by Jean Thomas
As it turned out, none of it mattered, neither their argument nor her fear that she was risking a loss of the tape. A moment later, with Mark beside her, she gazed in dismay at the security screen locked in place across the front of Malcolm Boerner’s store. The display window on the other side of the steel mesh that featured a pair of dueling pistols and an ancient blunderbuss was unlighted, the shop behind it dark.
“I don’t understand it,” she said. “With all these potential customers out here on the street, why would he be closed? This has to be one of the busiest days of the season.”
“Any chance of getting an explanation?”
Clare thought about it for a few seconds before remembering something Boerner had told her. “Maybe. He did say, if he wasn’t in his shop, I could find him in his apartment.”
“And where would that be?”
“Through here.” She led the way to a wide, vaulted passageway between Boerner’s store and his neighbor’s shop on the other side.
Leaving the congestion and noise of Royal Street behind them, they entered the tunnel that had once permitted carriages to drive into the heart of the building and now accommodated only Clare and Mark.
They emerged from the dimness that echoed their footsteps into a sizable courtyard. The contrast between street and courtyard was so pronounced it had them hesitating in surprise. Unlike the street behind them, the courtyard was deserted and silent. The only sounds were the soft splash of a fountain and the faint rustle of the leaves on a banana plant.
Clare was familiar with the courtyards of the French Quarter. They were friendly and serene, but this place...
Why did it suddenly make her feel chilled when the day was so warm? As if there was something sinister here? She was being silly. Mark apparently didn’t feel anything was wrong.
“Where to now?” he asked her.
She regarded the building across the courtyard. It had the look of a carriage house that had been converted into apartments, one on the ground floor and another above it that had probably once housed slaves. The arrangement was not an unusual one in the Quarter.
“He said his was the ground-floor apartment off the rear side of the courtyard, and that would be over there.”
Circling the central fountain, they crossed the stone flags to a door whose nameplate verified this was Boerner’s apartment.
Lifting a fist, Mark’s knuckles rapped on the door. It obviously hadn’t been securely latched because his action had the door drifting open several inches. As if there had been a hasty departure.
“Funny,” he muttered.
Not just funny, Clare thought, but disturbing. Like the courtyard, something felt not right to her.
Putting his face to the opening, Mark called out a deep “Hello. Anyone home?”
There was no answer. Mark turned to her, his face wearing a look now that could only be described as a military alertness. “Wait here. I’m going in.”
Spreading the door fully open, he entered the apartment. Clare followed on his heels. He was instantly aware of her behind him.
“I thought I told you—”
“I’m not under your command, Lieutenant.”
“All right, but stay behind me, will you?”
She controlled the urge to salute him with a brisk “Sir, yes, sir.”
It was a sensible restraint, because there was nothing amusing about the situation. If the gloom and the total silence didn’t indicate as much, what waited for them in the living room off the small foyer where they stood left no question of that.
Mark’s cautious advance into the room was suddenly halted.
“What is it?” she whispered.
There was no need for his explanation. She saw it, too, when, not waiting for his answer, she peered around him. Murky though the light was, it couldn’t hide the body sprawled faceup on the worn, Oriental carpet.
Mark turned to her with a husky “Boerner?”
There was no mistaking the identity of the thickset figure lying there with its fleshy face and grizzled hair. Clare nodded dumbly.
Mark gazed at her, his craggy face registering a grim concern. “You gonna be okay?”
She managed a numb “Yes.” Because that’s all she could feel, a numbness.
She watched Mark as he hunkered down beside the body, looking at it closely while careful not to touch it.
“Is he—”
She stopped herself there. It was pointless to ask if Malcolm Boerner was dead. What else could he be when, even through the shadows, she could see the round, blood-caked hole in his forehead and his eyes staring up sightlessly at the ceiling?
There was something else she could see. A thin, leather cord around Boerner’s neck. A cord identical to Mark’s lanyard, from which his amulet was suspended. Whatever might have dangled from Boerner’s lanyard was gone, sliced away from the leather ends.
“Mark,” she croaked, “do you see it?”
He understood her. “Yeah, I see it.” He got to his feet.
“Come on, we’re getting out of here.”
“I’ve got to find the tape. If it’s here in the apartment—”
“Are you out of your mind? If someone heard the shot that put a bullet through Boerner’s head, then they probably called the police. There’ll be cops swarming all over the place. Do you want them to find us here?”
“But the tape is vital.”
“Clare, you’re not thinking straight. We can’t hang around, and we can’t leave any evidence we were ever here. And we certainly can’t report the murder ourselves. With you involved as you are in trying to clear your sister of another homicide, you’d be high on the list of suspects for this one.”
He was right. She could see that, now that her state of numbness was dissolving. A cold reality was replacing it. The realization that there had been a reason for the sinister mood she had felt in the courtyard.
“The tape probably isn’t here, anyway,” she said. “He must have kept it in the shop. I don’t suppose...”
“No! Even if we were dumb enough to try to get into that shop, there’s no way we could manage it. Certainly not from the front and not from the rear, either. You might not have noticed it when we were in the courtyard, but I did. The back door is solid metal, and the one window has bars across it.”
Understandable, she thought, when there were valuable firearms in the shop. No choice about it. She would have to forget the tape for now, much as she hated to leave without it.
It was a dismal outcome.
“You touch anything in here?”
She shook her head.
“Me, either, except for the front door. I’ll wipe that down on our way out.”
She watched him as he did a fast look around the room, wanting to be certain they were leaving no traces of themselves behind them.
“All right,” he said, apparently satisfied, “let’s move.”
Chapter 5
Mark left the front door slightly ajar, exactly as he had found it. Clare was no longer beside him. Looking around, he found her standing by the fountain. She was gazing at the bubbling water, but he had the feeling she wasn’t seeing it.
She didn’t seem to be aware of him when he joined her. That worried him. A lot. Whatever recovery she had made in the apartment was gone. What was happening here? A delayed shock?
He had to get her away from this place. From the horror back in that apartment. But first—
Had they been seen by a neighbor either entering or leaving the apartment? There were no windows on the high side walls of the courtyard. Nothing but the ivy growing thickly against the old brick.
What about the apartment over Boerner’s? His gaze traveled up a curling iron stairway to a balcony, then moved rapidly across the row of French window
s there. The windows had a blank look about them, as if the apartment behind them was currently unoccupied. Maybe.
But if someone somewhere close by had heard the shot and called it in, shouldn’t he be hearing the sound of police sirens from the direction of the street? Not that gunfire necessarily meant murder. It could mean a lot of things, so possibly the cops wouldn’t come racing down the street wailing their sirens.
Hell, he didn’t know. The only certainty was his need to get Clare and himself to an area of safety.
She didn’t react when he cupped her by the elbow and urged her across the courtyard and through the carriage way as rapidly as this blasted leg of his would permit.
He was relieved when they reached the street where they could blend in with the crowds; no one was paying any attention to them. He wasn’t satisfied, though, until they reached the mouth of another alley far enough away from Boerner’s shop to be secure. He halted them here.
He could see that Clare was still shaken by the scene they had fled. He had to find someplace she could sit down and rest. Not here in the close confines of the Quarter where the oxygen seemed to be sucked up by the throngs. Yeah, out in the open where they could both breathe.
“My leg could use a bench away from these mobs. Any recommendations?”
He wasn’t sure she’d heard and understood him. She was silent for a moment before answering him. “There are benches in Jackson Square. It’s not far. Just a block over near the river.”
Her voice was wooden, but at least it meant she was functioning again. “Good enough. Lead the way.”
Jackson Square, when they reached it, was far from deserted. There were strolling vendors here selling souvenirs to the visitors, artists perched on stools doing pastel portraits of anyone willing to sit for them, tourists aiming their cameras at the spires of St. Louis Cathedral and the statue of Andrew Jackson. But the area was expansive enough to swallow the crowds, the air fresh off the river.
They managed to locate a vacant bench, settling on it side by side. Neither of them spoke. Mark listened to the reassuring sound of the rattle of a streetcar along the tracks below the levee. The sight of Clare beside him when he trained his gaze on her was not reassuring. She was shivering.
“I’m cold,” she complained. “Silly, isn’t it, when the sun is so warm?”
“Here,” he said.
He didn’t hesitate, and she didn’t object when, wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her against him, sharing the heat of his body.
What are you doing, Griggs? You’ve got no business getting cozy with her like this when you’re dealing with a murder and a woman who might not be all she said she is.
Yeah, but she felt so desirable in his arms. All soft and fragrant, and at the moment compliant, melting against him gratefully. His hands couldn’t resist stroking her back, his mouth at her ear soothing her with husky, comforting words that probably didn’t make any sense but which she seemed to welcome.
When he unwisely started to tighten his embrace, she stiffened in his arms. He got the message and just as abruptly released her.
Okay, so he had made a mistake. She could have blamed him for his lack of judgment. To her credit, she didn’t.
“Sorry to be such a nuisance,” she said, shifting away from him a few inches.
“You’re entitled. I’m used to dead bodies, but I’m guessing this was your first experience discovering one like that.”
“You’d be right.”
“You okay now?”
“I’m fine. Or as fine as I can be under the circumstances.”
“That’s good.”
What had been good, he thought, were those moments when she’d fitted herself so willingly against him. A certain part of his body was still slightly swollen from the effects of that intimacy. Had she been aware of that when he held her?
That face of hers that could have a man imagining all kinds of interesting possibilities didn’t look like it. The expression on it was reflectively solemn. And her tone when she spoke to him didn’t sound like it.
“That leather cord around Malcolm Boerner’s neck. The one so identical to yours.”
“What about it?”
“You didn’t notice then.”
“What?”
“The photo of him on the mantel in the living room. I only had a glance at it before we had to leave the apartment, but I could swear he was wearing an amulet in it similar to yours, cord and all.”
“Was he wearing it when you met with him?”
“No, but he was in that photo.”
“Then why should he go to the lengths he did to get his hands on another one?”
“Because of its value. Oh, I know what you said. That it isn’t valuable. But what if you’re wrong, Mark? Maybe it’s worth a lot. And two of them—”
“Would be twice as valuable, huh?” He shook his head. “This is only so much speculation, Clare.”
“There’s more. What if he was murdered for his amulet?”
Was she being revisited by the image of Boerner’s body lying there on the floor? Was the memory of that why he saw her shudder in that second?
“None of this is doing us any good.” He was suddenly restless. “Look, I need to move. There’s a walkway up there on the levee, isn’t there?”
“Yes, but your leg...”
“Isn’t bothering me now.” Nor had it been back on Royal Street. The leg had been his excuse to find a bench for Clare.
“But it will give me trouble if I don’t exercise it.”
Which was the truth this time. Hadn’t his therapist back at Womack recommended a routine of regular exercise? Besides, he had to think, and he was better at doing that while on the move.
Had Clare decided that his leg was troubling him? It would explain why she began to point out local landmarks as they climbed the stairway to the top of the levee. Her effort to distract him.
“That’s the old Jax Brewery over there on our right. The building was converted to shops and restaurants. And that long structure down there on our left was once the French Market. The place at this end of it is the French Call. It’s famous for its beignets, which are a kind of square doughnut that...”
She was being considerate, but Mark absorbed little of what she was telling him. His mind was elsewhere, seeking explanations for what they had left behind them on Royal Street.
“Not very helpful, is it?” she asked him when they reached the crest of the levee.
“Uh—”
“My guided tour of New Orleans.”
She smiled up at him with that lush mouth that, even in this awkward moment, was a temptation.
“So what has got you so occupied, Lieutenant?”
Other than being relieved that she seemed fully recovered now, a great deal. But he didn’t have an immediate answer for her on that subject. Instead, he focused his gaze on the wide walkway that stretched off in both directions. They weren’t alone up here. There were other couples, families, too, enjoying the sights and sounds of the river. It didn’t matter. The pavement was so broad and seemingly endless it offered a freedom of movement conducive to exercising both the body and the mind. Just what he needed.
“Let’s walk,” he said.
They fell into step side by side, strolling off to the left away from the best views of the city’s most popular attractions. He waited until they’d left behind most of the other strollers before, ready now to talk, he turned to her with an earnest “Two murders of men who knew each other, first Joe Riconi and now Malcolm Boerner. Too much of a coincidence, would you say?”
“I would.”
“And if we put aside the subject of amulets, which couldn’t have been a motive in your brother-in-law’s murder and maybe not Boerner’s, either, then the question is who did kill them
and why?”
“I guess that’s for the police to determine when they get around to discovering Boerner’s death. They’ll search the apartment and the shop, of course, but if they don’t find the tape, I don’t have a way to prove Terry’s innocence.”
“And I don’t have the answers I was hoping to get from Boerner. A police investigation won’t provide them, either.”
He was silent for a moment, thinking about those answers. Clare said nothing. The only sounds were the hoots and whistles from the vessels on the river.
“I’ve been forgetting about something,” he suddenly realized, slapping the side of his head. “I think I know now how Boerner learned about me and where he got my photograph. The internet.”
“Go on,” she urged him.
“The army posts bios on its sites of its servicemen and women for public consumption. Things like our ranks and decorations, along with our photos and home states and towns. Nothing sensitive, like where we’ve served or are currently serving. No home addresses or phone numbers, either. They’re careful about that.”
“But that’s pretty general,” she pointed out. “It wouldn’t have told Boerner you were on leave and staying at the Pelican Hotel.”
“No, but I have an idea where and how he got that information, too. Hold on for a few minutes, and I’ll let you know if I’m right.”
Fishing his cell phone out of a back pocket of his khakis, he powered it up and checked the instrument for a signal. There was one, but it wasn’t as strong as he would have liked. Maybe a different location. Leaving Clare with a frustrated expression on her face, he moved away from her along the levee. Ah, much better now. He dialed the programmed number, counting on her being home. To his satisfaction, she picked up after no more than two rings, which meant she had to be in her lounge chair with the phone beside her and the TV tuned in to one of her favorite morning programs.
Mark knew Clare was just far enough away from him that she couldn’t overhear even his side of the conversation that followed. The puzzled frown on her face was evidence of that.
“Personal?” she asked him when he returned to where she waited. “Or do I get an explanation of the mystery?”