by Owen Mullen
Delaup said, ‘Let’s hope not. We need this guy to keep operating. Anything less kills our chances of catching him. But Danny may be onto something here. I’ll pass it along.’
He walked me to the door. ‘Do what you do, Delaney. What you always did.’
What I always did. What had that been again? Keep on keeping on. If that was what Delaup meant, he could relax, except it would take more than spent shoe leather.
I got a call about Harry Love’s client. I listened, smiling to myself. What I’d been told would guarantee the lawyer’s business kept coming my way.
I needed to take stock: Clyde was dead, and the victims had warned me off. The victims, not the perps. They blamed me. So, did I. I couldn’t let it go.
And there would be no cops – not Cal, not even Danny.
Tomorrow was Tuesday. I’d start at the beginning and try to get it right this time.
Over at the other case, my remit had been extended to something akin to my old job. Well and good, except it was a poisoned chalice. Our only potential lead lay in intensive care. What Tom Donald did or didn’t know might still be denied us.
Do what you always did.
Delaup’s memory was better than mine, or he was clutching at straws like the rest of us. Either way, my approach needed to alter. “Back to basics” was a phrase I hated. But that was where I had to go, beginning with a whirlwind tour of the Louisiana crime sites later in the week and an overt appearance on the pageant circuit. I might get lucky and get close to the killer again, though I wouldn’t be holding my breath on that one.
I was sure what I was missing was right in front of me.
Much later, I picked up the phone and called Harry Love.
‘Delaney. How are you? Got something for me already?’
‘Maybe, Harry. What does the witness say against your client?’
Building up my part.
‘Eye-witness. Strong stuff. Definite he saw my client’s car leaving the scene.’
‘Kind of car does he say it was?’
‘The right kind for the prosecution: a blue Audi. So, what’ve you got?’
‘Good news. The witness had ambitions to join the NOPD. It never happened.’
‘Why was that?’
‘New Orleans’ finest turned him down.’
He sensed a break coming his way.
‘Failed the medical.’
‘Really?’
I put him out of his misery. ‘Hard for him to positively ID a vehicle, Harry. He’s colour blind.’
The Julian Boutte I’d known couldn’t have waited to come after me. So, unless he’d changed, he was gone.
Since the night of Cilla Bartholomew’s bombshell, Stella’s cell had been off. It was me she was keeping out. The shop was still open. No “For Sale” sign hung in the window.
Inside was cool and fresh. A couple of female customers browsed the racks. Stella saw me and looked away. I waited. When the women left, I followed them to the door, put the Closed notice in the window and turned the key. I needed Stella to listen.
She looked so good, I wanted to make love to her right here.
‘Hello, Stel. We need to talk.’
She shook her head.
‘All right, I need to talk. Just hear me out.’
Her eyes softened when I told her about Cilla Bartholomew and our meeting in Jackson Square – the reason I hadn’t made it to her. I blurted out my guilt. ‘I want to be with you, Stella. I don’t want you to go. But I can’t let you be part of my craziness. I couldn’t let you walk out of my life, thinking I don’t love you. I’m doing this because I love you.’
‘I’m not going, Delaney. I know. About Ellen.’
I stared. ‘How?’
‘Danny told me everything. And before you butt in, it’s not your decision to make. It’s mine, and I’ve made it. I just needed you to reach out to me, and you have.’
She came towards me, put her arms around my neck and kissed me, hard. I kissed her back. When we came up for air, she said, ‘No more wasted time. I want us to be together.’
‘Got some catching up to do.’
‘So, your place or mine?’
I pulled down the shade. ‘What’s wrong with right here?’
Stella seemed surprised. ‘Nothing. Except I was talking about where we’re gonna live.’
29
The next day, I headed to Baton Rouge. Lowell wanted to come. I told him about Stella and me, and the downer he’d been on passed. He lay on the front seat, which meant he was up for listening to the radio. When they played a song he liked, he howled until I turned the volume up.
On the outskirts of the city, I pulled into a diner for coffee and a last read at the thin file. The coffee was the worst I’d ever tasted. A second cup confirmed my opinion, while I studied what was known. Apart from the now usual forensic blank, nobody interviewed had anything to add. The killer was invisible, leaving no trace, except for the broken bodies of his victims.
A waitress approached with the offer of another top-up. I smiled the freebie away; I’d learned my lesson. Back in the car, I nosed through city traffic, looking for the offices of Mad About U. Baton Rouge is the second city of Louisiana, with a population of around a quarter of a million. I wasn’t anticipating any problem finding 517 Sinclair and Claudine Charlton. Wrong again. Twice I had to ask directions from passers-by before I made it to the event company.
From the outside, it didn’t look promising. The building was painted a tan colour that wouldn’t have improved the look of anything it came in contact with, though it was a perfect partner to the grills on the windows and the grey roller-door. A cracked sign told me Mad About U was on the third floor. I got the impression they were the only tenant. Business life had moved on from here some time before. With the exception of the people who organised and ran the Little Louisiana Pageant, where Timmy Donald had died.
At the top of the stairs, I pressed a grubby intercom button and was buzzed in without any questions about who I was or what I wanted.
A voice called, ‘In here.’
I followed the sound down a tight corridor lit by a single low-watt bulb. At the end, a blonde woman was reading a magazine. ‘Delaney? Sit down.’
I cleared a pile of unfiled papers off the only other chair and threw in a smile that got me nothing. It had been a long time since Claudine Charlton had been impressed by a man. She raised an eyebrow when she saw Lowell. ‘What can I do for you?’
I handed her my card. ‘I’m part of the police team investigating the death of Timmy Donald. I operate in the private sector these days.’
‘But you were a cop, right?’
‘Right.’
I’d become more interesting. I returned the scrutiny, seeing the blunt features of a woman who’d turned more than a few heads in her time. A lady who dispensed with charm the minute it was unnecessary.
‘And how can I help you?’
She lifted her legs onto the desk, giving me a good look at the worn-down heels of her cowboy boots. This gal made alright money, though it wasn’t going on anything here, including her. Maybe she had an unnatural fear of rainy days.
‘You’ve already been through all this, I know. I’m trying to find something, anything, we missed first time round.’
She glared at me. I’d taken away her first objection. The office walls hung with posters of events past, tired and faded with time and the air coming from the portable heater next to her chair. Claudine Charlton would like me to believe she’d somewhere better to go. The film of dust on every surface told a different story.
‘Tell me about your business, Mad About U.’
‘Nothin’ to tell. We run different pageants through the year, once or twice a month.’
‘Do they always feature children?’
Her jaw tightened. ‘Of course not. We run a variety of events for all ages.’
‘All ages?’
‘All young ages. How much do you know about the pageant business, Mr Dela
ney? Not much, I bet.’
‘You’re right, not much. One reason I’m here. Tell me about it.’
She found a spot on the damp-stained ceiling to focus on. ‘Here in the South, pageantry’s a living tradition.’
‘What’s the appeal?’
‘For a few, it’s the first rung on the ladder that’ll take them all the way to Miss United States, even Miss World. For most, it’s a chance to get out there and shine ahead of the rest.’
She took her eyes from the ceiling and bored them into me.
‘A university degree’s all very well. If the girl’s a former Miss Texas, you’re gonna bet on her getting the job.’
‘And for the others?’
‘A day out for the family. They hope it’ll round out Juliet and help her confidence. Who knows?’
‘What about the parents?’
‘All of the above, plus it makes them happy to see their little darling doing things they’d have liked to have done but never got the chance.’
Claudine Charlton had no interest in the motivation, only the money.
‘Must have hit your operation pretty hard?’
‘Yeah, you’d think. But it was business as usual after two weeks.’
‘Do you have an opinion on the very young taking part?’
‘Nope.’
‘The day Timmy died, where were you when you heard there might be a problem?’
‘Don’t remember.’
‘All right. What was the first thing you did?’
‘I went to the stage manager, Alec Adams. He said they were looking for a boy.’
‘Then what?’
‘I was concerned the audience know nothing was wrong.’
‘So, what did you do?’
‘Went to the judges.’
‘Why?’
‘We needed a new result. That little guy had a Chaplin routine that was way ahead of the others.’
‘But if he was missing …’
‘Somebody needed to take his place.’
‘Any men acting suspiciously?’
‘Mr Delaney.’ She gave my name a hard edge it didn’t have. ‘In my experience, men don’t behave any other way.’
‘The stage manager Alec Adams, what do you know about him?’
She sneered. ‘More than I want to. He’s my ex-husband. There’re plenty of reasons for that, but he’s straight up and down hetro.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘If he wasn’t, we might still be married. Look Mister, Alec’s a lying snake, and the world’s worst husband, but he isn’t who you’re after. A loser, yes, a killer, no.’
I asked about security. Nothing new came out. On the drive back to New Orleans, I stopped at the diner I’d been in earlier; bad coffee must be addictive. Something Claudine Charlton had said stayed with me.
That little guy had a Chaplin routine that was way ahead of the others.
I’d wondered how the killer chose his victims.
Now I saw it, plain as day.
30
When I got home, I went through the files again, and for the first time, felt confident I’d get this guy. Unearthing the link between the victims had given me hope. I popped a beer and settled down, more relaxed than I’d been in a while. Lowell sensed the change and lay on the carpet, staring up at me.
‘He’s thinks he’s clever. Smarter than everybody else. But he isn’t, is he, boy?’
I leaned forward and ran my hand through his coat; he was pleased for me but afraid I’d get ahead of myself and do something rash.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.’
That seemed to reassure him. He put his head on his paws; still listening.
‘But how does he get away with it, eh? How? What’s his secret? What’s his secret, fella? Does he use a disguise? What do you think?’
Talking it through with a friend helped; it always did. Peace washed over me, and I knew it was gonna be all right.
Spending time in front of the TV wasn’t something that happened too often. Trying to find a program reminded me why. Given a choice, Lowell would always go for one of the music channels. Eventually, we found an old documentary on the Doobie Brothers and watched it to the end. When they played the final song – “Long Train Running” – he was on his feet, over at the screen, tail beating against the carpet.
Say what you like about him: the dog knew his music.
After the show finished, he went to sleep, and I started a book Stella had recommended. The house was quiet. After a while, I went outside into the warm air, heavy with moonflower and jasmine. Above me, the sky was black, and the street was deserted, apart from a car parked further down, beside an old sycamore tree. Nobody was going anywhere, including us. I locked the doors and returned to the story.
Time passed. With adrenaline fading, I felt exhausted. Just as I closed my eyes, a sound brought me wide awake. Lowell sat up and let out a low growl. I patted his head and reached for my gun. Every thought in my head boiled down to two words: Julian Boutte.
I killed the lights, crept over to the kitchen and listened. Footsteps crunched on the gravel I’d covered the yard with the summer Ellen had called off the wedding and left me with a property I didn’t want and a mortgage I couldn’t afford. The footsteps stopped. Lowell was beside me, his ears back, like me, imagining the intruder on the other side.
I whispered, ‘Easy boy. Easy. It’s all right,’ and failed to convince either of us.
Suddenly, the room filled with a blinding light, throwing jagged shadows on the walls. I shielded my eyes, crawled back to the window and looked out. On the lawn, Danny Fitzpatrick was hunkered behind the driver’s door of a police cruiser, his service revolver in his hand and his face an expressionless mask.
Fuck! Boutte, it had to be.
I opened the front door. Danny waved me back. ‘Stay inside, Delaney. He’s here.’
I wouldn’t hide. I’d waited as long as Julian Boutte had for this moment. At the back door, the gun felt heavy in my hand. If I had to use it, I wouldn’t think twice. The key turned silently in the lock. I eased the handle open and stepped into the night. There could be only one reason Boutte was here. He’d come to kill me. Or die trying.
Let it be.
It took a second for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I saw him, crouched with his back to me. He seemed smaller than I remembered; slight even. He’d lost weight, and with it, his edge. Seven years in Angola must’ve made him careless, because Juli didn’t realise I was there. I edged towards him, expecting him to fire. At this distance, the chances of missing were low. I’d get a couple off as well. We both might die. It occurred to me to just shoot him in the back and end it – why not? He wouldn’t hesitate – except tomorrow and every day after, I’d have to live with myself.
Under my foot, stone grinding against stone gave me away. Julian realised he wasn’t alone and rounded on me. I dived at him and brought him down, punching and kicking. We rolled on the ground in the darkness, until I managed to work myself free and cracked his skull with the butt of my gun. He stopped struggling and lay still. Two men appeared at the corner of the building, a guy I’d worked with when I was with the department and Danny Fitzpatrick.
Danny looked at the unconscious man and back to me. ‘You okay, Delaney?’
‘Yeah, I’m okay.’
The plainclothes cop knelt beside the body and turned the face towards me, shaking his head. For a moment, I thought he was telling me I’d killed him. Wrong. The figure on the ground was a boy, a white kid – fourteen or fifteen years old at most. They hauled him to his feet, cuffed him and marched him to their car.
This might’ve been his first step down a rocky road which would end when the gates of Angola closed behind him. Or maybe he’d learnt his lesson, and attempted burglary was as heavy as it was going to get. I’d never know. But one thing was certain: he wasn’t Julian Boutte. He was still out there.
Stella called the next morning to say hi and have a good one.
I kept it light. ‘That’
s the plan, Stel, that’s the plan.’
I told her about the false alarm and passed it off as a joke. Bad decision. She wasn’t amused and rang off, angry at me for not taking a madman’s threat seriously. Then, it was Mrs Santini’s turn. She’d witnessed the drama the night before and made a special trip to hassle me. ‘No shortage of excitement when you’re around, is there, Delaney?’
I tried to apologise and didn’t get far. ‘A burglar made an …’
‘Used to be a quiet neighbourhood when my Alberto was alive. Not anymore.’
‘Sorry about that.’
‘Lucky the police happened along.’
‘Yeah, it was.’
Rosa was a wily old bird. She folded her arms across her chest; unconvinced. ‘Thought the NOPD was short on manpower. Didn’t seem like it last night.’
It was the wrong moment to ask. I didn’t have a choice. ‘Since you’re here, Mrs Santini, I need a favour. I’m working an important case. Might be away a lot. Would you keep an eye on Lowell?’
From the look she gave, she’d be keeping an eye on a lot more than the dog.
Around ten-thirty, I met Fitzpatrick and Delaup. The night before didn’t rate a mention. We both knew that if the roles were reversed, I would’ve done exactly the same.
I got right to it. ‘Okay. I’ll keep it short. Nothing until Baton Rouge and Timmy Donald. Claudine Charlton, the organiser, said something that only connected with me later. She told me, “That little guy had done a Chaplin routine that was way ahead of the others.”’
‘So?’ I’d lost Delaup.
‘“Way ahead of the others.” The result had to change. Timmy was missing. They were about to announce he’d won.’
Fitzpatrick shook his head. ‘What does that tell us?’
‘He was the winner. That’s what made him special. That’s what got him killed.’
I moved to the pictures pinned to the wall in chronological order and pointed at an image of a smiling Timmy Donald.
‘Timmy was the winner. Billy Cunningham – Supreme Mini-National King.’
