Snakebit

by Linsey Lanier

  Hookers, he meant.

  “Have you been here before?”

  “A time or two—on business.”

  Tracking down some sleazy criminal, no doubt. A man like Parker never had to pay for sex. Not that he would. They both knew young women were often forced into the oldest profession in the world, and all they felt for them was sympathy. The thought reminded her of Hannah Kaye, the college student she couldn’t save. But Miranda didn’t have the luxury of ruminating over that right now.

  “You have any contacts here?” she asked hopefully.

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  Bummer. Out on the sidewalk, the mass of tourists and locals seemed endless. “How are we going to find Dr. Boudreaux’s mother in this crowd?”

  “We’re going to start with her last known address.”

  Logical. “Now?”

  He nodded. “That’s where I’m heading.”

  Her hopes rose. If things went well, they could wrap this case up tonight.

  Parker turned right, then left, making his way past more bars and clubs and milling tourists until they reached an area with a long brick wall. It was blocked off with a tall spiked gate.

  Peering through the darkness, she saw rows and rows of stone monuments, many decked with crosses. “Is that a cemetery?”

  “The city is below sea level, so tombs are built above ground.”

  “Inventive.” Seemed she’d heard that somewhere, though she’d never been to New Orleans. She rubbed her arms, suddenly getting the creeps.

  Parker pointed toward the stone wall. “They say a voodoo queen is buried in that one.”

  “Nice.”

  He kept driving until they reached a residential area about a mile and a half away. This locale hosted homes in a variety of states. Some looked new, others were boarded up. Yet another was just a frame covered in particle board.

  Parker pulled up to the curb on Bienville Street and pointed to a house on the corner.

  Miranda peered out the window. “Is that it?”

  “This is the address I have.”

  He’d indicated a white Victorian two-story with charming dormer windows tucked under the branches of an old white oak. A group of young men in baggy shorts smoking on the corner across the street confirmed her suspicion that this wasn’t the ritzy part of town.

  “Watch your back,” she said to Wesson as she got out of the car.

  The three of them climbed the wooden steps to a porch decorated with fanciful latticework.

  At the door, she let Parker be the one to knock.

  It was dark inside. No lights on. Could be abandoned.

  But after a moment, illumination came from an upstairs window and she could hear footsteps coming down a staircase.

  The door opened and a woman in blue shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt reading Tulane University squinted out at them.

  With a cautious glare she folded her arms. “It’s pretty late for Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

  “I apologize for calling at this hour,” Parker said in his most aristocratic Southern voice, with a short bow. “We just got into town.”

  “We’re from the Parker Investigative Agency,” Miranda continued. “We’re looking for a missing person.”

  Parker leaned against the doorpost in an almost seductive pose. “You wouldn’t happen to be Ms. Evangeline Rossette, would you?”

  He was just warming her up. This lady couldn’t be more than forty-five. Too young to be Clarence’s mother. But she could be a relative.

  “Who?” she said.

  At Miranda’s side, Wesson piped up. “She might go by the name of Boudreaux.”

  The woman scowled at them in disgust. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  She started to close the door, but Parker blocked her. “My sources say Ms. Rossette used to live here,” he said. “She might have had a son with her. His name was Jean-Baptiste.”

  The woman smirked. “There’s a lot of Jean-Baptistes around these parts.”

  French name in a French-founded city. Made sense. “How many do you know?” Miranda asked.

  The woman’s expression told her all she wanted to do was go back to bed. “Look. I’ve owned this house for twenty years. Since before Katrina. We rebuilt the whole first floor after the storm. I’ve never heard of any Evangeline Rossette or her son.”

  They stood there in silence.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” Fed up with dealing with them, she shut the door and turned off the light.

  In the dark they stared at each other a moment, then made their way back to the Mazda.

  Sliding into the passenger seat, Miranda pressed her palms to her temples. Why had she fooled herself into thinking finding Clarence’s mother would be easy?

  She let out a growl and pressed her head back against the headrest. “Hurricane Katrina, Parker.” She’d completely forgotten about it. “Hundreds of people were killed during that storm.”

  “Eighteen-hundred-thirty-six, according to this site,” Wesson said from the backseat.

  Miranda turned around to see her co-worker with her phone in hand where she’d looked up the data.

  Parker’s face grew dark. “Many were displaced as well.”

  Wesson tapped her phone. “Hmm. That’s a harder number to get. But the city’s population decreased by over a quarter million.”

  A quarter million. “Evangeline Rossette and her son might be in any state in the country now. They might both be dead.”

  Which brought them back round to Dr. Boudreaux being responsible for his wife’s death.

  For several long minutes they sat in silence, staring out at the dark residential street. Soft breathing came from the back.

  Miranda turned again and saw Wesson had her eyes closed, though she was still holding her phone.

  As if she sensed she was being watched, Wesson startled awake and shook herself. “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

  “Late night?” She had given the team the afternoon off.

  Wesson looked out the window. “Rather not talk about it. Where to next?”

  Parker turned to Miranda. “Do you have a suggestion?”

  Oh, yeah. She was still in charge. She thought a moment then uttered words she’d once thought would never come out of her mouth. “Let’s go talk to the cops.”

  Chapter Thirty

  They found a big government building a few minutes away, but the police station in it was closed. Instead they headed back toward the French Quarter and found another one open on North Rampart Street.

  Parker pulled the Mazda over to the curb about a block away and they hiked to the red brick building on the corner. The place even had its own wrought-iron balcony.

  Inside a couple of kids were being booked, probably for being obnoxious, from the way they were mouthing off at the officers. A third kid was puking into a nearby trashcan. Couldn’t hold whatever he’d been drinking.

  Parker stepped back, indicating she was to take the lead.

  Ignoring the smell Miranda marched up to the desk.

  A young-looking officer with big ears and a jutting chin greeted her. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  She eyed his uniform. No bars. His chin was so smooth she wondered if he was shaving yet. He was obviously a rookie working the night shift to pay his dues. Just her luck.

  She had to try anyway. “We’re wondering if you can help us locate someone.”

  “Is it a relative?”

  “A relative of a friend. His mother, actually.”

  With an eager look, the young officer reached for his keyboard. “How long has she been missing?”

  “That’s hard to say, but she used to live at this address.” Miranda slid the paper with the address of the house they’d just visited across the counter.”

  The officer squinted at it. “We can send someone out to see if she’s still there.”

  Miranda forced a smile. “We just did that. Her name is Evangeline Rossette. Her married na
me was Boudreaux. They’re divorced.”

  “How long ago was the divorce?”

  “About forty-two years ago.”

  Befuddled by her reply, he blinked a few times, then pushed the paper back across the counter. “I’m sorry, ma’am. That address isn’t in our district.”

  In a back doorway a second officer stood watching the rookie. His bars and rugged face told Miranda he’d been on the force a good while.

  Shaking his head at his coworker, he strolled over to the counter. “Labatte is the one you want to talk to, ma’am.” His accent was pure Cajun.

  “And who might that be?”

  “Alonso Labatte. The detective in charge of missing persons. He’s been around a long time. Might be able to help you.”

  She hoped he wasn’t giving her the runaround. “Where can we find this detective?”

  “Unfortunately he’s currently on administrative leave. A misunderstanding with the chief.”

  Sounded like he might be their kind of guy. “When will he be back from his leave?”

  “Next Tuesday.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Unfortunately, that will be too late.”

  The older officer looked at her as if he wanted to ask, “Too late for what?” Instead he said, “Labatte usually calls in once a day to check on things, even though he’s not supposed to. Leave your card and I’ll tell him to get in touch with you.”

  She slid her business card across the counter to him. “Thanks for your help.” Such as it was.

  She turned to go and saw Wesson had settled down on a bench and had her eyes closed.

  She walked over to her and gave her a nudge.

  “I’m okay. Really. I’m fine.” She shut her eyes again.

  Wesson was falling asleep sitting up.

  Parker touched her arm. “Let’s find a hotel for the night.”

  It was well after two in the morning, their time. She was feeling groggy herself. They were going on fumes. They wouldn’t find Evangeline Rossette walking around the city like zombies.

  “Good idea,” she said.

  And she took Wesson’s arm and headed for the door.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Parker found a place on Iberville Street and got two adjoining deluxe rooms with balconies overlooking the hubbub and partying on the avenue below, some of which was still going on.

  The walls of the room were hung with paintings of soothing garden scenes and women in long fancy gowns with low décolletages. The furniture was done in the Louis XV style, including a salon settee, a rosewood writing desk, and a fancy dressing table with decorative brass mounts and a gold-framed mirror.

  Miranda thought the fancy rooms were overkill, but she didn’t feel like arguing over Parker’s taste for fine hotels. Besides, Wesson was thrilled with her accommodations.

  After saying goodnight, Miranda trudged into the marble-lined bathroom and took a quick shower. When she emerged she found Parker at the desk, engrossed in something on his laptop screen.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, rubbing her hair with a towel.

  “Running a search for Evangeline Rossette’s name in the lists of displaced and deceased persons from Katrina.”

  Good luck with that, she thought as she pulled on panties and a T-shirt to sleep in. “How long will that take?”

  “It will have to run all night. We’ll be lucky if we get results in the morning.”

  It was a T to cross, anyway. “We should call Becker and have him pick up the search tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I was thinking that.”

  Feeling hopeless, Miranda crawled into bed and let out a groan as she sank into the soft mattress. Maybe Parker’s four-star hotel was worth it after all.

  “I’ve been wondering—” Parker said, still studying his laptop screen.

  “About what?”

  “Some believe in a psychic connection between twins, especially identical twins.”

  “So?” She’d heard of that, but she was too tired to think about it now.

  “It’s never been proven scientifically, but some twins claim to have the same thoughts and even the same sensations as their sibling.”

  Rolling over she dug her face into the pillow. “What would that mean for Clarence?”

  “I’m not sure.” Parker was silent a long while.

  Closing her eyes, she heard him cross the room. After a moment she heard water running in the bathroom. She drifted until she felt Parker slide into bed beside her. She rolled over and ran her hand across the hard contours of his powerful chest. The feel of it always gave her comfort.

  He slipped an arm around her and she nestled her head on his shoulder, smiled at his kiss on her forehead. It would be so nice to just let go and make love until dawn in this beautiful historic getaway. But they needed all the rest they could get.

  The clock was ticking.

  Parker had spoken to Estavez on the trip down here and updated him on what they had found. The attorney said he would file for a stay of execution Monday morning, but without an actual person to substantiate what Clarence had experienced under hypnosis, he was certain it would be denied.

  If they couldn’t find his brother tomorrow, Dr. Clarence Boudreaux would have only two days to live.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Slowly, cautiously, she crept up the red velvet staircase to the upper rooms. As she breathed in the perfume and smoke from last night’s games, she heard a creak.

  What was that? Heart pounding, she froze on the step.

  She listened as hard as she could. Had he heard her? Was he coming after her? She stood there a long while, but she heard nothing more than the sound of her own breathing.

  It was all right. She was all right. It must have been the cry of a seagull outside. As usual they were up early, scavenging for food. It was just past five.

  Her heart still hammering, she climbed another stair. She felt groggy from lack of sleep. She’d worked until three last night. But after only two restless hours alone in her bed, she’d woken, suddenly finding the determination she’d been looking for. She’d made a plan. It was time to carry it out—no matter what the cost.

  It would okay, she told herself. She’d be quick and get back to bed. She was supposed to be working the streets tonight. If she was too tired to do that, she might get beaten.

  He liked to rotate the girls from the riverboat to the places he owned in the Quarter. One or two of his men always accompanied the girls he took out there. Gregor frightened her, but Danilo could be nice. Sometimes he let the girls take sneakers along and gave them breaks so they could take off the high heels they had to wear. Get off their feet. Off their backs.

  Maybe she should go back to bed. No, she had to find out what happened to Katy May. If she could.

  Gazing at the crystal chandelier hanging high above her, she forced herself to keep going. She had to do this. As she went up another step, the staircase seemed to sway as if rocked by the boat’s motion. But the office was mid-ship, over the kitchen. The steadiest part. It wasn’t the waves of the lake. It was only her nerves.

  If he caught her, he’d do to her whatever he’d done to Katy May.

  He always called her Kitty, but her real name was Katy May Philips. She was from a little town in Illinois. She was her friend. Her only friend.

  She wasn’t stupid, but she’d done some pretty stupid things in her life. Running away from home at seventeen because of a fight she’d had with her mother was one. Taking a bus to New Orleans after seeing an ad in a Biloxi newspaper was another. “Models wanted,” it had said. “Fresh talent in demand. No experience required.” As soon as she’d arrived in town, she’d called the number and gone to the address they’d given her.

  The modeling studio was on the third floor of a closed-down bar off Dumaine Street. She’d been mesmerized when she’d stepped into the open space filled with cameras and tripods and lights. Then the only thing she’d seen was him standing in the corner. He had looked so powerful, so beautif
ul, with his long dark curls, his devilish wide-set eyes, his heart-breaking smile.

  She’d fallen in love instantly.

  Little did she know then that was just as he’d intended. He approached her slowly with a steady gaze. He drew his fingertips over her face and she didn’t even flinch. He reached for a brush and ran it through her thick black hair. He told her it was lovely, making her glad she hadn’t cut it, like her mother had wanted her to.

  “Raven,” he’d whispered to her. “I will call you Raven because of your hair.”

  Her real name was Eileen, but Raven had sounded so mystical and exotic.

  He applied makeup to her face. He dressed her in silks and boas and told her to lie down on a pale blue mat in front of a screen. He shot dozens of photos of her, told her how to pose. Soon the silks and boas came off and the poses became suggestive. And then he was lying beside her, stroking her all over with his wonderful hands.

  He made love to her. His mouth and his hands working over her body, plying it with the skill of a talented sculptor fashioning clay. It was her first time and he was so gentle. She’d given in to him completely, body and soul. It was beautiful. The most wonderful experience of her life. Or so she’d thought.

  He let her stay in the studio. She slept on another mat in the corner. He brought her food and took more photos of her and made love to her for a week. She’d thought it was the best week of her life.

  And then he told her he had another job for her.

  When he explained what it was, she refused. She didn’t want to sleep with other men for money. She wanted only him. That was when he turned as cold as an Iowa winter. He said he would send the photos he’d taken of her to the papers. Her family, her friends back home, everyone would see them. They would all know what she had done. She would become what he had in mind anyway, so why not live under his protection? She couldn’t believe what he was saying to her. She began to cry and told him no again. He grabbed her hair and yanked back her head so hard she thought he might break her neck.

  “You will do as you are told, cher,” he hissed in her ear. “No one crosses me. Ever. You understand?” And then he threw her to the hard floor.