Death on the D-List

by Nancy Grace

  Maybe it was true. Plain and simple, Matilde, as Danny told it, practiced the ancient art of Santeria, or voodoo for short. Even though traditional Catholics frowned on sorcery, and the Vatican was firmly against it, Aunt Matilde was forever cooking up some foul stench on the stove in order to heal the sick, bring home a loved one, or seek Christian vengeance on an enemy. “Enemies” were normally gossips, cheats, liars, ne’er-do-wells, other members at St. Joseph’s Catholic Church, evil neighbors, or anyone and everyone she believed had mistreated her beloved nieces and nephews.

  On good days, her huge home smelled heavily of flower-scented potpourri, Glade PlugIns, and Creole cooking. On others, it reeked of boiling chicken entrails stirred up with God knows what. Aunt Matilde was notorious for smearing the gooey stuff near the target’s front door at an opportune moment, or in special cases, actually feeding a tiny voodoo replica of the enemy to the stank as it boiled on the kitchen stove in the apartment. They all knew better than to ask Aunt Matilde what exactly stank, but for safety’s sake, never, ever, casually grabbed a bite from the fridge.

  Matilde never bore her own children, although she wanted them desperately. Outliving all five of her wealthy husbands, Aunt Matilde ended up with a fortune, which she left to her nieces and nephews and the rest to St. Joseph’s Catholic Church, Bayou Blanche Parish.

  Half the family swore the old lady wanted to be buried aboveground in case of flooding. They were all from Cajun country down in New Orleans, where apparently, the dead face a distinct possibility of their own human remains floating away if buried six feet under.

  The other half of the family insisted departure by water was not a possibility for Auntie in the casket. They insisted she keep pushing up the daisies. They were all a little afraid Aunt Matilde might have the power to visit them from the Great Beyond, and nobody wanted that.

  With all of them steeped in Cajun tradition and brainwashed in voodoo superstitions, they’d nearly come to blows at Auntie’s funeral over the whole thing. The family finally had some money thanks to Aunt Matilde, so of course, a lawsuit ensued. With a pack of lawyers involved, it’d be years before Auntie was dug up and hence, the mausoleum inhabited, if ever.

  Just think of all those billable hours.

  Another thing for Francis to contemplate here on the floor of an empty crypt. Lawyers. Oh, how he hated them.

  The court-appointed one he’d had for his last court case made him sick. He wanted to punch her out the moment she started talking to him. She looked at him as if he were crazy. She was the crazy one, not him.

  The crypt was the perfect place to stash his guns and HCBs. Temporarily of course. He’d bring them home and stow them back under the kitchen table as soon as things cooled off. Plus, he had no idea which one was the murder weapon. It had all happened during one of his “episodes,” as his mother used to call them.

  But it was true, he’d had plenty of blackouts. Hours, sometimes days where he couldn’t remember exactly where he’d been or what he’d done. He was known to drive around, sometimes great distances, make purchases, hold long conversations, and even check in and out of motel rooms during these periods. He’d checked the odometer on the car afterwards, when he’d come out of it, and sometimes there would be over a thousand miles registered.

  Francis naturally kept a log of daily mileage on the old sedan, as well as every time he got gas, tune-ups, oil changes, even car washes.

  You could never really be too careful.

  All the shrinks called his episodes “psychotic breaks,” but they were all asses anyway. They just made their two hundred bucks an hour when they saw him, paid for by the government of course, after his court-ordered mental treatment. The judge was also an ass. A woman judge of course. That explained a lot.

  Francis knew he didn’t have any such thing as psychotic breaks. He himself blamed it on the lithium. He’d taken it for years before he realized he could refuse to swallow the stuff. It was only after the old bag (his mother) died that he’d learned how she’d sneak it into his food when he chose to go off his meds.

  But now, she was gone and he was off it for good. Things were so much clearer now.

  Auntie Matilde’s vault was perfect. The Feds would never think to look here. Now, if he could only get out of here without Danny seeing him and becoming suspicious. He liked Danny well enough, that was true. But if it got out he’d hidden the murder weapon, if Danny found out somehow and got a subpoena to testify in court, their friendship would likely go straight down the crapper. Danny would sing like a bird if he had to.

  Francis’s neck was cramping, and so was his left leg. He finally unfolded himself from his squatting position there at the slit of a window and sat down, stretching his legs out on the cold stone floor of the crypt. Leaning back against the wall, he forced himself to relax. No need to be anxious. He just had to wait.

  Sitting there, he finally had a chance to admire his handiwork. It had taken days (and nights) to hollow out enough storage space to stash all the guns. But he did it, all right. After being kicked out of regular classes in high school, he’d been forced to go to shop classes to learn a trade. Well, guess what, Mother? They paid off. No one would notice the drill marks in Aunt Matilde’s vault.

  To start with, the mausoleum was large and, of course, way over the top in predictable Cajun Catholic style. The Holy Mother Mary took center stage in the crypt; a large ivory-colored statue of her stood in the middle of the room, hoisted up on top of a large, square base. Around it were three separate benches, solid, oblong, rectangular seats. The benches, the statue’s base, even part of Mother Mary herself were now hollowed out and chock-full of guns wrapped in thick burlap sacks.

  Perfect.

  True, it had been hell lugging all these guns into the mausoleum. And especially his little babies, the liquid bombs in plastic Coke bottles. They had to be carried in just two at a time, each wrapped in layers of towels and stuffed down the front of his jacket.

  They could all rest easy here, because with lawyers involved, it’d be years before they got the family lawsuit settled. Anyway, Francis had no reason to doubt Danny, and even though he’d witnessed the door left open on several occasions, he’d never actually seen anyone visiting. Plus, as far as he could tell, he was all alone in the crypt . . . No indication it was inhabited by a dead body. Just Francis and 253 guns, to be exact.

  He had to be more careful. Just last week, with one of his last loads of guns stashed in his mother’s car trunk, Danny had noticed Francis lingering there. Danny had actually made a crack about how Francis was spending a lot more time lately at his mother’s grave.

  It was totally out of character, since Francis, on many occasions, complained bitterly to Danny about how his mother had ruined his life. He better come up with a damn good explanation as to why he had a change of heart and was suddenly visiting now.

  Details, details, details. The devil truly was in the details.

  Francis peeked through the slot just in time to see Danny’s back disappear around a corner of tall hedges. He knew for a fact it was the spot where Danny hid when he wanted to take a nap.

  Must have been a doobie he was smoking after all. Francis waited and watched for just a few more moments to make sure the coast was clear. With one last, quick glance around the vault, he headed for the door.

  Just as he was stepping out, Francis stopped. Turning, he quickly stepped back into the vault just a few steps . . . just far enough to kneel down on his knees in front of the Mother Mary. She looked down at him mournfully. She looked sad, disappointed, as if she knew exactly what Francis had been up to. She looked like she knew about the red panties he’d stolen out of Leather Stockton’s bungalow at Shutters and what Francis did with them on a weekly basis.

  He crossed himself three times because, you know, you just can never be too safe.

  Chapter 27

  KOLKER PAUSED, THEN GRITTED HIS TEETH AND BUZZED THE DOORBELL.

  Standing at the threshold of Hailey
’s apartment was like déjà vu. Kolker had come here immediately after following her ambulance to the hospital that horrible morning. He’d found her lying on a dentist’s floor unconscious, the dead body of defense attorney Matt Leonard sprawled beside her.

  As soon as he’d learned she was safe, he’d come straight to her apartment, used the spare key from the lobby after badgering Ricky, the doorman. Ricky had taken quite a bit of persuading in order to get him to give up the key without Haliey’s permission. But after Kolker told him what had happened and how he feared Clint Burrell Cruise could still be lingering around, Ricky relented.

  The truth was, Kolker still felt the whole thing was his fault. If Kolker hadn’t fallen for the obvious clues Leonard planted for him to find, and had listened to Hailey, none of it would have happened. Maybe, just maybe, one of Hailey’s patients would have been saved.

  He heard a chain being slid across its lock and two separate deadbolts clicking open. The door opened and there she was.

  Hailey Dean.

  Half of her anyway; her right arm, shoulder, and leg were still behind the heavy door. She said nothing, but didn’t look the least surprised that he was there.

  Neither spoke, but neither averted their gaze from the other. After a few moments of silence, Kolker reached into his coat pocket. He took out his wallet. Unfolding it, he pulled a newspaper clipping from behind a layer of cash. Still gazing directly into her eyes, he handed her the yellowed slip of paper.

  The article was about the kidnapping of a young girl, twelve at the time. In what appeared to be a school photo, her delicate face shined out, smiling. Hailey looked at the date of the article . . . it was over twenty years old. The girl’s skeletonized remains had been found that summer so many years ago. The little girl would be middle-aged by now.

  The article went on to say the girl had three survivors—parents and one sibling, a younger brother who went unnamed. Hailey assumed the parents hadn’t wanted the boy’s name out there for safety reasons, but the girl . . . the girl’s name was Susannah Kolker. Kolker’s sister was kidnapped and murdered.

  Kolker was looking down at the floor. He couldn’t seen to meet Hailey’s gaze. “I loved her so much. I guess I never got past losing her. That’s why I became a cop. My family hated it, they didn’t want to lose the only child they had left . . . but I had to. When I arrested you . . . I thought I was doing the right thing. I was trying so hard . . . I was blinded by what happened to Susannah. I just didn’t . . .”

  He didn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence.

  Hailey still said nothing and now that he’d looked up, she looked him straight in the eyes. How the hell could she look at someone for so long without blinking? It was just plain weird. He’d forgotten that little detail about Hailey Dean, but now that, and so much more, came rushing back.

  He knew what he had to do to get in the apartment.

  “Hailey. I don’t know what to say . . .”

  She wouldn’t help him at all. He knew she wouldn’t, though. There was no other way. He just had to say it.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Much to his humiliation, Kolker’s voice cracked when he said it. Damn. He had to say it again.

  “Hailey, I’m so sorry.”

  He thought it would taste like a dirt sandwich, but when he finally did it, it felt right.

  “Come in.” Hailey didn’t need him to say anything more. The article about Susannah Kolker said it all.

  She turned her back to him and started walking across the slate-floored entrance hall. Now he knew why she hung back at the door. In her right hand, pointed casually down as she walked, was a shiny, black, snub-nosed .38. She had a black Velcro shoulder holster on her right shoulder. He’d never seen one exactly like it. She must have had it specially made.

  She sat down in a big, caramel leather chair slanted to face both the door and one of the windows looking down over Manhattan. She put her bare feet up on a matching ottoman. Setting the gun beside her on a side table to her right, its barrel facing away from them both and back behind her toward an old, upright piano, she looked at him calmly. Now she understood the connection between them, the bond that for so long she couldn’t identify. They had both loved and lost. They were both survivors of brutal crimes and living with the pain, the memories, and, sometimes, the survivor’s guilt at simply being alive. Neither verbalized what they were both thinking; a re-hash would be too painful.

  “Please. Sit down. I’ve got some tea brewing. What would you like?”

  He still stood.

  “Why the gun? Leonard’s dead.”

  “Clint Burrell Cruise. He’s still on the run. Parole can’t find him, neither can the best bounty hunters I could dig up. Nobody buzzed you up and I wasn’t expecting anybody this early . . . I didn’t know it was you.”

  “I understand.” Kolker came around the corner of a love seat and sat down in front of her.

  “I wanted to come before, but I really didn’t know what to say. But there is nothing else to say other than that. I’m sorry. I was so wrong. I put you through hell. You tried to reason with me, but I was so bull-headed.”

  “You were actually worse than bull-headed, but since you did apologize, I won’t bother to go into all the details about what exactly you did wrong.”

  “And, you covered for me in the press. They wanted me crucified, strung up in Times Square for what I did . . . but you never took the bait. You stuck by me and didn’t feed me to the sharks. Why?”

  “I’ll keep that to myself for now. But you can also thank me for not filing a wrongful arrest suit. That may have won me a little money and I wouldn’t have to work anymore.”

  “I know . . . I know.”

  Kolker was looking down at the hardwood floor of Hailey’s apartment. The anger had melted away. Now she saw things differently.

  “And Kolker, I appreciate the flowers and the music. But most of all, thanks for getting my pen back. I know you broke the rules to get it for me. And oh yeah . . . How’s your nose?”

  Kolker let out a short laugh. “It’s fine. That was a pretty good clip. I’m glad you kept the CDs. I got all the other gifts back in the mail. I wondered why, but I think I know.”

  Hailey didn’t want to delve into it all. It was just too much for this morning. She shifted gears. “I saw you in the Post a while back. Still on the Prentiss Love case? Any leads?”

  “Well, actually, I’m now on Prentiss Love and Leather Stockton.”

  “But I thought Stockton was murdered in some mansion out in the Hamptons . . . Oh, no . . . you’re on both. That means it’s the same killer?”

  Man, she was sharp.

  “Let me guess . . . ballistics match?”

  He didn’t have to tell her anything. “Yep. Same killer.”

  Hailey stood up, leaving the .38 where it was beside the chair, and heading over to a kitchen island. Her den sort of melted into the kitchen, like one big room, kind of like an artist’s loft, no walls between rooms. She leaned upward into a cabinet to pull out coffee cups.

  “So, what do you think about the cases, Hailey?”

  “You mean Love and Stockton?”

  “Yes, the two dead D-Listers.”

  “Hey, they were stars in my book. Wait a minute . . . Is that why you came here? To get a download on how to proceed on the two murders?”

  “No. It’s not. I’ve wanted to come to your doorstep for a long time to apologize, but you stayed in Georgia for so long . . . Then when I heard you were back . . . I lost my nerve.”

  Hailey smiled and poured the hot water.

  He went on. “But the truth is . . . you’re right. I’m not really sure how to proceed. I haven’t even told headquarters about the ballistics match. I just found out. I don’t want it to leak, and once the press gets ahold of it . . . God help me.”

  “So you want help? Is that it?”

  “Hailey . . . I do. I need help. I can’t afford to bungle this one. Of all people, I can’t believe
I’m asking you.” There was a long, quiet pause.

  Sensing her silence as a “no,” he stood up, literally holding his hat in his hand. “Hailey, I’m afraid this was too much of an imposition. I realize that now. I’m sorry again. Just accept my apology and I’ll be on my way.” Kolker started edging toward the door.

  Hailey didn’t stop him.

  Turning the doorknob, he headed out toward the elevator halfway down the hallway. He didn’t hear her behind him, but a firm hand grabbed his shoulder and turned him back.

  He looked down. Her eyes were so green.

  “I accept the apology. And, Kolker, of course I’ll help you. Come on back in. Okay?”

  They stood there for a moment, silent. So much had passed between them. The murders, Hailey’s arrest, him finding her there on the floor, bloody, beside Matt Leonard’s body. He had thought for a moment she was dead and he’d never forgotten the sick feeling he’d had in his chest . . . until she’d opened her eyes.

  “Thanks, Hailey.”

  She turned toward her front door and tossed back over her shoulder, “Plus, I hate to waste a tea bag . . .”

  Unlike before, when he refused to hear Hailey out, this time Kolker had a new strategy. He was actually going to listen.

  They sat down and Kolker began outlining what he knew so far. He had his investigative file with him, the only copy. In just a few moments, the two moved to Hailey’s dining room table in order to spread out crime scene photos, charts, measurements, ballistics reports, and autopsy data.

  Two hours and two cups of tea later, after going through everything he had, Hailey started rattling a “To Do” list off the top of her head for Kolker.

  “Look, I know you’ve probably thought of all this before . . . but have you pulled all the recent video, appearances, cell phone records, home phone records, credit card receipts, and checks for the past twelve months; travel information; where they’ve been lately, what they have been doing? You know . . . their full itineraries for the past six, seven months. Have they been to memorabilia signings? Celebrity autograph events? You know a lot of spooks hang out at those things . . .”