What She Doesn't Know

by Tina Wainscott

  Oh, but she was involved. “I have a professional interest. And he was a friend. I want to know why a man who had everything to live for would throw himself off his roof,” she said, using Christopher’s earlier words.

  “Maybe it was an accident. That makes the most sense.” Tammy wasn’t smiling when she said, “Have a safe trip home.”

  Rita tried to sort through her thoughts after Tammy left. Whoever pushed Brian must have had a personal reason to do so, considering they’d also gone after her. Whoever it was had access to Brian’s e-mail.

  “Like a hacker,” she said, thinking of Christopher. Or an ex-girlfriend. It could even be shady business dealings that Brian became involved in. In one of their last conversations, he’d hinted at something exciting he was involved in, something he wanted to share with her. He’d asked her if she liked video games. When she’d admitted she was terrible at them, he said he knew one she’d be good at, though he hadn’t expanded on it. She thought maybe he was investing in a game company.

  If only he could tell her, the way he’d shown her that he’d been pushed. She reached out to touch him, hoping he could show her more.

  A young nurse with violent red hair pushed a cart into the room, saying in a singsong voice, “Excuse me. Time to give our boy a bath.” Her skin was smooth, eyes a brilliant, phony green as they surveyed Rita. Her smile and even her voice sounded phony, too, all thick and whispery. “Did I hear you say you met this gentleman on-line?”

  “Were you listening to our conversation?” Rita asked, noting the woman’s nametag: Aris Smith.

  Aris laughed breezily. “Honey, ya’ll weren’t saying anything that interesting.” She let out a long sigh, tilting her head as she looked at Brian. “I think it’s a wonderful place to meet a loved one. Shame you met your man in person too late.”

  “It’s not too late.” Rita’s voice sounded as defensive as she felt.

  Aris shrugged shoulders that looked padded. “Well, of course not. Forgive me. I’m a floater, you see, just did a few months on the AIDS floor. That’s where they treat the patients in the final stages of the disease. When they get there, there isn’t much hope. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.”

  For a reason she could not name, Rita felt reluctant to go. Aris pulled a wet sponge from a basin and squeezed it. Her nails were painted green, gold and purple, the colors of Mardi Gras. Tammy’s were painted those colors too, but Rita couldn’t remember the design. Probably a lot of women who could grow their nails long had them painted up for Mardi Gras.

  Aris stopped mid-movement. “Are you just going to stand there and gawk?”

  “Er, no. No.” Rita walked out of the room, feeling her face flush. She was still caught up in this surreal world of New Orleans, and of the realization that two nights weren’t going to be enough to find out what had happened to Brian.

  Aris glanced out of the doorway at Rita Brooks who was waiting by the elevator. She’d only been coming by to do her usual check on Brian’s condition, to see if there were any signs of him coming out. Rita had stopped her dead cold. Rita, here in New Orleans. Rita, asking questions about who might have pushed Brian.

  Aris had altered her appearance and changed into the nurse’s uniform to shoo Rita out of the room. She ran the sponge down the length of Brian’s skinny leg. “There you go, sweetheart. Doesn’t that feel good, good, good?” She chuckled at the use of the three-word repeat, but her smile didn’t last long. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “What’s she doing here? I knew I should’a made sure she was gone dead. She was asking way too many questions. You said she didn’t know about Xanadu. Well, we’ll just see about that.”

  The numbers on his monitor increased with each word she spoke. He was afraid, and helpless to do a thing about it. She at least got some satisfaction from that. She glanced out at the elevators again. The doors had just closed.

  With her singsong voice, she said, “I won’t let anyone threaten our special place. Someone’s got to protect it. It’s the only place I ever felt like I belonged. Like I was wanted. ‘A savage place, as holy and enchanted as e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted, by woman wailing for her demon-lover!’ When Coleridge wrote that, he dreamed of me. Just like I know you dreamed of me once.” The numbers kept increasing. “It’s your fault. You brought her in. Now she’s going to have to go and die.”

  Aris walked to the stairwell. The elevators were slow; she had time to sprint downstairs to the lobby, changing clothing and hair as she went. By the time she emerged from the stairwell, she was unrecognizable as the nurse. Rita was walking out the automatic doors, and Aris followed her to a bland rental car. Bland was good. Bland could change contacts and hair and be someone else.

  In her own car, she caught up with Rita at the light exiting the lot. She expected her to head to a hotel. Instead, she turned into the police station.

  Aris cruised by, her foot lax on the gas pedal as she watched Rita walk inside.

  “Don’t panic,” she whispered. “No way can she know who you are. No way can she know anything about Brian’s fall.” But she knew something.

  “I’ll just have to kill her. Yeah, baby. Nothing to it.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Rita waited twenty minutes to talk to Detective Alex Connard. He was one of the detectives who had been called to the scene at Brian’s house several weeks earlier. The thought of trying to explain all this twisted her insides like a tornado.

  “I understand you have information about Brian LaPorte?” he asked once he’d led her to his desk. He was a slight man, not what she’d expect a detective to look like. He was in his forties, with fine, pretty features and a shaved head.

  She took the chair he’d indicated. “I hope you’ll keep an open mind.”

  He didn’t commit either way as he looked over the report. “Is Mr. LaPorte still in a coma?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is your relationship to him?”

  “We had an online friendship. I live in Boston. We’d never met or seen pictures of each other. We’d talked on the phone several times.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Romantic?”

  “Leading to it.” When he waited for her continue, she said, “I have reason to believe someone pushed him from the roof in an attempt to kill him.”

  Connard sat up straight again, his interest level higher. “Why is that?”

  Okay, here we go. “Six weeks ago someone ran me off the road.”

  “In Boston?”

  “Yes. The person behind the wheel was wearing a Mardi Gras mask, gold with black feathers. That same person pushed Brian off the roof.”

  “You were a witness?”

  “This is where the open mind part comes in. I want you to know that I’m a professional in the mental health field. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.” His expression was annoyingly neutral as she told him everything. Hearing it made her realize how far out it sounded. “I did some checking on the Internet. This kind of thing does happen.” She handed him copies of the web pages she’d printed out. “You can call the officer who investigated my hit and run. He’s checking to see if a feather was found in the car that hit me.”

  She couldn’t tell what he thought so she forged on. “Did you check Christopher LaPorte’s alibi at the time of Brian’s fall? He’s Brian’s brother.”

  “You think he may have been the one wearing the mask? Says here he lives in Atlanta. He arrived the day after Brian’s fall. We didn’t check his alibi because there was no indication of foul play at the scene. No signs of a struggle, as you described, nor of an intruder. The only thing out of the ordinary was his tie tack we found on the deck floor. That in itself wasn’t strong enough to suggest anything sinister. Had Brian mentioned trouble with his brother?”

  “He never mentioned his brother at all. From what I understand, there’s bad blood between them. When I arrived at the hospital this evening, I overheard Christopher saying he’d put Brian in the hospital before an
d something about everyone close to him ending up in the hospital…or worse.”

  That got Connard’s interest. “When did he say this?”

  “Just a little while ago.”

  He had her repeat what Christopher had said and wrote it down. “We’ll check into this. But the rest”—he picked up the sheets she’d handed him—”I have to tell you, it sounds pretty crazy.”

  “At least promise you’ll check into it.”

  “I’ll call Officer Potter in Boston, ask about your accident. And I’ll check out Christopher LaPorte. If I find something that even begins to corroborate your story, I’ll look further.”

  If. Well, she was grateful for that, and for his hearing her out. “Thank you. I know you can only do so much without evidence. But what about keeping Brian safe? If this person wanted him dead—”

  “They would have already done it. I can’t post an officer at the hospital based on”—he gestured to his notes—”this. We’re already shorthanded going into Mardi Gras.”

  She would call the hospital and ask them to keep an eye on Brian. Connard was right; the masked person had plenty of opportunity. He or she was likely waiting to see if Brian survived. He would only be a threat if he regained consciousness. She got to her feet and gave him her business card. “Thank you for whatever you can do.”

  She walked out into the chilly night air and headed toward her car. By the time she reached it, her hands were numb. The cold wasn’t the reason she shivered. She turned around and scanned the well-lit parking lot. She should be perfectly safe here. Why did she feel the eyes of evil watching her?

  He watched Rita get into her car and drive away. What had she told the police? He followed her through the streets of the French Quarter where she took a long, convoluted route to her hotel. He would have suspected she was making sure she wasn’t being followed except that she kept stopping to look at street signs.

  The Ashbury was a small, elegant hotel at the edge of the Quarter. Rita parked in the small lot adjacent and carried one large bag into the lobby. He walked in a few minutes later, lingering behind her as she checked in. She had glanced back at him when the door had opened but only gave him a cursory look before returning to her check in. There was only one desk and one clerk. He was exceedingly patient.

  “You’re staying with us for two nights,” the young woman behind the desk confirmed. “You’re leaving before all the fun.”

  “It’s all I could get a room for. Unless you’ve had a cancellation?”

  The woman shook her head. “Afraid not. We’re booked from tomorrow on through Mardi Gras.”

  Two nights. How much trouble could she cause in just two nights?

  Enough.

  “All right, Miss Brooks, you’re in room 315. Go out that door, and you’ll see stairs to the right and the elevator to the left. Your room is on the third floor and faces north into the courtyard.”

  The woman directed her attention to him.

  “I’m looking for a room for a friend of mine. She’ll be coming in for a month this summer. I told her I’d check out hotels for her. Can you show me a room like the one you just gave that woman?”

  He watched Rita gather her bag and head out the door. She didn’t even look back. The clerk tapped on her keyboard. “Yes, I have one available. Come this way.” She grabbed a key off the rack behind her. “Wait until you see our beautiful courtyard.”

  He followed the woman up two flights of stairs to the room just below Rita’s, according to the numbers. All the rooms surrounded a splendid courtyard with strategically lit plants and a small pool. The lights provided plenty of shadows. The fence around the courtyard was climbable, and he spotted a shadowy corner perfect for slipping over.

  “It is lovely,” he said, leaning over the railing and spotting the lighted window next to door 315. He noted the room layout, and more importantly, the flimsy locks. “It’s perfect.”

  “Your friend will love it here,” she said.

  “She’ll just die when she sees it.”

  Christopher answered the door, wondering who would be dropping by this late in the evening. He was surprised how few people called to inquire about Brian’s health. Tammy Rieux was probably the most interested; a little too interested.

  “Christopher LaPorte? I’m Detective Mark Connard with the New Orleans Police Department. I’d like to ask you some follow up questions with regard to your brother’s fall.”

  “Why now, after all this time?” Still, he backed up to admit the detective and gestured toward the living room.

  Connard shook his head. “This won’t take long. We have some new information we need to check on. A woman who had a relationship with your brother believes—”

  “What woman?”

  “Hear me out, please. She believes someone may have pushed Brian off the roof. Do you have any reason to believe your brother was pushed?”

  “Pushed? As in murder?” When Connard didn’t comment, Christopher leaned against the foyer wall. “He lived like a hermit. I can’t believe he put enough into his life to make an enemy.”

  “Was he involved in anything illegal?”

  “I hadn’t spoken with him in years, but no, I don’t think he’d be involved in anything like that. Brian could do no wrong. As far as I know, he never even smoked pot.”

  “What about you?”

  “Have I smoked pot?”

  “No, what about your relationship with your brother? We understand there was animosity between you.”

  Where was he getting this information? Tammy? Why would she bring this all up now? “We weren’t close, never had been. We had a blow up thirteen years ago. I left town soon after that and I’ve only been back once.”

  He checked his notepad. “Where were you the night your brother fell off the roof?”

  Christopher could do nothing but blink in surprise at the question. “Am I under suspicion?” he asked at last, unable to believe what he was hearing. Before the detective could answer, he said, “I was at my cabin in Northern Georgia. I live in Atlanta, but I bought an old place on a lake. I go there on the weekends, and no, I can’t prove it. I suppose someone in town could have seen me buying supplies, but I have no phone there and rarely even use my cell phone.” He pushed away from the wall. “Do you really believe someone might have tried to kill him?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine. You made a threatening statement at the hospital today. Care to tell me about it?”

  “Threatening?” This conversation was getting stranger and stranger. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I only spoke to my brother and maybe said hello to a nurse or two.”

  Detective Connard checked his notes again. “Something about putting your brother in the hospital before and that everyone you’re close to ends up in the hospital or worse.”

  Someone had been listening to his conversation. Someone who had been standing in the room. “That was a childhood accident.” He wasn’t going to spill his guts to this guy. “Who reported this?”

  “You also said something about finding out what a Rita Brooks knows.”

  “Oh, wait a minute. She’s here, isn’t she? She’s the one who told you all this.” The detective didn’t deny or confirm it. “Let me tell you about Miss Brooks. She was having online hanky-panky with my brother. I found her in Boston and asked if she knew anything about my brother’s state of mind. She denied knowing anything about it, but I could tell she was holding something back.” Now she was here trying to implicate him. As payback? “She’s a piece of work, that one. She got kind of freaky and then her nose started bleeding.”

  The man’s brows furrowed. “How could you tell she was holding something back?”

  “Same way you know when someone’s lying. Her mind was calculating, and she clammed up. And now she’s here, what, telling you I had something to do with Brian’s fall?” He ran his fingers back through his hair. “I know what’s going on. I may have insinuated that she was responsible for Brian’
s state of mind. I figured she broke things off, and he didn’t take it well. She’s giving me grief back. If there’s anything you want to know about my brother, ask. Have a look around if you’d like. I want to know what the hell was going on with him as much as anyone else.”

  Connard slid his notepad into his pocket. He’d been nodding in agreement, but Christopher wasn’t sure if it was over the revenge of Rita Brooks or his cooperation.

  “Thank you for your time, sir.”

  Christopher closed the door and thought about Rita. He was damn well going to find her and get to the bottom of this.

  Alex Connard didn’t know what to make of Rita Brooks and her accusations, not to mention her bizarre story about coma connections. His father, a long-time seasoned veteran, taught him to listen to everything without reacting. Now that he’d had the drive to think it over, he still wasn’t sure what to think. He was pretty sure the brother had nothing to do with Brian’s fall, and that Rita had probably misunderstood what she’d overheard. Maybe she was trying to cause trouble.

  By the time returned to the station, the officer from Boston had returned his call. He called back in hopes of clearing things up.

  “She hit her head pretty hard in the accident,” Officer Potter said once Connard explained his side. “I understand it can take a long time for the brain to get back to normal, if it ever does. She never mentioned the coma connection thing to me, only that the person in the car that hit hers was wearing a feather mask. That in itself seemed pretty strange. She asked me to check, but I haven’t had time. I think she’s having a hard time coming to terms with the accident, being in a coma, and whatever’s going on in her personal life.”

  “That’s what I figured. Luckily she’s going back to Boston day after tomorrow. We’re heading into Mardi Gras. Not only will there be lots of feather masks around, but we’re going to have our share of nut cases. We certainly don’t need one more. Thanks for your time.”