His patience took a nosedive. “I’m gonna have to close your store until we clear this scene.” Someone should have already told her that.
She smirked as if she was well aware it was a lame threat. “It’s not like anyone is coming in today anyway, what with that tape blocking off my door. When you gonna take it down? You’re ruining my business.”
Nick doubted that. He glared at her until she backed up onto the step up into her front door. Her beady eyes stared at him while she hovered in the doorway. He turned his back on her.
“I found something in the trash.” Her overly excited voice bounced off the pavement and hit his ears with a hard twang.
He sighed. “Yeah? You think it belonged to the victim?”
“I know it did. I saw him toss it in the dumpster.”
Why hadn’t she just said so? “Where is it now?”
“It’s still in the trash. I didn’t want to touch it.”
She turned, brushed aside the crime scene tape, and headed toward the alley. He sucked down his irritation and followed her.
Once they approached the dumpster, she nodded toward it. “It’s in there.”
Sure enough, a ratty backpack sat on top of the garbage. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, not that adherence to procedure would do any good. The bag was already contaminated. He pulled the pack from the dumpster and squatted to go through the contents. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed the woman was staring at his back.
“Thank you. I’ve got this.”
She didn’t budge.
He pressed his lips together before addressing her stubborn resistance. “Please, ma’am, go back inside. When I’m through looking through this, I’m gonna want to ask you a few questions. I’ll come find you.”
She’d seen the dead man toss his bag into the dumpster, and no one had bothered to take her written statement or bag the evidence. Maybe no one had asked the right question. Maybe she had been evasive. Maybe she was lying. Blood had been found in the back of the building, indicating where the man had been attacked. How had the backpack in the dumpster gone unnoticed?
She grunted and tromped out of the alley before disappearing around the corner and out of sight.
The man had probably tossed the backpack before the attack. No blood on it. He scrounged around the interior of the bag, trying to leave everything inside the canvas. He hadn’t brought any evidence bags with him because he hadn’t come to search for overlooked evidence. He’d expected the crime scene people to be thorough.
Nick had returned to the building because something had felt off about both crime scenes. Neither had looked like a staged scene, but both had felt unnatural, like something was out of place. Something had been moved. Or something was missing. Or something had been added afterward. Removed items left an outline in the blood. Added items sat on top of the blood. He’d not been able to find either. Still, something felt wrong about the scene.
The overcast day shrouded the alley in distorted shadows. The interior of the backpack was black, making it difficult to make out the contents without dumping them onto the ground. He pulled a small flashlight out of his coat pocket and aimed the dim beam into the bag, finally locating the guy’s wallet.
The man’s VA card said he was Sheldon Deville.
No driver’s license. No credit cards. No cash. No surprise.
Yet Jerilyn said the man paid for a drink every morning before the bar closed and tipped generously. Where was the money coming from to pay his bar tab then?
Maybe the guy had been mugged.
“Well, Sheldon, you have a lot of explaining to do.”
“Moreau?” Petrie called to him from the street.
“In the alley.”
In another moment or two, Petrie was squatting beside Moreau, doing his own examination of the contents of Deville’s backpack. Moreau watched Petrie grunt and huff while he worked through the contents. Petrie probably needed to put in a little more time in the gym. But then, so did Nick. Who had time for that?
“So what did Corolla say?” In all likelihood, what the assistant medical examiner had to tell them could have been said over the phone or in Jane Doe’s official autopsy report.
“Blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Nothing in her stomach. She was dehydrated. Defensive knife wounds on her hands and arms. Skin under her nails. Ligature marks on her wrists and ankles. She wasn’t sexually assaulted.”
Halfway through Petrie’s monologue, Moreau glanced around the alley to make sure the nosy neighbor wasn’t listening and taking notes. She seemed the type to stick her nose where it didn’t belong.
“Her blood had been drained from her through that hole in her neck, but Corolla couldn’t positively identify what made the hole. It wasn’t a knife. She had no knife wounds on her, except for the defensive wounds on her hands and arms. Dodge said the hole in her neck looked like it had been made by a hollow tube. He’s not sure what type of tube. Probably metal. It was a clean cut, not ragged.” Petrie stopped to catch a breath.
Nick suppressed a cringe as he imagined how much force it would have taken to jab the end of a hollow tube into the woman’s neck. The killer had subdued the woman with a knife. Bound her with ligatures. Probably withheld food and water while he played with her. And ended up killing her by shoving a metal tube into her neck to drain her blood. So the killer was both sick and strong.
It was worth noting that both Deville and Doe had blunt force trauma at approximately the same location on their head.
“Why did you have to go down to the morgue for that?”
“He found some sort of sticky residue near the wound around the circle where the tube was inserted. It wasn’t blood. He said it smelt like strawberry syrup. You know, like you put on ice cream. He wanted me to see what it looked like before he took a sample of it.”
Nick had never put strawberry syrup on his ice cream. Ever.
“He said he’d never seen anything like it. It was sticky and smelled terrible. I got some photos on my cell. Corolla took a sample and sent it to the lab along with the skin under her nails.”
“When will he have a report on Deville?”
“Deville? Oh yeah, the old guy.” He scratched his head with his gloved fingers. “He didn’t say.”
Because Petrie had failed to ask.
Nick stood and held out the backpack to Petrie. “Log everything in the bag. No matter how insignificant it seems. Make sure you note that you scratched your head with your gloves on.”
Petrie glanced at his hands. “Crap.”
Nick yanked his gloves off and left them inside out. Petrie held out the backpack, and Nick dropped them into the bag. “See if we can get an age progression on the photo in the bag. It looks like an old photo of a little girl. Let’s see if we can identify the girl in the picture.”
“Where are you headed?” Petrie sounded peeved.
Didn’t they get enough quality together time? His internal sarcasm almost erupted in a snort of amusement.
“Well, first… I’m going to call Corolla and see if I can push him to get us a prelim on Deville.” Because you didn’t think to do it.
The I-screwed-up expression on Petrie’s face was priceless.
What was he going to do next? A good question that he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer. How could he explain the path his thoughts had taken? Mention of the red sticky substance had reminded him that he had forgotten something while he was concentrating on his sympathy for a person of interest.
“I need to ask Jerilyn Bowman a few more questions.” He’d forgotten to get the glass tube from her.
****
Jeri sat on a bench staring across the Mississippi River, her favorite spot to find some solitude. The paddle wheeler Natchez churned the water downriver. Its black, white, and red colors stood out against the muddy brown of the water. She loved watching the boat make its way upriver toward the dock.
Gazing over the river could usually calm her, but she wasn’t finding her u
sual place of serenity. Too much had happened in the last couple of days to allow her any peace of mind.
She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed. In a few minutes, she would have to get up and head toward the bar. Even though she felt like she could puke any second, there was no calling in sick. Since she wasn’t officially on the payroll, her boss didn’t give her much slack. He had told her often enough that he could fire her any second and no one would know or care. Darwin was right. No one would care. Except for Herb. He might care. Maybe.
She’d cut herself off from everyone she used to know. That didn’t leave her with a support network should she get into trouble. Herb was her go-to person when she needed help. She groaned at how pathetic that was.
Her stomach was still angry with her when she grabbed her bag off the ground and rose to leave. She headed toward Jackson Square, skirting the park and the cathedral until she made it to St. Peter. She had just crossed Royal when she spotted the photographer. He leaned against a lamppost that flickered like it didn’t want to stay lit. His eyes darted everywhere. As soon as their eyes met, her vision clouded. She stopped walking, stalling in the middle of the sidewalk with other pedestrians pushing around her.
Her mind filled with another scene viewed through the viewfinder of a camera. Someone, a man, she thought, pulled the camera away from his eye, changed his position, and then resumed taking pictures of a woman lying on the floor in a pool of blood. A flash illuminated the darkened room every time his finger tapped the shutter release button.
Instinct flowed through her psyche. The woman in her vision was dead. The photographer got off taking pictures of her lifeless body. She shook her head to remove the awful images from her mind. When the vision cleared, the photographer was gone.
“Hey, bitch, don’t block the sidewalk.” A man in a red baseball cap nudged her to get out of the way.
“Yeah, sure, sorry.” She stepped aside to lean on the side of the nearest building.
It wasn’t like her to allow some stupid redneck to call her names, especially not that particular name. She wasn’t a bitch unless she was provoked into acting like one. Then, she could be the ugliest bitch anyone had ever seen.
Jeri shifted her pack to the center of her back and squared her shoulders. What was wrong with her? The lack of sleep was surely getting to her if she could imagine stuff like what her mind had just conjured up. Her mouth widened into a yawn. How was she going to stay awake for her entire shift?
When she entered the bar, she wasn’t surprised to find Moreau waiting for her.
Her lousy boss glared at her. Darwin grabbed her by the upper arm and pulled her away from the cop, whispering harsh words into her ear. “Why are you bringing the cops around here, Olivia?”
She shook his rough hand off her. “I didn’t bring him here.”
“Has the guy got a thing for you? Are you—”
“No, I am not.” She shuddered at the vile term Darwin would have used for the sex act if she hadn’t stopped him. “Let me find out what he wants, and I’ll get rid of him. Okay?”
For sure, Darwin didn’t want the cops sniffing around his back room. Some of his imports were black market. Darwin believed that luxuries should be duty-free.
She marched up to Moreau where he waited for her at the bar. Jeri was in no mood for games. He’d better come right out and tell her what he wanted.
“What are you doing here?”
He nodded toward the street door. “We need to talk.”
“Haven’t we already talked enough?”
“I don’t think you’ve told me everything.”
She nodded toward Darwin, who stood by the door with his arms over his chest. “Do you want to get me fired?”
He glanced at Darwin. “Tomorrow morning when you get off work… I’ll be here.”
She rolled her eyes. “What else is there to talk about?”
He whispered next to her ear. “I still need to get that tube from you, don’t I?”
Yeah, she’d forgotten about that again. “Come by my place tomorrow morning at seven… And please don’t come back here. I need this job.”
He tossed a five on the bar and downed the last ounce of his beer before taking his sweet time leaving the bar.
Darwin stood next to her. “What did he want?”
She kept her eyes on the door where Moreau had just left. “I was on Dauphine in front of that building where the woman was murdered when Weirdo came out from nowhere and grabbed me by the arm. He died right there in front of me.” Jeri shivered. “It was horrible.”
“Weirdo?”
“Yeah, he comes…used to come in here and order crazy drinks with strange stuff in them. Me and Herb called him Weirdo.”
Darwin nudged her arm. “Did you know the guy?”
She turned and blinked at him like that was a stupid question. “No.”
“Okay. Well, I’m outta here.” Darwin grabbed the moneybag from behind the bar and headed out the door. He left without paying her for her last week’s work.
She’d have to find another job soon. Darwin was becoming impossible to work for.
Jeri slid behind the bar and nodded toward a young couple that had just parked their butts across from her. “What’ll you have?”
“Sazeracs for both of us.”
She managed not to roll her eyes. “Coming up.”
Herb edged past her to get into the supply closet. When he passed her again with a fresh package of cocktail napkins, he leaned his shaggy bearded face next to her head. “What did the cop want?”
She snorted with disgust. “I think he’s harassing me.”
Herb snickered. “He’s hanging around because he thinks you’re pretty.”
The man thought he was so funny saying the word pretty in a singsong voice.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t like cops.”
“Who the hell does?” Herb guffawed and eased around her to go back into the barroom.
Jeri slid the mixed drinks in front of the couple, and the two of them grinned at each other. They sat so close they were practically making love right there in front of her.
Another group of five moved into the seats along the bar next to the couple. Within the hour, the place was jumping. The band warmed up on the raised platform in the corner of the room. The noise reached rock concert volume.
Jeri’s ears rang. She hoped she wasn’t coming down with another sinus infection. The last one had laid her on her butt for three days. Darwin had threatened to fire her then. She wished she’d pushed him to make good on the threat.
****
Ed’s booming bass vibrated behind Nick. “What are you doing here this late? Don’t you need your beauty sleep? Your looks don’t come from the Moreau side of your family.”
Nick forced himself not to flinch. His uncle—his boss—sneaked up on him all the time. He’d done that since Nick was a toddler. Ed thought it was hysterically funny. Nick not so much.
“I’m not going to be able to sleep.” Insomnia was Nick’s worst enemy. He glanced at Ed. “What are you doing here?”
“I just had a meeting with the deputy commissioner. He wants the murder on Dauphine wrapped up before the public finds out how gruesome it was. The last thing we need is a bunch of hysterical tourists afraid to go into the Quarter. That kind of thing hurts business.”
Sure, the upper command didn’t want a freaked out public. The concern was great enough that the deputy commissioner was meeting with Ed at ten o’clock at night.
“Do you have any suspects yet? Have you found out who that blue strand of hair belongs to? What leads are you working?”
So many questions blasted at him in rapid-fire succession. Ed could be overwhelming.
“I’m looking hard at the photographer that found the body. His story doesn’t make sense, and it’s odd that he was there when the homeless guy croaked. And the name and address he gave me are bogus. He’s in the wind.”
“What about the girl th
at the old man grabbed before he died? How does she fit? Does she have a connection to Jane Doe? Why was she at the crime scene?”
To Ed, every woman under the age of forty was a girl. That’s because Ed was now closer to fifty than he was to forty. Ed’s wife was fond of reminding Ed just how much older he was than her. She knew how to wind him up. That was one reason Nick liked Tracey.
“How can I make any connections between any of them when I haven’t been able to identify the dead woman or the photographer?” He spread out his hands. Need he say more? Without an identification of the victim or his prime suspect, he didn’t know whom the dead woman knew.
Ed grunted. “Well, that makes things more difficult. Do you know who any of them are or where they came from?” His sarcasm was extra pointy.
“The man that died in front of the building is Sheldon Deville. We found his backpack and his VA card. Petrie is trying to find out what he can about the guy, but he appears to be a homeless vet.”
“What about the blue hair?”
Nick bit his lip. To tell Ed the hair belonged to Jerilyn Bowman or not. That was his ethical dilemma. Ed apparently hadn’t heard that the witness at the Deville scene had blue hair. How long would it be before someone gabbed that bit of gossip to Ed?
“I haven’t got a forensics report on the hair.”
Well, that was the truth. He hadn’t.
He’d gotten a report back from the lab on the sticky residue on Jane Doe’s neck. The results of the test hadn’t surprised him. Maybe it was time to come clean about Jerilyn’s involvement in the mess, before Ed found out anyway and read too much into Nick’s reluctance to tell him everything.
“I have a lead on where the strange strawberry/blood mixture came from that was on the victim’s neck. The woman that was there when Deville died—she calls herself Olivia—told me that Deville came into the bar where she bartends every night. He’d come in at almost six every morning and order a crazy mixed drink she’d never heard of before, and the last time he was there, he’d given her a tube of red stuff to mix with Crown Royal. She still has the tube he gave her. I’m going to get it from her when she gets off work tomorrow morning. And she has blue hair.” He added the blue hair bit on the end, hoping Ed would focus on the other information and miss it.
Second Sight (Prescience Series Book 1) Page 5