Mind Games

by Polly Iyer

  On his last syllable, she gasped, eyes filling with tears. She threw the half-eaten wing down and seized her water glass as if she’d just survived two weeks in the desert without a drop of water. “Jeez, that’s hot,” she wheezed, after emptying the glass in one long guzzle. “I thought I could pull it off, but I can’t. Damn.” She commandeered Lucier’s water and chugged that too. When she went for his beer, he yanked the glass away.

  “Uh-uh. Not my beer. You deserve to suffer for that charade.” He choked with laughter. “You’re a trip. I can’t believe you carried that off as long as you did.”

  She wiped the tear tracks lining her cheeks and managed a rasping concession. “Okay, okay, you win. My nasal passages are crystal clear, my hearing has reached Superman proportions, and my mouth feels like Vesuvius exploded inside.” Leaning back, she flapped her blouse to let in some air. “Whew.”

  “Serves you right,” he said, still laughing.

  Diana dabbed her forehead with the napkin, then used it to fan the burning heat. “I showed you how tough I am.” She blew out a breath. “Okay, you were about to tell me all about myself before we were so rudely interrupted by a chicken wing from hell.”

  Lucier reeled in the remnants of laughter and took a swallow of beer. “Right. Okay, here’s what I think.” He dropped his wing in the plate and wiped his hands on his napkin. “I’m putting two and two together. Simple math.” He studied her for a moment. “Like you said, you never lost your psychic abilities, but you also said that as a child the visions took too much out of you. Maybe you told your father you’d lost your gift, I don’t know. So he created a performer. However he accomplished that feat might not have been exactly kosher, and that’s the part I don’t want to know. Like the watered-down booze, that’s not my objective.”

  Diana didn’t respond.

  “How am I doing?” he asked.

  “Go on.”

  “Okay. He devised the act; you go along. And you were what? Twelve, thirteen? You never wanted to disappoint your father—too much money involved, and he’d gotten used to the money.” He noticed a tic in her cheek at his last remark. “But you couldn’t turn off the visions or premonitions or whatever the hell they’re called. Until Francine Marigny’s party, you could handle them. Whenever someone got suspicious, you had an explanation.

  “But the night of the party, something happened you couldn’t ignore, and tonight it happened again. Something about that woman reached into you and now you’re afraid, whether for her or for you, I don’t know.” He sat back with a fresh beer in hand that Desenioux placed at the table, took a drink, and planted his gaze on Diana.

  Her arms stretched tightly around her chest, fingers digging into her skin. She looked like if she let go, she’d fall apart piece by piece. He verged on uncovering the inner workings of her act. Imparting certain information could mean the end of a lucrative lifestyle and, if he was right, an end to the comforts to which her parents had grown accustomed. Exposure would open them to allegations of fraud, which he guessed would be easy to prove on some level.

  She hesitated, weighing her words. “That’s an interesting overview. Of course I shall neither confirm nor deny your hypothesis. Say you’re right, which I’m not saying you are, but for the sake of conversation.”

  He rested his elbow on the table and clamped his chin between his thumb and index finger. “Okay, let’s.”

  “If I think something’s going to happen to that woman, what could we do about it?”

  “Since she didn’t divulge her name, I couldn’t track her down. Unless,” he paused, “she told you while you were chatting.” He was baiting her like the perfect police interrogator, something he’d done many times.

  “Right,” Diana said. “She told me while we were talking on stage. Her name is Elizabeth Hartwell. From Mississippi.”

  He nodded, pulled out his cell, and speed-dialed a number, keeping his eyes on Diana. “Sam, find out where an Elizabeth Hartwell is staying. Home state, Mississippi.” To Diana: “City?”

  She looked away. “Gulfport.”

  “She’s with her twin sister, so the hotel room might be listed in her name.” He tilted his head toward Diana, but she was watching the band. The word slipped out of the corner of her mouth. “Eleanor.”

  “Sister’s name is Eleanor. Call me back when you find out.” He clipped his phone onto his belt and picked up another wing. “Glad you chatted with Ms. Elizabeth Hartwell of Gulfport, Mississippi, whose sister’s name is Eleanor. You just made our job a lot easier.”

  Diana studied her drink.

  “By the way,” he said, “did I tell you I thought your act was terrific?”

  “No.”

  “It was.” Her eyes were as black as the darkest night, and they just about twinkled when she smiled at him. Diana Racine had awakened something deep inside him he thought long dead, and he wasn’t sure he wanted it revived.

  Chapter Nine

  Pink Is the Color of Dead

  After Lucier dropped off Diana, he met Beecher at the Hartwell sisters’ hotel. The desk clerk hadn’t seen the women since early evening when they asked him to recommend a good restaurant near the theater. The two men sat down to wait. They didn’t wait long.

  Around 2 a.m., Elizabeth Hartwell arrived arm-in-arm with a young man wearing a backward New Orleans Saints cap and layers of plastic beads around his neck. Obviously drunk, they giggled like silly children.

  Lucier introduced himself. “We don’t wish to frighten you, Ms. Hartwell, but there’s reason to believe you might be in danger.”

  Police presence did nothing to curb their giddiness. “That’s impossible. I’m standing right here.” She chuckled again and the young man joined in.

  Lucier and Beecher exchanged glances after examining Elizabeth’s companion, and silent agreement passed between them. He stood no taller than five six, with a high nasal voice. Nothing like Diana’s Cyrano.

  “Where’s your sister?” Lucier asked.

  “How should I know? Am I my sister’s keeper?” The guffaw at her own pun bombed as three straight faces stared back, and a rational moment surfaced long enough for her to answer. “She left me at a bar on Royal Street to go off with some guy. Knowing Eleanor, she’s probably upstairs sleeping by now.”

  “She’s not.” Lucier reached to touch her arm, hoping the physical contact would sober her up. “You need to take this seriously, Miss Hartwell.” His phone rang, and he flipped the cover to take the call. “Patch her through. Diana, what’s the matter? I’m in the middle of talking to Elizabeth Hart―”

  “Ernie, someone just delivered Eleanor Hartwell’s scarf to my room.” She broke down in tears. “It’s not Elizabeth. It’s her sister.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “What’s up?” Beecher asked.

  Lucier pulled him aside. “Stay here with the Hartman woman. Get the name of the bar and send Cash to see if anyone remembers this guy. I’m going to Diana’s hotel. Someone sent her Eleanor Hartman’s pink scarf. She’s terrified.”

  When he arrived at Diana’s hotel, Lucier asked the desk clerk who delivered the package for Ms. Racine.

  “Some kid,” he said. “I didn’t pay much attention, except he was black, about ten or eleven.”

  “Can you recall what he wore? Anything at all.”

  “No, just a kid like a hundred other black kids running ’round the streets.” He glanced at Lucier, who had never looked like a hundred other black kids. “You know what I mean.”

  Lucier couldn’t hide a smirk. “Yup, sure do. Thanks for your help.” He handed the clerk a card and told him to call if he saw the kid again or remembered anything else, then went to Diana’s room.

  She pulled him inside. “Ernie, someone’s…playing games. This scarf…” It fluttered in her shaky hands as she paced the room. “This scarf…the girl. He’s taken the sister.”

  “We’re not sure yet.” He guided her toward the small settee and sat down beside her. “E
lizabeth’s at her hotel; Eleanor’s not with her. Beecher’s waiting there, and my men are checking out the last place she was seen.”

  Diana stared at the floor, the scarf clenched in her hand. “She’s in a park…near the river. She’s cold, Ernie. She’s on the ground. Oh, my God, she’s so cold.” Diana hiccupped shoulder-shaking sobs.

  Lucier pulled her close and let her cry. She couldn’t stop. He had to put up a wall between them, because what he felt now wasn’t what a cop should feel for a witness in a murder case. The scent of her hair filled his nostrils, the heat of her skin warmed his body as he hugged her close. He backed away. Separate this, Ernie.

  “I feel responsible for the fate of these women,” she said. “He’s using me, but I don’t know why. Why is he doing this?”

  He cleared his throat. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Seeing her reactions, he understood the unbearable weight that a small child suffered from finding dead people. This was tearing apart the adult Diana. Both Buffy Tyler and Eleanor Hartwell linked to Diana in some inexplicable way. If only he could find the connection. Then he shivered when he caught himself thinking of Eleanor Hartwell in the past tense.

  Lucier called the station. “Get some men over to Woldenberg Park. That’s the park closest to where Elizabeth and her sister went for drinks. We’re looking for a twenty-something woman,” he continued. “If she’s not there, spread out and keep looking.”

  Lucier hoped his apprehension was ill-founded. Maybe Eleanor Hartwell would turn up at the hotel, full of Mardi Gras cheer. Maybe.

  Exhausted, Diana rested her head on Lucier’s shoulder. “This is my fault,” she whimpered. He started to say something, but she had closed her eyes, and he didn’t want to disturb her. Instead, he held her, unwilling to let her go, knowing that he should.

  At five a.m., Lucier answered his cell. They found Eleanor Hartwell’s lifeless body.

  Chapter Ten

  Through a Third Party

  Lucier tried to convince Diana to remain at the hotel, but she insisted on going with him. He relented, conceding her special talents might mine significant clues.

  When they arrived, yellow tape blocked off the area. Police cars flashed strobes of blue lights in the early morning dusk; patrolmen warned away the all-night revelers who wandered into the park from the Quarter. Lucier guided Diana around the path to avoid messing up the crime scene. Rain threatened, prompting investigators to speed up their search before a downpour washed away clues. Jake Griffin descended on the new arrivals like a voracious vulture.

  “What does Ms. Racine have to do with this, Lieutenant? Why’s she here?” Griffin followed Lucier so closely that he crashed into him when the cop stopped and turned around.

  “Jake, we just got here. Give us some breathing room, will ya? Ms. Racine is here at the request of the police department.” Lucier hated police scanners. They were responsible for the news jackals flocking to crime scenes, destroying trace evidence and proving the worst of nuisances.

  “Didn’t Ms. Racine do a reading on the victim last evening?” Griffin asked.

  “No, on her sister. Come on, Jake, let me do my job. If we find out anything, you’ll be the first to know. Right now, I have nothing to report.”

  “What about you, Ms. Racine? Did you see this in your reading? Is that why you left the stage so abruptly? Did you call her, Lieutenant?”

  Diana started to say something, but Lucier silenced her with a raised hand. He faced Griffin. “I told you to leave the lady alone. She doesn’t know any more than we do right now. And if you get in the way of the crime scene, I’ll have you physically removed. Then I’ll make sure you’re the last one to get any of tonight’s details. Understand?” Lucier didn’t wait for an answer. After he made sure the area had been checked thoroughly, he took Diana’s arm and led her to where Eleanor Hartwell’s body lay crumpled on the ground.

  Diana shrank back. Her skin matched the victim’s ghostly color in the white heat of the illuminating lights.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Two bodies in two days. Like old times,” she mused, pulling her gaze from the macabre sight. “Do what you need to do; I’ll wander. Don’t worry, I won’t mess up the crime scene. I know better.”

  Lucier turned to speak with the forensic specialist while Diana strolled near the walking path and benches. Beecher approached his boss holding a notebook.

  “Her underpants were ripped. M.E. said vaginal fluid suggests sexual activity. We’ll have to wait for the full autopsy report, but a cursory examination indicates death was caused by a crushed windpipe.”

  “Auto-erotic asphyxiation?” Lucier asked.

  “Possible.”

  “What the hell have we got here, Sam? Are these sex crimes or some kind of vendetta against Diana Racine? She’s the conduit in both murders, and the killer has gone out of his way to make sure she is.”

  Beecher lowered his voice. “This is none of my business, Ernie, but―”

  “But what?”

  “Well, it’s five in the morning, and I heard Ms. Racine’s voice in the background when I called.”

  “Nothing happened, Sam. The scarf delivered to her door put her in a panic. I stayed until she calmed down, and then she fell asleep. That’s all.”

  “I understand the attraction, Ernie. She’s a good-looking woman. I don’t even think she’s a phony anymore, but she’ll be gone in a few days, off to the next show in the next town, and you’ll still be here with a hard-on.”

  “Thanks for your concern, Sam. I appreciate it. But I’m a big boy. Like I said, nothing happened. Probably won’t either, even if I wanted it to.” A vision of Papa Racine flashed in his mind, and he didn’t know why. Maybe it was the evil eye the old man projected outside Diana’s dressing room door. Maybe it was just a recurrence of his paranoia. “And I don’t.”

  Diana’s raised voice distracted them as she tried to extricate herself from a persistent Jake Griffin. By the time Lucier intervened, her face changed from pale to furious red.

  “Jake.” Lucier grabbed Griffin’s arm and pulled him away. “Get the hell out of here, or I’ll have one of the uniforms haul you in to the station. See what kind of story you can write from behind bars.”

  Griffin grumbled, then scurried to his car and drove off in a belch of exhaust smoke.

  “The man came on like a bulldog. He wouldn’t leave me alone,” Diana said. “I wanted to smack him one, but as scrawny as he is, he’s still bigger than I am.”

  Lucier grinned at the mental image of Diana taking on Jake Griffin. Seeing the extent of her anger, she might have had a good shot at him. “It’s all right. He’s probably afraid you could take him. He won’t be back.”

  She poked him in the ribs. “Smart-ass.” She tugged on his arm. “Come over here, Ernie.” She walked him to one of the benches. “I got strong vibes here. I think Eleanor Hartwell sat on this bench.”

  “I’ll make sure the crime scene people go over this area.”

  She scanned the scene. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “Neither do I, but I’m putting a twenty-four hour guard on you until we find out.”

  “You think he’s after me, don’t you?”

  “More like he’s trying to psych you out. Why is anyone’s guess.”

  Diana wrapped her jacket tighter, suppressing a shiver. “Do you think he might go after my parents to get to me?”

  “I’m not taking any chances. I’ll put a man on them too.”

  She moved closer to Lucier. “Can’t you stay with me? I’d feel a whole lot safer.”

  He felt her heat and backed up a step. “That wouldn’t be professional. I guarantee my boss wouldn’t think so either.” He watched Diana’s reaction to see if his next comment verified his suspicions. “And I think your protective father might have a thing or two to say about it.”

  Diana scoffed. “He doesn’t like anyone I’m interested in.”

  Lucier stole a quick glance, then turned
away. Diana had the dismissive answers down pat where her father was concerned, but in a few minutes with the old man, Lucier detected all the signs from that had taken him a lifetime to catalogue. He didn’t doubt for a minute he was right. But he wouldn’t get into it now. “Let’s walk the crime scene. But be careful; the lab boys aren’t quite finished.” They walked deeper into the park.

  Diana moved in front of him, putting herself in his sight line. “Did you hear what I said?”

  He couldn’t avoid her. “I heard. This isn’t the time or place for this discussion.” Sam was right. She’d be gone in a few days. He couldn’t get involved. He was a cop on the job. Period.

  Pointing in the direction of the tree, he said, “Let’s look over there. See if you get any vibes.” They headed back to the body, but he felt Diana’s glare burn into him like hot pokers. He wouldn’t look at her.

  Charlie Cothran, the coroner for Orleans Parish, knelt over the body. Eleanor’s hands were bagged. “Looks like you’ve got another one, Lieutenant. That’s two sexual murders in two days. Is there something going here I should know about? A serial killer maybe?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me, Charlie. I need a report on this ASAP, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  Lucier approached one of the crime scene investigators. “Got anything?”

  “Whoever did this was careful. Scuffed up the ground pretty good. No footprints. So far we haven’t found anything except the body. But we’re still looking.”

  “Check around that bench on the path, will you? Dust the railing too. There’s reason to believe something went on over there. I want this whole area under a microscope.”

  “Right, Lieutenant. Consider it done.”

  Diana walked over to the tree, riveted to the lifeless form on the ground as one is drawn to the wreckage of an accident. “Eleanor looks so much like her sister,” she said. “The feeling that emanated from Elizabeth transmitted from Eleanor. I’ve never received through a third party. I found the victims by handling something of theirs, like the pink scarf. This guy is channeling me.”