Sweet Dreams Boxed Set

by Brenda Novak

  “You said it yourself a minute ago, Mustang. The show must go on.” Micki looked directly at Cherry. “I have no doubt you’re as good as Desiree was. You deserve the opportunity to prove it.”

  Chablis shifted from one foot to the other, gaze averted, obviously unbalanced by her approach. Micki went on. “Don’t you think you’re as good a performer? Maybe even better?”

  “What a horrible thing to…I can’t, considering—”

  “But you have longed for this chance? To prove yourself?”

  Sweat beaded his upper lip. “Of course, but who wouldn’t? It doesn’t mean anything.”

  Angelo jumped in. “Where were you last night, Cherry?”

  He blinked, false lashes hitting his eyebrows. “Here. I’m here almost every night.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “The same time as everyone else.”

  “Everyone else?”

  “Well…not everyone. I couldn’t have.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Three blinks. Eyes focused somewhere over her left shoulder. “Desi must have been…I’m assuming, she must have been…the last, you know. To leave.”

  “Did I say she was murdered last night?”

  “Wasn’t she?” He swiped his upper lip. “I guess I just assumed, because…I don’t know why.”

  “Last night, did you leave alone?”

  “I don’t remember. I…yes, I did.”

  “I thought you said you left with everyone else?”

  “I meant, around the same time as everyone else.”

  “So someone must have seen you leaving? Someone?” Micki looked toward the bar, the crew who had worked the night before, from one person to the other in question. Their expressions began to register suspicion.

  “I don’t feel so well,” Cherry said, taking a step backward. “I need to sit down. I’ll just—”

  He turned and ran.

  Micki took off after him. He moved really fast for a guy in three-inch heels, darting past the officer stationed at the club’s entrance and into the crowd of the curious clustered beyond the crime tape.

  But his luck didn’t hold. The famously derelict French Quarter streets proved his undoing. He landed sprawled and weeping on the pavement.

  Micki reached him, pinned him down with a knee to his back. “You have the right to remain silent—” She wrenched one arm around behind his back, snapped on the cuff. “Whatever you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.”

  The other arm, wrist cuffed. “Do you understand these rights as I have presented them to you?”

  “I didn’t mean to do it!” he cried. “It just happened!”

  “Do you understand these rights?” she asked again, as Carmine sauntered up, two uniforms with him.

  “Yes! Yes, I understand! But you have to believe me, it was an accident!”

  “Dude, you shot him four times.”

  “But I never meant…I promise, I—” He started to sob.

  Angelo bent and helped him to his feet. “So, why’d you do it, man?”

  “Desi had everything…she wouldn’t share. I just…suddenly, I couldn’t…I just…snapped.”

  Same as Vanderlund, Micki thought.

  Fricking weird.

  Micki met Angelo’s gaze. She saw by his expression he was thinking the same thing.

  Chapter Ten

  7:10 P.M.

  Micki sat at her desk. The sun had nearly completed its descent and the shift in lighting fit her mood.

  “Good news,” Angelo said, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “The major gave us a pass tonight. Job well done, he said.”

  “I feel like we didn’t do anything.”

  “You serious?” He shrugged into the jacket. “Murder, confession, arrest. Case cleared. Times two. It doesn’t get better than that.”

  She looked away, then back. “Something’s wrong with this. Tell me you don’t feel the same way.”

  “I don’t. Look, it’s weird, hell yeah. But so what? Life is weird and everybody is freaking nuts.” He shook his head. “Two murders, two days. Both closed. We’re a helluva team. Let’s grab a beer at Shannon’s to celebrate.”

  “You go. I’m beat.”

  “C’mon, Dare. A beer and some backslapping will do you good.”

  “So would sleep.” She forced a smile. “Really, I’m toast.”

  “Your loss, partner.”

  She watched him go, then turned to their report. Neither of the victims nor their killers had known each other. They travelled in different circles. Big time different. The modes of death, also different.

  But in a bizarre way, everything else pointed to connected crimes. Both victims were queens. Both killed by a rival. In each case a crime of passion in which the perps claimed to have snapped.

  She and Angelo had missed something.

  Micki got to her feet and grabbed her jacket. She hadn’t been lying when she told Carmine she was beat. But she wasn’t going home to rest.

  Chapter Eleven

  7:50 P.M.

  A sign announcing Tonight’s Show Canceled hung on Club Me-Oh-My’s entrance, accompanied by black netting and a mourning wreath. Micki tried the door, found it locked, and peered through the window. A couple dozen or so folks stood at the bar, some more were seated at tables or milling about. She spotted Mustang and knocked.

  He came to the door, peeked out. She held up her shield, though from his expression she knew he recognized her.

  He cracked open the door. “How can I help you, Detective?”

  “I was hoping to ask you and your employees a few more questions.”

  He frowned. “I thought you got your man?”

  The bitterness in his tone didn’t really surprise her. In a way she was the enemy for uncovering the killer from among them. “I just want to make certain we didn’t—” Micki bit that back and started again. “I want to get this right. I know you do, too.”

  He cracked the door a bit wider. “Go on.”

  “Were you surprised about Cherry?” she asked.

  “Yes! My God, I was stunned.”

  “Did you suspect Cherry was jealous of Desiree?”

  “Sure I did. Show business is tough, especially when you’re always playing second fiddle. But kill over it?” He leaned closer, lowered his voice. “We’re a close community. We protect each other. We hold each other up. This…no. Not possible.”

  “I agree.”

  His jaw dropped. “But…I don’t— Cherry confessed.”

  “To pulling the trigger, yes. But I have a strong feeling there’s something else going on.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. Hoping to figure it out.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, as if weighing whether she was telling the truth. Finally he nodded and let her into the club.

  “We’re in mourning, Detective. We lost two friends today.”

  “I understand. I’ll be respectful, I promise.”

  Micki circulated through the club. Some were resentful of her presence, others suspicious. Most ignored her or were blatantly rude.

  She didn’t belong. They were angry. And hurting.

  Micki slid onto a barstool. The bartender looked so much like Tom Cruise she did a double take. “Can I get an ice water?” she asked.

  “Sure.” A moment later, he set the glass in front of her. “Tough crowd.”

  “I don’t blame them. I’m an intrusion.”

  “Then why’re you here?”

  “My own peace of mind.”

  “I’m Jack, by the way.”

  “Micki Dare. Good to meet you.” She eyed his martini. “Cosmo?”

  “I’m not working.” He lifted his glass. “Want one?”

  “I am working.”

  He sipped the pink drink. “Actually, these were Cherry’s favorite. I’m celebrating her.”

  “Cherry’s not the one who’s dead.”

&nbs
p; “No, but she won’t be drinking one for a very long time.” He twirled the glass; the motion created a swirling, pink tornado. He stopped abruptly and the liquid sloshed over the side. “We were friends, Cherry and I.”

  “Were?”

  “Are,” he corrected. “Although it seems like that’s ending now as well.” He took a sip, then another. “We liked the same things. Saints football, mystery novels. Stuff like that.”

  “Cherry ever talk about Desiree?”

  “Some.”

  “Did she seem angry at her?”

  “Not at her. More frustrated at always being second banana. The situation did sort of suck. But no big deal. We all get frustrated, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t think Cherry did it.”

  Micki looked at him in surprise. “Even though she admitted she did?”

  “Yeah, even though.”

  “Okay, make a believer out of me. You have a theory?”

  “Mind control.”

  She almost laughed, choking it back at the last moment. “You’re not serious.”

  “Maybe somebody brainwashed him. That kind of shit happens.”

  “On TV.”

  “In real life,” he countered. “Ever watch Fox News?”

  She laughed at his attempt at humor. “Okay, I’ll bite. You have somebody in mind?”

  “Cherry’s shrink maybe. There was something about her I didn’t like. Not at all.”

  “Cherry was seeing a psychiatrist?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  She didn’t, not anymore. Though she’d been told on more than one occasion she should. Usually about the time the word crazy was uttered immediately with the word bitch.

  “Do you know what Cherry was seeing this shrink about?”

  “Same thing we all do: our demons.” She cocked an eyebrow in question and he went on, “C’mon, Detective, you can’t guess? Our lifestyle comes with a lot of baggage. We don’t fit the two cars, two kids, house in the burbs model. Or any of the other socially ‘acceptable’ ones for that matter. Our model comes with rejection, bullying and, for some of us, physical violence.” He paused. “Even from our own families.”

  Sad as it was, she knew it was true. “This shrink—you got a name?”

  “Yeah. Renee Blackwood.”

  Renee Blackwood.

  That was it. The connection between the two crimes.

  Vanderlund and Chablis had both been seeing the same shrink.

  Chapter Twelve

  10:30 P.M.

  Micki dialed Carmine from the car. He answered, sounding sleepy.

  “Dr. Renee Blackwood,” she said. “That’s the connection.”

  “Dare? That you?”

  “Yes, it’s Dare. Wake up, Carmine, this changes everything!”

  He yawned. “Then you better hit me with it again.”

  “Vanderlund and Chablis were seeing the same shrink. Dr. Renee Blackwood.”

  She heard a rustling in the background, as if Carmine was climbing out of bed. Then the definite sound of the phone being shifted from one ear to the other. “I don’t get it.”

  “The two perps, their paths did cross.”

  “Okay, so we add that to the growing list of coincidences.”

  “That’s total bullshit. We need to question Blackwood as soon as possible.”

  “You’re out of your mind. It’s the Friday before Mardi Gras, there’re a hundred fifty thousand extra party animals in town and any manner of crazy shit could erupt at any time. I’m catching some sleep while I can.”

  “These murders weren’t random. They’re not unrelated.”

  “We have two perps in jail. I’m going back to bed.”

  “No! Angelo, wait—”

  “Get yourself some sleep, Dare. You need it.”

  Then he hung up.

  Micki sat, engine idling, dead air against her ear. He was right. She’d sounded like a crazy person. Show up at a prominent doctor’s home in the middle of the night? To question her about two murders that had been solved?

  Micki dropped the phone to her lap and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She should be grateful—two cases cleared, right out of the gate. She should be giving herself a pat on the back for a job well done, instead of manufacturing complications.

  A memory sprang up, as clear as if it had happened yesterday. It took her breath away.

  “But I don’t want to go, mama. I don’t like her.”

  “Could you behave for once, Michaela? I don’t know why you insist on making things hard for me.”

  She needed sleep. Things would look different in the morning.

  No, they wouldn’t.

  Hank.

  She glanced down at the phone, snatched it up and texted her friend.

  Are you up?

  He responded immediately. “Angels never sleep, just in case.”

  They had a running joke about him being her guardian angel. If tonight was any indication, it wasn’t a joke. “Can I come over? I need to talk.”

  “Putting coffee on now.”

  ***

  Hank had been working on the Nova. She smelled the solvent on his hands; the night air clung to his denim jacket. She should scold him, but how could she? She was so thankful he was still up.

  He stuck a mug of steaming coffee in her hands. “It’s decaf. You should be sleeping.”

  She forced a smile. “Takes an insomniac to know one.”

  He snorted and sat. “Heard you cleared two cases in twenty-four hours. Congratulations.”

  “News travels fast.”

  He laughed and sipped his coffee. “I have connections, you know.”

  She eyed him over the rim of her cup, realization hitting her. “You’re the one, aren’t you?”

  “The one what?”

  “Who put a good word in for me with someone high up in the force. The one who recommended me for a spot in the Eighth.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “I suppose I should be pissed.”

  “Only if you were stupid, which you are not. Besides, your transfer to the Eighth isn’t what you’ve come to talk about.”

  “No, it’s not.” She paused, sipped the coffee, thoughts racing. After a moment, she lowered the cup and met his eyes. “Did you ever have a case that didn’t feel right? After you’d closed it?”

  “Sure. Lots of ‘em.”

  “Even after a dead-to-rights video and confession?”

  “Maybe you’d better give me the details.”

  She did, explaining about the coincidences between the two murders and about having uncovered that both suspects were clients of the same psychiatrist.

  “I know I should move on,” she said, “but I know there’s more to this story. I know it.”

  “What’s the shrink’s name?” Hank asked.

  “Renee Blackwood. That mean anything to you?”

  His eyebrows drew together a moment, then he shook his head. “Nope.”

  “What should I do?”

  “What do you think you should do?”

  “That’s no help.”

  He leaned forward. “What’s a cop’s most valuable tool?”

  “I don’t know. Intellect? Training?”

  “Instinct, Michaela.” He searched her gaze. “Yours is telling you there’s more to this story than what dropped into your lap. You have to act on it.”

  “But—” She laced her fingers. “I’m the junior officer.”

  “So?”

  “Shouldn’t I defer to Angelo’s—”

  “Respect, yes. Never defer. Not from what you know is right. Fight for it.” He held her gaze. “You’re a good cop now. I think you could be a great one.”

  “Why?” The word came out thick.

  “Because you’ve got heart, Micki. You care about doing the right thing. Don’t lose that.”

  She reached over and squeezed his hand. “What would I do without you, Hank?”

  His expression chang
ed, grew sad. “You’d be fine, girl. You’re made of some pretty tough stuff.”

  She put her head on his shoulder, imagining a world without him and feeling anything but tough.

  Chapter Thirteen

  9:45 A.M.

  Dr. Renee Blackwood agreed to see them between appointments. Major Nichols had sanctioned the interview, but had warned them it was strictly to fill in the blanks. If Blackwood balked at the line of questioning, they were to back off.

  Renee Blackwood’s practice was located on Magazine Street at Jackson Avenue, uptown. The trendy area was home to coffee shops and cafes, antique stores and boutiques. And, apparently, the offices of high-priced shrinks.

  Micki climbed out of the Taurus and went around the vehicle to meet Carmine.

  “Pretty nice digs,” he said.

  Micki moved her gaze over the cottage with its lacy Victorian trim and deep, shaded front porch. Nestled between nearly identical cottages, one that housed an antique shop, the other an upscale women’s clothing boutique, the yellow and white structure was as welcoming as a spring day.

  “You ever been to a shrink, Dare?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Always wondered what it’d be like. You know, if I’d come out less screwed up.”

  “You wouldn’t. Trust me.”

  He chuckled. “Didn’t come from that kind of a family anyway.”

  “What kind’s that?” she asked as they started up the walk. “Crazy?”

  He laughed again. “Mine was certifiable, no doubt. But what I meant was we were a bootstraps or beating kind of clan.”

  “Pull yourself up by them or get a beating?”

  “That’s the one.” He changed the subject. “Love this area,” he went on. “Great little pizza place just up the block. Big Easy Slices.”

  Micki was only half listening. She was planning what she would say to Renee Blackwood, how she would say it. Neutral, she reminded herself. They were interviewing the woman to fill in blanks.

  Officially anyway.

  They crossed the porch and entered the cottage. It smelled of fresh flowers. A tabletop fountain created a melodic, soothing sound track. Micki stopped, a strange sensation coming over her. A tingling at her wrists and back of her neck.