“Kansas,” she crooned, “come here, baby.”
_____
Randy vaulted the wooden fence behind Rona’s cottage one-handed, gripping the Winchester with the other. Some cocksucker had torched a house on his watch, and damned if he’d let the fucker get away with it. He landed on his feet, staggered a step, and swung the shotgun into firing position. Where the hell was the motherfucker?
He heard a vicious snarl, glimpsed a large dog leaping at him and pulled the trigger. The dog yelped and fell to the ground. Flames from the Jefferson house cast an eerie glow over the yard. He’d hit the goddamn dog square in the chest, Randy noted with satisfaction.
“You sum’bitch!”
Randy whirled, trying to locate the voice, shotgun at the ready. The house was twenty yards away, dark as pitch. He heard a shot, then another, two quick muzzle flashes, felt burning pain as the slug slammed into his chest. He’d been shot! Unable to believe it, he sank to the ground.
Another shot ripped into his forehead, and everything went black.
In a final reflexive action, his finger pulled the trigger. The slug blasted out of the Winchester and soared into the sky.
_____
Spurred by Randy’s command, Ben pursued the culprit with all the speed he could muster, long legs pumping like pistons. As he rounded the corner one block north of Rona’s house, he saw the kid in the Rangers baseball cap race across the street and disappear between two houses. Moments ago he’d heard gunshots. That scared him, but the shots had come from behind him, not from the kid he was chasing.
He crossed the street and cut through a yard. Thirty yards ahead of him, Joe College tossed the baseball cap in a trash bin. Ben put on a burst of speed. The low-hanging branch of a tree swatted his face and knocked off his glasses. Undaunted, he ran on without them. “Stop!” he shouted.
He was gaining on the sucker, closing fast. Another minute and he’d catch the no-good asshole that fire-bombed Rona Jefferson’s house!
_____
Their patrol car skidded to a stop, tires squealing, Leroy stunned by the flames shooting out the windows of Rona Jefferson’s house. They’d been cruising one block south when they got a call about a fire raging in a house on Annunciation Street; fire units were on the way. Shona got them to Rona’s house in sixty seconds flat, just in time to hear gunfire. A ten-year veteran, Leroy didn’t need anyone to tell him it came from a shotgun. “Go around the block!” he yelled to Shona. “We’ll trap the sonofabitch!”
Shona peeled out and lights blinked on in the house beside Rona’s. Leroy drew his Glock-9 and ran toward the flaming house, his heart pumping like a jackhammer. Acrid smoke billowed from the windows, and heat hit him like a blast furnace as he ran alongside the house to the backyard. Ahead of him a chest-high wooden fence loomed. He wasn’t in great shape, but he was pretty sure he could jump it with a running start.
He holstered his weapon and charged. He made it over the fence but landed awkwardly and fell. Breathing in agonized gasps, he rose to his knees, struggled to his feet, took a step forward and tripped over something, a body he realized as he sprawled to the ground.
“You killed my dog, you motherfucker!”
He yanked his Glock from the holster, rolled to a prone position and braced himself on his elbows, holding the Glock in a two-fisted grip.
“Police! Hands on your head and step out where I can see you!”
In the reddish glow from the fire, he saw a dog lying on the ground midway between him and the house. The interior was dark, not a speck of light showing. By the time he spotted the woman near the door and saw the gun in her hand, it was too late. He saw muzzle flash, heard the shot. Pain exploded in his chest, but he got off a round with the Glock.
Through a haze of pain, he heard another shot. Jesus Lord help me.
He collapsed on the ground. The pain was so intense he couldn’t breathe, could only feel blades of grass prickle his cheek.
_____
Consumed by grief, Dorothy stood in the shadow of the house. Her beloved Kansas lay on the ground, his golden fur matted with blood. For the past five years, Kansas had been her most reliable companion. Kansas and the Browning semi-automatic. Sometimes she thought she loved Kansas more than she loved Nadine. Kansas didn’t nag her to quit smoking. She wanted to go and comfort him, but she didn’t. The dickhead with the shotgun wasn’t moving and neither was the cop in the uniform, but she knew this nightmare was far from over. See one cop, others were sure to follow. She maintained her position in the shadows. She had three bullets left.
Damn, if only she had a cigarette.
_____
Shona jolted to a stop in front of the house behind Rona Jefferson’s burning cottage, jumped out of the cruiser and heard what sounded like a firefight. Beyond the one-story shotgun, glowing flames and thick black smoke billowed from Rona’s house. Shona drew her Glock-9 and charged down a strip of grass alongside the shotgun. Unable to avoid inhaling the acrid smoke, she was gasping for air by the time she burst into the backyard.
Illuminated by the flames, two men lay motionless on the ground near a fence. Leroy was sprawled on his back, his Glock-9 in his hand. Beside him was a redheaded civilian with a shotgun cradled over his chest. She knelt down beside Leroy. The front of his shirt was soaked with blood. She pressed two fingers under his jaw. Please God let me find a pulse.
She did but it was weak and thready. Leroy’s blood, warm and sticky, covered her fingers. The man with the shotgun had a neat round hole in his forehead, a goner for sure, eyes open and staring. Shona fumbled out the two-way radio strapped to her belt and raised it to her mouth.
“Sum’bitch killed my dog.”
The hoarse voice sent chills down Shona’s neck. She whirled and faced the house. A woman stepped out of the shadows and approached the body of a large dog. Shona hadn’t noticed the dog, but she noticed the gun in the woman’s hand right away. It was pointed in her direction.
Shona fired three times. The first shot hit Dorothy’s spleen. The second stopped her heart. The third went through the back door, down the center hall and out the front door of the one-story shotgun.
_____
Three blocks away Anthony Russo burst out his front door, gripping his double-barreled shotgun. A pall of smoke hung over the neighborhood. He’d heard several shots, but that didn’t scare him. His Remington was loaded with double-aught buck. Standing on his porch, he heard footsteps, turned and saw a kid in a UNO sweatshirt race down his driveway toward the street. Not five yards behind him was another man. The fucker had a baseball bat!
“Stop!” Anthony yelled, and let loose a blast from the Remington.
The fucker with the baseball bat slowed momentarily, but the kid in the UNO sweatshirt didn’t. Anthony ran after them. Last year he’d finished third in the ten kilometer Crescent City Classic, and it took him less than a minute to catch up to Ben McIver, whose breath after running five blocks came in tortured gasps. “Stop, you motherfucker!” Anthony screamed, and clubbed Ben’s head with the barrel of the shotgun. Ben collapsed on the pavement.
_____
As the fire units battled the flames, NOPD officers cordoned off a six-block area around the Jefferson house. Anthony flagged down two cops, told them he’d captured one of the scumbags and led them to Ben McIver.
Dazed and bleeding, Ben moaned, “He got away. Some kid in a UNO sweatshirt firebombed Rona Jefferson’s house.”
At about the same time Officers Martin and Hepworth raced into Dorothy’s backyard and saw Shona crouched beside Leroy’s body.
“What happened?” asked an agitated Officer Martin, eyeing the civilian with the shotgun lying on the ground. “Who shot him? This guy?”
Shona shook her head and pointed to a pajama-clad woman lying on the grass near a dog. “Leroy’s dying, damn it. Where the hell is the ambulance?” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she pressed a blood-soaked handkerchief against Leroy’s chest wound.
Officer Martin radioed a
hurry-up call for an ambulance and told the dispatcher to send the coroner. Then he saw someone step out the back door of the house. He drew his weapon.
From the doorway, Nadine called, “Dottie? Are you all right?”
____
The paramedics quickly determined that Randy Hayes and Dorothy Warner were beyond help. Nadine Brown was hysterical but unharmed. Leroy was going into shock. The paramedics put him in an ambulance, but before they turned the corner, Leroy’s heart stopped. Their desperate attempt to revive him failed. Two blocks away, two more paramedics put Ben McIver in an ambulance and set out for the hospital. At the cordoned-off perimeter they stopped to ask an NOPD patrol officer who lived in the burning house.
“Rona Jefferson,” the officer said.
“Holy shit! The Clarion-Call columnist? Did she get out?”
“We don’t know,” the officer said. “Nobody’s seen her. Last I heard the fire was too intense for anyone to get inside.”
CHAPTER 19
Monday 6:58 A.M.
“Yo, Frank, where y’at?” Miller’s deep voice boomed in his ear.
“Just leaving the airport, hold on.” He set his cellphone in his lap, paid the clerk at the parking kiosk, retrieved the phone and drove off. “I leave town and all hell breaks loose. Is Rona okay?”
Barreling down the concourse at Louis Armstrong Airport, he’d seen the banner headlines on the papers at Hudson News: REPORTER’S HOUSE FIREBOMBED. He didn’t need two guesses to know it was Rona’s.
“Nobody knows,” Miller said. “The fire team couldn’t find her, State cops going in with cadaver dogs as we speak. Damn it, Frank, I asked my buddy to put a special unit on her house, but there’s a movie shoot in town. Best he could do was order extra drive-bys, which didn’t cut it, obviously.”
Frank checked the time. He was cutting it close, due at the station at seven-thirty, another exciting day of desk duty. “You think I should tell Norris about the dead bird and the threatening note she got?”
“Hell no! And give the man a heart attack? He’s already bullshit at her, won’t say out loud she deserved it, but I know what he’s thinking. We got a dead cop, two dead civilians, another in the hospital and a bunch of outraged citizens, half of ‘em with guns. It’s a miracle the head count wasn’t worse.”
“It will get worse, if we don’t get the guy. Did you talk to the Clarion-Call security guards?”
“Talked to the day-man. He said a black kid, looked about ten years old, delivered the box and took off on a bicycle. The guard never saw him before. But here’s some good news. We got a witness.” Miller chuckled. “Bad news is, she didn’t call us, she called Rona.”
“Uh-oh,” Frank said as he merged onto the I-10 and joined the snarl of bumper-to-bumper traffic headed toward New Orleans.
“You can say that again. Channel-9 had them on Friday night. They put the witness behind a screen and altered her voice, but I’d bet anything it’s that woman we talked to that lived downstairs from Patti Cole.”
“Miz Know-Nothing-With-Attitude?”
“You got it. She heard someone leave Patti’s apartment the night of the murder, opened her door and saw a priest.” Miller chuckled. “You’ll love the next part. Norris went ballistic. Rona asked her if the priest was white or black, and the woman said he was white, definitely.”
“Could she ID him?” He squeezed into the middle lane behind a red Jeep Cherokee. He was going to be late. Not good. The last thing he needed was Captain Dupree pissed off at him.
“She said she didn’t get a good look at his face, but dig this. The Clarion-Call published a new sketch. Someone put a Roman collar on the sketch Monica did, added some details. Looks pretty lifelike, you ask me.”
A sinking feeling invaded his gut. Daily’s sketch.
“Kenyon, I better get off the phone. Traffic’s a bear. I’ll be lucky to make it to the station by seven-thirty, but I want to talk to you about something. Can you meet me later at Twin Oaks?”
Miller didn’t answer. After an uncomfortable silence, Frank said, “Maybe you’d rather people didn’t see us together.”
“No, no. It’s okay. I’ll be there at six.”
“Great. See you then.” He punched off and dialed another number.
Aurora answered, and he asked to speak to Sean, tapping his fingers on the wheel, irritated by the stop-and-go traffic, more irritated that Daily had sent his doctored sketch to the media.
An extension clicked and Sean Daily said, “Hello, Frank?”
“Are you alone?” he asked, and heard a soft click as Aurora hung up.
“Yes. I’m in my office.”
“How did your sketch get published in the Clarion-Call?”
“I have no idea. I can’t figure it out.”
“You didn’t send it to Rona Jefferson?”
“No, I didn’t. I swear!”
Frank wished he could see Daily’s face to evaluate his truthfulness.
“I thought maybe you sent it,” Daily said. “I hope it doesn’t cause me problems with Father Tim.”
“Why would it? He doesn’t know you made it.”
“Maybe not, but the last time I saw him he threatened me.”
“When was this? What did he say?”
“At the convocation the Archbishop called to deal with these allegations, you know, about the killer being a priest. Father Tim asked me if I thought that was possible, and I said it could be anybody, could even be him. Frank, I was joking, you know? It was just an offhand remark.”
An offhand remark that reflected your opinion, Frank thought as he maneuvered into the high speed lane. “What did Krauthammer say?”
“He got angry and hinted that he might tell the Archbishop that Aurora and I are, uh, more than friends, so to speak.”
“Listen, if he threatens you again, call me, okay?”
“Don’t worry. I can handle him. He’s just a punk—”
“No,” Frank snapped. “He’s dangerous. Call me, right away.”
_____
“We got a problem,” said Captain Roy Dupree.
As if Frank couldn’t tell from his hangdog expression. The minute he slipped into the station at seven-thirty-five, Alicia Reyes, his desk mate, had told him to report to the Captain right away for a special assignment.
“There’s a movie shoot in town,” Dupree said. “Did you read the article in the Times-Picayune about it?”
He shook his head, unwilling to remind his boss that he’d been gone for four days.
Dupree twisted his mustache with his fingers. “Danny Sampson came to the station in a big snit and told me his teenage daughter disappeared.”
Frank leaned forward, thinking: He got another one. But Dupree waved his hand. “I know what you’re thinking, Frank, but this is different.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. The Tongue Killer’s due for another one. How old is she? When did she go missing?”
Dupree opened a three-ring binder. “Believe me, this is different. We’re dealing with Danny Sampson here. The name ring a bell?”
“No bell that I’m hearing. Who is he?”
“Not who he is, who he was. Sampson’s not his real name. His father’s a big shot with the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville. Danny hated living in his shadow so he changed his name to Sampson.” Dupree grinned. “He used to be Danny Fiore. Italian, right?”
Frank laughed. “Smart move. You don’t know Italian fathers.”
“Whatever. Anyways, Danny took up guitar and split, wanted to be a rock star. He did Elvis impersonations for a while. Then he did a white-trash version of Mick Jagger, called his band Danny and Playboys, blew through New Orleans mid-to-late ‘80s, him and his mates banging every pussy that wasn’t nailed down and a lot that were. One of ‘em nailed Danny in a paternity suit.” Dupree made his eyes go wide.
Resigned to it, he settled in for the ride. Dupree would turn this into a shaggy dog story about New Orleans history. He’d been through this before.
“And Dan
ny married her. Only lasted ten months, but they had this little girl, and dig this, they named her Lisa Marie.” Dupree grinned. “Get it?”
“Presley’s daughter,” he said, wishing the game would end so he could go find Lisa Marie. “How old is she?”
“Eighteen. Danny’s says she’s run off before. She had a troubled childhood, understandable, considering who her daddy is.” Dupree got serious and read from his notes. “Here’s the particulars: Danny Sampson, over the hill at fifty-five, trying to make a comeback in this made-for-TV movie. I hear it’s a tearjerker. Anyways, Danny blew into town last Thursday with his daughter, checked into a B-and-B down in the Garden District. Oh yeah, Lisa Marie hates her middle name, never uses it, calls herself Lisa. Danny said they had a fight on Saturday and Lisa ran off and disappeared.”
Dupree leaned forward, squinting at him, dead serious now. “I want you to talk to him, Frank, see if you can find the girl. More than likely, she’ll turn up in a day or so, least that’s what Danny thinks. He said she does it to get attention, but I got to take it seriously or next thing you know he’ll go on TV and it’ll be a three-ring circus. That’s why I’m putting you on it. You’re too good a detective to be riding a desk.” Dupree winked and gave him a sly smile. “No need for Norris to know.”
He was happy to be off the desk, but he had a feeling that finding Lisa Sampson wasn’t going to be any fun-filled picnic. “Does she have money? Credit cards?”
Dupree shrugged. “Every teenager in America’s got a credit card.”
“Okay. I’ll start with that, see if she used it since she disappeared. You got any pictures of her?”
ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) Page 21