Random Acts

by Spindler, Erica

  10:25 A.M.

  Micki sat at her newly-appointed desk. Mardi Gras weekend had passed in a purple, green, and gold blur. The weather had been fabulous, the crowds huge but thankfully, peaceful. Fat Tuesday had become Ash Wednesday. A day of regrouping and reflection. Of cleaning up, literally and figuratively.

  She’d made her official transition to the Eighth. Very little fanfare. Quiet day. One of the quietest of the year, Angelo had told her. Everybody was either doing penance or nursing a hangover. After spending the past four days trying to corral the crazies in the French Quarter, her vote went for the hangover.

  The quiet had given her too much time to think. Her mind kept going back to Vanderlund, splattered with blood, crown perched atop her head. Chablis sprawled on the sidewalk, confused and weeping. And Renee Blackwood’s calm, evenly-modulated voice as she explained why psychotic breaks occur.

  Angelo sauntered in, carrying a mangled pastry box and sporting a cross-shaped black smudge on his forehead. He eyed her. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You’ve got that look on your face.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “We’ve been partners less than a week, and you already know my ‘looks’?”

  “Mmm hmm.” He set the box on his desk and turned back to her. “You’re chewin’ hard on something.”

  “Can’t stop thinking about Vanderlund, Chablis, and—”

  “Blackwood.”

  “Right.” Micki thrummed her fingers on the desk. “Why can’t I let this go? Accept the win and move on?”

  “Don’t know, partner. But wanting there to be more to the story seems like a major energy suck to me.”

  She changed the subject. “What’s in the box?”

  “Leftover king cake. Wife ordered it out of the house. Want a piece?”

  “Hell, yeah. Maybe it’ll improve my mood.”

  He laughed and a moment later handed her a piece on a paper towel.

  Processed white flour, sticky icing, sugar sprinkles dyed purple, green, and gold: a dietician’s nightmare. She took a bite. “Have you noticed almost every king cake tastes the same?”

  He took a huge bite. “Yeah. Delicious.”

  She wasn’t quite as enthusiastic, but had to admit, it wouldn’t be Carnival without it. “It’s tradition, right?”

  “Right.” He took another giant bite.

  Maybe that was it, she thought. The reason why she couldn’t let go. Murder investigations weren’t supposed to fall so neatly into place. She wanted to complicate things, make there be more to the story.

  No, she thought, taking another bite of the pastry. She wanted the shrink to be the bad guy. What was it about the woman that rubbed her the wrong way?

  What the Me-Oh-My bartender had said in defense of his friend popped into her head. Mind control. At the time, she’d laughed it off, focusing on having made the connection between the two murders.

  She wasn’t laughing now.

  Micki wiped her fingers on the toweling and turned to her computer, googling Hypnotherapy New Orleans. A list of practitioners popped up. And there, large as life, was Dr. Renee Blackwood’s name.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “What?”

  “She lied.” Micki spun her chair to face Angelo. “Blackwood—when I asked her if she practiced hypnotherapy. She told me it wasn’t her area.”

  Mickie turned the monitor his way. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he sighed. “You’re going to make more work for us, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not.” She returned her gaze to the screen. “Absolutely not.”

  She wasn’t going to make more work for anybody but herself.

  Micki decided to swing by Blackwood’s office on her way home. Never mind that the Uptown address was nowhere near where she lived. She’d spent the afternoon—between a call to the scene of a domestic dispute and an armed robbery—researching hypnosis and hypnotherapy in an attempt to ascertain whether what she was thinking was even a possibility. She even posed the question to a local hypnotist and department shrink.

  Could someone be programmed through hypnosis to commit a crime?

  Under the right set of circumstances, it was plausible.

  Plausible didn’t seem like a helluva lot to go on, but it was all she had.

  Micki got lucky. She caught Blackwood’s smiling receptionist locking up for the day. Micki tapped her horn to get the woman’s attention, then did a U-turn to swing into the parking lot.

  “Hi,” Micki said, climbing out of her car. “Pam, right?”

  The woman did not look happy to see her. “Yes.”

  “You might not remember me, I’m—”

  “I remember you, Detective Dare. Dr. Blackwood’s gone for the day.”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Me? About what?”

  “Your boss.”

  She shook her head. “I have nothing to say.”

  “Is she good to work for?”

  “She pays me well.”

  “Which doesn’t answer my question. Is she a good therapist?”

  “I guess so. Her appointment book is full and her clients keep coming back.”

  The receptionist unlocked her car and swung open the door. Micki noticed that, like the other day, her hands were shaking. “Do I make you nervous, Pam? Because I’m a cop?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why are your hands shaking?”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Too much coffee.”

  “They were shaking the other day, too. So badly, you almost knocked over your bottle of water.”

  She didn’t comment and Micki went on. “You’re afraid of her, aren’t you?”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Is it?”

  “I have to go.”

  “Did you know Bitty Vanderlund or Chuck Chandler?”

  “I know who they were. They came in often.”

  “How often did they see Dr. Blackwood?”

  “It used to be once a week. Recently, it was more.”

  “What changed that they were coming in more?”

  “I don’t know. That’s none of my business.”

  “Let me rephrase: had anything changed in their demeanors?”

  She hesitated. Wet her lips. “They seemed more . . . anxious.”

  “When they came in?”

  Pam nodded.

  “What about after their sessions?”

  “Better. I don’t know, calm. Sort of refreshed.”

  “That’s one of the good side effects of being hypnotized, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve got to go. My kids are waiting.” She made a move to climb into the vehicle.

  Micki laid a hand on her arm, stopping her. “Why are you afraid, Pam? Tell me. I can help—”

  “I need this job,” she said, jerking her arm away. “Please leave me alone.”

  She slid into her car, slammed the door, and started the engine. Micki tapped on the window, held up a business card.

  Pam cracked the window. “What?”

  Micki slid the card through. “Take this. My numbers are on it, just in case.”

  “Of what?”

  “You tell me, Pam.”

  As Micki looked her dead in the eyes, she thought she saw desperation there. She hoped she was wrong. She hoped Pam didn’t take the card.

  But she did. Snatched it from Micki’s fingers and tossed it into her purse.

  Micki watched her drive off and wondered if she had made the right decision.

  Chapter Fifteen

  9:25 P.M.

  The next morning, Renee Blackwood called before Micki had finished her second cup of coffee. She had wondered if her poking and prodding would cause a reaction.

  Apparently, it had.

  As a rush of adrenaline shot through her veins, Micki answered. “Good morning, Dr. Blackwood. What can I do for you this morning?”

  “You can tell me what the fuck you were doing at my offi
ce last night.”

  The woman’s crude language took her aback. “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll tell you what you were doing. Bullying my employee. Trying to intimidate her.”

  “If that’s what she told you, let me assure you that wasn’t—”

  “Don’t bother to deny it, Detective. This borders on harassment.”

  “Hardly. A few simple questions—”

  “What do you hold most dear, Detective Dare?”

  Gooseflesh raced up her arms. “What did you say?”

  “How would you feel if someone was messing with the one thing, the one person, you couldn’t live without?”

  Hank. His image popped into her head, with it the soothing sound of his voice.

  Micki stiffened. “Are you threatening me, Dr. Blackwood?”

  “How do you define a threat?”

  Her own question from the other day, turned back on her. The shrink was toying with her.

  Trying to, Micki amended. If Blackwood thought Michaela Dare was going to play mouse to her cat, she was in for a big disappointment. “Threatening a sworn officer is a chargeable offense.”

  She laughed, the sound silky. “Not a threat. A simple, rhetorical question.”

  “You had better hope that’s all it was.” She paused to let her words, their meaning, sink in, then went on. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Dr. Blackwood?”

  “Don’t bother me or my employee again.”

  Blackwood hung up, leaving an unspoken “Or else” hanging in the dead air.

  “What do you hold most dear?”

  Not what. Who.

  Suddenly, numb with terror, she dialed Hank. It rang once, then again and again.

  No answer.

  She redialed. Pick up, Hank. Pick up.

  He didn’t.

  He was working on the Nova, Micki told herself, fighting panic. He’d left his phone in the house. Or was visiting with a neighbor.

  None of those calmed her. The call rolled over to voicemail.

  Instead of leaving a message, she hung up and dialed a third time. And once again listened to the other device ring; once again, hung up without leaving a message. Grabbing her coat, she redialed and ran for the stairs.

  He answered just as she hit the lobby door. “Michaela?”

  “Hank! Thank God!” She stopped and sagged against the doorframe. “You’re okay?”

  “Except for almost breaking my fool neck trying to find this stupid device, I am.” He paused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  She knew him well enough to know he was frowning. Concerned. Hysterics weren’t her style. “I just had this feeling something was wrong,” she said. “When you didn’t answer, I was sure of it.”

  “I was under the Nova,” he said. “Covered in grease.”

  She let out a pent-up breath. “Sorry. I totally overreacted.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  She glanced into the lobby. Blackwood’s receptionist stood at the front desk, talking to the desk officer.

  “Michaela?”

  She realized he was waiting for her answer. “Everything’s good. Sorry, Hank, but I’ve got to go.”

  She hung up and crossed to the receptionist. “Pam,” she said, “this is a surprise.”

  The woman turned. And burst into tears.

  Micki led her to a bank of chairs. “What’s wrong?”

  “Dr. Blackwood, she—” Pam drew a shaky breath “—she fired me. For talking to you.”

  Micki frowned. “She called me just a few minutes ago and didn’t say anything about firing you. In fact, she gave me the impression you told her we’d talked.”

  Pam shook her head, wiped her cheeks. “She’d looked at the overnight surveillance tapes. I didn’t know she ever did that and . . . I lied.”

  “Slow down. Tell me exactly what happened.”

  Pam nodded, took a deep breath. “She was already there when I arrived this morning. She was in one of her moods. Angry sounding. Sort of confrontational.”

  “This wasn’t the first time you’d come in to find her that way?”

  “No.” She wrung her hands. “It’s not every day, but once a week. I hate it when she gets like that.”

  “Go on.”

  “She point-blank asked me if I’d talked to you.”

  “And you lied.”

  “Yes.” She hung her head. “I hate myself for it.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell her the truth?” Mickie asked. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I knew she wouldn’t like it. She was already in a mood and I . . . I didn’t want to deal with it.”

  “I’m sorry, Pam,” she said softly. “But you do realize what she did, right? She set a trap for you. Do you really want to work for a person like that?”

  “Easy for you to ask. Do you have two kids to support on a receptionist’s salary?”

  “True,” Micki said sympathetically, “I don’t. But I saw how nervous she made you. How uncomfortable.”

  “She’s mean. To the bone mean. She knew how much I needed the job and enjoyed firing me. I saw it in her eyes.” Pam balled her hands into fists. “Gleeful, that’s what she was.”

  “You’ll get another job.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Not like that. Not one that pays so much.”

  “You were overpaid?”

  She nodded and fished a tissue out of her purse. “A position, with my skills and experience . . . anywhere else I’d make half what she offered.”

  “Why do you think she did that, Pam?”

  She looked startled by the question, as if she had never considered it before. “I don’t know, I was just so thankful.”

  “So thankful you never questioned it or anything else about the job? She bought your loyalty, Pam.”

  “She said she couldn’t have an employee she didn’t trust.” Bright spots of color bloomed in her cheeks. “Then she smiled.”

  “What else can you tell me about Bitty Vanderlund and Cherry Chablis?”

  “Nothing more than what I’ve already told you! That’s what’s so stupid. Why did she even care if I talked to you? Nothing I could say would have incriminated her.”

  “Let’s be certain of that.” Micki leaned toward her and lowered her voice. “Could she have somehow orchestrated the murders?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I am.”

  Pam hesitated, as if to focus. “Would she have if there’d been a way? Yeah, she would’ve. Absolutely. Just for fun.”

  The bitterness in her voice was palpable. An angry witness lashing out at her former employer hardly made a reliable witness.

  But at the moment, that’s all she had.

  “That day my partner and I were interviewing Dr. Blackwood, I asked if she practiced hypnotherapy and she said no. I saw your face. You knew she was lying.”

  “Yes.” She looked down at her hands, then back up at Micki. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Why do you think she did that?”

  Pam frowned. “Maybe she was hiding something?”

  “Exactly what I think. She ever talk to you about what she does? About therapy in general or hypnotherapy in particular?”

  “Some. She once told me that in the wrong hands hypnosis could be a dangerous thing. Something like, she could just as easily instill anxiety and fear in a person as alleviate it.”

  Micki made a note and Pam went on. “She started quoting cases of ritualistic abuse in children and hypnosis being used to manipulate the minds of the abused. It creeped me out so much I almost quit then.” She looked down at her hands. “I wish I had.”

  “But you didn’t. Because of the money.”

  She inclined her head. “I think she got off on watching me squirm. I even told her I had kids and didn’t want to hear anymore, but she didn’t stop.”

  Pam shuddered and rubbed her arms. “I was never so happy to get out of anywhere. I felt like I needed a bath, it was that ugly.”


  Micki understood. She’d often felt the same after interviewing a perp—she’d learned only time could wash the sensation away. And even then, the memory lingered, like a shadow on the psyche.

  Micki leaned toward her. “Many therapists record their sessions with patients. Does she?”

  “I don’t know. She takes notes, but transcribes them herself because of patient privacy laws.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me, Pam? Anything at all?”

  “Only one thing, it’s probably nothing . . . but I kept thinking how ironic it was.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Vanderlund and Chablis. The queen thing.”

  “What about it?”

  “The beauty parlor she goes to. It’s called The Queen Bee Salon.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  11:00 A.M.

  Ten minutes later, Micki had corralled Angelo with the promise of a late lunch, her treat. Now that she had him buckled in the Taurus and traveling seventy miles per hour, she figured it was safe to fill him in.

  “It’s been a busy morning,” she began. “Renee Blackwood called me. . . after she’d fired her receptionist, Pam. Who then paid me a visit at the Eighth.”

  Although she kept her gaze trained on the road ahead, she felt his stare—and every moment of his very vocal silence.

  She finally broke it. “Say something.”

  “You’re a bit of a pit bull, aren’t you?”

  Not what she was expecting. She glanced his way. “Meaning?”

  “You sink your teeth in, then you won’t let go.”

  Not the nicest mental picture, but she supposed an accurate one. “I can live with that.”

  “So my question is, why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why the call from Blackwood? Why’d she fire her receptionist and why did said receptionist pay you a visit at the Eighth?”

  She quickly explained it all—driving by Blackwood’s office, seeing Pam Barnes, stopping and questioning her. Then the fallout this morning.

  “Blackwood threatened me,” she said. “Asked how I’d feel if I lost what I held most dear.”

  “Son of a bitch, Dare! I hope you called her on it?”

  “Of course. She laughed it off. Just a rhetorical question, she said. Here’s the thing, I don’t think she’s done.”