The Stalking, page 13
“Yep, but heads up—tomorrow will be hell. Let’s get back to my place. Jackson and Angela should be arriving soon.”
“Right. We need to figure out our next move.”
She was sure, to the depths of her soul, the Mortician was still out there.
* * *
Andre was in the kitchen, setting down paper plates and taking food from bags. He’d ordered in, figuring that no one had really eaten and while it might be eleven at night, that was the time, it seemed, when the body reminded one that fuel was needed.
Angela came into the kitchen first. Jackson—being Jackson—was studying the board Andre had created in the parlor. He was also adding to it, using pictures they’d scooped up from social media showing their new range of suspects.
Cheyenne was settling into the guest room, taking the fastest shower known to man; she’d sworn she’d be right down.
“He’s charming—quite the ladies’ man in his day, I imagine,” Angela said.
For a moment, Andre frowned. “Ah,” he murmured, “you’re referring to Louis.”
She grinned. “He knocked before coming in to say hello. He was delighted to speak with Jackson and me.” The two of them had set up in Andre’s parents’ room—and of course, they were welcome to it. His mother was a true child of Southern hospitality—everything was always in readiness for guests, including her own seldom-used space. Angela continued, “He says you don’t want him near our other guest.”
“I never said that to him, but hey.” He hesitated. “Angela, she speaks to the dead—Special Agent Cheyenne Donegal, that is. Her cousin—her murdered cousin—was at the cemetery with a friend, a kid named Christian. He committed suicide not long before Janine’s murder. But I saw them, and I got to see Cheyenne trying to pretend that they weren’t there.”
“Really? Hmm, you’ll have to tell Jackson.” She sat down at the table and scooped up a chip and guacamole from the to-go containers on the table and then began to cough. “Wow! Forgot just how spicy food can be here.”
Andre produced another container from the bag. “This one isn’t spicy,” he told her. “I always order two.”
Angela laughed. “Mexican in New Orleans. Whatever.”
“No, burgers, salad and fries—and guacamole and chips,” he said.
“Whatever it is, it’s great. We were rushing around all day.” She paused. “It all began just a few blocks from here. A corner on Royal Street. The Krewe. Seems like a lifetime ago, and yet, not so many years. Our second case was near here, too. Out on one of the Lower River plantations. And we had another up in St. Francisville.”
Andre nodded and smiled at her. “I know Krewe history,” he assured her. He sat down across from her. “I had a friend here, a movie guy, who bought one of the decaying old mansions on Canal. He used it for a movie, and then a paranormal group bought it. I was with him when they were setting up one of their rooms, and the woman started telling me about their ghosts. I asked about their stories but she didn’t know them. She basically told me that New Orleans was one of the most haunted cities in the world, and there were dozens of spirits here and...well, if you build it, they will come! I wasn’t certain that she had any ‘paranormal’ ability at all, but in the interest of being as polite as my mama taught me, I kept my mouth shut.”
“Silence is often valor,” she said. “So...you’re not going to say anything to Cheyenne about Louis—and others?”
“I’d like to let her speak first, but we’ll see.”
He fell silent; they could hear Cheyenne coming down the stairs. Her hair was still damp, appearing now as a beautiful, burnished, coppery red. She smiled at Angela—the two had seemed to like one another immediately—and then looked at Andre.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Nope. Sodas are in cans, I’m afraid, right there, center of the table, and the burgers are not gourmet—well, they could be, if it weren’t so late. They will make you a peanut butter and jelly burger if you like or give you all kinds of combos in your bun. These are just burgers. Sit, please, eat.”
She took a chair and reached into the bag for one of the wrapped burgers. He’d left condiments on the table. He was reaching for his own food when Jackson joined them.
Jackson sat, taking the bag from Andre and saying, “I have added our pictures and what information we have regarding Mike Holiday, Rocky Beaufort, Jacques Derringer, Katie and Nelson Ridgeway, and Jimmy Mercury. And Emil Justine. Tomorrow, we have to choose directions. The hair found on Braxton Trudeau matches a victim not on our lists—Fiona Kiley, of Pensacola. Her body was found in a hotel room in Metairie nine months ago. On initial search, we couldn’t find anything that would connect Trudeau to her for any legitimate reason. Still, the hair does suggest he murdered her—if no one else. She wasn’t displayed in a manner that matches the Mortician’s victims. But we believe that the Mortician started out killing before he very obviously began to imitate Lassiter. Practicing murder, perhaps, horrible and sad as that may be.”
“You really don’t think that Trudeau was the killer?” Angela asked.
Cheyenne chewed thoughtfully. She shook her head and set down her burger. “No, there’s just something else about the Mortician’s photographs that remind me of the Rougarou’s and the Artiste’s. Something subtle. And while images of the kidnapped women from the older murders were shown publicly, police in both cases kept the death photos away from the press in the interest of not ripping up families and friends further.”
She stood and headed out of the kitchen.
Andre, Angela and Jackson looked at one another, and then followed her.
Andre knew that she had headed straight out to the board, and she was studying it intensely—looking at the images of the women in death.
Andre stepped forward. “This bothered Cheyenne, and I see it,” he said, pointing to the strange slant of the hair in each picture.
“I see. It’s subtle, but something of a signature,” Jackson said. “It is odd that bangs or no bangs, long hair or short, that same slash to the left is there.”
Cheyenne gasped suddenly. “That’s it!”
“What, what—I don’t see!” Angela told her.
“So small, but...look, they’re all wearing the same cross. Okay, not the same from the first, but look at those women, sketches. Each one is wearing a cross—almost hidden here, in this image from the 1860s. Then, look, we’re up to Janine.”
Cheyenne spun around, looking at the three of them. “That exact same tiny cross Janine is wearing is around the necks of the other girls. You don’t really see it there—on Cindy Metcalf—because it must have twisted when he took the picture. I’m sure he was utterly infuriated with himself when he realized it. Look at all of Lassiter’s victims. There’s the cross...covered a bit by hair there. And you wouldn’t notice it because many, many people wear little crosses. Each young woman from way back must have had her own. When Lassiter started killing, it looks like he had one cross and placed it on all his victims, removing it after the photograph. That could mean a little remorse or it could mean he wanted them to go to heaven. It could also mean that he was just a sadistic killer playing with us, laughing his ass off because he’d left clues that we didn’t discover.”
Andre saw exactly what she meant. Yes, the girls wore the same cross.
“Janine was not wearing this cross when she was found?” Andre asked her.
“No, in fact...” Cheyenne’s voice trailed, and her lips tightened to white with her memory. “Her mother was upset. Janine usually wore a tiny crucifix that her mom had bought her when they were in Italy on vacation. It was beautiful, real gold, and she should have been buried with it. Janine wasn’t wearing it when she was found. So, Lassiter had the cross—he took it off each girl after he took her picture.”
“And the Mortician has it now,” Andre said, pointing to each of the pictures of their latest victims.
Strands of hair fell over the piece of jewelry, tufts of lace covered it slightly in one photo, but it was there—hidden, but there.
“Our killer knew Lassiter—well enough to take over when the time was right,” Cheyenne said.
“Cheyenne, you’ve just nailed it,” Andre told her.
She was staring at the pictures, a look of sadness in her eyes. No way out of that—you learned to live with a loss. You never forgot it.
She turned to them. “So, how do we proceed from here? It seems that other law enforcement agencies are convinced that they’ve got their man. How do we convince them that Trudeau might have been a murderer, but not the murderer playing games as the Mortician?”
“I’ll take care of that,” Jackson said. “We have the ME’s report and the fact that they had a match with a victim who hadn’t been grouped into the obvious Mortician killings.”
“We’ve had people studying video from the prison, and sadly, there is no good capture of the fake priest. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat and appeared to have thick dark hair—a wig, probably. And anyone decent with makeup could have darkened the brows, twisted the nose, and sharpened the chin. Artists up at headquarters are working with the images we’ve been able to catch, but they were having a very hard time coming up with something definitive,” Angela said.
“But tomorrow we’ll head out to the Lafayette/Broussard/New Iberia area, check in at the police station with Emil Justine—and see Lacey Murton,” Andre said.
“Settled,” Angela murmured. “So, I’m finishing my burger.”
She headed back to the kitchen. Jackson followed her.
Cheyenne was still studying the board. “Cheyenne?”
She smiled at him. “Trust me, I got my emotions regarding Janine under check years ago, but I think I’m done with my food. What time do you want to head out?”
“Early—before traffic.”
“I’ll be ready. I think I’ll run up, then, if that’s all right.”
“Whatever makes you comfortable. Our plan is in motion and it is nearly midnight now. We’ll get on the road at seven. Oh, bring a bag. If things heat up there, we might need to stay in that area overnight.”
“Sounds good,” she said. “I’ll be down for coffee before.”
“I’ll set it on a timer,” he promised.
She left the room and headed up the stairs; Andre returned to the kitchen.
Jackson and Angela were deep in conversation. They stopped speaking and looked up when he entered the room.
“So—you were talking about me, or Cheyenne?” he asked.
Angela laughed. “She’s a good agent with a great record and a better eye. Jackson thinks she’d be an asset.”
“All I’d need is an interagency transfer,” Jackson said.
“What do you think?” Angela asked him.
He smiled grimly. “What I think doesn’t matter. I’m been playing a wait-and-see game,” he told them. “She hasn’t told me that she’s carrying on with the dead.”
“And you haven’t admitted that you do,” Jackson reminded him.
“None of it’s my call,” Andre said. “If you’re asking me about her as an agent—yeah, she’s been great to work with. Strange circumstances here, of course.”
“There really wasn’t anyone out there better equipped to work this case, though, in all honesty, it would usually be the other way around,” Jackson said. “Anyway, we’ll keep in close contact tomorrow. We’ll be waiting to hear about Emil Justine’s position in all this, and about whatever you can learn regarding the choir master and organist, Jacques Derringer, and the manager and embalmer, and if Lacey Murton can remember anything else. Talk her through it—you know how. There may be some small detail that we can connect to a suspect.”
“And we can switch places later,” Angela told him. “If Lacey remains frightened and if we feel she shouldn’t be alone, we—or I, at least—can head out there and watch out for her. It may be a smart plan, assuming our killer is still out there. He may be afraid that she will remember something.”
“I think we’ll start with the cemetery,” Andre said.
7
Cheyenne wanted to sleep; it was necessary. It allowed for one to be alert and capable.
But sleep eluded her for a long time. When she was drifting, she heard voices. The room Angela and Jackson had taken was right next to the guest room where she was sleeping—or trying to sleep.
She kept hearing voices, male and female. Must be Angela, Jackson and Andre going over and over everything that had happened, perhaps plans for the investigation—perhaps just plans for the future because they were, after all, friends as well as coworkers.
She really wished, however, that they’d stayed downstairs to keep talking.
She didn’t want to lie there awake. She kept thinking, her mind in a whirl. She kept running through it—she couldn’t believe it was someone she had grown up with, or someone who had been around when she’d been young.
The coach—their coach! Praising the cheerleaders, urging the players on, a friend to them when they were feeling down. Mr. Beaufort. Big, fit and so reassuring.
Mike Holiday—sometimes a jerk, but still...the school hero.
A pair of nerds? Katie and Nelson—happy nerds, now.
Jimmy... Jimmy Mercury. The gentle musician who loved his instruments—all of them! He could play the sax, keyboards, guitar...the harmonica. Probably any instrument known to man. Her mind wandered to Andre. Sleeping—or talking—just down the hall. He walked with an air of confidence, but not arrogance. She liked the tone of his voice, commanding at times, easy and almost mesmerizing at others.
It was impossible not to think about him. This was the home where he’d spent his last formative years, his high school years. Even the house, the relationship he seemed to keep with his parents, made her like him.
There was much to admire.
She’d been angry when she’d first come here—angry that he could judge her without knowing her.
But he hadn’t. And he had listened to her. He had believed in her before the autopsy had proven that there was some evidence Trudeau had not killed himself.
She liked the feel of him when he brushed by her, when he touched her.
In all honesty, she just liked him.
In all honesty, she had imagined him naked. She’d imagined...sex.
Not a useful train of thought—she needed to go back to ruminating about suspects, trying to determine if there had been anything in what they had said or done that might point to them being killers.
She needed not to think at all; she needed to sleep.
Finally, she drifted off, and then slept deeply.
It was painful, just for a minute, when her alarm rang.
At 6:45, she was downstairs. She didn’t need to set coffee; it had been done. She poured herself a cup and found Andre in the parlor, studying the board again.
He looked at her and said, “That cross. You’re good—you’re really good.”
“Lucky, more likely,” she said. “And I stared at all those pictures for hours before noting the cross, so...yeah, lucky is more like it. But I’ll take it.”
“If you’re ready, we’ll head out.”
“Ready,” she said.
There was traffic already—but not that much. Parents were out getting their children to school and those who were early risers with early work shifts were heading in.
Many who worked night shifts were going home to bed.
And still, it was much easier to maneuver through traffic and get out of the city quickly at that hour than later in the day.
They were soon on the highway. “So, I thought we’d start together and head to the cemetery first. The crime scene people have finished there. The police have Emil, though his family have rallied around with indignation and his lawyer is having a fit, so they won’t have him much longer. We’ll stop at the cemetery and then we’ll see him. He’ll be angry. It was his allowing us to search that sent him to jail as a suspect. But I think he’ll help us. I’d just like to get in and—perhaps this makes no sense—get a feel again for the place,” Andre said.
“Fine,” she agreed. “We won’t even need to climb over the wall.”
“No?”
“It opens at nine, though, I admit, I don’t know who would be in charge of opening it, unless, of course, no one has thought to accuse the mortuary manager of anything yet. I’m curious about that—Emil wasn’t here during several of the kidnappings. That would mean that—funeral or no funeral—the manager should have been responsible for what was going on.”
“I believe that the man was brought in for questioning, but they had nothing on him. He’s only worked there a few months, and his duties only had to do with meeting family members and arranging for the opening of tombs. I don’t think that clears him, but they haven’t held him. He’s also defended Emil, though, saying his boss is really too feeble to have done anything like what they’re saying. And he’s told them that he’ll be available for questioning at any time—he hates that the place was used by a killer. But of course, we’ll talk to him ourselves.”
“You learned all that last night?” she asked him.
“I read everything that Jackson had in files from contact with other agencies,” he said.
“Read? You guys talked forever last night!” she said.
He frowned. “No. With Angela working, we have constant reading material. She and Jackson are amazing at liaison skills.” He smiled at her. “It’s always best to have a good working relationship with people. And of course, most of the time, we’re asked in, which helps. Though sometimes with Krewe work, we’re asked in by other people, and then you have to play a diplomatic game. But for the most part, I believe all law enforcement is happy when a case like this is solved.”
