That Old Devil Moon

by Anne Logan

  Alex held out one hand toward Maddie and the other toward Casey. “Maddie Johnson, this is Casey Jackson, one of N.O.P.D.’s finest detectives. He also happens to be my partner.”

  Casey shot Alex a grin then nodded his head at Maddie. “Ms. Johnson.” Then he turned to Alex and slapped him on the back. “You still just as full of it as ever,” he said good-naturedly. “So when did you get back from Nashville?”

  “A couple of hours ago,” Alex answered.

  Casey looked over at Maddie and winked. “Some guys get all the cushy assignments while others of us have to slug it out in the trenches.” As if suddenly realizing why he was there, he glanced around the room. “Man, what a mess. Any ideas?”

  “A few,” Alex answered. “Could be connected to those other break-ins recently.”

  ‘ ‘Maybe,” Casey conceded. “But let me ask the little lady a few questions then we’ll talk more.”

  “I’m afraid it won’t do much good. This isn’t Maddie’s apartment. It’s her brother’s…Michael Johnson.”

  Casey’s eyes narrowed, and Maddie could tell the exact second that he made the connection. “That Johnson is her brother? Oh, man!” The moment he said the words, he shot an apologetic look at Maddie. “Sorry, ma’am, it’s just that…” His voice trailed away and he shrugged self-consciously.

  Maddie lifted her chin, but after a moment, she nodded in acknowledgment of his apology. Getting her hackles up with the police wouldn’t help clear her brother’s name, and she could tell that the detective was truly embarrassed. “I’m afraid there’s not much I can tell you,” she said. “I just flew in today, and since I’ve never been here before, I’m not sure what’s missing.”

  Casey pulled out a pen and a small notepad from his jacket pocket. “You may know more than you think. Why don’t we just go over a few things and see what we come up with.”

  While Casey questioned Maddie, Alex poked around the other rooms in the apartment. Something was beginning to bother him about the Michael Johnson case. And the more he saw, the more the feeling spread.

  Once Casey had finished questioning Maddie, Alex followed him outside to talk.

  Casey was the first to speak. “I have to tell you, Alex, my man, this ain’t like those other break-ins we investigated—the stereo, the TV, VCR and even honest-to-God silverware—it’s all still there. And another thing, none of the other places were trashed like this one.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Alex answered. “It’s almost like the perp was searching for something specific.” He paused. “Could you do me a favor?”

  “Depends,” Casey answered sagely. “Last time you asked a favor, I ended up knee-deep in a swamp freezing my a—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Alex interrupted. “All I want you to do is ask around. See what you can find out about the Johnson murder-suicide.”

  Casey frowned. “I thought that was all sewn up, cut-and-dried.”

  Alex shrugged. “It probably is, but Maddie doesn’t think her brother was capable of murder.”

  “Come on, Alex, you know they never do.” Casey’s words were the same ones Alex had spoken to himself over and over. But then he’d recall snatches of conversation he’d had with Maddie about her brother. He’d remember the expression on her face when she’d viewed her brother’s body at the morgue. Alex had always considered entertainers shallow and spoiled, people who lived in a dreamworld, who knew nothing of the real world that he saw day after day. But Maddie didn’t seem to fit his preconceived ideas. Her courage and strength of character had both surprised and impressed him, and it was obvious how much she had loved her brother.

  There had been countless times that he’d faced the relatives of a lawbreaker. And each time, almost without fail, they swore up and down that their son, husband, brother or daughter, wife or sister couldn’t possibly have committed the crime. But there was something different about Maddie’s unwavering belief in her brother’s innocence, something that left a feeling deep in his gut that just wouldn’t let go.

  AFTER CASEY LEFT, Alex called a locksmith to replace the locks on the entry door as well as on the French doors that led out onto a small, oblong balcony.

  “Thanks,” Maddie said once he’d given the locksmith the address and hung up the phone. Then she glanced around and shook her head. “What a mess.”

  “Why don’t I help you clean up while we’re waiting on the locksmith?” Her look was so filled with gratitude that he was glad he’d made the suggestion. “I might find something that will give us a clue.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me. And I’m sure once you look into this a little deeper, you’ll find that my brother is innocent.’’

  A twinge of regret shot through Alex. He shouldn’t let her believe he was investigating the case.

  So why not tell her now? his conscience urged. Why continue to let her hope for miracles when there aren’t any?

  One look at her was all it took to make up his mind. The woman was dead on her feet and emotionally wrung-out. The case might not be his, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t at least check into it.

  After all, if nothing came of his inquiries, there was plenty of time later to tell her.

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER, having said goodbye to Alex, Maddie stood at the door, her hand lingering on the lock as she absently rubbed her fingers against the smooth metal.

  Finally, with a sigh, she turned away, walked over to the sofa and sat down. Thanks to Alex’s help, at least the place was clean, she thought. She stared at the card he’d given with his private number as well as precinct number. “Call,” he’d said, “if you need anything.” Somehow the small card gave her comfort.

  The apartment was quiet except for the small air conditioner humming from the window and the occasional growl of her empty stomach. Too quiet, Maddie decided, placing Alex’s card on the table. Now there was nothing to do, nothing to keep her mind off her brother’s death.

  Maddie felt weary to her bones and drained of emotion. She stretched out on the sofa and closed her eyes, but the questions kept coming. If Michael hadn’t killed Caroline then who had? Whoever had committed the murder must have also killed her brother and set things up to look like a suicide. But why? And how would Alex go about finding out?

  Feeling more restless than before, Maddie finally pushed herself off the sofa and walked into the tiny kitchen. Rummaging around in the cabinets, she found coffee and brewed a fresh pot.

  It felt strange to be in her brother’s apartment, to be surrounded by his things without him being there. With a mug of hot coffee in one hand, Maddie opened the French doors and stepped out onto the shaded balcony that overlooked the narrow street below. There was a soft, warm breeze blowing, but it was cooler than she had imagined.

  The air was different here, she thought, drawing in a deep breath. Heavy with humidity, it had an almost exotic smell. Up and down the street were other second-story balconies enclosed with intricate, lacy wrought iron, some with lounging chairs and an array of hanging baskets filled with a variety of plants, while others were bare, with no signs of inhabitants.

  As Maddie settled in one of the two chairs standing beside a small glass-topped table, she imagined her brother sitting here, watching the goings-on below him.

  Unbidden, an image of Alex Batiste came to mind. Michael would have liked the streetwise detective, she thought idly as she watched a delivery truck rumble down the street. He would have teased her endlessly about how she—his staunchly independent sister—had let a man take over for her.

  There was something, she had to admit, about Alex’s no-nonsense attitude and his calm demeanor that made her trust his judgment and feel more secure. Unlike most of the men she had been involved with, he seemed to be a man that a woman could depend on…

  “Oh, great.” Maddie reached up and massaged her aching temples. “Now I’m daydreaming about the man,” she muttered. After all, she reminded herself, he’s just a detec
tive—a cop—doing the job he was paid to do.

  But even as she told herself that she was simply stressed out and feeling lonely, there was a minuscule part of her that had to confess that she found Alex Batiste just a bit too fascinating. And what if he’s married? “Then his wife is a pretty lucky woman,” she whispered.

  WHEN ALEX LEFT the apartment, he had planned on going home and spending the evening cleaning out the spare bedroom to make room for Carla. He still couldn’t believe that his daughter was actually going to stay with him, day and night for a month. Most of their visits since she had become a teenager had been confined to an occasional lunch or dinner.

  But when he pulled up to an intersection—one way leading to his apartment and the other leading back downtown—Alex flicked on his signal then headed back downtown to the coroner’s office. There was still plenty of time to get his apartment cleaned up, he reasoned, but from experience, he knew that the colder a case became, the harder it became to find clues.

  At the office, no one questioned him as he pulled all the files on Michael Johnson. Everyone knew that he and Jack were good friends and often conferred on different cases.

  Since Jack had already gone home for the day, Alex spent the rest of the evening, holed up in Jack’s office, reading and sifting through all the available information.

  While reading the police report, it struck him odd that there were statements taken from only two witnesses who had seen Michael and Caroline arguing, not several as Jack had intimated. And neither of the two witnesses had mentioned Caroline dancing with another man.

  As Alex studied the pictures of the gruesome murder scene, the feeling that Maddie could be right about her brother began to strengthen.

  There were too many things that simply didn’t add up. A list had been made of the contents found in Michael’s pockets: cash—fifty-five dollars and fortythree cents—a driver’s license, a credit card, keys and a receipt. There was no mention in the initial report about how the contents of Michael’s billfold had been strewn around the body, as if someone had been looking for something. But the crime-scene pictures had been clear, so why hadn’t anyone documented the fact that Michael had been searched?

  But for what? Alex wondered. Since the money hadn’t been taken, robbery was obviously not the motive. “What had they been looking for?” he murmured, glancing over the list again, his eyes pausing long enough to note that there was nothing to indicate what the receipt was for.

  And something else puzzled Alex. In most gunshot suicides he’d investigated, the male victims had chosen to shoot themselves in the head or mouth—not in the stomach the way Michael had.

  With a sigh born of frustration, Alex stood and stretched. Looking at his watch, he was shocked to see that it was almost midnight. Time to go home, he decided. Past time. The answers to his questions would have to wait till morning when he could talk to Jack.

  It was almost noon of the following day before Alex finally caught up with Jack. He’d been to his friend’s office twice, looking for him, and he’d left several messages which Jack hadn’t returned. Finally, just as Alex entered the outer office, he caught Jack leaving.

  “Hey, Jack, what gives? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve been avoiding me.”

  Jack glanced nervously at his watch. “It’s been a hell of a morning, Alex, and I’m already late for—”

  “So a few more minutes won’t make a difference.” Alex grabbed him by the sleeve and steered him back inside the office. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you. Next time you need someone to notify the next of kin, pick someone else to do the job.”

  “Aw, come on, Alex. You were already in Nashville. You know we don’t have the budget to send someone out for this type of thing, and given the nature of the situation, I just figured that kind of news would be better coming from a New Orleans cop instead of a local.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said. “But I couldn’t let this pass without ribbing you some. Besides, lately you’re too uptight about everything.”

  Instead of laughing and joking back as Alex had expected, Jack suddenly reached out and poked him in the chest. “Dammit, Alex, I don’t have time for this kind of crap. Some of us around here have real work to do.”

  Alex threw up his hands as if surrendering. “Hey, pal, back off. What’s got into you?”

  For a second more, Jack glared at him, then finally took a step backward. Hands on his hips, he raised his head and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Sorry,” he finally said with a heavy sigh. “It’s the pressure.” He turned and walked over to the only window in the small office and stared out at the traffic below. “With the mayor’s election just around the corner, I’m getting all kinds of pressure to wrap up all the loose-end cases. Lately, I don’t know if I’m coming or going.”

  Alex nodded gravely. “Speaking of loose-end cases, that’s what I really wanted to talk to you about. I’d like to know more about the Michael Johnson murder-suicide. His sister refuses to believe that her brother was capable of murder, and I have to say that after looking over the file, there are some things that don’t add up.”

  Jack whirled to face Alex. “You went through my files?”

  Jack’s sudden vehemence caught Alex off guard. But before he had time to explain, Jack lashed out at him again.

  “What gives you the friggin’ right to go nosing through my files? I’m telling you now, old buddy, friendship only goes so far. That case is over and done with, and I find it a personal and professional insult for you to go snooping around. Stay out of it, Alex! It’s not your case, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s closed!”

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, still reeling from his confrontation with Jack, Alex drove through Audubon Park. His destination was his ex-wife’s home in an exclusive apartment complex that overlooked the Mississippi River. Feeling confused and frustrated, he had decided to pay an impromptu visit to Carla.

  He knew Joan didn’t like impromptu visits, but in his present mood, he didn’t give a damn what she liked. He needed to see his daughter.

  He had just reached out to push the doorbell, when he heard Joan screaming from inside the apartment. “You come back here this minute, you ungrateful little-”

  The door suddenly flew open and a sobbing Carla barreled into him. “Whoa, sweetheart.” Alex grabbed her, then, with a firm grip on her shoulders, he held her at arm’s length. Her eyes were red-rimmed and mascara mixed with tears was running down her cheeks. “What’s the problem here?”

  But before she could answer, Joan interrupted. “I’ll tell you the damn problem.” She marched toward the doorway. “For one, you’re supposed to call before you come, and for another, this—” she pointed an accusing finger at Carla “—this ungrateful child of yours is driving me crazy. I spend hours shopping for the very best money can buy, and just look at her! Look at what she chooses to wear to my rehearsal dinner! God knows what she’ll show up in for the wedding.”

  Carla whirled to face her mother. “I’m not a child,” she screamed. “And that’s all you care about is money and how things look! You don’t care about me, about what I think or what I want, or what I feel. All you care about is—is—oh, what’s the use!” Carla jerked away, turned and ran as if Lucifer himself were giving chase.

  “Come back here!” Joan screamed. But Carla kept running and Joan, as if realizing the futility of shouting at her, turned her anger and frustration on Alex. “You see? You see what I have to put up with?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued her tirade. “You don’t know how good you’ve got it. All you have to do is waltz in and out, but I have to put up with her moods and her—Just where in the hell do you think you’re going?”

  Alex didn’t look back as he took off in the direction Carla had gone. “I’m going after my daughter,” he yelled over his shoulder.

  When he found her, Carla was sitting on the levee that overlooked the river. Without a word, he sat down in the grass beside her, wrapped his arm around her sho
ulders and pulled her close.

  “I hate her,” Carla whispered as a fresh crop of tears sprang to her eyes. “Why can’t she care about me, not some stupid image she wants to flaunt in front of people?”

  And though it galled him to say it, Alex knew he had to somehow reassure his daughter. “She cares about you,” he said, almost choking on the words. “As much as she is able to care about anyone,” he added.

  “Well it’s not enough…and it hurts, Daddy.”

  It was as if someone had a hold on his heart and was squeezing it until he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know what else to say to her; all he knew to do was hold her and reassure her of how much he loved her.

  THIS WAS THE DAY Maddie had been dreading. Michael’s funeral. Maddie had known this final goodbye would be painful, and although her heart ached, her eyes were dry as she walked slowly toward the grave site where Michael’s coffin waited amidst sprays of flowers and a group of people.

  It was only fitting that Michael should be buried here, she thought, clutching a single, perfect rose in her hand even more tightly. Maddie had been in New Orleans for two days and had used the time to explore the city her brother had grown to love so much. The one place she hadn’t gone was Crescent Antiques. For some reason she kept postponing the visit, telling herself there’d be time enough later for business.

  Directly behind Michael’s casket was the aboveground tomb where the casket would be placed after the short service; a large, brass-plate door on the front of the tomb yawned wide, open and waiting for the coffin to be slipped inside. The tomb was one of hundreds that stretched as far as the eye could see. Because most of the southern half of the state was well below sea level, Maddie had learned that burial in tombs aboveground was common.

  Maddie focused on the number of people gathered around the grave site. At first, it gratified her that her brother was so well thought of and that so many of his friends had shown up. But then she began to have doubts. How many were actually his friends? And how many were strangers, there out of curiosity because of the sensationalism surrounding Michael’s death?