by Linda Ladd
Bourdain’s cell phone rang, and he took it, grimaced with annoyance, and walked back out to the foyer. Zee was on his hands and knees looking at a single red silk slipper with a five-inch spiked heel. The matching one lay atop the pillows of a black-and-white checkered couch. “Looks like she was kickin’ and fightin’ hard. Maybe he’s got some injuries, too.”
Claire nodded. “No evidence of forced entry. She must’ve let him in. If she knew him, it’s going to help us find him.”
“Got to be a boyfriend or lover. And I don’t think it’s random, or a robbery gone wrong, either.”
“She might have a jealous ex-husband with a key, something like that.”
“All true, except it doesn’t explain that voodoo doll with your face on it.”
Claire ignored that. She leaned down beside the couch and found a hurricane glass lying on its side. She recognized it as a souvenir from Pat O’Briens, a popular bar in the French Quarter. She and Black had spent an evening there, just before he’d left for London. “She was drinking with him, Zee. I bet we’ve got his prints all over that glass.”
“So he beat her unconscious, took her down those stairs outside. Nobody would’ve seen him leave if he parked under the house.”
Claire sighed and nodded agreement. This was quickly turning into a really bad case, and she had an equally bad feeling that it was only going to get worse.
Chapter Five
Stepping carefully around the overturned furniture and broken lamps, Claire and Zee progressed into Madonna Christien’s kitchen and found it neat and clean, except for one wine bottle lying on the floor in front of a stainless steel refrigerator. Its contents had drained out into a big puddle in the shape of Florida with part of the panhandle under the white cabinet. Off the kitchen, they found a bathroom that had another door leading into the master bedroom. It had one of the new claw-foot standing tubs built to look old, still full of perfumed water. Two fluffy white towels were folded neatly on a red velvet bench beside it. Madonna Christien had probably been getting ready to bathe when the killer showed up, but the bathroom itself looked untouched. There was no bathrobe in sight, which Claire found unusual. Claire always had one ready and close enough to grab. Most women did. There was a white hairbrush on the sink, alongside a small travel hair dryer and a bottle of Garnier Extra-Hold Mousse.
“Maybe she was in the bath and the guy rang the doorbell. She got out and let him in. She had to know him, Zee.”
“Yeah, everything was fine at first. They had a drink together out of those hurricanes, talked some. Then something went down wrong, and the guy flipped out.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
There were two small closets inside the bathroom. Although she’d checked them out earlier, she hadn’t turned on the interior lights, just checked for somebody hiding inside. So, when she turned on the switch, she found Madonna Christien’s personal wardrobe. Claire pulled out a couple of hangers and found that Madonna dressed like a hooker, except maybe a mite kinkier. “Look here, Zee, black leather and spiked collars and fishnet hose. Madonna was a hooker, all right.”
“Lemme see.” Zee came off overeager, but Claire stepped aside and let him scrape back the hangers one at a time. “This stuff has dominatrix written all over it. See any whips or ball gags? She’s a prostitute, all right, but I’d say more of a call girl, maybe. Hope she’s got a little black book with all her johns listed for us.”
“Don’t hold your breath, Zee. If she had one, it’s probably somewhere in a safety deposit box.” Claire pulled open a drawer in a small antique white bureau on one side of the closet and found neat stacks of pricey thong underwear and lace teddies, most of which looked like “come hither, lover boy” garb. “Could be a porn connection. Looks like she had money to spend.”
Zee had moved on to the other closet. “Whoa, look at this. Madonna’s into a bit of voodoo, too.”
Claire joined him at the door. With the light on, she could see that the altar tucked in the back was almost identical to the crime scene. Lots of candles, skulls, and pictures of Catholic saints and angels. Except for one difference: no body. Instead, Madonna had about a hundred pictures of the same guy. “Who’s that, Zee? You know him?”
“That’s Jack Holliday. He’s the guy Nancy and I were talkin’ about at the office. The quarterback at Tulane, remember?”
“Well, whoever he is, she was definitely into him. This looks like hero worship to me. Maybe she was concocting voodoo charms and love potions to win him over.”
Dozens of photographs of Jack Holliday were on the walls, some cut out of magazines, others eight-by-ten publicity glossies, all pinned up together. Some looked like photos she’d taken in secret, of him getting into his car in front of some big fancy house, of him walking down a narrow street with another guy, even one of him lying on a couch that appeared to have been taken from outside his window.
“Is that a prayer bench sitting in front of the candles? Good grief, Zee, if this isn’t a fixation, I don’t know what is.”
“This here’s a freakin’ voodoo shrine dedicated to Jack Holliday, all right. She had to be a nut case, too, to put this kinda thing together. Apparently, the killer isn’t the only one into voodoo.”
“You think Holliday might be into this kind of stuff, Zee? Maybe a black magic cult, something like that?”
Zee only laughed. “From what I hear, he’s into huntin’ and fishin’ and datin’ hot women, lots of hot women.”
“Madonna was hot.”
“Yeah, but he’s into Hollywood stars and swimsuit models and famous women athletes. I’ve read about it all over the place. He can have any girl he wants, believe me.”
Zee found a poster of the guy hanging on the back of the door. “Well, Holliday’s been up close and personal with Madonna Christien. This proves it.”
There was writing scrawled over his impressively tanned abs. For Madonna. Jack Holliday.
Claire stared at the slick poster. Nancy had the same one inside her office and mooned over it regularly but Claire had never paid much attention to it. Upon closer inspection, Claire understood why women went for him. He was a fine-looking specimen, all right. The photographer had caught him wading out of the ocean waves, some kind of tropical paradise behind him. The water hit him at mid thigh, and a swath of dark hair arrowed down his chest into dark blue swim trunks. He was holding a snorkel in one hand and a pair of goggles in his other one. He was staring straight into the lens and looked none too happy about being photographed. His expression made him look tough and sexy. Or maybe just highly ticked off. He was hot, all right—thick dark brown hair, five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw, eyes dark, intense. No wonder Madonna had given him his own room.
“Okay, Zee, what do you think? Would this guy take more interest in our victim than just signing an autograph for her?”
“I can answer that for you,” came Rene Bourdain’s voice from behind them. “Look what we found when we ran Madonna’s name.” He handed Claire his smartphone, and Claire read the screen.
“This is a restraining order taken out by Madonna on Jack Holliday. Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”
Rene said, “Look at the date. Ten days ago.”
Zee came alive. “Hey, man, does that mean I get to meet Jack Holliday in person?”
Claire frowned. “Hold on a minute, Zee. Jack Holliday just turned into our number-one person of interest. This says he’s been harassing her, making phone calls, and pestering her out in public. That sounds like a stalking charge to me, at the very least.”
Zee shrugged. “By the looks of this shrine right here, I’d say she’s the stalker. Or maybe they’re stalking each other. Anyway, I can tell you right now he didn’t kill her.”
“And you know this how?”
“Because he’s got way too much to lose to be stalkin’ some woman like her, especially if she’s a hooker. He’s a celebrity in this town, and he’s still making a ton of money as a sports agent.”
&nbs
p; “Rich people drink. Rich people snort coke. Rich people go crazy sometimes and do stupid things. Is he into voodoo? That might be a clue we could take to the bank. Ever heard anything about that?”
Zee shrugged. “Never heard it mentioned. I highly doubt it. He’s a jock and likes the women. He doesn’t need voodoo.”
Rene said, “My crew just pulled up. I’m bringing them in and then you’re in charge, Claire. That okay by you?”
“Fine. Let’s make sure this entire apartment is filmed and dusted, everything catalogued. If Jack Holliday was in this house, I want to be able to prove it. If he’s not the one who drank out of that hurricane glass, I’d like to know who did.”
“That still doesn’t mean he offed her,” Zee pointed out. “They could’ve just been friends. That’s more likely.”
“Maybe you ought to try to be a little bit more objective, Zee.”
“I am objective. I just don’t think he did it.”
“Well, we’ll know soon enough if he’s been here.”
As the crime scene techs filed in, it didn’t take them long to get down to work. Claire snooped around a bit more. Especially inside the Jack Holliday voodoo shrine or whatever the hell it was. She found several small bottles with hearts and flowers on the homemade labels. Love potions, she’d bet her weapons on it. She opened a drawer and found a couple of voodoo dolls similar to the one found at the crime scene. Jack Holliday’s face was on one of them but not impaled with pins. Another looked to be the tiny effigy of a female with a straight pin stuck into each eye. Jeez. But it wasn’t her this time, thank goodness. There was a small jewelry box inside as well, and Claire lifted the lid with one gloved finger. Expecting to find bling or sacred voodoo pins, she was surprised to find a small pink book. “Maybe Madonna did keep an appointment book, after all, Zee.”
Flipping through the pages, she found what appeared to be Jack Holliday’s private cell phone number with a heart drawn around it in red ink. Plenty other male names were listed, too—her clients, no doubt—and believe it or not, each was rated with a star system. Holliday’s stars covered the entire page, but most of the regular guys just rated two or three. That poor girl was delusional or just big-time messed up in the head.
The only problem—and a big one, at that—was there were no last names. The numbers would probably be enough unless they were throwaway phones, and that meant lots of time and legwork. Holliday, on the other hand, would be the easiest to find, and the most important to nail down at the moment.
Rene took the book from Claire and thumbed through it. “You wanna couple of my detectives to run down these names for you?”
“Yeah, that would be helpful. Zee and I will handle Holliday.”
“My guys’ll canvass this neighborhood, too, maybe turn up something for you.”
“Thanks, that’ll save us time.”
“Why don’t you and Zee stick around and have dinner with me? Give us time to talk about old times.”
That was the last thing Claire wanted to do, but she played nice. Rene had been very accommodating, today and in the past. “No, we’ve gotta head back for the autopsy, but we appreciate the invite. This Jack Holliday guy, he’s a big deal around here, right?”
Rene nodded. “Pretty much. He played at Tulane, got a lot of media back then.”
“Then I need to interview him, but I want to do it on the QT. No reporters sniffing around, no publicity. Can you arrange that without tipping him off that’s he’s number one right now?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. I met him a couple of times at charity events. He supports the Special Olympics and Make a Wish Foundation and Wounded Warriors—he’s really big in that one. He’s well known enough around here to draw in some big donors.”
“Yeah? So what’s your take on him?”
“He seems okay, I guess. Generous with his time and money. But that restraining order puts a whole new spin on things. Doesn’t look good for him. It’s a miracle the media didn’t get hold of it, considerin’ who he is. Somebody downtown must’ve hushed it up somehow.”
“Well, I’m glad they did. The last thing we need right now is a bunch of reporters following us around. But I am curious to see what he has to say about the victim and where he’s been the last few days. I’d also like permission to search his house, if the need arises. How soon can you get us an interview?”
“Tomorrow afternoon fast enough? If he’s in town. I know he travels a lot. He was in Dallas today, at the game. I know that for a fact. Saw him interviewed.”
“Yeah, we did, too. Any time tomorrow’s great.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
“Please, make it sound like we just need to talk to him, nothing that would scare him off. Last thing we need is for him to lawyer up and plead the Fifth.”
“Well, sorry, but I’m with Zee on this one. Holliday’d be all kinds of stupid to do something like this. And he’s not stupid. He’s as savvy as they come.”
Zee waited for Rene to take his leave, and then he grinned at Claire. “Maybe we could interview him at the Dome? Wow, that’d be way cool.”
“I think I ought to take Nancy along, instead of you. Your eyes are beginning to look a little wild.”
“Hell, Nan would faint at the mere sight of him. She went to Tulane, too.”
That could very well be true, but Zee would probably ask for the guy’s autograph. Truthfully, Claire just might want his signature, too. Difference was, Claire wanted it on the bottom of a confession.
Chapter Six
Inside the sterile confines of the Lafourche Parish morgue, Claire found Nancy Gill sitting at her desk, waiting for Claire to show up so she could get the ball rolling. Through the big windows separating the office from the autopsy room, Claire could see the nude body of Madonna Christien lying on a steel table. The bright overhead light illuminated the victim’s battered face. Now that it had been cleansed of the black and white skeleton paint, the bruises were more visible, as were the awful stitch marks on her eyes and lips. Her hair was long and dark and spread out behind her head.
“I got a little trace off the body, which pretty much amounted to zero. A few hairs, some fibers I can’t yet identify. The perpetrator washed her clean with bleach before he painted her up and put her in that voodoo costume. But I’m ready to go, if you are. Is Zee comin’ in for this?”
Claire shook her head. “He’s interviewing people out along the bayou. I didn’t know anybody lived out there, except for Saucier. And I didn’t know that until he told me he heard me playing the other night. But, maybe we’ll get lucky and Zee will find somebody who saw something. If the guys find footprints, tire tracks, anything, maybe we can tie them to the killer. But nothing’s turned up yet, nothing at all. I’ve got a bad feeling that we’re not going to find much. This guy knows what he’s doing, and that probably means she’s not his first victim. Or his last.”
“He sure cleaned up the victim well enough,” Nancy said, shaking her head. “Okay then, you ready? I’m tired. I need to get some sleep if we’re goin’ out partying tomorrow night. We are still on for a night on the town, right? Let’s go to the Bayou Blue, okay?”
“You bet. I need some downtime, too. Black’s coming home late afternoon on Tuesday. So I’m all yours tomorrow. After seeing what I’ve seen today, I am definitely ready for some fun.”
“Great, me, too. Get on some gear and let’s get this done.”
Claire was not thrilled, not one iota, but she donned the protective garb and breathing mask and trailed Nancy into the autopsy room. Finding a crime victim, stabbed or burned or strangled to death by some psychopath, was enough tragedy for her, but standing around watching already abused bodies being sliced, diced, and put on little glass slides didn’t remotely ring any kind of happy bells. Autopsies were not trips to Disney World. She’d seen lots of horrible, inhumane things done to other human beings during her career. More than she could count. Zee was even more resistant about venturing into Nancy’s domain of
the dead. He did everything he could not to step into the room filled with its sickening odors of antiseptic and death and chemicals, so this time Claire bit the bullet for him. Next time, it would be his turn to enter the dead zone.
Claire stood across from Nancy at the steel autopsy table. “Okay, I’m ready.”
Nancy nodded, settled the microphone headset, and switched on the tape recorder. Claire fixed her own breathing gear more securely as Nancy gave the date and place of autopsy.
“The body is that of Madonna Christien, a Caucasian female homicide victim. Observing is Detective Claire Morgan on lend from the Canton Country Sheriff’s Office in Missouri and lead detective in the investigation. Measurements indicate the body weight at ninety-nine and one-half pounds; height is five foot and one-half inch. The body shows signs of progressive deterioration. Eyelids and lips have been sewn shut with heavy embroidery thread. Time of death is not definitive, but is estimated at three to five days.”
Nancy continued, each step precise and meticulously documented, but Claire only stared at the severe bruising on the body, distinct and graphic and brutal. Abrasions and contusions mottled the sloughing skin. Along with the serious head injuries, the poor girl had been pummeled with doubled fists or some kind of blunt weapon until she stopped breathing. The extensive injuries fit very well with the disarray at the Carondelet murder scene.
Claire’s guess was that the assailant had thrown Madonna’s slight body around and slammed her repeatedly into walls and furniture, and her bruises certainly bore proof of it. Which meant whoever the perpetrator was, he had to be strong. On the other hand, Madonna Christien was a tiny little thing. So small that she could have been overcome by a female perpetrator, especially if dazed by an initial head injury. Her fingernails were broken and ragged, indicating that she had fought desperately against her assailant. Nancy had taken nail scrapings, and Claire hoped that the victim had managed to get her assailant’s DNA.
Nancy continued her description. “The skull and facial bones are damaged and swollen. A gaping five-inch laceration appears on the back of the head. There is a hemp rope secured tightly around her neck, indicating probable death by asphyxiation.”
