New Orleans Noir

by Joanna Wayne

  “Did you get a good look at the driver when he drove by?”

  “Not the first time, but I saw plenty of him when he drove by again, that time at a crawl. He stopped right by me and lowered his window a crack like he had something to ask me.

  “I couldn’t hear what he said, so I approached his car.”

  Barker stepped over to the head of her bed. “What happened then?”

  “First thing I knew, he jumped out of the car and grabbed me. I started screaming for help and the driver pulled a large black gun. He aimed it at me and told me to shut up or I was a dead woman.”

  This was the first Hunter had heard that a gun was involved. “What did you do?”

  “I started kicking and scratching at his arms and face like a wildcat. I was scared but I’m no pushover. If he was going to shoot me, he’d have to do it in that busy parking lot.”

  “Did he try to force you into the car?”

  “He didn’t have time. Two young men heard the commotion and came running. Dirty coward saw them and shoved me hard to the concrete. Miracle he didn’t run over me.”

  “Did the attacker take your handbag?”

  “He tried when he shoved me to the ground. Like I said, I put up a fight.”

  “Describe the attacker for us,” Hunter said. “Give us as much information as possible. Take your time.”

  Her description was detailed. She said he was about the same height as Hunter, which would have made the man about six-two. Around a hundred and eighty pounds. He had spiky black hair and was wearing ripped jeans.

  Barker asked the right questions to keep her going. If her description was dead-on, it shouldn’t be hard to identify her attacker from a mug shot.

  “I’m the one who saw him best,” Celeste said. “Those guys ran him off, but they didn’t get a good look at him. You can’t trust what they say.”

  “You are a great help,” Hunter assured her.

  “If you catch him, does that mean I get the money?”

  “What money is that?” Barker asked.

  “That hundred thousand dollars I’m supposed to get for leading you to that Kiss Killer or whatever you call him. It’ll go to me, won’t it? They said it on TV. A hundred thousand dollars to anybody who helped them catch the killer. They can’t lie on TV.”

  That was a new one to Hunter. “You did a brave thing to fight off your attacker,” Hunter said, choosing his words carefully. “We haven’t arrested anyone yet, but if that guy you fought off turns out to be the serial killer, I figure you’re entitled to at least some of that money.”

  “All of that money,” Celeste emphasized.

  This wasn’t an argument he could win. “Do you think you can pick him out of a lineup?”

  “I’d know that creep if I saw him coming from a block away.”

  They stayed with her another thirty minutes. Hunter had no doubt they’d apprehend her abductor and zero confidence he would be their French Kiss Killer.

  But he’d been wrong before.

  * * *

  HELENA SAT ON her balcony in one the two semi-comfortable chairs that went with a bistro set Mia had bought for her years ago. She sipped her white wine while her mind struggled with the shooting range conversation she’d had with Hunter.

  Six years was a long time. So long, she’d almost convinced herself she’d moved on. She’d survived the heartache and become stronger and wiser for it.

  In many ways, she had moved on. She’d finished her education, spent a year in France studying under an elite watercolorist. She’d taught a fine art class at Boston U and worked as a museum curator in a famous museum.

  Now she’d sold a painting for seven thousand dollars. That was next to nothing compared to the estate that Mia had left her, but it had special meaning. Someone thought her painting was worth it and wanted it to hang in their house or office.

  But no matter what strides she’d made, she’d never wanted a man more than she wanted Hunter. She couldn’t imagine that she ever could.

  Passion raged inside her, a hunger for him so strong she felt it in every cell of her being. If anything, it was stronger than it had been before he’d run out on her.

  She’d been caught up in a dream of forever with Hunter. He’d been twenty-five then, the same age she was now. A cocky young cop who took her breath away the first time she saw him patrolling their neighborhood.

  She and her college friends blatantly flirted with him while he tried to avoid them like any good cop would. Eventually the chemistry overpowered him, too, and he agreed to go with her to an art show at Tulane where she was a freshman.

  Back then there had been no dreams of making it big in the art world. No thoughts of Boston. Her idea of success had been showing her work at local galleries and teaching art at the high school level.

  She still loved New Orleans. The money from the estate was enough to open her own gallery, though it wouldn’t have the clout of the gallery she’d be working for in Boston.

  Would she be willing to give up the new dream to take a chance on a man who’d walked out on her once before? Would she ever regain the trust she’d lost when he’d dumped her with no credible explanation for his leaving?

  A piercing ring interrupted her troubling thoughts. It was her wiretapped phone, which meant it was Elizabeth’s killer again. She shuddered, then jumped from her chair and rushed into the bedroom to answer it.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, my sweet.”

  The childish voice ripped through her.

  “I guess you’ve already heard. Some idiot made a huge mistake. Tried to steal my thunder. He’ll pay for that.”

  “Who made a mistake?”

  “A nobody in a parking lot. Doesn’t matter except he screwed up my timing with his foolish behavior. It’s full speed ahead now. You should kiss Hunter goodbye.”

  “How did...”

  The connection broke.

  An icy chill settled bone deep as the madman’s confusing words echoed in her brain.

  Was he calling Hunter an idiot? Was he planning to kill him? Why else would he say she should kiss Hunter goodbye?

  Another ring of a phone, this one emanating from the cell phone not being monitored. She checked the caller ID and answered quickly, her pulse still racing.

  “Hello, Hunter.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Getting there. You?”

  “So angry it’s rattling my brain. I can’t believe that psychopath had the gall to call you and threaten me.”

  “You heard the call?”

  “Barely. I was on my way to my car and being followed by a noisy pack of reporters when I felt the vibration in my pocket.”

  “Why the reporters? Is there a new development I should know about?”

  “The woman whose attack I rushed home to investigate is insisting to the media that her attacker is the French Kiss Killer and when they arrest him, she wants all the reward money.”

  “Do you think it actually was the serial killer who attacked her?”

  “Not one iota of evidence of that.”

  “I guess that’s what the caller meant by an idiot stealing his thunder.”

  “It’s difficult to understand what’s going on in his sick mind, but I figure he’s mad that his fearful public may think he was the one who fouled up the abduction attempt this afternoon—if it actually was an abduction attempt.”

  “But you are convinced it wasn’t him?”

  “Close to certain, but we haven’t identified a suspect as yet.”

  “But he said I should tell you goodbye.” Her voice trembled. “He must be planning to kill you?”

  “Don’t worry, Helena. I plan to see that he doesn’t. He’s not going to hurt you, either. I’ll see to that. There’s a cop watching your house and gate right now. Go back to en
joying your wine on the balcony.”

  “But who is watching out for you?”

  “My buddies Smith & Wesson.”

  “Okay, but I’m calling Romeo in the morning. No cameras in my private spaces but the rest of his ideas are a go. If Mia could afford it, then I guess I can, too.”

  “Good thinking. Look, babe, I gotta run. Take care.”

  “Stay safe,” she whispered. And then he was gone. No mention of when she’d see him again.

  She had the horrible gut-wrenching feeling that it might be never.

  * * *

  ALYSSA SAT GLUED to her chair as the anchor on a rerun of the ten o’clock news gave details of an armed attacker trying to kidnap a young woman in broad daylight. The victim’s name was being withheld but the assault had occurred only a few blocks from Alyssa’s studio.

  The victim was able to provide a detailed description of her attacker to the detectives, but the suspect was still on the loose.

  There had been some speculation that the suspect might be the infamous French Kiss Killer, but that idea had not been substantiated by the NOPD.

  She’d had a steady stream of customers from noon until she’d closed about thirty minutes ago. Several had mentioned concern about today’s attack.

  Alyssa backed up the feed and ran it again. Attack in the French Quarter—possible failed abduction. No one had died or been seriously injured. But someone could have been. Her heart pounded, and an eruption of acid pooled in her stomach. She ran for the bathroom, knowing she was about to lose her dinner.

  The anxiety wasn’t new. She’d lived with some level of it ever since her first visit with Helena on Tuesday night. Meeting Lacy had only compounded the problem.

  There was no logical explanation for her practically crippling apprehension, yet she couldn’t shake it. She stood and walked over to the counter. Hunter Bergeron’s card was still there where she’d left it when he’d come to talk to her about Lacy.

  She glanced at the kitchen clock again. Too late to call, she thought, as she punched in his number, anyway. Her breath was coming hard and fast.

  “Bergeron,” he answered. “At your service.”

  “Hunter, it’s Alyssa Orillon. I’m sorry if I woke you but this is sort of an emergency.”

  “What’s wrong? Do you need an ambulance or a police officer?”

  “Nothing like that. I just saw the evening news. I don’t need the name of the young woman who was attacked this afternoon. Just tell me it wasn’t Helena Cosworth or the tourist who looks like Elizabeth Grayson.”

  “It was neither Helena nor Lacy Blankenship. They’re both safe.”

  Air rushed into Alyssa’s lungs and she started to tremble. “That’s all I needed to know.”

  She thanked Hunter and tried to assure him she’d be all right even though she didn’t believe that herself.

  There was only person who might be able to help her get past this. Her grandmother claimed she had lost all her psychic powers with age. Her memory was dimming, the distant past becoming more available than what she had for breakfast. But if anyone could help Alyssa understand what was going on, it was Brigitte.

  The nursing home was across the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, near where Alyssa’s mother lived in Covington. It would take her at least an hour to get there in light traffic. It might be a wasted trip, but it was the only option she had.

  The chances of it helping might improve if she could talk Helena into going with her. It was worth a try.

  * * *

  LACY SLIPPED HER magnetic hotel key into the slot, opened the door and tiptoed to her side of the bed. If she could wiggle out of her dress and bra, she might be able to slide beneath the crisp white sheets without waking her roommate. It was a long shot. Brenda was a very light sleeper.

  But Lacy’s lies were starting to become confusing even to her. She kicked out of her high-heeled sandals and twisted until she could reach the dress’s back zipper.

  “You don’t have to sneak in. I’m not your mother.”

  “I woke you? Sorry, Brenda.”

  “I wasn’t asleep. I worry when my best friend is out past midnight with a stranger.”

  “We’re on vacation. Besides, he’s not a stranger. He’s a nice guy I’ve met several times.”

  “Ever heard of the French Kiss Killer?” Brenda asked sarcastically. “Everyone else in this town has. They say he’s probably fun to be with, too, until he kills you.”

  “The odds of getting killed by a serial killer are lower than being abducted by an alien from outer space.”

  “You made that up.”

  “Sounds good, though, doesn’t it?” she teased in an effort to get Brenda to lighten up.

  “If you’re not going to listen to me, then pay attention to our new friend Courtney. She lives in New Orleans, and she says never go off alone in this town with someone you don’t know well.”

  “I didn’t. I went off with a perfect gentleman who I’ve run into around the hotel several times. He didn’t even try to put the make on me. How’s that for class?”

  “Oh, geeze. It’s that guy who manages the restaurant, isn’t it? No wonder he’s always stopping by our table.”

  “Could be.”

  “I give up. You’re going to do what you want to, anyway.”

  “And what I want is to spend the whole day with you tomorrow. How about visiting the Mardi Gras Museum?”

  “I like that idea,” Brenda said.

  “Laissez les bons temps rouler,” Lacy said as she sashayed to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

  Brenda groaned. “Now you’re speaking French.”

  “It’s a Cajun expression for ‘let the good times roll.’ You gotta love this town.”

  * * *

  IT FELT LIKE Helena had just fallen asleep when her alarm clock woke her with its piercing peal. She reached over to turn it off and realized it was her phone. She picked it up and read the time and caller ID display.

  One fifty. Hunter.

  “Hello.”

  “You sound as if I woke you.”

  “It is a wee hour of the morning,” she said.

  “Then I guess I should let you get back to sleep.”

  “Wake me up just to say goodbye? Nice try, Detective. Where are you?”

  “Standing in front of your house.”

  “It’s a little late for stalking me. There’s room on the couch.”

  And here she went again, her body coming to life at the prospect of seeing him and possibly watching him do something as unremarkable as sleep. Her pulse raced as she pulled on her robe and ran down the stairs to let him in.

  “You look beat,” she said when he ambled through the door.

  “Feel beat, too. Worse, I’ve spent every minute since I left here this afternoon running in frantic circles, chasing my tail.”

  “I take it that means you didn’t arrest the parking lot villain.”

  “We can’t even get a straight story on it. The victim says the guy had a gun. The young men who came to her rescue say they never saw it and that they had a good look at what was going on. The victim says he was trying to force her into his car. The same witnesses say he was trying to grab her handbag.”

  “The woman who was attacked should know,” Helena insisted.

  “She appears to have ulterior motives.”

  “Such as?”

  “She claims her attacker was the French Kiss Killer, and since she described him to Barker and me, she deserves all the reward money.”

  “Did you explain to her it doesn’t work that way? The info has to lead to the serial killer’s arrest before there’s a payoff.”

  “Yes, but I’m just one of those corrupt cops trying to keep the reward for myself or so she’s complained to every reporter who’ll talk to her. That’s most of them.”
>
  “But you don’t think he’s the serial killer?”

  “Nope, but we can’t prove that until we arrest him. That reminds me. I’m supposed to tell you that Natalie Martin, the profiler on our team, wants to talk to you sometime today.”

  “Really? I thought your task force members didn’t even want me to hear Mia’s messages from the killer.”

  “Seems at least one of them is having a change of heart. Natalie has some ideas for how you can get more helpful responses and also keep the lunatic on the phone longer.”

  “I’m willing to meet with her, but from the way he talked tonight, that may have been his last call to me.”

  “Which would suit me just fine,” Hunter said. “You’ve done enough.”

  “None of us have done enough unless we stop him before he kills again, and he sounds as if that is imminent.”

  “Again, that is not your responsibility.”

  Easy for him to say. “Exactly who is on the task force?”

  “Detectives Cory Barker, Lane Crosby, Andy George, Natalie and me. And then we have Robicheaux to call on when needed. We also have a lot of help from other guys in the department when the situation calls for it.”

  “If this goes on long enough, I guess I’ll meet them all. Do you want something to eat or drink?”

  “I could be persuaded. What do you have?”

  “We’d best go to the kitchen and check it out. I haven’t had a chance to grocery shop since I’ve been here. I’m still making do on the basics Ella bought for me before I arrived.”

  Hunter kicked out of his shoes and followed her in his stockinged feet. She went to the pantry.

  He opened the fridge. “Ummm. Butter. Eggs. Creamer. And half a croissant. Can you top that?”

  “I’ll see you a loaf of wheat bread and raise you a box of tasteless-looking, healthy cereal,” she joked. “Wait. I may have hit the mother lode. A small bottle of maple syrup and a box of pancake mix that says just add water. Pretty sure we have that.”

  “And I’ve discovered a half-pound package of bacon in the freezer right next to a pint of chocolate chip ice cream,” Hunter said. “The makings of a feast. Can you cook?”