by Linda Ladd
Claire answered for the two of them. “Yes, sir. I’m afraid that pretty much sums it up.”
More silent facial examination of them ensued. Russ Friedewald was a really nice man, a transplant from Springfield, Illinois, in his mid-sixties, turning gray but still a youthful-looking, handsome guy and a real whiz at computer technology. According to Zee, he had been married for many years to a wonderful woman named Rita, had some kids and grandkids that he adored, was honest and straightforward, and ran a clean operation. He didn’t like loose ends, he didn’t like controversy, and he didn’t like the media climbing on his back when former celebrated sports figures got themselves publicly involved in his murder cases.
“I don’t suppose either of you have been watching the news programs.”
“No, sir,” said Zee.
Claire had. She had seen a news report on one of the New Orleans stations that had pretty much been a mishmash of unsubstantiated half-truths and half-conjectures indicating that, seeing that Wendy had been one of their cheerleaders, unnamed players on the Saints team could possibly be involved in her murder. The report had also included a liberal dose of Jack Holliday’s name as the man who represented most of them. Claire didn’t want to admit she’d seen it, though, much less discuss its ramifications with Russ. So she kept her mouth shut, which ten times out often was the best thing to do. And Russ hadn’t missed the fact that Claire, Black, and an undercover DEA agent had almost been blown to smithereens near the first crime scene.
“There was a really nice shot of you, too, Detective Morgan.” Russ aimed that comment at Claire. “Leaving Mimosa Circle. Somehow you forgot to mention to me that you visited the crime scene on the day that I told you to stay home and recover.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Rene called us as a professional courtesy, because the crime scene held a voodoo altar identical to the one we found in the Christien case and felt the two murders were connected. He wanted our input on the scene.”
“And I guess you didn’t think I’d be interested until the next day about a houseboat blast where one of my detectives got blown into the bayou, either. Seems to me everyone knew about that before I did.”
Claire swallowed hard at that one because she had put off calling him. “I called you, sir, as soon as I could. We were at the emergency room most of the night. We were all fairly shaken up.”
Claire watched his jaw flex into a tight line, astute enough to realize he was not a happy camper. She hadn’t been aboard his team long, but she already knew that he rarely ever showed what he was thinking. He said, “I thought once we ruled out Jack Holliday we were home free, but that appears not to be the case. For your information, Rene Bourdain called me and informed me of the particulars and indicated there’s a note addressed to the victim in Holliday’s handwriting. I take it that’s true?”
Well, thank you, Rene. Russ was ticked off, all right. “Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you apprise me of that instead of leaving it for Bourdain to do?”
“I was gathering facts, trying to find the parallels in both cases so I could fill you in with a comprehensive overall picture as soon as you got back from the conference.” She had used this reason before with Charlie to good avail and hoped it would work again.
“But in the meantime, you took time off to get yourself nearly blown to hell?”
“That may or may not be connected with Christien’s murder. Gabriel LeFevres was on the boat with me, and as you know, he’s been working undercover in the Skulls biker organization.”
“Yes, and he is a very good undercover officer. I’m sorry to see him have to give up this assignment before he was ready to.”
Well, I’m not, Claire thought. “We do have a few leads that might help us find the killer, sir. Would you like to hear them?”
“Please, Detective, feel free.”
Flipping open the manila folder on the table in front of her, Claire took out the enlarged pictures of the tattoos on Madonna Christien’s inner wrist and slid them across the table. “This same tattoo was found on both victims left on the voodoo altars so we’re trying to determine when and where they got it. Here’s the photo of Wendy Rodriguez’s wrist that Rene faxed to us. We have already discovered that this symbol is a voodoo Veve dedicated to the deity called Papa Damballah.”
Russ picked up the photos and examined each one in turn. “So they are exactly the same? Any progress on this really being a legit voodoo connection?”
“That’s what we need to find out. When we go down to Golden Meadow for the funerals, we can question the victims’ families about it. The two victims grew up together—you know, a BFF thing. And Wendy told us that they were both abducted as children. We think the tattoo might be linked to that. Maybe even the same perpetrator, getting rid of survivors of his crimes.”
“Well, did Wendy tell you it was linked to their abduction?”
“No, sir, because we weren’t aware she also had that tat until we found her body.”
“What the hell’s a BFF thing?”
Zee spoke up, obviously feeling he could handle that one. “You know, Sheriff, Best Friends Forever, like on Facebook.”
“And that’s supposed to mean something to me? What the hell’s Facebook?”
Claire explained that it meant they were lifelong friends and told him what she knew about social networking, which wasn’t much. Then she said, “Now we think it’s his signature. The same image was scratched in cornmeal in front of the two bodies. Serial killers sometimes mark their victims, as you know.”
“Oh, that’s all we need. This thing just keeps getting worse. Okay, just get on this fast. The media’s all over the Rodriguez murder because of her cheerleader status, and they’re not going anywhere, trust me on that. I got a call from Jack Holliday’s attorney this morning, wanting to know why they haven’t been apprised of the Rodriguez homicide and warning us that they don’t want Jack hassled anymore.”
Claire said, “There’s no proof that he was ever in Wendy’s apartment, just the note he sent her and it was stamped and went through the U. S. postal system. Rene hasn’t given us all the forensic reports yet. Besides, Jack was with us at the Cajun Grill. Lots of other people noticed him there, too. Time of death was estimated to be somewhere between six and nine on Tuesday night. I don’t believe it could’ve been him. Neither murder, actually. However, we have yet to explain that hurricane glass with his prints, since he swore he’s never been to Madonna’s apartment.”
“Well, finally some good news. Maybe the firestorm will die down if we can announce that Jack Holliday is no longer a person of interest in either case. He’s had the good sense to stay out of sight and keep his mouth shut so far, and his lawyer says he hasn’t given any interviews, and isn’t going to.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, go on, get back to work, and I want frequent updates on this from now on, and written reports. Do you understand me, Detectives? Don’t leave me in the dark again.”
“Yes, sir,” they both said as one.
They headed out of the building quickly before Russ could come up with something else to berate them about. Once outside in the parking lot, Claire stopped. “Madonna’s funeral starts in an hour, Zee. You ready to go?”
“Let’s do it. Even a funeral is better than gettin’ chewed out like that.”
Golden Meadow turned out to be a representative slice of small-town America. Madonna Christien’s funeral was held in a tiny clapboard Catholic Church with a square bell tower off the beaten path, and there weren’t that many beaten paths. The sanctuary was full of people, more than Claire had expected. To her surprise, most of the Skulls were there, too. They all sat hunched together in the back pews like a gathering of leather-clad black crows. The rest of the mourners sat as far away from them as they could possibly get. Zee joined the fastidious townsfolk on the other side of the central aisle. Claire sat down in a pew next to Manny of tattooed head fame, just to show them she wasn’t afraid of them. She also w
anted to get a few questions answered about who the hell had blown their friend Rocco off that boat.
“Hey, Manny, how’s it goin’?”
“I ain’t answerin’ none a your questions.”
“Gee, you’re a friendly guy, aren’t you?”
He gave her a blank, yet surly look. He was as dumb as a stump, no question about it. All eleven of the bikers were now looking at her. Ever heard of eye daggers? That was the case at the moment. “So, where’s the fearless leader of your motley little pack? I heard he was tight with Madonna. He not like funerals, or what?”
Manny tensed up, shoulders hunched. “What d’you care what Rocco do?”
“I don’t care.”
The Skull sitting in front of them was a tad more interested. He turned around and showed Claire his scarred-up, unpleasant face. “We thinkin’ maybe you done got him locked up. He ain’t been around nowhere.”
“Yeah.” That came from Rocco’s Slut, aka Bonnie, the reckless FBI gal, who looked about the same as she had in Voodoo River. “He went off and didn’t come home. You got him in your jailhouse up in Thibodaux, just like you said you was gonna do, don’t ya? Why you got him in there? He didn’t do nothin’.”
So Bonnie was sending her a message. Claire deciphered it right off as the Skulls didn’t know where the hell Gabe was, which meant they hadn’t thrown the grenades to get rid of him. The fact that Bonnie was still with them and not floating face down in the bayou, also pretty much verified they hadn’t found out her true identity, either. She needed to get out now, while she could still walk around in one piece.
“Maybe he got up in the wrong cop’s face and started making threats,” Claire told them calmly, giving the band of morons something to think about, if they were even capable of logical reasoning, and then she got up and joined Zee across the aisle on the other side of the tracks.
“What are you, crazy?” Zee muttered in a low voice. “All we need is a brawl to break out at the memorial service. Friedewald’s pissed enough already.”
Claire glanced at the cameraman and blond reporter standing at the back of the church. She leaned close to Zee’s ear. “I just found out they don’t have a clue about what happened to Gabe. The girl tried to tell me that in so many words. She’d be long gone if she thought they had any inkling that he was a cop.”
“You couldn’t pay me enough to infiltrate that band of idiots,” Zee informed her.
Then the music began at the front of the church, loud and mournful organ chords that engendered a lot of weeping and sniffling in the front pews. She glanced at the Skulls, who all looked bored. They’d probably had their tear ducts removed.
After the Funeral Mass, they sought out Grandma Leah Plummer, who looked about a hundred years old, as white as a Hilton hotel’s sheet, and unsteady on her feet despite a cane. Apparently, Rafe hadn’t made an impression on the judge at his hearing because he was nowhere in sight. After the graveside prayers, they approached Ms. Plummer and she agreed to sit down inside the church and talk to them.
“Thank you for speaking with us, ma’am. We know this is a hard time for you.”
“Yes, it is. Little Maddie, such a terrible life. That poor child was never the same after that evil man killed her mama and daddy and took her off. Just couldn’t get over it, poor baby girl.”
“I’m very sorry to bring up unhappy memories, Mrs. Plummer, but could you tell us about that snake tattoo on her wrist?”
“Oh, yeah, he marked her up good. Her and Wendy, too. They were his then. They didn’t have a chance.”
“Who marked them?”
“The snake man. He took ’em, and they was lucky to even get away. He been watchin’ them all these years, just waitin’ to finish what he started.”
“Did he contact them again? Or was there ever a second attempt to abduct them?”
“No, but those li’l girls got real careful after that. I begged Maddie to get that awful mark taken off her, said I’d find a way to pay for it, but she said it reminded her to be careful. And that’s why she took that terrible meth poison—she was always scared to death, yeah. When she hooked up with that big football fella, I thought it’d be different.” She kept shaking her head.
“Jack Holliday, you mean?”
“Yeah, but now I think that was all made-up stuff, just in her mind is all. She told me they was gonna get married and be real happy. That he was gonna pay off my house and get me a new Ford Fusion, all that stuff she always said she’d do when she got big money. Poor baby. She was as kindhearted as they come, and now she’s out there in the cold ground, God bless her soul.”
She started crying after that, heartbroken. They got a few more questions asked, but she really wasn’t in any shape to be interviewed. But Claire wanted to know one more thing before they wrapped it up. “What about the voodoo, ma’am? Was she in some kind of secret cult, or something? Anything like that?”
“Oh, God, no, that would’ve scared her plumb to death. She wanted him to love her, so she got some love potions from those voodoo shops over in the Vieux Carré. But it was so she’d be safe, that’s what all those charms and potions and that altar at her place was all about. She said the snake man was comin’ back to get her someday, and she was right, too.”
“Why’d they call him the snake man?”
“He got that snake mask he scared her with, and the tattoo had snakes, too. That’s what she always called him. The snake man.”
“Goddamn, can this thing get any more creepy?” Zee said as they left the church and got into his Jeep.
“Yeah, and I think that tattoo is the key.” She thought about it a minute as Zee fired up the ignition. “Didn’t you say Mama Lulu’s shop was closed today?”
“Yeah, it’s a saint’s day. She’ll take Etienne and go in to church.”
“Think she’d mind if we paid her another visit? Maybe she knows something else about these tattoos. She’s lived around here a long time.”
“Sure. It’s close enough. She lives out in the bayous not far from here.”
As Zee headed for his grandmother’s place, Claire sat back and thought about everything. It was all centered on the voodoo stuff, she felt it. But there was so much that didn’t fit together. If they could only get a break, a clue that would make all the loose ends tie up nice and tight, that would crack the case. Somehow, though, she felt it wasn’t going to be that easy. Nothing else had been.
A Very Scary Man
Several years passed before Malice was offered a really lucrative hit out in Colorado. The designated family lived in a small town outside Denver, and he was supposed to get rid of both the husband and the wife. That was a bit trickier than a single kill assignment so it required a lot more watching and double planning. But he was very good at that. In fact, it was his strong point.
So, on a snowy night in December, Christmas Eve, as a matter of fact, he drove down his victims’ tree-lined street. There were lots of big houses with huge yards full of Christmas decorations, and all lit up with lots of expensive light displays. Neighbors were moving from house to house, giving and receiving gaily wrapped packages, big shopping bags full of presents. Nobody knew him. Nobody had a clue that Malice had invaded their exclusive neighborhood, ready, willing, and able to kill two of their own.
He had chosen the night before Christmas, because he knew full well that all the happy people he was watching would soon be snug in their warm fancy houses, tired and sated with food and drink and good cheer. And the local cops would be holiday staffed and slow to respond if somebody noticed him lurking around. He cased out the street and getaway routes several times, casually driving by the large Tudor house in the swanky subdivision. The family did all right, it appeared. The man he sought was a witness to a crime against an accused Chicago mobster who was now sitting in a jail cell awaiting trial. The organization wanted the witness to go away for good. His wife, too. She had been there when the guy had shot down his victim in cold blood just outside a steak house.
They’d just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but they had agreed to testify and thereby signed their own death warrants. No skin off his nose. The more people he killed, the merrier, and the more he got paid. He was inching up now on fifty kills, and truly enjoying every single minute of it. It was easy and gratifying, now that he had his tactics down pat and rarely made mistakes. Disposing of troublesome people was a damn fine way to make a living. And he got to see the fear in their eyes sometimes, up close and personal.
As he parked his car under an isolated and thick stand of pine trees and climbed out, snow was still spiraling softly to the ground as it had been all day long. It was beautiful against the streetlights, very quiet and serene and magical. The inclement weather was a stroke of good fortune because it cut down on people getting out and going somewhere. It was bad luck in that he might leave footprints behind. But he had thought of that in advance and fixed the problem by strapping climbing spikes to the soles of his boots, which would be impossible to trace. It was very late now, well after midnight. The family had enjoyed a fun evening together inside by the fire, having a big dinner and playing games. Charades, it looked like, and then they’d opened an absolute ton of presents. They were wealthy, all right. They were getting another gift, too, one they wouldn’t exclaim over with such delight.
The father of the family, his primary target, appeared rather nerdish in the photograph he’d been given, with horned-rim glasses and longish brown hair, which fit perfectly with his career, one of those pompous university philosophy professor types. The woman was well educated, a physicist even, but at the moment just a regular housewife, pretty as a picture, tall and slim and blond and sedately sexy. They had two little girls, three-year-old twins, and were they ever cute. He had spoken to one of them once when he was following the family through the Cherry Creek Mall. Just a casual smile and hello, and she had responded with a beatific little smile of her own that had made Malice want to scare her.
