Milk and cookies in the bed were Alex's treat after a long, hard day. She supposed it was the child in her, and tonight she needed to nurture that child because her day had been so terrible. She changed into her nightgown, climbed into her antique, Victorian, walnut bed, and flipped on the TV with the remote. She watched the late news, pleased there was no mention of Angie's rape and beating. The press had virtually persecuted CCMC earlier in the year when patients had been attacked inside the hospital. Alex clicked the TV off and began to rethink the day. She was too tired to be analytical, so she focused her thoughts on Monique and Jack. When her eyes began to feel heavy, she snapped off her light and went to sleep.
At 3:30 in the morning, she was awakened out of a dead sleep by the constant, shrill ringing of the phone on her bedside table. She picked up the handset drowsily.
"Hello," Alex said sleepily.
Someone was trying to talk to her. It was a woman, but she was hysterical. Alex couldn't understand her words or recognize her voice. The woman was babbling.
Alex sat up in her bed, interrupted the caller, and said clearly, "Please slow down. I can't understand what you're saying." By this time, she was wide awake, adrenaline pulsing through her veins.
"Alex, Alex, it's me! Monique. Get here as soon as you can. The Pavilion. It's horrible, just horrible!" Monique started sobbing again and hung up the phone.
16
Depression weighted Jack down like a ton of bricks as he made his way back down Canal to the Quarter. He was upset over his potential disagreement with Monique about her patients, as well as a nagging feeling that their careers would always present a challenge to their relationship. He guessed he'd just have to figure out a way to maneuver around it. He certainly knew he would try. He still couldn't believe the beautiful Dr. Monique Desmonde wanted him. Damn he was a lucky SOB. He jumped as his police scanner blared in his ear. He was surprised to hear the voice of his PR man, Jason Aldridge. Oh shit, he thought to himself. This couldn't be good. What is Jason doing out this late at a crime scene? This must be bad. He picked up his receiver, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"Yo, Jason! What's up? Are you at the scene?"
"Commander, are you close?" Jason's voice sounded tense.
"Yeah, I am turning into the Quarter now. What's up?"
"We'll talk when you get here. Hurry up."
"Gotcha! I'm turning in now." Jack signed off, secure in the knowledge that whoever was dead was important. His sense of dread only increased as he searched for parking on the narrow streets of the Quarter. Bourbon Street was party central with all the sex shops and no one seemed to have any idea that there was a corpse down the street. Jack doubted they would have cared even if they had known it. While the Quarter was the center of tourism in New Orleans, as well as a beacon of history and architecture, it was also home to some of the most heinous crime scenes in the world. And, it was Jack's beat. It had always been Jack's beat. He loved the French Quarter, but he feared its steamy streets and deviant personalities.
What a bitch, Jack thought to himself. There is no parking to be found anywhere. Not even illegal parking. Jack circled a few times and finally pulled his silver caddy into a private driveway. He put his light on the hood in case the owners should come out and complain.
As he started walking towards the scene, Jack tripped over a body on the ground. The body groaned and rolled over, so Jack kept on walking briskly through the oppressive August night. He saw the blue bubble lights of at least six NOPD police cars, dizzying as they competed with the red lights of the emergency vehicles. As he hurried down the rough, aged, and bumpy sidewalk, it struck him that the crime scene location was close to the scene from last night – or, rather, early this morning, to be more specific. As he got a little closer, he realized that the crime scene was in the exact location as the one less than twenty-four hours earlier. Damn, he thought to himself. What The Fuck! Here we go again. What the hell is this all about? This is definitely gonna suck. Why the same place? I wonder if it's the same perp. It has to be.
Jason spotted the commander and walked towards him, a frown on his face. Jason could see the finely etched lines of worry and stress in Jack's face, highlighted by the circling beams of the police cars.
Then, Jack noticed that there were two bodies, two victims, in the same exact spot where the two kids had been found earlier. The meat wagon was pulled to the side in another alley.
"What the hell, Jason, there are two bodies? Again? What do you know?" Jack demanded.
"Yeah, and they're not the typical guys we usually find down this far in the Quarter."
"Yeah, I see. They're wearing some pretty expensive threads," Jack observed, as he noted the custom-tailored suit on one of the victims. The other man was dressed casually in khakis and a polo shirt. His face was literally blue. Really blue. Jack had never seen anyone so blue from death. He hoped it was the blue police lights making the guy look worse than he really was. But he wasn't sure. Jack shined his flashlight on the guy. Yep, the guy's nails were so blue that they could have passed for black. For a moment, Jack wondered if the vic had on black nail polish. The guy in the suit had on a wedding band and the other man had on a Rolex watch.
"Is the Rolex real or a knock off and do we have any ID?"
"Commander, yes and yes. The Rolex appears to be genuine and IDs have tentatively been established. Both men had their wallets in their pockets, so robbery doesn't seem to be a motive, unfortunately. Between the two of them, they were carrying several thousand dollars." Jack continued to stare at the bodies, saying nothing as Jason continued, "Bad news, Commander. Here comes the mayor. I can spot him and his entourage a block away."
Jack gave Jason a dark look. The Mayor of New Orleans was Jack's boss and his sworn enemy. He really didn't need this after the day he'd had. "What the hell, who invited them to this party and who the hell else is coming?"
"I hope no one, sir," Jason replied. "Trust me, the only person I invited was you."
"Then why the hell are the mayor and his buddies here?" Jack demanded, sensing the beginning of a huge cluster. "And why is the man in the suit blue? Did he choke or something?"
Jason shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Clueless. The M.E. should be here any minute. I hear there's another murder over in the third district."
Jason continued to check out the body. "Maybe he was strangled or puked," Jason offered, looking closer at the dead man.
"Damn, he's as blue as any dead person I've ever seen. Who the hell are they?"
"Not good, Commander. The blue guy is Senator Beau LaMont, our infamous Senator from Louisiana."
Jack's face was incredulous. "No way. No way that's Beau LaMont! Couldn't be! It looks nothing like him. This guy is skinny. LaMont is a pretty heavy dude from what I remember. Couldn't be."
Detective Vern Bridges hailed Jack, walked over, and joined in on the conversation. "Commander, you been home yet?" Bridges teased.
"What the hell, Bridges, I just saw you here a few hours ago. Are you bringing these bodies in from Kenner?" Jack grunted as he slapped his detective on the back.
"Heck no. We don't have anything like this out in the burbs. That’s why I gotta come to town for some action. Kenner police just sit around and eat donuts. You know that, Commander."
Jack gave Vern a wide grin. "Yep, best donuts in the world are on Airline Highway. Who the hell are these stiffs, Bridges?"
"Jason's right, sir. Yeah, Commander, that's LaMont. He had one of those fat surgeries done a year or so ago and lost over a hundred pounds. He does look entirely different, but for sure, that's him. I mean he looks different because of his weight. Not because he's blue, although that's different as well," Vern stammered and couldn't help but laugh.
Jack clapped Vern on the back. "Geez, Bridges, you're a funny man. You get all the good ones. How'd you get so lucky to catch both double homicides? Nobody I know has ever been this lucky."
"Guess it's just because I'm your best detective, J
ack," Vern quipped.
Jack nodded. "Who's the other dude? The one with the slit throat?"
Detective Bridges shook his head and gave Jack a solemn look. "Commander, this guy looks just like those kids from last night. Do you see any blood?"
"Shit, no I don't." Jack looked around. "Was he killed here or just moved here after the kill?"
"Don't know, too early. But guess who he is, Commander."
Jack gave Bridges an irritated look, "I don't know, Santa Claus? Just spit it out, Detective, it's too late for games. Who the hell is he?"
"It's, at least according to his wallet, he's Hayes Hunter."
"Hayes Hunter? Hayes Hunter? That name's familiar, but who is he?" Jack scratched his head trying to remember.
"He's the head of the Democratic National Party. The Democratic National Party, not just Louisiana. He and LaMont were in NOLA finalizing the plans for the Democratic National meeting this fall. They were last seen—”
"Oh my God. Oh shit," Jack said just as he heard the mayor holler his name. Jack cursed under his breath and stared at his team. "We just have all the luck don't we, guys. Two fricking politicians dead in my backyard."
Jack turned around slowly to face the angry, pig-eyed, newly elected mayor of New Orleans. "Mr. Mayor, you're out late tonight," Jack said in a condescending voice. He saw Jason Aldridge flinch at his sarcasm. Jack guessed he didn't make Jason's life any easier.
Mayor Anthony Devries ignored Jack’s comment and said, "Commander Françoise, let's put our differences away for a few moments. What has happened here in our beloved French Quarter? Is it true that Senator LaMont and Mr. Hunter have been killed?" The mayor's little pig-like eyes were wide and he looked frightened.
Jack's eyes narrowed as he gazed at his nemesis, Mayor Anthony Devries. "Yeah. That's right. Mr. Mayor, that's precisely correct, and a better question is – how in the hell did you know?"
Devries bristled at the deprecating tone of the commander, "Really, Françoise, tone it down a bit. I am your boss, and I am happy to answer your questions. I am invested in bringing this to closure immediately. We have a lot riding on this.”
"Yeah, I bet you do ... like questions about whether New Orleans is a safe enough place to host the Democratic Party right, Mr. Mayor?
Devries ignored the commander’s sarcasm. He personally hated the Commander and had tried to block his promotion, but was unsuccessful because Jack had too many friends. "And to answer your question, my office received an anonymous tip less than an hour ago that two VIPs were dead in the Quarter. We came right down here immediately. Now, what do you know?"
"We know we got two stiffs, one of them is blue, and the other looks like someone tried to cut his head off. The M.E. hasn't gotten here yet. You can take a look for yourself," Jack offered, gesturing expansively with his arm.
Jason Aldridge interrupted, "Mr. Mayor, did you trace the call and does anyone know where the two gentlemen were earlier this evening?"
The vice-mayor offered up some information. He caught Jack's attention, as Jack actually liked the vice-mayor. "We tried to get the State Police to trace the call, but the conversation was too short, even though it was transferred through the city network. Our security people got nothing.”
Jack introduced Detective Vern Bridges to the mayor's entourage and announced he was the lead detective on the case.
Bridges gave an update on the murders, as best he could, and informed the mayor that the M.E. should be along shortly.
The mayor looked around impatiently and said, "Detective Bridges, is that all you know? That's really nothing. All we really know is that they are dead."
Bridges was getting pissed, "Mr. Mayor, you are correct. We don't know much, but the bodies are hardly cold and the M.E. hasn't arrived yet. We'll know a great deal more when he or she does arrive. One thing we do know is that both men were last seen together at one of the Vampire Bars downtown. And, that was about two hours ago.”
For a moment, there was total silence in the air at the crime scene. Even the police sirens seemed to cease.
Shit, Jack thought to himself. It just keeps getting better.
17
Alex's heart was pounding as she leapt out of bed. She hastily combed her long auburn hair and pulled it up into a chignon. She considered wearing jeans and a cotton sweater to the hospital, but decided against it. She had no idea what she was up against and didn't know if she'd be able to return home to redress later. Besides, her grandmother always told her to dress her best when things looked the worst or when she was facing the unknown, good advice Alex always heeded. Sometimes, just knowing you look good makes things seem easier.
She quickly selected and stepped into a pale blue linen dress with a matching jacket. She added a hand-painted blue floral scarf, a long string of pearls, and low-heeled shoes that completed the look. As she checked her appearance in her full-length mirror, her mind was racing with possibilities. The knot in her stomach and the pain in her chest were reminiscent of the terrible tragedies that occurred only a few months ago at Crescent City Medical Center – a myriad of tragedies resulting in utter chaos and damage from which the hospital was just now beginning to recover.
Alex was debating whether she should drive to the hospital or call for Martin, her faithful cabdriver, when the phone rang again. She answered it with apprehension. It was Jack.
"Yo, Alex, I'm sending a patrol car around to get you. Are you ready?" Françoise's voice was low and gruff.
"Yes, Jack. What's going on? What happened?" Alex asked, feeling frantic.
"You'll see when you get here. Trust me, that's soon enough." Jack's voice was hushed but ominous.
Alex, fully dressed, paced in her elegant living room waiting for the uniformed policeman to pick her up. She was so anxious she forced herself to take deep breaths to calm down and think more clearly. She snapped on several lights and seated herself in the blue, silk, Queen Ann chair flanking the marble fireplace so that she would be able to see the lights of the police car through the French doors.
Each minute seemed like an eternity. The ticking of the grandfather clock slowed time to a crawl and thundered in her ears. If she only knew what had happened, she could be spending this time deciding on the best way to handle the crisis. For a moment, Alex was irritated at Jack for not filling her in. Obviously, Monique couldn't have. Monique could hardly speak. Alex forced herself to calm down. She looked around the room, admiring the soft pastel colors. She had designed the room herself and had used many of the Virginia antiques she had found at Wyndley, her grandparents' Virginia estate. She'd found other antiques in New Orleans on Royal and Magazine streets, the city's antique haven.
Her thoughts turned to Mitch. He'd loved this room and had often said the room captured the "essence of Alex" and personified her spirit, personality, taste, and love of beauty. Alex felt her eyes well up with tears at the thought of Mitchell Landry, the man she had loved and had lost so violently. She could still conjure up Mitch's face. His dark wavy hair and startling dark eyes were crystal-clear in her mind's eye. Alex loved him and missed him greatly. She was just about to let herself slip into one of her "Grand Funks," as she referred to them, when there was a soft knock on her door.
Her heartbeat accelerated again. She hadn't seen any lights. Was she daydreaming? She peered out the window and looked for a police car. She didn't see one. She wondered if she could have been so obsessed with her thoughts that she had imagined the knock. No, there it was again. A very soft knock. Alex walked over to her door and peered through the peephole. She knew she couldn't be too careful these days. Just last week, the Times Picayune had published an article stating that Louisiana was the most dangerous state to live in with the murder rate ten times the national average. Anyway, it was pretty clear that violence against the elderly, preschoolers, and women was escalating and Alex was always careful when answering her door.
She looked through her peephole. She still couldn't see anything. It was dark. She stepp
ed back, rubbed her eyes, and looked again. It was still black. She couldn't even see the light from the porch lanterns. Alex felt her heart racing. She knew she'd heard a knock on her door – hadn't she? She was feeling a little dizzy from her rapid heartbeat, fatigue most likely, and fear.
For a second, she was beginning to think she was crazy. Then she heard voices on her loggia. She looked through the peephole again. Looking back at her with an innocent, enigmatic smile on his face was Lester Whitset the administrator from the Pavilion. Behind him was a uniformed New Orleans policeman.
Alex opened the door and stared at the two men.
Lester Whitset's eyes roamed over her, from top to bottom. He spoke first. "Evening or, should I say, morning, Ms. Destephano. Sorry to awaken you so early, but—”
"What are you doing here, Mr. Whitset?" Her voice was harsh and uncertain. "Commander Françoise told me he was sending a police officer to pick me up and take me to the Pavilion." Alex knew her tone was aloof and rushed. She felt short of breath just looking at the man. He gave her the creeps. He was vile. Besides, she wasn't pleased that Lester Whitset knew where she lived. In fact, it frightened and made her uneasy.
Whitset gave Alex another long, appraising look and said in a soft, sensual voice, "I was at the Pavilion when the tragedy occurred. Dr. Desmonde was extremely upset, so I decided who to call-in." He shrugged his shoulders and said innocently, "In the interest of expediency, I decided to personally pick you up, particularly since we most likely have a legal situation on our hands."
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