Detective Defender

by Marilyn Pappano

  Bradley drew a deep breath and held it, his shoulders shaking when he released it. “Everything was fine. Honestly, I’m not stupid. I didn’t see anything unusual. Her job was normal, my job was normal, money was good, we were getting along fine with family, she doted on the cats like she always did. We were even planning a vacation—a few days after Christmas in Bermuda. Then one day I kissed her, told her I loved her and left for work, and...I never saw her again.”

  Even after all this time, his tone was bewildered. He still couldn’t understand how everything could change so drastically in a single moment. Jimmy had never experienced it, but he’d spent a lot of time with people who had. Some of them never understood it. Some never accepted it.

  “She didn’t leave a note?”

  Bradley shook his head. “Her purse was gone, her keys, her car. So was a suitcase of clothes—jeans, T-shirts—and her personal savings account was cleaned out. She left her cell phone, her wallet, all her jewelry. Video from the bank showed she was alone when she got the money. Traffic camera videos showed her alone in her car, which was found the next day in Montgomery. There was no sign of her.”

  “Was there anything unusual on her computer? Anything personal in the mail? Text messages or phone calls?”

  “No. I tore the house apart a dozen times, looking for something that seemed wrong or out of place. Her parents and I even hired private investigators, but there was nothing.”

  Jimmy found it easier to look at his notes than to see the loss and grief on Bradley’s face. He would bet this month’s rent that Paulina had gotten an envelope in the mail, maybe at work, like Martine, so her husband wouldn’t have been aware of it. Already susceptible to the guilt from their teenage prank, the note and the small bit of voodoo doll/bandanna had certainly freaked her out. Had that made her flee, or had she held out until the second letter arrived?

  Actions have consequences. A marked-out photo of Callie. Maybe an internet search to find out that Callie was indeed dead, and at some point Paulina had made the effort to contact Tallie and Robin, either before her flight or while on the run.

  “Did she talk much about high school?”

  Bradley’s frown tightened. “High... That was a long time ago.”

  Jimmy waited.

  “Uh, not much. She grew up somewhere around here. Moved to Mobile first chance she got. That’s where we met, at the University of South Alabama.”

  “Did she stay in touch with any of her high school friends?”

  His brows arched, his gaze lifting toward the ceiling, while he considered it. “There were a couple—sisters, I think. Sometimes they traded Christmas cards, not every year but from time to time. Paulina never said much about them. ‘Just someone I used to know.’”

  Jimmy made a note of that, wondering more defensively than he should why those three had maintained any contact while cutting Martine off cold. She had been one of them. She and Paulina had been the first friends, the best.

  And she had been the odd one out at the end, the only one who didn’t accept any blame for Fletcher’s murder.

  “Did your wife ever mention William Fletcher? He was a teacher her senior year.”

  Bradley thought about it, looking as if he’d just about exhausted his supply of answers. “No, she never talked about school. She never kept any yearbooks, pictures, dried corsages, nothing. She never even casually said anything like, ‘Oh, yeah, back when I was in school...’ That time didn’t exist for her anymore. I never asked why. It was just the way she was.”

  “One last question. Did she ever mention Tine or Martine Broussard?”

  “No. Who was she?”

  “Her best friend through high school.” Jimmy hesitated, then went on. “She came to New Orleans to see Martine. She met with her for a few minutes Tuesday afternoon.”

  For a moment Bradley was unmoving. Finally, with a deep exhale, he slumped back in his chair. “My wife just disappears like she never existed, then pops up three months later in a city she refused to ever set foot in to visit her best friend I never heard of and is murdered that night. Why? Where was she in the meantime? What was she running from? What the hell was going on? Is this Martine person involved? Do you think she killed Paulina?”

  “No, absolutely not,” Jimmy said firmly. “As for the rest of it, we’re trying to find out, Mr. Bradley. We’ll find this person and see that he pays for Paulina’s death.” He didn’t promise; he knew promises could be impossible to keep, but he did have every intention of stopping Irena/Katie Jo/Mr. Young/whoever the hell was responsible for this man’s sorrow.

  He damn well intended to keep them from hurting Martine.

  After getting an officer to take Mr. Bradley back to his hotel, Jimmy returned to the computer on his desk, working his way through the questions in his notes. Police work was so very different with the internet and computers. He still did a lot of legwork, but a lot of information that in the past would have required visits to various offices and endless phone calls or faxes was often quick and easy to access.

  It took only a couple of minutes to strike one suspect off his list: Katie Jo Fletcher had died of natural causes—complications of pneumonia—at the Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women in St. Gabriel last September. The news made him sad for a woman he’d never met, a woman who’d spent half her life in prison for a crime his gut instincts insisted she didn’t commit. All she’d wanted was a normal life for her daughter, and all she’d gotten was disappointment.

  Jimmy took a break to get a fresh cup of coffee, then returned to his computer. It took longer to get information on Irena Young, and it was no help at all. The address on her driver’s license came back to a Baton Rouge apartment, but a phone call to the manager said she’d moved the year before. The woman who answered at the work number she’d given said she’d quit her job as a salesclerk about the same time, and the cell phone Irena had listed went to a generic voice mail message. He would have to get in touch with the provider to find out if the number was still hers.

  “You’re working late.”

  Jimmy glanced up, a smile forming automatically. The petite blonde standing there worked with Alia over at NCIS, and they’d met a number of times over the past year for dinner or drinks—not dates, just evenings out with Alia and Landry. She was smart, pretty, had too nice a body to hide in plain gray pants and a matching jacket over a black shirt, and her name was Delaney, but damned if he could remember whether that was her first name or last.

  Holy crap, Jimmy, you never forget a woman’s name.

  Hey, he’d been insisting he’d changed, hadn’t he?

  “I’m a dedicated officer of the law,” he replied, gesturing toward an empty chair nearby. “Why aren’t you home where it’s warm and dry?”

  “That’s where I’m headed. I needed to talk to one of your fellow detectives first.” Delaney—first name, he was pretty sure—sat down, crossed her legs and clasped her hands. “Alia tells me you’re looking for a lonely heart. Any idea where it got off to?”

  He rolled his eyes at her teasing note, but not at the subject. The heart’s location was a question that had stayed in the back of his mind. He could too easily imagine it in the killer’s home, wrapped in foil in the freezer or floating in liquid in a glass jar on a shelf, ghastly and creepy and giving the killer a jolt of pleasure every time he or she saw it. “I hope it’s buried somewhere.”

  “Or eaten. ‘The heart of your enemy...’ Maybe used in medicine or offered as a gift to the spirits.”

  He grimaced at her matter-of-fact response. He could stomach a lot, but some things he would really prefer to remain uninformed about. Nevertheless, he flipped open his notebook and picked up a pen. Finding someone knowledgeable about such things was still on his to-do list, and he was never one to turn his back on freely offered information. “You familiar with human sacrifi
ce?”

  “It’s an interest of mine. I can probably answer your questions, and if I can’t, I know people who can.”

  “Okay, the heart of your enemy...people really do that?”

  “Since the beginning of time. It’s been reliably reported that it’s happened recently in the Middle East. People believe it’s the ultimate revenge on their enemy but also that they gain whatever power or strengths the enemy had. The fresher the heart is, the more power it holds.”

  “So they like it still beating?” His stomach flipped at her nod. He’d been thinking a rare steak and baked potato sounded pretty good for dinner, but he could forget that for a week...or two or three. “Is it a thing in voodoo?”

  “No. Not legitimately. One of the central beliefs of voodoo is reincarnation. They believe that a person will be brought back in the same body, the same form, and so if the body has been mutilated, the mutilations remain, so it’s taboo.”

  “But in every group there are extremists who twist the religion or the beliefs to fit their own needs.”

  She nodded. “Voodoo has been misappropriated by some practitioners not out of deep devotion but to frighten off competitors, to gain fame, to build a fortune or just out of a sense of fanaticism, and those people tend to do things their religion forbids. Medicine murder is one of those things. Practitioners of a lot of religions, not just voodoo, believe that the sacrifice of a living creature empowers and protects them. Animal sacrifice is common, but among the extremists, humans are believed to give the most power. Their organs are used to make medicine. Some body parts—eyes, fingers, genitals—become charms, and heads are buried to keep evil spirits from the house.”

  “Damn,” he muttered, wincing at the thought.

  “It’s more common in Africa, though there have been cases worldwide. It most likely has absolutely nothing to do with your murder.” Delaney smiled the way only a cop could, as if she hadn’t just talked about cutting off private bits and stringing them up to wear. “Are there any other ritual aspects to your case? Any other body parts missing? Any sign of a ceremony taking place?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then three possibilities come to mind. First, a healthy heart is worth around one hundred and fifty thousand dollars on the black market for transplant. It would be a pretty sophisticated process, though, removing it, transporting it, keeping it usable, and if you’re going to kill someone to steal a heart, why not take the liver and a kidney or two? Why settle for a hundred fifty grand when you could get nearly seven fifty?”

  She raised her hand, ticking off another finger. “Second, taking the heart could have been an attempt to throw your investigation off track, to make you think voodoo or witchcraft was involved, but the guy didn’t know enough about either to make it look realistic. Third and most likely, taking the heart was symbolic. You’ve got a really angry person, holding a hell of a grudge, believing the victim was coldhearted or heartless in her treatment of him. Not only did he kill her, but now she really is heartless. In that case, he probably threw it in the river, tossed it in a Dumpster or, who knows, fed it to a gator. It wouldn’t have any real value to him.”

  “Isn’t that a lot of work to punish someone who’s dead?”

  Delaney shrugged. “I’m no doctor. I would imagine, though, that getting through the rib cage is the hardest part, and a pair of bolt cutters would do the trick. Maybe even garden loppers.”

  “Holding a grudge fits with my theory. You know there’s a second victim in Seattle? And the two women grew up together.”

  She rolled her blue eyes. “Gee, Jimmy, if I’d known that, I could have saved myself climbing a flight of stairs to see you.” Her smile softened the words. “But you have to cover all the bases, don’t you? I know it hasn’t been long, but are you making any progress?”

  “I’ve managed to take one person off the suspect list.”

  “You do have other cases, don’t you? Or are you NOPD guys so pampered that you only take one case at a time?”

  “Hey, at least we don’t need a TV show for people to know who we are. If it wasn’t for that, the average citizen wouldn’t have a clue what NCIS is.”

  She stood, adjusted her jacket over the gun on her hip and gave him a recruitment poster–worthy smile. “The people I put in prison know what it is, and that’s all that matters to me. Good seeing you, Jimmy. Get home before the temperature drops another degree and that wet stuff turns to ice.”

  “Thanks, Delaney.” He watched her walk away, admiring the way she sashayed, then dropped his gaze to his battered notebook. He always had multiple cases going, but it was typical of the job: the most recent case took precedence. The longer an investigation dragged out, the slower the leads developed and the less active work it got. Keeping Martine and her friends alive was more important at the moment than finding out who killed the victims in his other cases, and not just because he had a thing for Martine. Even if she was a total stranger who didn’t spark a bit of interest in him, the living still counted for more than the dead.

  Besides, his other open cases were all of the I didn’t see nothing, I didn’t hear nothing, I didn’t do nothing, I’m not saying nothing variety. The witnesses would still be just as uncooperative in a few days or a few weeks as they’d been so far.

  His priority now was keeping Martine alive, not for a few days or a few weeks but for good.

  * * *

  There was nothing like being stuck somewhere to make Martine want to go elsewhere, even if she had no destination in mind. After closing up the shop with Anise and Niles, she’d had a long soak in a hot bath filled with her favorite scented bubbles, drunk a glass of wine and spent a little time on the internet before edginess made her set the computer aside. She’d been wandering the apartment for the past hour, the television turned on for background noise. A trip downstairs reassured her that the front door remained secure, and a few rounds of the apartment confirmed that every window, along with the rear door that led to the courtyard, was also locked.

  She stood at the kitchen sink, gazing down into the dimly lit square, envisioning it in summer when the color and fragrance of the flowers were almost overwhelming. At the first sign of spring, she would drag out her patio furniture and prepare for eight months or more of sitting by the fountain, sipping tea, chatting with Evie and Reece and watching their kids play. The store staff would eat lunches there, and she would have dinners there, too, in her own private little paradise.

  That someone had invaded.

  Even now, safe inside, she shivered as the sound of the chain and padlock falling echoed in her memory. Now she wondered if she would ever feel as safe in the courtyard as she had before—if she would feel as safe in her life as she had before.

  Distantly through the floor, she heard a clang, similar to the chain falling but stronger, more menacing. She was standing directly above the gate. Had someone bumped it? Opened it the wrong way and hit her car or opened it the right way and banged the giant cast-iron urn at the edge of the garden?

  Her heart pounded, and her chest grew tight, making a deep breath impossible. A shudder raced through her, momentarily leaving her unable to think, to reason, to figure out what to do. The Taser was on her belt, the pepper spray in her left jeans pocket, the cell phone in the right, but she didn’t reach for any of them, not until the cell rang, its jangle making her gasp and literally jump, her toes clearing the floor by a fraction of an inch.

  With trembling hands, she pulled it from her pocket, clutched it tightly and stabbed at the screen. Her hello was tiny and shaky, barely more than a squeak.

  “Hey, Martine, it’s me.” It was Jimmy, and he sounded concerned. “Are you okay?”

  “That depends. Are you downstairs?”

  “Yeah, I am, putting a new chain on the gate.”

  Oh, thank God. Knees wobbling, she leaned against the coun
ter and pressed her free hand to her face. “Then I’m fine. Just—” She filled her lungs with air. “Just overreacting to everything.”

  “Sorry. The end of the chain slipped when I was pushing it through the gate. I’m locking it from inside the courtyard, so can I come in the back?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Trying a slow-breathing exercise to calm her heart, she fumbled the few feet to the door and undid the locks. A moment later, heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  “I’m coming in now. No force, please, less-lethal or otherwise, okay?”

  “Okay.” As she put away her phone, the door opened with a slow creak, letting in cold damp air and the scents she was starting to associate with him: cologne, shampoo, man. They were accompanied by amazing aromas emanating from the bag he carried.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked as he set the bag on the counter, then shrugged out of his overcoat.

  Two minutes ago, she hadn’t been. She hadn’t even thought about food since lunch. Now her stomach rumbled as gracelessly as possible, and her mouth began to water. “I’m starved. What did you bring?”

  As he unpacked the bag, her stress washed away. Sure, there was still some of that I’m the target of a crazed killer fear knotted in her stomach that wasn’t going away, but at this moment, Jimmy was here, and if anyone could keep the crazed killer away, it was him.

  If anyone could make her feel safe, it was him.

  And all that aside, she was glad to see him.

  He’d brought comfort food, exactly what she would have chosen herself if she’d remembered she was hungry: fried chicken, potato salad, macaroni and cheese, coleslaw and, sweet mercy, yes, two slices of apple pie and a pint of vanilla ice cream.

  Her mood improving 100 percent, she began gathering dishes, napkins, utensils and sodas. Without much discussion, they each filled their own plate and went into the living room, where she unfolded two TV trays from the corner. “They may be old-fashioned, but it beats spilling good food in your lap.” She settled in her favorite chair, leaned forward to inhale deeply of the aromas, then sighed happily. “You’ve got good taste.”