Fugue Macabre: Ghost Dance (Fugue Macabre Trilogy Book 1)

by C. J. Parker

  “Higgins and Magazine by the Contemporary Arts Center. He couldn’t have gotten that far even if they had the time wrong by a half an hour. It wasn’t him, Bainbridge.”

  “Have the witnesses questioned again. There has to be something here that doesn’t add up.” Derek took Tabatha’s hand in his when she made a move to stand.

  “Yeah, all right, but it’s a waste of time. Oh, one question. How did that girl, Bobbie, pull off that trick? She had me going there for a minute or two.”

  “Trick?” The turn in topics threw Derek into a state of confusion for a few moments.

  “How did she make herself look like she turned into a snake?” The sound of him clicking his tongue sounded over the phone. “She must be a real hit at parties.”

  “I’ll talk to you later, Lieutenant.” Derek flipped his phone shut without answering. How had Phelps pulled this off? How would Tabatha handle this? “The bastard has witnesses who swear he was in an accident clear across town the same time he was at the warehouse.”

  She sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I know it was Phelps. And you believe me, that’s all I need.” She stood and leaned against the cabinets. “You do believe me, don’t you?”

  Derek breathed a heavy sigh. “Of course I believe you.”

  Her whole body relaxed. “Is he in the hospital?”

  “Ochsner. Must be in bad shape. They have him in ICU.”

  She shrugged. “Well, at least he’s out of commission for now. One less worry.”

  Her calm acceptance of the situation didn’t sit well with Derek. “You don’t seem upset that Phelps made you look like a liar. I’m not sure what the Lieutenant thinks.”

  “I’m going to take a nap. I’ll see you tonight. Around six, okay?”

  He’d been dismissed. Either she was more upset than she let on, or

  she’d had her fill of him and this whole mess for one day. “Yeah. Fine. Six.” He leaned down to kiss her, but she walked away, leaving him staring after her, panic squeezing his chest in a vise.

  ~

  The drive to the precinct seemed longer than usual as the distance between him and Tabatha grew. He tried to figure out what he could have done or said to upset her. From the moment they’d met she’d been affectionate, showering him with attention, listening to his every word. Now, she made no attempt to touch him and avoided any eye contact. When Tabatha walked away from him, her soulders were slumped as if her soul had deflated leaving her with no support for the shell that remained.

  You’re losing her, Derek.

  The soft, delicate whisper was so clear Derek turned to check the back seat, expecting to find someone there. But he was alone. His chest grew tight and painful, his lungs strugged for air. He was losing Tabatha. He’d pushed her away once too often.

  He pulled into the parking lot and shut off the engine. How did he feel about that? It’s for the best. She’s better off without me.

  But are you better of without her?

  This time the voice came from the vacant passenger seat. He jumped out of the car and rushed into the shationhouse, climbing the stairs to homicide. Before he reached his desk, Mason motioned him to come into his office.

  “Close the door,” Mason said. “We need to talk.”

  Derek sat in the chair facing Mason. “Tabatha isn’t a liar, Lieutenant.”

  Mason looked up, a look of confusion crossing his features. “Who said she was?”

  “No one, but you said…”

  “I said it couldn’t have been Phelps. Who is was, I don’t know. Maybe someone wants us to think it was him. That warehouse wssn’t well let, Bainbridge. She could have been mistaken.”

  Derek didn’t belive that, but let it slide. “Will that be all?”

  “No. that’s not why I called you in. It’s Panner. He bonded out. I thought you’d want to tell Tabatha. I don’t think he’s stupid enough to go after her again, but, hell, I’d never have thought he’d do it the first time.”

  “Did he do any talking?”

  Mason picked up his coffee and took a sip before answering. “Lawyered up.” He drained his cup and went for a refill. “Want some? It’s mine, not that slop out there.”

  Derek declioned.

  “It’s none of my business, but if Tabatha was my girl, I’d be stuck to her like flies on shit until this is straightened out. She’s a keeper, Bainbridge.”

  “She’ll make some man a good wife someday.” A vision of Tagatha in another man’s arms flashed across his mind, and his body stiffened with anger.

  “Some man? You’re going to walk away from something like that? Are you nuts? Do you know what Panner’s problem is?”

  The change of topic sent Derek in a spin of confusion. “Problem?”

  “Yeah, big problem. You were accepted into the force while he had to wait for the next session at the academy. You passed the sergent’s exam-he failed it three times. You almost married a wealthy socialite half the men in the state of Louisiana would’ve cut off their dick to have. And now you’ve found someone, a second someone, as great as the first. He’s jealous of you, Bainbridge.”

  “You’re crazy. Frank has nothing to be jealous about. He’s got a great wife who, by the way, came with a good amount of wealth herself. He made sergent; it just took him a little longer. He made detective a month after I did.”

  “Yes, after you. He feels like he has to follow in your footsteps for everything he gets. Like you’re holding him back somehow. I didn’t know you’d dated his wife before you met Elizabeth.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Panner lawyered up, but he talked, all right. Talked about how the world hands everything to you on a gold shield. It irks the shit out of him that you’re finally settling down with another woman. A woman that’s a few years yonger than you, while Mary is older than him.”

  Derek didn’t understand what Mason was getting at. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “He can’t stand the thought of you having anything or anyone better then what he has. Not that Mary isn’t great, you understand. He wants to best you, Bainbridge, but he’s not managed it yet.”

  “That’s just crazy.” When Mason didn’t continue, Derek glanced up to see that Mason was staring into the bullpen area. Detective Jackman pointing to the phone, then at him. He help up two fingers.

  “You have a call on line two.” Mason moved to the other side of his desk and handed him the receiver.

  He placed it against his ear and waited for Mason to connect him.

  “Detective Bainbridge.”

  “I left a gift for you on the levee. Orleans and Jefferson Parish line. Better hurry before someone takes it.”

  The electronic generated voice grabbed his attention right away and piqued his intuition. “Who is this?” The caller’s laugh squeezed his heart with fear. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about.”

  “You’ll know when you see it. It’s the closest thing to a clue you’ll get.” The line went dead.

  Derek reached across the desk and dropped the receiver in place.

  Mason’s brow forrowed. “What was that about? You look as if you’re trying to come up with the final Jeopardy question.”

  “Something about evidence on the levee at the parish line.”

  “Evidence for what? Who was it?”

  Derek shrugged. “The voice was distorted. Could have been female or male.”

  Mason picked up the phone. “Brenda, find out if there’s a unit near River Road and get back to me asap.”

  After a few moments of silence he glanced at Derek. “Dillon and Wayne are a couple of blocks away. I’ll send them to check it out.”

  Ten long minutes later, Mason’s intercom came to life. “Lieutenant?” the voice of Brenda, the despatcher rang out.

  “Yeah, got something for me?”

  “Officer Wayne thinks Detective Bainbridge ought to see what’s out there.”

  “Did he say what it was?”


  “No, sir. Just said to get Bainbridge down there now.”

  Derek jumped from the chair and out the door.

  “Hold on, Detective. I’m going with you.”

  ~

  Topping the rise of the levee, Derek’s heart nearly leaped from his chest. A body. Blond hair. “No!”

  “It’s only a doll, Detective.” Officer Dillon grabbed him by the arm saving him from dropping to his knees.

  On the grass, a life-size, rag doll sat facing the river with black voids instead of eyes. It wore faded jeans and the lost blouse Tabatha had described that morning. The person who’d left this had access to Tabatha’s clothing? From the line? Out of her closet? His stomach soured. A hello tag had been placed on the doll’s right shoulder with Tabatha’s name printed in block letters. Its blond hair drew his attention before he glanced down at the unbuttoned blouse framing a blood-red death circle decorating the stomach.

  Derek’s knees nearly buckled again. His breath caught. He rummaged though his pocket to retrieve his cell phone. He punched in Tabatha’s number and waited. The phone rang once.

  “Hello.” His disappointment was acute at hearing Bertha instead of Tabatha answer the phone.

  “Bertha, is Tabatha home?”

  “No, she went out a little while ago. Didn’t say where she was going. Call her cell phone. Got the number?” When he said he didn’t, there was a moment of silence before she gave it to him. “What’s wrong, Mr. Derek?”

  “Later, Bertha.” He severed the connection and keyed in the number she’d given him. An away message droned in his ear. He slammed his phone shut. An old familiar fear rushed cold through his veins, chilling his whole world. He’d not experienced anything this acute since Elizabeth’s death.

  This can’t be happening again.

  “Where the hell are you, Tabatha?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “My name is Dr. Tabatha Gray. I’d like to see John Phelps, please.” Tabatha waited as the woman sitting at the hospital check-in desk checked the visitor’s list of names.

  A tall, bleached-blond, fortyish woman stormed toward Tabatha. “You’re not his doctor. Who are you, and why do you want to see my husband?”

  “I’m his psychiatrist, Mrs. Phelps.” Tabatha held out her hand and waited.

  The woman ran a critical gaze over Tabatha. From her crinkled nose, Phelps’ wife didn’t approve. “Piffle. My husband doesn’t have a shrink, nor does he need one.”

  Tabatha lowered her hand. “I assure you…”

  The nurse cleared her throat. “Yes, Doctor, Mr. Phelps has requested to see you as soon as you arrive.”

  Tabatha’s mind recoiled. No one knew she was coming here. How could he be expecting her?

  “She’s not going in there without me.” Mrs. Phelps stormed through the ICU doors into her husband’s room before anyone could say a word. It was a matter of seconds before Phelps’ bellow penetrated the silence, and Mrs. Phelps came running out in tears. She sat on the visitors couch and turned her back on Tabatha.

  Tabatha stepped up behind the woman and gently touched her shoulder.

  “Mrs. Phelps, it’s normal for a man not to want his wife in the room when he’s talking to a psychiatrist. It’s not a slight to you, nor does it mean what you’re thinking.” Mrs. Phelps slapped Tabatha’s hand away. Tabatha sighed and rolled her eyes. “Let me put it another way. If Mr. Phelps were Adam and I Eve, there would have been no human population.” She smiled. “Do you understand, ma’am?”

  “My name is Cookie. And before you ask, yes, it’s my real name. My mother thought it was cute. I think it’s dumb.” Mrs. Phelps blew her nose on a tissue.

  Tabatha grasped the openness of that comment to zero in with the knock out punch. “Well, Cookie, go to court and change it. While you’re at it, change the last name, too, and get the hell out of Dodge. That son of a bitch will end up killing you when he grows tired of you.”

  Cookie’s brown eyes locked onto Tabatha’s. “My John would never hurt me.”

  Light’s on, but the bulb is weak. Tabatha wasn’t surprised. Men like Phelps didn’t usually hook up with the geniuses of the world. “Your John is a killer, Cookie. A hit man. The ringleader of a band of cutthroats. He doesn’t care who he hurts to get what he wants.”

  Cookie shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”

  “You’d better. Think about how your son died and if you want to end up the same way.” Tabatha held Cookie’s frightened gaze. The woman’s cheeks reddened then drained of color. Tabatha had planted the seed of doubt. “Go change that name, Cookie. Start a new life.”

  Tabatha walked away with a purposeful stride toward Phelps’ room. She held back a laugh at the sight of him. One leg dangled from pulleys, the other lay on the bed in a cast from his toes to his knee. His swollen face was covered with contusions and stitched lacerations, and his features contorted into a gruesome mask when he smiled.

  “I knew you couldn’t stay away, darlin’.” His words were slurred from the damage to his lower lip. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. But, you see now, I’ll do anything to get my way. Even sacrifice myself.” He raised his arms and held them out in a welcoming gesture. “Now, come over here and give me a kiss.”

  She did laugh then. Hadn’t he been given access to a mirror? “You look like a filleted blowfish.”

  “Darlin’__”

  “Shut your mouth and open your ears.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a .38 snub-nosed Smith and Wesson. A slow smile lifted one corner of Phelps’ mouth. His eyes gleamed with mirth. “This is my friend, Bruce. I’m well trained to use him, and I will if you come near my friends or me again. You’re delusional if you believe I have any feelings for you. You’re not even worth the effort to hate.” She sauntered to his bedside and ran the cold gun barrel from his knee to the top of his thigh before shoving it against the outline of his hardening penis under the sheet. “I want you to make like a magician and disappear.”

  “Why don’t you close the door? The nurse won’t let anyone in. I have something for you.” He gyrated his pelvis rubbing his groin against the gun.

  Tabatha forced a grin though her stomach threatened to toss her lunch. This man is sick to the core. “Yes, the nurse. I believe you’ll need her assistance soon enough.” She replaced the gun in her purse, leaned over and looked into his eyes, wanting to see the pain in them. Then she released the traction cords supporting his broken leg. With a satisfying thud it hit the mattress. Phelps screamed in pain then swung his fist toward her, but she quickly ducked out of reach.

  “If you hurt my friends, this is only the beginning of your pain.”

  The nurse rushed in. “What happened? Oh, Mr. Phelps, why is your leg down? I told you it has to stay suspended.”

  Tabatha placed her hand on her forehead and sighed. “I believe Mr. Phelps will be needing his pain medication a little early, nurse.”

  Spittle spewed from his mouth. “I’m going to kill you, bitch.” Tabatha spared him a glance. “Get in line.”

  Traffic on River Road slowed to a crawl. Tabatha thought of taking a different route home, but she was so close to St. Charles, it didn’t seem worth the effort. She cringed at the memory of the pain she’d caused Phelps, but at the same time she was awarded with a thrill of satisfaction. She chuckle when she thought what Derek would say when he found out.

  As she inched closer to her turn, she saw several police cars on the side of the levee, their blue lights flashing. Atop the hill stood Lieutenant Mason and Derek, staring down the riverside of the slope. “Missy! Please, no.” She jerked the steering wheel to the right and parked, jumped out of the car and stood frozen at its side, her heart in her throat. She didn’t want to know, but at the same time needed to.

  As if feeling her gaze on him, Derek glanced over his shoulder. He motioned in her direction before he spoke to Mason and trotted down the hillside toward her.

  Tabatha’s heart picked up velocity sending
adrenaline through her bloodstream. “Is it Missy?”

  When Derek didn’t answer quickly enough, Tabatha ran past him to the top of the levee, stopping so suddenly that her feet slipped out from under her. She slid down the embankment and came to a halt at the side of what she thought was a body. She’d seen her share of cadavers while working in the ER, but somehow this was different. The shape was wrong, the face—” She gazed into the hand-painted face and blank eyes that stared back at her. A rush of relief flooded her whole body.

  “What is this?”

  Derek helped her stand. Her mind whirled in confusion. The nametag caught her notice, then the cryptic pattern cut into the belly of the doll. “Wait, that’s my blouse.”

  “Come on, Tabatha. You shouldn’t be here. They’re still searching for evidence.” Derek tried to pull her away.

  “No.” She jerked her hand from his. “The hair. Look at the hair.” She dropped to her knees and gently separated the strands. The putrid stench of rotting flesh rushed up her nostrils. “Oh, God.” She gagged, crawling a few feet away before vomiting.

  “Come on, baby. You’re contaminating the scene. I’ll have someone take you home.” Derek drew her into his arms.

  “It’s the children’s hair, Derek.” Tabatha drew a deep breath, fighting a fresh wave of nausea. “Someone sewed the children’s hair onto that thing. Where did she get my blouse? Who is doing this?” Tabatha heard the building panic in her voice. A scream pressed against her diaphragm. She forced herself to calm down—had to or go into a full-blown panic attack.

  Bertha’s warning stabbed through her brain. I didn’t want to hurt you, but you needed to be warned. She won’t be satisfied until she gets what she wants.

  Derek’s words followed closely behind, reinforcing their validity. Sounds like she thinks you stole what she considers hers. People have killed for much less than what you have, Tabatha.

  With a moment of lucidity, she knew the answer.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Tabatha arrived home within minutes of leaving the crime scene, if what happened on the levy could be called such. No real crime had been committed. A doll had been left behind—a doll with a complex message. Her best friend wanted her dead. That realization shot an arrow of pain into her heart. The woman she’d loved and trusted had more than likely murdered her father and grandfather. Tabatha wished she could take back all the things she’d said to and about her mother over the years.