by Susan Fleet
Continental Flight 2043 was full. When the cabin door opened, only two other people got up to leave. He followed them and hustled up a slanted walkway to the gate area. A gate agent was checking in three passengers. After they boarded, Flight 2043 would fly to Houston with a planeload of passengers eager to escape the hurricane threat.
Towing his carry-on suitcase with one hand, he slung his laptop over his shoulder, walked through the deserted gate area and stopped at the seats reserved for handicapped passengers. He set his laptop on the flat gray platform between two seats, dug out his cell and punched in Jason’s number.
Jason picked up right away. “Hey, boss, how’s it going?”
“I just landed in New Orleans. What have you got for me?”
“There must be five hundred hotels in New Orleans and half the desk clerks won’t talk to me. They just say they’re not taking any reservations because of the storm and hang up.”
“Keep trying,” Hammer snarled. “I don’t give a fuck if it takes all night. Find April West and call me, no matter what time it is.”
He shut his cell and rode an escalator down to baggage claim. An Avis shuttle bus would ferry him to the rental car lot. Earlier he'd managed to book the last available car. New Orleans residents hell-bent on leaving town before the storm hit had rented the rest.
He ground his teeth, molar against molar. If they didn’t have his car, heads would roll. At this hour he’d never get a cab. His pal at the local Homeland Security Office had booked him a hotel room, but only for one night. After that all bets were off, thanks to fucking Hurricane Josephine which had now entered the Gulf, a Category-Four, the last he’d heard.
Where was April West?
Was she riding out the storm in some hotel room?
What if she had evacuated? Christ on a crutch, he'd never find her!
But then he thought: April West didn't evacuate. April West was a killer, and killers don't abandon their evil plans. April West had come to New Orleans to kill someone. He didn't know who, but he really didn't give a shit. The bitch had murdered his friend in cold blood and he was going to get her.
He yawned and set out for the Avis shuttle bus. It had been a long day. He was ready for a stiff drink and some shuteye.
_____
At ten-thirty she slipped onto the same stool she'd occupied last night at the end of the bar. The music, a punishing disco beat, sent stabbing pain through her head. The GoGo Bar was packed, men hooting and whistling at two scantily-clad women dancing seductively onstage. The redheaded barman was mixing drinks for an anxious-looking waiter at the service area. A minute later he came to her and said, his voice barely audible over the music, “What can I get for you?”
“A glass of your house red and an ice-water chaser.”
He grabbed a wine bottle from the shelf behind the bar, splashed wine into a glass, set it before her and went to get her ice water.
When he came back with it, she said, “Is Chip here?”
“I think he’s in the office.” He turned to leave, but she touched his arm.
“Could you buzz him and tell him I’m here?”
He gave her a dead-eyed stare. “I’ve got thirsty customers waiting.” He returned to the service area where another waiter waited with a tray.
Disappointed, she sipped her ice water. Clouds of cigarette smoke hung over the room. Her head throbbed in time with the music. Chip was in his office, but he didn’t know she was here and she had no way to tell him. Unlike last night, the red-haired bartender seemed cool and distant. All she could do was wait and hope that Chip would come out of his office.
Mercifully, the disco music stopped when show ended at eleven. Amidst whoops and applause, the dancers took their bows. The bartender was slammed, filling multiple drink orders for thirsty patrons, who seemed unconcerned about the hurricane. Maybe they figured work would be cancelled tomorrow.
There were no TV sets in the bar, so she had no idea what was happening with Josephine. If she had her laptop she could take it in the restroom and check, but she'd left it in her room with her suitcase. She didn't dare lock them in the trunk of her car. One news program she’d seen had warned that thieves often stole cars parked on the street during evacuations. She'd locked her diary and clothes in her suitcase, but left her Yankee T-shirt and a pair of jeans hanging in the closet in case Mrs. Reilly checked her room while she was out.
At eleven-thirty the lights dimmed and the abrasive disco beat began. Two different dancers came onstage, smiling their seductive smiles, prancing around in six-inch stiletto heels. Seeing them took her back to her dancing-in-the-dark days at Platinum-Plus Gentlemen's Club. A disco beat, smoke-filled air and dirty-minded men with greedy eyes who wanted her to give them a lap dance, deceived by her feigned pleasure as she ground herself against their crotch until they came.
She didn't want to think about that depressing chapter of her life, or the other chapters for that matter. Being paid to have sex with men in Paris had been just as ugly, though the money was better. On the verge of exhaustion, she massaged her aching temples. She couldn't go on like this. The angry ancestor spirits were punishing her, putting Tex Conroy in her path, then Oliver James, sending hurricanes to thwart her. And Detective Renzi was still after her, the hunter that wouldn't give up.
She tried to imagine what life would have been like if she'd lived a normal life with normal parents. Imagined them taking her to Disneyland, praising her when she got all A's in high school and got inducted into the National Honor Society. What if she'd gone to college, found a job as an art teacher and met some smart handsome guy? What if she'd gotten married and had two kids?
But those kinds of fantasies happened to other girls, not her.
Nursing her ice water, she endured the hour-long show. No sign of Chip.
By the time the show ended she felt nauseous. Her ears hurt and her head felt like someone had beaten it with a sledgehammer. Tears stung her eyes. She had sold her body to earn the money to pay a PI to get her mother's murder file, had spent months researching BoBo, only to have him die. Even then, she didn't give up. She'd focused on a new target, BoBo's son, Chip. Then she'd worked even harder to earn enough money to execute her mission.
She sucked up some ice water. Her discovery that Arnold Peterson was BoBo's friend had been a major triumph. But Peterson was only a stepping-stone. Now, just when her goal was within reach, a hurricane was going to thwart her. How could it end this way?
Another show would begin at one a.m. but she couldn’t endure another minute in this place. She signaled the bartender for the check. She would take a cab back to Parades-A-Plenty. At this hour, Banshee would be asleep. It would be easy to sneak up to her room, grab her laptop and suitcase, get in her car and leave New Orleans.
“Hello, dawlin. What are you doing here?”
Chip’s voice. She thought her heart would jump out of her chest.
Gathering herself, she gave him a seductive smile. This was no time to act like an ingénue, this was crunch time.
“Waiting for you.”
He slid onto the barstool beside hers. “I sure didn’t expect to see you here tonight, dawlin.”
“The bartender said you were in your office, but when I asked him to tell you I was here, he wouldn’t.”
His steely-blue eyes turned frosty. “Damn right. Curly knows who butters his bread.”
A musky scent emanated from him, some cologne she couldn’t identify. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow, exposing tanned, well-muscled forearms. On his left hand he wore a gold wedding band, on his right a college ring with a large sapphire. He gave her a broad smile, showing his shiny pearly-whites.
“I saw you come in at ten-thirty, dawlin. Did you enjoy the show?”
The security cameras. The bastard had known she was here all along. Alarm bells clanged in her mind. BoBo was a ruthless killer and this was his chip-off-the-old-block son. An aura of power emanated from him. Seated beside him, she felt small. Insignifi
cant. Could she overpower him? He was bigger and stronger.
But she was smarter and more motivated. Her will was stronger than his. Years of disappointments and trials had made it so.
“Your dancers are fantastic,” she said. Tell them what they want to hear.
“Not many gals come here to watch the show. Well, a few do, but they’re the type that, you know, swing the other way.” He gave her a speculative look. “You’re not one of those, are you?”
She removed her Vera Wang glasses and gave him a seductive smile. “No, I’m not.”
“I didn’t think so. So tell me what you're doing here.”
She ran her tongue over her bottom lip “You look like you’ve been working too hard, Chip.”
“Dawlin, you have no idea. Had to cancel the grand opening of my new bar. Damn shame, all the money I spent on it, but what can I do?”
She touched his forearm, a light touch to show she was interested.
“That’s too bad, but there’ll be another opening won’t there?”
Not if she could help it.
“Once Josephine does her thing there will.” He gave her another speculative look.
She knew that look, had seen it often from many men, knew that it meant her chances to complete her mission were improving.
“I put Marla and the kids on a flight to Chicago. Had a God-awful time getting them seats. Everybody’s in a panic to leave town. First thing tomorrow morning I’ll hop on my corporate jet at Lakefront Airport and join them.”
She could hardly believe her luck. His wife was in Chicago. Chip would stay in New Orleans tonight, but he was leaving tomorrow morning. If she had any hope of achieving her goal, it had to be tonight.
She traced a finger down the inside of his forearm. “You look like you’re ready for some fun. What with your wife being gone and all.”
He studied her, expressionless. His eyes, blank reflecting pools, revealed nothing. For an instant she feared she'd come on too strong. But then a subtle change came over him, a slight relaxation of his face muscles, a thrust of his chest as he straightened on his barstool.
Had she been inexperienced with men, she might have missed it. But she knew the signs and she knew what they meant: partly pride of sexual conquest and partly desire, but most of all, pride in his power over her.
His eyes locked on hers. “What did you have in mind, April?”
She shrugged her shoulders, a sensual move that never failed to excite men, and made her eyes go wide with promise.
“I thought maybe we could go somewhere and relax.”
He put his arm around her, leaned close and whispered in her ear, “I like your style, April. We’re gonna have fun. I gotta take care of some details, might take a half-hour or so. My car’s parked out back. I’ll pick you up outside the front door in forty-five minutes. How’s that sound?”
She flashed another seductive smile. “That sounds perfect.”
CHAPTER 31
1:52 a.m. Tuesday, 19 August
Awakened by his cell phone, Clint Hammer jolted upright, grabbed his cell phone off the bedside table and barked, “Hammer.”
"Clint!" Jason’s voice, high-pitched with excitement. “I found her! She's staying at a bed-and-breakfast on a side street off St. Charles Avenue. Parades-A-Plenty. I just talked to the owner. Man, was she pissed. She screamed at me in this God-awful voice for waking her up in the middle of the night.”
He pumped his fist. At this very moment the gook-bitch was fast asleep. An adrenaline rush flamed his body, hotter than napalm hitting the huts in a Vietnamese village. He wrote down the information as Jason read it to him.
“Good work, Jason. I’ll handle things from here on out.”
He located Parades-A-Plenty on his street map. Excellent, just three miles from his hotel. It was almost 2 a.m., the perfect time to execute a black ops sortie. Catch the enemy while they were deep in slumber. He’d done that a few times, not with a female target, but women had to sleep, too.
He flexed his fingers, imagining the damage they would inflict on her throat. Then he remembered what Jason said about the owner. If he went there now, he'd have to wake her up again. If she raised a ruckus, it might alert his target. That wouldn’t do. He wanted to catch the bitch unawares. The way she'd caught Oliver unawares, pulling a gun and murdering him in cold blood. He ground his teeth and felt a sharp pain in his jaw.
Maybe he'd call those NOPD idiots, tell them he knew where their killer was and get them over to Parades-A-Plenty. Then he’d have backup in case the bitch tried to escape out a window. But the thought of asking those dimwits for help disgusted him.
No, he'd go there at sunrise when the owner was awake and sweet talk her. Tell her she’d rented a room to a dangerous killer but he’d take care of it. A cold fury settled in his gut, a silent rage, spurring him on.
Oh yes, he'd take care of that gook-bitch all right.
_____
Her head throbbed as loud disco music bled through the restroom door. Two empty stalls stood on one wall, their doors ajar. Opposite them, two sinks were set into a pink-marble vanity. Above them a rectangular mirror outlined with light bulbs illuminated the room. She used the toilet and went to the sink. Her hands felt cold and clammy, the way they'd felt twenty years ago when the NOPD detective told her Mom was dead.
She ran hot water over them and gazed at herself in the mirror. The harsh lights made her skin look sallow.
An image of the ugly gargoyles above Notre Dame entered her mind, reminders of her ancestral ghosts. Reminders of her mission. If everything went according to plan, she would avenge her mother’s murder tonight.
But she had no illusions that it would be easy.
She checked her watch, the minutes crawling by like a line of cars in a traffic jam. Five more minutes to wait. She took a blister-pack of No-Doze out of her new tote, a charcoal-gray pouch with a leather shoulder strap. It was bigger than her old one, roomy enough to hold everything she needed. Her body was so charged with adrenaline she might not need any No-Doze.
No, better to be careful. Chip was a dangerous adversary. She had to stay alert. She gulped down two No-Doze and left the restroom. Loud music hit her, a visceral wall of sound to accompany the frenzied dancers on the stage.
She went to the foyer, nodded to the bouncer and left the club.
A sleek black BMW pulled to the curb in front of her. Like BoBo, Chip traveled in style, corporate jets, fancy cars. She opened the door and got in.
"Relax and get comfortable, dawlin," said Chip, smiling at her as he put the car in gear. "We're gonna have us a good time tonight."
She had hoped he would take her to a nearby hotel, but he drove to the nearest highway entrance and got on the I-10. That made her nervous. Where was he taking her? Even at this hour traffic was heavy, people leaving town to escape Hurricane Josephine, she assumed.
Chip didn’t say much, just glanced at her now and then, his expression inscrutable as she prattled about how much she loved New Orleans.
When he took the Airline Drive exit off the I-10, she knew where they were going. This end of Airline Drive was lined with cheap, no-tell motels where hookers took their johns. Her moment of truth was fast approaching.
An almost-sexual feeling of exhilaration coursed through her body.
At long last she would execute her hard-earned and meticulously planned mission. Then she'd be free to live life on her terms, be anyone she wanted.
But a vision of the Notre Dame gargoyles killed her excitement. Would the angry ancestor spirits put yet another obstacle in her way? Another trial to overcome? The execution of her plan had to be perfect. She breathed deep and used her TKD focus to calm her racing heart.
Chip pulled into the Dixie Motel, a long one-story cement-block structure. No lamps outside the rooms, but a red-neon sign at the midpoint of the building flashed: OFFICE. Chip stopped the BMW 15 yards short of the office, took out his wallet and extracted a wad of bills.
“Go re
nt us a room, dawlin,” he said, peeling off twenty-dollar bills. “Here’s two hundred. I hate traffic noise. Tell the clerk you want a room out back. Tell him we’ll be out by six. I’ve got a plane to catch.”
She stared at him, incensed. He really was a chip of the old block. Twenty years ago BoBo had made her mother rent the room at the Royal Arms Hotel.
“You want me to rent the room?” she said, outraged.
His face hardened to granite. “A man in my position can’t register at some cheap motel. Don’t want people seeing my car neither.” His mouth smiled, but his eyes didn’t. “Go rent the room, April. Times a’wasting.”
She slung her tote over her shoulder and opened the car door.
“Hold it. Leave the bag in the car. I gave you the cash.”
Leave her tote in the car? Impossible. He might look inside. “I might need it to register,” she said and jumped out of the car.
Slinging the strap of the tote over her shoulder, she walked to the office. Above her head, bugs sizzled against the neon-red flashing light. The gray-steel door was ajar, but a screen door protected the office from bug invasions.
She stepped inside. The walls were painted bilious green, like the slime that builds up on shower curtains. Facing the door, a microwave sat on a shelf behind the reception desk. The odor of stale food sickened her. An older man with pale unhealthy skin stood behind the desk. His pink scalp showed through wisps of white hair.
Gazing at her with undisguised distaste, he said, “Okay, missy, what’ll it be?”
Feeling like a cheap whore, she set the wad of bills on the counter. “I’d like to rent a room in the back. I’ll be out by six tomorrow morning.”
“Show me a license. I let some underage girl rent one of my rooms, I’ll get in trouble.”
No way was she showing him her license. “I don’t have it. My boyfriend drove me here.”
