“Waited for Nurse Ballbuster to use the ladies’ and snuck on her computer. It hadn’t gone to sleep so I didn’t have to log in. Which is good, since I don’t know the password. Anyway, I looked through the personnel records for recent hires and found him.”
“I’m impressed. Is there a home address?”
“Negative. A notation says Mr. Sherman preferred to pick up his paycheck at the hospital. No mailing address, no direct deposit.”
Rusty shook his head, hearing a false note in what she’d just said.
“Strike you as kind of odd the hospital would hire someone without any contact info? Even a night janitor?”
“He came with a strong referral. I guess that was enough.”
“Who referred him?”
“Dr. Philip Roque, of the Uptown Family Planning Clinic.”
“You familiar with the place?”
“Can’t say I am, but I’m guessing it’s where the well-to-do fix their bedroom mistakes. Swanky address on Magazine Street. Apparently Sherman worked there as a custodian.”
“And if we’re lucky, he still does.”
“Plucked the words from my mouth, sir.”
Rusty grabbed the Lincoln’s keys from the clerk, whose final words were, “Please try to be careful!”
Walking to the rear lot where the rentals awaited pickup, he resumed his conversation with Monday.
“You did an awesome job. Really.”
“That sounds like you think I’m done,” she said, sounding let down.
“I think you are, for now. I’m going to the clinic. Worst case scenario, maybe I can snag a home address for Sherman. If he’s there, I’ll figure out a way to get him alone.”
“And he’ll just spill whatever you want to know, right?”
“Yes,” Rusty said coldly. “He will.”
“Slow down there, cowboy. I’ve got a better plan. Let’s go to the clinic together.”
“I don’t know—”
“Think about it,” she cut him off. “Works a whole lot better if you show up with a woman, right? I’ll ask for a private consultation with Roque and you…do whatever it is you’re gonna do.”
Rusty couldn’t argue with her logic. He slid behind the wheel of a 2015 silver Navigator, liking the vehicle’s heft.
“When do you get off?”
“Two o’clock. Meet me in front of Bon Coeur. We’ll head straight over.”
“Maybe we should call for an appointment.”
“They take walk-ins. I checked.”
“You’re impressing the hell out of me, Monday. Might have missed your calling as a private snoop.”
“Gotta run.”
A brief pause, then she added:
“One more thing. There’s a photo of Sherman on his employment profile. I snapped it on my phone, texting it to you now.”
“Great,” Rusty said, then a thought hit him. “That detective, Hubbard. He should get this photo, see if it matches anyone they’ve got on file.”
“Good point.”
“You should really tell him what you know about Sherman getting canned. I know that could cost you your job—”
“Fuck the hospital brass,” Monday said without hesitation. “If they fire me, fine. That lawsuit threat was bullshit, it would just mean more bad press. They should’ve reported this when it happened.”
Rusty fired the ignition as she continued, “Guess we’ll have to swing by the Sixth Precinct so I can give a statement in person.”
“After we check out this Dr. Roque,” Rusty said. “Hubbard would only tell us not to do it, so why give him the chance?”
“I like the way you think. Two o’clock, sharp.”
With that, Monday ended the call. Three seconds later, Rusty saw a text message icon pop up on his screen. He opened Monday’s message, then clicked on the attachment.
The face staring up at him through the cracked screen made him recoil in his seat.
Thick mat of poorly combed brown hair. A week-old beard growing in uneven patches across jagged facial contours. Beady eyes looking not directly into the camera’s lens but off to the left as if momentarily distracted. All in all, a collection of features tailor-made for criminal phrenologists of days past.
Damn it, Rusty thought, peering at the photo with a shiver of distaste. I’ve seen this face before.
He was sure of it, but he didn’t know where. Putting the Lincoln in gear, he edged out of the Hertz lot onto St. Peter. He decided to roll over to the French Market and see if it was more economical to place a bulk order for chicory coffee in person than to do it online. For the past year, he’d had regular shipments sent to his rented home in coastal Maryland.
Thinking of his house in Ocean Pines made him wistful. Rusty missed the quiet seclusion of the place that had been so critical for sustaining any peace of mind in the long months since abandoning Las Vegas. He felt nostalgic for the blissful ignorance of just three days ago, when he’d locked the door and driven to the Baltimore airport with no knowledge of what awaited him on the Louisiana soil.
Figured the worst I’d have to deal with is an awkward moment or two. Amazing, what we don’t know we don’t know.
Rusty slammed on the brakes, almost getting rear-ended by a sports car that had been following too closely. He ignored the angry honks behind him, reached for his phone, and opened up Monday’s message again. A second look at Claude Sherman’s crude face sent a jolt through him like he’d stepped on a live wire.
The son of a bitch who jumped me at Marcie’s apartment.
Rusty hit the gas and tore through a red light, all thoughts of chicory coffee and the quiet refuge of coastal Maryland erased from his mind.
23.
The live oaks of Uptown stretched along both sides of St. Charles, creating a green canopy through which rays of sun danced on the windshields of passing cards. Colorful strands of plastic beads hung from tall branches, remnants of this year’s Mardi Gras parades. Soft gusts blew in from the river, sweetened with honeysuckle and goldenrod.
Rusty piloted the Lincoln Navigator along the avenue, keeping his speed low. He was in no particular rush to arrive at the Uptown Family Planning Clinic. They needed time to talk.
“You’re sure it was him?” Monday asked when Rusty told her he’d identified Claude Sherman as the intruder at Marceline’s apartment.
“I’d say, hell, ninety-eight percent sure.”
In the five hours since making that connection, Rusty had peered at the photo a dozen times. His certainty rose and fell with each glance.
“Let’s say it was him,” Monday said. “Two questions: what was he doing there, and does it still make sense for you to confront him at the clinic?”
“Yes, to the second question. It was pitch black in the apartment, no way he could have gotten a good look at me. I only glimpsed him when he ran out onto the stoop. As for the first question, I really don’t know. But if we go on the theory that the argument at the hospital was related to Sherman getting fired—”
“That’s a pretty big assumption, but OK.”
“If we assume that, it creates another link to Abellard being involved with her disappearance.”
Monday wrinkled her nose, not following.
“Maybe to scare her,” Rusty said, “or just keep her quiet.” He stopped there, not wanting to verbalize any more extreme possibilities.
“We’d need to establish a connection between Abellard and Sherman before that holds water.”
“Correct. And that’s what I intend to do while you’re talking to Dr. Roque.”
Rusty could see the skepticism on her face but he didn’t challenge it.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Roque does family planning, right? Wouldn’t that give him access to stem cells every time he—”
“Aborts a fetus? Indeed, it would. I was thinking the same thing myself.”
“Glad we’re in step. Want to go over our cover again?”
Monday shrugged, a mischievous smi
le on her face.
“Shouldn’t be too complicated. Just another white trash couple who got a nasty surprise last month. What with both of us unemployed and you a two-time loser fresh out of the joint—”
“With a bad huffing habit,” Rusty added.
“Right. I’ve managed to wean myself off paint thinner, but you’re still struggling with that demon.”
“Man’s got to have a hobby.”
“Anyway, we’re just not sure this is the right time to bring a new life into the world.”
“And we’re hoping the doc can give us some sound advice.”
“But I’d feel more comfortable talking with him alone,” Monday said, enjoying the cover story. “See, I’m not a hundred percent sure it’s yours, and I’d rather not say that in front of you. What with your temper and all.”
“Right. So I’ll cool my heels in the lobby—”
“And see what you can learn about Claude Sherman. Even if it means seducing Roque’s secretary.”
Rusty smiled and steered right onto Magazine. Two blocks later, the red brick facade of the medical plaza came into view. He started to hit the turn signal but stopped, foot landing on the brake.
Two NOPD patrol cars were parked by the curb. Three more filled the driveway. Bright yellow banners of crime scene tape sealed off the entrance.
Rusty and Monday turned to face each other.
“Oh shit,” she whispered. “Are you getting a bad feeling too?”
“Let’s see what we can find out.”
Rusty nosed the Navigator in as close as he could get to the yellow tape.
A young cop leaning against one of the prowlers flicked away a cigarette. He loped over with a chest-out posture probably picked up from too many bad action movies.
“Back it up. This building’s off-limits.”
“What’s going on?” Rusty asked, trying to sound oblivious.
“Can’t come in here, sir. That’s what the tape there’s telling you.”
“Well, shoot. We got an appointment with Dr. Roque.”
“It’s canceled. He won’t be seeing anyone today.”
“What happened?” Monday asked, leaning across the center console to gift the cop with a bountiful eyeful of cleavage.
“Not at liberty to say, miss.”
“Damnit,” Rusty uttered, “we made the appointment three weeks ago.”
“Sorry for the inconvenience. Back this thing up, please.”
“We really need to see Dr. Roque,” Monday pressed, raising her voice to a little girl whine. “We got a, well…an embarrassing problem to deal with.”
“I’m sorry, miss. You’ll have to find yourself a new doctor. There’s been a homicide here. Dr. Roque was killed.”
“Oh my God,” Monday said, covering her mouth with a hand. Rusty wasn’t sure how much of her reaction was feigned. He himself felt a greater sense of shock than seemed logical at learning of a total stranger’s demise.
“What in the world happened?” he asked the cop.
“We haven’t released that information yet. I can tell you this much. Receptionist came in this morning, found him on the lobby floor.”
“How’d he die?” Monday asked.
“Stabbed. Hard to say how many times, but my guess would be north of twenty.”
Rusty felt Monday’s hand grip his arm, and he knew this reaction wasn’t faked.
“That’s horrible.”
“Yep, pretty messy,” the cop added, warming to his role. His chest swelled slightly.
“Strangest bit,” he added, unable to help himself, “looks like Roque got done with one of his own surgical knives.”
“How do you know that?” Monday asked quickly, before the cop thought better of revealing more information.
“There’s one missing from a case in the operating room.”
“No shit,” Rusty said.
“Spotted it myself,” the cop lied. “The case was open just a bit, empty slot where the knife should’ve been. Of course we’ll need the coroner to confirm things.”
“Do you know who did it?” Monday asked.
The young officer started to reply but his mouth clamped shut like he’d suddenly awakened to his gross indiscretion.
“Back it up now,” he said brusquely. “This is an active crime scene. I don’t wanna have to book you for tampering.”
“Thanks,” Rusty said.
“We’ll be watching for you on the news,” Monday added.
Rusty put the gearshift in reverse and inched out of the driveway. He drove a few blocks up Magazine and parked in an open space behind the Balcony Bar, letting the engine idle.
“So much for bracing Claude Sherman,” he said through clenched teeth.
“What odds do you give he’s the one who iced Roque?”
“Fuck, who knows? All I wanted from the guy was some info that connected him to Abellard. I was hoping he’d put up a fight so I could get it out of him the hard way.”
“So what now?” Monday asked. “Talk to your detective friend at the Sixth Precinct?”
Rusty didn’t answer. Monday noticed how his eyes were focused on something high above the Navigator’s hood. She followed his gaze upward to an inflatable skeleton hung from the rafters of the Balcony Bar, looking like it had been there since last Halloween.
Marceline waved a hand in front of his eyes, bringing him back to the moment.
“Are we going to the cops, or what?”
“Yeah. Depending on how that goes, I’ve got another idea.”
24.
Claude Sherman drove in a state of controlled panic. Pedal pushed to a quarter inch off the floorboard, needle holding tight at 75 MPH. The flatlands of rural Louisiana flew past him in the Pontiac’s flyspecked windshield, and he barely noticed any of it. Hands gripping the wheel, his eyes never left the road.
It was an odd kind of panic. Not entirely unpleasant. He felt almost liberated by taking the life of Philip Roque. The abortionist’s overfed body deserved every one of those stab wounds. Claude just wished he’d made a cleaner job of it. Roque had shown more fight than Claude gave him credit for, eliminating the possibility of a quick kill.
Well, spilled milk. It wasn’t like he’d walked into the Uptown Family Planning yesterday with homicide in mind. Roque brought that on himself. Claude just wanted the man to perform the function for which he’d been contracted. He balked, then struggled, then threatened to call the police. What other outcome did he expect for such reckless behavior?
Claude’s eyes flicked up to read a road sign indicating that State Highway 22 was five miles away. In the thirty-odd hours since leaving the clinic, he hadn’t been plagued by too much unease, other than worrying over the smartest next move if he wanted to stay alive and out of jail.
But no guilt. That was paramount, and totally different to how he felt after dumping that unknown woman’s body in a dumpster behind Decatur.
Claude knew the only reason he wasn’t in handcuffs was that he’d convinced the abortionist to meet him at the clinic on Sunday morning. He saw no one on his frantic exit from Roque’s office, down the elevator and out to where he’d parked the Pontiac on Magazine. His image may have been recorded by a dozen cameras as he left the empty medical plaza, but that hardly mattered. Unlike the murder in the alley, Claude had no illusions about escaping detection for Roque’s death. His prints were all over the scene. The police were surely looking for him by now.
He reached the exit for State Highway 22 and turned north into rural Livingston Parish. Large parcels of land passed with no signs of habitation, until he reached Maurepas. He took care to observe the speed limit inside the tiny town, which had no red lights but was notorious for radar-armed prowlers hidden in roadside alcoves.
Getting pulled over by a Maurepas cop was no picnic in the best of circumstances. But when you’re the prime suspect in the murder of a prominent New Orleans physician, it was something to be avoided at all costs. Claude giggled madly at the thought, then
brushed away a sudden impulse to head back to NOLA and turn himself in.
Why not? The worst fate prosecutors could throw his way was the needle, and even that could probably be avoided. With Claude’s history of institutionalization, a sharp lawyer could most likely wheedle him into an insanity rap.
Besides, the consequences awaiting him through legal prosecution were mild compared to what Joseph Abellard would do if he ever got his hands on Claude. Killing Dr. Roque was a necessity, but Abellard wouldn’t see it that way. Not only had he terminated their sole source for acquiring stem cells, but the murder would invite scrutiny onto their whole operation.
Despite those concerns, Claude wasn’t turning himself in. Nor would he allow Abellard the opportunity to erase him as a liability on the balance sheet.
A third option lay available.
Professor Guillory. Claude would be at her doorstep in minutes, and he’d make her listen. A woman with her smarts couldn’t fail to recognize the value of his proposition. Hell, she owed him. He’d done everything she had asked. Even snatched the Lavalle girl, a move that would’ve bought him a ticket to the bottom of Barataria Bay if Mr. Abellard ever learned of his role in it.
Professor Guillory would see that it was in her best interest for the one man still alive who could connect her to everything—not just the sale of banned material, but kidnapping and murder—to safely disappear.
She had the resources to bring that about. Claude knew with enough cash and the kind of phony documentation she surely could provide, he’d be able to vanish. Never have to look Abellard in the face, never sweat under the hot lamps of a police interrogation. And best of all, never have to think about the blood on his hands.
Fifteen miles north of Maurepas, the landscape grew more desolate. Claude reduced his speed and started scanning the roadside for a mail box topped with a large brass fleur-de-lis.
Just as he felt certain he’d passed it or had made a wrong turn, he spotted it up on the left.
Claude eased into the driveway, advancing slowly around a bend bordered by lush crepe myrtles. The drive straightened out and narrowed. After some thirty yards, a weathervane in the shape of a schooner appeared over a cluster of treetops.
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