Out of Mind

by Stella Cameron

  “NOPD, Sergeant Deneuve,” a sergeant in the lead said. “Who’s the victim? Who made the call?”

  “I did,” Preston Moriarty said. “This lady is Chloe Brandt, Val’s wife.” He indicated Val Brandt, who appeared to have sunk into shock.

  The sergeant swiveled his square jaw and thrust it forward while he sized up the rest of them. “You’re a Millet,” he said flatly, moving his gum from one side of his mouth to the other while he regarded Willow.

  “Yes,” she said in a firm voice that made Ben grin. “Willow Millet. I’m the one with the Cadillac household engineering firm, Mean ’n Green. You need it, we do it—better than anyone else.”

  “Uh-huh.” The sergeant was a serious man. “The same outfit hanging out around two murder scenes yesterday. And wasn’t your family mixed up with the so-called alligator scare?”

  “Hey, Sarge.” Another policeman shoved his head through the door. “We got press and press and more press. What d’you want to do?”

  “Keep ’em back,” the sergeant said. “No closer than the other side of the street. And get the tape up. Call for reinforcements for when civilians start arriving.”

  “We’ve already got people from around here,” the other cop said.

  “Do I need to know this?” Sergeant Deneuve said. “You know what to do. Do it.”

  Two plainclothes detectives walked in, huddled with Deneuve and went carefully upstairs.

  Ben could hear excited voices in the street, and the occasional shriek.

  The arrival of Dr. Blades wearing green scrubs with a white coat flapping from his thin shoulders meant Willow could put off answering the sergeant about the Millets’ former involvement—only months earlier—with another series of bizarre deaths.

  Crime scene personnel straggled in carting equipment, and a photographer started snapping away.

  Nat Archer had slouched along behind the medical examiner, exhaustion dragging down every line of his face and body.

  “Hey, Nat,” Ben said, and got an evil glare for his pains.

  Willow let out a soft “Oh.” But then she looked away and crossed her arms.

  Too bad they couldn’t leave now and talk about what was on Willow’s mind, and there was plenty.

  Blades knelt beside the victim, while another member of the crime scene team undid a large, black bag. Gloves went on before Blades gave Chloe any particular attention. When he did, his facial expression didn’t shift, but his sigh was something they all heard.

  Uniforms swarmed through the place, following directions to tread lightly, until Nat said loudly, “I want to be first through. If you’re not involved right here, make yourselves useful outside until I call you.”

  Sergeant Deneuve nodded approval and stood observing Blades at work.

  Nat’s partner, Bucky Fist—stocky, sandy-haired and cheerful—wiped his feet on the front mat. Ben noted this and decided Bucky was either a really nice guy or obsessive-compulsive. Bucky walked in and stood at the ready, close to Nat.

  “Is she dead?” Val asked. His lips were colorless and his eyes stared.

  Ben felt incredibly sorry for the guy.

  “Yes, sir,” Dr. Blades said. “It might be a good idea if you went along with Detective Archer here. He’ll let you know where we go from here.”

  “Is the sitting room okay, Val?” Vanity asked.

  She took his dull nod for agreement and walked into the closest room, flipping on lamps as she went. Val went with her, but Preston Moriarty hung around until Nat gave him a significant stare and Preston went after his friends.

  “Go in there with them, Bucky,” Nat said.

  Blades examined the dead woman, using forceps to slip smaller specimens into bags an assistant opened for him. “I need to be in my lab,” he said. “Fast.”

  Ben figured that was the man’s way of indicating he considered hanging around with anyone but the dead a waste of time.

  “Is it the same—”

  “No.” Blades cut him off and looked up. “Similar but different. Not good news.”

  Willow moved closer. “Could one of the bats people are talking about do that?”

  Blades gave her a bored glance. “Don’t tell me you’re buying that, too. We apparently have killer bats all over New Orleans.”

  “People get nervous when they don’t understand,” Ben said, warning Willow with his eyes to be careful what she said. “They grasp for any explanation.”

  “Sorry.” She came in loud and clear. “That was a stupid thing to say. He’s saying two different things are killing people. Does he mean two different weapons—like knives?”

  “I don’t think so.” This communication could become very comfortable.

  “Can one of you tell me what happened?” Nat said. He had been watching the two of them closely. “Were you both here?”

  “Just me,” Willow said. “Ben was waiting for me outside. I came for a job interview with…with Chloe. We were upstairs and she was fine when I left her.”

  Nat cleared his throat.

  “I must have been the last one to see her alive,” Willow said.

  “Last but one,” Ben said quickly, wishing she weren’t so damnably honest.

  Sykes strolled from outside and Blades said, “So much for your people keeping the gawkers out.”

  Mario edged around the front doorjamb as if he didn’t really want to be seen. Trust Sykes to think of bringing the dog, since he gave Willow comfort.

  “You remember Sykes Millet, Blades,” Nat said. “He’s Willow’s brother.”

  “He’d be hard to forget,” Blades said, looking from Ben to Sykes. “Bloody gathering of wizards. How many of you are in this town?” He returned to his work.

  “That’s a good question,” Sykes said, his tone amused in Ben’s brain. “Wonder if we could scare up enough for an army.”

  “When we’ve got more time, we’ll check it out,” Ben told him.

  “Behave yourselves.” The immediate shocked expression on Willow’s face at her own announcement silenced both men.

  “Will you show me where you and Mrs. Brandt were upstairs?” Nat asked Willow. If possible, he seemed even more weary.

  “Does she need a lawyer?” Ben said.

  “I’m not accusing her of anything.”

  “It could happen, though, right?” Sykes said.

  Nat blinked slowly. “Anything could happen.”

  “We could get Ethan over,” Ben said. His younger brother was a lawyer.

  “I’ll be fine with Nat,” Willow said. “All I’m going to do is show him where I was with Chloe.” Her voice cracked, and her eyes abruptly filled with tears.

  Ben put a hand on either side of her face and wiped away the tears with his thumbs. “Hush,” he said quietly, putting his mouth near her ear. “I’m sorry you have to go through this. Maybe it’s a good idea to run over things with Nat so we can get you home. Don’t answer any questions you don’t like, okay?”

  She nodded.

  “He can’t do anything with what you say anyway,” Ben told her. “Not without reading your rights and having a lawyer present and all that stuff. This might save dragging things out. Do you want Ethan? I can get him right here.”

  She gave him a lopsided smile. “I bet you can. It’s not necessary. I haven’t done anything wrong. And Nat won’t do anything to hurt me. Poor Nat,” she said and closed her eyes.

  Finding out why it was “poor Nat” would have to wait.

  “I’ll come with you,” Ben said. He raised his voice, “Okay if I come, Nat?”

  Nat gave a defeated shrug. “You two seem joined at the hip anyway, so why not? Just don’t answer questions for her.”

  Knowing his distraction techniques were futile, Ben attempted to keep Willow from looking at sprays of minute blood spatters on the walls and more blood smeared on banisters, by pretending great interest in paintings higher up.

  He felt her go inside herself, and she climbed up the stairs after Nat as if she had close
d down her emotions.

  She started, and turned back, looking around the foyer. Ben did the same, but couldn’t guess what she was looking at. She met his eyes.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  Willow shook her head. “I don’t know. Everything’s happening to me too fast. It’s all falling over itself. I think someone here is glad Chloe’s dead, but I can’t tell who. It’s not the same as what I usually feel. It’s not…human.”

  Upstairs, the evidence of Chloe’s injuries was not so obvious. It was as if the wounds had really started bleeding when she collided with the railings and fell.

  Willow went ahead, leading the way to the rooms at the end of the corridor.

  She hung back then, but Nat walked in. “There was a strange light,” she told Ben. “Do I tell him?”

  Ben pulled her against him. “What kind of light?” he asked, very low.

  “Bright. Blue. A little spot high up on the wall behind where Chloe was standing.” She drew a breath. Despite all she had been through, she was ethereal and completely beautiful to Ben. “Then it slid behind the drapes.”

  He considered. “Could it have been a flashlight?”

  “That’s what I thought, but where—”

  “Are you two coming in to share your wisdom with me?” Nat asked, poking his head back out. “I need anything I can get right now. I don’t want to scare you, but if my publicity hound of a boss shows up looking for a way to make points with the folks, it isn’t going to be pretty. Let’s get on, shall we?”

  It would be impossible not to see Willow’s reluctance to enter the room. She went slowly, looking at only one spot—an area where a modern rosewood desk stood. Ben took in the area rapidly. The drapes she had mentioned must be the dark blue linen ones behind the desk and pulled back from French doors. He automatically looked at the wall. He didn’t expect to see any pinpoints of light, and he was right.

  Willow launched into an explanation of her last conversation with Chloe and how she had offered her these rooms to live in—or to use as she wished. She gave Ben a questioning glance, and he nodded before she explained about the light.

  Nat checked carefully behind the drapes, looked at the doors and said, “They’re open. Were they like that before you left the room?”

  Willow frowned and said, “I don’t know.”

  Immediately, Nat’s attention switched to a leather-bound black book lying open and facedown on the pale blue rug. Nat squatted to take a closer look. He took out a pair of glasses and pushed them on, getting even nearer to the book.

  “What?” Ben said.

  Nat didn’t answer.

  “That’s the daybook,” Willow said. “The Brandts’ social calendar is kept in there. Chloe wanted me to take over keeping it up.”

  “Did she give it to you?”

  Willow frowned. “No. She put it on the desk.”

  “Don’t touch it,” Nat said. “Don’t touch anything. Do you want to say anything else about the book, Willow?”

  Ben didn’t like the phrasing of the question, but kept quiet.

  Willow said no hesitantly. “It couldn’t have killed her.”

  “Why would you make a suggestion like that?” Nat asked.

  Ben wanted to tell her to keep quiet.

  “There’s blood on it,” Willow said, as if she were above the scene, looking down. “The brass corners. Someone hit her with them again and again. Jabbed her.”

  “I can’t see blood,” Nat pointed out.

  Ben could see it, too, but didn’t say so. Sykes would see it, or Pascal, Marley…. And now, Willow.

  “It’s there,” she said. “Find who did it, quickly. They’ve only just started. There’ll be more victims.”

  “This has been too much for Willow,” Ben said. “You don’t need her here anymore, do you, Nat?”

  “Yeah. But I’m not going to make her stay.”

  Heavy footsteps approached, and Nat’s eyes closed slowly. “Keep your mouths shut,” he said. “You don’t know anything. Don’t mention lights, or what you can feel, for God’s sake.”

  “Commissioner,” Nat said, deference dripping. “Thank you for coming over, sir. This is Commissioner Molyneux,” he said to Ben and Willow, waving vaguely.

  “Of course,” Ben said, hoping he hit the right note. He’d heard plenty about this man from Gray Fisher, who used to work for him.

  “You’re a Millet,” Molyneux said to Willow, by way of an accusation. Big, on the overweight side, red-faced with small eyes a little too close together, he pronounced Millet with the same amount of disdain he might use for drug trafficker.

  “I am,” Willow said. “This is my friend, Ben Fortune.”

  “Fortunes Club, yes, I know. We’ve met you and your family before.”

  Ben didn’t remember the occasion.

  “I should mention something to you, Ms. Millet,” Molyneux said. “I’ve seen quite a bit of your family in recent months. You haven’t made my life easier. Two people died yesterday, and you or your people were in both places. Now we’ve got another DB downstairs, and here you are again. Wherever you go, ridiculous rumors follow. I’d like that to stop, quickly. If it doesn’t, I shall have to consider what your real part is in all this talk of things that go bump in the night.”

  All expression left Willow’s face. “Do they?” she said. “Go bump in the night?”

  Molyneux’s mouth set in a tight little line. He turned his attention to Nat. “Sergeant Deneuve thinks the woman was attacked up here.” He looked around, then at the book lying on the floor.

  “She was,” Willow said. “I must have been the last to talk to her, and she was fine when I left.”

  Ben almost groaned aloud.

  “Thank you for sharing that with me,” Molyneux said. He crossed his arms and worried his bottom lip with a finger and thumb.

  Ben met Nat’s eyes and shook his head slightly. He waited for the Commissioner to announce that he was having Willow taken into custody.

  The man gave a gusty sigh. “This crime scene will be battened down tighter than a puritan’s ass, Archer. Everything relating to findings will be on my desk in the morning. You are responsible for knowing where all these…” He waved a hand in the direction of Ben and Willow. “Make sure you can get to them if we need them. Get to it. You’ve got a long night ahead of you. Don’t miss anything. I’m calling a press conference for noon tomorrow.

  “I’ll talk to Blades on the way out.” He looked at his watch. “Get all this sealed off. I’m late for a dinner appointment. Make sure you two are where we can find you,” he said as his parting shot to Ben and Willow.

  Nat walked Molyneux to the corridor, and Ben could hear low conversation between the two. He felt a draft and turned back to Willow. She had opened the French doors wide and stood outside on a small platform at the top of a flight of stairs. When he approached, she backed down several steps, never taking her eyes from something that held her attention at the top of the doors.

  “What do you see?” he asked her, stepping through the door.

  She shook her head. “Just checking out an idea. It’s nothing. Ben?” She ran to him and put her arms around him, squeezing him until the shivers between them calmed to a steady tingle. “I need you,” she said.

  He hovered between excitement and fear. “You’ve got me. We’ve got each other.”

  “I just saw something happen,” she said, looking up at him, her hair a crimson nimbus in the light from inside.

  “It could have been anything,” Ben said. “Maybe the door swung open more and—”

  “Not that. I saw a woman. It was dark and she was being dragged into a hole. She couldn’t cry out, but I saw her struggle. I think it was me.”

  20

  Willow had found Mario outside the upstairs room at the Brandt house and had scarcely let him go since. “Sykes is a teddy bear,” she said as she and Ben walked through the few neon lights still on in the Quarter.

  “Don’t let him hear you sa
y that,” Ben said, smiling in the silver-green glow of early, early morning.

  “I don’t expect him to remember little things,” Willow said, kissing the dog’s head and smiling at the tickle of his sprouting whiskers against her cheek. “He must have known how much I needed my buddy here.”

  At Ben’s suggestion—to keep them away from the police station—Nat had conducted their interview in a comfortable office at Fortunes. After they had talked for three hours, Nat told Willow to keep herself available and suggested Ben get her home.

  “My place or yours?” Ben said with a laugh while they strolled through the barely active streets.

  Willow yawned, and clapped a hand over her mouth. “We’re exposed out here,” she said. “Any second one of these, whatever they are, could attack.”

  “I think they’re more subtle than that,” he said. “Sykes suggested we go to his studio. We’d be in the Quarter, but Molyneux and his gang couldn’t find us so easily.”

  “I’ve never been to Sykes’s studio.” Her sculptor brother, who had a solid reputation for his pieces, kept his whereabouts quiet unless he chose to show up on Royal Street.

  “Do you know why he’s so secretive?” Ben asked.

  “I’ve got a good idea.” But she didn’t know how much Sykes had explained to Ben.

  “Do you really believe in the Millet Curse?” he said.

  She paused, watching cut crystals rotate on pieces of fish line in a shop window. Myriad brightly colored spots spun in the semidark recesses.

  “I don’t know,” she said at last. “When I was a kid and my parents first took off, supposedly in search of a way to circumvent the curse, I believed in it then. But that was twenty years ago, and Uncle Pascal is still running a business and family he never wanted to take on in the first place.”

  “And if your parents didn’t have this conviction that the original reason for the Millets running from Bruges was because some poor innocent baby was born with dark hair and blue eyes, rather than the red-green combination, they would be here taking care of things?”