Thigh High

by Christina Dodd

  “I want to interview all the tellers who were robbed.”

  “This morning?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll need to schedule them.”

  “Pick some place neutral. Deaux, if you like it.” He shut the drawer and faced her. “Then I need to talk to the policeman in charge of the investigation.”

  “That would be Chief Cutter.”

  “You know him.”

  “He’s an old friend of the family.”

  He nodded as if that confirmed some perception he held of her. “I was told you knew everyone in New Orleans.”

  She was tense again. “Who told you that?”

  “Is it true?”

  “Yes, but…” But it was almost spooky how well he knew her, as if he’d been studying her from afar.

  “Then I chose my associate wisely.”

  Associate. She was flattered. Yet she wanted to question him further, to find out who’d talked to him about her. But he’d already proved he wouldn’t answer her queries if he didn’t wish to. She supposed that was the investigator part of his job; he had to protect his sources.

  But what sources would talk so freely about her?

  “So wherever we go, you’ll do the talking?” he asked.

  “I will.” When he looked at her as he did now, as if he knew what color panties she was wearing, the hair rose on the back of her head. She stood, a quick, uncomfortable leap to her feet. “I’ll make the calls right now.”

  “Do it here.”

  No wonder he needed someone to help him out. He was the oddest, most abrupt man she’d ever met. Furthermore, although he worked while she made the calls, unloading his briefcase, loading DVDs into the new changer that had been placed there for his convenience, she was quite sure he was eavesdropping. Why, she didn’t know. Calling the banks and sweet-talking the managers into releasing their employees for an hour was not that interesting. Nor were her calls to the tellers who had gone on to other jobs. When she put down the phone, she felt on edge. “We’re set. Do we need to tell anybody we’re leaving?”

  “No.”

  She waited, but apparently Jeremiah Mac saw no reason to explain himself—to her or to anyone.

  Well, all right.

  “I’ll get my purse, Mr. Mac.”

  “Call me Jeremiah.”

  “All right, Jeremiah.” Stephabeast would hate that Nessa called him by his first name. She would hate that Nessa could leave during bank hours. She would hate that Nessa no longer reported to her—and she wouldn’t say a word. Mr. MacNaught himself had demanded Nessa’s cooperation.

  Nessa found herself liking this assignment.

  She got her purse out of her desk—the desk she’d said farewell to this morning, the one that sported an invisible and apparently unbreakable ball and chain—and with a cheerful wave at the tellers, walked across the lobby and out of the bank, Jeremiah Mac on her heels.

  The heat and humidity had intensified. The street was getting busy. In the distance Nessa could hear the roar of the endless party on Bourbon Street. “Let’s go to the corner. We can catch a cab there.”

  Jeremiah walked a few steps away, then stopped to look back at the bank. “It looks like a house.”

  “You would be right, sir.” Nessa listened in amusement as her Southern accent strengthened in response to the plain, flat notes of Jeremiah’s Yankee voice. “This branch of Premier Central has a history. It was originally built before the War between the States by the prosperous Steve Williams family. The Williamses, being a New Orleans family of proper sentiment, backed the Confederacy, and by the time the war ended, their fortune had vanished.”

  “It pays to back the winning side,” Jeremiah said without inflection.

  “So it does, although some would say honor and integrity are more important than winning.”

  “The some who say that—they’ve never held the shit end of the stick.”

  An involuntary gust of amusement caught her by surprise, and she shook with laughter.

  He watched her. “Right?”

  “You most definitely are right.” So while he gave off the aura of wealth, at one time, he’d been poor. Poor enough to understand how poverty could grind one down, trap one in a dead-end job, and eat away at one’s confidence until that person feared to make a move because disaster loomed so high.

  “What would you do if you had to make the decision between honor and a meal on the table?” he asked.

  She thought of her aunts, and the tight ball of worry in her stomach twisted tighter. “I’d feed my family. But don’t tell anyone I said so.”

  “The Civil War is long over.”

  “The War between the States,” she corrected. “And it isn’t over here.”

  He looked down at her. Just looked, and she caught a sudden glimpse of how those long-ago Southern belles must have felt when the conquering Yankee troops marched into town. “Mardi Gras keeps the cabs busy. We won’t get one standing here. Let’s go up to Esplanade Avenue—it borders the French Quarter, and we’ve got a better chance.” She walked.

  He followed. “You were telling me about the history of the bank.”

  “Right.” She slid off her jacket and wished for a breeze. “A wealthy carpetbagger, a Mr. Frederick Vycor, bought the house next. He lived there for eighteen years, and it was he who turned the lower floor of the house into a bank. He built the vault to hold the fortune he collected by foreclosing on war widows and their children. He grew paranoid about his safety and would lock himself in with his money at night.”

  “A legend.”

  “Maybe. But as it turned out, Mr. Vycor was right to be paranoid. One morning he didn’t make his appearance in the bank. When the browbeaten workers finally unlocked the vault, they found him inside, bludgeoned to death.” She lowered her voice to a mysterious hush. “Money was scattered across the floor. But not a dime was missing.” She had told the story before, and she told it well.

  But rather than the usual expressions of horror and surprise, Jeremiah again stopped and looked back at the bank, studying every inch of its structure. “Then one of two things happened. He let his attacker in. That’s the most likely scenario. Or he built an escape hatch, and someone found their way in.”

  “Fine. Ruin a great tale,” she muttered.

  “It’s a tale that’s impossible to ruin.” He lowered his voice to the same mysterious hush she’d used. “Because no matter what the means of his demise, his greedy ghost still haunts the vault.”

  “You’ve already heard this one?” she asked, disappointed.

  “I already know how to play this game.”

  She laughed. “I am properly abashed. And yes, his ghost does haunt the vault. I’ve been told an encounter is unforgettable, because at the time of his death he weighed four hundred pounds and smoked Cuban cigars.”

  “And indulged in wild sex?”

  “In the vault? No, I never heard that.”

  “So it’s a virgin vault?”

  If she wasn’t careful, she would come to like this Yankee. “New Orleans would have liked him better if he had indulged in wild sex—of any kind. We understand dissipation. No one understands a man who chooses to separate himself from his kind to better justify his cruelties.”

  “Was he cruel?”

  “Widows and children were left homeless on his behest.” A fate she intimately feared, if not for herself, for her great-aunts. “He owned property all over this city, beautiful homes, some of them—and he slept in a vault. He was a vampire.”

  “Another creature for which New Orleans is famous.” Jeremiah obviously knew his Anne Rice. “But why do you say that?”

  “He sucked the life from people.”

  “Dramatic.” Jeremiah condemned her with one word.

  “I’m not being dramatic. Think about it. Families with their hopes and dreams crushed, their respectability destroyed, their security stolen…what kind of monster ruthlessly steals those qualities from a family?”
/>
  “One who owns a well-run bank and recognizes the need to foreclose when, and only when, payments have been consistently missed?” Jeremiah suggested.

  “Mr. Vycor allowed for no late payments. Ever. Even the CEO of Premier Central gives people a second chance on their loans. Of course,” she added reflectively, “those chances are mandated by the government.”

  “And it’s bad publicity for the bank if he seizes property without allowing a second chance.”

  They reached Esplanade. The traffic was thicker, pedestrians strolled the streets looking at the houses, and cabs raced past. A street musician played warm, rich jazz on his trumpet, and collected tips from the passing tourists.

  “Do you know Mr. MacNaught?” She picked out a cab, smiled at the driver, and waved her arm.

  The cab screeched to a halt.

  “Yes.” Jeremiah held the door while she climbed in.

  When he’d settled himself beside her, she asked, “Is he as ruthless as they say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great,” she said gloomily. “I work for the devil.”

  He turned sideways in the seat and examined her until she wanted to squirm in discomfort. “Yes,” he said. “In this case, I believe you do.”

  Six

  “It was three years before the flood. Before Hurricane Katrina.” Melissa Rosewell accepted the cup of decaf Jeremiah set down in front of her with a nervous smile of thanks. “I’d never been robbed before. For that matter, never been robbed since. But the bank trains tellers in what we should do. Cooperate with the thieves. If possible, activate the silent alarm. Don’t get killed. I really paid attention to the last part.”

  Nessa sat across the tiny table in the Deaux Bakery, not far from the Barracks Street branch of Premier Central, and divided her interest between Melissa and Jeremiah.

  They were as different as two people could be.

  Melissa was beautiful, full-figured, black, and a native of Shreveport, Louisiana. She had a bit of a lisp, large, soft brown eyes, and she was hugely pregnant. She was the first teller ever robbed by the Beaded Bandits, and had agreed to this interview not because she liked being the center of attention, but because Nessa had asked her to.

  She most certainly hadn’t done it for Jeremiah. Jeremiah, stern, big, and oozing authority, made Melissa shift in her seat, and look everywhere but at him.

  So Nessa reached across and patted Melissa’s hand. “You bet, honey. Staying alive is the most important part of the job.”

  Melissa focused on Nessa. “That afternoon, having to stay alive was the farthest thing from my mind.”

  “Do you remember what afternoon it was?” Jeremiah shoved Nessa’s café au lait across the table at her and placed a plate of beignets between the two women.

  Nessa inhaled deeply. The scent of chicory, warm fried dough, and powdered sugar made her close her eyes in delight.

  She opened them to find Jeremiah scrutinizing her, his eyes mesmerizing in a way she had not expected from the conservative Yankee investigator.

  Why did he look at her as if he knew her?

  Melissa’s voice broke them apart. “It was just a typical Friday afternoon during Mardi Gras, packed with people draped in purple, green, and gold beads. Half of them wore fancy costumes, the other half were almost naked. I…I know it’s not true, but it seemed as if all of them were drunk. For sure they were all desperate to withdraw a few bucks before the weekend. So I didn’t think anything when those two people stepped into the bank.”

  “I’ve been there.” Nessa patted Melissa’s hand again. “Friday afternoon during Mardi Gras. What a mess.”

  “I don’t like to work Fridays during Mardi Gras anymore.” Closing her eyes, Melissa rubbed her lower back as if it ached.

  “Are you uncomfortable, Mrs. Rosewell?” Jeremiah asked. “Because we can do this later.”

  Melissa put her hand back into her lap. “No. Please. I always felt guilty because…because I let it happen.”

  “You did not let it happen.” Jeremiah broke off a piece of the warm beignet, shook off the mound of powdered sugar, and offered it to her. “I’ve seen the security videos. You behaved exactly as you should have.”

  Melissa cautiously took it, then her gaze shifted to Jeremiah and stuck there. “Thank you, Mr. Mac. You’re sweet.”

  Nessa blinked. Her instincts told a lot of things about Jeremiah Mac. That he was gifted, grim, with surprising flashes of humor. That the Beaded Bandits were doomed, because he would never let up until he caught whomever he was after. That his authority was absolute.

  But sweet? No.

  He performed the same service for Nessa, shaking off the beignet’s excess powdered sugar and offering it to her.

  She took it easily, smiling at Melissa, trying to convey an ease with the situation when, in fact, Jeremiah Mac put her on edge. He observed Melissa, the city, and Nessa with vivid curiosity, as if everything were new and different. And of course, New Orleans was unique, but Nessa would have thought that in his line of work he’d interviewed many crime victims and acquired and discarded many assistants. What did he seem so poised and eager to hear?

  “I want to help you if I can,” Melissa said. “I want you to catch them. And yeah, I know that note changed my life, and they didn’t do any harm, and they only asked for a little money, but those guys—well, I mean, I think they’re guys—they scared me.”

  “Then I want you to tell me every detail of that first robbery. Everything you can think of, no matter how minor, no matter how silly. Everything you thought and did, anything that’s occurred to you since. I want to hear it all. Sometimes it’s the littlest element that solves the crime.” Jeremiah shifted forward.

  Nessa thought if he looked at Melissa with half the intensity he’d used on Nessa, Melissa would gladly share every detail of the crime, her thoughts, and her life, plus make him dinner and give him the keys to the city.

  And, in fact, Melissa sat up straight, as if he’d cured her backache. “When they came in, I didn’t have any inkling of trouble. The two guys wore dresses—”

  “What made you think they were guys?” Jeremiah pushed her to reveal every detail.

  “They were tall. I’d say six feet, maybe a little less, and they walked stiffly, as if they weren’t easy with their bodies, so I figured it was a shift change at the April in Paris nightclub on the corner, because why else would the drag act be on the streets then?”

  Nessa had seen the clips on TV. They were grainy, shot at a bad angle, and in black-and-white. But she was used to Daniel’s polished professionalism, and in a town where a lot of men made a good living dressing up as women, only the best worked at April in Paris.

  “One man was wearing a purple silk gown that swept the floor, and there was a bustle, you know, that stuck out over his butt as he walked.” Melissa gestured as she showed them the wiggle at the back, then lifted her hands to her head. “He wore this swooping broad-brimmed hat—huge, I don’t know, twenty inches across—and tilted over his eyes, with a black veil that swept from the brim all the way down to his chest. He looked strict, like a guy who wields the whip. He was so dramatic, I almost didn’t notice the other one.”

  “What was he doing? The one in the purple gown?” Jeremiah brushed his hand over his forehead, pushing the bangs away, exposing the scars Nessa had glimpsed there.

  “He hung around by the door,” Melissa answered.

  Jeremiah was testing Melissa’s memory, Nessa realized, making her recall every detail.

  “Okay, what about the other one?” Nessa asked.

  “The other wore a simpler costume, long powder blue silk dress, bits of gold stuck here and there.” Melissa gestured at her bosom and her ears. “The look was more like a debutante. Both guys wore elbow-length gloves.”

  “Oh.” That filled in an important element for Nessa. Men’s hands were distinctly different from women’s, and gloves covered a hundred sins. “It sounds like a prom a hundred years ago.”

&n
bsp; “Yes, exactly!” Melissa leaned back in her chair as if relieved to have conveyed so much so accurately. She took a sip of her decaf, ate a bite of beignet. “It was hot that day, humidity was eighty or ninety percent.”

  “Like today,” Jeremiah said.

  “Sort of like today.” Melissa frowned as she glanced outside, and she rubbed her swollen belly as if calming the turbulence inside. “I couldn’t figure out how those guys could stand the corset and the petticoats. But I was going to a party that night, so I forgot about them and concentrated on three things—remaining civil, doing the transactions correctly and quickly, and the number of minutes, fourteen, until closing time.”

  “Exactly right.” Jeremiah gave his approval freely.

  “The guy in blue waited for probably a dozen people in front of him to collect their money and leave. He was very patient, didn’t huff and puff like some customers do. When his chance came to be helped by the first available cashier, he indicated he’d wait for me.”

  Nessa swallowed her coffee too fast and burned her tongue. “Did you recognize him at all?”

  “No, my only thought was that this guy knew me and I didn’t have a clue who he was. You know how sometimes that makes for difficulties—some people want me to remember them, even if I’ve served them once three months ago.” Melissa grimaced. “Not to mention Mr. Dewy Debutante wore an elaborate mask of feathers and sequins that covered his face from his forehead to his chin.”

  “A mask?” Jeremiah turned positively dour.

  Nessa and Melissa exchanged glances.

  “Everybody dresses up for Mardi Gras,” Melissa said.

  “The robbery caused a change in policy at the bank. The security guards at the bank don’t allow customers to wear masks anymore,” Nessa explained gently.

  “The possibility of robbery—” Jeremiah began

  “Had occurred to us, but had never happened,” Nessa finished.

  Jeremiah inclined his head. He knew this, obviously, but was still irked.

  Nessa pushed the plate toward him. “It’s a crime to come to Deaux’s and not try the beignets, Mr. Mac.”