by Rick Reed
He knew it was a stretch, but thinking about it, the killings and Evie’s disappearance could be connected. Whiteside herself had researched the symbols drawn at the scenes. Why would she be so against the idea it could be a lead?
Liddell was being set up for the murder, but Whiteside just lets him go. She doesn’t explain why he isn’t a suspect. She orders him not to get involved in the investigation. Liddell said no one knew he was coming to Plaquemine. That’s where all this falls apart except for the note. Someone, knowing Bitty was already dead, wanted Liddell to come to her house. Troup. He could have manipulated Barbie into watching for Liddell to arrive at Bitty’s, waited just long enough to take Liddell down hard.
It was possible, but like Whiteside said, he had no proof.
So far Voodoo, Troup, and maybe Barbie were the things in common in all of the cases. He would bet a case of Scotch that if the Chief checked out the other missing girls’ cases she would find Voodoo was a factor in all of them. Or at least the missing girls had dabbled in it. But she had already dismissed the idea of Voodoo being a factor.
He said, “If you don’t need us here, Chief, I think I’ll take my partner and go eat.”
“I don’t need you,” she said flatly.
“C’mon, Bigfoot. Show me this place you were raving on about a while ago.”
As they walked to their car, Jack heard Whiteside turn on Officer Rahm, giving him nine kinds of hell, and he felt sorry for the guy. Rahm had only done what he was told to do, but he was a convenient target for the Chief’s anger. Jack could relate to that kind of pettiness. He was always ground zero for Double Dick’s wrath.
Liddell said, “Hey, do you want to drive this time? Maybe we won’t get pulled over again.”
“You’re doing okay,” Jack said. When they got in the car, he bounced his ideas off Liddell.
“It’s still a mystery to me how Barbie or Troup could have gotten to Bitty’s so fast yesterday. The Chief didn’t even tell us who called the police.” Jack buckled in and cranked the a/c on high. “To be honest, I don’t think she even knows. Troup is running this show, and she’s afraid of him or he’s holding something over her head.”
“Or she’s just an idjit, podnah. Rank doesn’t always mean smart.”
She seemed plenty intelligent to Jack. She also seemed to be keeping a lot of secrets. “Where to next?”
“Let’s eat,” Liddell said.
“Okay. But afterwards let’s have another go at Parnell,” Jack suggested. “She glossed over the missing person stuff. I want to know how many kids are missing, how old they are, where, when, and all that stuff. We may have to talk to all the parents. I don’t think PPD has done squat along those lines.”
“Do you think Evie’s being missing and the murders are connected?” Liddell asked.
“We won’t know that until we know.”
“Is that a Murphy-ism?” Liddell turned back onto Highway 1 and punched it.
“Grasshopper, shut trap and drive please.”
Chapter Twenty
Fewer than thirty true antebellum plantation mansions had survived between the 1800s and today. All were uninhabited now except the Nottoway Plantation in White Castle, a tiny burg ten miles east of Plaquemine as the crow flies. The once-abundant crops of sugarcane were gone, but the mansion had been turned into a successful resort with a five-star restaurant.
Liddell turned left at the one intersection in White Castle. The road was lined with hackberry trees whose limbs were filled with leaves and small red berries. On the other side of the hackberry trees were rows of sugarcane. The sugarcane plants were packed tighter and the rows wider than the cornfields Jack was familiar with at home.
Liddell drove another half-mile into a generous parking area filled to capacity, and to the turnaround at the end of the road. He stopped in the turnaround and pointed out Jack’s window. “That’s the Mississippi.”
They found a parking space near the entrance where a car was just leaving.
“Welcome to the Nottoway,” Liddell said.
Jack did a 360 and said, “I never thought I would see something this big in a little backwater place like this.”
“This ain’t nothing, pod’na. Wait till you see the rest of the grounds.”
They had to go through the gatehouse-slash-gift shop to get to the restaurant, which was downstairs in the mansion. The air-conditioning in the gatehouse was a shock after the sweltering heat and 90 percent humidity outside.
Except for a small circular reception counter, the remainder of the floor space was laid out with racks and tables and display counters and shelves filled with clothing articles, jewelry, postcards, antique and modern looking tea sets, and local gift items like fleur-de-lis wall hangings, Nottoway mugs with a stencil of the mansion, prepackaged spices for Cajun recipes, recipe books, historical books, and other typical detritus you find in a gift shop. It was doing brisk business for a place that was all but hidden from the main road.
Jack followed Liddell through the store and out the other side. Liddell was right. The view of the mansion and grounds was breathtaking. A pristine lawn the size of two or three football fields was decorated with statues and flower gardens that led to an enormous water fountain in front of the massive antebellum mansion. It was like a scene from Gone with the Wind, and he could imagine Southern belles strolling arm in arm with men in tuxes and top hats, carrying silver-tipped canes.
“This is the little eating joint you were talking about? Do I have to sell a kidney to eat here?”
“They have Scotch,” Liddell said. “I’m buying. Want one?”
“I’d be crazy not to.”
Liddell led the way into the dining room. The seating was spread out along what used to be an outside porch, twenty-foot wide by one-hundred-foot long, semi-circular in shape. Tables covered in white cloths faced the windows with a view across the breathtaking grounds of fountains and gardens.
Only two tables were vacant, and a hostess seated them, asking for drink orders.
Jack ordered a double Scotch, Glenmorangie, neat. Liddell ordered two large pumpkin spice shakes. The hostess hurried off to get the drinks.
Master Chef David Reyes came to the table with a plate of cream-filled beignets and set it in front of Liddell. He said, “I will decide what you eat in my restaurant.” Reyes told them the special and said, “But I have something even more special for you.”
“Won’t matter. It all tastes like hog-slop,” Liddell said.
Jack watched the chef’s expression turn dark and his eyes narrow. “Since when did you even taste the food? You suck it down like a Hoover. Don’t worry, I won’t charge you.”
“Charge me? Are you kidding? The smell in here would run off a starving dog.”
Jack’s Scotch came, and the hostess waited while he took a sip. “My Scotch is excellent,” he said. She beamed at him. He half expected her to leave the bottle wrapped in a cloth napkin, but she hurried away.
“I apologize for my partner,” Jack said to the chef. “He was raised by yetis.” To Liddell he said, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Reyes smiled and said, “I heard he was hatched like an alligator but meaner and nastier.”
“Bite me, Reyes,” Liddell said and stood and they hugged.
To Jack, Reyes said. “We’ve known each other a long time. He used to eat here daily—and complain. He never paid.”
Jack had checked the menu prices and thought he knew why Bigfoot never paid. You would have to sell a kidney to afford this place. “I’m Jack Murphy.” He stood and shook hands with Reyes.
“David,” Reyes said. “I’m the cook.”
“Cook? He’s being modest,” Liddell said. “He’s a master chef. Like New York or San Francisco good. He should open his own place.”
“How long are you going to be in town?” Reyes asked.
“Not sure.” Liddell said.
Reyes’s expression turned somber. “I heard about Bitty. I’m sorry. I kno
w how tight you two were. She was special.”
“She was that,” Liddell said.
Jack asked, “Did Bitty eat here?”
“Yes. She came in pretty often with Detective Parnell.” He gave Liddell a questioning look.
Liddell said, “He knows about Bitty and Parnell.”
Reyes continued. “I haven’t seen them together for a while. You know they split up months ago.”
Liddell asked, “When’s the last time either of them were in?”
Reyes didn’t hesitate. “Last time together, maybe two weeks ago. Bitty ate here a few days ago. I asked her how Parnell was, and she got quiet. I had an idea they’d had a fight. Anyway, I kept watching for her to come back. I’m so sorry about Bitty. If I can do anything . . .” his words trailed off.
Jack and Liddell traded a look, and Liddell said, “David, can we get a couple of burgers to go. Quick like?”
“Sure,” he said and left.
“Let’s go see Dusty,” Liddell said.
Reyes brought a sack full of food. “I made some extra. Don’t stay away so long.”
Jack downed his Scotch and said to Liddell, “You’re driving.”
* * *
Liddell was on Highway 1 heading toward Detective Parnell’s house when he saw a Plaquemine Police car running Code 3, emergency lights and siren, coming toward them.
The Plaquemine police car drove right past them, slammed on the brakes, and did a perfect one-eighty. Jack could hear the patrol car’s engine spool up as the driver poured on the gas to catch them.
“What the hell?” Jack uttered, and Liddell eased the Crown Vic onto the shoulder.
The car stopped behind them. A uniformed officer got out and walked up to the driver’s side, motioning for Liddell to roll the window down. Jack recognized Officer Rahm, the officer who had found Barbie’s car.
Rahm squatted down and Jack could see his face was pale. “Chief Whiteside wants you to come back.”
“Back where?” Liddell asked.
Officer Rahm didn’t seem to hear him. “Barbie. He . . .” Rahm leaned close to the window. “He’s dead. Chief Whiteside wants you back—back where we found his police car.”
“Lead the way,” Jack said, and the officer ran back to his car, peeled out, and veered around them.
Liddell caught up with Officer Rahm as they entered the city and Rahm led them through backstreets and stopped in front of a house roped off with yellow-and-black crime scene tape.
Chief Anna Whiteside stood in the yard, her head down while she wrote in a reporter’s notebook, the kind a lot of cops carry. She watched the detectives approach, and before they could get to the sidewalk she stopped them.
“You boys have brought nothing but trouble to this town,” she said. Her neck and cheeks were splotchy, and sweat stained her collar and ran down her shirt. She shoved the notepad in her back pocket. “Where the hell have you been?”
Jack said, “Why don’t you tell us what’s got you so pissed off? Officer Rahm said you found Barbie dead?”
Instead of answering she jerked a thumb over her shoulder and turned toward the house. Jack and Liddell followed.
“Isn’t this the same street where Barbie’s car was found?” Jack asked.
“Yeah. About right where we parked, pod’na.”
Whiteside walked to the left of the house and Jack could see they had taped off a large area down the sides and back of the house as well as the front. That was encouraging. They slid under the caution tape and approached the back door. It was standing wide open and Jack could see someone decked out in a white Tyvek suit, minus the hood. The Chief snapped on latex gloves and handed a pair each to Jack and Liddell.
“Booties?” Liddell asked. Whiteside gave him an angry look.
“No need. My boys found him while I was back at the office, contacting every agency I could think of to put word out and arrange a search. By the time they notified me, everyone and their dog had traipsed through here. I’m still trying to find out if anyone touched anything, but I’m not holding out any hope. I swear to God, working with men is like being a playground monitor. Give me a bunch of women officers any day. They don’t tend to lie and they at least know not to screw up the scene of a death. Murder or not.”
Jack could argue one point with her. He knew a female detective who tended to lie. One who was part of the investigation. And someone who had jumped to the top of the suspect list. Dusty Parnell wasn’t someone who could be trusted or believed. But he needed to focus here and now on Barbie. Being dead doesn’t make one less of a suspect. It just makes one easier to find.
Chief Whiteside tracked mud inside from the still-wet yard, if you could call a mud pit that was strewn with plastic bottles and broken glass a yard.
“Give us the room, Tommy,” Whiteside said to one of the crime scene techs. He snapped another picture before rising to his feet, and she added, “I mean now.”
The tech scurried out of the door, and Whiteside shut it. Portable floodlights had been set up in the room, and a power cord ran under the door to a police van. Whiteside unplugged the cord to the lights and the room was black. She waited a few seconds for them to get the point and plugged the light back in.
“That’s what it was like in here. Officer Rahm did a house-to-house search after we found Barbierre’s police car. Rahm got to this side of the street last. When he opened the door, he saw Officer Barbierre hanging from a ceiling beam. Rahm says he entered to check for life, secured the scene, and called dispatch for additional units. Dispatch called everyone, including the coroner, but the one person they didn’t call was yours truly. Damn it all to hell!”
Jack asked, “Did he come in the same door we did?”
“He came in the front door. How do you think he saw the body?”
Jack asked, “Is the body already with the coroner?” The room they’d entered was a kitchen at one time, now gutted by scavengers who would sell anything that could be ripped up or stripped out of the walls. Most of the drywall was knocked out, and any floor coverings had been carted off. Think of an army of ants taking a conquered beetle apart.
Whiteside walked out of the room and Jack thought she wasn’t going to answer him, until she said, “In here.”
Jack and Liddell walked into the next room and stood beside the Chief, looking up at the purplish-red swollen face of Officer Barbierre. His eyes and cheeks bulged, his swollen tongue filling his mouth, and he was hanging by his neck from an exposed ceiling beam. Lying on its side near his feet was a child’s wooden chair with one leg missing. He was still wearing his gun belt and duty weapon, and all of his equipment seemed to be in its correct place and on his belt. Even his expensive sunglasses were in his pocket.
Jack saw the rope was yellow nylon and heavy enough to tow a vehicle.
“That’s the type of rope we carry for water rescue, among other things. It’s super strong and doesn’t take up much room in your trunk.” Whiteside yelled for the crime scene tech. The young man stuck his head in the back door but didn’t come in. “Check Officer Barbierre’s trunk to see if his rope is missing. You know. The yellow rope.”
Jack yelled after the young man before the door closed again, “You can leave that door open.”
Jack wiped sweat out of his eyes but more poured in. Even with the door open the temperature inside was at least one hundred. Jack guessed Barbie’s weight at around two hundred pounds, give or take ten or fifteen pounds. Barbie was almost as tall as the yeti, maybe six-five. The house was an older one, maybe from the fifties housing boom when the soldiers came home from World War II. Ceilings were built taller in the fifties. Air-conditioning was for the rich. For the poor, it was window fans, screens, open doors in summer; fireplace, gas stove, extra clothes in winter.
“I don’t think he hanged himself, Chief,” Jack said.
She swung around, hands on hips to face him. “What are you saying? It’s an obvious suicide.”
Liddell walked over to the child’s ch
air, knelt, and saw it had already been dusted for fingerprints. He could see some of the black powder on the floor beneath it. “May I?” he asked Whiteside.
Whiteside yelled for the tech. He popped his head in again. She said, “Are you done with that little chair in here?”
“What?” the tech said. “You mean the chair with the broken leg?”
“Do you see another chair in here?” she yelled, and added, “moron.”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean yes, Chief. I mean I’m done processing the chair. The one with the broken leg.”
Liddell set the chair up on the three legs. The broken one was bent under it like an injured wing. The chair was one of those wooden ones for five- or six-year-olds, painted pink, with the stencil of some kitty cat on the back. The seat didn’t appear to be wide enough for two size-thirteen boots, and not strong enough to handle the weight of a man Barbie’s size.
Whiteside kept her hands on her hips and leaned closer to examine the chair. She straightened up and yelled for the tech once more. The tech stuck his head in, and this time she motioned for him to come to her. When he did, she pointed to the chair.
“Did you get any impressions of any kind off the seat of that chair?” she asked.
The young tech pulled a notebook from inside his Tyvek suit. There wasn’t jack-shit furniture or other items to process in this little house, so Jack couldn’t imagine why the tech would have to consult his notes.
The young tech flipped to the first page and read, “One wooden chair. Measurements sixteen inches in height, depth, that’s front to back, is . . .”
Before Whiteside exploded, Jack interrupted and said, “I think we just need to know if you found any usable fingerprints or shoe impressions. Was someone standing on the seat? Did they pick it up to move it?”
The tech didn’t need to consult his notebook to answer those questions. “No, sir. The seat and arms are covered in dust. It’s my opinion the chair has been laying just like we found it for quite a while. It hasn’t been touched today, if that’s what you mean.”