Polly Iyer - Diana Racine 03 - Backlash

by Polly Iyer

  “The other night. Tuesday, I think. He came to my show, and we went for a nightcap after. Then he took me home, we had sex, and he told me he didn’t want to see me again. The rat.”

  “Did he say why?”

  She stood up, stretched suggestively. Though Lucier tried not to notice, Cash was right. She was stacked and then some.

  “Men don’t dump me, Lieutenant. I usually dump them.”

  Lucier had conducted hundreds of interviews, and his gut told him there was more to the story. He tried again. “What reason did he give?”

  “Just that we were finished. I wasn’t in love with him or anything. There was always something missing, you know?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I knew his reputation. Love ’em and leave ’em. Mostly with someone else’s wife. Like he didn’t want to commit. He always dumped them. Pretty shitty, if you ask me. But I’m single; he’s divorced. I thought, okay, let’s see what all the hoopla is about with this guy. But he … he needed kink to get off.”

  “Kink?” Jesus, he was acting like a rookie, or a dumb teenager. He knew what kink meant.

  She worried her bottom lip. “This won’t get back to him, will it?”

  “If he ever hears of our conversation, you’ll be the one to tell him.”

  “Well, since I won’t be seeing him anymore, I’ll tell you. He liked anal sex, and not only him into me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You know what a strap-on is?”

  The heat rose to Lucier’s face. He swallowed hard. “Yes.”

  “He liked it both ways, along with me going down on him. I’ve never experienced that before. I thought he might be ―”

  Lucier interrupted. “Gay?”

  “Or bi. He couldn’t get it up any other way, and believe me, I tried. He always got me off, but I wondered if he played kinky with all women or just me.” She crossed her long legs in a slow suggestive manner. “Some women think they can change a man, you know? But if he’s twisted like that, it ain’t happening. I gave him a go, though. Thing that makes me mad is him dumping me. I should’ve been the one.”

  Lucier wasn’t a prude, but this conversation had taken a path he didn’t expect. One more question. “Did he ever mention the downside of being a cop?”

  “Like what, specifically?”

  “Criminals getting off when they shouldn’t, or how easy it was for the bad guys to walk?”

  She thought, pursed her brightly painted red lips. “You mean like justice isn’t always just?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He didn’t talk shop much, but he mentioned that kind of thing once or twice.”

  Lucier rubbed his chin, nodded, and got up. He got what he came for. “Thanks for your candor. Detective Chenault won’t hear any of this from me.”

  She followed on his heels. “I didn’t even offer you a drink. Tea, water,” she paused, “something stronger?”

  “No thanks. I’d better be going.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant ― I forgot your name.”

  “Lucier.”

  “Luce ― Aren’t you the cop boyfriend of that psychic? You were in the paper after the piano player was killed, right?”

  “Um, yes and yes.”

  “Whoa, talk about weird.”

  “Not really.” Lucier was getting sick and tired of people telling him how strange it must be having Diana as a girlfriend, but he wouldn’t argue the point. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Did Denny do something? He must’ve, or you wouldn’t be asking these questions.”

  “Tell you what. You forget I was here, and I’ll forget everything you told me. How’s that?”

  “Sounds good to me.” She took his arm. “So you’re hooked up, huh?”

  “I really am.”

  “Pity.”

  Lucier left Jaycee Diamond’s house and headed to the district. She wouldn’t be his type even if he were looking for a woman, and he wasn’t.

  The possibility that Chenault was gay or even bisexual had never occurred to Lucier before Miss Kitty mentioned his friendship with Moran. If that was the case, and Chenault ruined marriages as a cover to keep him in the closet, he was sleazier than Lucier ever imagined.

  Was Moran’s death the result of a lover’s quarrel or something more?

  Lucier wondered why he was so fixated on Chenault. True, he didn’t like the guy, didn’t care about his sexuality other than his method of concealing the truth, and ten out of ten people probably would agree that justice wasn’t always equal or right. Even Chenault’s kinky sexual habits didn’t prove anything. Lucier had nothing concrete to implicate Chenault in what he now thought of as two revenge murders. Still, he couldn’t erase the gut feeling that Chenault was somehow involved.

  Beecher and Halloran were writing up their reports when he got back to his office. Cash hadn’t returned from interviewing Alba.

  The two men followed Lucier into his office. “Are you ready for this? Rudy Hodge and Marty Feldman said they went barhopping the night of Moran’s murder and closed the place down. They weren’t playing cards.”

  “I sure didn’t expect that.” Lucier looked over the papers on his desk, but he wasn’t reading them. His mind scattered in ten different directions.

  “Why would Chenault name them as alibis?” Beecher said.

  “Because I put him on the spot and asked him to name names. He came up with the best alibi he could on the spur of the moment, figuring his buddies would cover his ass.

  “Split up the time frames and go back over the court judgments for the last couple of years. Pull out any you consider similar to the Soulé and Winstead verdicts. Then cross check everyone involved, including jurors and judges. See if anyone met with an accident or was a victim of an unsolved case. Make note of the day and time.”

  “You still think there’s an avenger?” Beecher asked.

  “Feels like a pattern. Right now, I’m curious how Chenault will react when he finds out his friends didn’t cover his back.”

  “If you can find him,” Halloran said. “I haven’t been able to.”

  “Did you check with his captain?”

  “Yup. He hasn’t heard from him either.”

  “This is looking suspiciouser and suspiciouser,” Beecher said.

  Lucier rubbed his chin. “Our vigilante could have started with one case that was personal, then taken it upon himself to recruit others to right a series of what he considered wrongs. Maybe they all had something to avenge. A case they worked on, something in their families. Cover all the bases.”

  “Couldn’t find Alba anywhere,” Willy Cash said, joining the rest of the team.

  “What do you mean?” Lucier asked.

  “What I said. He didn’t call out, and he didn’t show up at his district either.”

  “What the hell.” Lucier was still trying to assimilate the information when his cell rang. Diana.

  “Ernie, you need to come here right now.”

  “What is it?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Diana, talk to me. What?”

  “Remember what I saw when I touched Keys?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The actual picture is on my computer, in my email. And Keys Moran sent it to me. You’ll never guess who forwarded the email to him and who sent it originally.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Break in the Case

  “Whoa, boy,” Lucier said. He quickly relayed Diana’s message to his team. “Keep looking for Chenault, Mickey, and the same with Alba, Willy. Pick them up when you find them. Make it official. I’m going to fill in the captain and then check out Diana’s computer.”

  “Woo-hoo, a break in the case,” Beecher said.

  Lucier snatched his jacket off the back of his chair and said on the way out, “Looks that way. I’d hoped I was wrong and cops weren’t involved in murder.”

  Why would Chenault’s alibis refute him? And what did it mean if the photo came to him from Alba? Nothin
g made sense.

  The captain, about to enter his office carrying a cup of coffee, said, “What’s the hurry, Lieutenant?”

  “Got a break in the Moran case, Captain. I wanted to talk to you before I went any further.”

  “Come on in.”

  Lucier took a chair and related what he’d learned to date, adding the news about the email forwarded to Diana from Moran, with the origins from Chenault and Alba. “Beecher and Cash are on the way to pick them up now, even though both of them seem to be off the grid at the moment.”

  Craven nodded, sipped his coffee. “Sounds like the right move. Hate what this might mean. Chenault’s a good cop. A bit of a publicity hound, but his district captain praises his successes. So does Commander Lightner. Don’t know much about Alba. Why would Chenault kill Moran? What was their connection? And why would he involve other cops as alibis if he wasn’t sure they’d back him up?”

  “Good questions. Maybe Alba, Feldman, and Hodge didn’t know they were covering up a murder and reneged when they found out. Loyalty has a limit, even with cops.”

  After a long sigh, Craven said, “Murder is definitely a limit. Okay, see what’s on Ms. Racine’s computer, then bring it in to our tech department. Moran might have sent the email to someone else besides her.”

  “I doubt he did. He sent it to Diana because he knew she’d get it to the police. Me.”

  “Bring it in,” Craven said in a snappish tone.

  “Sure. You bet.”

  Lucier left, sorry he brought the info about Diana’s computer to the captain. Something about Hodge didn’t sit well with him. How many others were involved? Was Hodge? Could he have found something on Moran’s computer and erased it? Am I off base entirely?

  Fifteen minutes later, he parked in Diana’s driveway. She opened the door before he got out of the car and waited until he got closer.

  “I’m glad you’re here. Why did Keys send me a photograph of a dead man? What does this mean, Ernie?”

  “Show me.” He followed her through the small, compact house to the third bedroom/office. Like his, her office desk was neat, but then Diana had only her hospital visits to the children’s wards and a few charities to organize.

  The photo Diana described of Mathieu Soulé, right down to the hole in his forehead, displayed on the screen, before the addition of the penis, which he decided not to mention. Lucier lowered himself into the chair.

  “This is the exact image I saw when I touched Keys,” Diana said. “The same guy I identified at your office.”

  “Moran had to be with Chenault to access his email, most likely on his phone. So Alba killed Soulé, then sent a picture of the body to Chenault. Why? A trophy? A job well done? From what Cash said, Alba is a bit on the dim side. Probably never thought anyone but Chenault would see this. Beecher is picking up Chenault now; Cash is tracking down Alba.”

  “Oh, dear.” Diana plunked down on the daybed.

  “You okay?”

  “Tomorrow is Keys’s funeral, and he’s dead because he saw this photo.”

  “Moran sent the photo to himself and blind copied the email to protect you, because he figured you’d show it to me. Chenault caught him and killed him.”

  “Keys was a stickler for computer protection. He set up my computer. Jason added a few upgrades and was impressed with what Keys had done. I don’t understand. Why didn’t Chenault take the hard drive with him?”

  “I questioned that myself. I would have, but if anyone heard the shots, he might get caught on the street with the computer of a dead man. Taking Moran’s cellphone was risky enough. I doubt the murder was premeditated.”

  Lucier’s phone buzzed.

  “Chenault didn’t show up for work today,” Beecher said. “Didn’t call in either. I’ve tried his cell. No answer.”

  Lucier thought for a moment. “Have you checked his townhouse?”

  “On my way there now.”

  “Call me if he’s not there, and I’ll get a warrant, though I doubt we’ll find what we’re looking for.”

  “What are we looking for?” Beecher asked.

  “Chenault’s computer and phone. Moran’s phone too.” Lucier disconnected and punched in a number, waited. “Mickey, find a judge to issue a warrant to search Detective Denny Chenault’s townhouse. Tell him it’s a matter of life or death. Then rush the warrant to Beecher. He’ll be waiting.” He gave Halloran the address.

  “Gotcha.”

  “If Alba’s missing, tell Cash to get one for his place too. Keep what I said about Diana’s computer quiet. I don’t want the info going outside our group. The captain knows, but he’s the only one.”

  “Gotcha again, boss.”

  “You think something’s happened to those two, don’t you?” Diana asked.

  Lucier stared at the monitor. “Chenault gave three cops as alibis. Two of them alibied each other and the third, Alba, is missing. That means Chenault has no alibi for the night Moran was murdered. Now Chenault is missing.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Right. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I don’t like it. The captain wants me to bring your computer to the tech department. I don’t want to.”

  “Why?”

  “The chief tech is one of Chenault’s alibis. He’s also the one who checked out Moran’s computer. If he’s involved, I don’t want him to know Keys sent the photo to you.”

  “You’ll go against your captain? You’ve already told him.”

  “I don’t know, but I’d rather not put my hunch out there until I’m sure I’m on the right track. If Chenault is on some kind of mission to right what he perceives to be a miscarriage of justice, he’s not in this alone. That’s if he’s still alive.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “It’s not like a cop to be incommunicado this long, less likely two cops. So, yes, I do.”

  * * * * *

  Lucier took Diana’s computer to his house. He didn’t mention his doubts about Rudy Hodge to Craven. He’d say Diana refused to give him her computer. She had the right. Lucier didn’t have a warrant to take it from her.

  When Lucier arrived back at the district, Beecher and Cash reported that neither Chenault nor Alba was home and neither of their beds had been slept in. They found no computers or phones in either living quarters.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Psychic’s Touch

  The next morning, Diana arrived with Lucier for Keys Moran’s funeral service at the small church he attended in the Bywater district and took seats in the back. Miss Kitty and Emile strutted down the aisle to sit up front. Miss Kitty, in a dignified black suit, still managed to look sexy.

  How does she do that?

  Emile accessorized his European chic, double-breasted navy suit with a white shirt, and dark red tie. The two club owners appeared amazingly conventional for two unconventional people.

  “Lieutenant, Miss Racine.” Captain Craven walked up to them and held out his hand to Lucier. “I understand you wouldn’t let Lieutenant Lucier take your computer so our tech could look it over.”

  “I’d rather not, Captain. I have personal emails from my clients. They expect a certain degree of privacy. If you insist, Jason Connors, the computer tech who handled my website, would be happy to check it out.”

  “I could get a warrant,” Craven said.

  “I suppose so, and I could get an attorney to safeguard my rights.”

  Craven frowned, seemed genuinely surprised, but didn’t persist. “Just trying to protect you,” he said. He shot a disapproving glance at Lucier before continuing down the aisle to take a seat up front.

  Lucier lifted one brow. “You’re tough. Craven wasn’t happy.”

  “I wasn’t bluffing. Either way, I’d probably lose. Psychics don’t have the same rights as doctors and lawyers, but I doubt the NOPD would want the publicity.”

  “They wouldn’t.”

  They moved toward the middle of the row to allow a heavyset man in full uniform sit beside
Lucier. “Commander Lightner,” Lucier acknowledged. “Good to see you. Have you met Diana Racine?”

  Lightner bent forward and smiled at Diana. “Haven’t had the pleasure, ma’am.”

  “The pleasure’s mine.” She noted the commander’s red-veined face, lively blue eyes, and toothy grin.

  “How’re you doing, Lieutenant?” Lightner asked.

  “Doing well, sir.”

  Lightner returned to Diana. “I hear you’re acting as a consultant on the Moran case, Ms. Racine. If I were the guilty party, I’d stay as far away from you as possible.”

  She wanted to ask him if that was why he didn’t extend his hand, but she didn’t want to embarrass Lucier. “If only people realized how imperfect I am.”

  Lightner released a guttural chuckle, then turned his attention to the man who slid in beside him.

  Lucier whispered into her ear, “You’re not imperfect to me.”

  Blushing, she reached for his hand and squeezed it. Though not an overtly affectionate man in public, sometimes Lucier surprised her by saying something unexpected, like now. She was glad he didn’t throw compliments around too often, making the times he showered her with sweet words more special.

  After listening to a hymn Diana didn’t recognize, the buzz in the parish house dimmed, and the minister took the pulpit.

  “Donal Harwood, better known in New Orleans for his music as Keys Moran, was as decent a man as I’ve ever had the pleasure of calling a friend.”

  The minister went on to praise Moran’s goodness and willingness to help their community, often playing the organ for Sunday services. He extended condolences to Moran’s many friends who had come to mourn him. The tribute sounded apropos to the kind man she’d befriended.

  A few parish members got up and spoke, all praising the gentle soul they knew. Their words triggered a lump in Diana’s throat, and she found herself sniffling for the loss of an old friend.

  Her life had been a steady stream of accomplishments and performances from the time she was a little girl, city after city until they all blurred together. Those she worked with over the years had become her friends and family both. Keys had been one of them.