“She go home alone after her shift?”
“We walked out together, just us.”
“How did she seem?”
“What do you mean?”
“Normal . . . Happy . . . Excited?”
Claudia shrugged. “Normal, I guess.”
“Not upset at anything?”
“Look, we weren’t BFFs or anything, more like . . . just workmates.”
“Did you see her get in her car?” At the same moment that Kit asked the question a raucous round of cheers erupted from the mechanical gator pit.
Claudia leaned closer and cupped her ear. “Sorry, what?”
Kit repeated the question.
Claudia had to think a moment, then said, “Actually no. The owner came out and called me back in to remind me to punch out at the end of each shift. I been forgetting to do that. He could have done it for me, but made me do it so I’d remember in the future, like I was his kid or something.”
“Did she and the manager get along?”
“He’s strict. Everybody here gets yelled at occasionally. But I’ve never heard of Betty and him having any problem beyond that.”
Kit lowered her voice. “Does he ever hit on any of the girls?”
Claudia’s brow furrowed and she whispered back, “I’m not sure he even has a dick although sometimes he acts like one.”
“Thursday night did you notice anyone talking to her more than usual . . . hanging around her?”
“When we’re on duty it’s hectic. I wouldn’t notice anything like that. In fact, I better get back to work now.”
Kit pointed at one of the other bartenders “Could you send that redhead over here so we can talk?”
“I’ll get her.”
Over the next few minutes, Kit spoke to the other two girls, but didn’t learn anything useful, except that the owner’s name was Bill Gauthier, and that he was in his office, just to the left of the bar.
Kit went over and knocked on his door. Because of the noise in the place she leaned in and listened hard to hear if he said, “Come in.”
Instead, the door suddenly swung open. Caught off balance, Kit stumbled forward into the arms of a guy whose breath smelled like he’d just gargled with mouthwash.
She pulled free and reached for her ID. “Mr. Gauthier, I’m Detective Franklyn, NOPD, can we talk for a few minutes?”
“Am I allowed to say no?” the guy said, his confident grin making Kit think he would have appreciated a snare drum rim shot for his witty response.
“You could,” Kit said, “But that sort of thing always makes investigators suspicious.”
He stepped back and motioned her in. “Can’t have that. So, sure, I got some time . . . not much though. I was about to come out and see why you were botherin’ my girls.”
“How did you . . .” Then Kit saw two banks of monitors to the right of his desk. She noted that some were showing events taking place in various parts of the bar while others were eyes on the parking lot.
“I’m guessin’ you’re here to talk about Betty Bergeron,” Gauthier said.
“If I told you that someone harmed her, what would you say?”
“Did they . . . is she hurt?”
“Right now, it’s a hypothetical question.”
“So you’re askin’ do I know if anybody has a beef with her?” He shook his head, lips pinched and drooping. “Do I seem like the kind of guy you’d want to discuss your troubles with? Betty served drinks here, I paid her to do it. Employer . . . employee . . . big barrier between us . . . just the way I like it.”
Those monitors,” Kit said. “Do they automatically record what the cameras see?”
“For a few days, until the data gets written over.”
“Think you’d still have the images from Thursday night?”
“Probably.”
“Would you be willing to let me look at them?”
“That’ll take a long time. You’d be in the way.”
“Can they be downloaded onto a flash drive?”
“How big a drive you got?”
Kit dug in her purse and pulled out her secondary key ring. Holding up the flash drive attached to it, she said, “Sixty-four gigs.”
Gauthier held out his hand and she gave it to him.
He plugged the drive into the computer wired to the system and made a few mouse clicks.
There ensued an awkward wait while the files were transferred. Looking around the room Kit spotted a rubber alligator with a bloody hand protruding from its open mouth. “Why the alligator theme?” she asked.
“There were alligators around even before the dinosaurs. And they’re still here. Whatever killed off the other reptiles didn’t affect them. You gotta respect an animal that tough.”
“So it’s just respect?”
“Okay, you got me detective. I love the damn things.”
“I’ve got a friend who feels the same way.” There was no chance she’d tell him she was referring to her fiancée.
“Do you think he’s strange?”
“Hardly.”
The computer emitted a loud clunk, apparently an indication that the download had been completed, because Gauthier said, “Tell you what. Since we sort of have gators in common. I’m gonna also give you the viewin’ software for the files.”
He went to the mouse and made a few more selections.
“How long you been a detective?” Gauthier said.
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Seems like an unusual job for a woman . . . I mean one who looks like you.”
“Unlike some jobs, appearances aren’t very high up the list of qualifications for a detective.”
“Guess you’re referrin’ to the girls I hire. Ones like those out there make more money for the bar and for themselves. Don’t blame me. It’s on the guys who come in here. They’d rather let somebody with curves and a pretty face take their money.” Hearing the computer clunk again, Gauthier reached down, ejected the flash drive, and handed it to her. “Don’t know what you’re expectin’ to find on there.”
“A clue maybe,” Kit said, “Thanks for the help.”
The lot had been so crowded when she’d arrived that Kit had to park partially on the grass at the far end of the asphalt. When she reached the spot, her car looked lower than usual. A quick inspection of the tires with the flashlight app on her cell phone showed that all four were flat.
Chapter 12
Looking closer, Kit could distinctly see that one of her tires had been slashed. Presumably, so had the others. She glanced around her, worried that whoever had done it, might that very moment, be hurtling toward her out of the shadows. But she saw no one.
Feeling that she needed to get into a better lit area, she headed back to the bar’s entrance, where, a few steps from the front door, she fished her wallet from her bag and found her triple A card. A moment later, keeping a lookout for anyone suspicious approaching her, she had help on the line.
“Yes . . . Someone has cut all the tires on my car. I can’t drive it.”
She gave the voice on the other end her name and member number.
She had no idea what they were going to do for her, and as it happened, she didn’t find out, because she was informed that her membership had expired two months ago.
“Damn” she muttered. What could she do now?
Calling Gatlin was out of the question. How would that look? On the job for just a couple of hours and now calling him for such a stupid thing. Same for Broussard.
But there was one person . . .
Ten seconds later, he answered on the fifth ring. “Bubba, here. Your call is very important to me, so start talkin’.”
Not sure if that was a recording, she said, “It’s Kit. I’ve got a problem.”
There was a clicking sound and Bubba picked up. “Dr. F. what’s da matter?”
She explained what had happened.
“Where are you?” he asked.
She told him the name of the bar. “I don’t remembe
r the exact address, but it’s on . . .”
“I know exactly where you are. Be dere in about a half hour.”
“I’ll be inside.”
She was soon sitting at the bar, where Claudia came over and said, “More questions?”
“Yeah, would you please get me a Phat Tyre?”
For the next thirty minutes Kit nursed her beer and thought about who could have damaged her car. The most likely culprit was someone involved in the NOPD work slow down . . . cops, detectives, union slugs . . . lot of possibilities. She considered going back to Gauthier’s office and checking the surveillance images, but from looking at all the camera coverage earlier she realized the part of the lot where she’d parked was not included.
After what seemed like three hours, her phone rang.
“It’s me,” Bubba said. “I’m here.”
She went outside and saw him standing next to a flatbed truck by the highway.
When she got there, she said, “I’m so sorry to have bothered you.”
“You didn’t. It was like you knew I was lookin’ for some reason to drive dis new truck dat just came in.”
By ‘came in’ he was referring to the police impoundment lot where he worked.
“Will you get in trouble for taking it?”
“Somebody has to make sure it’s ready for use. I’m actually workin’ overtime for free. Where you parked?”
Next to Kit’s car there was a strip of grass and next to that, the parking area for Oswald’s Auto Glass Repair, now closed. This allowed Bubba to get the flatbed close enough so that after he took a quick look at the tires, he was able to jockey her car around and easily drive it up on the truck bed.
“What’s the plan?” Kit said, from the front seat of the truck as they pulled onto the street.
“Ain’t nothin’ can be done about your car tonight. I’ll take you home, an’ in the mornin’ I’ll get you fixed up. Paint ‘em white and dose tires’d make good planters, but dey ain’t gonna carry you anywhere again. Where you wanna get some new ones?”
“Can you find me a good deal?”
“I gotta friend.”
“Figured you did.”
“Don’ mean to poke my nose in, but dat bar don’ seem like your kinda place.”
“I was there on police business.”
“Yeah, Gramma O said you been made a detective.”
“How’d she know that?”
“I got friends, but she got ways. Who you think cut your tires? Was it jus’ random nasty or somebody dat don’t like you in particular?”
“Not sure. Could be I’ve made some enemies.”
“You still got your gun?”
She patted the pant leg that covered her Ladysmith. “Right here.”
“Dat’s good. Gramma also said you got engaged. Who to?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He glanced at her and grinned, his white teeth flashing even in the poor light. “How’s dat gonna work? You gonna move away or is Teddy comin’ over here to live?”
Bubba had hit upon a question Kit and Teddy themselves couldn’t answer. It was the one thing about their future that worried her. “Negotiations still underway,” she said.
For several years, Kit had lived in a French Quarter apartment behind a photo gallery on Toulouse Street. One of the perks of living there was it came with a parking space in an old brick garage, three blocks away on Dauphine. The fact she still lived there after once being attacked in her courtyard and once in her apartment shows how much value parking space has in the Quarter.
Because of its narrow streets and frequent gridlock, driving a huge truck into the Quarter during the day was difficult. On a Saturday night with so many drunks clogging up the place, it was impossible. Bubba therefore, dropped the big truck off at the impoundment lot and they headed for Kit’s apartment in Bubba’s pickup.
A short while later, heading down North Rampart, Bubba took a right on Toulouse, which fortunately was one-way in the desired direction.
“Just drop me off at Dauphine,” Kit said. “No sense you trying to cross Bourbon on a Saturday night. Then you can just take Dauphine to Canal.”
“You sure? I don’ mind crowds.”
“You’ve done more than enough for one night.”
He pulled to a stop at the Dauphine intersection. “Even though tomorrow is Sunday, I can probably get you fixed up with some new tires. I’ll call when it’s done.”
She got out and waited for him to make the turn, then she headed down Toulouse.
Most of the madness during any night in the Quarter was on Bourbon, which was closed to traffic after dark. But some of the mania spilled over onto Toulouse. Several years ago, the living statue acts that populate the Quarter favored covering themselves in gold paint. Of late, silver had become the medium of choice. In the center of the block on her side of the street she saw a silver-skinned guy in a silver tux and top hat holding a silver chain that led to a fake silver alligator. The first time she’d seen him perform she’d watched him for ten minutes waiting for the alligator to do something, but even when the guy would suddenly shift to a new position to prove he was alive the alligator never moved. Even so, she’d given the guy two bucks. Tonight, she edged around the crowd watching him, and kept walking.
At Bourbon Street, the air was filled with earthy smells and the sound of a jazz band. Before crossing the street, she had to wait for a yellow and red Lucky Dog cart to clear the intersection. Whoever had made the carts look like a rolling hot dog had done a great job. Even so, when she’d first moved to New Orleans she’d been afraid to eat anything from a pushcart. But after learning that the great Cajun chef, Paul Prudhomme, would occasionally leave his restaurant and head to Jackson Square for a Lucky Dog, she’d changed her mind. She almost stopped to order one now. But with slashed tires still on her mind, she just wanted to get home. So she simply smiled and nodded at the vendor in his paper hat and red and white striped shirt as he passed.
When she reached the Nolen Boyd art gallery a minute later, she saw Nolen inside talking to a prosperous looking couple that might actually buy something.
On the right side of the gallery, she stepped up to the eight-foot tall, heavy cypress door leading to the rear courtyard, then turned her back to the door, her finger touching the lipstick mace canister on her key ring. She was facing the street because she’d seen a group of loutish looking young men coming her way. To keep from resembling a hooker trying to catch the group’s attention, she glanced at her watch then craned her neck to look past them toward the opposite side of the street, as though expecting someone to meet her any minute. When the last of the suspicious men was well out of range, she quickly keyed the lock and slipped inside.
The gallery and the adjacent building formed a long passage leading to the rear courtyard, where her apartment was located. For most of its length the passage had a lattice ceiling covered on top by the branches of an ancient wisteria. During the day, this made the passage a charming, light-dappled avenue. But at night, the Wisteria would have caused it to be a murky twenty-foot stretch were it not for the little lights Boyd had hung along the left wall. He had also placed a coil of razor wire above the big cypress door to keep anyone on the outside from climbing in. As the door shut and locked behind Kit, the tension she felt from being on the Quarter’s half lit, humanity-filled streets dissipated.
The lattice-covered walkway opened onto a courtyard equipped with a mercury vapor light on a big pole. Usually the light illuminated a well-kept garden of hostas, autumn ferns, white azaleas, and a small wall fountain. But tonight, like the last two weeks, the courtyard held a hand cement mixer, a big pile of sand, and a mountain of red brick.
Her apartment was to the left, up a flight of wooden stairs. It was located in one wing of a detached building that a hundred years ago, served as homes for the servants that tended the big house now converted to an art gallery. The wing where Kit lived was structurally sound, but the one that formed the bac
k wall of the courtyard was not. In fact, she and someone chasing her had once fallen through its roof.
That was all now being remedied by Leblanc Construction, who had almost completely covered the back wing with metal scaffolding. The deal was that work would not begin until 8:30 a.m. and would cease at 5:00 p.m. So noise was not really a problem. But the mess, especially the dust all over the courtyard and the wooden steps to the second floor, was unsettling. On the positive side of the ledger, she was presently the only tenant.
As she turned the corner of the art gallery and moved fully into the courtyard, she now had a direct sight line to her apartment. That meant the little Westie terrier she’d bought a year ago and who was now alertly standing just outside his doggie door could now also see her. Overcome with joy, he came hurtling down the outside steps, his tail wagging so fast it was almost a blur. He slipped and skidded and flopped down the stairs then ran to the gate in a fence the workmen had hastily built to give him just enough of a personal courtyard to do his business.
She opened the gate and snatched the dog into her arms. “Did you miss me sweetie? I missed you.” For an answer, the dog began licking her face. The tongue on her first dog, Lucky, was slightly raspy, but Fletcher’s was perfectly smooth. This made her skin feel as though it was being rubbed with a piece of wet liver. Despite her love for the little creature, she pulled her face out of licking range and carried him upstairs.
After a quick pit stop in her apartment, she got a pot of coffee started, then went to her computer and plugged in the flash drive containing the surveillance videos from Gator Willie’s. With Fletcher lying on the floor beside her chair, she began to remotely relive what might have been the last night of Betty Bergeron’s life.
Chapter 13
Disorder in his world always stimulated Broussard’s appetite. And it was happening now. He didn’t know why, but he suspected the neurons in his brain that had been arguing with each other since he’d begun reflecting on Uncle Joe’s death had awakened some of their neighbors. And those other cells likely had connections with his stomach. There was no scientific proof for this; it’s just what he believed. So even though he’d already eaten dinner at Grandma O’s, he was now home, standing at his gas range. To his right, sat six fully cooked marinated pork chops arranged in a crown on a plate decorated with gold garlands. He poured half a glass of white wine into the pan with the pork chop juices, then added two tablespoons of thickened veal gravy. He turned up the heat and began stirring.
Assassination at Bayou Sauvage Page 7