by S. A. Austin
Dammit. BJ noticed that the maître d’ hadn’t returned, and the servers were still taking turns seating incoming customers, thereby causing quiet arguments and disputes involving tips.
“I’m thinking about luring him, I mean, my character is thinking about luring Rex to the swampland in Chalmette, oh, um, I mean, to a swamp, somewhere, anywhere, and feeding him to the gators.” A half smile, resembling a smirk. BJ wadded up her napkin, tucked it in beside her plate. Scooted her chair back. “Excuse me.”
Gary kept his eyes on her until she disappeared into the kitchen. She had spoken in such a soft realistic monotone, the hairs on his arms stood up. The same arms he wanted to wrap around her. But there’s a hardness about her that’s off-putting. When she returned to the table, there was an obvious change in her attitude. “BJ?”
“I think you should know, I have a stalker.”
CHAPTER 24
BJ Donovan had gone straight home, after having given up on the search for the absent maître d’ of Wild Capers, in order to keep from losing essential story details she’d mentally collected during her conversation with the homicide detective.
She brought a cup of coffee to her office along with a sheet of paper on which she’d written down some of her thoughts while waiting for the coffeemaker. Clicked on the stereo, turned the volume low. Started typing the instant she sat down at her computer.
Dining with Detective Mick Boutin at So-and-So restaurant, Alma tells him she has a stalker. She says
“She says what?” BJ leaned back in her chair, held her chin on her palm. No sooner had she told Detective Northcutt she had a stalker than she quickly downplayed the statement. She dug around in her desk drawer for an inkpen and paper. Wrote: give the restaurant a name.
A haunting melody came on the stereo.
She started over.
Alma was ready to get out of the house, and go somewhere new for a change. Someplace where she didn’t have to talk to anybody. Perhaps the wooded trail at the little park in her neighborhood?
While lacing up her running shoes, the phone rang. “Hello?”
“Hello, Alma. Did you get my email, pretty girl?”
The creepy whispering voice in her ear frightened her. “Who is this? What do you want from me?” Without waiting for a response she shouted “I have nothing you want.”
“Yes you do, Alma,” he said. “You have everything I ever wanted in a woman. And I can make you very happy.”
Alma slammed down the receiver. Pretty girl? Roger was the only person whoever called her that.
BJ paused. Fiddled with the pencil holder on her desk to help her think. Made a decision to change the character from slightly dull Roger to slightly exciting Jacob. No one would ever know pretty girl was Roger’s thing. Except Roger. And he doesn’t matter.
Her hand shook while she filled a cordial glass with brandy. The trip to the park was cancelled.
She put the empty glass next to the phone on the foyer table. Had a seat in the beige armchair beside it. Tapped out the number on the business card Detective Boutin had given her at the restaurant.
“Homicide,” said Detective Johnny Doughnut on Boutin’s phone, which had started ringing as he was passing by.
She highlighted Doughnut in yellow to remember to change it later. Stopping just to come up with a name for a character or a place always screwed up the rest of her thinking.
“I need to speak with Detective Boutin,” Alma exclaimed.
“Who’s calling?”
“Tell him its Alma, Alma LeVeaux. Please hurry.”
“Hang on, ma’am. He’s downstairs.”
She listened to the steady ticking of the clock. It seemed like an eternity for him to answer.
“Alma, what’s wrong?” Detective Boutin asked.
“I got a call from that maniac, my stalker.” She sniffled, noisily.
“Give me your address.”
“I live in the French Quarter, 1313 Bokor Lane.”
“I’m on my way. Don’t answer the phone or let anyone in but me. Understand?” Thunder crashing overhead, Mick reached for his windbreaker. “Alma, where’s your husband?”
“He’s in the upper Midwest region. Michigan, I think. Please hurry, Detective Boutin, I’m very frightened.”
BJ pushed away from the computer. After a quick pee break, she went to the kitchen. Splashed tequila in a short glass. Swallowed too fast and started coughing. Drank a little more to soothe her raw throat.
She returned to the story, the words swirling around her brain so fast she feared losing them.
Mick Boutin announced his arrival at Alma’s townhouse by rapidly banging an antique dark brass knocker in the shape of a raven’s claw. When she opened the door he felt a tug on his heartstrings. She was crying, defenselessly. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and comfort her, but that was her husband’s job. Mick not only didn’t want to create any problems, but he sure as hell didn’t want to receive any, either. Particularly from a jealous or irate husband.
No sooner had he closed the door than she fell into his arms, buried her face against his chest. Continued crying. Taken by surprise, he didn’t know what to do. He caressed her back. “Calm down. Everything’s going to be all right.” He loosely folded his arms around her waist. She seemed small and fragile.
Alma grew aware of her actions. She backed away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I was just so upset. His voice, it was downright creepy.”
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” A loud clap of thunder. A vision of his wife’s face replaced Alma’s. He released her. “Tell me what happened.”
Rain tapped against the window panes. The room felt damp.
“He asked if I had read his email. He said I had everything he ever wanted. Then he said not only could he make me very happy he planned to show me how. I-I hung up the phone before he said anything else. His voice, it was muffled, garbled. Like maybe he held a handkerchief over the mouthpiece?”
“I hate to tell you this, but there isn’t much I can do for you. You could get a new phone number. That’d be a start.”
“I couldn’t do that without first discussing it with my husband. When he’s out of the office or his cell phone is off for any number of reasons, his calls come here. Everyone he knows would have to be contacted. Everyone. I have no idea how many people have our number. But beyond all of that, what possible reason could I give him for wanting the number changed?”
She snatched a handful of tissues out of the box on the foyer table, patted her face. Wringing her hands, she paced the foyer. Dabbing tearless eyes, she peeked at him over the tissues and assessed his emotional reactions and facial expressions.
“Rex was supposed to go from Detroit, Michigan to Lake Charles, Louisiana today. If everything goes according to plan, he’ll be in his hotel room around five this evening. I’ll give him a call later, and ask him to come home.”
“Good for you,” Mick responded, encouragingly. “He needs to stick around more often, and do something to help you with this awful situation you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“No! He’ll just get angry and scold me, or worse, for messing around with the internet in the first place. I can’t tell him. Don’t you see?” On a calmer note she added, “I’ll have to think of another reason for him to come home.”
Mick nodded. “All right. Call if you need me.”
Alma locked the door, surprised Boutin didn’t ask to see the email she claimed her stalker had sent to her.
BJ re-read the last sentence.
Not quite ready to call Detective Northcutt, she scrolled back to the start of the chapter so she could relay the details of her stalker exactly the way she’d written them. “I wonder if the cop will bitch a fit if he finds out that I’m just using him to get this novel written?”
CHAPTER 25
Gary Northcutt sat with his elbow on his desk. He lazily played with his moustache which had, so far, remained untouched by the premature
gray sneaking up his hairline.
He craved a cigarette for the first time in a long time. A couple of months ago, chasing a burglary suspect throughout a neighborhood had him gasping for air. Unable to keep up with the thief or the other officers, he seated himself on the curb with a hand on his chest and prayed not to die. He quit smoking the very next day.
Dylan Dirck walked up to him holding a cup of coffee. He slid a stick of chewing gum out of his shirt pocket. Handed it to Gary.
“Thanks. How did you know?” He tore off the bright yellow wrapper and foil. Folded the gum and stuffed it in his mouth.
“I’m a detective.”
Dylan Dirck’s also a comedian of sorts. Everyone in Homicide warmly referred to him as Little Dick. He wasn’t just the smallest member of the detective squad he’s also the youngest and prettiest. To the older more seasoned cops, he was too baby-faced to be taken seriously. His impressive portfolio impressed no one. However, with blue eyes and sandy blond hair, he made one helluva good-looking woman and was thereby chosen to play the female role during certain undercover operations.
“Y’know, Gary, being a detective is no different than being a proctologist.”
“Yeah? How so?” Gary spit the gum into its wrapper and disposed of it. Wiped a hand across his mouth. Ambled over to the coffee machine on a little table pushed against the wall.
“I just had an altercation with a perp I arrested on suspicion of murder. I damn near had to ream the guy to get him into the back seat of my car.”
Gary laughed, lightly. Not exactly getting the joke.
“That bad, huh? All right, here’s a better one. I heard this on the radio last night as I was driving home. A woman went to see a doctor named Newton about getting her breasts enlarged without using implants or drugs. He told her when she wakes up in the morning say sits knits quits I want bigger tits. One day when she’s in a diner having lunch she remembered she didn’t say the words that morning. Speaking softly she said sits knits quits I want bigger tits. A man seated at a nearby table overheard her. He asked her if she’d been to see a quack named Newton. She said yes, and asked why. He said tickity clickity clock.”
Gary chuckled.
Out of the blue, Dylan was on the bottom of the emotional seesaw. “You know what gets to me the most? People hurting animals. It upsets me to no end when I read or hear about animal cruelty. In most foreign countries, they have total disregard for the feelings of animals. My God, the barbaric things they do just kill my soul. It’s bad enough just knowing what the filthy bastards in this country do.”
A gulp of hot coffee intensified the anger.
“Why don’t people understand? If it bleeds, it can feel pain. And you know what? I think anyone who looks the other way is worse than the offender. Just because an animal is destined for the meat market doesn’t give people the right to sadistically abuse the trapped and helpless creatures before slaughtering them. If you think about it, what some of the grocery stores sell isn’t much better than roadkill, for chrissake. I won’t even watch movies where they depict animals being harmed. I know it isn’t real, but I hate that shit all the same. I just hate it. And don’t even get me started on the traps and snares used by lazy wannabe hunters, or, the cowardly and cruel actions of trophy hunters. I truly despise all of those dirtbags, male and female.”
Gary was puzzled over Dylan’s behavior. “What brought this on?”
Dylan sat sideways on the edge of his desk with one foot on the floor. Wondered when his shoelace came untied? “Lola died last night. She got out of the yard and ran into the street. A car hit her. The sonofabitch drove off and left her lying there. Didn’t bother to see if she was alive. Didn’t bother to get my phone number off her tag. Didn’t bother to take her to the vet. Didn’t bother to do any damn thing.”
Dylan hurried to the other side of the room. Sniffling once, he poured coffee in his cup.
Gary knew how much Dylan loved his German shepherd dog. He didn’t know what to say to make the pain stop. He, too, had recently lost a dog. A beagle he’d raised from a pup so tiny she fit in the palm of his hand. Somebody had brazenly entered his fenced backyard and stolen her. He was at work, and his wife was either doing some shopping or doing some.... He pushed his hair out of his eyes.
An apologetic smile on his face, Dylan returned to his desk. “I read about the case you and Cantin are working on. Any new leads?”
“Not yet. We had one possible suspect to question, but we don’t think he’s guilty of murder. He didn’t strike us as being a career criminal. He might be guilty of being a pissant but not of killing the woman in the alley.”
“So, what’re you calling this case?” Dylan flicked a stray tear off his cheek with his thumb.
Gary pretended not to notice. “We haven’t given it a name. At this point, we’re not sure if this is the beginning of some seriously bad shit, or it’s an isolated incident.”
The phone rang.
“Homicide, Northcutt speaking.”
“Hi. It’s BJ Donovan. I need your help. My stalker just called.”
CHAPTER 26
“Hi baby, I’m Sarri. How can I be of service, tonight?” Bent at the waist, she leaned in the open passenger window of the man’s car. Held her palms against her thighs and twirled the wedding band on her right hand. A ritual she performed for a bit of good juju.
“How much?” Jacob Wentzel eyeballed the area for other cops. Mainly, the undercover type. His gaze fell on the blond. Her resemblance to Donovan kind of creeped him out. “Well?”
“Ooo, such a chaw-muh, you are.”
Jacob glared at her. Or him. He wasn’t sure which. “How much, dammit?”
“Twenty, minimum.”
“Twenty, huh? And what will the maximum give me?”
Sarri raked her hair back off her forehead. “Depends on what you’re hungry for. It comes in all flavors. I’ve got full service, half ‘n’ half, incall and outcall, round the world, French, and French kissing. Name your pleasure, honey, ‘cause the one thing I don’t got is time.”
She pushed her bra a little higher to expose more cleavage hidden under a V-neck sweater.
“C’mon, baby, take it. You know you want to,” she said, mechanically.
Jacob shut off the engine. Moved quickly to the passenger seat to avoid getting out on the street side and garnering unwanted attention. Shoved the door open, forcing her to stumble backward on the sidewalk. He grabbed her arm, roughly guided her into a dark alley. Unzipped his pants. “For your sake, it’d better be twenty dollars worth.”
* * *
Sarri Luce strolled up to another prostitute, who had her arm pressed against the brick wall of a vacant building and her back to a chilly breeze. “Hi Zoe, hell of a night, ain’t it?”
“Sure is.”
“Something occurred to me a minute ago. I’ve had the same conversation with men so many times I can’t count ‘em anymore.”
“The men? Or times counted?”
“Funny. You’re a real funny girl, Zoe Madison. Look, I’m twenty-nine, tired, hungry, and totally fed up with this rotten lifestyle. I figure, six more months on my back.”
“Or your knees.”
“Yeah. Six more months, and I ought to have enough money saved up in the bank to move out west somewhere. I wanna buy a camper and live on the beach. Open up a little arts and crafts store. Be a part of a nice community. Be respectable.”
“I hope you get it,” said Zoe, a copper-haired beauty with an ugly scar down one side of her face, given to her five years ago by a psychotic creep after she poked fun at his performance or lack thereof. She was fifteen at the time. He was her first paying customer.
“Why is it so quiet tonight?” Sarri asked. “What is it about men and Monday nights?”
“Football?”
Daisy Hernandez, 31, moved from Phoenix, Arizona to New Orleans two years ago to get her son away from his drug-dealing father. “Dead night. Kinda chilly, too.” She rubbed her arms v
igorously. Stretched a thin jacket tighter across her chest. The tapping of her high heels growing louder as she strode toward them.
“We were just talking about that. There’s an odd cold one blowing across the Miss-uh-sip tonight,” Sarri solemnly remarked. “Bad mojo happenin’, somewhere.”
The trio lingered at the intersection of Decatur and Ursula in a little piece of the city they called Braud Way in honor of Julie Braud, a prostitute, friend, and single mom of three. She was brutally murdered on that poorly lit sidewalk two years ago on a dark and stormy night. Braud Way was home to sex workers, kinky sex, junkies, the homeless, and the forgotten.