“Sir,” I said, without a care as to where he wanted to take the meeting. “What about Jade Chen? And Detective De Palma and Agent Fairchild. People on this case keep disappearing.” I didn’t have to say I told you so. My eyes said it for me.
Boudreaux didn’t appear to notice.
“Thanks for the segue, Nighthawk. As I recall, Mr. Wiley said he was held at a big house somewhere in St. Bernard Parish. That ring a bell with any of you?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “According to our source, Le Clerc bought a manse in St. Bernard Parish around a year ago.”
Mouton pulled up the records on his laptop. “Just to confirm our findings, sir. We searched over a three-year time frame and found four manses changed hands, purchased under the names of Boucher, Durrand, Segal and The New Orleans Salvage and Restoration Group.”
Boudreaux glanced around the room. “Names still don’t mean anything to anyone?”
A table-full of blank stares gave him his answer.
“Can’t help but think a secluded manse might be a decent place for Toussaint to keep his victims. That’s where he kept Wiley. Mouton, pull up those addresses and Google Map each of those locations. On my desk in fifteen.”
“Yes, sir.” Mouton stood and hovered over the table like he was waiting to be dismissed.
Boudreaux looked up and sighed. “Now, son.”
Mouton scattered and a momentary lull hit the room.
What the hell, the brain bitch muttered, throwing caution to the wind.
“About the raising this morning, Director Horton.” I felt my face flush. “I just want to confirm, on the record, that we’re all on the same page.”
Horton smirked. “All of us except Percy Slidell, I suspect. Go on.”
“I didn’t raise Wiley. Most of that damage was done before I entered the room.”
“Believe me, Nighthawk. That fact isn’t lost on me.”
“Good to know, sir.” Silly me. What was I worried about? My innocence was his best defense against the mega-losses at the morgue.
We still had a few minutes until Mouton would return, so everyone scrambled. I called Nonnie, and instantly regretted it.
“What do you mean there are two eggs now?” Freaking Kulu. That was all I needed. A hormonal parrot plopping a pair of eggs in my box of maxi-pads.
Yack, yack, yack. Oh Miss Allie. Yammer, yammer, yammer. Duck’s ass. Oy.
“Tell her not to poop any more eggs. Leave the nest alone until I get home. I don’t know when. No. They won’t hatch, they’re unfertilized. You’re seventy years old. How can you not know that?”
Thank God Mouton walked back in the room.
“Gotta run now. Bye, bye.”
Mouton’s face was uncharacteristically grim as he marched in with his laptop and a plastic-wrapped envelope tucked beneath his arm. Everyone settled into their pre-break places around the conference table, expecting him to pull up the address information Boudreaux had requested.
“This came in for you yesterday, Nighthawk,” he said, holding the delivery in front of him, oddly, reverently, as if it were an ancient relic. “Whatever it is, it stinks. We ran it through the scanner…you know, for security.”
His eyes darted around the room, looking everywhere but at me. “It failed the scan, so they opened it, hand-searched the contents, and then wrapped the envelope in plastic. I’m…I’m sorry.”
He slid the envelope across the table.
I didn’t—couldn’t—touch it.
“What’s in there, Philip?” I asked.
Bile rose in my throat as I stared through the plastic, at the white cardboard packet with its colorful logo, dreading its contents.
“What is it?” I whispered again.
My only response was the solemn look in Mouton’s eyes.
You can do this, Little Allie crooned. You need to do this.
I watched in fascination as my hands appeared to move on their own, fueled by a strength I hadn’t realized I possessed. They slowly picked up the packet, tore it open, and dumped its contents for everyone to see.
Dickhead reached across the table. “What the hell—”
“Don’t touch that!” I snapped, sweeping it out of his reach. Dozens of long, thin stems with fringy yellow blossoms wound tightly around something at the center, obscuring it from view.
Little Allie gasped. Asafoetida.
She couldn’t be right. But of course, she was.
I tore at the layers of stems with my fingers, working toward the middle. Glints of gold peeked out from the object beneath; a fine yellow powder dusted my hands and the table.
Ferris curled his nose. “Jesus. That stuff stinks.”
I unsheathed my knife and began hacking through the stems.
“It’s Devil’s Dung,” I said, never taking my eyes from the blooms. “A magickal herb. Used, in this case, to wage a curse. It’s also Toussaint’s calling card.”
More golden glints popped through the endless layers of stems, followed by bits of black. A design began to take shape: the number 4581.
Through a haze of pooled tears, I brushed the remaining yellow blooms off of Rico’s badge.
30
Never Ever Ask That Question
“The bastard’s screwing with us.” Boudreaux said, swiping the herbs into the garbage can. He called maintenance to remove it, and then glanced around the table, connecting with the others before settling his eyes on me. “Don’t let him into your head. Nothing’s changed. We suspected Le Clerc was involved in the disappearances and now we know for sure. We stick with the game plan we have. Mouton, pull up those addresses and satellite pics.”
Mouton fired up his laptop and keyed in the data while the rest of the team waited with bated breath. Me? I slipped down a deep, dark rabbit hole.
Three people missing (abducted by my nemesis Toussaint Le Clerc), another three dead, the governor in danger, and the Z-virus mutating with no antidote in sight. Not to mention a spate of black magick aimed at me, and now, at someone I loved.
The brain bitch cringed at me using the “L” word when it came to Rico.
Screw her.
I was too tired and too scared to argue. All those troubles were a lot to bear. Maybe the brain bitch had been right. Maybe I wasn’t equal to the task—especially when my partner wasn’t there to lean on. The guy who saw through all my bullshit, who knew when to leave me be, or to kick my ass. The guy who pulled out the best in me in the worst of times. Times like now. So much at stake. How could I…how could anyone…
“Nighthawk.”
I popped back out of my rabbit hole and discovered Boudreaux waving at me from across the table. “We boring you?”
“No, sir.” I blinked and sat tall, swiping at my cheek to annihilate a tear that had dared to escape.
Stupid whiny-baby, wimpy-sue waterworks. Doubting myself had been unsettling, but crying, downright embarrassing. Finding every eye in the room riveted on me, was…what’s the word? Oh, yeah. Mortifying.
Mouton shot me an awkward nod, then cleared his throat and began his presentation. “I’ll email this to you for later reference, but as you may recall, there were four properties we zeroed in on, based on their St. Bernard locations and sale dates.”
He popped their Google Earth pics onto the projection screen.
“The first manse, purchased under the name Boucher, doesn’t fit the bill. The area’s residential—offering a complete lack of privacy. Notice the bicycles and toys in the yard. Not to mention the owner, Theodore Boucher, is a parish council member.
“Our second location, in the Arabi area of St. Bernard, was purchased by Ned Durand, a retired historian who also serves as a professor emeritus at Tulane. Way too high profile and a little long in the tooth to be our man.
“The third house, in Violet, purchased by one Mr. Wesley Segal, smells more like what we’re looking for. It’s a handy-man’s special in a secluded area, camouflaged by trees and vegetation. The sale went through last year, but th
e satellite pics aren’t showing any signs of rehab work. It’s in rough shape, still arguably viable. Let’s put a pin in this one.
“The fourth place, in Chalmette, burned in 2015, and sold at auction to The New Orleans Salvage and Restoration Group. It sits back off the main road, surrounded by woodlands. It’s secluded and wouldn’t draw uninvited company. The satellite pics don’t capture much because of the tree canopy, but the house looks to be under roof, more or less.”
Mouton shifted his gaze back to the team. “Properties three and four appear to provide the best options for clandestine activity, sir.”
“That’s all well and good,” Dickhead said. “But what about the governor’s schedule? “That’s our primary focus.”
Two keystrokes later, Mouton popped a dossier onto the screen. “Meet Wiley’s replacement: Evan D’Arbanville. Per Mr. D’Arbanville, the governor’s biggest fundraiser takes place tonight at eight. Black-tie, invitation only.”
“Where?” Boudreaux asked.
“The Guillory mansion in The Garden District.”
Dickhead narrowed his eyes. “I assume you advised the governor’s security team to cancel the event.”
“Yes, sir. They thanked us for the heads up, and said they’d take it under consideration.”
“Of course, they did,” Dickhead muttered, straightening his tie and taking to his feet. “I’ll call the governor personally to express our concerns. Since the threat is related to Le Clerc, it falls under the jurisdiction of the task force any way. Worst case scenario, if this event goes forward, Agent Boudreaux, as Senior Agent in this locale, I’d like you to coordinate the local HRT team.”
Dickhead turned, singling out Ferris and me. “You two as well. Once we’ve secured the fundraiser, you can get back to filming your episode of “Zombie House Flipping.”
“You don’t need us,” I said. “You’ve got all the local FBI talent you need for backup.”
“Oh, we’ll have plenty of backup, but you’ll be there too. No one knows Le Clerc like you.” Dickhead checked his watch and frowned. “We don’t have much time. Unless you hear from me to the contrary, meet at the Guillory mansion at six-thirty and run a sweep. Low profile. We don’t want to alarm the guests. You heard the man. Black tie only.” He gave me the once-over and sighed. “Nighthawk, you wear a…you know, a…dress. You do own a dress?”
“Sure. I keep one in my go-bag next to my tiara.”
What an ass-monkey. Someday, somewhere Dickhead would pay for that. But it won’t be today, I thought. Because today, I need to buy a dress.
Boudreaux directed Ferris and me to Magazine Street for our impromptu evening wear. We had approximately three hours to find some fancy duds and sandblast ourselves clean. Ferris ducked into Luca Falcone’s to rent his tux and told me he’d meet me at The Red Carpet, a ladies’ shop not far up the street.
Based on the number of dodgy stares I got from the sales clerks, I took it that most of their customers didn’t shop in zombie-stomping boots and torn T-shirts that read Please Don’t Feed the Flesh-Eaters.
I tried on at least ten dresses and couldn’t find a thing that fit my…style. Whatever that was. After slipping on the last dress, I walked out into the styling area and found Ferris slouched in a chair, waiting for me.
“What is that?” he asked, staring at my gown, a tasteful little number—rows of flounced, burgundy taffeta, with a black sequined bow across the chest. His crinkled eyes filled with amusement. “You’re a girl. How can you suck so bad at this?”
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, spinning in front of the mirror, swishing the skirt back and forth.
“Little Bo Peep called. She wants her dress back. Think…hot chick…like the red dress you wear to salsa class.”
“Nonnie picked that dress out. It’s the only dress I own.”
“I should have known.” He inspected the tag in the neckline and snorted. “This is a size six.”
“And?”
“We’re going to be here all night. Excuse me,” Ferris said to a sales clerk, who was taking it all in from a safe distance. “Could you bring the lady something in black, that accentuates her… assets…and shows a little leg? Size two, please. Thank you.”
“Size two! I have to breathe, you know.”
“Trust me,” he said, with a lazy smile.
Moments later, the clerk returned with a gown that fit all of Ferris’s requirements. It was stunning, and would have looked amazing—on somebody else.
I felt my face flush. “I can’t wear that. That’s for somebody sophisticated. Somebody…elegant.”
“Try it,” he whispered. “I think I’m…you’re…going to like it.”
I ducked back into the fitting room and slipped it over my head, feeling a rush as the silk brushed against my skin. The person in the mirror staring back at me looked taller than me—more collected. Ferris was right. It fit like a glove and hugged me in all the right places. “What do you think?” I asked, stepping out of the dressing room.
Ferris sucked in a breath. “It’s…amazing.”
The halter top and thigh-high slit left little to the imagination. “Where would I put Hawk? Or even Baby?”
“In your purse.”
“What purse?”
“We’ll take it,” Ferris said to the sales clerk. “And a silver clutch. And a pair of silver stiletto heels,” he said, wincing at my zombie stompers, peeking out from beneath the dress.
“Size 10,” I muttered.
Ferris stifled a snicker.
“Holy crap. Who’s paying for all this?” I whispered. “I’m fighting Headbutt for dog biscuits as is.”
“I’ve got it,” Ferris said, brushing the top of my head with his lips.
“Oh, I can’t. It’s too much. How about we go halves?” I peeked at the tag and almost hyperventilated. “Maybe twenty-five percent?”
He shrugged and handed the clerk his charge card. “It’s work-related. I’ll expense it.”
“But what if they don’t cover it?” I asked.
He stared at the gorgeous black gown and grinned. “Then next month, for some reason, I’ll run through a massive amount of ammo.”
For better or worse, working with me seemed to be rubbing off on Ferris.
Babs got off easy that night, pulling Vinny duty again. And for once, she didn’t grouse about it. That obsessive-compulsive stork knew when to keep her mouth shut. A night of standing in heels, chatting up fat cats and choosing the right fork? Give me biters any day. Besides, Babs and Vinny seemed to be getting along better, since Vinny discovered his new-found interest in investigative work.
He’d been devastated when, for security reasons, Babs put the kibosh on them going out to Mama Femi’s for dinner, but she earned some mega-brownie points suggesting they order in from Mama’s and have Luna deliver it.
After showering and borrowing some of Bab’s ablutions and makeup, I slipped into my new dress and swirled my hair on top of my head. Pretty girls made that look so easy. My swirl looked like roadkill.
Babs strolled up behind me and stared into the bathroom mirror, tsk-tsking. “Here, let me,” she said, sweeping my hair into her uninvited hands. “Think more Angelina Jolie and less…Daniel Boone.”
After a few failed attempts, Babs twisted, turned, and pinned my hair into a respectable updo, then slipped a transmitter into my ear canal, covering it with a wispy curl.
Someone knocked on the door, and I jumped, nearly turning my ankle in those brand-new silver stilettos.
Babs bit back a laugh and moved for the door. “You look lovely. Happy hunting tonight.” Glancing out the peephole, she announced, “Your escort has arrived.”
Babs opened the door and Ferris’s eyes shot to me. He wore his perfect, toothpaste commercial smile and a black tux that fit like a glove. Little Allie damn near swooned. Well, maybe that was me.
He silently held out his arm. I picked up my clutch with Baby, an extra clip, and my knife packed inside, and sashayed t
o the door without stumbling once. Babs nodded her approval, but the night was young. The smart money called for at least one face plant in those shiny shoes of death.
“I want her back by eleven,” Babs said, tapping her watch. “And not a minute later, mister.”
Ferris winked. “I’ll do my best. You know how inconsiderate criminals can be.”
“I’m old enough to come home when I want,” I said. My foot slipped out from under me, and I grabbed the doorjamb for support. “Don’t wait up.”
Private security was already buzzing when we pulled up to the Guillory mansion. Ferris flipped his badge and after a brief once-over, a band of silent, sneering big boys ushered us through the gates. I caught sight of Dickhead further up the driveway, sporting his usual constipated face, identified by its flapping mouth and purple skin tone. I couldn’t help but grin. For once, his tirade wasn’t aimed at me. When I recognized the target, my grin grew into a smile.
Governor Andrew Thornton, a bear of a man, stood impassively, arms crossed, chin held high. Another man I’d never seen before, wearing a condescending smirk, hovered at the governor’s elbow.
Judging by the volume of Horton’s voice, the stranger’s smirk had struck a nerve. “Let me assure you, Governor, the threat is considered credible and high. Call this event off, now, before it’s too late.”
“Horton…is it?” The governor sucked in his chest and sneered down his nose. “I didn’t get to be governor by running away. I flew sorties in the Gulf War and retired from the military with the Bronze Star and Distinguished Service Awards. I can take care of myself, and just to make sure, I’ve got my own hand-picked security team watching my six.”
Horton’s eyes narrowed. “With all due respect, sir, you need—”
“What I need, Director, is money. Proud as I am of those military medals, they don’t finance my campaign. It takes a lot of $10,000-a-plate donors to fill those coffers.”
“Director Horton, if I may,” said the stranger at the governor’s elbow. “My name is Alpha Guillory, the host of this evening’s event. We have over a hundred confirmed guests who, as Governor Thornton so eloquently pointed out, are bringing their checkbooks. It’s far too late to cancel.”
Corpse Whisperer Sworn Page 20
