by Mary Ellis
Nicki ducked into the next shop, stepping from the sidewalk’s flow of humanity.
A tall man with wavy hair and oily skin stopped short in the open doorway. “Nicki Price?” he asked with a melodic drawl.
When he reached inside his jacket, she shouted, “Hold it right there, buddy!” She pretended to go for her own weapon under her cotton blazer.
“Easy there, lady. I’m Detective Russ Saville, NOPD.” He flashed a badge. “You been watchin’ too many old cop shows.”
“Can’t be too careful these days,” she said. When he covered his shield, Nicki spotted a shoulder holster.
“I just want to ask you a few questions about your new best friend, Hunter Galen.” Saville’s smile was reminiscent of a used car salesman trying to sell a vehicle pulled from the muck of Katrina.
“I don’t think so. I’m late for an appointment.”
Nicki tried to step past him, but with his size and agility, the detective easily blocked her path. “You’re still waiting on your concealed carry permit, no? You don’t want me to file a complaint with the commission that you’re uncooperative with law enforcement, do you, sugar?”
“I’m not being uncooperative, Detective. I just don’t know anything. There’s a big difference. And my name’s not ‘sugar.’ ” Nicki straightened her back to increase her height.
“You’d be surprised what you might know. Let’s go somewhere we can talk.” Saville took hold of her upper arm and practically dragged her from the doorway.
Nicki tugged free from his grasp but followed him into the alley nevertheless. She decided it would be good to know what the cops thought they had on Hunter. “What can I do for you? I’m curious as to why you like Hunter for Nowak’s murder so much. Plenty of clients have motive.”
“That’s much better, Jessica Fletcher from Natchez.” Saville laughed down at her. “It pays to stay friendly with law enforcement when you’re a PI. You never know when you may need a real cop to rescue you.”
Nicki’s revulsion notched up a level. “I don’t mind talking as long as we’re trading information.”
“All right. Tell me why a nice girl like you wants to work in the Big Easy? You think you can step into your cousin’s shoes now that his license is gonna be yanked?” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “Nate Price has been on the Galen payroll for years, even though he hasn’t done an honest day’s work since old man Galen went to his crypt in Lafayette Cemetery. Is he pulling your strings like some puppeteer?”
“A puppet doesn’t have strings, Detective. You’re thinking of a marionette. And nobody pulls mine. I came to New Orleans to work for him. Now I work for Mr. Galen. I’m a licensed investigator who’s looking into his partner’s murder and whatever scams Mr. Nowak may have been involved with.” Nicki could have kicked herself. There was no reason to tell the cops that James stole from his clients.
“I don’t give a hoot how many people Nowak ripped off—that’s the feds’ business. I know who killed the guy—Hunter Galen—and you’re going to help me prove it.” Saville’s lips pulled back to reveal yellowed teeth when he laughed again. Someone needed to tell him about smoker’s toothpaste.
“Why would I help you?” Nicki hefted her tote bag higher on her shoulder. “I just told you I work for the man you’re trying to hang this on.”
He took his time lighting a cigarette. “Let me count the ways. First, do you have a Louisiana license? You ain’t in Mississippi anymore where they give anybody one. So I could run you out of town on the next barge headed upriver. Or I can arrest you for obstruction of justice and hold you for questioning for twenty-four hours. Maybe a couple nights in lockup will change your mind about our fair city. Of course, none of this will look good to the review board, you being from the most recent graduation class and all.” He exhaled smoke in her direction.
Nicki moved upwind and changed her tack. “I am licensed in your fair state, so why are you so worried about me? I’m just doing my job and earning a paycheck. If you have the necessary evidence to convict Hunter, you have nothing to worry about from me.” Nicki smiled as sweetly as she could considering the cigarette smoke.
Saville leaned so close they were almost nose-to-nose. “Do I look worried to you?”
Nicki had the distinct impression he’d changed shirts without bothering to shower first. She took a step back. “Not especially, but we’ve only just met. And since you’re not worried, you’ve got no reason to run me out of town.”
“Maybe you’re just getting on people’s nerves, burrowing under their skin like a chigger. I see you following Galen around like a groupie. Is that what you are, sugar, a Galen groupie?”
“It’s your turn, Detective Saville. What motive does Hunter have to kill his partner? Or doesn’t motive count much in the state of Louisiana?”
“Oh, Galen had plenty of motive. He probably found out his sweet little girlfriend was seeing his partner behind his back. Can’t say I’d blame the woman much. Miss Menard paid Nowak a social call that afternoon. Or haven’t you gotten that far in your investigation?”
Nicki swallowed hard. She hadn’t known about Ashley’s visit. There had been no mention on Nowak’s day planner or on Naomi’s calendar. “There could be all kinds of reasons why Ashley went to see him. They were friends.”
“Man, I wish my friends looked like that. I’d cancel the rest of my appointments.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know all about Nowak’s scams. He was running the partnership into the ground while skimming profits to his own bank account.” He shook his head and a lock of hair fell across his greasy forehead.
She sighed. “All right. Nowak was up to no-good that Hunter would have to make right. But he and his family are rich. They have plenty of eggs in their basket. They’re not going to kill somebody over a couple of mil.”
“Money ain’t everything to men like Galen. They got their reputation and the family name to worry about. Nowak pissed off every client they had, but it’s Galen’s name that would take the trouncing. Mama don’t want the muckety-mucks saying her little boy was nothing but a thief in a thousand-dollar suit. Family status—that’s something you probably don’t know nothing about. Ain’t that right, country girl? They got a debutante ball out in Jefferson County, Mississippi?”
Nicki didn’t like it that the detective had checked on her background, but she refused to let it show. “Sure, we have a cotillion. It’s the weekend after the women’s mud wrestling championship. Winners of both events ride front and center in the Memorial Day parade. Why don’t you come up that weekend? I’d bet it’s just your style.”
He smiled, slow and easy. “Because I’m having too much fun down here. I think I’ve got you figured out, Nicolette Price. You came on down to your first real job with an expense account and a smooth-as-silk boss. You’re just sittin’ in high cotton now, aren’t you, country girl?”
“What are you talking about?” Nicki’s right hand bunched into a fist as though punching him in the face might be a possibility.
“You think that if you solve the case and get Mr. Deep Pockets off for his partner’s murder, then old Hunter will fall madly in love with you.” He shook his head sadly. “You must not have seen your competition. That Miz Menard is the total package—pretty face, hot body, and pleasin’ personality.” Saville sneered at a homeless man digging around in a trash can before refocusing on her. “You know what I’m talkin’ about? Then you throw in the added bonus of her daddy’s money, and I say Miz Menard sweeps the series. What you got goin’ for you, Nicki? A dead shot with a squirrel rifle? You can cook up a mean pot of roadkill stew with some sweet cornbread?” He laughed once more with little amusement before a hint of pity crept into his expression. “Rich people—they marry their own kind.”
Nicki’s complexion turned the color of boiled lobster at serving time. “I told you, Detective. My interest is purely professional.”
“Sure, I understand, but let me give you a little advice anyway. You’re
pretty enough for cruising the Winn Dixie parking lot on a Saturday night in upstate Mississippi, but old lady Galen ain’t inviting you to no tea party in the Garden District. So don’t jeopardize that PI license you worked so hard for. Galen did it. That I am sure of. He whacked his partner and thinks he’s rich enough to get away with it. If you do anything stupid—withhold evidence or cover his tracks—you’ll end up in jail too.” Pulling a business card from his pocket, he held it up in front of her. “Don’t get in my way, Nicki Price. I’m bringing Hunter Galen down, and it don’t make no never-mind to me if you go down with him or not.” He stuck the card in her shirt pocket and strolled toward the street.
She remained rooted where she was standing until the homeless man foraging in the trash bins made her more nervous than the arrogant cop. When she exited the alley, Saville was nowhere in sight, but one thing was crystal clear. The man was bound and determined to pin the murder on Hunter. And his desire went deeper than pride in his job. Detective Saville hated Hunter, so he wouldn’t be looking for the real killer any time soon. The suggestion of planted evidence and covering up tracks had been on his mind, not hers.
Nicki didn’t appreciate his unfavorable comparison between her and Ashley, but that didn’t matter now. She had a job to do. Hunter had a very real enemy—one sworn to protect and serve. His enemy wore a fully loaded Glock with an extra clip in his pocket. It looked as if she might earn her paycheck after all.
TWENTY-FIVE
Although this was the twenty-first century and she was a licensed private investigator with access to all kinds of law enforcement databases, Nicki decided to visit St. Landry Parish the very next morning to obtain the sheriff’s report of her father’s disappearance. No phone call, fax machine, or email request felt right for something so personal.
Last night she’d met Nate for dinner so she could bring him up to speed on the case. Hunter had called during the meal to say that because he would probably need her on Saturday, she was free to do as she pleased on Friday.
She took Route 10 to Lafayette and then opted for the scenic route to the city of Opelousas. Along the way she spotted several antebellum mansions, as well as many tiny homes on postage-stamp lots. Residents’ possessions—effluvia from sports and hobbies—spilled over into yards and driveways as though it didn’t rain on a regular basis. Stuff was everywhere, yet none of it looked new or worth much. People of all ages lounged on porches, tinkered on cars, and played on rusty jungle gyms. What is the unemployment rate in this part of Louisiana? she wondered, considering that everyone seemed to be home on a midweek day.
In a perverse way Nicki was heartened by the snapshot of poverty and hardship, comforted that she wasn’t the only one who hailed from modest roots. Working for a wealthy man and living in a city where tourists bought hundred-dollar breakfasts and overpriced foo-foo drinks had skewed her perspective. Far more Americans lived like these families than Hunter’s rich friends in the Garden District.
Once Nicki reached the charming parish seat, she easily found the sheriff’s department. The friendly woman at the counter, Sophie Godrey, called her “honey” at least six times during their brief conversation. Once Nicki had showed her ID and provided what information she had regarding dates and locations, the dispatcher searched databases.
“Uh-oh,” she said. “Unless you have a court order, I’m afraid I can’t help you. This is still an open case. Because no charges were filed, nothing is public record.” Her expression was sympathetic.
“Who would have access to the report?”
“The DA, our homicide detectives, of course, and any member of law enforcement with proper identification.”
“I see.” Nicki tried to shake off her disappointment. “May I speak with one of your homicide detectives, ma’am?”
“None of them are here. I don’t expect any in the office until after lunch.”
Nicki glanced at the clock on the wall. It wasn’t even ten yet. “Could you make a copy of my PI license and give it to him or her along with my request? I will be back this afternoon to speak with one of them.”
“I’ll do my best, honey. Can’t make any promises.”
Nicki passed the time at the library. The librarian directed her to the sole computer capable of accessing newspapers from the past. Because most patrons surfed the Internet or downloaded games, the library’s archives weren’t available at all terminals. For two hours Nicki scanned stories about road repair fiascos, fund-raising misappropriations, convenience store robberies, and political backstabbing, but she found no mention of a Mississippi resident missing in the swamp. Perhaps a husband disappearing into thin air—or dark water—wasn’t as newsworthy as a PTA mom paying her cable bill with cookie sale profits.
When her stomach growled loud enough to be heard, Nicki drove to the café recommended by Mrs. Godrey. While nibbling on a shrimp po’boy, Nicki studied a brochure from the tourist rack. The Atchafalaya National Wildlife Refuge—home to bobcats, muskrats, minks, alligators, and eighty-five species of fish—was a small part of a huge basin of swamps, lakes, and bayous flowing toward the Gulf of Mexico. One and a half million acres to be exact. How will I ever be able to find the last person to see my father alive? Staggered by the size of the playground for hunters and fishermen, Nicki forced herself to focus. Her Aunt Charlotte knew the exact location of the cabin. Once she had a copy of the police report, she would have every name she needed to find answers.
Tucking the brochure into her purse, Nicki returned to the sheriff’s department and was promptly interrogated as to what she had for lunch. Perhaps Mrs. Godrey thought she said food critic instead of PI from New Orleans. After Nicki finished her restaurant review she was told that none of the detectives were in the office. She could either wait or come back tomorrow. Nicki headed to the bench along the wall and settled back.
Two hours later, when she’d begun to doze with her head against the hard wall, Mrs. Godrey shook her shoulder. “You may read this here but not take it with you. Detective Brown has no further information for you.” The woman handed Nicki a manila folder and returned to her post.
With shaking hands Nicki opened the folder and gazed on the September 1998 report filed by Sheriff Tom Latanier.
The cabin was owned by Charles Price, permanent address Natchez, Mississippi. Witnesses interviewed had been playing poker and drinking on Friday when an argument ensued between Kermit Price and Theodore “Junior” Cheval. Kermit Price left the cabin in a homemade canoe at approximately midnight after reportedly surrendering his winnings to Junior Cheval of Clay Creek, Mississippi. Mr. Price did not return during the period the cabin remained occupied. At approximately six p.m., Charles Price called the St. Landry Sheriff’s Department. Responding to call were Sheriff Tom Latanier, and Officers Roulish and McDuff. Witnesses interviewed the night of Saturday, September 13, reported hearing no gunshots in the general vicinity. Officer Roulish tested the cabin’s occupants’ hands for gunshot residue. Negative. Eleven firearms were collected from the premises, none recently discharged. The fishing dock, bank of unnamed canal, and back porch were all negative for blood residue. No evidence of foul play inside the cabin or surrounding perimeter. Mr. Price’s body was later discovered by the St. Martin Parish Sheriff’s Department on Thursday, September 18, where it was then transferred to the St. Martin Medical Examiner. Coroner’s report attached.
Nothing on the page was particularly helpful except for the names and addresses of the six witnesses. The report had been signed by Sheriff Latanier, St. Landry Parish, and dated November 1998. Conclusion: Insufficient evidence at this time to continue homicide investigation.
A cold case, not accidental death? Nicki flipped to the next sheet, a coroner’s report dated ten days after the Saturday disappearance. She skimmed the facts while spicy shrimp churned in her belly. Apparently her father’s corpse had been devoured by fish, crabs, and alligators, in addition to normal decomposition in heavily vegetated water. But one detail grabbed her attention
from the clinical findings.
Skull indentation consistent with a single gunshot wound to the head, type of weapon and caliber of bullet unknown. Inconclusive cause of death, possible self-inflicted, probable homicide.
Nicki took another look at the list of witnesses. Charles Price. Andre Martin. Eugene Martin. Terrence Cheval. Theodore Cheval. Louis Cheval. Her three uncles and the mysterious three brothers from Clay Creek. Most likely one of those men was a killer. Her father hadn’t stormed off in a pirogue after being robbed of ill-gotten winnings. Someone had shot him in the head and dumped his body in the swamp.
Back at the counter, the helpful Mrs. Godrey explained that Sheriff Latanier had retired eleven years ago. “I’d just started with the department,” she said. “But the town threw quite a shindig, including a full seafood buffet—shrimp, crab, oysters, fried catfish—you name it. Sheriff Latanier even drank a Budweiser that night, and everybody knew he was a teetotaler.” She shook her head as though still shocked by the incongruity.
Nicki clucked her tongue appropriately. “Sounds like a wonderful retirement party. Everyone must have loved and respected him. Could I please have his address or perhaps a phone number?”
Mrs. Godrey quickly sobered. “Oh, no, honey. We don’t release our officers’ personal information whether retired or currently on payroll. It’s department policy.” She leaned across the desk. “Too many folks with axes to grind, if you know what I mean.”
Nicki kept her initial thought to herself. But you saw I had no outstanding warrants. “Could you at least give the sheriff my contact information? With all due respect, I’d like to talk to him either by phone or in person.” Nicki placed her business card on the counter.
