Bad Karma In the Big Easy

by D. J. Donaldson

  “I’m not sure I can help you on this,” Gatlin said by way of a greeting. “I only got a quick look at one of those pictures on the camera, so I...”

  “You already told me that when I called.”

  “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

  On the way to Kit’s car, she filled him in on what she hadn’t told him over the phone.

  In the car, as Kit headed for LeDoux Street, Gatlin said, “Sounds like you’ve made some good progress.”

  “Won’t amount to much if I’m wrong about Marshall and that building.”

  “The link to that surrogacy clinic will still exist.”

  “A clinic that’s no longer there.”

  They drove for a while in silence then Kit said, “You’ve known Andy a lot longer than I have. What do you make of his wish to push his involvement in this case beyond just the forensics?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “He’s depressed over the baby who died in his arms. He couldn’t save that child and he can’t fix any of what’s happened. There are close to a thousand bodies in St. Gabriel and he can’t bring any of them back to life. He’s hurting and needs desperately to feel he’s doing something to make a difference. He doesn’t see that just by doing his job, he’s helping. Right now, he needs more.”

  Of course. Hearing it from Gatlin, it was so obvious. “I spent four years in Graduate School majoring in Psychology. Apparently I didn’t learn much.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. I’ve spent 30 years majoring in Andy Broussard. I’ve got a little advantage on you there. And I was in the boat when that baby died.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the building on LeDoux Street and Kit pulled to a stop so Gatlin could see it from the same angle as when she’d recognized it.

  “What do you think?”

  Gatlin got out and looked at the building over the top of the car.

  He stayed out there for half a minute or so, then got back in and said, “I’m sorry, I just don’t know.”

  KIT DROPPED GATLIN OFF at the wharf and watched him walk toward the ship. Still smarting from the psychology lesson he’d given her about Broussard, she let that spill over into her doubts about the pictures on Jude Marshall’s camera. Now, she was even less sure they were of the LeDoux Street building.

  There was no way around it. She’d have to tell Broussard how she’d misrepresented her level of confidence in what she’d seen. Knowing she’d likely sit around all evening and mope about it later, she made another call, long distance this time, to her boyfriend, Teddy. By the end of the call, her prospects for the evening were much brighter.

  KIT LOOKED AT HER watch... six fifty-five. Night had settled over Grandma O’s parking lot ten minutes ago and the lights were now on. Before leaving for St Gabriel that afternoon, Broussard had mentioned he was planning on having dinner at Grandma O’s around seven and they could meet there to discuss whatever progress she’d made on the investigation. He hadn’t been worried about the clogged expressway interfering with that time frame because he could always get a state trooper to escort him there and back in the breakdown lane.

  Kit thought about waiting for him inside, but since she was planning on having dinner elsewhere and didn’t want to hurt Grandma O’s feelings by having to admit that, she’d decided to just wait where she was.

  Another fifteen minutes crept by, then Broussard’s familiar red T-Bird pulled into the lot and parked beside her. She quickly got out and knocked on his passenger window. He popped the lock and she got in.

  “You must have good news to be so eager to talk,” he said, his optimism evident.

  “I’ve got a dinner date for later and I didn’t want to have to explain to Grandma O.”

  Broussard nodded and gave a little laugh. “She can be a handful sometimes.”

  Rather than crush his hopes with a flat-out statement that her part of the investigation had fizzled, she decided to itemize. “First of all, I couldn’t even raise anyone to ask about the tax records.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “I got in touch with Duke Delcambre and sent him Jude Marshall’s driver’s license photo...”

  Even in the poor light, Kit could see the hopeful look on Broussard’s face. “He’s not Arthur Loftin. In fact, Delcambre didn’t recognize him at all.”

  Broussard emitted a little grunt. He looked down and rubbed his temples with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Then he looked back at Kit. “Well, if it was easy it wouldn’t be any fun. What did Marshall’s wife say... she know anything about him ownin’ that buildin’?”

  “She said not and she handles all their financial records, so she would probably know. I’m convinced she was telling the truth.”

  “But if he bought the place to store dead bodies, he wouldn’t leave any paper trail around for his wife to see.”

  The time had now come for Kit to tell him what she dreaded to say. “That building... I’m not as sure about the pictures on Marshall’s camera as I said I was earlier.”

  Broussard’s mouth dropped open.

  “I know how much you were counting on Marshall being our man. And that’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

  “Surely you looked at the pictures again when you talked to Mrs. Marshall.”

  “She wouldn’t let me... thought it would be a demonstration of disloyalty and distrust toward her husband. I’m pretty certain that when I left her, she deleted the pictures.”

  “Did Phillip see any of the photos when you were both in Marshall’s study yesterday?”

  “I thought of that too and I took him over to LeDoux Street a few hours ago to get his opinion on the match. But he couldn’t say one way or the other.”

  Broussard turned and stared out the windshield at the brick wall in front of the car. The index finger of his right hand began to stroke the bristly hairs on the end of his nose.

  After a long, silent interval in which Kit waited patiently for him to speak, he slowly turned to her. “Chances are Jude Marshall is the guy. He killed himself over somethin’ he couldn’t bear and he did take those pictures, which despite your second thoughts, you probably identified correctly. So we could just say case solved. And I hope to God it is, because that means the man who took the lives of those women is dead, as he deserves. But there’s still the unexplained connection with Surrogacy Central. Without knowin’ what that’s all about, there’s always gonna be a piece of me that thinks maybe we’re wrong. I don’t want to be caught short there. Because if we are wrong, other women who have served as surrogates could be at risk.”

  “I told Phillip everything we’ve learned. Now that we know several other cities beside New Orleans are involved, Phillip is updating your report to Homicide and personally making sure it all gets to the state police.”

  “Good idea. Their crime lab ought to take a look at the clothing we found as well as the interior of the place we found it. They might also want to pick up that freezer. In the mornin’ I’ll make a few calls.

  “Anything more I can do?”

  “Let me sleep on it.”

  FROM GRANDMA O’S, KIT headed for her apartment in the French Quarter, relieved that Broussard didn’t attach much significance to her doubts about those pictures. But he was aware now that her word wasn’t always reliable when she vouched for what she knew. And that was bothersome.

  Kit lived in an apartment behind a photo gallery on Toulouse Street. One of the perks of living there was it came with a parking space in an old wooden garage, three blocks away on Dauphine. Even on a normal night when the Quarter was full of life and lights, she kept one hand on her key ring Mace canister as she navigated from the garage to the gallery. Tonight, with no tourists in town and most of the shops and restaurants closed, there were many more dark doorways than usual, so as she walked, she felt isolated and vulnerable.

  Turning onto Toulouse, where only a few of the streetlamps were working, she faced a shad
owy gauntlet of black storefronts and dim recesses where danger might lurk. Picking up the pace, she moved quietly forward, into the waiting gloom, her Mace out and ready.

  She’d walked about ten steps when she caught movement out of the corner of her left eye at the junction of the sidewalk with the building to her left. As she jerked her head down to see what it was, two rats the size of small nutrias scuttled across the sidewalk and into the street. Feeling a shudder ripple down her spine, she resumed walking. But as she swung her right foot forward, another rat ran into her path. She accidentally kicked it hard, the toe of her shoe sinking deeply into the furry body before she sent it squeaking into the air.

  The rat hit the pavement two feet away and let out another squeal. It righted itself, sat up, and glared at her for a moment, before scuttling after its brethren.

  At the Bourbon Street intersection half a minute later, the landscape brightened. In contrast to Toulouse, Bourbon was an oasis of life. That’s not to say it was anywhere near normal. Compared to its pre-Katrina status of permanent mayhem, the dark shops liberally dotted among those open for business gave it a struggling third-world look. Among the places bustling with activity was Bunny’s, a bar and grill that had been open around the clock for over a dozen years, including the hours during the height of Katrina’s fury when Bunny had to serve up burgers cooked on a camp stove.

  Looking at Bunny’s neon sign, Kit was reminded again that if she had only been able to get word down to Bunny’s while she was struggling to save Mrs. Lucas, she could have gotten help to squeeze that respirator bag. But there had just been no way... no way at all.

  She changed direction and angled across the intersection, heading for the bar. As she drew near, she heard “Okie from Muskogee” playing on Bunny’s jukebox spill out the front door and into the street. After the dark isolation of Toulouse, Kit followed the sound like an ameba seeking light.

  Inside, the place was dimly lit. Most of the tables and the seats at the bar were occupied. These days, Bunny’s customers consisted of a few regulars who lived in the Quarter and had refused to evacuate, supplemented by off-duty national guardsman and construction workers trying to repair the levees and put the city back together. The clientele was exclusively male. Seeing Kit in the doorway, they made her the focus of their attention.

  Bunny came from behind the bar and headed her way.

  “Hello Darlin,” Bunny said, embracing her. She let go and took a step back so she could see Kit’s face. “Can you feel the testosterone spotlight, babe... cause you’re standin’ in it.”

  “I feel it.”

  “How you doin’?”

  “Not too bad. Business looks good.”

  Bunny leaned close and lowered her voice conspiratorially, “But they aren’t really havin’ fun. Guess too many of ‘em are away from home.”

  Looking at Bunny with her double chin, it was hard to believe she had once been Bunny LeClaire, one of the hottest exotic dancers on Bourbon Street. But she had pictures of herself in costume all around the place to prove it. Kit was one of only a few who knew her real last name was Lefkowitz.

  “Can I throw a burger on the grill for you?” Bunny asked.

  “Can’t stay. Just stopped in to say hi and soak up a little civilization after coming down Toulouse.”

  “Hope you’re careful walkin’ in those dark areas.”

  “I try to be. A few minutes ago, I accidentally kicked a rat.”

  “I’ve kicked a few in my time, mostly the two-legged kind and always on purpose as they hit the road.”

  “Someday you’ll find the right guy.”

  “They always seem right at first. Why is that?”

  “Protective camouflage. Lots of predators use it to get close to their prey.”

  Bunny picked up Kit’s hand and slapped it affectionately. “Girl, you got a way of goin’ right to the heart of things. Protective camouflage... I have to remember that.”

  “It’s not often I get a chance to leave the impression I’m clever. I better go before I ruin it.”

  “Oh, that Westie breeder friend of mine in Mississippi called today. The litter we’ve been waitin’ for has been born. And there’s one healthy male unspoken for. If you want him, we should let her know ASAP.”

  Bunny had been working on Kit for months trying to convince her to get a puppy to replace her dog, Lucky, who had died of old age in June. Kit had been resisting because she felt it dishonored Lucky’s memory to replace him so quickly. But after talking to the Hendrins and John Munson, she could no longer ignore the empty feeling growing inside her.

  “Tell her I want him.”

  Bunny’s eyes glistened with approval. “I’ll call her tonight.”

  On the way out the door, Kit ran into an attractive redhead that lived in one of the two apartments above Bunny’s place.

  “How’s the crowd?” the redhead asked.

  “Not bad... all male, so get ready for a lot of stares if you’re going in.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  It was far from obvious, but the redhead was actually a man in drag Kit knew only as He Daisy. Daisy had many wigs, but usually favored the flaming red one he was now wearing. He wasn’t into soliciting men, but simply liked to dress as a woman. By trade, he was an artist who supplemented his trust fund income with sporadic sales of his paintings. Though he had an unusual lifestyle, he was a gentle, kind man Kit counted as a friend.

  “Does this color lipstick make me look like a tart?” Daisy asked.

  “Not at all.”

  “Too bad. I was hoping it did.” Daisy laughed. “Well, I’m going to get something to eat and go upstairs and work. You have a good one.”

  As Kit walked back to Toulouse, crossed over, and went another half block to the photo gallery fronting her apartment, she wasn’t sure at all that a little Westie puppy was big enough to fill the hollow space in her heart.

  Tourists comprised most of the business that came through the doors of the Nolen Boyd gallery. No tourists equaled no business. So Boyd had decided to take a long European vacation while the city got back to where it could once again entice enough visitors for him to justify reopening.

  Mace canister in hand, Kit walked past the dark front of the gallery and stepped up to the eight-foot tall, heavy cypress door leading to the back courtyard. She took a quick look around.

  Seeing no one lingering or approaching, she quickly keyed the lock and opened the door.

  The gallery and the adjacent building formed a long passage leading to the rear courtyard, where Kit’s apartment was located. The passage had a lattice ceiling on which a hundred-year-old wisteria had spread its branches. During the day, this made the passage a delightful, light-dappled avenue. But at night, the Wisteria would have caused it to be a very dark twenty-foot stretch were it not for the little lights Boyd had rigged along the left wall.

  Above the big cypress door, Boyd had installed a coil of razor wire to keep anyone on the outside from climbing over the door. So as the door shut and locked behind her, the tension Kit felt from being on the Quarter’s dark streets flowed out of her.

  Even though she was now safely home, she kept her Mace ready.

  Walking toward the courtyard, which was brightly illuminated by a dark-activated mercury vapor light, Kit remembered how happy Lucky always was to see her, his little tail wagging furiously, his mouth open in an expression of pure joy. How she missed that little varmint.

  But what to name the new one? Lucky II? That’s no good.

  She reached the end of the lattice ceiling and stepped out from under it. Suddenly, she heard a sharp scratching sound from the lattice. Before she could turn to see what it was, a soft object hit the top of her head. Something heavy thudded into the ground behind her. At the same instant, the thing that had hit her seemed to be melting over her hair.

  As she struggled to complete her turn to see what the hell was going on, the melting liquid slid down over her face... It covere
d her eyes... so thick she couldn’t see through it.

  Down it went over her nose and mouth. And it was making a crinkling sound.

  She lifted her hands to wipe the stuff away.

  That’s when she discovered it was not liquid.

  It was a plastic bag.

  Chapter 16

  Mouth gaping in surprise, Kit took a sharp breath. The flow of air sucked the plastic against her nostrils and tented it over her mouth. She turned to the rear, but her assailant moved as well, twisting the plastic bag tight against her neck. She cocked her elbow and sprayed Mace blindly over her right shoulder.

  Hearing no scream of pain, she kept her finger on the button and cranked her arm around as much as the awkward angle permitted. This changed nothing. The bag remained tight against her skin.

  She kicked backward, but didn’t connect with anything.

  Already the lack of oxygen was affecting her... the exertion making it worse. Her head felt light and her lungs were burning. She had to do something... NOW.

  She dropped the Mace canister and clawed at the bag, trying to tear a hole in it.

  Her nails found a purchase on the skin of the bag and she dug in.

  No good...

  The damn thing was impenetrable.

  The lack of air was making her queasy. Any moment, she was going to pass out. She screamed, but the sound, puny without adequate breath to support it, was muffled by the bag.

  In desperation, she threw her legs out from under her and dropped to the ground, hoping to surprise her attacker and cause him to loosen his grip. But he went to the ground with her and held on.

  Unwittingly, she had given him greater leverage. She felt him twisting the bag tighter, pressing the plastic hard against the skin around her mouth.

  Strobe lights began stroking the indigo sky inside her head. In an instant, that changed to the most beautiful sunset she’d ever seen; turquoise and blue and red and orange marked with a patchwork of glowing contrails. Then the sun suddenly dropped beneath the horizon, leaving a starless firmament. Her struggles ceased.