“Looks like the BOLO paid off,” he said. “Wiley’s car, or at least what’s left of it, turned up on Rampart Street.”
Ferris drove us out of the Quarter and followed some ominous, rising plumes of black smoke to an abandoned parking lot in the 4700 block of Rampart Street. Firefighters had knocked down the flames, but the charred carcass of Wiley’s late-model sedan billowed steam into the air.
Ferris flashed his badge and established FBI jurisdiction, asking one of the firemen to bust through the lock on the sedan’s trunk with his shovel. Up popped the lid, along with the stench of burning flesh and hair. The tortured grin of a carbonized corpse greeted us.
“Jesus.” Ferris winced and turned away.
“Wiley?” I asked.
“Hard to say. Probably. It’s his car and he’s missing. But whoever did this wanted us to find it, burning out a car in broad daylight.”
The body was still smoldering, so we stepped upwind and contemplated our options.
“Don’t look at me,” I said, frowning at the trunk. “I’m not going in there.”
“Neither one of us is,” Ferris said, pulling out his phone to call it in. “That’s the coroner’s job.”
As Ferris wandered a few more yards upwind, I considered asking him to hold off.
Odds were, the corpse was Wiley. We didn’t have any witnesses. Trace evidence would be scant, if any, given the heat. And our priority-one time frame didn’t give us wiggle room to grope around in the dark for clues. But I’d have hell to pay if I raised Wiley now and contaminated the crime scene. And if that charcoal briquette turned out not to be Wiley, I’d go down hard. Ferris was right. The coroner had to do his thing first. Besides, I wasn’t all that keen on messing with this crispy-critter in situ anyway. He’d fall apart like an overcooked rump roast. Let the M.E. scrape him up and transport him. Once we had a positive ID, I could raise Wiley at the coroner’s office before they autopsied him.
To be fair, I’ve had a few…incidents…with coroners over the years. Barely worth mentioning, really. They’re a bunch of crybaby gossips, and frankly, they don’t bring out the best in me. God knows Doc Blanchard, Cincinnati’s coroner, hyperventilates at the mention of my name. I’m more about the end results than how I get there. But these elected official types are anal-retentive and downright squirrely when it comes to documentation, procedure, and cleanliness. They’re really big on cleanliness.
Ferris had finished his call. “A penny for your thoughts,” he said, breaking my reverie.
“Who’s the coroner in these parts?”
“Dr. Slidell, or so I was just informed.”
His name wasn’t familiar—thank heavens. I’d learned my trade here in The Big Easy, but people in my line of work tend to keep it on the down low. The only official investigation I’d gotten caught up in was the “murder” of Toussaint’s wife, and that was in Terrebonne Parish.
“Let’s not bother Dr. Slidell with the ins and outs of raising. In fact, let’s not even mention raising until he gets this corpse back to the morgue. He’s a busy guy.” Visions of the damage from my last raising at the Cincinnati morgue flashed through my head. “On second thought, don’t even introduce me.”
Ferris laughed. “What’s the matter? Afraid the M.E.s office is behind on its Property and Casualty premiums?”
Freaking Ferris. Just because he could take a shot at me didn’t mean he had to.
25
That Dimwitted, Shit-for-Brains Horndog
Dr. Slidell arrived in a tricked-out Black Diamond Hummer and pulled up to the curb behind the burned-out sedan. He rolled his round body out from behind the steering wheel, adjusted his summer-white suit, and ran a hand through his shock of snow-white hair. His hooded eyes, neutral as they fixed on Ferris, narrowed considerably when they darted to me.
The brain bitch growled, causing the hair on my arms to stand on end. Message received, Little Allie. For all her quirks and inconsistencies, she’d never steered me wrong on a first impression.
Ferris, apparently noticing the change in Slidell’s demeanor, ran interference by stepping in front of me and introducing himself. Slidell’s weak attempt at a smile faded beneath his gray, overgrown goatee. He nodded at Ferris, then thumped a wooden walking stick by his side and pivoted toward me. “No need for introductions, Ms. Nighthawk. Your reputation, and your notoriety, precede you. Doc Blanchard and I are old fishing buddies. Sends his regards, by the way.”
Holy crap on a cracker.
He snapped a pair of nitrile gloves over his balloon-like hands and peered into the trunk of the sedan. “Kind of you, young lady, to allow me to conduct my investigation before you turn our unfortunate friend here into a carnival freak show.” He studied the charred body, then pursed his lips. “I doubt this gentleman started the fire and then locked himself in the trunk to die. I think we’re safe to declare this a murder scene. ID and cause of death pending.”
Ferris cleared his throat and leaned over the trunk beside Slidell. “We believe the corpse may be the governor’s point man, Sherrod Wiley. He was reported missing a few days ago. I’ll have our office email you his dental records.”
“That’d be mighty helpful of you. If you’re right, that’ll put the identification issue to bed. Considering the thermal damage, we’ll likely run a PMCT.”
A what?
Ferris whispered over his shoulder, “A post-mortem CT scan. Helps with determining COD—cause of death.”
“I know what COD is,” I snapped.
Ferris sighed and turned to Slidell. “Non-contrast?”
“Absolutely. Given the tissue damage, injection of contrast agents would be impossible.”
“Show-off,” I hissed in Ferris’s ear.
“Forensics 101, Nighthawk. Crack a book sometime.”
The meat wagon pulled up alongside Slidell’s Hummer. A few of his lackeys scampered out, and he waved them over with a swish of his hand. “Ready for transport, gentlemen. Our vic here is rather badly burned. Check for trace, and for God’s sake, be mindful of dermal shedding.”
Ferris leaned in close. “That’s when the dead skin sloughs off. You know, ’cause they’re burnt and…dead.”
“Jesus,” I said, punching his arm. “If anyone knows what dead bodies do, it’s me.”
Slidell climbed back into his Hummer and called, “Miss Nighthawk? Just in case you had any ideas about raising Mr. Wiley, if indeed, he is Mr. Wiley, in my morgue, know two things. First, you will not touch this corpse, or go anywhere near it, without my express consent. Second, and I cannot stress this enough, as long as I live and draw air into my lungs, you will never ever raise a corpse in any morgue of mine. Have I made myself clear?”
He pulled away from the curb, not waiting for my answer.
“Crystal,” I yelled.
Little Allie joined in, blowing out the few brain cells I had left. Fuck you, Colonel Sanders! You arrogant pig-face.
Ferris took a deep breath and watched Dr. Slidell drive up Rampart toward the morgue. “It could have been worse,” he said.
“How so?”
“We could be hunkered in the trunk of that sedan, scraping up dermal shedding.”
“Oh, bite me.”
Ferris could be as glib as he wanted, I wasn’t laughing. Slidell and his blanket refusal to allow me to raise Wiley in his morgue had thrown a monkey wrench into our case. We needed Wiley to confirm who killed him, and there was only one way to get that confirmation. I’d have to raise him. That meant someone was going to have to change Slidell’s mind, and it sure wasn’t going to be me. As we climbed back into the SUV, my eyes lingered on Ferris. Would he have a shot?
Ferris started the ignition and shot me the side eye. “Stop staring at me.”
When I didn’t respond, he sighed and put both hands on the wheel. “What?”
“Nothing. Well, maybe.” I squirmed deeper into my seat. “Do you think you could convince Slidell to let me raise Wiley?”
“Seriously?
Not a chance. The guy doesn’t know me from Adam.”
“But you’re an FBI agent. And he doesn’t hate you the way he hates me.”
“He does hate you, doesn’t he?”
“More than the trots.”
After a moment of silence, Ferris smirked. “What about Boudreaux? He’s a local guy—and he’s got the weight of the FBI behind him.”
“What if Slidell hates him, too?”
“Only one way to find out.” Ferris pulled out his phone and dialed Boudreaux.
“Put it on conference,” I whispered. “He likes me. Kind of.”
Boudreaux answered on the second ring. Ferris filled him in on the salient points, namely that Slidell had outlawed raising Wiley and had all but barred me from the morgue.
“Making friends as usual, Nighthawk?” Boudreaux asked.
“Apparently so, sir.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Percy and I go back a ways, but it hasn’t all been rosy.”
His name was Percy? Why didn’t that surprise me?
“You know,” Boudreaux said. “Without a court order, it’s his call. I’ll give him a shout and get back to you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ferris said. “Before you hang up, can you transfer me to Mouton?”
“Sure thing. And Nighthawk,” Boudreaux added. “Try not to make any more friends today. I don’t think I could bear it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”
After a brief pause, Mouton picked up the line. “Ferris, you must be psychic. Your man Rip just ID’d Henri Abellard’s pic as the guy with the dreadlocks from the warehouse.”
Ferris pumped his fist. “Be sure to let Agent Boudreaux know—pronto. I’d like him to have that information before his conversation with Dr. Slidell. Any word from Fairchild or De Palma?” Ferris frowned and shook his head. “Okay, thanks. We’re on our way back now.”
“It’s almost five,” I said, glancing at my watch. “They should have checked in by now.”
“They’re fine. Stop obsessing.”
Easy for Ferris to say. He didn’t have the brain bitch pitching a hissy in his head. He threaded the SUV through rush hour traffic while I stared silently out my window, trying not to anticipate the worst. The air between us had grown thick and heavy. It wasn’t until we pulled into the parking lot of the FBI office that Ferris finally broke the silence.
“Would you be as worried if it were me out there?”
If he thought that little bombshell was going to turn me into Chatty Cathy, he had another think coming. As soon as he put the car in park, I opened the door, jumped out and damn near sprinted for the door. Screw him. He could follow at his own pace.
I cruised through junior agent cubical land and stopped at Mouton’s desk. “Nice job with the ID, Philip. Have you seen Babs—ah, Agent McMillen lately?”
“Last I saw, she was headed for the cafeteria, maybe an hour ago.”
Boudreaux marched purposely up the hallway in my direction, sport coat over his arm, tie pulled loose; the look on his face, indecipherable. Heavy footsteps that had been pounding the Berber carpet behind me came to an abrupt stop. I knew without turning they belonged to Ferris.
“Update, folks,” Boudreaux said from the corner of Mouton’s cube. “Percy was in the process of conducting his examination of your corpse when I called. His admin relayed my message, asking for a sit down to discuss raising this fellow. Percy said he didn’t have time for a meeting tonight, but he’ll hold off on the autopsy. We have an appointment with him at nine tomorrow morning. I wouldn’t be too hopeful, if I was you.” Boudreaux sighed and leaned against the corner of the cube. “Sally—the admin—said he was only agreeing to meet ’cause it was me asking. She said he called you, and I quote, ‘The mouth that roared.’ Said he wouldn’t let you raise that fella if you were the Lord God, Himself.”
“Well, then,” I said, refusing to swallow my sarcasm. “As long as there’s hope.”
Boudreaux smirked in spite of himself. “We’ll give Percy a good night’s sleep. He’s a… Hell. What’s the word? Irascible. An irascible old coot. I’ll remind him of a favor or two I’ve got coming my way. I’ll invite Director Horton to this soiree as well. Pick me up at my office, at eight-thirty.” Boudreaux left us with a nod and continued his way out the door. Five o’clock had come.
I turned to Mouton. “Where’d you say Vinny was?”
“You never asked. I said Agent McMillen went to the cafeteria about an hour ago.”
I shot him the Allie eye. “And where’s Vinny?”
“In the conference room, last I saw him. But that was at least a couple of hours ago.”
A chill snaked up my spine. Ferris and I bolted to the conference room before Mouton could even respond. Ferris threw open the door and we stared into the empty room. “Damn it!” he yelled. Vinny’s computer was still logged in, but his phone was gone. He was kind enough to leave a note:
Sorry, I’m outta here. This ain’t how the Vinster rolls. Be back later, V…
p.s. That whack-job babysitter you got me needs to get laid.
My head felt like it might explode. “She needs to get laid out, is what she needs!”
I sprinted from the conference room through the hallway to the cafeteria, with Ferris on my heels. We burst through the door and found Psycho Babs seated at a small round dining table with her nose stuck in one of her psychiatric journals.
She glanced over the top of her cheaters and studied us like some curious new organisms. “May I help you?”
“Where’s Vinny?” Ferris boomed.
“I don’t think I care for your tone.” Sitting taller, she raised her brow and glared at Ferris. “Would you care to ask me again in a civil manner, or shall I simply ignore you?”
“Answer the damn question!” I said, straddling the chair across from her.
“I…he…” Babs blinked. “He’s exactly where I left him—in the conference room.”
“Bzzt! Wrong answer.” I leaned in, getting nose to nose with her. “Care to try again?”
“Are you sure?” she murmured.
“What do you think?” I said, shoving Vinny’s note into her perfectly manicured claws.
She scanned the words and blushed. I’d forgotten the part about her needing to get laid. Well, that’s a lie. I didn’t forget. I shoved it up her beak-like snout and rotated it.
Babs’ cheeks blazed. “I hold multiple doctorates and I’m a trained profiler for the FBI, not a babysitter.” She sighed and tossed up her hands. “We aren’t well suited to spend time together. I needed a break, and he promised to stay put. The prepubescent monkey.”
“He’s not some snot-nosed runaway,” Ferris snapped. “He’s a grown man who could be in danger. And he disappeared on your watch.”
Babs rolled her eyes. “He’s a walking penis with the brain of a toddler.”
My stomach churned at the thought of having to tell Boudreaux and Dickhead that we’d lost our vic. Correction, that Babs had lost our vic.
“Everybody relax. Just take a breath,” Ferris said. “And think.”
“Maybe he went back to his dorm room.” I said.
“Possibly.” Ferris rubbed his face with his hands. “Or maybe to The Boot, to hang out.”
Babs shook her head. “No. We’re grasping at straws. What would Vinny want, this pubescent college boy who just finished his exams? Pizza, beer, and girls?”
“Luna,” I said, jumping off my chair. “He wants Luna.”
Judging by the way he’d shoveled in his po’ boys at dinner the night before, I figured he was looking for more of Mama’s cooking too. I pulled out my phone and dialed the restaurant, tapping my foot, waiting for someone to pick up.
The voice that finally answered was soft and sweet. “Mama Femi’s.”
“Luna?”
“This is she.”
“Luna, this is Allie. Is Vinny there with you?”
The line went quiet.
“It’s okay if he is, we�
��re just worried about him.”
“Yeah,” she giggled. “He’s here. Eating Mama’s cooking and waitin’ on me to get off work.”
“Would you put him on the line, please?” I sucked in the first good breath I’d had in at least ten minutes and swore to snatch him bald the next time I saw him.
Seconds later, Vinny whined in my ear. “C’mon, Nighthawk. Cut me some slack. I’m working here”
“Working your way to an ass-whooping.”
“Give me a break! I’m in freakin’ jail here. I—”
“It’s for you own good, damn it.” The dimwitted, shit-for-brains horndog. I closed my eyes and counted to ten, like that was going to help. “Stay where you are. I mean it, Vinny. We’re on our way. God help your horny little ass if you aren’t there when we walk in that door. Now, put Luna back on.”
Ferris, tossing his keys from hand to hand, had been waiting for me to finish my rant. He finally gave up, walked to the door with Babs on his heels, and motioned for me to meet him at the car.
A hesitant Luna picked up the line. “How…how can I help you, Miss Allie?”
“Girl, you keep that bonehead in your sight until we get there. Do not let him leave. You feel me?”
“Yes ’um. I surely do.”
“Tell Mama we’ll have four for dinner—three if Vinny already ate. Be there in a bit. How ’bout saving me some garlic frog legs?”
“You bet. Have them hoppers ready and waitin’ on you, Miss Allie. And don’t you fret none. Vinny always got room for more.”
I hung up, already tasting the garlic, but as I walked to the SUV and ducked into the back seat, an anxious Little Allie wouldn’t let me be.
Where the hell is Rico, she wanted to know.
That made two of us.
26
Someone Call for a Murderous, Life-Sucking Devil?
I snatched my phone from my back pocket and speed-dialed Rico. The call went straight to voice mail.
Corpse Whisperer Sworn Page 17