And So it Began

by Owen Mullen

‘It’s a question, isn’t it?’ He sounded tired. ‘Anyway, we’re coming back to New Orleans to feedback and update. We’ll do the same thing in every state.’

  ‘Hope you like flying.’

  ‘Hate it. At least it gets me out of being the media guy. Nobody needs that shit.’

  ‘Thanks for the status check. See you soon.’

  I thought about Mrs Valasquez, Mimi’s mother. How was she supposed to get over it? In that alley, yesterday afternoon, the life had been squeezed from her too.

  My mind panhandled what McLaren had said. Two things struck me as unusual. No trace evidence told me our killer was very, very careful: very prepared. And, how could a murderer drift in and out of places without a single person seeing them?

  The biggest mystery of all.

  Part II

  Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word

  8

  North Le Moyne, New Orleans

  Clyde Hays counted coins into the cupped palm of the fragile hand. ‘And thank you,’ he said when he was done, ending the transaction with an easy smile. He knew the Creole lady on the other side of the counter; she’d been a customer of his many times in the past. The woman took her change, adding it with painstaking slowness to her purse and began to rearrange her shopping bag, squeezing the latest purchase in beside the others. The whole exercise was a trial, a test of stamina and memory. She was determined to conduct her own business in her own way, so long as the world didn’t need her to hurry. Clyde thought of his mother, another lady who’d refused to be rushed and had lived to be ninety-one.

  No problem, he had all day.

  The woman chastised herself under her breath, checking off some mental list. The bell on the door tinkled. Two clean-cut men came in, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Clyde saw them over her shoulder. They stayed by the entrance, happy to wait. When she was satisfied she had everything, she gathered her cardigan round her, lifted her bag and headed for the door. The men stood aside to let her pass and held it open: a nice touch.

  When the door closed, they stepped forward. One of them took off his shades and inspected his surroundings, lifting tins, reading labels. His friend picked up an apple and took a bite, locked the door and drew the blind. They grinned at each other.

  Clyde Hays had run the general-goods store for forty years, and in that time, it had never been closed on Saturday. Never. His whole adult life had been spent behind the polished mahogany counter. He was proud of the fact his business kept to the opening hours posted on the window. Even during Katrina. Even then.

  There had been no customers. That wasn’t the point. Hays General stayed open. Until now.

  The strangers were enjoying themselves, smirking and wisecracking; powerful guys, six feet tall. Their kindness to the old lady had been a mockery.

  ‘What can I do for you fellas?’

  ‘Been here long, old guy?’

  Clyde tilted his chin. ‘All my life.’

  ‘Well, time for a change. From today, this store is under new management. You’ll still be here, but you’ll be working for us. Every week, we’ll be round to collect our management fee. One hundred dollars. Make sure you have it ready.’

  Clyde couldn’t believe it; the guy was serious. ‘Go to hell.’

  The shakedown artists laughed. ‘Look on it as an investment, pops.’

  ‘Why should I pay you anything?’

  ‘Like my friend says, it’s an investment against bad things happening. New Orleans can be a dangerous place, don’t you know that?’

  The leader leaned over the counter, opened the till and removed four twenties and two tens.

  ‘One hundred dollars. Starting today.’

  ‘Get out of my shop before I call the cops.’

  ‘I guess you don’t hear so good. This is our shop now.’

  Clyde lunged at the man stealing his money. The thief caught his wrist and forced his arm up his back until a bone snapped. The shopkeeper screamed in pain and collapsed on the floor. For the first time in forty years, Clyde Hays was afraid.

  9

  It was after nine when Bob Renaldi picked up Gran Russell and brought her to their house. Katie was in bed asleep. Emily Russell had asked for this meeting, and her daughter feared the worst.

  ‘Tea, Mama?’

  She forced a casualness she didn’t feel into her question.

  ‘Tea’s fine.’

  Mrs Russell took a sip from her cup and said what she’d come to say. ‘Last Saturday was the saddest day of my life, and the most embarrassing. To see our Katie humiliated like that … the disappointment, the shame …’

  Bob Renaldi tried to stop the inquest becoming overwrought. ‘We feel the same, Mama, though shame is maybe a bit strong, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, I don’t, Bob. No sir, I don’t. Shame was in my heart then and still is.’

  Bob accepted the reprimand. If he told the truth, he felt much the same. They’d let Katie down.

  ‘You’re right, Mama,’ Eadie said. ‘A hundred percent. Every time I think about it, I want to cry. It’ll never happen again. Bob and I are agreed. You were right. Katie wanted to take part so much, but it was a mistake.’

  She felt better for saying it out loud.

  Bob said, ‘That isn’t the place for our Katie.’

  Gran Russell studied their faces. ‘So, you’re saying she won’t be going in for any more competitions, is that what I’m hearing?’

  Bob and Eadie nodded. Emily Russell surveyed them some more before she spoke.

  ‘Well, that’s a mistake too.’

  Bob struggled to keep up. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean it would be just plain wrong to quit on such a low. That girl’s liable to be scarred by what happened on Saturday. I know I am. We can’t leave her with something to carry around, weighing her down inside for the rest of her life.’

  ‘Are you suggesting we should allow her to go through that hellish experience again? Mama, I can’t believe you. Katie was so hurt by it. You saw her.’

  ‘She was, but that other girl, that Molly, she didn’t look too hurt to me. She looked well pleased with herself.’

  ‘That kid was good.’ Eadie lowered her voice. ‘Probably went on to win it.’

  Bob Renaldi readied to move into his role as referee.

  ‘So, what’re you saying to us, Mama?’

  ‘First up, I’m not suggesting we just send Katie back out there for more of the same. I’m saying we’ve got some damage to undo, and the best way forward is to go back in there. But prepared this time. Practised to the point where big mistakes won’t happen, so small mistakes won’t matter. Rehearsed.’

  This was out of left field.

  ‘How’s all this going to happen? How can we lift Katie up to a standard where she might have a chance of winning something? We’ll need a good tune – something up-beat – a routine and a costume. At least one.’

  ‘But it attracts the wrong kind of people. That was what you said, wasn’t it? How’d you feel about that?’

  Gran Russell didn’t hesitate. ‘I still think that’s the way of it. We’ll all be there to make sure our Katie’s all right.’

  ‘Ok. Who’s going to train her and when?’

  ‘We will. You and me. During the week, we can go to my house after school.’ She smiled at her daughter. ‘You can learn to play whatever song she’s singing.’

  ‘I’m going to play? You want me to play?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Eadie’s mother had waited a long time to be able to say it. ‘And I don’t want to hear another word about those goddamned piano lessons. Not ever.’

  ‘Chin up! Eyes on the judges not the ground! Wherever they are, that’s where you gotta be looking!’ Mia Johnson’s voice was stern, cutting across the music from the CD-player. On the stage, her daughter, Jolene, went through her routine. No cowgirl costume, this morning, just jeans and a shirt. The girl’s eyes rarely left her mother. Joe Johnson didn’t know Jolene wasn’t in school; his wife
hadn’t told him. But how else was the child supposed to get better? A couple of hours in the evening after school just wasn’t enough.

  It was all about choices, wasn’t it? If they wanted Jolene to succeed in competitions, sacrifices had to be made – like giving up your only day off work, like cutting school to practise. For Mia, it was an easy decision. Wednesdays would become rehearsal days. If her feet were killing her and her back ached, so what?

  ‘Too slow! Faster out of that twirl, you’re goin’ to sleep in there!’

  Mia used her thumb to stop the music, pressed another switch to rewind, then started again. The girl watched for her cue, her face stiff with concentration. She mouthed a silent count-in, calling out the beats in her head. Her mommy paced the garage, examining the performance from every angle, polishing the moves until they segued into each other.

  ‘Again.’

  When the song ended, Jolene sat on the edge, her slender legs dangling. She rubbed her eyes. ‘I’m tired, Mommy. I want to stop.’

  Mia stood, hands on her waist, witnessing another kind of performance.

  ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’

  There was a whine in the voice that pleaded to be understood. And she was. Her mother had caught this act a thousand times.

  ‘OK, let’s take five and you can go.’

  Jolene scooted into the house. Mia sat where she’d been. Tired? If anybody wanted, she could show them what tired looked like. It was normal for Joe Johnson’s wife to be working three jobs. Now, it was only two; low-paid, mind-fucking positions that took a whole lot more than they gave. Mia couldn’t remember when they had last had a holiday – not since Jolene came along – that would make it six years. How could that be healthy for her and Joe? No wonder they didn’t spark together like they used to. Work, work, work was all they ever did, and at the end of the day, always a dollar short.

  Joe was a good man who struggled with the responsibilities of marriage and fretted about money. Sometimes, she’d catch him with his worry-head on. His eyes would tell her he was someplace else, counting and figuring, never at ease. They were going through a bad patch. That was how she saw it: a bad patch, not the end of the marriage, the way Joe had called it. After nine years, she wasn’t too concerned about their long-term future together. They loved each other. Deep down, she was sure of it.

  Yes, of course they did. Mia could be a bit wild with cash but, hey! Why were they both grafting their tails off if the best they could do was stand still? The pageant stuff wasn’t cheap when you added it up – entry fees, travelling, costumes – even when some lying brought the costs down, it was still an expensive interest. But Jolene loved it, Mia did too; it was just Joe who needed convincing it was money well spent. But it was. It gave them something they could all do together one or two weekends every month as a family, and created a focus for spending time with their child. The money would go anyway; that’s what money did. This way, they had a trip away, plus the bonus of seeing Jolene do her stuff.

  Her father thought she had no talent. That wasn’t so, coming third in Baton Rouge ahead of some good kids proved it, to Mia Johnson at any rate. Though after what happened to the little boy, thank God Joe wasn’t there. That would be the end of the dream. He was working every hour he could, because they were broke. When he got home, all he wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep; too tired to watch the television news. Besides, where was the mother? If she’d been paying attention, it wouldn’t have been possible for someone to harm the child. Really, when you thought about it, with so many people around, being in a pageant was just about as safe as playing in your own backyard.

  Jolene reappeared and sat next to her mom. Mia put her arm round her. For precious seconds, they were pals.

  ‘Remember, your daddy doesn’t get to know our new arrangement. He thinks school’s important, and it is, but so’s this. We’re just dividin’ up time to cover everythin’. Don’t go lettin’ him know, y’hear?’

  Jolene shook her head.

  ‘Good girl,’ her mom said. ‘Now, let’s get to it, ‘else we’re wastin’ our time.’

  They got up.

  ‘Ok, sugar, I want us to practise our vocals so we’ll go through the routine. This time, concentrate on your voice. Think about singin’ the words.’

  The music began. Jolene Johnson started to sing. Thirty seconds in, her mother stopped the backing-track.

  ‘Again.’

  An hour and twenty-odd attempts later, Mia gave up. They had a problem, a big problem. Not something she could fix.

  ‘We’re finished, honey. That’s it for today.’

  ‘Do I have to go to school now, Mom?’

  ‘No,’ Mia Johnson replied. ‘You don’t have to go to school.’

  ‘Great!’

  Jolene rushed off, unaware. She could dance a bit and deliver the routine with plenty of energy, but she couldn’t stay in tune. She was flat, sometimes sharp. Other times, she lost it altogether. She needed professional help. Jolene needed a voice coach, someone who could teach her to sing. Mia resigned herself to the truth. It was disappointing, of course. Still, lots of the children got tutored. Jolene had to have lessons. No point beating around the bush, she’d tell Joe tonight. That would be fun.

  Mia had found a voice coach over in Kenner, Jefferson County, which was good news. The first problem was that the only available slot was a Saturday morning. The second was the fifty-dollar fee. Breaking the bad news to Joe was easy. His face gave her nothing. He shrugged his shoulders and kept on eating.

  Mia grinned at her daughter. ‘We’ve got the green light, honey.’

  Joe drove, even though Saturday morning was the only day he didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn and drag himself to work one more time. The singing teacher’s name was Miss Wilson, a florid-faced woman who liked things just so. Inside her house, nothing was ever allowed to be out of place.

  Miss Wilson was in big demand, had been for twenty-five years. Her “students,” as she called them, came to her from all over the state. One or two actually had a voice, so their technique benefited from working with the teacher. Mostly, her job was to help people get the best out of not very much. The rise in competitions, contests and pageants meant a bonanza for Miss Wilson, allowing her to travel for two months of the year.

  She preferred cruise ships, searching for Mr Right and finding him on the odd occasion. In those surroundings, she could be the woman she believed herself to be. Everyone was a stranger to her, and she was a stranger to everyone. It was exciting. Whatever Miss Wilson missed out on in her life, it wasn’t the capacity to fantasise. Prim and exacting at home, she permitted herself to be frivolous, even coquettish, on “her travels,” as she liked to call them.

  Miss Wilson was a dreamer, and the fifty bucks an hour she charged paid for those dreams.

  ‘Doh, ray, me, fah, soh, lah, te, doh! Doh, te, lah, soh, fah, me, ray, doh!’

  Jolene Johnson did her scales, missing most of the notes on her way up. Any that escaped got missed on the way down again.

  ‘Weeell.’ The teacher hesitated. It was important to establish what could be achieved with a student from the very start, otherwise, trouble lay in store. ‘I can help with her breathing and timing. I can’t make her Celine Dion.’

  ‘But you can help her?’

  Mia picked the words she wanted to hear. Miss Wilson repeated herself, weighing the many hours of Saturday morning purgatory ahead against an extended wardrobe for her next trip.

  ‘I can get her breathing better. Better breathing brings confidence to a performer.’

  ‘Doh, ray, me, fah, soh, lah, te, doh! Doh, te, lah, soh, fah, me, ray, doh!’

  ‘Great. That’s great, Miss Wilson. And can you get her to stay on the tune?’

  ‘As I say, Mrs Johnson, I can help Jolene with her breathing.’

  ‘Doh, ray, me, fah, soh, lah, te, doh! Doh, te, lah, soh, fah, me, ray, doh!’

  10

  Rutherford and McLaren were flyin
g in for a noon meet. I didn’t feel like biking. Lowell was having none of it. When I lifted the car keys, he went to the table and picked the harp up in his teeth.

  ‘Sorry, fella. Not today. I’ll only be a couple of hours. So, what’s it to be, rock or blues?’

  The look in his eyes told me he was too blue for blues, so I put on Bayou 95.7, the classic rock station, and left with Bon Jovi ringing in my ears. I knocked on Mrs Santini’s door. She was ahead of me and gave a thumbs-up from her window.

  Although I was fifteen minutes early, people were there, ready to begin. The room was more crowded than before. Besides Danny and me, another dozen I didn’t recognise sat or stood around.

  Danny came over with two cups of coffee and passed one to me. ‘Boutte hasn’t surfaced. That doesn’t mean he’s gone. Stay careful.’

  I let it slide, reluctant to get into it with him.

  He took a sip of his drink. ‘You know about Tulsa?’

  ‘Yeah, McLaren called from Oklahoma this morning.’

  ‘That makes six. I want to stop this guy.’

  His voice was quiet; serious. The coffee was strong, lukewarm and unpleasant.

  ‘We all do, buddy.’

  The room hummed with conversation. We didn’t contribute; we’d said enough.

  Right on the button at twelve, Delaup came through the door flanked by Rutherford and McLaren. The agents looked tired. Another man, tall and thin, with a small moustache, followed at their back. No one I’d met before.

  The four of them sat down. Delaup thanked us for coming then Rutherford stood up – unnecessary at such a small gathering.

  ‘On Saturday night, the body of Mimi Valasquez was found in an alley in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She’d been strangled after competing in a kiddies’ event and left in a cardboard box yards from the venue. Whoever killed her took a hell of a chance. Her mother was only gone a short while – had to collect Mimi’s brother from the swimming pool – and the kid was dumped in daylight. It’s possible he put the body in the box first. That way all anybody would see is a guy getting rid of trash. The MO matches the others. This is the same guy. That makes six.’