Natalie's Revenge

by Susan Fleet

  Cursing, he ran toward Bourbon, his feet pounding the pavement. He stopped at an antique store, looked in the window, didn't see her. He peered through the wide-open door of the bar next door. Three men sat at the bar watching TV. He kept going, running flat out now.

  Damn it, he had to catch her. Two days till the deadline. If he didn't deliver a suspect by Wednesday noon, Demaris would yank him and Vobitch and the rest of the NOPD detectives off the case and give it to the State cops.

  Two tourists on the sidewalk saw him coming and ducked out of the way. At the corner of Bourbon he paused, breathing hard, eyes darting everywhere. No sign of the woman with the distinctive long-legged stride. Even at ten in the morning, Bourbon Street was busy. If she ducked into a bar or some tourist-trap souvenir joint, he’d never find her.

  Damn it to hell. He was positive she was the woman in the security video, and now that he'd gotten over his stupidity and denial, he was certain the woman was Natalie Brixton. Doggedly determined, he kept going, slower now, pausing to look inside every rinky-dink tourist trap.

  Natalie was in New Orleans and she wasn’t a tourist.

  She was here to kill someone. But who?

  At this point he was certain she'd killed Arnold Peterson, Tex Conroy and Oliver James. She might also have pushed her cousin Randy off a cliff. Justified homicide for a rapist? In her mind maybe.

  But not according to law, and Franklin Sullivan Renzi had taken an oath to uphold the law no matter how despicable the victim might have been.

  Oblivious to the tourists swirling around him, he crossed the street to check the bars and shops along the other sidewalk. Honky-tonk music wafted out of a strip joint. He eased inside, let his eyes adjust to the gloom, surveyed the room. No women, just three men seated at the bar. No dancers onstage. They were probably waiting for more customers.

  With single-minded purpose, he left and peered into a small shop that sold souvenir T-shirts. A clerk stood behind the counter. No customers.

  Discouraged, he kept walking. He was positive Natalie Brixton was in New Orleans, and he believed he knew why. To avenge her mother’s murder, a case that had gone unsolved for twenty years.

  Jane Fontenot’s prime suspect was dead, but maybe Jane was wrong.

  Maybe BoBo Beaubien wasn’t the man that killed Jeannette Brixton.

  But if BoBo didn’t kill her, who did?

  Maybe Natalie knew.

  If she did, she sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him.

  CHAPTER 29

  Monday, 18 August

  Clint Hammer's flight from Houston landed at nine, but Monday morning traffic in Washington, D.C. was snarled as usual, so the taxi didn't get him to his office building until 10:10. Three minutes later he entered his basement office, locked the door and stood his suitcase in the corner.

  Clenching his jaw, he set his laptop on the desk, opened it and studied his notes. The fucking NOPD cops had told him about the Conroy murder, but they had withheld important information. He ground his teeth. Every time he thought about that Jew-bastard and his wop detective pal, a red haze of rage clouded his vision. Vobitch insulting him, throwing him out of the office.

  The bastard would regret it.

  After searching the Times-Picayune website for more Intel, an exercise in futility, he'd flown to Pecos. His boss had given him shit about the travel authorization but relented when he invented a story about email traffic that indicated terrorists were infiltrating Texas by crossing the Pecos River.

  His two day trip to Pecos had been grueling, but gratifying.

  Thrilled that a CIA agent was investigating her son’s murder, Conroy’s mother dropped a bombshell. Her son had gone to school with a girl named Natalie Brixton. Brixton's mother had been murdered in New Orleans in 1988. The fucking NOPD cops hadn't told him about that. Then Mrs. Conroy told him about her son’s friend, Randy Brixton, Natalie Brixton's cousin. His death in 1995 had been ruled an accident, but Mrs. Conroy said her son, the now-deceased Tex Conroy, popped in the head like Arnold Peterson, believed Natalie had pushed Randy off the bluff.

  He ground his teeth, molar against molar, felt a sharp pain in his jaw. The gook bitch was a serial killer!

  After offing her cousin in 1995, she'd disappeared, surfaced three weeks ago in New Orleans, murdered Peterson and Conroy and escaped. Because the fucking NOPD detectives were incompetent idiots.

  Then she met Oliver in Boston bar and seduced him. But Oliver was no fool. Oliver had asked him to run a background check on Robin Adair. After his search turned up her bogus ID, the one she'd used to rent an apartment in Nashua, New Hampshire, the bitch had murdered Oliver.

  The idea filled him with rage and stiffened his resolve. He’d get that bitch and make her pay. He flexed his hands. He might not be as big as some agents, but he had big hands. Big and strong and deadly. When he found her, he’d put them around her neck and squeeze and watch her eyes bug out of their sockets.

  A series of knocks hit his door. Jason’s signal.

  He unlocked the door and opened it. Jason had a smile on his usually solemn face. “I think I got something for you.”

  “About time.” He returned to his desk. “What have you got?”

  “I’ve been working till midnight every night. It took me hours to check all the airports near Boston—”

  “Tell me what you got!” Jason loved to go into excruciating detail. He didn’t give a shit about that. Results were the only thing that mattered.

  “I got nothing when I ran the face-recognition software on the airline passengers, but then I used the license photo you gave me for Robin Adair.”

  Struggling mightily for control, he said, “Jason, I appreciate your diligence. What did you find?”

  “I figured she might have a license under a different name.” A satisfied smile appeared on Jason's face. “Bingo! I got a hit at the registry of motor vehicles in the Ithaca, New York.”

  A warm glow filled his chest. Now he'd get the bitch.

  “She used a Vermont driver's license.” Jason peered at him through his thick glasses. “No photograph because they weren't mandatory on Vermont licenses in 2004. But after 9/11 most of the New York state RMVs installed video cameras. So I used the face recognition software and the Robin Adair license photo. That's how I got the hit. A woman named April West used a Vermont DL to register a 2002 Ford Focus on August sixth.”

  “Excellent work, Jason. Excellent.”

  Jason beamed. “You want her address?”

  “Hell yes! You got it?” He could hardly believe his luck.

  “She had the registry mail her plates to an Ithaca boarding house.” Jason gave him a slip of paper. “ The phone number’s below the address.”

  A phone number. Perfect. “Thanks for all your hard work, Jason. Rest assured, I won’t forget it.” He never forgot anything, good or bad.

  “Thanks,” Jason said, clearly pleased. “I better get back to my office.”

  As soon as Jason cleared the door, he called the number in Ithaca, reciting the name in his mind. April West, April West. I’ll get you, April West.

  “Hello,” said a female voice.

  Employing the bullying tone he used to intimidate people, he said, “This is CIA Agent Clint Hammer calling from Washington. Who am I speaking to?”

  A shocked silence. Then, “Emily Jordan. Is something wrong?”

  Yes something's wrong, you silly twit. “I understand you operate a boarding house at . . .” He read the address off the slip of paper. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes. What’s this about?” the woman asked.

  “Did a woman by the name of April West rent a room there?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s my job to ask questions," he said. "Is she still there?”

  “No. She left a few days ago.”

  “What day did she leave?”

  “Just a moment, I’ll have to check.”

  Anxiously grinding his teeth, he w
aited. Excruciating pain ran along the side of his jaw. His dentist said if he didn’t stop grinding his teeth he'd need a root canal on the back molar.

  “She rented a room on August sixth and left on August eleventh.”

  “Did she get any mail while she was there?”

  “Hmm, let me think. She left on a Monday. I think she got a package from the Registry before she left. The plate for her car, I guess.”

  “Did she say where was she going?”

  “No. She's a student at Ithaca College. She was looking for an apartment for the Fall semester. Maybe she found one, I don’t know.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Jordan.” He closed his cell and pumped his fist.

  April West wasn’t looking for an apartment, the bitch was hiding from the cops, and this time she wouldn't escape. Those NOPD cops were idiots, but he wasn't. Now he had her new alias, and the make, model and plate number of her car.

  He was certain she was headed for New Orleans.

  Not that he planned to tell those NOPD assholes.

  _____

  When she got back to Parades-A-Plenty at two o’clock, the disgusting odor of pizza filled the foyer, aggravating the sick-ache in her stomach. Seated behind the reception desk, Banshee had the mother of all frowns on her face.

  “Where’ve you been?” Her voice rose to a horrible shriek. “You have to pack up and leave. The mayor’s going to order an evacuation.”

  Stunned, she said nothing. She never should have stayed here. Mrs. Reilly was trouble. At last, she said, “I haven’t heard anything about an evacuation.”

  “Well. Have you seen the size of that storm? I’m not waiting till the last minute and get stuck in all that traffic.”

  “I can’t leave today!" Not until she made one last ditch effort to avenge her mother. "I had my interview at Loyola this morning and they want me to come back for a second interview tomorrow.”

  Banshee stared at her, squalled, “You went to an interview in that Yankee T-shirt?”

  “Of course not. After the interview I went to the French Quarter to celebrate. I bought some souvenirs. It was hot so I put on my new T-shirt.”

  Mrs. Reilly’s face remained stony. "I doubt you’ll have an interview tomorrow, but if you do, you’ll have to stay someplace else. I already called my son in Houston. He’s leaving right after work tonight to come get me.”

  No way could she allow that to happen. She forced a smile. “There’s no need for your son to come here and then drive you all the way back to Houston. My best friend lives there. I’d be happy to drive you.”

  “You’ve got a car?”

  “Yes. My interview is at nine tomorrow. Then I’ll come back and help you load your luggage into my car and we can leave right away.”

  “I didn’t know you had a car. What kind of car is it?”

  She wanted to slam the woman's doughy face down on that disgusting half-eaten pizza. “I borrowed my daddy’s car. It’s a Cadillac with a big trunk and air-conditioning. The seats are very comfortable."

  “Well. I suppose I could call him . . .”

  “Call him now. Tell him you’ve already got a ride to Houston.”

  The idea of driving to Houston with that yammering screech-voice set her teeth on edge. She wouldn’t of course. If her final attempt at completing her mission didn’t work out tonight, she’d be long gone by tomorrow morning. Mrs. Reilly would be stranded in New Orleans, but she couldn’t think of anyone who deserved it more.

  _____

  "Kelly," Frank said as he loaded the dishwasher, "can you tune in the six o'clock news. I want to see if the Mayor's going to order an evacuation.”

  “Man, I hope not. I won't be on patrol duty this time, but you might." Kelly left the table and went in the living room.

  Thanks to her physical therapy she was getting stronger, not her old athletic self but close, and now that she was off the pain meds her appetite had returned. Tonight he’d brought two takeout dinners from Zea’s: pecan-crusted trout with sides of candied sweet potatoes and green beans. Kelly’s favorite.

  He finished loading the dishwasher, opened a fresh Heineken, got to the living room as the news jingle sounded. He sat beside Kelly on the sofa and focused on the screen. The news anchor, a somber-faced man in wire-rimmed glasses, cut to the meteorologist. A weather map showed a gigantic orange-red swirl entering the Gulf. After decimating Cuba with 155 mph winds, Hurricane Josephine had churned north. "That it will hit the Gulf Coast is no longer in doubt," said the meteorologist. “The only mystery is where.”

  “Where's Natalie?," he said, "That’s the only mystery I’m interested in solving.”

  “I can’t believe you saw her,” Kelly said. “You’re positive it was her?”

  “Yes. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied, I might have caught her.” During dinner he'd told Kelly about his exasperating talk with Evelyn, and his equally frustrating close encounter with Natalie. “I searched Bourbon Street for an hour, didn't find her." He glanced at the TV.

  Now Josephine was an orange swirl in a small box in the lower right corner of the screen. Below it, numbers listed the current coordinates, wind-speed and barometric pressure, which was falling. When the program went to commercial, he said, “I talked to BoBo’s widow today.”

  “Where is she?” Kelly drank some Heineken, gazing at him.

  “Santa Monica. Unlike BoBo’s ex-wife, when I asked her for the names of his friends, she reeled off a dozen. Peterson wasn’t one of them, but when I asked if they were friends, she said they were. For a while anyway. BoBo hired him to manage one of his Go-Go Bars in 1995. But after BoBo’s son Chip graduated from Loyola, he went to work for BoBo full time. A year or so later—she couldn’t remember the exact date—Peterson left and went to work for The Babylon.”

  “So Peterson did know BoBo,” Kelly said. “They were friends.”

  “Yes, but BoBo hired Peterson seven years after Natalie’s mother was murdered. The timing is wrong. And if I don't deliver a suspect to Demaris by Wednesday noon, we're off the case.”

  He upped the volume as a clip from the mayor’s afternoon news conference ran. The grim-faced New Orleans Mayor said: “Josephine is a dangerous storm. The presidents of the Gulf parishes have already mandated evacuations. At midnight I'll announce my decision about an Orleans Parish evacuation. But I strongly urge all New Orleans residents to leave now.”

  Frank hit the mute button. “When I told Vobitch about my close encounter with Natalie, he said he'd call the stations and ask them to run the Natalie sketch again. But even if they run it, nobody’s paying attention."

  A commercial came on and Kelly rose from the couch. "I gotta hit the john. Call me if the sketch runs."

  He watched the muted commercial. They were better without sound, silent comedy skits, people looking angry, happy or stupid. In the fourth one two cats were chowing down disgusting chunks of cat food. He checked the time: 6:27.

  Three minutes and the news would be over.

  Kelly came back just as the cat food commercial ended. Frank upped the sound as the Natalie sketch flashed on the screen.

  “New Orleans Police again ask for your help," said the anchorman. "If you’ve seen this woman or know her whereabouts, call the number on your screen.” The sketch disappeared. “That’s it for this newscast. Be sure to watch the crawl line on your screen for storm updates.”

  “Damn!" Frank exclaimed. "If anyone blinked they missed it. How long was it on, twenty seconds?”

  Kelly turned to him, somber-eyed. “More like ten.”

  _____

  Seated at her kitchen table in Parades-A-Plenty, Mrs. Reilly mopped up the last bit of gravy from her Willow Tree turkey pot pie with a piece of bread. Some turkey farm up in New England made the frozen pies, and they were delicious, big chunks of turkey meat, carrots and potatoes in a thick creamy sauce tucked inside a flaky crust. The label said it was supposed to serve two. Two little people, maybe.

  She eyed the small TV set on her kitch
en counter. The mayor was urging everyone to leave town right away. She wished she hadn’t called her son and told him not to come for her. April West had said she'd drive her to Houston tomorrow, but how did she know if the girl was reliable?

  That girl was strange. Saying she had an interview at Loyola to teach some course about weird religions. Saying she didn't use credit cards. Wearing a Yankee T-shirt. That's what she was. A damn Yankee.

  When a commercial came on, she opened the square box that sat on the counter and took out the cake she’d bought at the bakery on St. Charles Avenue. Her mouth watered. German chocolate cake with chocolate butter frosting. Her favorite. With a long sharp knife, she sliced off a thick piece, set it on a plate and glanced at the TV.

  Another commercial was running. The national news would be on at six-thirty and she didn’t want to miss it. Britney Spears and her husband were fighting again. It served her right. Those skimpy costumes she wore made her look like a harlot.

  Mrs. Reilly set the plate on the table and lumbered down the hall to the bathroom. While she was on the toilet, the sketch of Natalie Brixton appeared on the screen.

  The national news was just starting when she returned to the table, her bladder comfortably relieved. But her mind wasn’t. There was something odd about that girl. April West didn’t look old enough to be a college professor.

  She had a good mind to call Loyola first thing tomorrow and check up on her. But if the mayor ordered a mandatory evacuation, all the offices at Loyola would be closed.

  She picked up a fork and dug into her German chocolate cake.

  CHAPTER 30

  New Orleans

  Clenching his teeth, Clint Hammer peered through the window of the wide-body Boeing 747. Rain pelted the glass. Barely visible in the darkness, the flashing red lights of a baggage cart approached the plane. About fucking time! Now maybe the flight crew would open the doors.

  When they arrived at the gate, the pilot had apologized for being twelve minutes late and said their flight was the last to land Louis Armstrong Airport due to the hurricane. As if he didn’t know. He’d had a helluva time booking a seat. Unwilling to strand their equipment, none of the other airlines were flying into New Orleans.