by Susan Fleet
He wouldn't be buying a motorized wheelchair for S.J. any time soon. But that was the least of his worries. If Darin's flunky ran his mouth to the cops, it would be a disaster. Nothing on the news about that. He didn't dare ask Kenyon. If he kept asking questions, Kenyon might think he had something to do with the kidnapping.
And Robbie's murder.
No telling what Darin would do now, but Darin wouldn’t dare rat on him. He could blow the whistle on Darin, too. But Darin was desperate for money to get his mother a new liver. Now that Gates had his wife and daughter back, Darin couldn't ask him for money.
Gates had issued a statement asking for privacy while his family grieved for Robbie, but it said nothing about Donna. Sam popped another Tums. Why wasn't anybody talking about Donna?
_____
When Frank went downstairs to the foyer, Raven Woodson was standing beside a bench occupied by a lawyer in a dark suit talking to a black-male client in scruffy jeans. A tray with two coffee containers stood by Raven’s feet. She was almost as tall as he was, had long glossy-black hair and an interesting face, reminded him of Lily Tomlin.
She picked up the tray and said, “I got you some coffee, Frank. Figured you might need it. I have some information for you.”
“Thanks, Raven. Come up to my office and tell me about it.”
Glancing at the lawyer and his client, she said in a quiet voice, “I need to talk to you in private. Let's go outside and sit in the Cafe Beignet courtyard.”
They grabbed a table beside the station wall, a safe distance from people at other tables. Raven took a sip of her steaming black coffee. Frank figured she had to be forty or so, which meant she'd been around a while. Nine times out of ten, when reporters said they had something for you, they were angling for information. But if she had any useful information, he wanted it.
He took the lid off his coffee container but didn't drink any. He'd already had three cups. If he drank any more it would be spurting out his ears.
“Nice to meet you, Raven. How come I've never seen you at any of my homicide scenes?”
“I cover dirty politicians and deadbeat dads, not homicides.” Gazing at him, her dark-brown eyes somber, she said, “I heard you took charge of the scene where they found Robbie. How horrible. That must take a toll on you.”
“It sucks, big time.”
“I don't know if my information will help, but seeing as how we're both from Massachusetts, I figured I owed you one.”
“You're from Massachusetts?” he said, easing into interview mode. Get her talking, evaluate what she says and spring his questions.
“Yes. I grew up in Ipswich.”
“Best damn fried clams around, right?”
Her lips parted in a smile, revealing a space between her top teeth. “Right. My father was a fisherman. Two generations ago his Micmac ancestors lived in Nova Scotia. Woodsman is a Micmac name. My mother named me Raven because of my hair.” Raven shrugged. “Better than Big Bear.”
“Hey, my father named me Franklin because he admired FDR.”
“You played point guard on the Swampscott High basketball team, right?”
He took a sip of coffee. How did she know this? What else did she know? “Yes. How did you hear about it?”
“I played on the Ipswich High women's basketball team. A guy on the men's team used to talk about you. His older brother played against you in some tournament.”
Frank had no interest in what they’d said about him. He wanted to know more about Raven. “What position did you play?”
“I was the tallest girl on the team, a six-foot-tall sophomore, so they made me the center. What a joke!” Raven grinned. “I only weighed one-thirty. Any center that weighed over one-fifty killed me in the paint.”
Frank laughed. “You were a string bean.”
“A flat-chested string bean. Back then I figured I'd never get married.” She smiled mischievously. “That changed when I got to college. My guy is six-five. We're not married but we co-habitate when we get the chance. He does sports for a TV station in Atlanta.”
“I hear you on the long-distance issue. My gal’s in Chicago right now. She's a detective, too.”
Raven arched an eyebrow. “Kelly O'Neil?”
“No comment. What have you got for me, Raven?”
“Robbie was Donna Lee's son, right?”
“Right. So?”
“She didn't do the news last night. Understandable, given what happened, but she's been off the air all week. When I called the station yesterday and asked to speak to her, they gave me some bullshit excuse, said she's got the flu. But there's more to it than that, right?”
“Maybe. Tell me what you've got.” He didn't want to say any more than he had to. He sure wasn’t going to tell her Donna was missing.
“Two months ago my boss had me cover a political function at the Ritz. When I went in the ladies room to take a leak, Donna was standing at the mirror, combing her hair. When I came out and washed my hands, she was still there, fussing with her makeup. She introduced herself and we started talking. I got the feeling she was hiding.”
“What made you think that?”
“She said she hated these functions, but if she didn't go, her husband would pitch a fit.” Raven shrugged. “Not her exact words, but you get the gist. Then she asked me where I went to college and where did I work before I came here. Like she was killing time so she wouldn't have to do the meet-and-greet thing with her husband.”
Frank sipped his coffee. “But there's more, right?”
“Very perceptive, Frank. You're a good detective. She seemed scared, almost fearful, like she was afraid Gates would find her. I figured she was in the ladies room because that was the safest place to hide.” Raven gave him an arch look. “Hunter Gates is a very powerful man.”
“Lots of money and political clout.”
“And guns.”
His neck prickled. Was Donna afraid Gates was going to kill her? Last Sunday when he asked Gates if he kept guns in the house, Gates had whipped out a revolver and said he always kept it with him.
“Did she say anything that made you think she feared for her life?”
“No. But there's more. Before I came to New Orleans, I worked at a PBS station in Texas. I heard an ugly rumor about the Southern Texas University football team. The Football Five. It was a huge scandal. A female student claimed five football players took her in the locker room and gang-raped her. Hunter Gates played football at STU. Did you know that?”
“I might have heard it when he ran for city council, but I didn't pay much attention to it.”
“Neither did I. But after my conversation with Donna at the Ritz, I called one of my friends at the PBS station and got more details. Hunter Gates was one of the Football Five.”
He put on a blank face, digesting what she’d told him. If her information was accurate, it would explain why Gates didn't want the cops and the FBI involved in the kidnapping. A parking ticket was one thing, sexual assault charges were another.
“What happened with the case?”
“The victim refused to testify so the players were never charged.” Raven grimaced. “Football is king in Texas. They treat college football players like rock stars. Football is a huge source of revenue for these colleges. Not just the games. They use it to hit up alumni for big donations.”
“Thanks for the tip, Raven. This might be important.”
“Want me to call my friend and see what else I can find out?”
He wanted information, but he didn't want to owe her. “What do you get in return?”
Raven arched an eyebrow and smiled. “First dibs on the story.”
His cellphone rang. He took it out of his pocket. When he saw the ID, his heart surged. Father Girard.
“Sorry, Raven. I need to take this.” He punched on and said, “Renzi.”
“Detective Renzi, I have good news. A Vietnamese grandmother is sitting in my office right now. She says she knows who owns the cross.”
“Great grandmother,” said a faint voice in the background.
“Thank you,” Frank said, careful not to use the priest's name or title. “Be there in fifteen minutes.”
When he closed his phone, Raven said, “Another tip?”
“Could be. See what you can find out from your source at the station in Texas. If it turns into something useful, I'll give you an exclusive on the story.”
Raven smiled. “You got it, Frank. Either way, I'll call and let you know what I find out.”
CHAPTER 28
THURSDAY – 10:15 AM
Donna stepped into the living room, shut the front door behind her and dropped a plastic bag on the coffee table. Lenny had driven her to a Rite Aid several miles away in Metairie. To disguise herself she'd worn one of Rene's sweat suits and a pair of sunglasses, but Lenny had made her wait in the car, saying he'd get the items she wanted. Today's Times-Picayune, ointment for the hives, and a pregnancy test.
Exhausted, she sank onto the rocking chair, dreading her next task. Lenny had gone to do some errands, giving her privacy to take the test probably. She picked up the Rite Aid bag, took out the newspaper and tossed it on the table. She'd read it later. The pregnancy test was more important.
Part of her wanted to be pregnant and part of her didn't. If she wasn't, things would be less complicated. If she was, it wouldn't bring Robbie back. Either way, she felt as guilty as any mass murderer.
Robbie was dead. What would she say to René? Your son, the boy who looks just like you and brought me so much joy, is dead.
Murdered by kidnappers. No, one kidnapper. Mickey Mouse had killed Robbie. Of this she was certain. Otherwise, why would Donald Duck have let her and Emily go?
A bolt of anger galvanized her into action. She rose from the rocking chair and took the pregnancy test in the bathroom. Draped over the shower rod, her blue-flowered shirt, Bermuda shorts and underwear gave off a fresh lemon scent. Last night she'd washed them before she collapsed on the bed in René's room, exhausted. But she hadn't slept a wink, just lay there until the gray light of dawn seeped through the window, thinking about Robbie.
She opened the package. U-Check Pregnancy Test. Results in three minutes, 99% accurate. She didn’t need the directions. She knew how it worked. Even now she could remember how terrified she'd been when she used one in Miami, married to Nick and making love to René whenever she could.
She opened the box, took out the test stick, sat on the toilet and held it between her legs. Willing herself to pee, she thought about Emily. She was probably thrilled to be home with Daddy.
A rush of warm urine hit her fingers. She withdrew the stick, wiped herself and flushed the toilet. Now came the hard part. Wait three minutes for the test to do its job. She had no watch so she went in the kitchen and stared at the clock. Was she pregnant or not? If she was, Hunter would know it wasn't his. Not only did the anal-retentive asshole keep track of her periods, he wrote down the dates when they had sex. The last time was almost three months ago.
When the three minutes were up, she summoned her courage and looked at the test stick. Large blue letters said: PREGNANT. She stared at letters. Imagined the word NOT appearing before PREGNANT. It didn't.
Deep down inside she'd known she was pregnant. Her breasts were tender and her stomach felt queasy, the way it had when she was pregnant with Robbie and Emily. She dropped the test stick in the trash container, returned to the bathroom and studied her image in the medicine cabinet mirror. Her face looked haggard, sallow skin, dark circles under her eyes.
A shuddering sob wracked her. She wanted to talk to her mother, but if she did, Blanche Crochiere, upstanding citizen that she was, might tell the police. She went back to the living room, sank into the rocking chair and began to rock, forward and back, faster and faster.
She felt totally alone. René wouldn't be home until Friday and Lenny was no help. He thought she was stupid, getting pregnant again.
Another unplanned pregnancy. But birth control wasn't perfect. Sometimes it failed.
Sometimes lightning really did strike twice.
_____
Frank parked his Dodge Charger in the lot beside the Catholic Church in Metairie. David was riding shotgun today. Before they could leave the car, his cellphone rang. Claudia Cohen. “I better take this,” Frank said.
When he answered, Claudia said, “I thought you were going to call me.”
To placate her, he said, “I was, but you beat me to it.”
“DeMayo hasn't sent us the preliminary autopsy report yet.”
Good. DeMayo was stalling Walsh and the FBI about the clues Robbie had left them. Thinking about it made the fury rise up inside him.
“Who needs autopsy results?” he said. “I can tell you how Robbie died. Some motherfucker beat his head to a pulp.”
David looked over, didn't say anything. Neither did Claudia Cohen.
After a lengthy silence, she said, “Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck?”
Mickey with the ponytail. “I don't know,” he said. The Big Lie.
“Can we canvas Gates's neighbors in Lakeview today?”
“Not today. I'm working another case.” David looked over, grinning at him, held up a hand with his fingers crossed, his visible comment: Liar, liar, pants on fire!
“Okay, I'll do it by myself,” Claudia said.
“I haven't got the results of your background check on Gates yet.” A subtle dig. Then, feeling guilty, he said, “Here's a tip for you. Gates might have gotten in trouble when he played college football in Texas.”
“Thanks. I'll check it out,” Claudia said curtly and ended the call.
“Where'd you get the tip on Gates?” David asked.
“Tooth fairy told me,” Frank said. “Let's go talk to the grandmother. Feel free to jump in with any comments or questions. You're the one with the expertise on Asian cultures.”
David laughed. “Right. And you're the one with the charming way with women. Some of them, anyway.”
_____
Seated in Father Girard's office, Frank took his cue from David, listening politely to the Vietnamese great-grandmother, a tiny woman with a network of wrinkles on her brown-skinned face. Some of her teeth were missing, the gaps showing when she smiled, gesticulating with her hands as she told them about her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
She reminded him of his Sicilian grandfather when he got excited and waved his hands. But Grampa Renzi didn't live to be ninety-six.
When she finished her recitation about her family, Anh Dao leaned back in the easy chair beside Father Girard's desk and clasped her hands in her lap.
“And the cross?” David asked, gently prodding her.
The woman's lips tightened. “Rose was a good girl. Not like her mother. Red lipstick on her mouth, painted eyes, dressed like a hooker.” She glanced at the priest, but Father Girard's expression didn't change.
Frank figured he'd heard the word before. “How old was Rose?”
When the woman frowned at him, perplexed, David said, “Five years old? Six maybe?”
“I didn't know her birthday so I tell the man to put nineteen-seventy-five on the cross. The year she escape from Saigon, like me. Terrible place, all the bombs. But then Rose came to New Orleans, like a new birthday for her.” Beaming a big smile at David.
Returning her smile, David said, “What do the characters mean?”
“May good luck follow you all your life.” She glanced at Father Girard and said, “I tell Rose to say her prayers every night before she go to bed, like a good Catholic.”
“What was Rose's last name?” David asked.
Anh Dao frowned, deepening the wrinkles around her eyes. “Her mother tell me some silly name. Smith, I think. In such a hurry to be American. Forget Vietnam.”
Struck by a new thought, Frank said, “Did Rose ever get married?”
“I don't know. Pretty soon her mother doesn’t bring Rose to church anymore. They move away. Few years ago, someone
tells me the mother died.” She shrugged. “No idea where Rose is now.”
Convinced this was a dead-end, Frank said to the priest, “I think that does it for now.”
David rose to his feet, clasped his hands together and bowed to Anh Dao. “Thank you so much for your help. May you and your children and your children's children have a long and happy life.”
Smiling, the woman rose from her chair. “I do okay? I try to help.”
“You were wonderful, Anh,” said Father Girard, escorting her to the door of his office. “Wait here, gentlemen. I have an idea.”
After they left, Frank said, “Good try, but we struck out.”
Equally glum, David nodded. “And if Rose got married, no telling what her name is now.”
“Or if she's even alive,” Frank said.
Father Girard returned, sat down at his desk and said, “Anh is pretty sharp for an old lady. While she was talking I got an idea. The previous pastor might know Rose's last name. He's in a rest home in Texas. Would you like me to call him and see if he remembers Rose?”
“That would be great,” Frank said.
Girard opened a small leather-bound address book and picked up his phone. Frank looked at David, who gave him a thumbs-up.
They waited as the priest identified himself and asked to speak to Father Finnegan. Girard listened, frowning, then said, “I'm sorry to hear that. Thank you for telling me.” He put down the phone. “Father Finnegan has Alzheimer's disease. He no longer recognizes people. Most of the time he just sleeps.”
Frustrated, Frank rose from his chair, his mood blacker than the ace of spades. “Thank you for your help, Father. You did the best you could.”
The inscription the great-grandmother had put on the cross wished Rose good luck. Frank hoped Rose was having better luck than he was. So far he was batting zero in his search for Robbie's killer.
After they went outside and got in the car, David said, “Want me to talk to Detective Trang at Headquarters? He works in the Intelligence Section as liaison to Vietnamese community. He might have an informant or two.”
