by Metsy Hingle
“Are you the person in charge?” she asked.
“I’m the desk sergeant on duty. Max Russo. What can I do for you, ma’am?”
“I’m here to report a murder.”
It was the last thing he’d expected her to say, Max admitted silently. “Why don’t you have a seat, Miss…?”
“Santos,” she replied as she sat down. “Kelly Santos.”
“All right, Miss Santos. Now, why don’t we start by you telling me who it is that was murdered and your relationship to the victim.”
“I don’t know who he is. I mean, I never met him. And I don’t know his name. But I saw…I saw him sitting inside of a car and he…he was shot.”
Max looked up from the pad he was writing on and asked, “Do you know who shot him?”
Kelly shook her head. “No. But it was a woman.”
“All right.” He jotted down the shooter was a female. “And where did you see this shooting take place?”
“I don’t know. Not exactly. It was dark and I didn’t recognize the area. The car was parked at the end of an alley. Somewhere in the French Quarter, I think, because I could hear musicians playing nearby.”
Max paused. He looked up from the paper on which he had been scribbling notes. “I’m afraid that somewhere in the French Quarter with musicians covers a lot of territory. I take it you’re not from around here?”
“Yes. No.” She let out a breath. “I was born in New Orleans, but I’ve lived away for a long time. I came back…I came back to take care of some personal business. I only arrived from New York late this afternoon.”
“Well, the city hasn’t changed all that much. Maybe if you tell me what street you were walking on when you saw the shooting, we’ll be able to narrow it down a bit.”
The lady hesitated. A strange look crossed her face.
“Miss Santos?”
“I wasn’t out walking when I saw the shooting. I was sitting in the Café du Monde waiting for coffee when I picked up a newspaper.” She unzipped her camera bag, and using a paper napkin, she retrieved the newspaper and placed it on the desk in front of him. “This newspaper. It belonged to the man I saw get shot.”
Max glanced down at the folded newspaper and then lifted his gaze back up to meet hers. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Miss Santos. What does this newspaper have to do with the shooting?”
“Everything.”
Max arched his brows. “Come again?”
She took a deep breath, released it. “Sometimes when I touch a person or a thing, I…I can see what’s happened or what’s going to happen to that person. Tonight when I touched that newspaper,” she said, pointing to the item, “I saw the man who’d left it behind. He was sitting in a car in a dark alley with a woman. She was paying him for some document, a birth certificate. Only, once he gave it to her, she pulled out a gun and shot him. What I don’t know is if he’s already dead. That’s why I came here. On the chance that you can stop her if she hasn’t already killed him.”
Max put down his pen and sat back in his chair. He’d heard some winners, but never one quite like this, he thought. “I see.” And what he saw was that the lady was either on something or a nutcase.
“Trust me, I know this all sounds crazy, Sergeant. It sounds crazy to me, too. But I’m telling you the truth. I have this…this ability to see things. Visions from the past or the future.”
“Uh-huh. And tonight when you touched this here newspaper,” he said, tapping it with his index finger, “you had one of them visions of a man being murdered?”
“Yes.”
Max rubbed a hand along his jaw. The lady was loony tunes if she thought he was going to buy this story. “Miss Santos, when was it you said you arrived in town?”
“This afternoon. I flew in from New York.”
“New York? That’s a mighty big place. That where you live?”
“Yes. I’m a photographer.”
Did those photographer types fiddle around with drugs? he wondered. “That bag there must be for your camera, then,” he said, indicating the bag she’d set on the floor beside her and wondering if a search of the thing would reveal whatever she’d been using.
“Yes, it is.”
“You mind if I take a look?” he asked.
“Be my guest,” she said, and handed him the camera bag. “But I can save you the trouble of looking for drugs. There aren’t any.”
He hesitated a moment at her response, then told himself the conclusion was a reasonable one and had nothing to do with her being able to know what he’d been thinking. But to satisfy himself, he checked out the bag, anyway. Other than the camera and film, it contained only her wallet and a lipstick. “That’s a mighty fancy piece of equipment. You here on business?”
“No. As I told you, I’m here on a personal matter.”
“So you did.” He slid the camera bag across the desk to her. “Never been to New York myself. My wife, Rosie, has though. She went with her sister a few years ago. I seem to recall her saying it was about a five-hour flight.”
“More like three and a half,” she informed him.
He ran a hand through his hair, aware that the now-salt-and-pepper strands seemed to be growing thinner on the top with each passing day. “Funny thing about flying. My Rosie, she doesn’t bat an eye when a hurricane’s coming or the streets are flooding, but put the woman on a plane and she’s a nervous wreck. But usually a glass of wine or a cocktail on the plane helps to calm her down. You one of them nervous flyers, Miss Santos?”
“No, Sergeant. I’m not a nervous flyer. And I didn’t have anything other than water to drink on the flight.”
“And what about at dinner? We’ve got a lot of good restaurants in New Orleans, probably lots of new ones since you was last here. Nothing more relaxing than to sit down to a fine meal with a glass of wine,” he said in what he hoped was a friendly, good-old-boy tone that would put her at ease. The way he figured, if the lady just fessed up to having a few cocktails and making up the story, he’d send her on her way and he could head home to Rosie, a beer and a cup of gumbo, and enjoy the game he’d taped. “You had yourself a glass of wine or two with your dinner tonight, Miss Santos?”
Kelly leaned forward, met his gaze evenly. “I’m not drunk, Sergeant Russo. And I’m not on drugs, either. What I am is wondering why you’re sitting here asking about my eating and drinking habits when I’ve told you that there’s a man out there somewhere,” she said, pointing to the street, “and if he isn’t already dead, he soon will be unless you do something.”
“And what is it you want me to do, Miss Santos?”
“I want you to try to find him.”
“And just how am I supposed to do that? You said yourself that you don’t know the man or even where he is.”
She remained silent, but an expression crossed her face. Sadness? Frustration? Max couldn’t quite read it or her.
“Miss Santos?”
Her brown eyes returned to his face. “What if I describe him and the location to you?”
Max sighed. This simply wasn’t his day, he decided as he watched the clock click within minutes of the end of his shift. May as well let her get it off her chest. “Go ahead.”
“He’s in his late sixties, a heavyset man with thinning gray hair and brown eyes.” She closed her eyes a moment and he wondered if she was going to go into one of her supposed trances. But then she continued. “He’s wearing a dark suit coat that’s too small for him, and he has a gold ring with a ruby stone on his pinkie finger. And he’s in a dark car—black or maybe dark gray. It’s a big car, four doors with a tan leather interior. Not new, an older model. It’s parked at the end of an alley next to a building with ferns hanging on the balcony.” She opened her eyes, looked at him. “He’s not from here, so the car might have out-of-state plates. Maybe from someplace along the Gulf Coast.”
“That’s quite a description.”
“I told you. I saw him when I picked up the newspaper. In fact, his pri
nts are probably on it. Maybe if you run it through your system, you can find out who he is and get a better description of the car.”
He gave her his most indulgent smile. “I’m afraid it only works that fast on TV and in the movies. It takes a bit longer to check for prints, and if he’s not in the system, we have little hope of getting a match.”
“Then take what I’ve given you and use it. If you radio the police officers out on the street, they might be able to find him in case…in case he isn’t dead yet.”
“You honestly expect me to issue an APB on some unknown man based on what you think you saw in some sort of a vision?”
Some of his co-workers shot looks in her direction. If she noticed, she gave no indication. “I know it sounds crazy,” she told him, frustration lacing her voice. “But I’m telling you the truth, Sergeant. If that man isn’t already dead, he will be unless you do something. Please, you’ve got to believe me.”
“I do believe you,” he assured her in an attempt to settle her down. “You see, I’ve got myself this aunt, a real sweet little lady in her eighties, who likes to read those books by Anne Rice. And every time she finishes one of them books, it’s like clockwork. She’s on the phone to me in the middle of the night swearing she’s seen one of them vampires lurking around her place. But the truth is my aunt’s an impressionable woman and sometimes those vampire stories she reads…well they sort of get all mixed up in her dreams. It’s late and it’s Halloween. You’ve been traveling and I’m betting you’re tired. Maybe you had yourself one of those waking dreams a body has when they’ve had an extra-rough day.”
“I didn’t dream that a man got shot, Sergeant Russo. I saw him.”
“I’m sure it seemed real enough, Miss Santos. Just like my aunt’s dreams about those vampires seem real to her. But that doesn’t mean it was real.” Deciding to put an end to the nonsense, he stood. He was more than ready to get home to his Rosie, kick back in his chair with a brewsky and a bowl of gumbo to watch the game. “Maybe what you need is a good night’s sleep. If you’d like, I can have an officer escort you back to your hotel.”
She stood. “I don’t need an escort to my hotel, Sergeant,” she snapped, and there was nothing remotely girlish about the look she slanted at him. But the last thing he expected was for the lady to reach over and grab his arm.
“What the hell—”
“What I need is for you to stop wasting time thinking about kicking back in your easy chair, eating gumbo and drinking beer while you watch some dumb football game and try to find that man before it’s too late.”
Max jerked his arm free. He could feel the color drain from his face. He dropped back down to his chair. “How in the hell did you know that stuff?” he demanded, his voice a harsh whisper.
“I told you. I can see things, sense things.”
Sweet mother of God, he thought, shaken by her response. No, it couldn’t be, he reasoned. There had to be an explanation.
“Hey, Max. Everything okay over there?” Nuccio asked.
“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” he muttered before turning his attention back to the woman. He narrowed his eyes. “You had me going there for a minute. That stuff you just said about the gumbo and beer and the game, you were guessing, right?”
“No.”
“Then you must have heard me say something to one of the guys earlier,” he offered, wanting, needing to believe that’s what had just happened, even though for the life of him he couldn’t recall saying a thing about the gumbo to a soul.
“We both know I didn’t overhear you saying anything to anyone.”
“Then how…”
Kelly resumed her seat across from his desk. She clasped her hands together in that ladylike way women did and met his gaze evenly. “I tried to explain, Sergeant Russo,” she began, a weariness in her voice that matched her expression. “Sometimes when I touch a person or an object, I can see things.”
He looked down at his shirtsleeve where she had grabbed him only a few moments ago, then back up at her. “And when you touched me, you read my mind?”
“Not quite. It was more a case of reading what you were imagining. In this case, you were seeing yourself sitting in a big brown leather easy chair with your feet kicked up. The room had gold shag carpet and there was a small round table next to the chair with a bottle of beer on it. You were watching a football game on TV and you hit the pause button when a woman came into the room,” she told him. “She had red hair and she brought you a tray with a steaming bowl on it. She said the gumbo was hot, but that she didn’t want you using that as an excuse to have another beer.”
Max swallowed hard and tried to digest the fact that the woman had just described his living room and his wife. “That’s my wife, Rosie.” And Rosie was never going to believe him when he told her this story. After a moment, he pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and started over. “Why don’t you describe that car for me again.”
Jack Callaghan ambled over to his police locker the next morning and the first person he saw was Sal Nuccio. Just what he didn’t need, Jack thought. After tossing and turning most of the night and feeling like shit over how he’d handled things with Alicia the previous evening, the last person he wanted to deal with this morning was Nuccio. The guy had been a pain in the ass since they were kids. And ever since he’d beaten Nuccio for the starting quarterback position in high school, the man never missed a chance to try to one-up him at everything from the type of car he drove to the women he dated, and now to see which one of them made detective second grade first. At thirty-three, the adolescent games had long lost any appeal for him. Unfortunately, Nuccio couldn’t say the same.
“Hey, Callaghan. You hear about all the excitement here last night?” Nuccio asked him.
“No,” Jack replied. Not bothering to even look at the guy and hoping he would just go away, Jack worked the combination on his police locker.
“Well, you missed it. Yes sirree, we had ourselves quite a show here at the station last night.”
Jack yanked open his locker. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“You don’t need to take my word for it. Ask some of the guys who were here busting their asses last night and pulling extra shifts while you and your partner got the night off.”
Irritated, Jack slid his gaze over to where Nuccio was leaning against the wall, nursing a cup of coffee. The guy fit the caricature of a lazy cop, Jack thought, from the beefy jowls and beer belly to the straining buttons on his jacket and the sloppy look of his clothes. “If you’ve got something to say, Nuccio, why don’t you just spit it out.”
“Just making an observation. That’s all.” He tossed his foam cup into the overflowing trash can and shoved away from the wall.
Determined not to let the guy get to him, Jack stowed his running shoes in his locker and made no comment. He’d learned from experience that there was no reasoning with Nuccio. What would be the point in telling the prick that the reason he and his partner had scored two days off was because they’d worked fourteen days straight and had cracked a three-year-old homicide case? Nuccio would only argue that it had been the Callaghan family name currying favor for him. Which was what he’d claimed to be the reason they were both competing for promotion to detective second grade, even though Nuccio had put in two years more on the force than Jack had. The truth was, his name being Callaghan hadn’t helped him one iota—a fact that the captain had made sure he understood the day he’d joined the force as a rookie.
“Besides, the way I see it, you and Vicious might have wrangled the night off, but you also missed out on all of the fun around here.”
Jack clipped his shield on his belt, then slammed the locker door shut. “If you say so.”
“It’s true,” Nuccio insisted, obviously irritated by his response. “Things were really hopping here last night and you missed it.”
“Hear that, Leon?” Jack called over to his partner, homicide detective Napoleon Jerevicious, affectionately known among h
is fellow officers as Vicious, the nickname he’d earned on the college and pro football fields. “Nuccio says we missed all the fun last night.”
Leon slammed his own locker shut. The former pro football running back, who had been both his partner and friend for the past two years, walked over to join him. “I don’t know about that. I had me a pretty good time last night. Tessa and I took the kids trick-or-treating. And after we put them to bed, we did some trick-or-treating of our own, if you get my drift.”
“Talk about lame,” Nuccio declared with a snort. “I’d have thought a hotshot former jock like you could find something better to do than chase after a couple of snot-nosed kids and bang your old lady.”
“Hey man, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Leon advised him, unfazed by the other man’s derisive tone.
“No way,” Nuccio replied. “I’ve got better things to do with my time. But anytime you get tired of palling around with Callaghan and want to have some real fun, you just let old Sal here know. And I’ll introduce you to a few of my ladies, make sure they show you a good time.”
“That’s real nice of you, Sal,” Leon said in that low, easygoing voice of his that still held a trace of his Arkansas roots despite the years he’d spent in New York playing football for the Jets.
“Anytime.” Nuccio puffed up his chest. “Just say the word and I’ll make a few calls, set something up for you.”
“I appreciate that,” Leon told him. “I really do. But the thing is, I’m afraid having you set me up with your ladies would be a problem.”
“Say, if you’re worried your old lady’s going to find out, don’t sweat it. These gals are discreet.”
“I’m sure they are, but that’s not the problem,” Leon explained.
