“How did Darlene die?”
“She got sick and went into Charity Hospital and never came out.”
“Sick with what?”
“Hell if I know. I always thought it might be AIDS. The way she screwed around and all.”
“Did you see her in the hospital?”
“No.”
“Do you know anything about her getting arrested for shop-lifting?”
“Which time?”
“There was more than once?”
“Yeah. I think she got passes on all but the last one. Taking care of the cops, you know.” She made an up-and-down motion with her closed hand. “That last one was just before she got sick, so nothing ever come of it.”
“How did Bobby die?” J.D. asked.
“Somebody shot him down like a dog in the street. Just outside that front door. He was coming home from work and a car drove by and somebody took him out with a shotgun. It’s been ten years, and the cops don’t have any idea who killed him. I don’t think they tried very hard.”
“Do you have any idea who killed him?” J.D. asked.
“Nah. I guess about half of Orleans Parish would be reasonable suspects.”
J.D. had been making notes in the little book she carried with her at all times. “What was your maiden name, if you don’t mind my asking?” J.D. asked.
Connie laughed, a bitter cackle, carrying no trace of merriment. “Going to check into my background?”
“It’s just routine, ma’am.”
“Nobody’s called me ma’am in a long time. It was Rohan.”
“Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Pelletier?”
“Nah. I got my social security, and Bobby paid off the house before he got killed. I do fine. I’m just hanging around waiting to die. Can’t come too soon.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I truly am. I’m going to leave my card. If you think of anything that you think might help, will you let me know?”
Connie Pelletier nodded. “You never did tell me why you’re looking for Darlene.”
“I’m not looking for her, Mrs. Pelletier. A woman was murdered on Longboat Key, Florida. We have reason to believe the victim might be Darlene. I’m hoping to find something in her background that will help me find her killer.”
“It’s not our Darlene. She’s been dead twenty years. I saw the body at the funeral home, just before they cremated her.”
I was pretty sure she was lying again, but we weren’t going to get any more out of her. I used my cell phone to call the cabbie, and he showed up in less than five minutes. We got in and drove out of the hell that was once a decent subdivision.
CHAPTER TWENTY
We were sitting at a table in The Court of Two Sisters restaurant in the French Quarter, Creole dinners spread before us, their aromas tickling my senses with anticipation. My phone buzzed to alert me to an incoming text. “I’ve got the fps. DNA tomorrow. Gus”
I texted back. “Email me fps.”
“What’s that all about?” J.D. asked.
“Gus has the fingerprint information from Bannister’s condo. He’s emailing it to me. I should get the DNA results tomorrow.”
“Good. Maybe something will turn up.”
J.D. was beautiful in the faux candlelight emanating from the table. She was wearing a form-fitting dress of deep green to match her eyes. Her dark hair fell to her shoulders, and her smile was playing its usual tricks with my heart. “What were we talking about?” she asked.
“Sex.”
“No, we weren’t.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Are you being difficult?”
“No.”
“Then why not talk about sex?”
“Why talk when we can do,” she said, throwing that thousand-watt grin at me.
“You ready to go back to the hotel?”
“We haven’t eaten yet.”
“Oh. I guess that means you’re hungry.”
“Quite. And when I finish this, I want one of those flaming desserts and then a drink or two at a bar, listening to Dixieland.”
“And then?”
“Sex. Maybe.”
I was a happy man. Her maybes always turned into yeses.
* * *
The ringing of J.D.’s cell phone woke me a little before seven. She was in the bathroom and came padding out to answer it. I heard her say, “Oh, Chief. That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.” Silence, and then “Okay, I’ll be in touch.”
“Bill Lester?” I asked, alarmed by J.D.’s end of the conversation.
“No. The New Orleans chief. They found Officer Tatum dead this morning. Shot in the back of the head.”
“Tatum? You mean the records guy?”
“Yes.”
“Crap. Where did they find him?”
“A deputy sheriff in the St. Barnard parish south of here found him just before dark yesterday on the side of a rural road that leads into a swampy area. He had his police ID on him. The medical examiner thinks he’d been dead for at least twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”
“So he was probably killed on Tuesday evening. We know he was working during the day on Tuesday. What do you make of it?”
J.D. took a deep breath. “I think I got him killed.”
“That’s not rational thinking,” I said. “If Tatum got killed over your document request, it’s probably because he was dirty.”
“How so?”
“That file didn’t disappear on its own. Somebody had to let the person who took the file redact his name, and there is no paper log of the file going out. Maybe Tatum was part of that and planned to put the information into the computer later, maybe using a fake name for the detective. Maybe Tatum was going to set it up so that it looked like another clerk had let the file go out the door.”
“You’re probably right. I can’t imagine that file would be important to anybody until I called about it. How did someone know I was looking for it? It had to be the person I talked to on the phone, and that was most likely Tatum.”
“Maybe Tatum was a little cog in a bigger machine,” I said, “and somebody was just shutting down the lines of communication.”
“Probably. There’s nothing we can do about it now. Why don’t you check your email and see about those fingerprint IDs Gus sent you?”
* * *
The list had seven names on it, including Abigail Lester’s, and three prints that could not be identified, but there had been enough of those prints that the crime scene techs thought them significant. Gus had made a notation after each name, giving his or her reason for being in the condo. He’d also sent me a note telling me that Bannister had his condo, including all the cabinets, painted just before he moved in about two weeks before his death, so the prints found on various surfaces would all be current. The only prints found on unwashed glassware and plates were duplicates of other prints found in other places in the condo, with the exception of the prints on the wine glass on Bannister’s bedside table. There were no prints on the clean ones. The hot water and detergent in the dishwasher would have obliterated those. There were a number of unidentified prints on the furniture, but it was all new and most of the prints probably belonged to the men who’d moved it into the condo. Nobody had bothered to run those prints down.
Of the six other names on the list, three had been identified as workers who painted the place. Three of the prints could not be identified from available databases. Three others belonged to Maggie Bannister, the dead man’s estranged wife, someone named Victoria Madison, and another person named Robert Shorter, who, according to Gus’ notes, had been arrested twice in Sarasota for assault and battery. He’d been sentenced on the first one to probation and anger management classes. Apparently the classes didn’t take, and on the second offense, this time against Nate Bannister, Shorter was sentenced to thirty days in the county jail. He had been released two years before.
I told J.D. what Gus had found. “At least the three unknowns might be of some us
e if I can match those prints to a suspect.”
“Good luck,” she said, sarcastically.
“Right. I’ll get Gus to run down the two we do know, Madison and Shorter. The guy sounds like a prospect. Apparently, he has anger issues. He might be one of Bannister’s less-than-satisfied customers.”
“From what I’ve heard, there are a lot of those.”
I sent Gus a text asking him to see what he could find out about Madison and Shorter. “Let’s see what Gus turns up,” I said.
“Aren’t you going to get out of bed today?”
“I’m just enjoying a little postcoital torpor.”
She laughed. “Right. I guess you deserve it. Now get up and take a shower. We’ve got a plane to catch.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Our flight was scheduled for late afternoon. We talked the hotel desk clerk into a late checkout and took a taxi back to the police station. I was wearing a pair of khaki slacks, golf shirt, and loafers. J.D. was in dark slacks, white blouse, and low-heeled pumps. Her gun was in an ankle holster, as was mine. Our IDs got us through security once again, weapons and all, and we were escorted to the chief’s office. I noticed that the officers manning the security station were wearing black bands across their badges.
The chief was wearing full uniform this morning, black band and all, and was in a somber mood. “Detective,” he said after ordering coffee for us, “I think Tatum’s death must have something to do with your investigation. Otherwise, there’s just too much coincidence.”
“I agree,” said J.D. “But I can’t put the pieces together. Not yet.”
“My guess is that coming from a small island like Longboat Key, you probably haven’t had much experience with murder cases.”
J.D. smiled coldly. I knew that look. The chief had insulted the lady, and she didn’t handle insults well. “Chief,” she said, her voice flat, “I’ve been with the Longboat Key Police Department for less than two years. Before that, I was the assistant homicide commander of the Miami-Dade County Police Department. My guess is that I’ve handled more murder cases than anybody in your department, including yourself.”
I couldn’t help but smile. My woman would go toe to toe with anybody, anytime. And she sure had made her point.
“I’m sorry, Detective,” the chief said, “I didn’t mean to insult you. I just assumed…”
“No problem, Chief.” She favored him with a smile. “It was a reasonable assumption. I didn’t mean to sound so sharp. But I’m not a rookie.”
“I can see that. Why don’t we put our heads together on this? One of my detectives, Brad Corbin, is monitoring the investigation of Officer Tatum’s death, but the St. Barnard Parish Sheriff’s Department is handling it, since that’s where the body was found. Corbin will be looking into things on this end.” He picked up his phone and asked that Detective Corbin come to his office.
“Corbin’s been doing this for a long time,” the chief said. “He’s a good cop and knows this town inside and out.”
“Has he ever worked with the gangs or hate groups?” J.D. asked.
“A lot. He worked with the gang unit before he moved to homicide. Why?”
“The woman we’re looking into, Darlene Pelletier, was part of a group called The White America Party. They’re some sort of Nazi group and they don’t seem to like anybody but other white people. And that doesn’t include Jews.”
“Sounds like a bunch of crazies. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them.”
“They’ve always been a small group, but they’ve been around for about forty years,” J.D. said.
“Maybe Corbin will know something. Here he comes now.”
Detective Corbin was a man of about forty, dressed in a beige suit set off by a red-and-blue tie and a powder-blue shirt. The chief introduced us and Corbin took a seat. “Brad, don’t let the small-island cop thing fool you about Detective Duncan. She used to be the assistant homicide commander at Miami-Dade PD. I think she probably knows her way around a murder case.”
Corbin smiled. “I hope we can help each other out, Detective, but I’m not sure I understand why you need a legal adviser with you.”
“I really don’t, Detective,” J.D. said. “Matt’s just my boy toy of the week.”
“Ouch,” I said.
Corbin and the chief both laughed at my obvious discomfort.
“Well,” I said, “at least say something about how well I do my job?”
“He’s a great lawyer,” J.D. said.
Another round of laughter.
“Actually,” said J.D., “Matt does give legal advice to our department, and he’s been a great help in other investigations. He’s ex-Army Special Forces, so he’s pretty good in a firefight, too.”
“You have firefights on Longboat Key?” the chief asked.
“More than you’d think,” J.D. said.
“I think I’ll be changing my vacation plans,” the chief said. “Why don’t the three of you get your heads together and see if you can come up with something.”
I took that as our invitation to leave. Corbin suggested we go to his office, and we followed him through a maze of hallways to a small cramped space with a desk and couple of side chairs. He took a seat behind the desk. “Tell me what you’re doing here,” he said, looking at J.D.
She told him about the murder of Linda Favereaux who, according to the fingerprints, was Darlene Pelletier, and about the tattoo, the association with The White America Party, and our visit to Connie Pelletier. “I’m trying to find some kind of connection that will lead me to her murderer. I thought it might be in her past.”
“I’m familiar with The White America Party,” Corbin said. “They’re an unpleasant little group that never caused much trouble. They sometimes hang out on street corners holding racist signs and hollering at passing cars.”
“Do you know anything about Bobby Pelletier’s murder?” J.D. asked.
“I followed that pretty closely. I was working gangs at the time, so I had an interest in what happened. We never did find any evidence of who shot him. I thought it might be one of the black gangs who did it, but we had pretty good intel on them and we never heard a whisper.”
“Do you have any theories?” I asked.
“Yeah, lots. Bobby was a real bastard and he’d pissed off a lot of people. We had so many suspects we couldn’t even begin to narrow them down. He ran with a lowlife bunch, and a lot of them hated his guts. His murder was just about inevitable.”
“Were they ever involved in illegal activities?” J.D. asked. “Drugs, guns, that sort of thing?”
“If they were, we never found any evidence of it.”
“Do you have any ideas on why Officer Tatum would be killed right after a misdemeanor file disappeared?” I asked.
“No, other than they’re probably connected.”
“How so?” I asked.
“I think it would take a lot of coincidences to have that file disappear just after Detective Duncan called about it, and then to have Tatum killed the same day.”
“I agree,” J.D. said. “But what could be in that file that would cause somebody to murder a cop?”
Corbin shrugged. “Got me.”
“We went to see Bobby Pelletier’s widow yesterday,” J.D. said. “She’s in bad shape.”
“Connie,” Corbin said. “She was quite a character in the day.”
“How so?”
“Bobby was the leader, but Connie ran the show.”
“How was that?” J.D. asked.
“Most of their followers were ignorant shit-kickers who couldn’t earn a living if their lives depended on it. Come to think of it, I guess their lives did depend on making a living. Anyway, Connie was able to get most of them jobs, menial things like washing dishes in third-class restaurants or cleaning toilets in what they used to euphemistically call gentlemen’s clubs—bars where they water the drinks and feature topless dancers. She gave her members a place to s
leep in an old warehouse down by the river. It wasn’t much, but it was better than the streets.”
“Where did they get the money to support their activities?” I asked.
Corbin emitted a short bark of a laugh. “What activities? Other than the street corner sign thing, they didn’t have any activities.”
“Can we get a look at the murder file on Bobby Pelletier?” J.D. asked.
“Sure,” Corbin said. “I don’t know what good it’ll do you, but I’ll run you a copy.” He turned to his computer and booted it up. He entered some commands, stopped, frowned, and entered some more. He picked up his phone and punched in a four-digit number. “Bubba,” he said, “I can’t find a file in the system. Can you pull it up for me? The Bobby Pelletier murder. Happened about ten years ago.”
Corbin hung up and said, “Some kind of glitch in the system. Bubba’s the information technology guy. A real wizard. He’ll have it for us in a minute.”
The phone rang. Corbin answered. “What do you mean, gone?”
Silence on our end, then, “Goddamnit, Bubba, how does a file disappear with all the security you’ve rigged into the system? This is the goddamned police department, for Christ’s sake.” He slammed the phone into its cradle, looked up and said, “Bobby’s file’s disappeared from the system. Let me check the records room and see if they have the original.”
Within a few minutes, we knew that the original file was gone, too. It had apparently been checked out by the same detective who took Darlene’s file.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
By mid-afternoon, J.D. and I were in a taxi on the way to the airport when Brad Corbin called with the news that Connie Pelletier’s body had been found in her living room. She’d been shot in the back of the head. At first glance, the forensics people thought the bullet was the same caliber as the one that killed Officer Tatum. They’d know more when ballistics finished with it.
“I think we’d better stick around another day or so,” J.D. said.
I nodded. “Driver, can you take us back to our hotel?”
“It’s kind of sad,” J.D. said. “She was a pitiful excuse for a human being, but she’d seen so much grief and hatred in her life, and look where it ended. In that hovel she lived in with a bullet in the back of her head. Do you think she saw it coming?”
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