by Diane Capri
Jess turned the Kowalski problem over in her mind a bit longer but nothing brilliant popped up.
Which left Grantly, the real estate guy from Florida. She rummaged in her bag and found Morris’s post it note. New Orleans for Kowalski or Florida for Grantly? Neither option caused the familiar frissons along her spine that usually suggested one choice was better than the other. Tossing a coin seemed like a reasonable option here.
Like Morris’s boss, she had to go where she stood the greatest chance of finding something, the biggest potential bang for her buck. Kowalski had disappeared. He seemed a more likely killer than Grantly. If she could find him, or find out something from his friends, neighbors, or co-workers that Morris hadn’t found, then the FBI might put more resources on the case.
And New Orleans was on the way to Florida. Sort of.
She pulled out her phone and called her editor’s assistant.
Mandy Donovan’s voice mail kicked in and Jess smiled. She was a delightful person, but Jess didn’t have the energy for her endless stream of small talk. “Mandy, it’s Jess. I need a seat on the next flight from Dallas to New Orleans. I’ll need a hotel and a car, too.” As an afterthought, she added, “Just text me the details. No need to call back, okay?”
The temperature inside the Ford had cooled to about ninety. The little engine might have enough horsepower to run the cold air and move the vehicle at the same time. She pulled out of the parking lot, found her way onto I-30 west, and settled into a reasonable speed in the middle lane.
The speakerphone buzzed. She hit the button to answer without looking at the number. “Kimball.”
“Morris here. You must be one of the luckiest reporters on the planet. After weeks of nothing, I talk to you and an hour later, NOPD calls. Kowalski checked in.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Only if you know a good psychic. Checked in as a John Doe. The body is old. Decomposed. No ID. No missing person’s report. They’ve had him on ice for a few days.”
She exhaled. “Damn.”
“I’ll get details.”
“Cyanide?”
“Unlikely.”
“Why?”
“Because of the bullet hole in his head. There’s an autopsy scheduled. I’ll get the full report. You’ll know right after me.”
“That’s everyone on the list.”
“Except Grantly.”
“You said he was clean.”
“When you have eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
“Occam?”
“Sherlock Holmes, actually.”
She choked on the laugh. “But, you checked him out.”
“Two months ago. When all this started.”
Jess’s eyes went wide. “Two months ago? Anything could have happened.”
“I did tell you about the other eight cases begging for my attention, didn’t I?”
“I thought it was seven?”
“That was before lunch.”
She sighed. “I just booked a flight to New Orleans.”
“Grantly’s in Florida.”
She poked her tongue out at the phone. “I’ll get to Florida sometime later tonight or early tomorrow.”
“That would be good. Check up on Grantly. It’s been a few weeks since we talked to him, too.”
“What am I? Your shoe leather? I’ve got a day job, you know.”
“I thought you wanted to be on the team. I told you, I can’t do everything. If you don’t want to follow up with Grantly, it won’t happen.” He paused. “Can you live with that?”
She ran her fingers through her hair. A long stream of air escaped through straight lips. “This has to be a two-way street, Morris.”
“I called you the minute I heard something, so don’t give me that. Find me even a sliver of evidence, and I’ll buy you a new pair of shoes.”
She sighed. He’d known she’d agree before he placed the call. “I’ll ring you from Orlando. Or from New Orleans, if I get anything useful there.”
“Thanks, Jess. We owe you.”
She punched the off button. “Bet your ass. And don’t think I won’t collect, Mr. FBI.”
CHAPTER NINE
Jess stopped in the Starbucks at some nameless junction on I-30 to check Mandy’s text with her trip details. Flights were full. The next available seat was three hours away. She texted approval and asked Mandy to book a late flight to Orlando after New Orleans and change the hotel, too.
She ordered one of the fruit flavored iced teas, pulled out her laptop, and skimmed the highlights on Morris’s flash drive.
She knew many of the details, but some she did not. Like Zmich, Warga and Supko barely had enough money for a Big Mac when they died. No wonder Candace Supko was living hand-to-mouth in that trailer park. What about the other families? Wives, kids? Where were they now? She’d find out something when she found Kowalski’s contacts. Maybe something useful.
The autopsy reports for Zmich, Warga, and Supko were short and succinct. Cyanide poisoning was apparently easy to detect, assuming you knew how to read gas chromatograph charts. She didn’t, but she trusted the medical examiners did.
She flipped over to the doctor’s transcribed notes and compared the three cases. Without the Blazek connection, they would just be three sad stories. Three people who had been so overwhelmed that they had taken their own lives.
With only these seemingly narrow facts available, she could see how authorities in three separate locations, not communicating with each other, had believed each was a suicide. As Morris said, there was no evidence of foul play on the surface.
Depression wasn’t always easy to spot. Not everyone wore their heart on their sleeves. And the available evidence seemed to point in only one direction.
She thought a minute about what these five might have in common besides their criminal enterprise. They were schoolmates. Middle-aged adult males. Americans. What else?
Blazek was all about announcing his situation to anyone and everyone, as if his lies were true. These files, thin as they were, suggested his pals had been tight-lipped about their financial situations. Every one of the survivors who were interviewed said the same thing. They hadn’t known how despondent the dead man had been before he killed himself.
A cold chill ran down her arms despite the frigidly air-conditioned shop. She felt like a cartoon light bulb had flashed above her head.
She grabbed her drink and her laptop and bundled into her car. She dialed Morris and tapped her palm impatiently on the steering wheel until he picked up. “I need to see Blazek again.”
“Why?”
“We missed something before.”
“Like what?”
“I want to see him. Check something out.”
“I’ll have to request a meeting with him.” He paused as if checking the time. “I’m not sure we can arrange it today before your flight.”
Jess felt sure her hunch would pay off. But she didn’t want to miss her flight to prove it. Wait around Dallas until tomorrow? No. Not in the cards. “How did you catch Blazek?”
“He deposited fifteen grand cash in his bank account. They report transactions that big. That came to our attention. We questioned him, and he just unraveled.”
She smiled, wiped a palm over her face, and nodded. She had him. She could feel it. “Unraveled, huh? How convenient.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Oh, come on. A guy like Blazek makes a rookie mistake like that? He might as well have waved a red flag in front of the bulls of Pamplona.”
“Jess—”
“Just have him ready, Henry. I’m not leaving without seeing him again in person. And I’m running short on time.”
She heard his sigh as plainly as if he was sitting in the passenger seat of the little Ford, but she didn’t care. She hung up and left the parking lot in a squeal of rubber.
CHAPTER TEN
Not long ago, Jess had sat in the private visi
tor room waiting for Blazek the first time and the guard had told her Blazek wasn’t happy about meeting with her again. She wasn’t keen on seeing Blazek again either, but she was damn well going to. He’d played them all and she wouldn’t let him get away with it.
As he’d done this morning, the deputy checked the room, and another deputy walked Blazek in. His head was down. He sat in the seat. The deputy gave him the same run down of rules, pointed to the camera, and turned to leave.
Jess held her hand up. “Wait.”
The deputy looked at her.
She smiled. “I’d feel better if you stayed.”
He looked at Blazek and her, and shrugged. He stood with his back to the corner, feet braced, hands folded. “Fifteen minutes.”
“I won’t take that long.”
Blazek looked at the table. Whatever had fueled his bravado this morning had been extinguished in the short time since she’d seen him last. His sentence was too light, Jess felt. But now she wondered whether he’d survive long enough to serve it. He seemed to have given up already.
She frowned at him. “You knew, didn’t you?”
He looked up at her and frowned.
“You knew they’d be killed.”
He shrugged. “Who are you talking about?”
“You knew the operation was going south, so you got yourself arrested.”
He wagged his head back and forth, but there was no energy in the movement. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She slammed her palm on the table. “Don’t give me that crap!”
The deputy shifted his weight.
“You’re an investor in anything you can get your hands on.” She stood and leaned forward as close as she could get without actually touching Blazek. “You know you can’t simply walk bundles of cash into a bank without garnering a whole lot of attention. You knew a deposit that size would be reported. You knew it would be flagged and you’d be found out. You did it on purpose, didn’t you?”
Blazek shrugged. “I made a mistake.” His voice was calm. Flat.
“The only mistake you’ve made was thinking you could get away with your life. And you didn’t care that your pals were about to lose theirs.” She sneered. “What a guy.”
He shook his head, but his enthusiasm wasn’t there. He didn’t bother to defend himself.
“You told me one true thing, though. You aren’t the leader of this pack of thieves.” She narrowed her gaze and peered into his miserable soul. “But you do know who’s running the team, don’t you?”
“No.” His lies came as easily as ever.
“And you knew what they were going to do. So you gathered whatever money you could salvage, and stashed it somewhere safe until you get out of prison.”
“You’re guessing.”
She gestured to the room. “It’s not nice living in here. You may not survive prison.” She jerked her thumb toward the outside wall. “But you figured you were better off here than out there where you know for sure they can get to you. They can kill you easily. Just like Warga, Supko, and the others.”
He continued to look straight ahead, vacantly, as if he didn’t see her.
“You knew they would be murdered.”
He threw his hands up. “I gave Agent Morris the same list of names as I gave you.”
“And when he told you Kowalski had gone missing, you said nothing.”
“How was I supposed to know he was dead? I was in jail!”
One guess confirmed. She didn’t blink to show she’d noticed that Blazek had known Kowalski was dead when the FBI did not. “But you knew what was going to happen to Supko, didn’t you?”
“I don’t have to listen to this.” He stood and the chair clanged to the floor, just as it had this morning. Drama. That’s all. He took two steps toward the exit and the deputy moved forward.
Jess pushed herself between Blazek and the door, no table between them now. She tilted her head up to meet his gaze dead on. “They’re dead. Four of your friends. Maybe the only friends you actually had. Horrible deaths. These men had families, Blazek. Kids. Wives. Parents. And you don’t even care, do you?”
“I told Morris I was worried about them, didn’t I? Told you, too.”
“You’re all heart.”
“You think you can judge me? Get the hell out of my way.” He stepped around her and moved toward the exit.
She clenched her fists. She wanted to pummel him, reduce him to a puddle on the floor. The guard took him by the arm, and steered him through the door. Blazek was an evil, lying, cunning bastard who—
He put his head around the door to taunt her one last time. “I’ll tell you what though, girl genius. Grantly’s still alive. Tells you something, doesn’t it?”
The heavy steel door thumped closed.
Jess sank into her seat, still fuming. Blazek was a manipulative liar who should have been put away for life. Or death. Either way was fine with her at the moment.
But he had a point. Grantly? Alive? The odd one out?
She pulled the list from her pocket, and ran her finger down the names. Kowalski, Warga, Zmich, Supko, and Grantly.
Grantly. Last on the list. Number five out of five, and the only one alive.
Either he was the one who murdered his friends, or somewhere there was a cyanide pill with his name on it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
New Orleans, Louisiana
May 10
Late takeoff from Dallas, as always, but the pilot made up time in the air and set the 737 down on the tarmac at Louis Armstrong Airport in New Orleans less than ninety minutes after takeoff. The short up and down flight was a blessing because she could make the quick stop before heading on to Grantly, and a curse because Jess only had time to review one of Morris’s files, the one on Kowalski, which was briefer than a child’s birthday wish list.
The FAA did not ban personal electronic devices in flight and the airlines were allowed to set their own rules. But most required devices to be turned off and stowed during takeoff and landing. On a short hop, the up and down took most of the flight time. She’d have to read the other files on the New Orleans-to-Orlando leg.
Morris had sent an email with the details about Kowalski’s body that he’d received so far from New Orleans police. He’d included the names and addresses of Kowalski’s next of kin, who had not yet been informed that Kowalski’s body had been found. Morris’s email said he might get more information and if he did, he’d send it on.
Kowalski’s partially decomposed body had been found inside an ornate cemetery tomb with a crypt when the crypt was being prepared for one of its rightful owners. Morris had attached a photo of the historic above-ground vault at Forrest Lawn near the French Quarter. The tomb looked like an ornate house complete with an iron fence. Forrest Lawn was filled with similar tombs and looked like an eerie small city for the dead.
Whoever stashed Kowalski’s body there must have believed the crypt would be undisturbed for quite a while. After a few months, Kowalski would have been indistinguishable from the others stored inside.
Morris had attached three photos of Kowalski’s corpse. The positive identification had been made by dental records, Morris’s note said. Two months was a long time to leave a body in a bag inside a damp crypt. Even aside from the damage done by the bullet.
Jess enlarged the photo enough to see what looked like an entrance wound made by a .22-caliber bullet through the soft tissues between his eyes. The gunshot might not have been the cause of death, though. She’d wait for the autopsy report for the final answer to that question.
She punched the cemetery’s address into her phone’s GPS. She’d need some photos for her article. She asked the limo driver, who had picked her up at the airport, to take a quick detour to Forrest Lawn.
“Nice place. You got people buried there?”
“Yes,” she said, deliberately misconstruing his meaning.
Along the way, they passed the newer Metairie cemeteries and closer to th
e French Quarter, St. Louis Nos. 1, 2, and 3. The rows of tombs resembled residential streets. No wonder these places were called cities of the dead.
At Forrest Lawn, she gave the driver directions to the crypt where Kowalski’s body was discovered. It was easy to locate. Yellow crime scene tape surrounded the small square building and a police officer was standing out front.
“Pull over for a minute, okay?”
The crypt was the same size and shape as a roomy garden shed. Granite. Maybe twenty feet square and ten feet high. The façade was engraved with the words “Family Tomb” and below that, “Zimmer.” The door appeared to be granite as well. It had heavy brass hinges on one side. A five-foot, ornate iron fence complete with a double entry gate wide enough to accommodate a coffin and pall bearers surrounded the building.
The name niggled the deep recesses of her reptilian brain. Zimmer. She’d seen it before. Recently. She reached for the data from her subconscious and remembered where she’d seen it. Zimmer was the artist’s signature on Candace Supko’s last painting.
“Did you want to get out here, ma’am?” her driver asked.
“Yes. I do. For a few minutes. Thanks.” Jess slipped out of the limo and shot a few photos to go with her Taboo piece from across the road and slipped the phone back into her pocket.
The police officer on duty was young. Mid-twenties, maybe. Tall, dark, and handsome. He watched her approach without comment. If he’d seen her shooting pictures, he didn’t object. The silver nameplate on his chest said “R. Galet.”
“I’m Jessica Kimball. I’m working with FBI Special Agent Henry Morris.” She extended her hand first and he shook it. A good start. She had her business card ready if he asked for it.
“Morris called my boss a couple of hours ago and said you’d be coming by. I’m supposed to answer your questions, show you whatever you want to see, and then get back to my beat.”
“I understand you found a body inside this crypt yesterday that didn’t belong here. Is that right?”
Galet nodded toward the crypt. “Happens all the time. Nothing illegal about putting multiple bodies in a family vault.”