by Rick Reed
“So it was more of a sexual thing?” Jack asked.
Gladys smiled at him. “Yes. And at my age. Can you imagine?” And before he could respond she asked, “Do you think I’m in danger?”
“I really don’t think you’re in danger, but I’ll have an officer come and talk to you about how to make your home more secure. Now I have to ask you some questions,” Jack said. They were in her living room. Patches of the surface of her kitchen table and around the doorknobs were black with fingerprint powder. Jack didn’t see her purse.
“Would you like some coffee, Detective Murphy?” she asked. “I’ve just made a fresh pot.”
“No. Thanks. I won’t take much of your time.”
She ignored his answer and went in the kitchen and brought him one. “Please have a seat. You’re making me nervous.”
Jack sat on the arm of the love seat and waited for her to be seated. When he had her attention, he said, “I want you to think about this man.”
She responded quickly. “That’s the last thing I want to think about. But if I must.”
“I want you to tell me everything you remember about him.”
She gazed into her coffee cup as if the answer was there. “He was white. Early thirties. Medium length blond hair combed down in bangs that almost covered his eyebrows.” She held a finger across the top of her eyes to demonstrate. “His hair was tapered on the sides and back.” She thought some more and said, “He was six foot three inches and about one hundred seventy pounds, give or take.”
She opened her eyes and took a sip of her coffee.
“You seem very sure of the height, weight, and age, Mrs. Tooley.”
“Gladys. Please,” she said.
“Okay. You seem very definite on some of the description. Can you tell me why?”
In answer, she got up and took a framed photo from the top of the television set and handed it to Jack. It was a wedding photo, groom and bride. The groom was in a white tuxedo, white shoes, white tie, and . . .
“This is of you and your husband?” Jack asked.
She took the frame back and touched the man’s face, a smile playing across her lips. “My late husband,” she said, “It’s almost ten years since he left me.”
Jack said automatically, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“What?” she asked and her face came up.
“I’m sorry your husband passed away,” Jack said and was puzzled when she laughed.
“Oh, he’s not dead. I just tell people that when they see my wedding photo.” She pointed to the groom again. “He left me ten years ago, and ran off with his secretary. They live in Aruba now. What a jerk.”
“Ma’am, Gladys, I guess I don’t understand why you’re showing me this.”
“Because my burglar could be a twin for the lying, cheating bastard that I was married to. Same hair, same size, same weight. Of course we were much younger in this picture.”
Jack examined the photo again. The man did resemble the description she had given.
“You can take the picture if you want,” Gladys said.
“That’s okay. I will have a sketch artist come and you can show this to him, or her. I may need to put the sketch on television, and we wouldn’t want anyone that knew your husband to call and tell us it’s your husband.”
She laughed again. “If he got arrested it would serve him right. You think I’m awful, don’t you?”
Before Jack could respond she said, “I tell people that he’s my ‘late’ husband because it’s easier than telling them the truth. We were happy once.”
Before she could take him down memory lane, Jack stood and said, “I’ll be in touch. If you see this man again, call 911. Do not try to follow him or confront him.”
She walked him to the door, where a crime scene tech was finished dusting for prints. The tech said there wasn’t much luck.
Gladys took Jack’s arm at the door and asked, “Are you sure I’m not in danger? I mean, what if he comes back? The way he stared at me . . .”
“I’m sure you’re not in danger. But you need to talk to the officer I send out here and listen to what he tells you. Okay?”
She said she would do as he said, and he escaped. Sergeant Mattingly approached him as he got to the street.
“Was she any help?” Mattingly asked.
“I’m getting a sketch artist to come out, but if you would, can you have the CPO—Community Police Officer—come and talk to her about home security? She and every other woman have the same habit of leaving their purse right out in the open and not locking their doors.”
“Too inconvenient,” Mattingly said.
“She’s not wrong doing what’s comfortable. But pond scum like the thief take advantage of any vulnerability. I’m sure he’s watching these people. Or he can spot them and just strikes. Whatever, it’s been working for him. At least until now.”
Mattingly got on his portable and called for a CPO to meet with him.
“Oh,” Jack said. “Want to hear a good one?”
Mattingly did. Jack told him about Gladys’s “late” husband, and they both had a laugh.
* * *
During the interview with Gladys Tooley, Jack learned that her bank was Fifth Third Bank. He was parked in the Donut Bank lot with a real cup of coffee when he called the regional security manager at Fifth Third Bank.
“Maleficent,” said the cheerful voice. Her real name was Millicent Daniels, and she had been the Vice President of the Fraud Unit for Fifth Third Bank for as long as Jack could remember. She had a reputation among her peers and in the law enforcement community as one very tough hombre if you messed with the bank. That had earned her the nickname of “Maleficent.” She was proud of the name.
“I hope you don’t answer the phone like that for a client’s call,” Jack kidded. He knew she didn’t.
“They should all fear me,” Millicent said. “Hi’ya, Jack. What can I do you for?”
Jack told her about Gladys’s checkbook and wasn’t surprised the report had already found its way to her desk. She said one check had been cashed at their main branch drive-thru before the report was made, and she had requested the security camera footage. The check was for fifteen hundred dollars. She gave Jack the information and promised to send the video to Sgt. Walker in Crime Scene. She gave an evil laugh for Jack’s benefit before they disconnected.
Jack was about to call Sgt. Walker when the phone rang in his hand.
“Jack. I’m glad I caught you,” Katie said. “Hang on.”
His partner’s wife, Marcie, came on the line. “Thank God, Jack. I didn’t know who to call.”
“What’s wrong, Marcie?” He could hear a tremor in her voice.
“It’s Liddell,” Marcie said.
The first thought that ran through his mind was that Liddell had been in an auto accident. But he was wrong. It was worse.
* * *
Jack was in his car and already heading south on Highway 41. He had assured Marcie that he was on his way and would update her when he got there. She put him back on the phone with Katie.
“Make sure Marcie calls Captain Franklin right away. I’ll let you go,” he said to Katie.
“She’s already calling him, Jack,” Katie answered. “What are you going to do? Are you going down there?”
“Already on the highway,” he said. “I’ll give her a few minutes to talk to the Captain before I call to clear my trip with him.”
Katie said, “My phone shows it’s about a twelve-hour drive. Aren’t you going to take another detective with you?”
“I’m not even going downtown,” he said. “If I do, it’ll take half a day to get past all the red tape and the wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth.”
“Jack, you need to do this right.” Katie sounded concerned. “You need the department’s backing. Maybe you should meet with Charles before you go.”
Charles? She and Charles are on a first-name basis now?
“That’s good advice,
hon’,” Jack lied. “Or maybe you should call Charles,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll speed things up for you.”
“Oh, Jack. You can’t still be jealous.”
“What . . . me? I don’t have a jealous bone in my body.” Franklin had always had a crush on Katie and took every opportunity to be there for her when she needed a shoulder to cry on. Those times were always when Jack was in the hospital for some injury or whatever, but Jack knew what was on the lech’s mind. He reminded himself to kick Charles in the nuts. “If I catch him checking you out again, he won’t have an unbroken bone in his body.”
Marcie was back on the line. “If you catch who checking me out?”
“Sorry, that wasn’t for you. Did you talk to the Captain?” he asked Marcie.
“Yes. He said you should come to headquarters right away.”
Shit! Shit!
“On my way,” he said. It wasn’t a total lie. He was on his way, but he was on his way to Louisiana, not to headquarters.
Marcie said, “Thank you, Jack. You’re a good man. Please bring him home.”
Jack hung up. Marcie knew he wasn’t going anywhere near the police station. And Charles knew it too. Jack didn’t think he could avoid the Captain forever, but maybe he’d make it to Mississippi before they put out an APB—All Points Bulletin—for him for theft of city property, to wit: one police Crown Vic.
He still couldn’t believe what Marcie had said. Liddell was arrested for murder and was being held at the police station. Even the thought of it gave him a stomachache.
He crossed the Twin Bridges into Kentucky and tried to drive and find the GPS function on his iPhone. Katie’s sister, Moira, had shown him how to use the function, but it had been over a week ago and he hated technology.
He held the button down and said, “Plaquemine, Louisiana.” A cheerful female voice answered, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand the command.”
He’d had to repeat the name of the city he wanted at least six times and each time a woman’s voice would say, “I don’t understand that command” or “Here is what I found,” and, of course, it wouldn’t be what he’d asked for. He yelled, “Siri, I just want you to give me directions to Plaquemine, Louisiana, you stupid piece of shit!”
Whoever thought this crap up must be sadists.
Siri said back to him, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Supreme Commander.” Moira must have programmed his phone to call him that. She was an unfunny jokester.
He merged onto U.S. Highway 60 and was heading west before he got the damn directions.
Chapter Seven
In 1803, Danforth Laveau, of the Pennsylvania Laveaus, purchased a portion of land along the Mississippi River in what would later be Iberville Parish. The Parish of Iberville was founded in 1807 and named for Pierre Le Moyne d’Iberville, a Frenchman who had founded the colony of Louisiana.
America’s wealthy built cotton and sugar plantations with mansions along a one-hundred-mile strip of the Mississippi River from Baton Rouge to New Orleans and on to Slidell. Prior to the Civil War, this area of the Mississippi River Valley grew most of the cotton and half of all the sugar consumed in America.
At that time, over two hundred slaves and freedmen lived on the plantation, along with scores of children who ran and played or worked the fields alongside their parents.
The Laveau Plantation was passed down through the family until 2000, when the owner died intestate. Louisiana law required the estate be put in temporary holding by the Louisiana Department of State, which would attempt to unite the estate with any legal heirs. None were found, and the property reverted to the State of Louisiana. A year ago it was sold to a foreign corporation. Six months ago, a woman named Marie Laveau—not a relative of the original owners—claimed proprietorship and commenced rebuilding the estate to its former glory, minus the schoolhouse and playgrounds.
Today, Papa sat in the office that had been used by the mansion’s former slave-owner. It was ironic because Papa was a black man, the descendant of four generations of slaves who had lived a life of servitude on plantations near New Orleans.
The fact that he had come so far from the days of hangings, beatings, rape of their women and having little more value than a pig, gave him little comfort right now. He’d gotten little sleep during the night. Three of his men had died when she had escaped, but he would have killed them if she hadn’t. It was interesting that she had made it onto the plantation. Almost into the mansion itself. More interesting still that she had almost gotten away.
She was strong willed. Tough. But given the right amount of pain, in the right regions of the body, everyone would talk. He’d watched the beating, supervised removing her clothes to weaken her will, and he himself had questioned her. He’d watched as she broke—little by little, blow by blow—but he knew she had still held a little back.
She had come up with some story about suspecting Papa was aiding and abetting illegal immigrants. Hell, illegals worked at damn near every physical-labor job in Louisiana. Why would a sheriff’s detective be investigating him instead of U.S. Immigration? Or FBI? Of more importance, was she alone?
He had to hand it to her. Even with beating her bloody, humiliating her sexually, and threatening to let his boys have their way with her, she had changed her story only slightly. She had last claimed to be with the Sheriff’s Narcotics Unit and then with the DEA—Drug Enforcement Agency—but he didn’t believe for a second that she was working for either of them. There were no drugs. No lab. He didn’t allow drugs near the plantation. Anyone caught using or possessing them was executed while the other men watched. A score of unmarked graves in the cemetery behind the mansion could attest to that. Replacement workers were easy to find.
She had given him one piece of valuable information, and he didn’t know if she was telling the truth about that. Near the end, she’d said several people knew she was there and that they’d come looking for her. He knew she said that to save her life. And it might have worked if he hadn’t gone to call a friend to check out her information. He was on his way back to have her put in the cemetery when he’d been informed that she’d killed three of his men. Three armed men! And she had escaped. But in the end, she was captured. How could she not be, with twenty or so armed men surrounding the property? There was nowhere to go.
He’d had misgivings about killing her. Seeing her naked body, the perfect breasts, the smooth skin and long dark hair, he’d found himself pitying marring such a work of art in his need to beat the truth out of her. He considered keeping her. It had been many years since he’d bent a grown woman to his will, to his needs.
When his men said she’d seen his other guests in the bunker, his mind was made up for him. He had killed many people. Women and children even, some of whom were keeping the others company in the cemetery, but he’d never killed a cop. That was guaranteed to bring a shit storm from hell down on you. Every badge in the country would be out for your blood, and he didn’t need that kind of attention or that kind of pressure.
But, what she’d done, what she’d seen. He had to maintain some type of order among his men. She would need to be made an example of. And when the body was brought back to the mansion, Papa himself had executed the man who had killed her for running like a coward when she had shot at him.
The woman’s cell phone had given up a name. Liddell Blanchard. He was a detective from Evansville, Indiana. He was the last number called. Blanchard had called her phone six times yesterday evening and one of the voice mails said he was in Plaquemine. It was too much of a coincidence. The cop from Indiana was a loose end, but that was being dealt with.
His security manager knocked on the doorframe and came into the office. His name was Luke Perry. He was nothing like the actor. For one thing, he was black as the ace of spades, and he was short and chubby. Luke had explained that just before he was born his momma had been watching a show with Luke Perry in it. She’d always liked Luke Perry.
Papa still thought it was a stupid name. Li
ke naming your kid Richard when his last name was Head. “The cop from Indiana?” he asked Luke.
“Papa, it’s done. He arrested, just like you say, Papa.”
“Arrested?” Papa leaned back in his chair, and the hinges groaned with his weight. He stared at Luke a long time, but Luke had nothing to add.
“I didn’t want him arrested. I wanted him to disappear. Who arrested him?” Papa asked. Luke was one of his brightest employees, and that’s why he’d been put in charge of security. But he was dense as clay sometimes. And he’d let the damn woman sneak onto the property in the first place. The reason he hadn’t made an example of Luke, not including the fact that they’d been together for quite a while, was that he still needed the man for the more delicate parts of this operation.
“Police got him, Papa. He in a cell.”
That meant Blanchard was still alive, which wasn’t what he’d wanted. When he’d made the arrangements last night he’d had a different understanding of how this would be dealt with. He was disappointed.
Papa made a dismissive motion. Luke left and shut the door.
It’s been taken care of. So why does it feel like someone stepped on my grave?
He picked up the desk phone, punched some numbers, and hesitated. So far no one knew about this screw-up except for some of his security people and the ones helping clean up the mess. He’d locked down the grounds last night when those two morons told him they grabbed the woman who was watching him. He’d checked his desk and his safe and nothing was disturbed. When they caught her, she didn’t have anything on her person to indicate why she was there. But she did have a cell phone.