Burnt Black

by Ed Kovacs

  “What?”

  “No alibi again, Hans?”

  “Patrice can—”

  “Patrice doesn’t know what decade it is. Becky told us how you and Kate and Drake were shafting the other members of the Crimson Throne. Did you kill her for breaking her vows?”

  Hans stood speechless, like a confused man.

  “You are in a world of trouble,” I continued. “A little later on, you are going to talk to me truthfully, or it’s going to get much worse for you. And trust me, your magic won’t save you. Begrijpen? Understand?”

  I’d visited Holland a few times and loved it. And I like Dutch people too, especially Dutch ladies. I just didn’t like Hans.

  I gestured, and the coppers led him back toward his office, where the assembled investigators would be asking him questions while he sat handcuffed waiting for the ride downtown. I hadn’t planned on arresting him, but it suited me just fine.

  * * *

  By the time I made it back to headquarters, Townsend had been released, and Honey was now at the morgue with the coroner for Becky Valencia’s autopsy. Hans Vermack, however, had lost most of his piss and vinegar once he understood just how much trouble he was in. I barged into his interrogation room alone, like I owned the place.

  “You,” he said, glancing at me, and then shaking his head.

  I slammed my fist down so hard on the table in front of him, his coffee spilled in his lap. “Hans, shut the fuck up.” I went nose to nose to him with my best criminally violent insane look, a look that has frightened more than a few people when they saw it, including myself, because I knew I was capable of performing the kind of violence the look advertised.

  Vermack was no fighter, not a physical one. He might be a ferocious sorcerer—if that kind of thing was real—but he was no fighter. My killer persona intimidated him, and he cast his eyes downward.

  “What you have experienced today is just a taste, a sample, of how I plan to ruin your life. Tomorrow is a new day, and I’m going to bring a whole new world of trouble down on your head.” I waited a couple of beats, then sat down across from him. “Unless…”

  I left it hanging and started ferociously jotting notes on a pad, making sure he couldn’t see what I wrote. I opened the bottle of water I’d brought in and sipped, then lit a cigarillo, ignoring him. And that drove him crazy.

  “Unless, what?”

  “The Crimson Throne is finished. Drake’s going down, I promise you that. And Townsend just made bail.” I slid him a copy of her mug shots, but didn’t tell him what she’d been arrested for. “Tomorrow, your bank accounts will be frozen and deportation proceedings will begin … if I give the word. Or I could have you arrested for murder. An arrest doesn’t mean a conviction, Hans, but your picture would be on the front page of the paper, your business would have to close, you’d have to give a fortune to a bail bondsman because as a noncitizen you’re a flight risk. Plus, I’ll talk to your bank about those real estate loans for the Section 8 houses. Oh, and the IRS—I’ll dime you out to the Feds.”

  He started to say something, but I held up my hand. I talked about sex magic and made out like I knew a lot more about the Crimson Throne than I actually did. I used Tony Fournier’s file as show-and-tell, flipping open one folder to reveal the photo of a missing transient, a person who had once upon a time been a guest at a Crimson Throne sex session. “There are dozens more like this girl, but then you know that. You had sex with her, right?”

  “I vaguely remember her, yes.” Hans rubbed his eyes. He looked like he could go to sleep sitting in his chair.

  “Tell me about what happened to Felix Sanchez and Roscindo Ruiz at Professor Drake’s house the other morning. I remember what you already told me, but that was bullshit. There was no overdose. Who was the guide that day?”

  “I would have to guess Kate,” he said quickly. Hans had broken. He was mine now, and it hadn’t taken much; all it had taken was going after his pocketbook in a major way. “Felix and Roscindo liked her, and the feeling was mutual. If you have some kind of toxicology report proving there was no overdose, then the explanation is easy. She summoned a killer demon but lost control of it.”

  He noticed my skeptical look. “That’s the same thing Drake told us. But let me humor you. Why didn’t the demon kill Kate?”

  “She was probably wearing something to protect her. For example, the Third Pentacle of Jupiter—one of the seals of Solomon—something the Mexicans didn’t have.”

  “So according to your beliefs, could Kate have ordered the demon to kill?”

  “Yes. She is an advanced-enough practitioner to do that. But … I don’t like Kate, okay? Even so, I can’t believe she would kill them or anyone else.”

  Hans hadn’t seen her pull the pistol and work out a scenario to justify whacking me.

  “So she must have made some error,” he said. “The demon could explain Becky’s death, also. How was she found? In what position?”

  “I can’t give out those details yet,” I said, exhaling a long plume of smoke.

  “Okay, it doesn’t matter. The point is, if the demon got into Becky’s body, it could make her do whatever. Even kill herself. You have heard of the expression ‘The devil made me do it’? There is more truth to that than you might care to consider. Demons attach themselves to people at bars, nightclubs, concerts. People who use drugs or drink too much are more susceptible, as are the weak-minded, weak-willed, and the overly emotional personalities. I can’t count how many times I’ve heard on the TV news, when they interview a family member or friend, the person says, ’I can’t believe he’s guilty. He’s not like that, he’s never hurt a fly.’ Well, some entity jumped into the guy’s body, caused him to do the deed, then jumped out.”

  “How could that theory apply to Valencia? You Crimson Throne people are advanced practitioners.”

  “Yes, but if she were attacked and her guard was down, she would be vulnerable. I now have to worry that maybe I will be next.”

  “This is all interesting, but I can’t arrest anyone for losing control of a demon. Three people have been murdered. Our courts don’t recognize ‘evil spirit’ as a murder weapon. Let’s talk about the heads. You lied to me earlier.”

  Hans sighed. He was about to start ratting out his friends. “Over the years, Robert has sold hundreds and hundreds of body parts and human bones. You know about Palo Mayombe?”

  “It’s called the dark side of Santeria. Some sects supposedly perform human sacrifice, but most if not all members use human bones in their ceremonies.”

  “Most members of that religion are perfectly fine people and not doing evil deeds and so forth. Only some. But yes, there is a demand for human bones. You can buy older human skulls on the Internet for around a thousand dollars. Fresh heads are something else. I’m not sure Robert sold human heads, but Kate, absolutely. She sells them for five to ten thousand dollars each.”

  “Where does she get them?”

  He shook his head. “This I cannot tell you. It could cost me my life.”

  “Las Calaveras. The Skulls.”

  Hans remained silent.

  “How did she connect with them?”

  “Please, I can’t answer that question, but let me tell you this. I called her a whore, before. It wasn’t an exaggeration.”

  “You’re saying she’s a prostitute?”

  “It’s not like she’s selling a human head for ten thousand every day or even every month. Yes, she does well with her business, but how do you think she can afford the clothes, furniture, jewelry, the luxury car? She’s a madam, with a stable of girls.”

  It struck me like thunder. Anastasia Fournier.

  “Escort service?” I suddenly understood the high-priced criminal lawyer representing her.

  “Yes, but also she rents out a nice four-bedroom apartment. Sets up the girls to see clients there. After a few months, they move to a new location.”

  “What’s the current location?”

  “Ask your
vice officers. I heard from Robert that several of them get freebies on a regular basis.”

  That could explain how my home address came into play. Townsend’s vice buddies could have gotten it from the NOPD personnel office, or from any number of coppers who know where I live.

  “Kate’s call girls come and go quickly, the same as her shop clerks. That’s why she’s always recruiting new girls from the streets. I think she got the idea from Marie Laveau.”

  “The famous voodoo priestess from long ago.”

  “Yes. Laveau was said to have had a house in the New Orleans area, where she provided the sexual services of young ladies to gentlemen of means. It was a moneymaker. Then for Laveau, now for Townsend.”

  A plan for Kate Townsend already started to form in my mind, but I needed to focus on questions for Hans Vermack.

  “I asked you before about Townsend’s pregnancy.”

  “She had an abortion,” he said, shrugging. “Because Robert insisted. She was much younger then and foolishly thought she could ensnare him with the child. But he is too much of a philanderer. She had to adjust her thinking, and their relationship changed. Now, to be honest, they’re not close. Not even a little.”

  “She said Drake has been her boyfriend for years.”

  “In name only. Long ago he got fed up with her ambition and greed. It’s been a long process to extricate himself from her clutches.”

  “Drake told you to be patient, that change was coming. What did that refer to?”

  “The big dump. He’s leaving her. No more financial support, advice, no more spiritual work together, no nothing. Anyway, she’s got money now, she doesn’t need him. Robert will disband the Crimson Throne for a time, then begin anew with a new high priestess he can trust. It won’t matter to Kate. She’ll start her own group.”

  “Seems like a long and drawn-out way to end a relationship.”

  “He’s afraid of her.”

  “Afraid of her because of what she knows? Crimes he has committed?”

  “Possibly. So sure, she could ruin him. Tulane would disown him and he’d go to jail. But certainly he fears her power as a dark magician. She is formidable, in spite of her sloppiness.”

  “Think Drake will skip town?”

  “I doubt it. He loves New Orleans too much. And he is too proud. He won’t run away. Yes, Kate is powerful, but so is Robert. He’ll probably work some incredible magic to make her think it was her idea to leave him.”

  “Hans, put aside the demon explanation. Murder usually happens for a very specific reason. But I can’t determine a motive as to why anyone would want to kill our victims. Unless it was because they were leaving the group.”

  “Leaving the Crimson Throne is not a killing offense. That’s preposterous. No member is given some kind of knowledge that, were it revealed, could ruin Robert or anyone else. People left the group all the time, usually because of ego clashes.”

  “All right, then, what if it was religious, ritualistic homicide and they were killed for their death energy?” This was one of the theories that I was still working out.

  Hans paused thoughtfully and chewed on a fingernail. “Yes, that’s possible. Ritual human sacrifice is largely about absorbing the energy of the deceased. Some radical vampire cults, Satanists, and certain sects of Palo Mayombe make no secret about this kind of killing. Satanic groups like the Order of Nine Angles and the Friends of Hecate advocate human sacrifice under certain conditions.

  “Ritual killing generates powerful medicine, but it is very dark work,” said Hans, continuing. “That wasn’t what the Crimson Throne was all about, although I can’t speak for Robert or Kate or anyone else in this regard. Remember, our individual members all practiced other types of magic. Voodoo, hoodoo, Santeria, Palo Mayombe, ritual magic, folk magic, qigong, Asian shamanism, and all kinds of neo-paganism. So, yes, I suppose your theory about ritual killing is legitimate.”

  Vermack furrowed his brow. “And now that I think about it, maybe that’s exactly what it was.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I checked with Janean Bayham, and she agreed to drop the assault charges against Hans Vermack. While he got processed out, I ran a check on Anastasia Fournier and came up with nothing but a DUI on her DMV record. When Kruger popped into the office, I buttonholed him.

  “I’m trying to run down Tony Fournier’s niece, Anastasia. You know anything about his family?”

  “I didn’t know Tony had a niece.”

  “He told me his brother and sister-in-law were killed in a boating accident a few years ago. Anastasia is the daughter.”

  “I vaguely remember him mentioning a brother. I know he had a sister, career army officer, stationed in Germany. But that was years ago.”

  “I’ll check with personnel.”

  The personnel office was closed, but my gut told me that Tony Fournier was up to something, and I needed to find out what. So I walked out of Homicide and popped in to the Vice offices. I approached a detective I didn’t know at his desk.

  “Saint James, Homicide. Listen…” I handed him a copy of Townsend’s mug shots. “A reliable source tells me she’s running girls out of an apartment in town. My guy is on tape accusing detectives from this unit of stopping in for freebies. My partner and I report directly to the chief, so Pointer is going to either listen to the tape or read a transcript. I’m going to make sure that any false accusation against your unit gets edited out. Okay? You have my word.”

  The vice detective looked at the mug shots but didn’t say anything.

  “One way or the other, I’m bringing this chick down, maybe for Murder One. If someone were protecting her, and I’m sure no one here is, they would get tarnished. And who wants to see that? What I need is the current location of her brothel. Off the record, of course.”

  I scribbled my cell number on the copy of Townsend’s mug shots.

  “I’ll ask around,” said the vice dick, coolly. “Give it a day or so.”

  * * *

  Honey came back from the morgue, and I waved her over just as I took a call from Fred Gaudet, who had gone out to check on Gina Sanchez. I put the call on speaker.

  “Fred, I thought you’d be back here with some taquitos by now.”

  “Gina Sanchez has disappeared.”

  My smile faded quickly as I looked to Honey. I remembered Sanchez’s fears of being targeted for death, concerns that seemed exaggerated at the time.

  “Fred, this is Honey. What happened?”

  “She wasn’t grabbed, she cleared out. Didn’t even ask for her rent deposit refund. Landlord says a couple of Mexican guys in a beat-up van helped her move. Her place is empty except for the furniture that came with it.”

  “No forwarding address, phone number? The owner get a van description, plate number?”

  “Zip, zero, nada. Sanchez had a state ID card, so I pulled her photo. Been showing it to my Mexican contacts, at the mercados, the markets, and the panaderías, the bakeries. Someone will spot her.”

  “Don’t forget the check-cashing service she used.”

  “I’ll go there right now.”

  I rung off and looked at Honey.

  “She might have left the state or the country. She even talked about surrendering to Immigration.”

  “Maybe Fred will turn something up,” said Honey, who looked a little sad. I knew she didn’t like attending autopsies, especially when the victim was someone she knew.

  I briefed her on arresting Townsend and the interrogation of Vermack. “I’m waiting to hear back from Vice, but it should be easy to bust Townsend for promoting prostitution.”

  “And maybe set up a sting. Buy one of those heads.”

  I nodded. “Wish we could sting Drake somehow, but I think that would be a long-term operation. Wonder why Tony Fournier never did that?”

  “Any why is his niece hooking for Townsend?”

  “We’re not certain of that yet. Maybe that’s why Fournier was arguing with her when we showed up. It wo
uld have to hurt him like hell if Anastasia has linked up with the girlfriend of the guy he’s been trying to put away for fifteen years.”

  “No doubt,” said Honey, crossing to her desk. “As far as Valencia? The findings are preliminary. Coroner says he found exudate indicating she had an orgasm before she died. But no positive sign of intercourse.”

  “Strong similarity to Sanchez and Ruiz.”

  “The needles went in before she expired. The coroner is sure about that. Cause of death was pneumothorax.”

  “That’s a new one on me,” I said.

  “No it’s not. You just didn’t know the name. Air gets between the membranes that separate the chest wall from the lungs. Then the lungs collapse.”

  “So it was an acupuncture needle that allowed the air to enter?”

  She nodded.

  “One reason I was gone so long is I had an acupuncturist from Metairie take a look before we moved Valencia to the morgue. Korean guy. He confirmed the needle placement was wrong.”

  “So maybe the killer mildly sedated Valencia, then there was some kind of masturbation or something, then he puts the needles in once she was incapacitated.”

  “The killer knew where to place the fatal needle,” said Honey.

  I grimaced and shook my head. “You realize how painful collapsed lungs are? Even if she’d been lightly sedated, that was a torturous death. We have to stop this person.”

  * * *

  Hans Vermack was under surveillance as soon as he left Broad Street headquarters, but Professor Robert Drake could not be located. Kate Townsend had ridden with her attorney to his penthouse offices in the Central Business District, but she must have left via a private elevator; our team lost her.

  I seriously wanted to break into Drake’s curio shop, but since the chief had promised warrants, I decided to hold off.

  Even though she’d been going nonstop all day and hadn’t eaten, Honey declined my dinner invitation. So I headed to one of my neighborhood haunts for a quick bite. After dinner I intended to make an unannounced visit to Tony Fournier. Tomorrow we’d be hitting Drake, so I wanted to work a few things out and see if the puzzle pieces fit together.