“There’s nothing left for you to do, Mrs. Worth. Just go home and make his funeral arrangements. You’ll need a funeral home. You’ll need to notify friends and family of his death. When you have the name of the funeral home, call the city morgue.”
“Oh. I’ve never done this before,” Katie gasped out with a very startled look. Jenny took her mother’s hand and squeezed it gently in an effort to calm her.
“The neighbor at the end of the street, Mr. Smith, recently died, Mommy. His family will know what to do. They’ll help us figure it out,” the child suggested. Albright looked at the woman and her child while Coroner Davis handed her a business card for the morgue.
“Look, Mrs. Worth, I’m not supposed to recommend any one in particular, but seeing as how you look lost, try calling St. Bernard Memorial. They’ve been very helpful to my family in the past. They’ll ask you a few questions…one of which is whether you want burial or cremation and, even if they don’t match what you need, they’ll recommend who to call. Whoever you decide to use, let the morgue know. They’ll contact the funeral home to arrange delivery of the body after a more thorough examination is completed. It’s really quite simple. The funeral home will help you coordinate and they do most of the work.”
Chapter 7
“An angel?” The reporter silently mused as a tingle ran down her spine. “How amazing would that be?”
Vivien Simon stood behind the yellow police tape, rapidly taking notes, using personal shorthand she’d concocted while in journalism school. She’d listened closely to every comment made between the coroner and Lieutenant Albright as well as the crass jokes between the officers. She’d paid especially close attention to the statement given by the young witness and had also eavesdropped on the whispers between the mother and daughter. Katie Worth was stunned when the child admitted that her step-father had touched her inappropriately and forced her to touch him. It was obvious that the mother didn’t know her husband was sexually molesting her young daughter. No one can fake that kind of shock. It was also a reminder to the young reporter that it’s difficult to truly ‘know’ a person. There’s a public side that the world sees and a hidden side that only a few are allowed to see. Jenny Worth had seen the side of her step-father that was generally hidden to the world, including his wife.
It was shaping up to be an unusually bizarre and interesting case. Two things stood out to Vivien. First, the mother had gone to the voodoo shop for a session on the day her husband mysteriously died. Voodoo was by reputation a mystical practice that employed peculiar techniques, resulting in unexplained solutions. Second, and most baffling, the girl had clearly stated that an angel spoke to her, giving her a divine message. It wasn’t often that an observer of the crime blamed death on an angel, but had Jenny Worth really done that? The girl had only said the angel stopped her step-father, not killed him. She claimed that God sent the angel to stop him and save her.
‘Saved me’ was an odd thing for a child to say. If it was true, had it happened before? Had others been ‘saved’ by an angel? Vivien made an additional notation in the margins of her journal to check that out. “Were there other incidents where witnesses described an avenging angel or other mysterious redemption?” she silently wondered. Then, she added another reminder—check out Marie Laveau’s. Find out if Katie Worth’s visit had anything at all to do with her husband. She felt excitement that she might finally have a newsworthy story.
Although everything she submitted to the paper was published and she had quite a few fans on the online blog, she didn’t feel very successful. Vivien was always looking for that special story that would mean something and make her career. “Yeah, maybe this is a newsworthy story for the ‘Inquirer’ or some other grocery store tabloid, but would her editor allow her to pursue it?” she soundlessly wondered. Still, this murder had her attention and, when she was interested in something, she could be as tenacious as a pit-bull dog—sinking her teeth in and refusing to let it go. She knew she couldn’t let this one go even if her investigation was conducted on the quiet.
Now, Lieutenant Albright once again noticed her face in the crowd at the edge of the yellow tape. He’d seen her before at other crime scenes. He knew she was a reporter for the Well Read Rag, commonly referred to as the Rag by locals. He read her descriptive reports on the murders in Nawlins and noted that she added a certain artistic flair to each article. She had a following and, although he’d never admit it, he was one of them. He tolerated her presence and didn’t shoo her away, allowing her to get close enough to listen to statements and observations. So far, she hadn’t taken advantage of that courtesy and, if she ever did, he knew where to find her.
As soon as the investigation concluded, Vivien raced to Maria Laveau’s voodoo shop to inquire about Katie Worth’s appointment. The priestesses were tight lipped about their clientele and refused to either confirm or deny that the young woman had been there earlier in the day. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a unified stance.
“Listen, I know she was here. She had a receipt for a candle and a session with a ‘time and date stamp.’ That was the very reason Lieutenant Albright didn’t considered her a suspect in the murder of her husband. It was a very solid alibi. Help me out a little, please. Did she come here for assistance in regards to her husband?” Vivien asked bluntly.
“Her husband is dead?” Santeria asked softly, but it was really more of a statement. She had expected this, only not so soon.
“Yes, he was murdered in Jackson Square while his wife was here. The police think it was a robbery gone wrong, but the child said an angel stopped her father from molesting her,” Vivien replied. She didn’t see the harm in telling the women that much…they’d read about it in the papers soon enough or the gossip would reach them shortly. News spread very quickly in the French Quarter’s family.
“If I talk to you, will you keep it completely confidential?” Santeria asked. A small gasp went up from the other priestesses.
“No, Santeria. You can’t do that. It will harm our practice,” they protested nearly in unison.
“I know confidence is our motto, but I have to tell her,” she said looking closely at her sisters before turning to Vivien. “I will speak to you, but only if you promise to listen and not repeat what I tell you. And, only if you will also tell me what you know about the murder,” Santeria stated adamantly.
“I promise,” Vivien replied solemnly, “but you have to also promise not to repeat what I share with you. My relationship with the police is similar to the one you have with your clients. Do you understand?”
At Santeria’s nod, they went behind the curtained off area where the priestess had held session with Katie. She explained that Katie Worth came for a ‘leave me’ spell and that she had willingly and enthusiastically assisted her after seeing what an evil bastard the husband was. Vivien listened attentively and, although she made notes, she assured the priestess that it was solely for her own records during the investigation.
“I tell you, little reporter, that woman was blind when she came here. She didn’t even know why she needed him gone, only that she did. He was slowly killing her by sucking off her energy every day. She had no idea what a monster he was and the child couldn’t tell her. She was scared of what that evil man would do to her mother if she told. It’s a ploy molesters use to keep their victims silent. On the other hand, I didn’t tell her either. In our practice, we believe it’s best for each to discover the truth in their own time. It’s their right,” Santeria said.
“It sounds as if you’re familiar with his kind,” Vivien commented.
“I’ve seen his brand of evil before,” Santeria replied quietly. “Now, please tell me everything about the murder and how he died.”
Vivien reciprocated and it was Santeria’s turn to listen attentively. When the story was done, Santeria didn’t comment, but she felt deeply satisfied. She’d heard of this once before. Long ago, during her early childhood, there were whispers of this very thing—a g
uardian—God had used one man to do two jobs. He was both devil-destroyer and angel-redeemer, sent to protect the innocent. The high priestess at that time had prophesied that he would return. Now, nearly fifty years later, Santeria knew he had. She was pleased that she had lived to see the divine prediction fulfilled.
Chapter 8
Vivien Simon had been in the area for only a few years. Originally from Birmingham, she’d come to do a series of articles about Hurricane Katrina’s effects on the residents of New Orleans and the eastern Gulf Coast. It was a depressing assignment and she often found herself disheartened about the situation and circumstances that New Orleans faced. After a little push from a trusted friend, she’d turned her attention to Crescent City murders and violent crimes. With fewer residents and more crimes than ever, the work kept her busy, while her mind formulated a plan for the original story she was supposed to write. The crimes in the city were, in the most morbid sense of the word, exciting to the young reporter. Always intrigued by the reasons a person acted in a certain way, the crimes were also an education into the minds of the men and women who committed them. She found it fascinating.
Once, over a million residents, New Orleans and the greater metropolitan area now held a population of only three hundred and twenty thousand, give or take. The Cajun-French city had always been considered a cesspool of corruption by many, but now, it was unsafe in many areas rather than only a few. The blame was placed on deep-seated poverty and racial tension, but that was too simplistic. Any dog will bite if you poke him with a stick enough times. The people of New Orleans had been poked hard, repeatedly.
It went deeper than anyone realized. The blame could be placed on the city itself as much as any person or thing. It reeked with nepotism and preferential treatment, especially among city employees. It no longer mattered who was best suited for the job, the only job requirement was who you knew.
The city had also seen too much over the last two centuries. It was hardened and embittered, facing loss time-and-again. The loss had caused fear of more loss. Like fire-ants roiling across floodwaters to stay afloat, the insects gathered more and more debris to ensure their survival. Those in power weren’t much different. Fueled by greed and a desire to never be without again, they also gathered as much as they could and far more than needed for their continued existence.
This deeply emotional greed had created hoarders—they couldn’t have enough or get enough, so they secretly collected as much money and property as possible. Everything was up for grabs after the latest devastation and, with the right connections, anything could be had. Politicians and city officials grew richer while the poor grew poorer. It was enough to make anyone resentful.
Those who provided public services for the city were some of the worst affected by the city’s greed and corruption. They were paid a paltry salary for putting their lives on the line while those on the top rung, grew fat, prosperous, and insulated from the day-to-day of the Crescent City. Nothing shocked these workers anymore or stirred their compassion either. Why should it? They didn’t get paid enough to add anything other than the hours punched on a timecard.
Tourist came to New Orleans yearlong with a Mardi Gras ‘holiday’ mentality—to let their hair down, flash their boobs, and get a little crazy—regardless of the season. In that heightened state of ‘anything goes,’ these visitors were often prey to the underbelly that lurked in darkened alleyways and dimly lit streets, looking for a victim. Poor residents without resources would cut a man’s throat for his coat and would most certainly cut off a hand for the watch or rings it sported. It was very difficult to watch wealth and prosperity flaunted in your face, especially when you didn’t even have a home to call your own. Robberies, rapes, and self-defense shootings were up and climbing.
New Orleans cops were more interested in ‘real crimes’ that made the news than they were in pulling some rapist off a woman whose screams could be heard for two city blocks. Like the residents of the city, they didn’t want to get involved either even though it was their job. Most rapes were never reported at headquarters—too much paperwork. The victims were discouraged and criticized, often taunted, as if it was ‘no big deal.’ Almost anyone could cry ‘self-defense’ after a shooting or knifing and the police response was, “F’sho!”
Yes, the troubles of the city went much deeper than supposed. And, it would take a lot of change to correct the problems. The city needed an overhaul, but it was a very big job and, so far, no one had the balls or stomach for it.
Vivien, twenty-nine, had once hoped to make a name for herself as a journalist. After seven years on the job, five of those in Birmingham, she was now considered an ‘investigative reporter.’ It wasn’t the fame and bright lights she’d hoped to receive when she was a wide-eyed graduate from Auburn, landing her first job. Still, she loved the part of her job description that required her to ‘look into and examine the evidence and witness statements.’ Although she was good at that part and often saw more than others could see, she still needed more work on the actual interviewing technique.
She was attractive with dark hair and hazel eyes, on the slender side, and had a distinctive French or Italian ancestry that was revealed by an olive complexion. Her looks alone opened most doors, but she wanted to be taken seriously. After her first year in New Orleans, Vivien began to feel burned-out as she worked on the Katrina story. It weighed her down. Jessica, a longtime friend from Birmingham, suggested that she buy a police scanner and get busy networking with the locals. It was the best way to get a jump on the leading stories.
“If murders are on the rise, capitalize on that, Vivien,” Jessica pushed. “Get out there. Go to the bars frequented by the locals on Bourbon Street or Chartres. Hang out at Café du Monde on the weekends. You know, get to know some people. They’re not all tourists…you have to keep your ear to the ground at the local watering holes. Use it to your advantage. Keep your eyes open for anyone who has access to the tools you need.”
Vivien wasn’t adept at using people. In fact, she was a loner and liked it that way. However, after a year of nothing in the Crescent City, she felt she didn’t have anything to lose by following Jessica’s advice. The police scanner was the first step she took and it had paid off handsomely. It led her to the scenes of many a gruesome murder. Laissez les bons temps rouler—Let the good times roll! Just another day in Nawlins.
She also took coffee once a month at Café du Monde in hopes of learning the faces of habitual customers. When she wasn’t there, she regularly went to anyone of three other coffeehouses on Saturday, making notes on the patrons to discover which ones were local residents.
She desperately needed to make friends, but was choosey. She wanted friends who could lend assistance, but that she wouldn’t mind reciprocating when she repaid the favor. The Crescent City was an ‘I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine’ kind of place. The deliberate efforts she took were a means to an end and, slowly, she realized the fruits of her labors. She now had a list of city workers and local residents that she could call for a favor and the list continued to grow. She was more outgoing and becoming a familiar face to the family of business owners in Vieux Carré. Things were looking up.
Chapter 9
Although Alec Winters was handsome, overall he was average enough to easily blend into a crowd. His age was hard to determine as well. He could have been twenty-five, forty-five, or anywhere in between, depending on the observer’s perspective. He was six feet tall and solidly built at a hundred and ninety pounds, without an inch-to-pinch anywhere on his fit, muscular body, but in spite of this, he didn’t stand out as unusual or noteworthy. People often missed his presence altogether.
When not on his regular job wearing a suit and tie, Alec wore jeans and oversized tee-shirts in muted tans, grays, and blacks. His shirts never sported a logo or anything else that caught the attention of others. Nothing about him drew the eye in curiosity and that’s the way he intended it. This anonymity allowed him to move about the
city virtually unnoticed. His sandy-brown hair was cut close, but not exactly military style. The most remarkable feature on the man was striking, aquamarine eyes, but even those often disappeared behind sandy-brown lashes when he grinned. Alec, satisfied with his life, grinned a lot.
When he reflected on his outward impression, Alec wasn’t sure how he appeared to the predators he killed. They always cowered, looking on him with horror and terrorized by what they saw, but still, he didn’t know how he looked in that form. He still felt like a man when he destroyed them. An angry man, but a man all the same. Those he protected saw an angel. He’d seen the depictions drawn by his sister and he heard her whispers of gratitude each time he saw her, but he hadn’t honestly seen his own reflection or image in either role.
While on active duty in the army, he’d saved many lives on the battlefield. He was in the line of fire as much as the soldiers were. He’d never been shot, but he’d had some close calls as enemies rushed forward with weapons in hand to kill anyone nearby while missiles and grenade launchers exploded around them. He vividly recalled the last incident.
He was patching up a lieutenant with a throat wound who would bleed to death if Alec didn’t stop the flow. Enemy fire was all around them. One bastard ran right up to them with his weapon in hand; ready to kill both of them. Alec looked up and the man turned and ran away in fright, screaming, “Şeytanın, Şeytanın.” A missile blasted nearby, sending dust and debris everywhere and ending the would-be attacker’s life. Alec had covered the lieutenant’s body with his own to shield him from another wound and further injury.
“You’re an angel…Am I dead?” the lieutenant choked out in wonderment.
Crescent City (An Alec Winters Series Book 1) Page 4