this interview more carefully instead of coming off like an altar boy.

  “But you want to know. Why?”

  He dodged the question with one of his own. “When was the last time you saw him?”