by Ed Kovacs
I just had to make sure I didn’t become the new Tony Fournier.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dead bodies in New Orleans were no big deal, unless maybe you’re the stiff lying facedown in your own blood. Becky Valencia lay faceup on her acupuncture table, but there was no blood. She had dozens and dozens of needles in her naked body. Needles in her ears, above and below her eyes, on her torso, arms, legs, hands, and feet. I’d had plenty of acupuncture and didn’t see anything that looked wrong, needle-wise, although she had a hell of a lot of needles in her.
But she was dead, so something had definitely gone wrong.
Honey had called me at 9:05 A.M. I’d had vivid dreams the night before but generally slept okay. I’d hit the dojo at seven for an early workout and then back home for a shower. The coffee was brewing when Honey had called. It was now 9:30, and, damn it, we could see no sign of foul play.
Except there were these black candles. Thirteen of them, all lit. In a circle around the acupuncture table. I put on latex gloves and carefully examined the underside of one of the candles.
“Uniforms are out canvassing the neighborhood. In case someone saw something.”
“It’s possible to die from acupuncture,” I said. “Usually from infection due to poorly sterilized needles, so death is not quick. But misplaced needles can puncture your heart or collapse your lungs and kill you.”
The coroner and crime-scene techs hadn’t arrived yet, or they might have chimed in with more information.
“So these needles could be used to murder someone?” said Honey. “Or to commit suicide?”
I nodded. Honey had explained to me on the phone that a patient had showed up promptly at nine for her appointment. The door was unlocked, she let herself in, and found the corpse. She was already downtown in an interrogation room with Mackie but wasn’t a suspect.
“Except I’m not buying suicide, and I’m not buying that Becky Valencia allowed a killer to put needles in her. It’s got to be poison,” I said.
“So how was it administered?”
“Look at the needles. These are not the packaged, disposable needles used on patients ever since HIV came along. You couldn’t poison those, because you’d have to rip open the package to get at them. Valencia used old-fashioned, reusable needles on herself.” I pointed to the antique wooden box on a small table next to the body. “That’s probably her personal set. The killer could have predipped the needles in poison.”
“Okay, let’s say we run with the poison scenario. The killer either broke in and planted the poison, or Valencia knew the killer and let him in. Someone she would be comfortable enough with to get naked in front of. But why focus just on the needles? The killer could have doped her coffee, a glass of water. Then cleaned the glass or took it with him.”
“You’re talking like someone who doesn’t think this was an overdose or suicide.”
“I play percentages. Three students of Drake’s dead in a couple of days? That spells murder to me. And the candles are…”
“Spooky?” I asked. “Why surround yourself with black candles if you’re administering a healing, right?”
Honey nodded.
“And another thing,” I said. “Remember those silver baskets she showed us the other day in her waiting room?”
“The ones her father made. Expensive pieces that Drake wanted to buy.”
“Take a look at the mantel. They’re missing. I doubt she would have gotten rid of them.”
“She said Drake always wanted them.…”
“Plus the professor may have been pissed Valencia broke her vows and quit the group. Did you find an appointment book?” I asked.
“No. And no cell phone either. She might have kept track of her appointments in her phone.”
“The bank, maybe the auto-parts shop next door will have security video,” I said. “Might show us something.”
“Go for it.”
I started to walk out, but Honey touched my arm. “I’m sorry. I could tell you liked her.”
“She seemed like a good person. She’s a doctor of Oriental medicine. She wanted to be of service. I was going to book an appointment when this was over.”
“So let’s find her killer. Chief said to forget about going by the book.”
Just don’t get caught, right?
“He also promised search warrants for Drake,” said Honey quickly. “So hold off on him for now.”
I nodded. I’d already worked out some special surprises for Townsend and Vermack.
“There’s something else,” I said. “The nature of Valencia’s death here.” I’d been boning up on all this and knew Honey didn’t want to hear what was coming; I also knew she needed to hear it. “These are ritualistic killings. They have all the hallmarks. So the question is Do we have a secular killer, you know, a serial killer or sexual sadist using ritual, but not because it’s part of his religion? Or is the killer coming from a religious place? Are these killings fulfilling responsibilities to the killer’s beliefs, like certain Satanists or sects of Santeria and Palo Mayombe?”
Honey shrugged. “A killer’s a killer. Let’s nail him.”
“Or her.”
* * *
One of the security cameras from the bank and one from the auto-parts store showed angles of Becky Valencia’s front door. I made copies of both, but the auto-parts-store camera had the clearest footage, so I concentrated on that video. The person I assumed to be the murderer arrived at 7:05 wearing a long raincoat with an open umbrella. The killer walked with a slow, exaggerated shuffle, with head bowed, making it impossible to determine the individual’s true posture and gait. And the umbrella stayed strategically placed to block the auto-parts-store camera view, so the perp knew the placement of the closest camera, making this a very premeditated affair.
But just before mounting the front steps, for only a moment, the umbrella lowered, revealing the killer wore an Anonymous mask. Same as the stalker who put the sigil on my building.
* * *
From my desk at the Homicide Section, I sent a copy of the surveillance video of Anonymous to Honey’s smartphone. I made a spate of other calls and arranged to have twenty-four-hour surveillance put on Drake, Townsend, and Vermack. I gave our guys the info on the Lexus that Anastasia was driving; if sighted, they would follow her and notify me immediately. I had a special GPS tracker ready with her name on it. If I could have gotten away with putting a spotter at Fournier’s house in St. John’s Parish to watch for her, I would have done that too. I still had no logical explanation—none—as to why Fournier’s niece would be in Kate Townsend’s apartment. And that bothered me. A lot.
Fred Gaudet was happy to come back onto the team, and I asked him to check in on Gina Sanchez out on Airline Drive. I knew Fred would return with several orders of carne asada and plenty of chips and fresh salsa for the Homicide Section.
VCAT and the narcotics folks hadn’t been able to locate the remaining Skulls members believed to be in the NOLA area. As for the suspect in the black cape and Anonymous mask, I’d sent out a description in an e-mail addressed to “NOPDALL,” which included every officer in the department, asking them to “apprehend the murder suspect, if sighted, who is considered to be armed and dangerous.” I also had dispatch put out a BOLO, a “Be on the Lookout” alert that broadcast a description of the suspect on all district patrol channels.
I made a number of other urgent calls, and my last one was to Kendall Bullard, the UFC fighter I had coached for years and who had more girlfriends than a rap mogul and about a gazillion followers on Twitter.
“Coach, what up?” came Kendall’s thick NOLA accent over my smartphone.
“Three dead bodies. Some spooky hoodoo cult is buying the farm, one at a time.”
“Man, don’t be messin’ wit hoodoo.”
“Never. The UFC still got you in Cleveland?”
“Yeah. Got me doin’ more promotin’ than trainin’.”
“You’re a valuable commodity now,
so they’re squeezing you. Speaking of your popularity, I need a flash mob in Crafty Voodoo in the Quarter in thirty minutes. Can you make it happen? Be great if they were all asking to speak to Kate Townsend and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“For you? Easy as pie, boss.”
We rung off. I knew Kendall would deliver a boisterous crowd to Kate Townsend’s place of business, probably by using only one tweet on Twitter, the social networking Web site. Since the chief had now unofficially loosened my reins, and the rules now served more as suggestions, I’d decided to go on the offensive, and Townsend was the first target in my crosshairs.
* * *
I muscled my way past at least a hundred people milling outside Crafty Voodoo and found another hundred crammed inside, all insisting on seeing Kate Townsend. I smiled, silently thanking Kendall and the clout he had with his fans. The buxom clerks were overwhelmed, and I caught a glimpse of a flummoxed Townsend trying to convince a group to leave.
Thanks to the mayhem, I easily retraced the path Honey and I had taken just the other night, and walked through the bead curtain unseen, through the wooden door, and silently mounted the stairs. Before entering the store, I had checked out the private parking for the building; no Lexus, but I ran the plates on a jet-black BMW 750i sedan, which was registered to Kate Townsend.
She had money and wasn’t afraid to spend it, and I was reminded of that as I entered the upstairs rooms. A quick walk-through suggested she either had a lot of roommates—three bedrooms had three beds each with connecting bathrooms and all looked lived in—or she’d told the truth about providing rooms to transient females.
The freezer and huge fridge in the kitchen didn’t contain any human heads or body parts, but both needed to be cleaned.
A soft beep from my chronograph told me I needed to hurry the hell up. I moved through Townsend’s private quarters looking for a computer or any other tempting sources of information or evidence. When I’d visited Crafty Voodoo the other day with Honey, I’d established there was no office downstairs. I had to believe there was some space with office equipment and a computer/printer, unless she ran everything from behind her front counter.
I entered the last room, the master bedroom. A massive four-poster bed with canopy, all done in red satin, looked terribly inviting. There was no office setup. Damn, she must be a techie running a virtual office from wherever she was with a laptop. Then I noticed two different makeup vanities on either side of the room. A quick check revealed different choices in beauty products.
Kate Townsend shared this room with another woman.
Anastasia Fournier?
I swept the room again and spotted a red notebook computer, almost the same color as the sheets, sitting right on the bed. I needed to act fast and started for the bed.
“Stop right there or I’ll shoot you dead.”
I stopped and slowly turned around to see Townsend with a 9mm pointed at me. Her hand was shaking just a bit, but was it because she felt nervous or angry?
“I’ve been looking for you, Miss Townsend. Please point the gun down.”
“Shut up,” she practically spat. Okay, it was anger. Guess she didn’t appreciate the flash mob. “Those are all your friends down there, aren’t they?”
“My father said that if you have more friends than you have fingers then they’re not really your friends. I swear to you, I don’t know a single person downstairs.”
“You’re a liar. I think I’m going to have to shoot you.”
“That would be a mistake. I’m here on official police business.”
“You broke into my apartment!”
“Not at all. I entered your shop downstairs and found a wild party in progress. I couldn’t get anyone to help me, so, having visited your home before, I noticed the door to the stairway was ajar. I merely came up to find you.”
“That’s your story? Well, here’s mine. I took you for a burglar and, fearing for my life, I shot you. No, I thought you were a rapist. It’ll fly.”
With her free hand she ripped at her blouse, popping off all the buttons and tearing the sheer material. She wore the kind of bra you could open from the front, and she did so, revealing pert, pale breasts with pink nipples. She then slapped herself in the face so hard her nose started to bleed, but she kept the semiautomatic leveled at me the entire time. I was impressed.
“Wow,” I said. “Cool, but I’m afraid I have to take you into custody.”
“You don’t get it.” She raised the gun.
“Look at the small lens just above my jacket pocket. Looks like a button to the casual observer. I’ve been streaming video ever since I walked in. To two officers sitting in a van around the corner.”
She wavered as she looked at the lens. “I’m digitally recording this conversation,” I said. “Audio and video. And even if I weren’t, do you really think you could kill an on-duty NOPD detective who’s been dispatched to question you in the murder of Becky Valencia?”
Townsend’s jaw literally dropped, and her eyes went wide. “Becky? That’s not … possible.”
I took a side step, then lashed out with both hands, grabbing the gun and bending her wrist. She yelped as I removed the handgun. I pocketed the piece, wrenched her right arm behind her back, and snapped on the cuffs.
“What’s this?”
“You don’t use handcuffs in bondage and discipline?”
“You’re arresting me?”
I pulled her left arm behind her and finished the process. “Um, well, if you insist. I don’t like people pointing guns at me. Like your two pals from Las Calaveras—the Skulls—who I had to kill yesterday.”
“The Skulls?” She looked like someone desperately positing an alibi in her mind, running the pros and cons.
“Never heard of them, right? Then why did they have a Crafty Voodoo business card with your name and cell-phone number written on it? You’re just like Drake. Make up your mind: Are you stupid or are you smart?”
She just stared at me.
“Where were you this morning at seven o’clock?” I demanded.
“In bed,” she said coldly.
“With who? Somebody shares this bed with you. What’s her name?”
Townsend dropped her head. “How was Becky killed?”
“You tell me. But why would you use thirteen black candles that came from your own store?”
She looked up at me unpleasantly surprised. I pulled her toward the bed, retrieved her laptop, then guided her toward the stairs.
“Put a jacket on me or something. My blouse is all ripped.”
“Yeah, and your boobs are hanging out and your nose is bleeding, too. You look like a cheap floozy. But don’t worry, we’re two blocks from Bourbon Street. No one will notice.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
No way the New Orleans district attorney would press charges against Townsend for pulling the gun and threatening to kill me, but I arrested her for resisting a police officer with force or violence just to get her behind bars for a while—and to use as leverage. We let her reexamine her life’s priorities in a holding cell with a group of female felons who looked like they could bench-press Buicks.
Townsend had lawyered up quickly and refused to answer any questions. Her attorney had a reputation of being a fifteen-hundred-dollar-an-hour high-rent wonder, good at getting felonious politicians, investment bankers, and CEOs released scot-free. How could she afford the sleazebag?
Honey was still at Valencia’s crime scene with the coroner and CSI techs, so with Townsend incarcerated and refusing to talk, I left Broad Street and invaded Hans Vermack’s Voodoo Cave with a small army I’d quickly cobbled together: ICE agents, reps from the Section 8 Housing Choice Voucher Program, a city building inspector, a member of the Vieux Carré Commission, a fraud inspector from the Louisiana Food Stamp Program, two inspectors from NOFD, half a dozen uniforms, and myself.
A squad car with lights flashing now sat parked at Vermack’s shop entrance, and two nasty-looking NO
PD coppers stood like gargoyles of a different sort on either side of the front door. Not likely too many customers would run the gauntlet, and those who were inside when we arrived quickly left.
All of Vermack’s employees, including his girlfriend, Patrice Jones (a state psychologist was standing by to evaluate her, and a nurse would examine her for signs of physical abuse), were being escorted downtown to be interviewed by homicide detectives. I knew Honey would appreciate my little display of authority, all perfectly legal. And considering Vermack’s track record, appropriate.
“Verdomme het allemaal naar de hel! Dit is onzin!” he yelled, storming around his shop. “Somebody is going to pay. This is discrimination because I’m a minority. This is harassment! I’m losing money here!”
“What minority are you from, again,” I asked, with my hands crossed.
“I’m a Wiccan. We have always been discriminated against. I’ll be filing complaints and”—he pointed his finger at each of us, then—“you will all regret this day. I’m going to teach you a lesson,” he said, stepping toward the black female rep from Section 8 Housing. Her name was Janean Bayham, she had a little meat on her bones and didn’t look intimidated; in fact, she put her hands on her hips and stared at Vermack.
A few of the LE folks in the room looked like they were ready to grab him, but I gestured for them to wait.
“I’m going to put a curse on all of you that will make your lives a living—” When he tapped Janean’s chest with his fingertip, I pounced, wrenched his wrist into a very painful compliance hold, and dropped him to his knees, screaming.
“That was misdemeanor assault.” I quickly cuffed him. “As soon as all of these nice people are through with you, you’re going to jail. Why we don’t deport scamming douche bags like you is beyond me.”
Two uniforms stepped forward and lifted him to his feet.
“Where were you at seven this morning? Poisoning Becky Valencia, right?” I asked.
