“Hardly. The woman used her. She dangled the carrot in front of mom’s nose, then at the last minute snatched it away.”
“What sort of carrot?”
“Social position,” Vanderlund replied for his daughter. “Privileges.”
As if she were a child, Micki thought, earning the right to ride her bike down the block. “Could you give us an example?”
“The latest was about me,” Tori said. “It’s stupid and I totally didn’t care.”
Her father stepped in. “Vivianne had promised this was Tori’s year.”
“Tori’s year? For what?”
“To be queen of Rex.” He sighed. “Bitty wanted that more than anything. As a young woman, she was passed over. Both of our other daughters were as well. Third time was supposed to be the charm.”
“Was Mrs. Stanley the deciding factor?” Micki asked.
“No. But her vote carried a lot of weight.”
“And she stabbed Mom in the back by lobbying for someone else.”
“Who?”
“Emily St. Pierre,” he said. “The St. Pierres are an old New Orleans family. Emily’s an accomplished young woman. It makes sense.”
“I don’t know why she wanted it so much,” Tori said, voice breaking. “Her Majesty, Queen of Rex. Really, what does that have to do with real life?”
He looked at his daughter. “You know how she feels about it, Tori, honey. And it is an honor. It opens doors.”
“Not that many doors! Certainly not enough to be at the beck and call of—”
Vivianne Stanley.
A dead woman.
As if that fact truly just hit her, she started to cry again, deep rasping sobs. It looked to Micki as if her father was also fighting tears.
Angelo’s cell sounded. He excused himself, returning a moment later. “We have to go,” he said, then turned to the Vanderlunds. “We’ll be in touch soon.”
Micki waited until they’d reached their vehicles to ask what was up.
“They’ve located Bitty Vanderlund,” he answered.
“Where?”
“The Rex Den. She’s got a can of gasoline and a lighter and is threatening to torch the floats.”
Chapter Six
5:10 P.M.
Eight cruisers beat them to what was essentially a Central City warehouse—but not any warehouse; it was the one that housed the floats and historic memorabilia for the Krewe of Rex.
Micki couldn’t help but note the irony: a murder had pulled one cruiser, but some floats were threatened and an entire precinct turned out.
Bitty Vanderlund still wore the blood-spattered gray suit, although slightly askew, the crown still perched on her head. In her right hand, she held a barbecue lighter, in her left a gas can. Gone was the calm countenance of earlier. The woman looked as wild-eyed as a cornered doe.
And cornered she was, circled by NOPD, weapons drawn.
“Get back—” Vanderlund shrieked “--or I’ll do it.”
The smell of gasoline hung in the air. All it would take was one flick of her Bic and the famous Le Boeuf Gras was going up in flames.
Micki assessed the situation. She was the only other woman in the room, and it seemed the circle of men with guns was not having the desired effect on Vanderlund.
Micki stepped through the ring of officers. “Bitty,” she said, voice soothing, “you don’t want to do this.”
“Yes, I do! They’re liars! All of them!”
“I’m a woman, too, Bitty. It’s hard sometimes. I get it, it’s not fair.”
“I did everything they asked.”
“I know you did.” Micki took a step toward her. “I’ve felt the same way you do now. But it will get better.”
“It’s already better.” Vanderlund shook the gas can; the liquid inside made a sloshing sound against its sides. “I’m not powerless. Not anymore.”
Micki took another step. “You were never powerless, Bitty. You have a family. Raised beautiful, strong daughters.”
“She promised Tori would be queen. She promised.”
“Think of all the people you’ve worked to help. That’s real power, Bitty. And raising good children—what’s more important than that?”
“No.” She shook her head. “That’s not . . . it’s not . . .”
“They need you, Bitty.” Micki moved closer, almost within reach of the lighter. “Your daughters. Your husband. He’s a good man. He loves you.”
Vanderlund blinked, looking startled. “Where am I?” She moved her gaze quickly around, taking it all in, her confusion becoming panic. “Vivianne was just saying . . .” She choked up, chin wobbling.
“What, Bitty?” Micki coaxed. “What was Vivianne just saying?”
“That not everyone . . . who wants to be queen—” Her eyes grew round. “Oh, my God . . . I didn’t mean . . . it just . . . I don’t know what happened!”
Micki took the final step and plucked the lighter from Vanderlund’s grasp. As she handed it off to Angelo, the woman dropped the can and brought her hands to her face. “What am I going to do now? What’s going to happen to me?”
Angelo stepped forward with cuffs; Micki waved him off and put an arm around Vanderlund. “You need to come with me, Bitty. Then we’ll call your husband.”
The woman nodded and allowed Micki to help her out. Whatever had taken over Bitty Vanderlund had passed. The woman leaning on her now was the person her family had described—the one who wouldn’t hurt a flea.
Chapter Seven
8:10 P.M.
The Banks Street two-story had been built at the turn of the twentieth century and had solidly stood against every hurricane until Katrina. But Katrina’s floodwaters had inundated the first floor; its wind had torn off the roof, allowing rain to pummel the second floor.
Hank had purchased the moldering home “as is” and rebuilt it from the inside out. Truth was, the house reminded Micki of the man himself—sturdy and old-fashioned, with a crusty kind of charm.
Her best friend. Her mentor. And although she’d only known him a handful of years, the most important person in her life.
Micki let herself inside the gate and went around the side of the house. Light glowed from the garage in back. The Nova, she thought, smiling. His latest project. He’d hauled it home a couple months ago, grinning from ear-to-ear.
Didn’t matter if it was cars, buildings, or people, Hank liked to fix things.
He’d fixed her. Something her crazy mother and the small army of pediatric counselors she’d hired had been unable to do.
Micki stepped into the garage. Hank was bent over the car’s raised hood. “Hello, old man,” she said. “I see you’re wasting time on that heap again.”
“Heap?” He looked back at her. “This baby is a classic American muscle machine. A 1971 with a 396 V in it.”
“That baby doesn’t run.”
“Have some faith, girl.”
She cocked an eyebrow and held up two brown paper bags. “How about some dinner instead?”
He grabbed a rag and began cleaning the grease off his hands. “Don’t have to ask me twice. What’s on the menu?”
“Your Spidey-senses not working tonight?”
Hank had the best sense of smell of anyone she had ever known. Same for his hearing and vision. It was practically supernatural.
“Burgers,” he said mildly. “From Port of Call.”
“On the money again.” She checked each bag, making certain neither was marked. “How do you do that? It’s just plain freaky.”
He laughed. “The smell of grilled beef and onions clings to you like a perfume.”
“Great. No wonder I’m single.”
“You’re single because you choose to be.”
Her relationship status was a regular point of contention between them, and she changed the subject. “Okay, Sherlock, besides my eau-de-diner cologne, what tipped you?”
He snapped off the work light. “You drive past Port of Call on your way home and
their burgers are your favorites. I was a detective, you know.”
She grinned. “Like a million years ago.”
“Ungrateful girl.” He lowered the garage door, and they started for the house. “I want to hear about your day.”
“Pulled a homicide. Partnered with Carmine Angelo.”
“Carmine’s a good guy. Straight arrow.”
“Maybe so, but it seemed to me he could use a sense of urgency.”
Hank chuckled and let them inside. “He’s low key. But smart. Trust me, he doesn’t miss anything.” He cut her an amused glance. “Besides, someone to temper your intensity isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”
She laughed, not at all offended. This man knew her better than anyone else on the planet. He’d saved her from certain self-destruction, taking an angry, rebellious, borderline criminal under his wing and nurturing her back to health.
He’d done it by being an example of a truly good human being.
He made her want to be like him.
The burgers were big, juicy, and flavorful. Stacked high with grilled onion and mushrooms, oozing with more cheese than either of them should eat. A heart attack in a bag. He washed his down with a glass of milk; she chose an Abita beer.
“Tell me about the homicide,” he said around a mouthful of burger.
“Cut-and-dried. Uptown matron snaps and kills her queenly rival.”
“Nothing’s ever cut-and-dried, girl. Not when it comes to one man taking another’s life.”
She shook her head, fondness for him washing over her. “How long have you been retired from the force, old man? The way you talk, it’s been a long, friggin’ time.”
He laughed, deep and rumbly. “Snapped, you say?”
“Mmm.” Micki took a swallow of the beer. “Everyone we talked to claimed our perp couldn’t hurt a flea. Said perp, however, beat the victim to death. Big mess. She walked out covered in her rival’s blood and wearing her crown. Got it all on surveillance tape. Then she tried to torch the Rex Den.”
Micki finished her beer. “Apparently, she was promised a crown for her daughter. When it didn’t happen, she . . . snapped.”
Hank stood, collected the remains of their meal, and carried it all to the trash. “Ugly thing, the green-eyed monster. The trick is to not put your hopes in things money and influence can buy.”
“Umm, isn’t that everything?”
He met her eyes. “Actually, it’s not anything.”
He held her gaze, his eyes the baby blue of a summer sky and somehow as endless. How did he do it, she wondered? How did he let it all roll off him, seemingly without effort. He was like a cross between Santa, Yoda, and an aging Marlboro Man.
Micki shook her head at the thought. “You’re such a weirdo,” she teased.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Love you, too, girl.”
Chapter Eight
7:35 A.M.
The next morning, Angelo called her on her way to report back in at the ninth. “Where ya at, Dare?”
“On my way in. Gonna see what kind of fun my captain has lined up for me today.
“Change of plans. Major Nichols wants you here at the Eighth to discuss the Vanderlund case.”
“Works for me,” she said. “Turning around now.”
She arrived at shift change and made her way through the unfamiliar faces and up to the Detective Bureau. Major Nichols waved her into his office; she saw Angelo was already there.
“Good to meet you, Dare.”
“Feeling’s mutual, Major,” she said, sinking onto the seat next to Angelo.
“Read the report. Talked to Detective Angelo. You did good, Dare. ”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“I like your initiative. So does Detective Angelo.”
“Appreciate that.”
“I’m going to get right to it,” Nichols went on. “I need help here at the Eighth. Your permanent assignment’s to the Ninth, correct?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Different animal here. We see it all, and lots of it. Thinking you might have the touch.”
“The touch, Sir?”
“Ability to stay focused in the midst of insanity.”
“With your own dose of crazy,” Angelo added, grinning at her.
Major Nichols ignored him and went on. “The Eighth isn’t for everyone. If you need some time to—”
“I’m in.”
Major Nichols smiled. “That’s what I’d hoped you’d say. Your reassignment won’t be official until after Mardi Gras. Unofficially, you’re on the team.”
“Who will I be working with?”
“Detective Angelo. I assume that meets your approval?”
“Absolutely.”
“Angelo, for now, make room at your desk. It’s carnival; you won’t be around here much.” He indicated the door. “Go. I need you on the street.”
They exited the major’s office. Micki cleared her throat. “That was a surprise.”
“Cool, huh?”
It was. Very. She glanced at him. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Welcome.” He motioned toward the right. “But it wasn’t just me.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know for sure. But it came from up high.”
Up high? She frowned. Who could have . . . Hank? Could he have made a call? But that didn’t make sense either.”
Angelo saw her frown. “What?”
“I was just wondering if . . . Never mind.” She shook her head. “I’ve got no clue, dude.”
Angelo dragged a chair over to an already over-crowded desk. “Got the pathologist’s report on Stanley. We called it at the scene.”
He slid the report across the desk. She flipped it open. Photos of Stanley bruised and bloodied.
“What’s this?” She tapped a photo depicting Stanley’s bruised left back and side.
“Vanderlund kicked her. Repeatedly.”
“You’re serious?” Micki shook her head. “Hard to reconcile that pleasant-faced little woman with this . . . overkill.”
“Freaky, right? She’ll plead temporary insanity. She might even get a jury to buy it.”
“You don’t?”
“Dead’s dead. Now it’s up to the court.”
She returned her gaze to the photo. “You’ve moved on.”
“Don’t have a choice, partner. That one’s done, another one’s right around the corner.”
Chapter Nine
11:30 A.M.
Not exactly around the corner. More like up and over a half dozen blocks. Club Me-Oh-My, home to New Orleans’ most famous drag show.
Micki gazed at the vic, tuning out the sound of sobbing coming from the hallway behind them. Desiree Strong had been shot in the back three times, then a fourth in the back of the head, at close range. The wound and blood spatter suggested the headshot had been last, delivered after Strong went down.
It was a good thing she had a cast iron stomach, Micki thought. Otherwise her shoes would be decorated with the big-ass shrimp po’boy she’d scarfed down on the way to the scene.
“Another dead queen,” she muttered.
“Holy crap, you’re right. And in less than twenty-four hours. That’s one mind-bending coincidence.”
It was. So much so, her right eye began to twitch. “Maybe it’s not?”
He snorted. “Seriously, Dare? C’mon, what could Ms. Desiree here and Vivianne Stanley have in common?”
“Besides that they both sported the title of queen and are now dead?”
“Yeah, besides those. We are talking N’Awlins here.”
“How about overkill? Stanley, beaten to a pulp and then kicked? And here, four shots? The last with the gun’s muzzle pressed against Strong’s cranium? Both crimes of passion.”
“You’re overlooking one thing, partner. Vanderlund’s in jail. Desi here was still alive when that happened.”
“I know.” She pursed her lips. “It’s just so damn bizarre.”
“Again, t
his is N’Awlins. Plus, it’s Carnival. The city’s run amok with queens.”
Micki blinked hard, wishing her eye would stop twitching. It didn’t and she tried to put it out of her mind and focus on the scene. Ms. Desiree, as Strong liked to be called, had been seated at the dressing table, in the process of removing his stage make up. Now, Strong was slumped forward, forehead resting on a big jar of cold cream, a glob of the cream smeared across his cheek.
“Strong knew his attacker,” Micki said, and indicated the door directly behind the mirrored dressing table. “He would have seen them enter the room.”
Angelo agreed. “Busy place back here. I imagine a lot of people back and forth between here and the front of the house. Four shots, somebody would’ve heard that.”
“Unless everyone had already gone for the night.”
He nodded. “Let’s get a timeline from the club’s manager, see who’s usually the last to leave.”
They found the manager—who also happened to be the club’s owner—at a corner booth, staring blankly at the cup of coffee on the table in front of him. While Angelo asked about the club’s surveillance system, Micki’s gaze strayed to the bartenders and waitresses who stood clustered behind the bar, looking shaken and uncertain what to do.
Micki studied them a moment, then refocused on the interview. Angelo was asking about the club’s surveillance system.
“We have cameras at the front entrance and cash registers.”
“Nothing in the back area?”
The man looked stricken but shook his head.
Micki jumped in. “Mr. Alexander, were you here at the club last night?”
“Call me Mustang. Everyone does.”
“All right, Mustang. Were you here?”
“I’m here every night. Open to close.”
Micki noted he was incredibly fit for a man his age. Built like a dancer, but with a face deeply lined from what she suspected was a lifetime of late nights in smoky clubs. “Anything different about last night?”
“We had a group of haters in.”
“Haters?”
“Definitely not trans-friendly. Shouted slurs. Really ugly. We called the cops.”
Random Acts Page 3
