by S. A. Austin
Afraid of causing worse damage to her car, she switched off the lights. Locked the doors. Halfheartedly crawled in behind the driver’s seat.
Evelyn looked at the house through the rear passenger window. Wavering rivulets of rainwater cascading down the car windows put the sinister structure in motion, making it appear to come alive. She covered her eyes with her hand to stave off scary thoughts of monsters.
Stretching her legs across the seat with her head to the window, she apprehensively stared at the darkness beyond the windshield. Conjured up an image of the machete-wielding man jumping up and hollering peek-a-boo just before busting in and slicing off her head.
She surveyed the place at every angle.
The woods behind her back scared her more than the old house did. She’d seen enough horror movies to know not to go anywhere near the woods after dark. Or during a storm.
Sudden thoughts of some thing hiding in there watching her made her scalp tingle.
She scrunched down to the floorboard. Held the never-used black rubber floor mat over her head to hide herself from the creature in the woods.
Waited.
An hour later, when nothing out of the ordinary happened, she talked herself into believing stress and fatigue had caused her mind to play tricks on her.
She put down the floor mat and brought up the unopened pint of liquor hidden under the passenger seat. Unscrewed the cap, took a long drink of bourbon to help calm her nerves and to comfort herself.
Fell asleep shortly thereafter.
Morning arrived clear and blue. Leaves and small limbs dotted the landscape and her car. It never ceased to amaze her how differently everything appeared in the light of day. Inspecting the car for damage, she accidentally brushed up against the bumper and smeared mud on her jeans.
Well, crap.
She exhaled in a huff, angry over being reminded she only had the clothes on her back. The rear tire was in a deep rut. She eyed the area. There were no other houses in sight. No one around for miles to help her.
“As usual.”
Evelyn entered the house.
Really paranoid for the first couple of weeks, jumping out of her skin over every unusual sound, she believed the cops were going to bust down the door (any minute now!) and haul her skinny white ass off in shackles for trespassing on private property, and breaking and entering.
Who’d come to bail her out?
No one. That’s who.
Several months have passed. Her situation hasn’t improved much. Between buying food and gas, and weekends spent in movie theaters to ease the boredom of not having a television much less the electricity to run it, she lacked the necessary funds needed to make the trip to Maine and to find a place to live other than her sister’s house full of kids and cats.
She had grown accustomed to peace and quiet and solitude. Weighed down with sadness, she knew that was about to change. Her only safe haven was on the verge of being taken away from her. The man in the Saints ball cap had such a familiarity with the place she sensed he belonged there.
CHAPTER 50
BJ unzipped her yearly planner. Placed the slip of paper with the address Detective Raynor Schein had given to her in a side pocket.
She called Wild Capers. Instructed her staff to take care of business. She needed to get back to work on her mystery novel, Silent Conflict, languishing on her computer.
Whoa.
“Ray-nor. Schein. Rayn-or-schein. Rain or shine?”
I’m definitely being played. But by whom?
The phone rang. The sudden sound angered her. She let the answering machine take the call.
“Hi, BJ. I haven’t had a chance to come home. Obviously.” Nervous laughter. “I’m currently in Denver, but I just got a hot tip about a couple of wealthy investors. One lives in Lake Charles, the other’s in Japan. I’m supposed to meet both of them at the Duges Hotel in Lake Charles in a couple of days. In the meantime, I need to wrap my arms around my current project and get ‘er done. Um, I hope everything’s okay. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“He hopes I’m okay. Guilty conscience? We all know who, not what, the current project is he wants to wrap his arms around. I’ll deal with him and his girlfriend later. I have more important business to take care of.”
She read the last chapter she’d written: Alma has sex with Mick.
“BJ has sex with the cop.”
Mm.
She got in her car, and drove straight to the house on Caulfield Lane.
BJ was quite pleased, and a little surprised, to discover her computer was just as she’d left it. She didn’t see a reason to send herself another gift box of Joe Pye weeds but she definitely needed to send another threatening email to herself.
She booted up the clunky, old, beige computer.
Has the cop tracked down the florist that delivered the flowers? If so, why hasn’t he said something to her?
Dear Suite Sue,
You ignored my warning about pursuing the nonfiction story.
Now you’re going to visit the crime scene?
BJ peeked out a side window. “Damn, it’s already dark. And this email sounds stupid.” She typed several variations. Printed all but one. The one she emailed to herself.
* * *
Detective Lucas Cantin planned to swing by the house on Caulfield Lane on his way home the same as he’d done a couple of times before. He and Northcutt had purposely left everything the way they’d found it for Virgil Wentzel. They knew he’d disappear the second he realized the computer was gone. Problem was, with so many other important cases taking precedence over this case, they weren’t able to keep the house under constant surveillance.
Proceeding toward the end of the road he was shocked to find a car in the driveway. He slowed down to look at the area. Turned off the headlights, but not the park lights. Not seeing anyone he veered off to the opposite end of the house, carefully drove in alongside a cluster of trees. Silenced the engine.
In less than a minute he saw BJ Donovan rush out of the house. Take off in her car.
He gently closed his door. No way of knowing if anyone else was in the house. Nearing the driveway at a fast clip, car lights brightened his path. Lucas ducked out of sight by a patch of twisted shrubbery, questioning why she was returning. To his surprise, it wasn’t the same car.
The male driver swung open his door. Remaining at the wheel he, too, looked the area over.
Lucas moved a little closer. The guy lifted his ball cap and scratched his head. With the interior light shining on his face he easily recognized him. Rookie Wentzel. Putting another foot forward he cracked a tree limb.
Wentzel made a crazy U-turn, and sped away.
Lucas was no longer concerned if anybody came up on him. Walking to the door his flashlight swung across a sheet of paper on the ground. A printed email, addressed to someone named Suite Sue.
Who dropped it? And what the hell’s going on? Why would Donovan be here? How’d she get in the house? Then again, what’s Wentzel doing here?
“He’s a cop. Who desperately wants to be a detective.”
It’s possible he’s moonlighting. Sure. I’ll buy that. But Donovan? What’s her story?
Lucas went to the rear entrance to see if any lights were on or if anybody was hiding back there. Wentzel. I’ll be damned. The place was owned by a Wentzel.
Using a lock pick set, he let himself in. Made a beeline to the computer. Held a hand over the vent holes on top of the monitor. Warm to the touch. He stared at the table, wracked his brain for images of what was there before compared to what’s new.
One thing stuck out. A sheet of copy paper with ‘To Do list for Suite Sue’ handwritten across the top. Six items had been listed, and heavily blacked out with a marker. Line seven only had the word send. In Donovan’s novel, Suite Sue aka Alma LeVeaux is a serial killer.
Ignoring crawling insects and their muck, he turned on the computer. Remained standing. Opened each file on the desktop, searching for s
omething in particular. And there it was. A file named LA contained story notes with disturbing details about the deaths of three businessmen in Louisiana. Most of the information had been obtained through media accounts.
Other details, however, resemble the inner workings of the unsolved murders.
Another file named NO contained descriptive notes of two recent New Orleans murders.
“Shit.”
BJ Donovan’s the alley murderer?
Or had Gary Northcutt foolishly shared a few bedroom secrets with her?
Secrets that he, Gary, and Fortier had purposefully withheld from the press. Either way, Donovan clearly planned to use the murders as material for the sequel to her novel.
“How would she explain having intimate knowledge of certain facts?”
Lucas looked forward to asking her.
CHAPTER 51
BJ scraped a four-inch dessert plate with the side of her fork to gather up the last few sugary nuggets of a beignet. Washed them down with the lukewarm remains of a café au lait. Wiped her mouth on a cloth napkin. Got to work on her story.
After receiving a phone call from Rex, Alma knew it was high time she went to Lake Charles. Lately, Rex spent far more time doing business there than he did at his office in New Orleans.
Rex mentioned the name of the hotel where he was supposedly meeting a couple of businessmen. Not wanting to leave a trail for investigators to follow, should there be an investigation, she made the three hour drive to Lake Charles in her own car after having it serviced. Used cash to pay for her expenses.
Wearing a wig, a pair of tinted reading glasses, and a traditional navy blue pantsuit she entered the hotel lounge. Found a seat at the bar. Ordered a drink. Alma raised the eyeglasses a little. Her mouth formed a thin, grim line when she cast a glimpse over the faces in the room and found Rex and blondie cuddled up in a corner.
Businessmen, my ass.
Rex looked her way. She instantly hung her head down causing the sides of a ginger red wig to fall forward and hide her face, a move well rehearsed. He rapidly snapped his fingers until he caught the barman’s attention.
A cocktail waitress in a short black uniform came up to their table holding a standard serving tray in one hand. “Another round?”
“Yep. We’re gonna do ‘er again,” said Rex. He winked at blondie and grinned, mischievously. She giggled, childishly.
Alma squeezed the cigarette pack in her hand hard enough to crush the contents. She threw the pack in her long strap purse. Drank tequila. Kept them in sight. Plotted her next move.
Without a shadow of doubt, she knew they were going to die.
In some sort of a freak accident?
Maybe. Maybe not.
Beyond rightfully shooting them where they were sitting, the when and where of their early demise depended entirely on chance.
CHAPTER 52
The last time Gary talked with BJ, she informed him that she had collaborated with someone in law enforcement on her new story. She said the story was based on a true crime. That’s it. Not only was she intent on protecting her source, but the details, as well.
Does she honestly think I’m the kind of writer that would steal another writer’s work? Or was something else go—
Captain Ory Fortier called everyone into the main office for a briefing on the alley murders.
The man beside Gary was making a list. Facing Fortier, he glimpsed sideways to read what had been written so far: murders quite grisly, buy BJD’s novel, missing cross and chain, women not raped, undercover cop disappeared.
Gary’s eyebrows shot straight up. He didn’t hear Fortier say anything about Nolin’s necklace. Lightly scratching his cheek, he tilted his head enough to read the guy’s name tag. Wentzel? He squared his shoulders. Remembered where he had heard the name before. He sidestepped the rookie, crossed the room to stand next to Lucas. “Meet me at the car when Fortier’s done,” he whispered, “I think I know who the killer is.”
* * *
Gary walked purposefully across the parking lot. He tapped the button on the car key fob, heard it chirp twice.
Lucas waited beside the sedan. Popped a white mint with green speckles in his mouth, and stuffed the roll in his pocket. “What’s up?”
Gary connected his seatbelt. “Not here.”
At the takeout window of Benyay’s Restaurant on the south side, Gary ordered café au lait times two along with a couple of their famous little square doughnuts, deep-fried and dusted with powdered sugar. The woman lowered her arm out the window like a railroad crossing gate, palm side up. He dug through his pockets. Handed her the exact amount of money.
When she moved out of his line of vision, Gary said, “I’m pretty sure I know who the killer is, but I need more proof before I tell Fortier.”
Before Lucas responded, the woman reappeared with their order.
Gary handed Lucas his go-cup. They set them in the plastic drink holders hanging off the doors. He put the paper sack and napkins on the console between the seats. Drove around the corner of the building, and found an empty space under a shady tree. Holding a paper boat tray close to their mouths, they munched on sweet goodness, each gazing at nothing in particular.
Lucas had a hard time resisting going back for seconds. He patted his slightly round belly. Thought it was high time he revisited the gym. Finished his drink. Put everything in the sack.
“All right, Gary. Out with it.”
Gary wanted to chew on the facts a bit longer. He already knew Lucas was eager to talk. He crammed the last bite in his mouth, added his trash to the sack. Rubbed his tongue over his teeth. Finished off the last two swallows of coffee. Wiped his moustache with a napkin. Idly brushed invisible crumbs off his shirt. Dug out a cigarette pack in the glove compartment.
“Today,” Lucas said, growing impatient.
“I’m almost positive it’s Jacob Wentzel,” said Gary.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Gary’s eyes widened. “You already suspected Wentzel? And you didn’t say anything?”
“I guess I was quicker on the uptake than you.” Lucas grinned. “Nah, seriously, I just put it altogether last night.”
He told Gary most of what had happened at the house on Caulfield Lane, stopping short of mentioning that Donovan was also there. In particular, he didn’t want him to know he’d become her shadow. Gary had strong feelings for her. Without proof positive, he’d have to tread lightly. He’d seen a few close friendships torn apart by someone making disparaging remarks about someone else’s love interest.
Then again, none of them had slept with Louisiana’s ‘Most Wanted’.
“Why do you suspect Wentzel?” Lucas asked. “Other than the fact that he has the same last name as the homeowner on Caulfield.”
Gary smashed the cigarette in the ashtray. Debated about another. Debated about quitting, again. “He knew about the necklace, Nolin’s necklace. Besides you, Wyatt, Fortier, and me, no one knew about the missing gold cross and chain, except the person who had taken it.”
“How do you know Wentzel knows about the necklace? I didn’t hear him say anything.”
“He took notes during the briefing,” Gary explained.
“I see. Did he also write about the other missing items? Sarri’s wedding band? Officer Renee Yeager’s badge we knew in advance she had stashed in her bra because she said it would make her feel safer?”
“It’s possible. I may’ve moved away too soon.” Gary smoked another cigarette, feeling antsy. “Second, there’s the letter. The one placed on my desk. Not just anybody can make it all the way up to the fourth floor and put something on our desks without being noticed. So I’m thinking the writer and the deliverer was someone familiar to everyone, enough so to be able to approach my desk without raising suspicion. Third, the asinine expression ‘that’s the way the cookie crumbles’. Who the hell says that in this day and age, and why?”
“Jacob Wentzel, that’s who. Who knows why? It’s as
dumb a saying as the one about crying over spilt milk. Makes me wonder if somebody crumbled a cookie in their milk, realized it was a dumb move, so they dumped it all out?” Lucas shook his head. “I don’t know how this kind of shit gets started in the first place, so I think I turned a deaf ear the first time he said it.”
“We need to check this guy out. I mean, what the hell do we know about him? I got the impression he’s a loner. Probably because he doesn’t socialize with any of the other rookies when they’re off duty. Now’s the best time for him to bond with them. They’re the ones who’ll have his back one day.”
“I heard he has a short military history. Went to college for a while. Worked odd jobs. Nothing else. He must’ve passed a background check to have gotten this far.” Lucas changed his mind about telling Gary that he’d also become Wentzel’s shadow. “I’ve spent a brief amount of time around him. His personality seems to run hot and cold, and the temper I perceived just beneath the surface troubles me. He makes all the mistakes of an overachiever. I’m sure there are other aspects of his life we could pursue. We can do it discreetly.” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “We need to talk to Fortier about getting a search warrant for us. Then we need to pay a visit to the home of a fellow officer.”
Gary threw the sack in a trash receptacle.
He drove to Sonnier’s house first.
BJ’s car wasn’t in the driveway.
Where are you, baby, he thought.
Thought even more about why Lucas didn’t question why they were there.