Mostly Murder

by Linda Ladd

  Picking up a small pair of scissors from the instrument tray, Nancy carefully snipped through the black threads holding the eyelids closed. She put down the scissors and lifted the victim’s right eyelid with a gloved thumb. “After cutting away the thread holding the eye together, petechial hemorrhaging is observed, also an indication of death by strangulation, as is the bruising around the throat and the discoloration of the facial skin after the paint was removed.”

  Claire watched and wondered about Jack Holliday. Was he really capable of inflicting these massive injuries to a woman half his size? Maybe a guy like him could kill a woman in a rage, but taking the time to sew her eyes shut? Good God, that took a sick person, a special kind of monster, one who no doubt hid in the dark and crept around like some kind of poisonous spider. A famous local sports legend did not fit the profile. Then again, desperate people did reckless things. And some celebs thought they were above the law and above getting caught, much less convicted of wrongdoing. Unfortunately, lots of times they were right.

  Claire’s cell phone vibrated alive, then started to sing. She grabbed it, thinking it was Black checking in for the night. A little disappointed, she saw Rene Bourdain’s name. Claire punched on quickly, hoping he had some good news. “Detective Morgan.”

  Moving into Nancy’s office again, she was glad for the interruption, since Nancy had just started the Y-cut incision that would open Madonna Christien’s torso.

  “Jack Holliday agreed to talk to you tomorrow, but he wants to do it at his house out in the Garden District. He’s throwin’ some kinda shindig for his Special Olympics kids out at the Dome first and wants to talk to you after that. It’s for some kind of organization he’s a part of out at Tulane.”

  Claire sat down in Nancy’s swivel chair and watched Nancy through the window. “So he really is into charity work? Doesn’t sound much like the pastime of a cold-blooded, voodoo killer.”

  “You might be surprised. Ted Bundy worked a suicide line, if I recall. I just hope the media doesn’t show up. If they do, stay under the radar and don’t mention my name, even if you’ve got to end the interview. If he’s got somethin’ to do with this, all hell’s gonna break loose around here, and your murder’s gonna go viral in about three seconds.”

  “Chill, Bourdain, we don’t have anything on him yet. Except the restraining order and the victim’s apparent obsession with him.”

  “I hope to God you’re right. Some people around here still worship the ground he walks on. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and he can point you to somebody who had it out for her.”

  “We’ll see, I guess.”

  “From what I’ve learned so far, your victim isn’t any angel. Prostitution charges and weed possession. Also got intel that she did some stripping at a biker bar off Magazine. Lowlife dive called Voodoo River.”

  “Well, that just fits right in with all the other weirdness, doesn’t it? Want us to check it out? Say the word and we’re on it.”

  “Be my guest. But ya’ll be careful. The biker gang that hangs out there? They call themselves the Skulls, and they won’t like you comin’ around snoopin’ on their turf. Madonna Christien was into drugs, too, and there’s probably gonna be more charges that’ll come up on her rap sheet. I’ll get back to you when I get the full report.”

  “What about her apartment? Forensics find anything we can use?”

  “Yeah, they picked up a lot of latents. Two unknown, another off one of the hurricane glasses that came up as Madonna Christien, alias Jilly Johnston, alias Shannon Martin. But the Madonna one is her real name. She was incarcerated under that name for soliciting tourists on Bourbon Street about a year ago. Record’s clean since then.”

  “She works the Quarter?”

  “Did the stroll back then. Looks like she turned that gig into some kind of call girl business, not exactly the high-priced kind, but still better than working the streets.”

  “Rene, you said you knew Holliday personally, right? Is he really hard up enough to pay for a hooker?”

  Rene snorted and smothered his laugh. “Hell no. He can have any woman he wants. Haven’t you seen the guy? Women chase him. But any man would pay for a hooker, given the right circumstances. Men are men. You gotta know that.”

  Claire wondered if that were really true. Some guys fit that bill, true enough. But Holliday wasn’t just any man. Just like Rene had pointed out, he dripped money, fame, charisma, and sex appeal. His bedroom probably had a revolving door.

  Rene said, “Some guys like the power trip. Buy a woman and force them to do whatever they want. Domination, plain and simple.”

  “Did you tell Holliday why we want to see him?”

  “I told him you had some questions about a case you’re workin’ on down in the Lafourche bayous near Thibodaux.”

  “Did he ask a lot of questions about it?”

  “Not really, we talked over the phone. He offered to meet you tonight as soon as his plane lands out at Louis Armstrong, but I figured you’d need more time to prepare your interrogation. His flight’s due in around midnight.”

  “You’re right, I want to know everything about him before we sit down. Do I have permission to ask for his prints?”

  “You can do whatever you want, as far as I’m concerned. My advice, though? Ask him to give them willingly. Can’t see him being anything but cooperative, not at this point.”

  “Do you like this guy, Rene?

  “He comes off like the genuine article, but lots of bad guys do. I’m sure you know that.” He paused. “God, it was good to see you again. Never woulda thought we’d be workin’ a case together.”

  “Yeah. Got anything else for me?”

  “Nope, our techs are still running tests. There was a lot of stuff in that apartment, but I’ll keep you posted. Want me to fax you what we’ve got so far?”

  “Yes, please. Send it here to Nancy’s office. You want to be there when we talk to Holliday?”

  “No can do. Got departmental meetings all day tomorrow. You need anything else from us, you just let me know, okay?”

  Claire gave him the fax number, and they hung up. Claire rocked back and forth in Nancy’s chair and considered everything he’d said. She could hear the buzz of Nancy’s cranial saw and was glad Rene had chosen that particular moment to call. Claire would read the autopsy report later. Excised brain matter wasn’t exactly appealing right before dinner. Across from the desk, Nancy had tacked up posters of some of the Saints players. Holliday had the place of honor.

  And Claire was right. It was the same poster that Madonna had on her closet door. At the bottom was the title. She hadn’t noticed that before. Stone Angel. Oh, God, how embarrassing was that? Black would absolutely croak if anybody called him that, even though it described him, too, lucky for her. Yeah, she missed him and all those hard-packed muscles of his. Might as well admit it. Nobody could hear.

  She stared at the poster some more, wondering if he could really be the homicidal murderer she was looking for, a beast who could beat a woman black and blue and strangle her and sew up her body parts. Claire suddenly got a visual image of a man bent over a body in the flicker of dozens of white candles, his sharp needle piercing the thin skin of her eyelids and pulling them tightly together. She shivered.

  Nancy’s flat-screen television sat on top of a filing cabinet and was tuned to ESPN’s SportsCenter, the sound muted. Jack Holliday’s face flashed up on the screen, and Claire scrambled for the remote. He was praising the scoring ability of one of his clients.

  “Hey, Claire, they beat the crap out of Dallas. You hear the score? Hey, there’s Jack. Does he look good, or what?”

  Claire glanced over at Nancy. “Sorry to tell you this, Nancy, but your hero there is our main person of interest at the moment.”

  “No way.”

  “Afraid so. Rene says the victim is a known prostitute, and she has a special closet in her house that’s a virtual shrine to him. If we find his fingerprints in her house, he’s got a lot of
explaining to do.”

  “Nah, he’s a smart guy, and he’s got way too much to lose to kill a prostitute.”

  “Funny you said that. So did Rene and Zee.”

  “Are you going to get to meet him? Can I go?”

  Claire sighed and then had to laugh. How would it feel to be worshiped and obsessed over by everyday people, people who were normal and productive in every other way? Bizarre, she suspected. She would hate it. She hated the little bit of media coverage she’d gotten. She hated it even worse when people recognized her name. “I call it interviewing a person of interest. But hey, Nancy, cheer up, you might get to meet him if we throw him in jail.”

  “Not gonna happen, trust me. And guess what? I found an identifier on the body. A little homemade tattoo, one I think you’re gonna find very interesting.”

  Claire jumped up and trailed Nancy back into the autopsy room. Nancy pulled over the armed and lighted magnifying glass and positioned it down close to the inside of the victim’s left wrist. “See it? You tell me what that looks like.”

  Claire stared at the tiny blue marks. “It’s the same symbol the killer drew in the cornmeal at the crime scene. Zee called it a Veve.”

  They stared at each other for a moment. Claire said, “She was caught up in something, all right. What? A voodoo cult or some kind of black magic?”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s what I’d say.”

  “Oh, boy, this case is gonna get messy.”

  “I’m going to finish and then close her up, okay? Anything you want to see?”

  Claire shook her head, and when she heard the fax machine click on, she headed back to Nancy’s desk. It was Rene’s reports. Madonna Christien’s mug shots were on the first page. She wore a tank top, low cut and provocative, but she had been a pretty girl. Small and pixie-ish with waist-length dark hair and a scattering of brown freckles across her nose that made her look really young.

  Wanting plenty of ammunition for the next afternoon, Claire turned to Nancy’s computer and Googled Jack Holliday’s name. About a zillion hits popped up. She clicked on the first site, and it showed his head shot, in which he was grinning confidently. The article gave his stats as six feet eight inches tall and two hundred and thirty pounds. Whoa, he definitely could throw just about anybody up against a wall, and it wouldn’t take long to wrap those giant hands around a little woman’s throat and squeeze the life out of her.

  Even though Jack Holliday had been out of the game, there were all kinds of stats about yards rushed in his Tulane heyday and his short stint with the Saints some time ago, and other stuff like that, but very little about his personal background. She found another site, one run by fans, that had an unauthorized biography of him. She skimmed through all the gossipy stuff, mainly about celebrities that he’d either dated or been photographed with, of which there were plenty. Then she found what she was looking for.

  According to the website, he had been born in Colorado, a suburb of Denver called Arvada. Had played high school football there and been given a full scholarship to Tulane University. Had gotten a first-round draft pick with the Saints and led them to a Super Bowl victory before he blew out his knee in the big game. After that, his bio got real sketchy, except for his sports agent status.

  For the next thirty minutes, Claire found out with some difficulty that he had no living family, but one fan site said he had an unnamed grandmother somewhere. Not much else. Most bios included his prior prowess at throwing the football and/or sleeping with beautiful women.

  Not as much info on him as Claire would have liked to have before an interview, but probably enough to catch him if he fed her a bunch of lies or avoided her questions. Tired and ready to crash and get some sleep, Claire gave Zee a call and told him to pick her up at her house tomorrow and they’d go interview Holliday. He reacted with unbridled, hero-worshipping joy. She knocked on the window and waved good-bye to Nancy, who was now doing her thing with internal organs and placing slivers of tissue on glass slides.

  Outside, she stood and breathed in the cool night air. Her cell phone sang, and she opened it quickly, hoping it was Black this time. It was, and she picked up quickly. “Well, I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

  “Yeah? You’re just about all I think about anymore.”

  Yes, that was pretty damn sappy, true, but she liked it, not that she’d ever admit it. “So how are your patients tonight? Sleeping peacefully or on a hatchet rampage?”

  “All’s calm. I’ll be home before you know it. I miss you.”

  “Same here, so hurry up. Jules Verne and I get lost in that huge bed.”

  He laughed softly. “I’ll find you, don’t worry. How is that little pooch? Still cooling off in the courtyard fountain?”

  Black loved the little poodle he’d brought Claire from Paris almost as much as she did. But Jules was good company at night when Black took off on his business trips. “Oh, yeah, he likes to wade around in it while he gets his drink. But he keeps me company.”

  “Good. Hey, I’ve got a surprise for you. It’s all arranged so you can’t say no.”

  That was Black. He always had a surprise for her, sometimes very, very good, and sometimes not so hot. “So, what is it?”

  “I’ve got a crew of carpenters lined up to rebuild that old house you like down on the bayou. I’m going to totally remodel it and put in a security system so you can stay there any time you’re too tired to drive home. Luc LeFevres already gave me permission to do anything I want with it. He said he’d deed the thing over to you if you want it. They’re just letting it fall into ruin.”

  Uh-oh. Any other time, she’d like that surprise a lot, but not right now. And she didn’t want to tell him what was going on, or he might go bananas. She waited a second longer but couldn’t think of any other good reason to call off the carpenters. “Uh, Black, maybe you should hold off on that for a while.”

  “Why?”

  She frowned and heaved in a bracing breath. “Because it’s a crime scene at the moment.”

  Dead silence. “What the hell does that mean? Are you okay? Are you involved in something bad?”

  Ah, the guy knew her well. “Yes, a case, but I’m fine. We found a body in the house and we’re investigating it as a homicide now. Looks like some kind of voodoo thing, maybe.”

  “Voodoo thing? Are you serious? What kind of voodoo thing?”

  Being a New Orleanian by birth, Black sounded almost as spooked as Zee and Nancy. “Surely you’re not scared of voodoo stuff, Black.”

  “I’m not scared, but I know they take their rituals seriously and don’t like people messing with them. I’m just glad you haven’t been staying out there. Maybe I’ll nix those carpenters for good. I don’t want you anywhere near that place if that kind of stuff’s going on.”

  Uh-oh, again. “Well, not to worry. I’ll be at our house with Jules tonight, all by our lonesome in that big empty bed.”

  As she suspected, that got his mind fixated on something else. He had been sleeping alone for more than a week, after all. At least, she hoped he had. His next words reassured her.

  “Better expect to spend a lot of time in that bed on Tuesday. I’ll meet you there for dinner and then you can show me how much you missed me.”

  Claire smile was anticipatory, too. “Sounds pretty good to me. Getting reacquainted is gonna take a while, so you better not show up with jet lag.”

  “Not a chance. I’ll sleep on the flight.”

  “Well, get some sleep now, too. What time is it over there anyway? It’s got to be late.”

  There was a momentary pause. She frowned. “Black? You still there?”

  “Yeah. It’s well after midnight, I guess.”

  “Well, sleep well, and I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

  “You be careful. Wish you were here.”

  “I’ve wished the same thing a time or two this week.”

  “Well, stay away from that boat and take off Wednesday, all day Wednesday.”

  Claire lau
ghed and they hung up. Okay, she had fudged a bit to Black, and he wasn’t going to like it when he found out the truth, especially the part about the voodoo doll. But he’d get over it. Right now, she needed to hit the sack. It had been a very long day, and she had the drive back to New Orleans ahead of her. What she wanted now was something good to eat, a good night’s rest, and a list of pertinent questions designed to make Jack Holliday squirm like a worm on a barbed hook.

  What she really wanted, of course, was Black back home and waiting for her in that aforementioned big soft bed with a tray of coconut shrimp and Pepsi on crushed ice, but that wasn’t going to happen until Tuesday, so a quick stop at McDonald’s for a Big Mac and fries to share with Jules would have to suffice at the moment. One thing for sure, she dreaded going to sleep because she had a bad feeling that her dreams were going to be filled with voodoo zombies and stitched-up eyes and lips and faces painted like skeletons and her face pinned to a voodoo doll.

  A Very Scary Man

  After Malice killed his girlfriend, he had to keep a low profile. But he found that he was quite an actor, too. He wept at the funeral, even sitting alongside Betsy’s grieving, sobbing family. Her mother kept patting his knee and telling him to be brave. It was really pretty fun. He had even gotten all teary-eyed when he thought about how pretty Betsy had looked on Valentine’s Day when he’d given her a little gold necklace with a heart on it that he’d stolen from JC Penney. She wore it around her neck in the casket, and he thought that was a sweet gesture of her mother but a real loss of good jewelry.

  For months he didn’t scare a single soul. He was watching his p’s and q’s, all right. Even his mother noticed his quiet demeanor and worried about him mourning so long and hard for his poor murdered little girlfriend who had died so young. So, he bided his time, and surreptitiously gathered all sorts of weapons to use when he became an assassin. He broke into houses on weekends and stole handguns and shotguns and filched hatchets and knives from his mom and aunts and killed dogs and cats for practice. It was all pretty easy. When he read in the newspaper about a garrote used in a particularly gruesome Mob-related murder, he fashioned one for himself out of wire and wood dowels. His problem was that he had no privacy and had to hide his stuff out in the woods behind his house. His little sister was sneaky now, a real brat, and was watching his every move so he had to be careful. She wasn’t going to tell on him, though, because he’d told her that he’d kill her if she ever told on him. She believed him, and kept her mouth shut. He would, too. Just let her try to get him in trouble, and Mandy would just mysteriously disappear, never to be found again, just like their neighbor’s black Lab.