The Unforgiven

by Heather Graham

  Dan smiled warmly. “Yeah, I know Louis Armstrong was Satchmo. Home here in the city, remember?”

  “Sorry.”

  “No worries. Can you go ahead and call Benny, leave him a message?”

  “Sure. And we can leave here and maybe have time to swing down to Decatur Street. You can always see him on his little stand, and find out if she did give him a card, and if so, if he still has it. Do you think there might be prints on the card? That’s why you asked about his appearance, if he was wearing gloves?”

  Dan shrugged. “Might be hard. Greta would have held the cards, some people might have handed them back, whoever did hold them would have left something behind, but...yes. Anything right now is a hope.”

  Katie pulled her phone out and called Benny, who didn’t answer. She left him a message.

  Ryder returned to the office.

  “Where did you take her?” Dan asked.

  “I let her go,” Ryder said. “But I feel like I should have taken her to the police psychiatrist. I’m no professional, but I’d say she’s suffering from delusions.”

  “Hypnotism,” Dan said.

  “What?”

  “I think our guy is a talented hypnotist. He took a good look around the square, and he had a great deal of fun with Greta. She was susceptible to hypnotism.” Dan shrugged. “I know one young woman who works down there a lot. She reads tarot cards. But what she really reads is people, which I believe is the same talent our famed Marie Laveau possessed. Lacey, the young woman I know, was a psychology major. A lot of the locals bring their young adult children to her. She knows how to fathom a problem someone might be having and then she points out possible solutions. But Greta was an easy mark. She likes the feeling of being a medium, and she loves believing the world is full of mysticism.”

  “Maybe she can be dehypnotized,” Ryder said, shaking his head sadly. “I mean, we’re free people, right? Free to believe as we like. But it’s just not great when someone is running around spouting the mantra of killer!”

  “I hope she can...be helped, I guess. Except that...”

  “That what?”

  “I believe I’m paranoid, but with good reason. If the person who saw her was the man we know as Neil Browne, and Neil Browne is doing the killing, Greta might now be in danger.”

  “Let’s face it. Anyone vulnerable in the area right now is in danger. I still say the killer is basically a coward. He watched the house before he went in to kill the Rodenberry couple and Elle Détente. He made sure they weren’t tough enough to fight back.”

  “Right. But this woman, Greta, Ryder will watch out for her,” Dan said, looking at Ryder.

  “Yeah, yeah, Ryder will take this one on,” Ryder said. Then he sighed. “What do you think?”

  “I think Neil Browne talked to her and in this instance, I don’t think we need to be afraid. She did exactly what he wanted her to do. Ryder, we’re going to head down to the square. Katie has a friend who may have one of those six cards. And then George gave us a heads-up. He thinks that Neil Browne might have been an extra recently in a movie. The casting director Carly Britton just might have a way to find him.”

  “I’ll be back on the streets. We’ve just begun to investigate all the tips we’ve received between the FBI and the police hotline.”

  Dan nodded, and they left the station, driving quickly to the square.

  “There he is!” Katie said, pointing to a supposed statue in on the walk near the street.

  “How do you know that’s Benny?”

  “Satchmo,” she said. “He’s perfect!”

  She hopped out of the car while he was still pulling the keys from the ignition, hurrying to the statue.

  Benny was a damned good Satchmo, down to the way he held his saxophone. The bucket in front of him, brimming with ones, showed just how much his dead-still performance was appreciated.

  But he moved when Katie talked to him, hopping down from his little stand. “Got your message, and I found the card!” he told Katie excitedly. “I had stuffed it into my little case.”

  He reached into the case next to the bucket and produced the card for her. He looked at Dan with happy triumph. “Here!” he exclaimed.

  Of course, his hands were all over it.

  Dan smiled his gratitude. “This is great, Benny, thank you,” he said, taking it with a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and sliding it into an evidence bag from his jeans. “They’ll send someone for your prints, and they’ll get Greta’s prints. She’s the lady who gave it to you. And just maybe they’ll be able to pull other prints as well. We just need yours for elimination. Is that all right?”

  “Should be fine,” Benny said, grinning. “I’m the kid who never even stole a piece of gum, so I don’t think there are warrants out for me anywhere.”

  “Benny, you look great, by the way,” Katie told him.

  He beamed. “Yeah, and Matt and Lorna are both out with their carriages now. We’re all going to head in together once they’re back. Monty said he might take Sarah and your rig out later. He’s cool with us coming in once it starts getting late.”

  “Monty is the best,” Katie said. “Okay, thank you, thank you. We have an appointment. We’ll see you later.”

  He nodded. “Back to it!” he said, and crawling up on his little stand again, he posed as Satchmo, the great Louis Armstrong.

  Neither Lorna’s nor Matt’s carriages were resting at the curb; both were out with tourists, Dan reckoned.

  He looked over the area. It wasn’t as busy as it might have been.

  But it was still filled with humanity.

  “On to Magazine. I’ll call Axel, and he’ll have someone meet us there to take the card back to the offices so forensics can get on it.”

  She nodded, watching people on the street.

  “What are you thinking?”

  She let out a sigh. “I think we all have a tendency to think bad things happen to other people. We never think it will happen to us. I’m sure that made most Londoners feel safe back in the Jack the Ripper days. They weren’t prostitutes in the Whitechapel area, so they were going to be okay. They’ll stay out by day and run back to their hotels when they start to get nervous. I imagine some of the small bed-and-breakfast places might be losing clientele.”

  “A lot of people use travel sites where people just own a place and rent it out, too,” Dan said. “Houses, rooms. Well, I guess they’re paid in advance.”

  “People who feel they aren’t vulnerable will stay,” Katie said.

  “And we do have our own residents, all of whom are nervous right now, I imagine.”

  “He’s attacking the whole city, attacking the economy. Can you have an agenda against a city?”

  “Why not?” Dan asked quietly. “Except—”

  “Except you think it has to do with my father.”

  “Not because he did anything wrong, Katie. But because he was a good man.”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  They left the Quarter and headed down Magazine Street. Like the French Quarter, it offered shops, clubs and plenty of great restaurants mixed in with office space.

  They found parking and Carly Britton’s office. She was on the third floor of a building Dan thought must have been built in the late 1920s or perhaps the 1930s. It had nice deco touches in the arches and paint and was kept in good repair.

  When they tapped at the door, they were bidden to enter. There was a reception area with about twenty chairs. The woman was a casting director, so she would have a receptionist out here and perhaps interview people in an inner office. A door to the right of the desk suggested as much.

  There was a perfectly coifed blonde of about forty behind the desk; she was in a designer suit, carefully tailored, very businesslike. It fit her slim figure like a glove. She’d accented her look with a bold re
d lipstick.

  She stood, offering them her hand. “I’m Carly Britton,” she told them. “I let my secretary go home when our last client left. I understand this might have something to do with the horrible axe murderer plaguing the city?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” Dan said and then introduced himself and Katie.

  “I hope I can help. We had so many extras working on that last picture. I couldn’t seem to keep enough people coming. Even with extras, we’re careful. We ask for identification, and we verify social security numbers.”

  “That’s great,” Dan said. He reached into his jacket pocket, this time to produce the pictures that had been drawn of Neil Browne, with his many possible looks.

  Carly Britton looked down at the pictures, and then she looked up at Dan, shock in her eyes.

  “Yes!” she said.

  “Yes, he was in the movie?” Katie asked.

  Carly shivered. “Oh, lord, you think—”

  “He’s a person of interest,” Dan said quickly. “But he was known to accompany the young woman who was discovered murdered yesterday.”

  “Oh. Oh—oh!” Carly said.

  “Yes?” Dan encouraged.

  “This man... I must get into my files. I can’t remember his name, but...he came in with his girlfriend. They both worked one day when we had a crowd scene that switched time... We had different sets of people, all dressed for two different time periods. His girlfriend...”

  Her voice trailed. Dan looked at Katie and pulled more pictures out of his jacket pocket.

  He showed Carly the sketches done from Katie’s recollections.

  “I... Yes, there were so many people that day, but...oh! Oh, how horrible! She’s...she’s dead now?”

  Dan glanced at Katie and nodded.

  Carly Britton was shaky; she stood, using the desk as a brace to do so.

  “I’ll get my computer,” she muttered.

  When she hurried into the inner office, Katie turned to Dan, looking a little pale, anxious and trembling.

  She tried to smile. “What don’t you have in those pockets?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t have any kind of a bag. Bags get lost too easily. A jacket...well, a jacket stays on the body most of the time.”

  “They were in a movie, probably watching George!” Katie said with dismay.

  “And George is fine and smart and staying in a hotel with cameras and security,” he reminded her.

  “He knew George was in the city. He knew George could be blamed again,” Katie said.

  Dan nodded. Carly was returning with her computer. She set it on the desk and used a long, well-manicured finger on the touch screen, frowning for several seconds before she stopped.

  “Here, here!” she said.

  She turned the computer toward Dan. Katie inched her chair right next to his so she could see, too.

  She let out a gasp. Carly jumped.

  “I’m sorry... Yes, that’s Jennie and Neil Browne.”

  “Oh, no,” Carly said. “That’s Brian Denholm and Aubrey Freehold from Baton Rouge. I take copies of their driver’s licenses.”

  Both were there on the screen. Dan pulled out his phone, glancing at Carly.

  “I need to get these to the FBI office,” he told her. “They can check the identities and check out the addresses.”

  “My lord, well...at least you can identify that poor woman,” Carly said.

  Dan assumed the licenses were fakes; the social security numbers were surely faked or stolen as well.

  But he shot the pictures over the phone to Axel, who would get them to the right place.

  “Thank you,” Dan told Carly.

  “So he might have murdered her!” Carly said dismayed. “Oh, my God.”

  “Yes?”

  “Murderers and thieves!” Carly said.

  “What did they steal?”

  “Stacey—best makeup artist possible on any set—she had a case stolen, a big case. She had makeup in it, all kinds of foundation and pencils and the like, but she had a supply of silicone. You know, silicone... We did some Neanderthal brows and heavier jawlines on some of the actors and extras and... He was probably a murderer and a thief!”

  Dan glanced at Katie.

  They were both thinking it was worse to be a murderer than a thief...

  And yet it explained so much.

  “Ms. Britton, you have been an enormous help,” Dan assured her.

  “Yes, I... Oh, lord! I worked with those people. I hired those people!”

  “You couldn’t have known they were...anything other than what they presented themselves as,” Katie assured her.

  “And we don’t have answers. We’re investigating,” Dan said.

  “But she’s dead, right?” Carly exclaimed.

  There was a knock at the door, and the woman nearly jumped out of her chair. “No, no, I’m not expecting anyone!” she said.

  “It’s all right. It’s an agent from the local FBI office,” Dan assured her. Still, he found himself instinctively brushing the SIG Sauer in its holder beneath his jacket as he walked to the door and then waited.

  “Mr. Oliver? It’s Mike Cody. Axel sent me.”

  He opened the door and dug in his pocket for the card Benny had given him. The young man at the door was obviously new at the job: he was wearing an impeccable blue suit, hair cut short and slicked back. He had the eager and determined look of a puppy determined to do right.

  “They’ll get started on this immediately,” he told Dan.

  He frowned when Dan took his picture quickly with his camera phone.

  “Uh, sir—”

  “Just making sure you’re who you say you are,” Dan said, smiling.

  He kept his smile in place as he quickly sent the photo to Axel.

  Axel got back to him right away with a quick text.

  Yes, that’s Mike.

  Dan smiled at the startled agent. “Thank you. Can’t be too careful these days,” he said cheerfully.

  “Ah, right. Well, if that’s all.”

  “Thank you.”

  The young agent left.

  Dan turned back. Carly Britton didn’t look quite as professionally all-together as she had when they walked in.

  “I’m scared to leave,” she whispered.

  “We can take you somewhere,” Dan offered.

  “No, uh, I have my car... I can’t just leave my car. I need it. I work. But I am married. I have a husband. Oh! That didn’t help. The killer...he killed the man and wife and the nurse or maid or whoever she was...”

  “Ms. Britton—” Dan began.

  “Mrs.!” she exclaimed. “I just told you I had a husband. Oh, I’m sorry. I mean, calling me Carly is just fine. We tend to be on a first-name basis in the industry. I’m just... I knew them! I hired them. I’m scared.”

  “Do you have an alarm system?” Dan asked her.

  “Yes, but—”

  “He’s targeting people who don’t have alarms, we believe.”

  “Believe! That’s no guarantee.”

  No, he had no way of guaranteeing anything when it came to a psychopathic killer.

  “I’ll alert the local police station. They’ll watch your property. They’re on the alert already, and with what you’ve given us—”

  “You’ll catch him tonight?” she asked dryly.

  “We’re happy to follow you home and see that you get there,” Katie told her.

  The woman sighed. “Thank you,” she said and hesitated. “Would you look around the place, too?”

  Dan looked at Katie.

  “Sure,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound as weary as he felt.

  They locked up the offices and headed down to the garage with her.

  Carly had an expensive car, in a
red that matched her lipstick.

  Katie went along with Carly, sliding into the leather passenger seat. Dan followed them in his vehicle, falling in behind once Carly pulled out of the garage.

  Carly lived in the Garden District, so it wasn’t far. She had evidently called her husband as she drove, and he was at the gate to their house, a sumptuous Victorian, when they arrived.

  “This nice man is on the case,” Carly told her husband, a balding man in his fifties. “He’s going to look around the house.”

  “We do have a state-of-the-art alarm system, Officer...”

  “Oliver, just Dan Oliver. I’m a consultant on the case.”

  “They sent a consultant to see me?” Carly asked, apparently thinking she’d been sent someone second-rate.

  He wasn’t in the mood for a fight.

  “Yes. It’s been a very long day for us. If you wouldn’t mind...”

  “Yes, please!” Carly said.

  Her husband led the way in.

  It was a big house. It took him thirty minutes to go through it, assure them no one was hiding under any of the beds, and he advised they should set their alarm anytime they were in the house.

  They managed to leave at last.

  “Where now? What now?”

  “We hope the tech and forensic people can get something. We go to your place. We pick up dinner and go to your place. I’m bushed.”

  “Me, too,” she said softly.

  They did a drive-through restaurant for a bag of po’boys. When they reached the house, the dogs were waiting at the gate.

  Katie and Dan greeted them and went into the house. He looked up for the cameras as he passed—they all seemed to be in place.

  In the kitchen, Katie set down the bag of food. She hesitated, looking at it, looking at him.

  He didn’t know what drove him; they were both exhausted. But he found himself walking over to her and pulling her into his arms. She didn’t protest; she looked up at him with no surprise.

  “No commitments,” he said. “You don’t even have to call me in the morning. Oh, wait. I’ll be here in the morning.”

  She didn’t speak. She kissed him.

  They began shedding their clothing downstairs. She hesitated when she felt his weapon, and he set his hand on it as well.