by Jaye Maiman
“He’s not here,” a civic drone informed me.
I hurried to the closet, retrieved my address book, then dialed his home number. “Ryan, is that you?” I blurted when I heard a click on the other end.
“Let’s see, you call my house, then quiz me on my identity. I must be talking to a master detective.” He sucked in his breath. “Robin Miller, I presume.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was drunk. But Detective Thomas Ryan has been stone sober since his wife was brutally murdered in a San Francisco hotel nearly nine years ago. Given his years in Homicide, the safer bet was that he was drop-dead exhausted. I took a breath and said, “I think it’s happened again.”
Through the wires, I heard a distant foghorn. The sound instantly transported me back to San Francisco and my first anguished investigation: the death of my ex-lover, Mary. Ryan had been the thorn, then the balm in my side. Somehow, over the past four years, he’d come to be a close friend, a rough-edged bear of a man who treated me more like a daughter than my own father ever had—which wasn’t hard considering that my father ceased talking to me when I was three years old, after I accidentally discharged a gun and murdered my sister Carol.
“Are you still in New Orleans?” he said at last. “Shit, you have to be. Only the local rag’s covering this. What’d you read?”
I was too stunned to respond.
“Hey, Miller, I need an answer. What does the Picayune say?”
I shuffled back to the bed and read the article to him in full.
“Morons.” Ryan snorted. “Even when it’s one of their own kind. A cop would never do that. Give me the byline.”
I read it to him.
“Not that some dumb-ass editor’s gonna understand why announcing so many fuckin’ facts could screw the case up so good, no cop’s gonna be able to unravel it. Hell, a story’s a story, right?”
“Ryan, cool down. How’d you know about this? It only happened last night.”
“Last night was a long time ago, hon.”
My coffee cup was empty. I filled it to the brim, took a sniff and waited for him to continue.
He said, “So maybe Serra’s taught you something after all, huh?” Tony Serra’s my partner in the detective agency. Ryan set us up years ago. “Look, Robin, my Mary’s been dead for nine years. There’s not a month that goes by that I don’t wonder if this is the case that’s gonna fish out the scumbag that did my wife. Not a month. I got a buddy working with me who’s got contacts in the FBI, every major police department in this country. First Monday, every month, one or both of us make the rounds. At this point, if we stopped making the calls, most of our contacts would call us. ’Cept the FBI, those uptight suckers still don’t see the connections. Too many inconsistencies, right? Bullshit. They got a murderer who’s smarter than all their stiff blue asses combined, that’s the problem.”
“Ryan.”
“Yeah, right. Time’s blood. I just got off the phone with Remillard…he’s the only Fed who’ll give me half a second these days. And even Remy keeps telling me he needs more. What more does he need? A woman gets raped or sodomized in a hotel, murdered, and somewhere near her body, the investigators find eggshell. How many times can they say it’s coincidence? This makes six.”
“The MOs do differ.”
“Don’t you start—”
“I’m not.”
“Miller, you’re still a juvie to homicide, right? But tell me this, if you wanted to commit a series of murders, would you repeat the same pattern again and again? Hell, no. You’d make sure there were enough variations so no one could nail you down.”
“But then why does he keep choosing hotels?”
“And planting fuckin’ eggshells? Because he’s a fucking sick asshole, ’cause he wants to give us just enough to get the blood going, to get someone thinkin’, maybe, maybe, there’s a connection. This guy’s laughing at us, Miller. I swear, sometimes at night, I can hear this fucker. These murders are a joke to him.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
His answer was abrupt. “Yeah, like I’ve told you and Tony for years, stay out of it.”
“I’m down here, Ryan. I can—”
“Stay out of it. You think you’re hot shit because you’ve handled a murder or two. You’re a pissant novice. I got someone on this for me. If it pans out, I’ll fly down myself if I have to. You wanna do something for me, go back to New York. Check on my daughter. She’s dating a defense lawyer. Now, there’s a snake you can wrestle.”
“Ryan, I’m not as green as you think. I can look into this without getting in over my head.”
“I said, I have someone on it.”
“Give me a name.”
“No.”
“Okay, I’ll call Tony and get the name from him.”
“Aw, crap. Can’t you leave this alone?”
I took a breath. “I owe you. It’s time you let me and Tony pitch in.” Without Tom Ryan’s help, I never would have resolved the murder of my ex-lover. I’d still be churning out tawdry romances with titles littered with words like flaming, churning and untamed desire and wondering why I began and ended each day with a hollow ache in my belly. With Ryan, I glimpsed what it might’ve been like if I’d had a father in my life instead of a brooding, silent phantom who reversed directions anytime he encountered me. I didn’t just want to help him out, I needed to.
“Ryan,” I said, “police headquarters is right across the street from where I’m staying—”
“Oh, no you don’t. The NOPD is a ripe old men’s club. You stick your head in and they’ll blow you and the investigation away, just for the hell of it. They are strictly Sweeney’s territory.”
“Okay, okay, but at least let me in on what’s happening. I’m telling you that one way or another, I’m going to check into this. Now, if you’re smart, you’ll take this opportunity to have some modicum of control—”
“Nothing like a friendly threat.”
“Seriously, I can help out, even if it’s only from the sidelines. K.T.’s tied up with the restaurant opening, and I could use the distraction. Besides, I’m wired to the max. Serra Investigations has gone hightech. I’ve got a laptop, modem, fax, subscriptions to databases of every size and shape. I even have a few research CD-ROMs with me. Give me a name in a published telephone directory anywhere in this country and I can get you an address, birth date, voting record, you name it.”
“You made your point.” There was a weighty pause. “Well, I gotta admit, Theo’s a damn good foot solider, but he’s a Luddite. I can barely get him to use the phone.” He sucked in his breath. “Maybe this could work. You’ll let him handle the field work, right? Exclusively.”
I grunted.
“This guy’s good, Miller. He used to work with me on the force, and he’s stuck to this investigation all these years just out of loyalty to me. Half the time I think he’s as skeptical as anyone else, but he stays on top of what’s happening no matter what. He doesn’t need you up his ass when he’s on the streets, got me?”
“Ryan, you’re as clear as glass. What’s his name?”
“Theobald Sweeney. Make fun of the name and you’re talking to dead air.”
“No comment, sir. You’ve mentioned him before. Anything else I should know about him?”
“Like I said, we go back a long time. We started out as drinking buddies. Heavy drinking buddies. Then we took the sober road together…nothing like traveling to hell and back with somebody to forge a bond. Him and his wife separated, then she passed away, this was almost a year before Mary. Actually, Celeste killed herself…Man, Sweeney was wrecked by that. You wouldn’t guess it by seeing him now, but when he was in love, he was an absolute pussycat. After Mary’s murder, I finally understood the kind of guilt he had to be carrying in his gut. I dragged him to AA with me. Shit.” Silence buzzed in my ear. I couldn’t begin to imagine the nightmare Ryan must be remembering. I waited for him to continue.
“Anyway,” he said. “I g
otta warn you, he’s rough around the edges. But his bark’s much worse than his bite. You gonna think he’s the biggest right-wing asshole you could ever meet, but meanwhile his wife Celeste was black. Talk about guts. Try to imagine what life must’ve been like for him, a good old Southern boy marrying out of his race. In Louisiana. In the Sixties. Despite what he may say to you, he’s as liberal as anyone I know who was born and raised in the bayou. And when it comes to detective work, Rob, he’s the best.”
Ryan’s description made me think twice about offering to partner up with this guy. Reluctantly I asked, “Does he work out of San Francisco?”
Ryan laughed. “He works out of his car, most of the time. He has a fishing cabin up near the Russian River, his uncle still owns a place down in New Orleans, he winters with his sister in St. Louis and spends part of the year in New York. He’s a nomad, which has served my purposes just fine. You’ll hate him.”
“Thanks for the warning. Wonder how you describe me.”
“You don’t want to know”
“Gotcha. Can you e-mail me information on the murders?”
“A summary, maybe…the rest is hard copy. I’ll put it in the mail.”
“I’m at the Royal Orleans.” I read off the address and number from the phone base.
“Okay, Miller. I’ll have him call you.”
“Sooner rather than later,” I injected.
“When he needs you. Stay safe, Miller. And let Tony know I’ll pay your standard rates. No freebies, okay? This way, if I have to fire you, I can do it without guilt. Tell Tone to send me a contract right away.”
“He’ll love that.” Tony’s an ex-cop with a penchant for quoting the Bible, stacking pennies in tall, neat rows and finding lucrative corporate clients. He also would’ve charged his own mother if she wanted us to conduct a credit search. He’s just that kind of guy.
“So how’s the old bastard doing?” Ryan asked.
“Not so good.” My partner contracted HIV nearly a decade ago. For the most part, he’d been remarkably symptom-free. Until last summer. To make matters worse, he suffered a minor stroke a few months back. “Tony’s working from home most days,” I said. “His new command central. On the other hand, he’s finally allowed me to pull in a new crew of temps, whom he dispatches with the grace of Patton. The man won’t go without a fight.”
“Good for him. Me, I’d’ve blown my brains out years ago.”
“Bullshit.”
He laughed. “Maybe you’re right. Well, tell him I said, ‘Fuckin’ A,’ for what it’s worth.” Ah, the cryptic language of men.
It wasn’t until he hung up that I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. K.T. had been gone close to an hour. Café du Monde wasn’t that far. I threw open the shutters. The balcony overlooked the corner of Royal and St. Louis. I leaned out, hoping to see K.T. trotting back with a grease-stained bag of beignets. The street was crowded with tourists wandering between restaurants and antique shops. I started to breathe harder and caught the stench of manure from the horse-drawn carriages parked in nearby Jackson Square. Bitter, coffee-tinged juices surged up from my stomach and singed my throat. Where the hell was K.T.? I clenched the iron railing, Suddenly remembering how careful I’d been not to rest my weight on her belly when we made love last night, how she murmured into my neck, “It’s okay, honey. You won’t hurt me.” Despite her assurances, I hoisted myself up on my elbows and knees, thinking, the baby can feel me.
“Hey, you, whooee!”
My head jerked in the opposite direction. K.T. was approaching from Bourbon Street. She waved a bag at me and winked. In an instant, every muscle in my body sagged. I waved back. Then an abrupt motion behind her caught my eye. A man wearing gray slacks and a white shirt had been matching her gait too closely. When she stopped suddenly, he caught himself, pivoted and crossed the street. Then just as suddenly his pace slowed, became deliberately casual. He even paused to window-shop. I knew the tactic. I’ve used it myself to recover from a tail I’d blown. The stab in my chest was no longer heartburn.
The bastard had been following K.T.
Chapter Two
“Where the hell have you been?” A growl crept into my voice as I tugged K.T. into the room by her elbow and glanced down the hallway behind her.
“Wow, what a welcome.”
I locked the door and spun around to hug her.
“Whoa, darling, you’ll crush the beignets.” Her smile melted when she saw my expression. She glanced at her watch, puzzled. “Was I really gone that long?”
“There was a man following you.”
“Oh Lord.” She laughed and nudged the room service cart out of her way with a bump of her hip. “What do you get when you combine the flaming imagination of a romance writer with the paranoia of a private eye? Take a gander in the mirror. You look like Edgar Allan Poe on steroids. C’mon, hon, let’s eat these while they’re warm.” She waved the oil-stained paper bag at me, then shuffled out to the balcony and shook the beignets onto paper plates. Powdered sugar exploded into the still, humid air. K.T. winked at me. Her cheeks were flushed and moisture beaded up on her upper lip. She poured a half-pint of milk into a wine glass and absentmindedly stroked her belly.
The gymnast in my stomach stuck its landing. I sat down on the edge of the bed. “K.T., I’m serious. I saw someone following you.”
She smiled coyly. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, listen to me. A man in gray slacks and a white shirt was right behind you, following you step for step until you called up to me. He had deep olive-toned skin. He may have been Hispanic.”
“Did he have slick, blue-black hair, like Reggie in the Archie comics?”
Surprising myself, I laughed. “You are impossible. Hon, I don’t know if it was blue-black or just dark brown.”
“I met a guy down by Café du Monde who needed directions to Bourbon Street. He seemed very sweet and was incredibly polite. I walked him up there…I needed the walk, anyway…then I came right on back.” She appeared to reconsider her remarks. “Well, maybe he was dogging me… He did ask me if I’d join him for dinner. But, come on, you know how scary this city can be for the uninitiated. Especially if you’re from some small town. If this guy was following me, believe me, it was innocent. I’d lay odds his only crime was hoping my down-home friendliness might extend to more than just providing directions. Or maybe he was after my beignets, which any person in her right mind would be.” She wiggled her eyebrows at me as she bit into a pastry.
I shook my head and joined her on the balcony. I have to admit that in my field unfettered suspicion is an occupational hazard. I tore off a sticky corner of a beignet and said, “You have to stop being so nice.”
She planted a kiss on my cheek, then sat down heavily. “I moved from West Virginia to New York City: What more do you want?”
“Low blow.” The beignet practically melted in my mouth.
“If you’d like…” She lowered her voice to a whisper, stroked the length of my thigh. My knees went soft. “That’s better.” She continued stroking. My body tightened in response. “Now, why don’t we talk about our plans for today.”
I latched onto her hand, held it against my body. “Guess what I want to do?”
“Too easy. Give me a harder one.”
Leaning over her, I countered, “Let’s try the body paints.”
She laughed, not the response I hoped for. “Sweetheart, I’d love to fingerpaint your luscious skin, but I do need to tend to business this afternoon. Winnie and I agreed to scout some of the local markets, and then we’re going back to Les Enfants. I wasn’t pleased with the étouffé last night…did you see the color of the sauce? Mud’s more appetizing. And that pre-pubescent sous chef took some liberties with my recipes that I did not appreciate.” K.T. took her food seriously. I felt bad for Timothy, the twenty-two-year-old sous chef who looked like he’d be more comfortable behind a jack hammer than wielding a chefs knife.
“So when can we spend
time together?” I asked.
“I want to be at the restaurant when we open for dinner. Win said he could use me up to eleven, but I’ll try not to stay that late. Maybe I’ll be able to get free by ten.”
“Wow. I get you as early as ten?”
“I didn’t hear you complaining last night.”
I smiled at the memory. The cravings of pregnant women extend far beyond pickles and ice cream. I went in for a kiss. Her mouth tasted of powdered sugar and warm milk. “When do you have to meet Winston?” I asked.
She averted her eyes. “I should’ve been there about fifteen minutes ago.” She barreled past my expletives. “Hold it, tadpole. I warned you my schedule would be tight. I promised Win I’d help him get the place humming and I intend to do just that. Our deal was I’d feed you well, take exquisite care of your libidinous urges and provide you a warm butt for spooning each and every night.”
“Sure, but you extracted that deal while I was hooked onto a respirator, fearing for my life.”
I loved the sound of her laugh. “Robin Miller, you are impossible. Why don’t we meet back here around four. It’s my usual nap time, but you never know, you could get lucky.”
“Well, if I have to, I’m sure I can keep myself busy until then.” I fingered a crumb off the green metal café table and wondered how long it’d take for Theobald Sweeney to contact me. K.T. and I planned to be in town for another week, plenty of time for an investigation. If Sweeney called right away. Maybe I’d just look him up first.
There was a sharp rap of knuckles against metal. “Hello?” K.T. said, half-teasingly. Then all at once, she narrowed her eyes at me. “What’s up, Robin? You have that scary, gone-big-game-hunting look. Did you get a call from Tony or Jill?”
This is the part of relationships that unnerves me. I don’t like anyone reading my thoughts, not even me. I got nice and indignant. “No way. This is a pleasure trip. I’m just trying to imagine how I’ll manage without you today.”
She slapped me playfully. “Yeah, right. Well, you can keep your secrets, Ms. Miller. Just remember, I have mine as well.” She gulped down the remainder of her milk, leaving a filmy mustache behind. I licked her upper lip. There was a moment then, when our eyes met, that my need for this woman stunned me, an electric prod in the flank of an intractable cow. She moved me to places I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to go. And yet any other path was absolutely unacceptable. With a fist of anxiety in my belly, I watched her walk inside. I didn’t want to feel this much, be this vulnerable.
