by Brenda Novak
“It’s good to be a queen.”
“Exactly.”
“We don’t even know if she practiced hypnotherapy on Vanderlund or Chablis.”
“Oh, she did. I’m certain of it. That’s why she lied when we interviewed her. Her first screw up.”
Angelo agreed. “She lied for the same reason every other guilty-as-sin perp does: to hide the truth.”
Micki tightened her fingers on the steering wheel, weaving in and around the traffic that refused to yield. “If we get confirmation from Vanderlund and Chablis that she treated them using hypnosis, we bring it to the Major. See if he’ll agree to a search warrant request.”
“Agreed.” He grabbed the door handle as she made a sudden swing left. “Why, Dare? Why would a respected shrink do this? Chance blowing it all?”
She thought of what Pam had told her. That Blackwood had enjoyed firing her. That she’d seen it in her eyes.
Micki glanced at him. “Just for the fun of it?”
“Which would make her one scary, evil bitch.”
“Actually, partner, that’d make her a sociopath.”
***
Both Vanderlund and Chablis had bonded out. Interestingly, Bitty Vanderlund’s bail had been set at five million dollars, Chablis’ at five-hundred thousand. Micki wondered at the judges reasoning. Both suspects had committed murder, both crimes had been excessively violent. Was the difference in the bonds due to a perceived value of the victims? Or the perpetrators?
Justice in New Orleans, a snapshot of justice in America.
They decided to try Bitty Vanderlund first. Her husband refused to let them in.
“She couldn’t answer any questions even if I did allow you to speak with her,” he said. “She was in such a state, our physician prescribed anti-anxiety medication. At least she can sleep now.”
Micki wondered if he could. It looked as if he’d aged ten years since the last time she’d seen him. And he was angry. She saw the accusation in his eyes. As if, despite his wife’s full confession, despite the physical evidence against her, he believed her innocent.
She did, too. But couldn’t share that with him, for obvious reasons. Micki handed him her card. “Have her attorney contact me. It’s just two questions.”
He stared at the card a moment, then looked back up at her. “The questions, what are they?”
Micki hesitated, glanced at Angelo, who nodded. “Her therapeutic work with Renee Blackwood, did it include hypnotherapy?”
His eyebrows drew together. “Why?”
“It’s just a question.”
“No. Not that I know of, anyway.”
“It did, Daddy.”
They looked up. Tori Vanderlund descending the staircase. Looking, ironically, like a queen.
“Dr. Blackwood suggested they try it. But after a couple sessions, called it off.”
“Why, do you know?”
“Said it wasn’t effective. Mom was disappointed.”
“Thank you, Ms. Vanderlund.” Micki heard the quiver of excitement in her own voice and worked to suppress it. “Last question. Do you know, was there anything Vivianne Stanley used to say to your mother that made her crazy?”
Tori had joined her father at the door. They looked at each other and simultaneously shook their heads.
“One specific thing,” Tori said. “I can’t think of one. Dad?”
“Me either.”
After asking them both to call her if they thought of something, she and Angelo went in search of Cherry Chablis.
The address of record led them to a small French Quarter apartment. The name on the unit’s intercom was Chandler—Chablis’ legal name.
Micki rang the bell. Chablis answered. “Cherry, it’s Detectives Dare and Angelo.”
“Go away.”
“We just have two quick questions.”
“Not without my lawyer.”
He hung up. Micki rang again. “I want to help you,” she said when he answered. “Just two questions.”
He didn’t hang up; but he didn’t speak. Moments ticked by to the sound of his breathing.
“Hear me out,” she said. “If you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to.”
After another prolonged silence, he sighed. “Okay. Ask but I probably won’t answer.”
“Is there something Desiree used to say to you that always set you off?”
“What?”
“Something she constantly said that pissed you off, changed your mood?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“What was it, Cherry?”
“I don’t see why…Fuck it, whatever. She always called me ‘the Queen’s Understudy.’ The way she’d say it rubbed the wrong way. Big deal.”
A big deal, Micki thought. Maybe a very big deal. “Thank you, Cherry. Last question. Did Dr. Blackwood include hypnotherapy as part of your treatment?”
Chapter Nineteen
3:25 PM.
Hypnotherapy had been part of Chablis’ treatment. In fact, Chablis’ story matched Vanderlund’s: after a couple tries, the shrink deemed it to be a less effective treatment option than traditional psychotherapy.
Micki figured that was bullshit. The shrink-from-hell had used those agreed upon sessions to plant a subconscious trigger that would put Vanderlund and Chablis under without their knowing it. From then on, she’d had free access to their subconscious and could manipulate them however she pleased.
Sociopath. Big time.
Now, she and Carmine had to get Major Nichols to agree to a search warrant request.
“You want what?” he asked, looking dumbfounded.
“A search warrant,” she repeated. “Dr. Renee Blackwood’s office and home. We’re looking for notes and recordings from her sessions with Vanderlund and Chablis. In addition, her appointment books and billing records. Computer hard drive, phone records.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Because you believe this respected psychiatrist used hypnosis to compel Bitty Vanderlund, Cherry Chablis, and Liz Schaefer to commit murder?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “She used hypnosis to magnify their feelings of anger, frustration, and jealousy. It’s like being egged on to do something you normally wouldn’t. By someone you respect and trust.
“Dr. Blackwood.”
“Weirdly, it’s not her voice you hear in your head. It’s your own. She plants the idea in your subconscious, and it becomes yours.”
“That can really happen?”
“It’s not outside the realm of plausibility.”
“That sounds like bullshit, Detective.”
She handed him a folder with articles she’d printed on the subject. “Case after case of the power of hypnotherapy to influence thoughts and actions.”
Nichols thumbed through the folder, then looked up at Carmine. “And you’re on board with all this?”
“I wasn’t at first, but three queens, Major? All similar crimes? All connected by Blackwood?” He motioned to the folder. “There’s science to back it up.”
“What about motive?”
“Because she could,” Micki said. “For kicks. A power thrill.”
Nichols drummed his fingers on the desk. “The judge may not agree.”
“But we’ll have tried,” Micki said. “She’s dirty. I know it.”
“Okay. Write it up, let’s see what happens.”
***
The judge approved the warrant and within two hours Micki and Carmine, accompanied by two cruisers, turned into the small parking area adjacent to the psychiatrist’s office.
“Something’s wrong,” Micki said as they climbed out. “Both times I’ve been here, a lamp burned in that front window. It’s out now. And the side window, that blind’s pulled up.”
“A burned out bulb,” he said. “Cleaning service forgot to lower the blind. We’ve got this, Mad Dog. Be cool.”
“Right,” she muttered, as her cell phone went off. She saw it was Hank calling and answered. “What’s up, old man?”
<
br /> “Checking on you.”
Something in his voice sounded wrong. “Hold on a second.” She covered the mouthpiece. “Give me five, Angelo.”
He nodded and she returned to Hank. “I want to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For giving me that little talk about trusting my instincts. It paid off. Big time.”
“I’m proud of you. girl.”
“Judge granted a search warrant; I’m there now, so I have to go. How about we celebrate with a pizza tonight? My treat.”
“You got it, girl. Michaela?”
She glanced toward Angelo and the other officers. He was looking at his watch. “Yeah?”
“You know you’re special, right?”
A knot formed in her throat. “Special as a lump of coal, you silly man.”
“You’re worthy. Don’t forget it.”
The hairs at the back of her neck prickled. “Why so serious all of a sudden?”
“I need you to tell me you believe that. You’re worthy of love. You deserve everything good. Tell me, Michaela.”
Tears stung her eyes. She didn’t believe it and couldn’t lie to him. “What are you talking about, you nut. You’re the good one in this odd couple. I’ll see you in a couple hours—”
“Mad Dog,” Angelo called, tapping his watch. “Time to move!”
“I’ve got to go, Hank. Love you.”
She hung up, climbed out of the car and joined the others. They reached the business’s front entrance. The Welcome, Come In sign hung slightly askew on the door.
“See,” Carmine said, grinning at her as he opened the door, “it’s all good.”
But it wasn’t, they saw a moment later. Micki stood in the center of the wrecked reception area. She turned in a slow circle. Desk drawers hanging open, contents gone. Walls stripped of photos, awards, diplomas. Shelves cleared.
Gone. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered. “This can’t be happening.”
“How’d she know?” Carmine asked. “You think somebody tipped her?”
Micki looked at him, his stunned expression. “The third queen, Angelo. She knew I was suspicious and must have realized we wouldn’t be able to overcome a third. That it’d be enough for a warrant.” She let out a frustrated breath. “I should have anticipated this.”
“You and me both.” He checked the time. “Let’s get a couple cruisers to her residence, maybe we’re not too—”
“Detective Dare?” She turned to the uniformed officer standing in the doorway to Blackwood’s office. “I think you’d better come see this.”
An envelope on Blackwood’s desk. Micki’s name printed neatly on its front. A chill moved over her. She picked it up, slid out the single sheet of unlined paper.
My condolences.
Better luck next time, Detective.
Carmine came to stand beside her. She handed him the sheet of paper. “We’re too late.”
He muttered an oath and handed it back. “We’ll get her, Dare. Maybe not today, but we’ll get her.”
He was right. Where could Blackwood go that they couldn’t track her? Credit cards, cell phones, social security number, everything left a trail to follow.
Then why did she have this uneasy feeling in the pit of her gut? Like she’d not just been bested, but stripped naked as well?
Chapter Twenty
8:10 P.M.
The smell of the pizza had Micki’s mouth watering. She’d gone all out and gotten the ‘kitchen sink’ pie and a six pack of Abita Amber, although she didn’t know at this point whether the overindulgence was to celebrate or to lick her wounds.
Major Nichols had lauded her tenacity and instincts. There had been backslapping and high fives from her new colleagues at the Eighth. BOLO had been issued; subpoenas issued to trace every account number or address that had ever been attached to Dr. Renee Blackwood. The search for Blackwood’s known associates, be they friends, family members, teachers, lovers, colleagues had begun. No one would be missed.
But all that didn’t change the fact that Blackwood had slipped through her fingers. It stung. Bad. Micki was looking forward to kicking back, stuffing herself with pizza, numbing her brain with the brew, and letting Hank talk his magic.
He always had a way of putting things in perspective.
She was later than she had expected. Lights glowed from his front window. Micki climbed out of her vehicle, juggling the six-pack and extra-large pizza box.
“Yo, Hank!” she called, thumping the door with her elbow. “Open up. My hands are full.”
She waited a couple minutes, then tried again.
Still no answer.
Setting down the beer, then the pie, she dug her key out and opened the door. The TV was on; sounded like water running in the kitchen. No wonder he hadn’t heard her.
She collected their dinner, found it a home on the coffee table, then grabbed the television remote. “For the love of God,” she called, hitting the mute button, “you going deaf, old man?”
Silence. Except for the water.
A fully open faucet. Pouring out.
My condolences.
Better luck next time, Detective.
Micki’s heart jumped to her throat. It didn’t mean anything, she told herself.
But she knew. She knew.
Heart in her throat, she ran for the kitchen. And found him sprawled on the floor in front of the sink. Ghostly white, mouth agape, eyes open, blue gaze lifeless.
“No.” The word shuddered past her lips; she sank to her knees beside him. Micki laid her head on his chest. No steady thump of his heart, no warmth. Cool to the touch. Stiff.
Rigor mortis.
She curled her fingers around his big hand as best she could, remembering the comfort she used to take in his doing the same to her. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Rolled down her cheeks.
How would it feel to lose what you hold most dear?
Like this, Micki acknowledged. Grief, an icy river, seeping into her bones, numbing her from the inside out. Splitting her wide. Exposing her for what she now was.
Alone.
She called Angelo. He came right away. Pried her away from Hank so the paramedics could get to him.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I found him this way.”
“No sign of violence. No marks on the body. Looks like natural causes.”
“No. Blackwood killed him.” Her voice sounded hollow, even to her own ears. “She asked me who I held most dear, what I would do without him.”
“Dare, Micki, how—”
“She did it because I found her out.”
He didn’t argue. Not then, not now two days later when the pathologist’s report came back.
Cardiac arrest, it said. A bad ticker.
“This can’t be right,” she said, scanning the report. “They missed something. They had to have.”
Her hands shook. Angelo took the report from her and set it aside. “We’re going to find Blackwood. And when we do, if she had anything to do with his death, we’ll find out.”
“Not if,” Micki said. “Somehow, Blackwood killed him. Someday I’ll prove it.”
***
Micki stood at Hank’s family tomb. Alone now, the other mourners long gone. So many had come to pay their respects. Much of the force had turned out, plus many faces she had never seen, names he had never mentioned. One person after another had shared a story or memory of how Hank had helped them or given them hope.
He had been a truly remarkable human being.
The cold wind stirred against her legs and she shivered. Drew her coat closer around her. Hank had been the last of his line. He’d had little—police pension, his house and the Nova. With no wife or kids, the pension ceased. He’d left the house to the Jesuits, but the Nova and this tomb to her. From this point forward their families would be entwined, if only in death.
Micki lifted her gaze. A marble angel crouched above the tomb entrance, wings curved prote
ctively, as if to gather close all who came near.
The way Hank had gathered so many close to him. A guardian angel. As Hank had been to her. The way he had always teased.
Micki shivered again and curved her arms around her middle. No angel to watch over her now. She was on her own.
“You okay, Dare?”
She turned. Angelo. “You came back.”
“Never left. We’re partners.”
“Thanks.” She glanced back up at the angel. “I’m fine.”
“You seem different.”
“I’ve got this.”
“I didn’t mean…I know you do. Hell, I’m sorry about Hank.”
The simple words struck like a knife to her heart.
What would you do if you lost what mattered most to you?
Now she knew: You die a little bit with them.
He shifted from one leg to the other. “You were right, Dare. Vanderlund, Chablis, then Schaefer. Those crimes weren’t random, weren’t bizarre coincidences. So, maybe you’re right about this, too. So, we’ll get her and we’ll figure it out.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Placating me. Playing along.”
“Shit, Dare, that’s not—”
“Yeah, it is. Hank had a heart attack and just like that—” She snapped her fingers. “—I’m alone.”
“You’re not alone, Dare.”
Her eyes filled. “No?”
“You’ve got me, partner. You’ve got the force. We’re your family.”
“Yeah.” Micki glanced up at the angel, then back at Carmine. “Throw in a gun and a badge and I suppose I can live with that.”
He smiled, held out his arm. “C’mon. The party’s at Shannon’s. Let’s tip a few in honor of Hank.”
Micki nodded. “In honor of Hank,” she repeated. “Count me in.”
Read an exclusive excerpt to THE FINAL SEVEN, book #1 in The Lightkeepers, an exciting new series starring Detective Micki Dare. Available February, 2016
Chapter One
Detective “Micki” Dee Dare had gotten the call just as she was about to step into the shower. The brass wanted her downtown, ASAP. She’d been forced to resort to what her snake-bit family called a “whore’s bath,” then pull her unruly mass of dishwater blond hair back into a quick ponytail.
