New Orleans Noir

by Joanna Wayne

  “Three times over a three-week period. All extremely brief. By the end, she was convinced he was reaching out for help, trying to keep himself from killing again.”

  “What do you believe?”

  “That there’s a good chance he was just playing her.”

  He took a huge bite of his hamburger, then wiped his mouth on a paper napkin from his bag.

  “Let me get you a plate,” Helena offered.

  “This is fine. Eating at a table instead of on the run is luxury enough for me. Some milk would be good if you have it, though.”

  She poured him a glass of milk and set it in front of him. “Did the killer speak French to Mia, too? Is that how you came up with the name of French Kiss Killer?” she asked.

  “Actually, it was because one of the crime scenes was on swampland previously owned by a well-known Cajun criminal. No one outside the task force knows about the phone calls.”

  “Are you sure the caller is the killer and not some crazy fake trying to get attention?”

  “I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s the killer.”

  “Why?”

  “He said a couple of things to Mia that only the killer would know.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Details about the murder itself that were never released to the public.”

  “So information only cops would have.”

  “Only a very limited number of cops and a couple of FBI agents working as advisers on the task force.”

  “Then maybe he was reaching out for help,” Helena said. “And now that Mia’s dead, he came to me, perhaps hoping I’d take over where she left off.”

  “He’s a brutal serial killer who’s already taken four innocent lives,” Hunter stressed yet again. “I’m not saying this to frighten you. Well, maybe I am, but just enough to make sure you don’t fancy yourself his therapist and do something foolish.”

  “I’m an artist, not a therapist. What do we do next?”

  “For starters, someone will be over here probably around nine o’clock in the morning to put special software on your cell phone that will let us monitor and hopefully trace the origin of his calls.”

  “All my calls will be monitored by the police? That severely limits my privacy.”

  “All calls that come to your present cell phone. Be aware of that when you answer. The department will provide you with a phone to use for personal calls. You are to give that number only to people you fully trust. Like me.”

  “I can still use the internet, can’t I?”

  “Yes, but no social sites. Just to be safe, you should change your email address and all your passwords.”

  “You think Elizabeth’s killer is also a hacker?”

  “Isn’t everybody?”

  “Now you’re being facetious.”

  “Sorry. I tend toward sarcasm after a day like this.” He took another bite of his burger, catching a sliced jalapeño with his tongue as it slid from the bun.

  “Do I still answer the suspect’s calls?” she asked.

  “Right. Just like you did tonight. We can assume that he has your private cell phone number and already knows you’re back and living in Mia’s carriage house.”

  She’d already figured out that much on her own.

  Hunter finished off the first burger and unwrapped a second. “Are you sure you don’t want half of this?”

  “No, but thanks. Is there anything else I should know?”

  He swallowed and wiped his mouth on one of the paper napkins from the food bag.

  “A few rules,” he said. “The most important is that I need to know where you are every second of the day and who you’re with.”

  “Why? I know the risks. I’m not going to walk into a dangerous situation.”

  “Standard protocol and the fact that the man making the calls might also be stalking you.”

  “Did he stalk Mia?”

  “No, but we can’t take any chances with this man. You may be tailed when you leave the house, but you’ll never see the undercover cop. On the other hand, if you notice someone who appears to be following you or if you seem to be running into the same person at different spots, call me at once.”

  It finally hit her. “This is about more than phone calls. Do you think he’s targeting me as his next victim?”

  “I’m just covering all the bases.”

  “Elizabeth was eighteen. I’m twenty-five. She was a blonde. My hair’s auburn. I can’t possibly fit his victim profile.”

  “Like I said, we’re just covering all the bases. There is another option,” Hunter said. “You should consider leaving the city and going back to where you’ve been living.”

  “That would get me out of your hair, but it wouldn’t guarantee the monster wouldn’t track me down. Besides, if I leave, you lose your best chance of contact with the killer. You have to admit that’s true.”

  “You’re not in law enforcement. Catching killers is not your responsibility.” He pushed his carton of French fries toward her.

  She reached for one and popped it in her mouth. Next to chocolate, grease and salt had to be the best food therapy there was.

  She did have options. Her new job didn’t start until November 1. Thanks to the estate settlement, she had enough cash to travel. Spend a month in Italy or Greece, jet set around Europe and hope the police apprehended the killer before he struck again.

  Or she could stay here and be neck deep in an investigation she had no control over—unless she forced a few issues.

  This time she dipped her fry into ketchup before eating it. “I’m staying here,” she said. “I’ll follow your orders but first I want to hear all of the phone conversations between Mia and the killer that you have recorded.”

  “I’m not at liberty to share those with you.”

  “Then I’m not playing by your rules. I’ll deal with the killer my way. Who knows? I may be the one who’ll save him and the next victim.”

  She was bluffing. He probably guessed that since she wasn’t nuts, but they both knew he could share those calls with her if it helped his case.

  He stuffed the last bite of burger in his mouth, wadded his trash and shoved it into the bag. He chewed and swallowed and then stared at her for a few long minutes before agreeing to her terms.

  “You drive a hard bargain, one that you may be sorry for. But I’ll arrange for you to hear the recordings, probably later today, after we both get some sleep.”

  That was much easier than she’d imagined.

  He took his vibrating phone from his pocket. “I have to take this call.”

  “Sure. You’re welcome to use the sitting room if you need privacy.”

  “Thanks.”

  She straightened the kitchen and disposed of the trash. He was still on the phone, so she went upstairs to make notes on her computer about all the things they’d discussed.

  It was a good half hour before she came back downstairs. He had a key. He’d likely let himself out the door and locked it behind him.

  Still, she checked the sitting room. He was on the sofa, his head half on a throw pillow, his shoes still on his feet, hanging off the end of the plaid couch.

  He was fast asleep.

  She trembled, suddenly rocked by a longing that left her weak and dizzy. She ached to lie down beside him and spoon her body with his.

  And if he pulled her closer... If he burrowed his face in her hair... If she felt his warm breath on her neck...

  The past would come back and devour her.

  She pulled one of Mia’s crocheted afghans from the large basket at the foot of the sofa and laid it across him.

  She made it back to her own bed, but it was dawn before she fell asleep.

  * * *

  IT WAS DAYLIGHT when Helena opened her eyes again. Seven o’clock. S
he stretched, her left foot poking out from between the cool sheets. The AC was already whirring softly. It would probably be another scorcher today.

  It was only Thursday, Helena’s third day back in New Orleans. Already, Alyssa Orillon had envisioned Helena covered in blood and being chased by a mystery man yielding a knife. She’d learned her grandmother had a secret, dangerous life before her death. A man known as the French Kiss Killer had called Helena for no apparent reason.

  And Hunter Bergeron had slept in her house for part of the night.

  The reality of all of that sank in slowly as a surge of perplexing emotions rode the ragged endings of her nerves.

  She punched her pillow a couple of times as if that could release her frustration before bracing herself to go downstairs and see if Hunter was still here. More likely, he’d dozed an hour or two and then gotten up and let himself out.

  Her mouth tasted gritty. She brushed her teeth, washed her face and hit her hair with a few brushstrokes before piling it on top her head and fastening it down with a pair of large clips.

  Even with all that was going on in her life, she hesitated on the stair’s landing. Her beautiful grandmother who’d given so much of her time to making life brighter for others had spent the last days of her life in a mental war with a murderous monster.

  That was reason enough for Helena to stay here and take over where Mia had been forced to leave off.

  The house was silent when Helena reached the bottom of the stairs. No rhythmic breathing. No sounds of movement. Hunter was gone. She knew it from the sense of emptiness that stuck in her throat even before she reached the sitting room.

  The afghan she’d thrown over him last night was neatly folded and resting on the arm of the sofa. The indentation of Hunter’s head was still visible in the throw pillow.

  She picked up the pillow to fluff it. Instead she put it to her face. It smelled of musk and soap and burgers. It smelled of Hunter and a new rush of old memories came crashing down on her.

  She fought the onslaught by hurrying out of the room before she dropped to the couch and pushed against the cushions that had held his body a few hours ago.

  Think of the past, she reminded herself. The two of you made love like there was no tomorrow and then he walked away with no explanation.

  He’d had problems. She’d known that. He was under investigation for a mistake he’d made while doing his job. A mistake that had cost a life.

  But instead of seeing it through, he’d just walked away. Whatever he’d needed to get past his problem, it hadn’t been her. No reason to think he was a different man today. No reason to believe he wouldn’t break her heart again if she gave him half a chance.

  * * *

  HUNTER HAD OVERSTEPPED all the boundaries last night. He should never have gone to sleep at Helena’s place, but a full stomach and sheer exhaustion had called the shots. He’d closed his eyes for a second. When he’d opened them, it was five in the morning.

  Fortunately he’d managed to let himself out of the carriage house without waking her.

  Mess up this investigation and it could cost lives. Lose Helena’s trust and she might not let him stick around to protect her. She was a lot like her grandmother—both too independent to take orders they didn’t respect.

  He paced her kitchen now while his partner, Cory Barker, showed her how the new phone app worked. She’d been distant with Hunter when he’d arrived first, but she appeared to be bonding with Barker just great.

  “That’s it,” Barker said. “It’s simple on your part, Ms. Cosworth. Answer the phone when it rings and try to keep our alligator goon talking as long as you can. Time is the major factor here if we’re going to find and apprehend him before he dumps or destroys the phone and disappears.”

  “What should I say to keep him talking?” Helena asked.

  “We’re looking for anything that might give us a clue to his identity. Where he had dinner. How he knew Elizabeth and the other girls he killed. Pretend you know who he is. Urge him to give himself in. And the list goes on.”

  “Is that how Mia handled it?”

  “She tried. He didn’t talk much after the first call. He obviously knew we’d be listening in then and trying to track him.”

  “Were all his calls to my grandmother at night?” Helena asked.

  “The first two were. The last one was on a rainy Sunday morning.”

  Barker turned to Hunter. “Anything else I should go over with Helena before I go?”

  “Think you covered almost everything. I can take over from here.”

  Helena walked Barker to the door. Hunter took the opportunity to return a phone call to Natalie Martin, an extremely talented profiler on loan from the FBI.

  As usual, Natalie wasted no time with small talk. “I’ve been thinking about our French Kiss guy’s call to Helena Cosworth last night. I keep trying to fit him into a recognizable pattern based on his first three murders, but this whole phone call routine throws a monkey wrench into my efforts. Things just aren’t adding up.”

  “Have you talked to anyone else on the team about that?”

  “Not yet. I’m working on a new graph that I’d like to run by the whole task force later today. Can you set that up?”

  “I’m not sure what everybody else has on their plate, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks. Keep me posted.”

  While he’d been on the phone with Natalie, he’d heard the doorbell and the deep, commanding voice of the team’s unofficial, volunteer profiler.

  Hunter assumed Barker had let him in before he left since Helena was not supposed to be opening her door to a stranger. No doubt Antoine Robicheaux was already charming Helena’s socks off. Hopefully, just her socks.

  * * *

  HELENA STARED AT the latest investigator to arrive—a hunk of a guy who Cory had briefly introduced as one of the team. Late thirties, raven-black hair with wavy locks that fell mischievously across his brow. Chocolate-colored eyes a girl could drown in.

  “I suppose you’re here to see Detective Bergeron,” she said, ushering him through the door.

  “If you’re Helena Cosworth, I’m here to see you.”

  Hunter joined them in the foyer. “About damn time you showed up.” His tone clearly indicated the anger wasn’t real.

  “If you’d told me an angel was waiting, I would have made it a lot sooner.”

  “Cool it, Romeo. Did Barker take care of introductions?”

  “Only the basic,” Helena said. “I’m not sure why Detective Robicheaux is here.”

  “To clear that up, Robicheaux isn’t a detective,” Hunter explained. “He’s former FBI with the best success rate in the country for apprehending serial killers.”

  “All true,” Robicheaux said.

  “I forgot to mention modesty,” Hunter joked.

  “And you must be Mia Cosworth’s beautiful and talented granddaughter,” Robicheaux said. “Your grandmother raved about you constantly.”

  “She was a bit biased in my favor. How did you know Mia?”

  “I did all her security work for her. Set up the gate system a few years back. Planned a new and more secure system that my company was about to install for her when she had her fall. I wish there would have been something I could have installed to prevent that.”

  “So do I. Exactly what were you planning to install?”

  “Mia wanted improved digital control pads with security cameras at the gate and she wanted personal pass codes for every apartment. That way, she could change a tenant’s apartment code when they moved out instead of changing to a new code for everyone.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” Helena agreed. “I’m not sure that now is the best time to tackle that. I just put the property up for sale.”

  “It’ll increase the value of the property significantly in the current
fear crisis. And it will keep you and your tenants safer. But, up to you.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “While we’re at it, you should consider replacing the courtyard lighting system with motion sensors that include hidden cameras.”

  “I suppose you do all of that, as well.”

  “My security company, Guardian Safe, does all that and more and we do it better than anyone else. We’ve provided bodyguard services for many sports and entertainment stars as well as foreign dignitaries. Never a screwup.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “I’d recommend you put a few hidden cameras in the house, as well.”

  She wasn’t ready to go that far. “No hidden cameras inside my house. No spy equipment of any kind. In fact, I need to think about all of this and go over it with my Realtor before I agree to your recommendations.”

  One of her phones was already being wiretapped. She wasn’t about to trust someone nicknamed Romeo or anyone else to hide cameras inside her house. Next thing she knew, instead of her artwork being on the internet, it would be her boobs and bottom.

  “The woman has spoken,” Robicheaux said. “The original workups for security improvements are in my car along with a list of recommendations and price estimates. I’ll leave them with you.”

  “I’ll walk out with you to get them,” Hunter said.

  Helena said her goodbyes and went back into the kitchen. She’d been back in New Orleans only three days and she felt as if she were losing total control of her life.

  She wondered if Mia had felt the same helplessness when she started receiving the killer’s phone calls and Hunter had taken control of her life. Regardless, she must have fully trusted Hunter to give him the gate code and a key.

  Hunter returned a few minutes later, rolled-up blueprints and a large brown envelope in hand. He sat them on the kitchen counter.

  “If there’s anything here you don’t understand, you can give Robicheaux a call. I’m sure he’ll stop back by and go over the security additions in more detail.”

  “I just need time,” Helena said. “Everything seems to be coming at me at once. This is a far cry from the ordered, peaceful life I’m used to.”