“I have no idea. I have way more questions right now than answers. I dropped her at the airport, so why didn’t she leave? Instead, she returned to the same building she refused to go in earlier. Either she opened the lockbox or someone else did, and something happened to her inside. I saw no one else but her. None of this makes sense.”
“If this were your investigation, where would you start?”
“I’d ask the airline reps at the airport what they know about her. Did she go through security? Had she boarded a plane? How, when and why did she leave? Then I’d talk to a guy named Jack Blair who lives in a box across from the building. He has a clear shot of the entryway. He drinks too much, but he may have seen something.”
The detective told Landry he was free to go, but not to leave town for a few days. Landry understood; he was getting to go home tonight, but in case things changed the cops wanted to keep tabs.
The officer didn’t like it one bit that the detective let him go. When he asked to speak with Young privately, he said, “Leave this one to me. I’ll vouch for Mr. Drake, and if he skips out on us, it’s my head that’ll roll.”
There was nothing more the irritated cop could say or do. To him, it looked like a celebrity getting preferential treatment. By his own admission, Drake was the only person besides the victim at a crime scene, but Detective Young appeared to be ignoring the facts and protecting a friend.
Before he left, Landry asked Young if he could check on Tiffany. He learned she was in a coma and was now in ICU. The hospital said they’d advise if her condition changed, and the detective promised to pass on anything he heard.
He arrived at his apartment exhausted, dropped his clothes on the floor and crawled into bed. He wanted sleep more than anything, but Cate would be waiting for an update. It was a brief call that ended with a promise to talk tomorrow.
With the sounds of Mardi Gras — shouts, screams, the bass thump-thumping of bands in Bourbon Street bars, and sirens — resounding outside his window, he lay back in bed and thought how much had happened in the week since he and Cate attended the Calypso ball. Sitting in the Blue Room of the Roosevelt Hotel, neither could have imagined that tonight he’d be an assault suspect.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
At eight on Mardi Gras morning, Jack Blair’s doorway on Toulouse Street was quiet because this block had no bars or restaurants, thank God. He lay in the dirty sleeping bag, knowing things would change in just a few hours. By noon the streets of the French Quarter would be a jumble of noise, trash and revelry.
Jack cursed at the noise of a street sweeper and a garbage truck making rounds. He squinted through rheumy eyes at the morning light and wished he had a drink. He’d have to panhandle before that could happen, but now was too early to hit the square. As he rested in his box, he heard footsteps approaching. And the smell of something irresistible.
He heard a voice. “Jack, are you awake?”
He pushed his sleeping bag and tarp aside and crawled out to the stoop, where Landry Drake stood holding a brown paper bag and a cup of coffee.
“What are you doing?” His mouth watered as Landry sat down next to him and opened the bag. He took out a ham and egg sandwich and two thick slabs of Texas toast with plenty of butter and jelly too. Jack attacked the meal like a starving dog.
While he ate, Landry looked over at the yellow tape draped across the three archways. A large sign on the gate read NEW ORLEANS POLICE DEPARTMENT CRIME SCENE. DO NOT ENTER. It appeared no one was around.
“How long were the cops here?” he asked, and Jack said they ran around like ants all night long.
“They set up big searchlights inside, and they blocked the street with police cars and left the damned blue lights flashing. I didn’t get any sleep until they left a couple of hours ago.”
When Jack was finished, he stuffed his trash into the paper sack, leaned back and sipped the steaming coffee. “I appreciate you bringing me breakfast, Mr. Drake. I saw you leave after the cops came and an ambulance took someone away. What happened in there last night?”
“Call me Landry. Have the police talked to you yet?”
“No, and I don’t talk to cops, except to say ‘yes, sir’ when they harass me about sleeping on the street.”
“Get ready. They want to talk to you and so do I. Here’s all I can tell you. I came to look around, the building was unlocked, and I found that girl you met unconscious in the courtyard. I called 911. The police interviewed me and let me go. I told them they should talk to you because you can observe everything from here.”
“I saw that girl come around dark. She fiddled with the door and got it open, and then she went inside. I wondered if she was coming out, but I gave up and went to bed.”
Landry figured out the time span. It was dark by seven-thirty and Landry arrived three hours later. During that time, Tiffany’s attacker struck.
“Did anybody else go inside yesterday?”
“A lot. It was a regular traffic jam. The ones who put the box on the gate came twice, and another person came after. She got the key out of the box, opened the padlock and went inside for an hour. Then she locked it back up and left.”
“Were there others after that?”
“Hard to say. I miss a lot during the day because I go over to Jackson Square and raise money from the tourists. I panhandle for a living. I was gone a few hours, but when I came back, I saw the padlock was open.”
“Did you lock it back?”
“Nope. It’s not my job to lock it. Strange stuff goes on in that old building. I told you that yesterday. You can laugh or say it’s the liquor talking, but I know better. It’s haunted. It scares the hell outta me.”
It scared the hell out of Tiffany too, yet she went in there by herself.
“Someone could have been hiding inside, right? You left, and when you returned, someone had unlocked the gate.”
“Might have been a ghost. I see lights at night.”
“What do you mean?”
“I said before that even us homeless guys won’t go in because we feel something’s not right. The building’s dark, but now and then I see flickers of light from those windows that are way up on the roof. Maybe it’s someone walking around with a flashlight.”
“Could it be moonlight shining through from the courtyard?”
“No way. If it was the moon, there would be light almost every night. And those windows are way up in the attic. In these old French Quarter buildings, the attics don’t open to the courtyard. Only the street side has attic windows.”
“What makes you think that?”
Jack gave a rueful laugh. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t always a drunk living in a box. I was working on becoming an architect once. Seems like a long time ago, but it’s only been three years.”
“Alcohol?”
“And drugs. Back then I was in college, supported by my parents and living high on the hog. When the drugs took over, nothing else mattered. I kicked that habit, though. Can’t afford drugs when you’re living off what people will toss in your cup. Hard enough to get booze money.”
Landry looked hard into his face. “I’m willing to help you if you’re willing to help yourself.”
“Why?”
“For a couple of reasons. No one deserves to be where you are, and I doubt you can pull out of it by yourself. You seem like an intelligent guy who’s caught in a trap.”
“You’re right about the trap,” Jack admitted. “So what’s the other reason?”
“I want you to help me learn that building’s secrets.”
Jack straightened up a little and said, “You don’t know me. You can’t tell if my story about being an architect is true or if I’m a serial killer, and yet you’re willing to help. Nobody’s given me a second glance in three years. They toss me a quarter and move on, laughing at the bum in the gutter. Out of nowhere you come along and I’m thinking maybe I could get my life back. I can’t promise anything, Landry. The bottle has a tight grip on me — possib
ly too tight to ever let go. But I’ll give it everything I’ve got. I want to change and I appreciate your faith in me.”
“All I ask is that you try. Only you can make things work.”
Jack stood unsteadily and leaned against the doorway. “Where do we begin?”
“I don’t know,” Landry said. “I didn’t plan for this, so we’ll work on it together. By the way, is your architect story true?”
Jack laughed. “Yep. I’m Jack the architect. If you were looking for Jack the Ripper, you found the wrong guy.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In New Orleans, Fat Tuesday is a holiday. Schools and businesses close so that residents can celebrate and enjoy the day before Lent, when the frivolity ends. With the day off, Landry had time to work on his new project — Jack Blair.
He took Jack to his apartment to shower and shave. He gave him a shirt, jeans, sneakers and a trip to a barber shop on Esplanade, where Jack got a shave and a haircut. Landry marveled at how he went from ragged hobo to clean-cut guy, and when he looked in the mirror, Jack wept.
They sat at Landry’s kitchen table, had a frank discussion about the situation, and agreed upon a set of rules. Landry couldn’t expect too much in the beginning. Recovery would come in baby steps. Jack desperately wanted a fresh start, and Landry agreed to provide financial and emotional support as long as there was progress.
They had to deal with housing first. Landry’s apartment wasn’t an option. Not only was Jack a stranger, Cate came often and so that wouldn’t work. It also wasn’t fair to dump Jack in a shelter filled with temptations. At some point he’d require something permanent, but until he proved himself willing and able to kick his habit, Landry couldn’t commit the funds.
Instead they found a room in an older motel off Canal near the river that was clean and included a hot breakfast. Landry paid for a week, enough time to assess Jack’s progress.
At Walgreens he bought toiletries, sodas and snacks. After finding clothes at a thrift store, Landry dropped him at the motel, leaving Jack with a list of AA meeting sites and a promise not to drink. There were still parades on Canal Street just two blocks away, and intoxicated revelers would create a perfect scenario for Jack to beg a drink and join them.
“Be careful and stay safe,” Landry warned. “Meet me tomorrow at eight at the station.”
“I’ll be there. One day at a time,” Jack promised.
Alone in the motel room, it seemed to Jack the night would never end. Every sound from the nearby Mississippi River reverberated in his head. It had been three years since he had slept in a bed, and the softness of it kept him awake. After an hour of tossing and turning, he folded his jacket to make a pillow and slept on the floor.
Twice he awoke with the dry heaves, and as he retched into the toilet, he wished he’d asked Landry for money. He needed a drink to stop shaking, but he resisted going to Bourbon Street and begging for a dollar. As he lay on the floor under a clean, warm blanket, he wondered if he’d be able to meet Landry’s expectations. Hell, he wondered if he even wanted to. He willed his trembling body to be still, he forced bad thoughts from his mind, and he tried to sleep.
At last dawn came. The minute the breakfast room opened, he filled a plate with eggs, sausage and toast, and carried it and a cup of coffee to the room. The food smelled delicious and he ate so quickly he vomited within seconds.
Alcohol is what I need, not food. My body isn’t used to a solid meal. I need a drink.
I can’t. I can’t, because this is my only chance. I will not let Landry down. One day at a time. No, one hour. One minute at a time.
Shaking, he went back downstairs, slowly ate a dry piece of toast, sipped coffee, and this time he kept it down.
Freshly showered and clean-shaven, he made sure he arrived at Channel Nine before Landry. Embarrassed at having been so weak, he lied when Landry asked if things went well.
“Sure beats sleeping in a box, although the bed was so soft I ended up sleeping on the floor.”
While Landry worked, Jack hung out in his office. Three times he left for AA meetings. Landry thought he seemed to be doing the right things, but Jack’s situation was far from stable.
After work Landry took Jack to a corner café near the station for a good dinner before going to the motel. As Jack picked at a hamburger and fries, he admitted he’d vomited at breakfast that morning. “I haven’t eaten a decent meal in years,” he said. “I have to be careful, even though this food tastes like heaven.”
That night was hard too. Around eleven as he lay trembling on the floor, Jack decided to go out and beg for money. He was putting on his shoes when he stopped, went into the bathroom, looked in the mirror and said, “You do this and it’s all over. You might as well kiss your life goodbye, because you’re about to ruin everything.”
He drank a Dr Pepper and got back on the floor. Unable to recall the last time he prayed, tonight he asked for peace. As the hours passed, he awoke with the dry heaves twice, but not as bad as last night. At the breakfast table, he ate his toast, drank coffee and said, “Thank you, God.”
At work Jack said he was becoming addicted to Dr Pepper instead of cheap whisky. In between attending several AA meetings a day, he shadowed Landry, who found Jack to be an intelligent guy who could use a computer. He passed off simple tasks and Jack handled them well.
Those forty-eight hours brought remarkable improvement to Tiffany Bertrand, who was sitting up in bed when Landry knocked on her hospital room door. Her face lit up when he came in.
“Thank you for coming to see me. Who’s this with you?”
Landry smiled. “This is my new assistant, Jack. I believe you two have met.”
No way. This guy’s handsome. Way too young for me, but I wouldn’t forget meeting him.
“I haven’t met you.”
He laughed. “You did, when you took the ghost tour.”
“You weren’t on that tour. I’d have remembered you.”
“I was living in a box across the street.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “You’re —"
“I’m Jack Blair.”
Careful not to embarrass Jack, Landry simply said, “He’s on a fresh life track and he’s my new assistant.” Then he changed the subject. “Do you feel up to talking about what happened to you the other night?”
She nodded, but she recalled very little. “They said you found me inside the building.”
Landry nodded. “Let’s go back a few hours before that. I took you to the airport a little before six. Do you remember that?”
She nodded.
“Okay. Tell me what happened after that. Give me as much detail as you can.”
“I got my boarding pass at the ticket counter. Hardly anyone was in the TSA line, so I got through fast. I walked down the concourse, and with over two hours before the flight, I sat at the Sazerac Bar and ordered a...let’s see. I ordered a glass of Chardonnay and an oyster po’boy.” She paused and furrowed her brow. “This is weird,” she continued. “Things are all fuzzy after that. I got the wine, right? I think so, but I don’t remember getting the sandwich.”
“What happened next?”
She gave it some thought. “Nothing. I woke up here in the hospital, my head and my arm hurt like hell, and they said you found me in the courtyard. Why don’t you tell me what happened next?”
Landry said, “I will, but let me keep going for a second. You got your glass of wine at the bar inside security at the airport and recall nothing after that?”
“Right.” She raised her eyebrows. “What if somebody drugged me?”
“Who was next to you?”
“No one, but the bartender could have slipped me something.”
Landry saw no motive for someone to drug her. Tiffany arrived in New Orleans without knowing how she got here, and her loss of memory at the airport was more likely another episode just like the first. He told her how he’d found her in the unlocked building and how the cops questioned his involvement.
She laughed. “You could have been involved, for all I know.”
“And they may still believe I am, for all I know,” he countered.
This was a delicate situation. Just like Jack, something in Tiffany’s mind drew her back to the building. She suffered two periods of amnesia, returned to the French Quarter, and this time she was injured. For both their sakes, he had to figure out what was going on.
“Has the doctor said how much longer you’ll be in the hospital?”
“I may get out tomorrow. He says I’ll heal just fine. They had a shrink come in and talk to me, but I don’t remember much so she won’t be of any help.”
Landry said he and Jack were already seeking answers, and he’d be back to see her in a few hours. She had her cell phone — it had been in her pocket all along — and they promised to keep in touch if things changed. Just before they left, Jack asked to take her picture. That surprised Landry and Tiffany, but he gave a smart explanation. When interviewing people to reconstruct her movements, a photo might help people recall her face.
“Impressive,” Landry said as they walked to the car. “I also saw you taking notes while she talked. Okay, investigative assistant, what’s our first move?”
Pleased at the compliment, Jack looked at his notes. “To the airport, driver. We have people to see.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They began at the American Airlines ticket counter. The picture came in handy; they found an agent who recalled a frazzled woman with no baggage and a one-way ticket to Los Angeles. Those red flags caused her to remember one passenger among thousands. She'd sent an electronic warning to TSA, but Tiffany had passed the screening process with no problem.
That was all the agent recalled, so Landry took a chance and asked for an airline gate pass, explaining that he needed to interview the bartender at a drinking establishment near the gates.
"I’d give you one if you were an officer, but you're not, Mr. Drake. I recognized you when you walked up. The only other way is if you're meeting an elderly parent or an unaccompanied minor. Got any kids you’re keeping a secret?"
Die Again (The Bayou Hauntings Book 6) Page 6