Midnight on the Mississippi

by Mary Ellis

  TWO

  Because a lightweight speedboat spent more time above the waves than touching water, Hunter was on dry land and headed toward the city within twenty minutes.

  James had better be having a heart attack or being robbed at gunpoint to take Hunter away from a party he’d been planning for months. He clenched down on his molars as he wove his way down Pontchartrain Boulevard far above the speed limit. He tried calling James’s Metairie townhouse to no avail. With few other ideas, he drove to their downtown office. Nobody in their right mind would still be working after midnight on a Saturday night, but his partner often fit that description.

  They had been best friends since pledging the same fraternity at Auburn College. Something about suffering hazing rituals had forged a bond during their freshman year. Later, when they shared a passion for stocks and high-flying investments, they talked about forming a partnership after graduation. James had interned and then been hired by a conservative investment house to gain experience. He had described it as Blue-Haired Boredom, Incorporated. Rebalancing portfolios twice a year to maximize returns and generate additional income didn’t float his boat. As soon as his contract expired and James felt comfortable venturing out on his own, he approached his college friend.

  Hunter had gained his sea legs at big brother Ethan’s insurance firm. The work was even less exciting than James’s experience because Galen customers preferred conservative annuities for their financial nest eggs. In addition to that, Ethan, as CEO, oversaw every transaction Hunter made, tempering his younger brother’s enthusiasm for adventurous investing. Hunter found himself playing solitaire on his computer during client phone calls to keep from falling asleep. Face-to-face meetings to discuss financial goals and risk assessment were similar to Chinese water torture. When he advised one particularly indecisive customer to “simply stash your money under the mattress where it will be safe,” he knew he’d reached the end of his tenure with Galen Insurance. It was time to strike out on his own, to take a chance.

  James Nowak shared the same desire to broker aggressive stocks and investments for risk-taking clients. No one liked to lose money when a market tanked or a particularly hot tip cooled off like January rain on a parade, but Galen-Nowak customers understood the risk-reward concept. No risk, no chance of high returns on your savings. Their company wasn’t for the faint of heart or those who depended on interest income to supplement their Social Security checks. But just as a person shouldn’t take his mortgage money to Las Vegas, Hunter tutored his clients to maintain diversified portfolios and not gamble more than they could afford to lose.

  It was of no consequence that the brokerage start-up capital came from a trust fund Hunter inherited from his grandfather. James didn’t have one red cent left after paying for his rehabbed condo, a new Corvette, and his steady stream of new-and-improved girlfriends. The trust fund would be paid back gradually as the business amassed clients and profits. Hunter wasn’t worried about his initial investment. It was those that followed he started to question.

  The parameters of their business partnership had been carefully spelled out in a contract, with everything above board. It didn’t matter that James wouldn’t see profits beyond his monthly paycheck for at least ten years. His salary was substantial.

  Hunter forced himself to relax as he pulled into the parking lot. James’s dark-green sports car gleamed even in dim light. For the second time that night, Hunter counted his blessings and tamped down an uneasy feeling in his gut. Foghorns on the river and faint sounds from the cruise ship terminal carried on the night air as he unlocked the door at the employee entrance. After a short elevator ride to the top floor, he stepped into their ultramodern office. Windows overlooked his beloved city, struggling to redefine itself after the cruel blow nature delivered the summer of 2005.

  Hunter threaded his way between the secretarial desks and broker cubicles. Trash cans overflowed with almost as much debris next to them as within, while computer printouts and stacks of analyst reports cluttered every desktop. Brokerage houses looked as if they had been in a tornado’s path by the end of the day. The cleaning crew apparently had not reached their office yet in their evening rotation.

  Hunter felt an ominous twinge of dread as he approached the pair of executive suites spanning the back of the building. James’s light was on. Equal in proportion and ambience, the two offices shared an adjoining bathroom complete with shower and double closets so that neither partner received more than the other. Hunter had even leased his own Corvette, not to be outdone in flashy horsepower. He laughed at himself, thinking how competitive young men could be.

  “Hey, buddy,” he called. Hunter pushed open the carved oak door. “Here I am. What is so urgent that it couldn’t wait?”

  His question hung unanswered in midair. Client files, usually stacked on the left, had been scattered across the floor. Coffee cups, newspapers, mail, and desktop detritus had been swept from the surface. On the computer monitor, photos of Mardi Gras floats rotated on the screensaver. Then Hunter’s blood turned cold. A body was sprawled on the floor next to the desk in an odd, frozen pose. One knee was bent to the side as though he’d tried to rise but changed his mind mid-attempt. Men didn’t pass out in such poses. On the carpet a dark stain fanned from the head.

  Hunter’s dinner of crab ragout and lobster thermidore churned in his gut like acid. Lurching forward, he uttered a strangled, “James! What have you done?”

  Watching a lifetime of horror movies and cop shows hadn’t prepared him to find his best friend lying in a pool of blood. Bile rose in Hunter’s throat as he stumbled back. Fighting his gag reflex, he steadied himself with the desk and blinked several times to be sure his mind hadn’t concocted the terrible scene.

  Nowak’s brown eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. Near his right hand, on the imported Aubusson carpet their decorator had insisted upon, rested a handgun. Hunter had never seen the gun before. Several absurd notions ran through his brain. James doesn’t own a gun. He hates hunting. He would rather get his exercise hitting golf balls into a water trap or bending his nine-iron around a tree trunk.

  Hunter reached out and grasped the cold steel of the gun. He hefted its weight and balance, the smooth finish. The anxiety that had begun in the back of his mind surged into a roar of frustration. “James, what did you do? What could have been so bad we couldn’t work it out?” He dropped the gun, grabbed both lapels of James’s jacket, and pulled him up. It was the same Armani suit he’d bought the day they signed their partnership papers.

  James’s head lolled back as Hunter half shook the dead man. Fighting down a wave of nausea and revulsion, he lowered the body back to the floor. The coppery stench of blood filled the shadowy office. Hunter didn’t hear the approaching sirens or shouts of identification as men entered the office. He heard nothing until someone spoke next to his ear along with the distinctive click of a round being chambered into place.

  “Hold it right there, buddy. NOPD.” Someone spoke with the slow drawl of upstate Alabama. “Show me your hands and get up real slow. Don’t do anything quick-like. What’s going on here? We got a call ’bout a robbery in progress, and look what we got instead.”

  Hunter stared up into the face of a New Orleans patrol officer, who was aiming his gun on the center of Hunter’s chest. Another cop in a blue uniform entered the office from the right with a second piece of firepower.

  The first officer kicked away the weapon and yanked Hunter to his feet by his jacket. After moving to the outer office, Hunter explained who he was and why he was there, but even after producing identification, one of the officers kept his eye on him.

  EMTs, someone from the coroner’s office, and crime scene techs flowed into the executive offices in a steady stream. Although a gurney went in, James never came out of his home-away-from-home. When Hunter failed to supply sought-after answers, he was handcuffed and taken to precinct headquarters. He was told he would be held overnight for questioning. Considering the family
lawyer was dancing with his mother at her party, he refused the offer to have counsel present during his interrogation. He preferred to take his chances in county lockup rather than ruin Clotilde’s birthday.

  In the end, he spent the remainder of the evening in a holding cell surrounded by drunks and disorderlies. With such an assortment of companions, despite the luxurious accommodations, somehow Hunter knew he wouldn’t sleep a wink that night.

  THREE

  Three days later

  Office of Nathan Price Investigations

  Mr. Price? Someone is here to see you. The woman says she’s your cousin.” The assistant’s tone of voice indicated she didn’t believe that to be the case.

  Nate pressed the intercom button. “She got a name, Maxine? Or is she just a generic cousin?” He stuffed police reports and preliminary evidence findings into his battered leather briefcase. He needed to talk to the so-called witnesses who reportedly overheard Hunter and James arguing recently. And he especially needed to talk again to Hunter. He’d been evasive about the matter, as though fighting with a partner was just business as usual. Nowak’s death was being handled as a potential homicide, even though evidence that ruled out self-inflicted death wasn’t in the files Nate had received.

  “She says her name is Nicolette Price.” Again Maxine’s voice betrayed her skepticism.

  Nate’s mind conjured up an image of a skinny, all-elbows-and-knees tomboy who had followed him around like a spaniel at family reunions, graduations, and wedding receptions. Her pale blond hair usually needed washing and hung in a tangle around her shoulders. He and his male cousins would invent elaborate schemes to rid themselves of the pest, including locking her up in the boat shed for hours at a time. He was assessing the windows for possible escape routes when the unstoppable Nicolette pushed open his door and marched in.

  Well, she didn’t exactly march. It was more along the lines of a totter on ridiculously high heels. Her jungle mane of frizzy hair at least had been tamed into normal curls, and the young woman no longer dressed in camouflage fatigues. However, her huge brown eyes contained the same persistent determination as before.

  “Hello, cousin. Do you remember me? It’s Nicki.” She held out her hand, no longer adorned with huge rings and nail art.

  Nate stared, a bit slack-jawed. Her conservative navy blue suit and starched white blouse were straight from a Murder She Wrote episode.

  “Nicki Price,” she said, her hand still hovering in the air. “Your Aunt Rose’s daughter. I’m down from Natchez, Mississippi. What’s the matter with you, Nate? I haven’t changed that much.” Her slow Delta drawl morphed into a tone of clipped impatience.

  Okay, this was the cousin he remembered. He shook her hand to keep it from falling off her arm. “Hey, Nicki. How ya doin’? You here to do some sightseeing in the big city? I’m a little tied up today, but maybe I can point you in the right direction—”

  “I didn’t come to be a tourist. I’m here to help. And from what I read in the paper, you can use me.” Without being asked, she sat down into the chair in front of his desk and adjusted her skirt hem carefully.

  He tried not to sound as impatient as he felt. “What exactly do I need help with? I buy all my catfish at the grocery store these days, and I haven’t bashed in anybody’s mailbox in years.”

  A stony glare rewarded his attempt at humor. “That was a joke,” he said, folding his hands on his desk.

  “I’m here to help with the Nowak investigation. Based on what they reported in the Times, I believe Hunter Galen will be charged with murder. If you plan to keep him out of jail, I suggest we find the real killer or your best friend’s brother is on his way to Angola.”

  “Nicki, how could you possibly help me?”

  “I finished my courses in investigation and have taken two years of classes at Alcorn State. I’m fully trained and qualified to assist you in solving this case.”

  He scratched the stubble on his jaw. “I remember my mom telling me you were at Alcorn, but that seems like a long time ago.” He put special emphasis on the word “long” just to needle her.

  “I had to work to put myself through school.” She selected her own word to emphasize, sounding peevish. “It took me longer than you because I didn’t get a full ride to LSU on a football scholarship.”

  “Easy, cousin. It’s not my fault women’s sports don’t command the respect or financial support they deserve.”

  “Sorry.” She exhaled a sigh. “It’s been a long time since I defended volleyball as a serious team sport.”

  As Nate laughed the tension in the room seemed to disappear. “Are you licensed in the state of Louisiana?”

  “I read the Louisiana training manual, took their classes, and I now have my license. I applied for a concealed carry permit, but the state must finish their background check on me.” She straightened her spine against the chair.

  “Will you have it soon?”

  The slight flare of her nostrils betrayed he already knew the answer to that one. “After I log in a few more hours at the firing range, but I’m working on it. You know I’m a crack shot, Nate.”

  “We don’t line up soda cans on the fence rail in New Orleans and shoot ’em off with a squirrel rifle, Nicki. We have really bad guys down here. Some of them are a crack shot too.” He spoke slowly, his words holding a note of pity, as though consoling a not very bright child. “I don’t want to explain to Aunt Rose how her only child ended up in the hospital…or worse.” He shook his head as he rose to his feet. “Why don’t we get caught up with family gossip over supper some time?”

  “I can help with your investigation, Nate, even before my permit to carry comes through. You need me, considering the way this case is going so far.” Scrambling to her feet, Nicki tugged her skirt down.

  “Why exactly do I need you? I have an assistant. Maxine is all the support staff I can afford at the moment. Look around, kid. The population is nowhere near what it used to be. That means fewer missing children, fewer wayward spouses, and not as many employers spying on their employees. Business is off. I can’t afford to put you on the payroll just because you’re my favorite cousin.” He reached out to cuff her chin playfully the way he used to do.

  She swatted his hand away. “I’m not asking for charity. I’m asking for a chance to prove myself. This is a high-profile case. Every little dribble of information lands on the front page or the six o’clock news. You’re just one man. And apparently you’re not great with media damage control. Just think how many clients may find a way to your door if you help this Galen guy beat the rap.”

  Nate’s good humor vanished. “Hunter Galen didn’t kill his partner, Nicki. I’m not trying to help him get away with murder.”

  “Whatever. I’ve gone through the training and I can be an asset. I’m just asking for a break. You owe me after tormenting me for years.”

  Nate felt a twinge tighten his gut. “Did you really think I was that rotten?” he asked, trying to sound astonished. “I thought we got along pretty good.”

  She shook her head, her hair floating around her shoulders like a mane. “More like a cat playing with a mouse—real nice at first, but then the cat chomps off the little mouse’s head once it gets bored.”

  “I never once chomped off your head.” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Look, even if I were willing to give you your first big break, where would you live? Cheap places to stay are nonexistent. And I’m not good with roommates. My advice is to go home. Get some experience in Mississippi. Cut your teeth in a small town before you come down to the big leagues.”

  “How many paying customers do you think I can find in Natchez? Oh, except for our next-door neighbor, who hired me to find her missing cat. She insisted I take a ten-spot, which I donated to the animal shelter. I’ve already given up the lease on my apartment, and I have a place to stay. I didn’t plan to mooch off you.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Where, Nicolette? Where are you staying?”

  She
hesitated as though reluctant to divulge too many details. “In a trailer park in Chalmette with an old friend of mine. It’s a short commute down St. Claude and I have a car.”

  “In an old FEMA trailer?” His brow furrowed with concern. “That’s no place to live. Those little communities are dangerous, ma petite. You tell your friend to get out of there too. It’s not safe for single women.” He glanced at his watch. “I gotta go, but give me your number. I’ll call you and we can talk more later. I’m supposed to meet the dangerous murderer in ten minutes.”

  FOUR

  The moment Nicki handed Nate her number, the tormentor of her youth—the boy who once drilled holes in her pirogue and laughed while she swam to shore in green water—bolted toward the door. She stared at the back of his expensive, well-tailored suit, the kind her kin back home couldn’t hope to be buried in, until he disappeared. Only one option came to mind as she glanced around the cluttered but tastefully decorated office. She did what she had been trained for. She followed him like the professional private investigator she was.

  While Nicki tracked her cousin through the city streets, she arrived at three distinct conclusions. First, men in general treated traffic like some kind of adversary to be defeated. Second, Nate loved to speed to the next traffic light and then slam on the brakes. Why couldn’t men just adjust their speeds accordingly? And third, tailing someone on television looked much easier than it really was. Nicki thought she had lost him for sure until she spotted his sleek black Volvo squeezing into a tiny parking space. She wouldn’t have attempted to park there on a bet. Hanging back to not give herself away, she waited for another spot to open up.

  After five minutes and two trips around the block, Nicki pulled her compact into the driveway of an abandoned building. Though a hand-painted sign proclaimed the entire area a loading zone, the building looked abandoned. She’d read that police cruisers on patrol in New Orleans were still few and far between since Katrina. Fewer parish residents meant less tax dollars for city services, stretching every municipal department’s budget. Nicki decided to take her chances. Parking next to the deserted building, she walked toward the only eating establishment on the block.