Missing, Frank Renzi Book 6

by Susan Fleet

  “When's Mom coming home?”

  Damn. He wished Emily would stop asking about Donna. “Thank you for not talking about Mom while we had lunch with Linda. We don't want people gossiping about her.”

  “But where is she?”

  That's what he wanted to know, one of the many questions with no answers that infuriated him.

  “Be a good girl, Princess. Go upstairs and play so I can do my work.”

  Emily's eyes brimmed with tears. “When is Mommy coming home? I miss her.”

  He bent down and kissed her cheek. “I know you do, Princess.”

  “I miss Robbie, too. Now I don't have anyone to play with.”

  Yesterday he'd told Juanita not to let Emily watch the news, but the local TV stations were running a crawl line about the murder. Emily had seen it, which precipitated a huge meltdown, Emily weeping and wailing about how much she missed Robbie. It had taken him an hour to calm her down.

  “Juanita will be here soon. She'll help you try on your Halloween costume.”

  “But I want Mom to help me. It won't be any fun this year without Mom and Robbie.”

  “Mom will be home by Halloween and we'll go trick-or-treating the same as always.” Hoping this was true. He didn’t want to do it by himself. “Go upstairs. I'll send Juanita up as soon as she gets here.”

  He walked Emily to the staircase. When she was safely upstairs, he went in the dining room and powered up his laptop. Thanks to the speech his PR man had written, the press conference last night had gone well. Except for the asshole reporters asking questions. He'd wait until Monday to do the next one.

  Sunday was Halloween. Another problem to solve. If Donna wasn't back by then, he'd call Linda's mother and invite Linda to go trick-or-treating with Emily.

  He checked his email. No message from the blackmailer. The bastard expected to collect six million bucks Saturday night. Fat chance. A bullet in the head was more like it. But that presented another problem. He had to figure out how to clean up the mess and get rid of the body.

  How the hell did the bastard find out about Gwendolyn? No one knew about Gwendolyn. Well, Johnny might have suspected when he told him to say he'd been watching TV with him that night, if anyone should ask. Johnny knew the drill with cops. Johnny had raped Nancy, too.

  A fact that insured his cooperation. And his silence.

  But Gwendolyn had come back to haunt him. The stuck-up cheerleader-bitch deserved it, flirting with him, tossing her long blond hair, making eyes at him. So he asked her for a date, drove her to Sunset Lane and plied her with Southern Comfort to loosen her up. But Gwendolyn kept blathering about her courses. She wanted to talk. He wanted to fuck. After the booze did its work, she let him feel her tits, but when he tried to get in her pants, she said she never went all the way on the first date.

  Which turned out to be her last date. Even now he could remember her infuriating taunt. “Stop acting like a farm boy, Hunter. Show a little class.”

  The doorbell rang, startling him. Juanita, he realized.

  He opened the door, let her in and said, “Emily's upstairs. I told her you'd help her try on her Halloween costume, but don't let her watch the news. I don't want her to see something she shouldn't.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Gates.”

  “I need you to sleep over tomorrow night. I've got a late meeting. Come at four o’clock so you can fix Emily's dinner.”

  “But my husband and I were supposed to go—” Then Juanita saw his expression. With a deferential nod, she said, “Yes, sir. I'll be here at four.”

  CHAPTER 35

  FRIDAY – 2:25 PM

  Thankful the TV wasn't on, Donna stood beside the piano in the living room, afraid to move. When the doorbell rang, she'd had the crazy notion that it was René. Ridiculous, of course. Why would René ring the doorbell? He had a key and Lenny did, too. So who was ringing the bell?

  It rang again, an insistent chime that filled her with dread. Why was someone ringing Lenny’s doorbell? A filmy white curtain covered the window beside the door. She crept to the side of the window, pulled the edge of the curtain back an inch and peeked through the narrow opening. A charcoal-gray sedan was parked in front of the house.

  She froze as a tall, dark-haired man in a tan polo shirt went down the walk and got in the car. Not a white police car with NOPD stenciled on the side and a light-bar on the roof, but they had other cars. Unmarked cars. This one looked sporty and fast, like the Dodge Charger one of her co-workers drove, except her co-worker’s was red.

  She scratched her arm. Damn these hives! She watched the Dodge drive away. What if the man was a cop? But why would he come here? Lenny and René had never been in trouble with the police. René smoked pot now and then, not on the cruise ship, but he might light up a blunt here or outside a club after a gig. And Lenny was a straight arrow. He never did pot.

  Damn! She’d escaped from that horrible room, but she felt just as trapped here. She had no car, no phone and no one to talk to. Lenny had gone to work early, saying he'd eat lunch at the hospital cafeteria. He didn’t want to deal with her sudden fits of crying, her gut-wrenching sobs and her frantic sprints to bathroom to vomit in the toilet. Most of all, he didn't want to be here when René came home.

  She scratched her arm, caught herself and stopped. Scratching only made it worse. She buried her face in her hands. How could she tell René his son was dead? Even now she couldn't bear to think about it.

  How could anyone kill Robbie? She should have protected him.

  Guilt drove her into the bathroom to stare at her image in the mirror. She was worse than her father. Abandoning Emily at Whole Foods. At least her father had an excuse. He was an alcoholic. Drank too much vodka, slipped and fell in the bathroom and hit his head on the toilet. End of story.

  Well, not quite. She'd been so devastated she had fallen for the first man who paid attention to her. Not that she told Nick about her father. Nick was impressed when she said she intended to be a television anchorwoman. But after they moved to Miami, he started going out at night without her. Then she found the Jai Alai tickets in his shirt pocket when she did the laundry. Losing tickets, of course. Gamblers turned in the winners to collect their money.

  When she confronted him, Nick got angry. “Don't tell me how to spend my money,” he'd screamed. “I work for a high-powered financial firm. You're the weather girl at a dinky little TV station, flashing your tits and ass like a Hooters waitress.”

  She ran water in the sink and rubbed some over the welts on her arms.

  At least Nick didn't have a gun. But he had the paternity test to hold over her.

  Why were the men in her life so vindictive? Anyone could hurt you, but the ones you loved did it best. Nick and Hunter, the Twins of Spite.

  First they tried to impress her. But after they won her, they turned on her. They weren't alcoholics like her father, although he'd been a gambler too, like Nick. When it came down to it, so was Hunter, though he didn't gamble with money. He got his kicks gambling with people's lives. Lying to the media about her last night.

  She'd watched the press conference, Hunter spouting bullshit into a sea of microphones. Thanking people for their prayers. What a joke. His PR man probably wrote the script. Hunter had never said a prayer in his life. He didn't believe in prayers, he believed in guns. His trusty persuaders.

  Then he'd fed the reporters more bullshit, talking about her as though she were home, so distraught about Robbie she needed to rest. Smiling when he bragged about Emily. The police said she'd been very helpful. But when the reporters asked about Robbie's funeral and did the police have any leads, Hunter had ignored them and walked away.

  She had questions, too, more pertinent questions than the reporters.

  Did Emily tell the police about Mickey and Donald Duck?

  Now Emily was home, but Hunter wouldn't neglect his business and stay home to take care of her. Was Juanita helping him?

  And the biggest question of all: Did Emily know Ro
bbie was dead?

  A strangled sob caught in her throat. Juanita would comfort Emily, but she didn't want someone else comforting her. She was Emily's mother.

  She should be the one to tell her about Robbie. But what would she say?

  Robbie's in Heaven? She didn't believe in an afterlife. Life was here and now, such as it was. Hers had been unimaginably horrible lately.

  But René wasn't like Nick and Hunter. René loved her. He was kind and gentle, not vindictive. She ran a hand over her belly. Now René's baby was inside her. It wouldn't make up for losing Robbie. Nothing would ever do that, but it was something. How would René react? Would he be happy?

  First she had to tell him about Robbie. Another ordeal. Worse than when her father died. Worse than the kidnapping even.

  But René loved her. They would get through this together.

  _____

  3:30 PM

  Frustrated by his inability to find René, Frank stopped at the last house on his list. After cross-checking the eighteen names in the phone book with the electric company, he had added two more. Leonard Picou and Claude Picou didn't have land lines, probably used cellphones like a lot of people these days.

  He had already checked nineteen addresses. No René Picou living at any of them. At the last one, Leonard Picou's house, nobody was home. At least they hadn’t come to the door. On the way back to his car, he thought he saw a curtain move in the window beside the door. Maybe he had imagined it,

  But he hadn't imagined the shocked look on Sam Thompson's face this morning. When Frank asked if he knew a Vietnamese woman named Rose, Sam froze like a deer in the headlights. Kenyon said he was a good guy and a good cop. Frank respected Kenyon’s opinion, but why was Sam nosing around a murder investigation? Was he Donald Duck? Emily said Donald Duck was nice to her, had even given her ice cream. If Sam had a disabled six-year-old, he would know how to handle kids.

  And he fit Emily's description of Donald Duck. A big black man.

  Frank glanced at his watch. It was late. He'd better get moving and check this tidy little Creole cottage, painted blue with white trim. The lawn had been recently mowed, and an empty trash can sat on the sidewalk, gleaming with dew. Azalea bushes and flaming hibiscus surrounded a wide front porch.

  A flowerpot with orange marigolds hung from the porch ceiling by the front door. No question somebody was home. The inner door was open and sounds from a TV set blared through the screen door.

  Frank pressed the bell, left his thumb on it a while to make sure whoever was in there heard it. Claude Picou, according to the electric company.

  The TV sounds halted abruptly and Frank heard someone coming. Thump, thump, thump.

  Leaning on a cane, a stooped old man shuffled to the door in blue pajama bottoms and a sleeveless T-shirt. The curly white hairs on his chest matched the fringe of hair that circled his otherwise bald pate.

  “Frank Renzi,” he said. “NOPD. I've got a question for you.”

  “Huzat?” the man said, pointing to his ear. “I don't hear too good.”

  Speaking loudly, Frank said, “Are you Claude Picou?”

  The man smiled broadly, exposing toothless pink gums. Jerking a thumb at his chest, he said, “That's me. Claude Picou.”

  “You live here by yourself?”

  “Yup. Doing okay for an old codger. Muh daughter comes over once a week, brings me a big pot-a-gumbo and does the laundry. Muh son mows the lawn and takes out the trash.”

  “You know René Picou? The piano player?”

  “I'm no piano player,” Claude said indignantly. “I'm a trumpet player. Don't play no more. Lost all m'teef. They gimme those fake ones, but I only wear 'em to eat. Damn things hurt muh mouf.”

  “I hear you. I used to play trumpet. Can't play trumpet without teeth.”

  The man's eyes lit up and his toothless grin widened. “A trumpet player? Why didn't y'all say so? C'mon in. I still got muh trumpet. You can play me a tune. You know Sweet Georgia Brown? Tha's muh favorite.”

  Frank opened the screen door and entered the living room, inhaling the odor of burnt toast. The television set was on, the sound muted on some game show Frank didn't recognize. A dilapidated blue-plaid sofa faced the TV. In front of the sofa, a plate with toast crumbs sat on a table. Beside it, Cheerios floated in the remaining milk in a shallow bowl.

  No trumpet case in the room, thank goodness. Relieved, Frank said, “I know the tune, but I haven't played in a while. You ever hear of René Picou?”

  “No, but I heard Alphonse Picou plenty-a-times. A mighty fine trumpet player, Alphonse. Great chops and a great ear. Usta listen to him at the Maple Leaf.” Singing in falsetto, Claude scatted a few bars of Sweet Georgia Brown. “Usta copy his licks, you know, so's I could use 'em on my own gigs. I wasn't nowhere near as good as him, though. And after I married muh sweetheart and we had a couple-a-kids, hadda get me a full-time job, worked at a print shop forty years.”

  Claude spewing out his life story in rhythmic spurts.

  Hooked by the story, Frank said, “What happened to your sweetheart?”

  The old man frowned, wrinkling the light brown skin on his forehead. His gray eyes got a faraway look in them. “Few years back Daisy up and died on me. Wonderful woman. I miss her, but I still got muh kids, a girl and a boy. They look afta-me.”

  Frank took out the photograph he'd printed from the website, René Picou's group, and pointed to the piano player. “You know this guy?”

  Claude bent closer to the photo and squinted. “Can't say-as-I do. What's his name?”

  “René Picou.”

  “Maybe he's one-a-Alphonse's boys. Heard he had a couple. Don't recall their names.”

  “Where's Alphonse now?”

  “Long gone. All-a-the old Creole musicians dying, the young'uns don't know shit from Shinola, play this rock-n-roll crap.” Claude skewered him with a look. “You like that crap?”

  “Nah, I'm into jazz. You ever go to Snug Harbor?”

  Claude shook his head and gave him a sly grin. “Don't get around much anymore. You know that tune? It’s a great tune.”

  “Great tune,” Frank agreed, and took out his card. “Tell you what, Claude. You feel like hearing some jazz some night, call me and I'll pick you up and we'll go hear some sounds at Snug Harbor, okay?”

  Claude's face lit up in a smile. “Thank-ye-kindly sir. I'd surely enjoy that.”

  Frank left the house, got in his car and drove off. He had enjoyed talking to the old man, but it didn't get him anywhere. He'd checked twenty addresses, no René Picou. Another dead-end.

  His cellphone rang. He checked the ID and answered.

  “Frank,” said Raven Woodson, “can you talk?”

  “Sure. What's up?”

  “Did you watch the press conference Gates did last night? Jesus, it made me sick.”

  “Caught the re-run, yeah. Been meaning to call you. I talked to Chief Grimes at STU yesterday and asked him about Gwendolyn.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Said he had a gut feeling that Gates did it, but Gates had an alibi and he had no evidence to charge him. But that's privileged information, so don't use it until I say so.”

  Raven said, clearly disappointed, “Okay. When will that be?”

  “I wish I knew. Soon, I hope. I've got another tidbit, if you promise you won't tell anyone.”

  “I promise. What?”

  “I've got someone watching the Gates house, round the clock.”

  “Good move. Who?”

  Frank smiled. How about a female FBI agent and an FBI agent wannabe? “Sorry, Raven. If I told you, I'd have to kill you.”

  “Uh-huh. Good line, but you promised me first dibs on the story, remember?”

  “Yes, and the promise stands. Your tips were very helpful. Gotta go.”

  He shut his cellphone and massaged his eyes. He hadn't gotten much sleep last night. Talking to Kelly and finding René Picou's website had cheered him up, but now he was back to square one.
>
  He checked the time. 4:15. Forget going back to the station. He'd drive to Kenner and hunt for Rose No-Last-Name's house. A shotgun, Emily had said.

  Any kind of luck, he might spot Donna's bright blue Honda Accord parked outside the house.

  CHAPTER 36

  FRIDAY – 4:15 PM

  Donna held her breath as the front door opened. René stepped into the living room.

  Dressed in black running pants and a black-and-gold Saint's T-shirt, he held a Times-Picayune in his hand. One look at his face told her all she needed to know. He already knew Robbie was dead. His eyes were bloodshot, as though he'd been crying.

  She ran to him and he embraced her. Sobbing into his chest, she said, “They killed Robbie.”

  “Yes, and they're going to pay for it.” He released her and tossed the newspaper on the coffee table, his wiry five-foot-nine frame rigid with anger, his handsome face set in a frown. “Your husband set it up.”

  Shocked, she said, “Hunter would never kill Robbie.”

  “Of course not. He hasn't got the balls. He pays other people to do his dirty work.” René led her to the futon and sat her down. “Tell me what happened.”

  She hunched her shoulders, recalling the ghastly scene. “Saturday night Emily and I were in the kitchen baking peanut butter cookies for Robbie. He was upstairs in his room. The doorbell rang. Before I could stop her, Emily ran and opened the door. Then two men in black clothes came down the hall. They were wearing Halloween masks. Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse.”

  “Did they have guns?”

  “No, but they scared me. René, everything happened so fast! They said Hunter had planned a surprise party for us and they were supposed to pick us up and take us there.”

  “I knew it. He paid them to kidnap you and the kids, had them kill Robbie and let you and Emily go.”

  Donna stared at him, horrified. She’d never realized how much he hated Hunter. “No. I could see Hunter paying them to kidnap us, but I can't believe he'd tell them to kill Robbie.”

  “I can. What happened then?”