The Stalking, page 4
Cindy Metcalf’s body had been found just outside the city in a small parish town known as Broussard. The fact that Cindy had been a rising star had led to a media frenzy, and it brought to light the previously overlooked story regarding the bodies of two “junkie” prostitutes who had been found in the city and surrounding area in the preceding months.
Cindy Metcalf had come from LA and disappeared out of Biloxi, Mississippi, and then been found in Louisiana, and that had brought in the FBI.
Cheyenne had been born in the town of Broussard, so her supervising field director had decided that she should be the first one to test the waters with the local police—and hopefully bring down a highly dangerous serial killer as quickly as possible.
If it ever came up at work, Cheyenne had always downplayed her own involvement with the Artiste. Oddly enough, it hadn’t been difficult. She had been the first to identify Lassiter, but after that, there had been such a frenzy that few people remembered who had first screamed out his name when he’d been standing in the cemetery, watching the agonizing finale of her cousin’s life.
On the street, the patrol officers quickly had the area cordoned off; Fournier finished calling it in and walked over to Cheyenne, a broad smile on his face as he set a brotherly arm around her shoulder. “Special Agent Donegal, you are a good luck charm. Hell, you come on the case, and the next thing we know, the killer does himself in. Must have been afraid of you. No trial, nothing—we got him. Well, he got himself.”
She smiled and politely extricated herself from his grasp. “Pierre, we don’t have any proof that he was the murderer. And until the medical examiner says so, we don’t know for certain that he killed himself.”
“Oh, come on. What, did you turn into a defense attorney on me? We were chasing him. The picture was found where he’d been sitting. The guy had a record. And we may never know where he started, and just how many women he killed. He got himself good. He must have been sure that we were onto him and that things were going to get a lot worse. This is him, Cheyenne. And he’s dead. And you can try to figure it from here to eternity, but you’re never going to have all the answers. As for me, I’m doing the paperwork as fast as I can. And then, you know what? I’m hopping on a cruise ship with my wife and going to a beautiful tropic isle with a great beach. I think you should be doing the same.”
As they stood there, the wagon from the coroner’s office drove up—and right behind it was a van from a local news channel. As a small crowd was already beginning to grow, the officers held the media and onlookers at bay.
The ME on duty was Dr. Kevin Morley; he shook hands with Cheyenne and Pierre and asked a few cursory questions before gloving his hands and hunkering down over the body. He produced a wallet and a pad and pen from the dead man’s pocket, causing Fournier to say, “See? It’s him.”
“He’s been dead less than an hour,” Dr. Morely told them, speaking over his shoulder. “One solid swipe to the throat. Caught the artery.”
“Pretty cut-and-dried,” Fournier murmured.
“He must have been in one hell of a panic and been one determined man,” Dr. Morley said. “Of course, the blade is very sharp, but...wow, taking a knife to your own throat. Then again...”
“Then again, what?” Cheyenne asked.
“Well, the knife was in his hand just so—you didn’t try to touch him when you found him, right?” Morley asked.
“No, we did not,” Cheyenne assured him.
“Yes, it’s possible that he did it himself,” Morley said.
“And possible that he did not? That the knife was placed by his hand?” Cheyenne asked.
“Possibly. I don’t know if I’ll be able to give you more on that or not,” Morley said. “But autopsy on this man will be tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you,” Cheyenne told him. “We’ll be there.”
“Detective—Special Agent!” one of the patrol officers called, ducking below the tape to reach them. He appeared distressed and disgusted. “Can one of you do something, say something... I really don’t want to have a push-and-shove with the media.”
“I’ll take it,” Fournier said.
Cheyenne had tried to keep civil the entire time she had worked with the man—and he was a good detective, following up clues and ready to hit the streets.
But he also held to his certainty that he was right.
And she...she just wasn’t sure.
“No,” she said. The FBI had been given lead; right now, she was taking it.
She stepped forward, heading to the edge of the crime scene tape, and lifted a hand to the gathered waiting reporters. “Please, in the interest of sharing nothing but facts, I can only tell you right now that we were pursuing a suspect in the Mortician murders, and in our search, found a man dead. At this moment, we cannot confirm foul play. Please allow us all to do our work. As soon as we know more facts regarding the situation, they will be shared with you.”
“But women can go out safely at night again, right?” someone shouted at her.
Are the unwary—be they men or women—ever truly safe by night?
Or day?
“The deceased was a person of interest. We do not know if he was the killer we were seeking or not. Please, give us time. That’s all for now.”
Her voice was firm. Most of the reporters milling around knew that they’d gotten all they were going to get. They were moving back to position themselves in front of their cameramen or were pulling out their cell phones to call the story in.
One man kept coming toward Cheyenne. He was tall with dark hair and a lean, sharp face. He had a breadth of shoulders that indicated a man who worked at his physical fitness, and he moved through the crowd easily and with authority—people gave way before him.
There was something oddly familiar about him.
“Special Agent Donegal?” he asked, reaching into his jacket pocket to pull out a billfold.
“Yes?” she said, frowning as she looked at his credentials.
“Andre Rousseau,” he told her.
“You’re from the Krewe of Hunters?” she asked softly, not wanting Fournier to hear her use that term.
Had she been foolish—should she have begged off this case? And had she overreacted, calling Keri, telling her what was going on...?
“I am from the Krewe,” Andre said. He looked over at the dead man and the medical examiner for a long moment, and then back to her. “And I know you,” he told her.
“You know me?” she asked, frowning. And then she gasped.
He had been there; he was the dark-haired young guitarist who had run down Lassiter with Jimmy Mercury. He had seen her scream and point...
He looked at her with steady dark eyes. Clearly sensing that Fournier was about to come join them, he asked quickly, “Am I late to the party? Or is the party just beginning? And I’m curious, but do your superiors know exactly how intimately involved you may be with this case? I think they’d want to know how pleased you might be with the death of a man who was imitating the Artiste.”
What was he saying? He couldn’t possibly be suggesting that she had killed this suspect rather than take a chance that a killer copying her cousin’s murderer might get away?
Well, she had talked to Keri Wolf.
She had suggested that she might need a different variety of help.
Now she had gotten it.
And she was tempted to slug that help hard—with a well-placed right hook to the jaw!
2
There was all kinds of wisdom about going back home. Some sayings were about the fact that you could never go back—others suggested that there was no place like it.
For Andre, home meant much of the southern coast of the state. His parents had been artists—good ones—and they had traveled a great deal, and kept houses in several places, the last of which had been the place on Bourbon down close to Esplanade.
He did love the old house. He loved New Orleans and had spent a great deal of time in the city—even when he had lived in Lafayette. New Orleans had played host to different cultures; it had gone through war, storms and floods. Andrew Jackson and the pirate Lafitte had managed to put aside their differences, and beat back one of the world’s mightiest navies of the time after a war had officially been over. This city on the river had grown to become one of the most unique and diverse cities in the country. The city was anything you wanted it to be since it had so much to offer.
He walked the Quarter for a while. He’d attend the autopsy on their dead suspect tomorrow morning, but he hadn’t been in on the chase, and he wasn’t required to take part in the massive paperwork, which was going to occupy most of the morning for Agent Donegal and Detective Fournier.
Agent Donegal didn’t seem particularly fond of him, though he was judging that on a brief acquaintance.
He headed down Bourbon, past the many tourist stops—the bars, the strip joints, the clubs and restaurants. Like much of New Orleans, the street was a study in contrasts, with elegant hotels and eateries set amid neon and tawdry signs for “cheapest beer” and a new one he hadn’t seen before: Best-Looking Human Beings Mostly Naked!
But there was more to Bourbon Street.
Galatoire’s, one of the city’s most renowned restaurants, sat at 209 Bourbon, while the Cat’s Meow, a wild karaoke venue, was at 701, and Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop—built in approximately 1770 during the Spanish colonial period and reputed to have once been a smithy owned by the famed pirate—stood at 941. Lafitte’s was now an extremely popular bar/restaurant, visited by locals and tourists by the gazillions, but the sense of history remained strong around it.
Then, as he kept going, he reached his family’s home—what was called an “American town house,” and an odd one, since most such homes were Uptown in the Garden District and beyond. Nomenclature was a little mismatched, but that was because of the way the city had grown from day one, being French, Spanish, French again and American. Most of the architecture in the French Quarter had been built during the Spanish colonial period, since two fires had all but destroyed the city in the late 1700s. When the original mostly English Americans had come, they had started building in the areas of the Garden District, Uptown, the Irish Channel and beyond. The Rousseaus’ home had been built around 1827 on a site that still had some foundations left, along with a sea of old ash. It had granite Greek revival columns, and while narrow and built almost wall to wall with its Creole-style neighbors, it had beautiful double galleries with cast-iron railings on the ground and second levels.
He pulled out his keys at the entrance. He’d dropped his travel bag off that morning first thing, but now he meant to spend some time here. He needed to lay out his files and review, just in case the situation wasn’t as pat as it had appeared. It had been a while since he’d been home—even though it stood empty most of the time, his parents refused to rent the space out. They’d basically turned the residence over to him—other than for their flash visits for Jazz Fest and a few other occasions.
He paused for a moment at the doorway, thinking that it resembled a mini plantation house—or, at least, what most people considered a plantation house to be. The word actually referred to a large farm and could also refer to all kinds of building styles as well, but his home did, in a small way, resemble the homes constructed as the elegant plantations most often seen in literature.
“Andre! Andre Rousseau, as I live and breathe!”
He turned. Their neighbor Rita Colin, silver-haired, slim and still elegant at about eighty, had stepped out onto the small porch of her more typical Creole-style house. She beamed at him. “You home for a bit, son? I do say, I miss your dear mother and father being close, but I get those emails from them all the time, filled with fantastic beach pictures, so I do not blame them in the least for having moved on. They are doing beautiful work down there, too, enjoying those golden years they’re coming into! But it will be good to have you around the next few days—or hours! Son, I have a big pot of jambalaya going, hotter than the surface of the sun, but I do have sweet cheese grits, too, in case your palette has toned down.”
“Miss Rita, fine to see you. I have a bit of work right now, but I’ll take you up on that food later.”
It was barely ten o’clock.
“What am I saying? Got some homemade beignets going, too, if you like?”
“I’d love, but I’m going to get a few things done first, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, you’re an FBI man now. Oh!” she said, gasping suddenly. “You’re here because of the dreadful killings, which makes it doubly nice that you’ve come. Though, I was watching the news. Seemed the fellow was caught or killed himself this morning, or something like that. Anyway, I’ve had my Ajax to protect me. There he is now, my great little man!”
Ajax was a terrier mix with an underbite and scruffy black fur. He resembled something out of the comics and he was about the size of a small pot.
Seeing Andre, he let out a vicious bark...while wagging his tail.
The dog ran quickly across the sidewalk from porch to porch and Andre stooped to pet him.
Dogs, he thought, never forgot people.
“He does love you so. He’s getting on now, though. What will I do without him?” Rita wondered aloud.
Rita was a charming and generous woman, and she had loved her husband, Harvey, deeply. He’d been gone just two years. Harvey had been an amazing man, too—from his desk, he’d dealt in stocks, and done it well. After Katrina, he’d set out in his boat to help with rescue efforts in the flooded areas of the city—saving people and never protesting once when they refused to be saved without their pets. On her own, Rita had turned her efforts to various charities.
She was still lonely, Andre knew. He would make sure to spend some time with her.
“Right now...” he said, and then paused.
He could see Special Agent Cheyenne Donegal heading down Bourbon on foot—and right toward him. He found her to be a very attractive woman, bright hair gleaming in the sunlight, dark glasses shading her eyes, and her stride long and purposeful. She had the look of an important executive, and yet there was nothing that gave into vanity about her apparel—her shoes were practical, black with low block heels, and her pantsuit was pure business.
“Oh, you have a lady caller,” Rita said. “Ajax, you get back here! The good Lord knows—Andy’s parents sure would love some grandchildren!”
“She’s a business associate, Rita,” he explained quickly.
Cheyenne Donegal had just reached the sidewalk in front of Rita’s porch.
“Why, honey, you are just too pretty to be a law officer!” Rita said, and being Rita, she stepped off the porch to offer her a handshake. “Rita, Rita Colin, miss, and you call on me for anything you need, from an emery board to a decent meal.”
He was momentarily concerned that Cheyenne would brush off the old woman; but he was foolish to have thought she would take out her frustration with him on someone else. He knew where she came from—manners were just about inbred.
“How do you do, ma’am. Cheyenne, Cheyenne Donegal. And thank you so much,” she said.
Ajax made his way over to the newcomer, barking a terrier bark, but still waving his funny-fur flag of a tail.
Cheyenne stooped to pet the dog. Then she rose and looked at Andre. “If you’ll excuse us both now, Mrs. Colin, I have some business to discuss with...” She’d clearly been about to say Special Agent Rousseau, but she apparently decided that was too formal in front of this woman. “With Andre,” she finished.
“Of course,” Rita said. “Ajax, you come on in with me. And don’t you forget, you young people, that I’m right here for whatever you may need.” She started to open her door but paused. “I heard they got him. I heard they got the guy they’re calling the Mortician. You’d know, right, if that was true?”
“A person of interest was found dead this morning, yes,” Cheyenne said. “There’s so much to sort through—we’re not sure.”
“Rita, I promise you, I’ll let you know how things are going,” Andre said. He looked at Cheyenne. “Shall we?”
He opened his door and motioned for Cheyenne to walk in before him. The house offered a narrow entry and hallway, with stairs almost immediately leading to the second floor. His small suitcase was still sitting near the door. At one time, the ground floor had been a dressmaker’s shop. That had long ago changed.
“Please,” he murmured, indicating the parlor inside on the right.
“You were already setting up, I see.” She sounded surprised to note that he already had a corkboard there.
“Nope, that’s from an old case. I had to come home for a funeral a while back and I was working via phone with some people who were out in Oregon. I like boards—cell phones are great but looking at a big picture, or a bunch of big pictures, works for me. Have a seat. I did plan on getting started, but it appears that I might have gotten here after the fact.”
“Detective Fournier seems to think so,” she said.
She didn’t take a seat. She paced the small parlor, noting the artwork on the walls, the period sofa and chairs, and the entertainment center to the left of the fireplace—pretty much blocked by his large board.
“You don’t think so,” he said.
She sighed, picking up one of the decorative pillows and hugging it to herself as she plopped down on the sofa. “Too convenient, too easy. I mean, sometimes if it looks, sounds and acts like a duck, it is a duck. But do you really think this kind of a killer would suddenly run through the streets and slash his own throat? I don’t. His ego has to be as big as a house—a very large house. The killer’s ego, not Fournier’s. I didn’t mean to imply that. Fournier is a good cop. He’s just tired, and the only evidence or plausible suspect we’ve had is the dead man, Braxton Trudeau.”
