New Orleans Noir

by Joanna Wayne

  Chapter Fourteen

  Helena waited in dread for Brigitte Orillon to speak her mind. She didn’t have to wait long.

  “I don’t know what Alyssa saw or thinks she saw in her phantasms.”

  “She thinks someone is out to kill me, but she can’t decipher who,” Helena said, keeping it simple. “In any case, we were wrong to intrude on you like this.”

  “No. You were right to come. Alyssa is right about your being in danger.”

  “But you wouldn’t let her talk about it.”

  “I needed to focus on my own reactions and I don’t want her to get drawn into the danger. That can happen, you know. It’s another reason I’ve never encouraged her to develop the gift and follow in my footsteps. Much better for her to think she has no extrasensory perception, though she clearly has a great depth of feelings.”

  “I understand.”

  “Listen close to what I have to say. Someone is coming after you, but you will not be his only victim.”

  “Who will be the second victim?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who is the man who wants me dead?”

  “I don’t know that, either. I sense what I cannot see, but his heart is as black as a moonless night and evil consumes his soul.”

  Alyssa drove up in the circular drive and stopped a few feet from them.

  Brigitte squeezed Helena’s hand. “Nothing is what it seems. Trust no one.”

  Helena’s blood ran icy cold as she climbed into the passenger side of Alyssa’s compact car. She reached into her handbag and fumbled for her phone. She needed to talk to Hunter, needed to hear his voice. Needed his strength.

  But she couldn’t say all of that in front of Alyssa and disturbing Hunter on the job wouldn’t help.

  Besides, Brigitte was ninety-two years old. What could she possibly know about the killer that Hunter and his task force, including his brilliant FBI profiler and past FBI agent Romeo, didn’t know? Helena could not be in safer hands.

  * * *

  IT WAS TEN after three when Hunter and Barker walked out of the chief of police’s office. The latest finding was newsworthy and the mayor was eager to share any good news having to deal with the serial killer. Unfortunately, it didn’t mean they had an ID on the suspect who might strike again at any minute.

  They had two hours before they had to be at the mayor’s office for a press conference.

  “One of us should call and give the news to Robicheaux,” Barker said. “He’ll flip if he hears the bombshell developments from the chief on TV before he hears it from us.”

  “He does like to be on the inside,” Hunter said, “and he did call this right from the beginning—more or less.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Baker said. “And I’m the one who argued he was wrong.”

  “You’ll owe him a couple of beers for that.”

  “Speaking of having a drink, we don’t have but two hours before we have to be back here. Do you want to grab a coffee and a slice of pie?”

  “I would except I need to check in with Helena. Robicheaux is supposed to be there designing a new security system for her house and rental property. I can kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Things seem to be getting serious awfully fast between you and Helena. I know she’s cooperating with the investigation and times are tense. Just remember that emotions can get all mixed up in the heat of danger.”

  “I’ve got my head on straight.”

  Not actually true. He’d never had his head on straight where Helena was concerned, but he wouldn’t let his emotions interfere with his main focus—keeping her safe.

  Nothing they’d learned today had decreased the danger. If anything, it may have upped it.

  “I might as well tell you now, Barker. I haven’t mentioned this to Helena or to anyone on the task force yet except Natalie Martin, but I’ve decided to block her from taking any more calls from the lunatic.”

  “Where in the hell did that idea come from? You know that as faulty and unsuccessful as that’s been, it’s our only contact with the suspect.”

  “He can still call. He just won’t get through to Helena. I’ll take the calls and I’ll do the talking to him.”

  “Do that and he’ll quit calling. You know we still have Elizabeth Grayson’s killer out there. He’s unhinged. The calls make that clear. He could strike again any day now.”

  “More reason I don’t want her exposed to his threats any longer.”

  “I can almost guarantee you Robicheaux will balk at that idea. Even if he doesn’t, it damn sure won’t get my vote.”

  “Sorry, but it’s not up for a vote. Helena is not bait.”

  “Okay. Your call, at least for now. See you at five.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  There was a good chance Elizabeth’s killer would be watching the breaking news bite that would be broadcast on every local channel and likely picked up by some twenty-four-hour news channels, as well.

  With luck, he’d realize the odds were turning against him and decide to surrender.

  Bad thing about luck was you simply couldn’t count on it.

  * * *

  HELENA DIDN’T TELL Alyssa about her private conversation with Brigitte. Actually, the two of them had talked very little on the way home. When they were back on the south shore of Lake Pontchartrain, Alyssa offered to buy her lunch.

  Helena was certain she couldn’t hold down a spoonful of food. She took a rain check, claiming she had some tasks to take care of around the house before Robicheaux arrived.

  There were no tasks and if there had been, Helena would have been too shaken to do them. Brigitte’s words had upset her even worse than the monster’s phone calls.

  She’d never taken mediums or any kind of psychic phenomena seriously. It was ridiculous that she was so upset by it now. It was the constant living with the reality of a madman calling and possibly stalking her that had her beginning to accept the murderously inexplicable as truth.

  Once inside the house, Helena walked through every room checking the locks on the few windows and doors that opened to the outside. Hunter had said there would always be someone nearby to hear her if she screamed for help. She was tempted to test him on that.

  She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Her paranoia was getting out of hand. Nothing had changed. Hunter had promised he’d let nothing happen to her and she had no reason to doubt him.

  Helena walked into what had been Mia’s bedroom, crashed on top of the coverlet and chose a book from the stack of nonfiction crime selections. She opened it to a random page and began to read.

  Common and not-so-common traits of serial killers.

  She scanned the page. There was nothing unexpected or shocking in the list, but a couple of traits piqued her curiosity.

  A desire to improve their expertise with every murder. A fascination with death and watching someone die.

  She turned the page and found notes that Mia had entered on the margins from the top to the bottom of the page. One sentence stood out in her mind.

  Be careful whom you trust.

  It was the trust element again. Trust no one. Be careful whom you trust. How many times and in how many different ways had she heard that warning in the few days she’d been here?

  The doorbell rang. She closed the book and returned it to the stack before hurrying to the door.

  She hoped it would be Hunter. Instead it was Robicheaux.

  “You look beautiful, as usual,” he quipped once she’d ushered him inside.

  “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  He grinned at her compliment. She had no doubt he knew how handsome he was and made use of that in selling his security services.

  “Glad you decided to go with at least some of the items we talked about
,” he said. “It’s the latest technology—top of the line. Might not be as good as having a sharpshooter like Hunter hovering over you every second, but it doesn’t snore.”

  “Ah, honesty in packaging.”

  “I do deliver perfection.”

  “Modest, too.”

  “When you’re good, flaunt it. Speaking of that, I hear you’re a terrific artist.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear. We should probably get down to business before you get me started on my art.”

  “Whatever you like.”

  His relaxed and flirty attitude made it almost seem the serial killer situation was faraway fiction. It felt good even though she knew the attempts at normalcy on both their parts was only temporary escapism.

  “I know we discussed a lot of this already,” Helena said. “But I need you to go over exactly what will be installed, the cost and how it works. Then I’ll make a decision on which options I want to go with.”

  “Absolutely. Can we do this in the kitchen? It’s easier if I can lay everything out visually for you.”

  “Sure.”

  He followed her to the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked. “Coffee, iced tea, a soft drink?”

  “What, no booze?”

  “No hard liquor. I might be able to come up with a cold beer.”

  “I’ll go with that and next time I stop by, I’ll see your bar gets restocked. It’s the least a friend can do.”

  She got a beer from the fridge and sat it in front of him while he laid out his multipage proposal.

  “What made you leave the FBI for the security business?” she asked.

  “I liked the idea of being rich. And the FBI has too many stifling rules that I never liked to follow.”

  “They must have been upset when you resigned. I heard you were a superstar.”

  “I think they were glad to see me go so that they could get a rule-follower in my place. And don’t believe the superstar bit. That was more a case of being in the right place at the right time—more than once. Jimmy Gott Terlecki was a good example of that.”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar. “Who was Terlecki?”

  “A serial killer who preyed on young strippers and prostitutes in the DC area just under eight years ago. I was following where the clues led when I caught him in the act of strangling a prostitute in the back seat of his car.”

  “Is he still in prison?”

  “Never spent a day in prison. He pulled a gun on me. I was faster than him. I put a bullet through his head.”

  The doorbell rang. “That’s probably Hunter,” she said.

  By the time she reached the door he’d already let himself in. He pulled her into his arms for a kiss that sent tremors of desire from her head to her toes. She felt relieved. And safer. She always felt safe when Hunter was nearby.

  “Is Robicheaux here yet?” he asked.

  “He’s in the kitchen.”

  “Good. I need to fill him in on the latest developments.”

  “I guess that means you want privacy.”

  “No. You may as well hear this, too. The mayor, chief of police, Barker and I are making a statement to the press at five.”

  Her pulse raced. “You’ve arrested the French Kill Killer?”

  “The news is not quite that big, but it’s positive.”

  In minutes the three of them had moved from the kitchen to the comfortable sitting room. Hunter sat down by her on the sofa where he’d fallen asleep what now seemed like ages ago. Robicheaux sat in a club chair opposite them.

  “So, what is this major development?” Robicheaux asked.

  “To start with, you were right when you said Elizabeth’s killer was a copycat and not the same man who’d killed the first three victims.”

  “Always good to be right,” Robicheaux said. “Is that a sure thing or a theory?”

  “As of about two hours ago, we have confirmed DNA evidence to back it up.”

  Helena listened as Hunter explained how a man named Eric Presserman who was recently released from prison saw information about the reward money that Mia helped raise and came forward to tell what he knew.

  “He claimed that while he was serving time at Angola, one of his cell mates, Samson Everson, who was in on armed robbery, bragged to him about killing two young women in swamps near New Orleans and throwing their bodies to the alligators.

  “Samson didn’t just tell him the basics, he provided all the gory details. Told him how he tied the victims’ panties to tree branches and the bizarre pattern of slash marks left on their breasts. Information that was never released to the public, so Presserman would have had to get it from the killer.”

  “Crazy that when a man gets away with murder, he can’t keep his mouth shut,” Robicheaux said. “What else did the fool brag about?”

  “He said he still dreamed of killing beautiful young women and couldn’t wait to get out of prison and do it again. He already had his next victim picked out.”

  “Where is Everson now?” Robicheaux asked.

  “Dead. What was left of his body was found in his torched and totaled car a few days before the third murder. No one tied him to the murder of the earlier two women.”

  “And they didn’t check the DNA at the time?” Helena asked.

  “They should have,” Hunter agreed. “If they did, the results were never flagged and have since disappeared from the system.”

  “That sounds a bit suspicious,” Helena said.

  “Screwups happen sometimes,” Hunter said.

  “Son of a bitch,” Robicheaux said. “A greedy ex-con spits out more information in one day than the task force has collected in almost six months. Guess I’m losing my touch.”

  “Thank goodness that sooner or later most criminals make mistakes,” Hunter said, “like not being able to refrain from bragging about what they got away with.”

  Helena turned to Hunter. “But you still don’t know who killed the third victim and then Elizabeth—or why. Or who is calling me on the phone claiming to be the killer. Now I wonder if that’s even related to Elizabeth’s murder. The caller might be some fruitcake trying to get in on the act, too. Another copycat. Perhaps he’s not even dangerous. Except the killer talked about Elizabeth’s red panties in one of his calls to Mia.”

  “Right. We still have every reason to believe your caller killed Elizabeth and likely the third victim, too.”

  “Once you kill someone and watch them die, it can get in your blood,” Robicheaux said. “That’s one thing I learned while working at the FBI.”

  Helena cringed.

  “Not always,” Hunter said, “but too often.”

  “The new developments provide the chief of police and the mayor something to dangle in front of the citizens as a sign of progress, but it doesn’t lower the danger risk,” Robicheaux said.

  Hunter laid a hand on Helena’s. “The good news is that you no longer have to worry about talking to the suspect. His calls will go straight to my phone and to the police tracking device.”

  “No,” Helena said, without hesitation. “The caller thinks he has some connection to me. Even if you’re not able to locate and arrest him via the call, he may slip and confess something to me just like Samson Everson did to his cell mate.”

  “It’s not worth the risk,” Hunter insisted.

  “It will be if it stops a murder.”

  “Helena’s right,” Robicheaux said. “Once this new information hits the airwaves, things will change. If he gets nervous enough, he may give her something—anything—to help us identify and arrest him.”

  “Helena’s not bait,” Hunter said.

  “I am if that’s what it takes,” Helena said. “Besides, I have complete trust that you’ll protect me.”

  Complete trust. The one thing peo
ple kept warning her not to have.

  “I like the way you think, Helena,” Robicheaux said. “And once I get the new security system up and fully operating, I can guarantee you that no one will come into this house unless you let them in.”

  Helena wrapped her arms about her chest. “Which is close to what Elizabeth did when she went with her killer willingly.”

  Robicheaux rubbed the back of his neck as if his muscles were too tight. “There’s no one hundred percent way to know that’s exactly how that went down.”

  “True,” Hunter agreed. “Everything we were sure of before is now suspect in my mind since we found out we’re dealing with a copycat killer.”

  “I think it’s someone close to home—too close,” Helena said. “Possibly someone Ella sees as a friend. But then he must have been someone who’d heard Samson Everson’s story, too.”

  “If Everson talked to Presserman, there’s a good chance he talked to others,” Robicheaux said.

  Hunter and Robicheaux talked for another ten minutes, but Helena stopped trying to follow the conversation when the police jargon started to flow. She kept thinking of Elizabeth who’d been killed by a crazed copycat who treated life and death like a game.

  Brigitte’s warning echoed through her mind. She doubted either of the men would put much stock in the words of an elderly psychic in a senior living center, yet Helena couldn’t ignore Brigitte’s alarm.

  She turned to face Hunter. “I never got a chance to tell you what Brigitte Orillon said when Alyssa and I were leaving the assisted living center where she lives today.”

  “Brigitte Orillon?” Robicheaux repeated. “Isn’t that the psychic who used to claim she could solve crimes?”

  “Supposedly she used to be a medium,” Helena said.

  Robicheaux frowned. “If she’s the same one I’ve heard of, she must be a hundred years old by know.”

  “Not quite.” Helena left it at that.

  “What did Brigitte say?” Hunter asked.

  “That the killer is coming after me but that there will be two victims.”

  “Don’t let her frighten you with that ballyhoo,” Robicheaux said.