Thrill Kill

by Don Bruns

  She turned and nodded. ‘Really.’

  She’d have to flag down a taxi, it was a long way from where she lived. But she had a credit card and she had an Uber app so with all that she would get home in fine shape. It was just that Paul Girard, even with his connection to the senator, to Marcia LeJeune’s causes, didn’t really care. It was all about his writing, his career. The selfish bastard only cared about his future while thousands of people suffered. There was no question he could afford the money. He was cheap and selfish, and she needed to re-evaluate this relationship.

  She walked a few feet from the restaurant and pulled a cell phone from her purse, clicking on the Uber app. She barely glanced up when she heard the squeal of brakes as a black sedan screeched to a stop next to her. Much too soon for a car she hadn’t even ordered yet. The passenger door opened and a hooded man with broad shoulders stepped out, wrapping his arm around the surprised woman’s throat and knocking the phone from her hand. Her purse fell to the ground and in a matter of seconds he’d wrestled her into the back seat of the car. As she struggled and screamed, the back of his hand caught her high on the cheekbone. She felt herself losing consciousness as the driver pulled away.

  ‘No fingerprints on the handle, Detective. It appears he used a glove.’

  ‘Damn. Like the O.J. case.’

  ‘But that’s just the handle. It gets better from here on out. There’s a lot we did find. We’ve got a speck of blood mixed with dirt on the blade so we can compare the DNA with Trevor Parent, your vic. If there’s something there, we’ll find it. The lab is working on it right now.’

  ‘It’s a start,’ Archer said.

  ‘Better than a start,’ the tech responded. ‘We found two prints on the blade. He wore a glove for the handle but for some reason didn’t wear a glove when he held the knife by the blade.’

  ‘The blade? You could have led with that,’ Archer said as he looked at the knife in the see-through plastic bag.

  ‘You can see where we dusted. A partial right index there, and’ – he turned the bag over – ‘a full-blown thumb here. At some time, someone held the knife by the blade and we’ve got their prints.’

  ‘That’s good news, but it doesn’t mean they’re the prints of the man who did the stabbing.’

  ‘No, but we got a positive ID and it’s not some little old lady who only used the knife to peel carrots.’

  ‘What’s the name?’

  ‘A banger named Dushane White. We brought him up and his list of priors is as long as your arm. You name it, he’s done it.’

  ‘Photo?’

  ‘Right here, on the screen.’

  Archer studied the image for a moment.

  ‘The scar on his cheek?’

  ‘Knife fight. He killed the other guy and got off on self-defense.’

  ‘The scar, the knife, we’ve got our guy. Absolutely no question,’ Archer said. ‘This is the guy who killed Trevor Parent.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  He was waiting for her in the restaurant as she walked in from the courtyard and they sat in a corner by a window, sipping champagne.

  ‘We raised over fifty thousand,’ she said. ‘With Adrien’s and my contribution it’s around one hundred ten thousand. It will go a long way toward what we need.’

  ‘Congratulations. I knew you could do it.’

  ‘Where’s the cute blonde?’

  ‘Had to leave early. Another obligation,’ Girard said. ‘But, she did leave a contribution for the shelter.’

  ‘Paul’ – she leaned in closer – ‘I need to know. How is your interview going with the gang member?’

  ‘I’ll know more tonight.’

  ‘I thought it was a done deal.’

  ‘The guy was all for laying it out as long as I blamed a rival gang. Then for some reason he called me this morning and told me it was off.’ He shrugged his shoulders and took a drink of champagne. ‘I think he got cold feet. He said he’d been wrong and the information he’d given me wasn’t accurate. He told me not to run the story.’

  She took a sip of champagne and crossed her legs. As her skirt rose he glanced at her smooth tan thighs. She was very attractive, and someone who could do a lot to help his career.

  ‘So you’re not doing the story?’

  ‘I called his bluff and told him I would write the story with or without his help. He immediately backed down and said he’d call me tonight. I hope he changed his mind. We’ll see.’

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘what do you think will happen?’

  ‘I think he’ll do the interview and I’ll get a great article for The New Yorker. I’m very hopeful.’

  ‘Paul, I’m going to ask you a big favor.’

  ‘Anything I can do to help.’

  ‘This is big.’

  ‘Ask,’ he said.

  ‘Hold the story.’

  Girard paused, then took a deep swallow of his sweet sparkling beverage, draining the glass.

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Hold the story? Why?’

  ‘I can’t give you all the specifics, but there are much bigger players involved. If you do get an inside scoop and you have your story published, it will destroy the plan to put an end to all of this.’

  He stared at her. ‘There’s a plan in place? So you’re telling me that authorities are already working on these gangs and my releasing information could jeopardize their mission?’

  ‘You’re very insightful. I am telling you that. It’s much deeper than you can imagine and I’m not at liberty to discuss all the details but—’

  ‘Marcia, Senator, The New Yorker wants to run this story. The freaking New Yorker. That means a whole lot to my career.’

  ‘Paul, we’re talking about a reprehensible business that nets hundreds of millions of criminal dollars in this state alone. We’re talking about the exploitation of thousands of—’

  ‘Senator,’ his voice getting louder, ‘I heard your speech. You referred to the numbers over and over again. Listen, I’ve been prepping this story for months. Trust me, I know the damned statistics.’ The New Yorker for Christ’s sake. Was she going to take that away from him?

  ‘Paul, strictly off the record, there are Federal authorities involved. This is taking a long time to come together so I’m asking you to do me this one favor. Will you hold the story? For a couple more months.’

  ‘I’m talking to my contact tonight.’

  They were quiet for a moment and Girard could hear the clicking of pool balls hitting each other in the next room. College kids playing for dollar bills. Glancing up on the wall behind her he saw a round mirror and the reflection of someone rapidly approaching their table.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the waitress set a purse in front of him. ‘You were with a young lady out in the courtyard?’

  ‘Yes. Is there a problem?’

  ‘A Kathy Bavely?’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We found her purse on the sidewalk and I believe this is her cell phone.’

  The lady handed him the phone and a red leather wallet, open to show Kathy’s photo on her driver’s license.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, there was no sign of her. The phone and purse were on the walk. We were hoping you could get these back to her.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘No one else here seems to know her.’

  ‘Sure, I—I’ll swing by her apartment and—’

  ‘Oh, and sir, just so you know, there was no money in the wallet. Obviously we would never … maybe she was robbed?’

  ‘No, I don’t think that was it. Thank you.’ The only bills she’d had in that wallet were the two twenties she’d put in Senator LeJeune’s collection plate.

  Solange left early. She’d begged off her duties for the rest of the day. Ma hadn’t been responsive and after a couple of hours with her, she was frustrated. She prayed, she did the work that she felt she must do and while she observed the successes of others tha
t she helped, she saw no success of her own. There was no one to turn to, no one to commiserate with. As she did every day, she wished that the gift, if that was what it was, had never been given to her.

  Dodging the pigeons, their shit, the beads and drink cups that littered the sidewalks and streets, and the hordes of people who crowded her path, she worked her way to the small shop, hoping for some peace and quiet. But there she found a homeless person huddled in her doorway, a sweater pulled tight across her shoulders, her head bowed low between her knees and Solange hoped that the woman hadn’t thrown up. It happened often and cleaning up vomit was not on her list of favorite things to do.

  Pausing twenty feet from the door, she wiped her brow. It was only sixty degrees but she broke into a sweat and closed her eyes for a moment. She knew. Kathy Bavely hadn’t written a message on paper. She hadn’t soaked it in rum, burned it and scattered the ashes outside her door. Kathy Bavely had ignored her advice and gone her own way. That was her choice, but there were consequences. Now Kathy Bavely was sitting in the doorway of Solange’s shop.

  She walked up to her and put her hand on her head. Slowly her friend raised her eyes and Solange recoiled. Kathy’s face was swollen, bruised black and blue around the eyes, and her lower lip was split. Dried blood coated her chin and upper lip where the thick red liquid had run from her nose.

  ‘I walked out on Paul.’ She whispered the words.

  ‘What?’ Solange leaned back, in awe and denial. ‘He did this to you? No. No.’ She didn’t believe it. The guy was a slimeball, but surely he would’t overreact like that.’

  ‘No. It wasn’t Paul.’

  The girl was crying, tears running down her cheeks, her sobs louder than her words.

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She was gasping for air. ‘Honest to God, Solange, I don’t know who they were.’

  Solange took her hand and helped her up. Unlocking the door, Solange helped Kathy into the shop.’

  ‘I need to get you to a hospital.’

  ‘No,’ she said emphatically.

  ‘Kathy …’

  ‘I need some time to compose myself. I’m sure I’ll be fine, but not right now, Solange.’

  ‘Then tell me what happened. Please, don’t leave anything out.’

  ‘They thought we’d be together.’ She took a deep breath and tried to control the sobbing.

  ‘Together? You and Paul?’

  ‘They wanted both of us, but of course … of course I had left him. On my own. It was probably stupid on my part, but he wouldn’t contribute to the shelter. Cheap son of a bitch.’ Collecting herself, she took several deep breaths. ‘It was all about his career, not about the abused women and children.’ She broke down again, sobbing uncontrollably. Gasping for air, she said, ‘It’s not safe out there, Solange.’

  ‘Why did they want you?’ She knew.

  ‘It was a warning. You told me. You warned me. How did you know this would happen?’

  Solange shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Kathy. I never know. Not for sure.’ She retreated to the room in the rear and returned with a warm, wet washcloth. Dabbing at the wounds, she cleaned some of the blood from her friend’s face.

  Kathy took deep breaths, calming some of her anxieties. ‘I know what you’re going to ask,’ she said. ‘The answer is no, Solange.’ The tears started again as she sat at the table, ‘I didn’t write the words or burn the paper. I didn’t scatter any ashes. You know that too, don’t you.’ She buried her head in her folded arms.

  ‘What did they say? Your attackers.’

  ‘They told me I had to tell him not to write the story. The biggest man, there were three, hit me three or four times. They said this story is much bigger than Paul, and he would be the next one to pay a price if he didn’t shut it down.’

  Solange took her hand. ‘I know you think this is silly, not dignified. But do this for me, Kathy.’

  ‘Anything,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Do this and never speak of it again. I will do my damnedest to protect you. Do you understand?’

  The girl nodded.

  Solange pulled a small hand held mirror from a drawer behind the countertop and laid it on the table face up. Reaching a shelf behind the counter, she pulled down a small jar of herbs.

  ‘Mugwort,’ she said. ‘An aromatic plant, used in Japan, Korea, China as an herb. Used by me as a powerful tool to ward off spirits.’

  ‘Honest to God, Solange, this is just so weird.’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  She sprinkled a pinch of the dried herb on the reflective glass, then putting her hand on top, she looked intensely into Kathy’s eyes.

  ‘Put your hand on mine. We must cover the mirror. Do it.’

  Bavely place her hand on top of Solange’s.

  ‘Now, repeat after me. Say exactly what I say, do you understand?’

  ‘Whatever you want me to say.’

  ‘You cannot see me.’

  As though hypnotized, Kathy said, ‘You cannot see me.’

  ‘You cannot hear me.’

  ‘You cannot hear me.’

  ‘You do not want me.’

  ‘You do not want me.’

  ‘Now let me be.’

  The young girl almost shouted it out. ‘Now let me be.’

  The knock on the door startled them both.

  Solange rose and answered the call, opening the door just a crack.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you open?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Please.’ It was a young woman’s voice.

  Opening the door further and peering out onto the crowded street, Solange saw the two girls. Both held drink cups and wore skin-tight jeans with leather jackets. Deliver her from drunken college girls.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A spell. A potion. That’s what you do, right? You cast spells, make voodoo dolls, things like that?’

  ‘Do you even know what you’re talking about?’ she asked. ‘Tell me, do you know why you’re here?’

  ‘We need money,’ the one girl spoke in a boozy drawl.

  ‘We need boyfriends,’ the other one laughed. ‘Rich, hung, handsome boyfriends. Can you arrange that?’

  ‘I need some peace and quiet,’ Solange said. ‘I put a spell on both of you that you will never again bother people with your trivial pursuits.’

  She held up all ten fingers, then, making two fists she thrust them at the drunken girls who shrieked and ran.

  ‘Will that work? Seriously?’ Kathy Bavely had composed herself.

  ‘No.’ Solange smiled. ‘I made it up on the spot, but hopefully they’ll get sober and give it a rest.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘Archer,’ he answered, not recognizing the number.

  ‘Quentin, it’s Solange Cordray.’

  He stopped still. Her voice caused him to hold his breath for a moment. There was a cold, icy feeling in his chest.

  ‘Miss Cordray.’

  ‘We need to talk. Soon. Very soon.’

  ‘Uh …’ The urgency in her voice was undeniable. ‘Is everything OK? Are you in some kind of trouble?’

  ‘No, it’s not me, Detective. There’s something deeper than the can of gas and energy that we worked with. I believe I have some important information that may help you. Where can we meet?’

  ‘Here? At my office?’

  ‘No. Not acceptable. A neutral ground.’

  ‘Tomorrow? We could meet for coffee.’ He had a full agenda today.

  ‘Today. In the next hour.’

  Impossible. He didn’t have enough hours in the day even to do what had to be done immediately. There was a massive amount of paperwork, an organizational nightmare trying to orchestrate the arrest warrant and capture of Dushane White, thorough background checks on every known member of Warhead Solja and there was an urgent call he’d missed from the stripper, Alexia Chantel, that he needed to return and … shit. Shit, shit, shit!

  ‘OK, Miss C
ordray, you name the—’

  ‘Rita’s Tequila House on Bourbon Street.’

  ‘Really?’ A bar in the Quarter. Hardly a spot where information should be traded. But then, this was New Orleans.

  ‘They’ve got a courtyard that will be empty this time of day. We can talk outside and no one will bother us.’

  ‘I can be there,’ he said letting out a slow breath. Josh Levy and some other officers could start working on the warrant and finding White. They’d already ascertained that Warhead Solja hung out in Treme, so it was a matter of surveillance. Waiting. Waiting. A clerk could start filling out some of the basic paperwork and the rest could wait. He’d take it home and work late. Rita’s Tequila House. Really? He didn’t picture the voodoo guru as a tequila kind of lady.

  ‘Be careful.’

  ‘It’s usually me who tells people to be careful,’ he said.

  ‘Not today, Detective. There’s some bad energy going around and I don’t want you to catch it.’

  It was thirty minutes to the Quarter and he jumped off the streetcar and walked Bourbon Street to Rita’s Tequila House. Alexia Chantel had tended bar here, infatuated or in love with a guitar player. Now, he was meeting with a young lady that he might be infatuated with. The feelings were bothering him. Archer took a lungful of cool air and braced himself.

  She sat outside by a stone fireplace with an inviting blaze, the warmth a welcome relief from the chilly afternoon.

  ‘Quentin, thank you for coming.’ She sipped a margarita, salt glistening on the rim of the glass. The voodoo queen wore tight jeans and knee-high leather boots, and he gazed longer than he should have.

  ‘You’ve got some information?’

  She motioned him to sit.

  ‘Would you like a drink? I felt like I needed one.’

  Archer stared longingly at the glass.

  ‘No. I’m on duty. But believe me I would join you if I could. I could do with a drink right now.

  ‘Maybe someday when you are off duty.’ The offer hung out there.

  Archer clenched. For a second he considered an actual date, a drink, a casual flirtation with this lady.

  ‘You’ve got some information?’

  ‘I think I can shed some new light on your thrill kills.’