Father and daughter had accompanied him on that starry-eyed westward pilgrimage, despite their reservations. Abandoned everything they’d called home out of love and loyalty for him.
Yeah. And I sure as shit paid them back.
Rusty shook off that familiar stab of self-reproach and quickened his pace, reignited with purpose.
Hold on, Marcie. Please. Wherever you are, I’m coming for you.
At Bourbon and Conti he reached his destination. A red neon apple the size of a satellite dish hovered over the entrance to Temptations.
Inside, a musky black-lit darkness enveloped him like an invisible cloak. It was a small place, nowhere near the cavernous strip clubs he’d frequented with almost nightly regularity when living high in Vegas. One narrow stage stretched down the far wall, a single smudged pole rising from the middle.
Twisting around the pole was a diminutive blonde, clad only in high heels and everything she was born with. A thumping hip-hop bassline guided her movements, which were energetic if less than polished. A cluster of men huddled over their drinks in the glare of the footlights. Based on the paltry sprinkling of bills Rusty spotted on the grooved floor of the stage, it was a stingy crowd.
He scanned the room, looking for Monday Reed. No sign. He took the end seat in front of the stage to make himself as visible as possible.
The blonde dancer fluidly sashayed his way, dropping to all fours when she got close enough to offer a personalized view. She seemed grateful to have some fresh attention, and threw herself into a series of contortive gyrations that left Rusty impressed.
A napkin materialized in front of him. He looked up to see Monday standing with a cocktail tray in hand. Her wardrobe consisted of a pink tanktop revealing plenty of midriff and some sprayed-on black tights. The glimpse of ink Rusty had noticed beneath the collar of her nurse’s uniform revealed itself as a well-rendered rose tattoo, complete with thorns from which a single drop of painted blood tricked onto her clavicle.
“You’re punctual,” she said.
“One of my few redeeming qualities.”
“So I’ve heard. What are you drinking?”
“Scotch, rocks.”
“Dewar’s all right?”
“Unless there’s any Glenlivet 18 hiding back there.”
“I’ll see what I can rustle up. You’re buying me a Captain and Coke, too.”
She turned away, then stopped.
“And show Tiffany some love. It’s her first night, the girl could use some encouragement.”
Rusty dropped two twenties on the stage just as the hip hop track ended. The blonde picked them up with a childlike smile, then collected a few other bills from the stage.
Three minutes later, Rusty and Monday occupied a table in the back corner. They each had a drink in front of them that sat ignored on its leather coaster. There was a break in the action on stage, with some brass band jazz playing over the PA at a subdued level.
“OK, hold up,” Monday said, interrupting a question about Marceline’s recent state of mind. “I get that you’re worried, and you seem sincere enough. This just feels a little weird.”
“What does?”
“The timing. Marceline goes missing, then a few days later her old flame shows up out of nowhere?”
“I admit the timing’s odd. Before I got here, all I was worried about was an awkward reunion with her and her father. Then I find out she’s fucking vanished.”
“You used to be pretty tight with the family, huh?”
“For a long time, they were practically my family.”
“What happened?”
“Long story. I’m hoping you can fill me in on what’s been going on these past few months.”
“Well, she’s excited about the baby. Not worried or anxious, far as I can tell. She seems to be in a good state of mind, overall.”
“But not entirely.”
“Let’s face it, she’s not in an ideal situation for an expectant mother.”
“Trouble with the baby’s father, you mean.”
Monday made a sour face. “I take it you’re not acquainted with Joseph Abellard?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure of his company.”
“I really don’t know that much about him,” she said, her expression darkening further. “So I don’t want to give any false ideas, OK? I just know I don’t like him.”
“Don’t hold back. Prosper hates his guts, that much is clear. What’s the story with this guy?”
“I only met him a couple times. The last time, it wasn’t pretty. I’ve been telling Marcie for months she should break it off. Even if she’s carrying his child, she doesn’t have to put up with…whatever he made her put up with.”
“Did he abuse her?”
The question yielded a pause.
“Talk straight with me, Monday.” Catching the interrogative tone in his voice, he added, “Please.”
“He never abused her, that I know of. At least not physically. But he’s got a mean temper. I saw that for myself.”
“When?”
Monday inhaled and took her time expelling the air, as if surveying a bridge and mulling whether or not to cross.
“He came by the hospital two weeks ago. They had an argument, right in front of the nursery. It didn’t get physical, but he was totally out of his mind. Like, foaming. Took two security guards to haul him out of there.”
“Did they call the cops?”
Monday shook her head, diverting her eyes.
“No one got hurt, so…”
“Jesus. Did this incident at least get reported after she went missing?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“That’s something the NOPD needs to hear about, for Christ’s sake. Pretty hard to believe you don’t understand that.”
She glanced up at him sharply, any trace of hesitancy vaporizing.
“Watch how you talk to me, asshole. Who are you to stick your nose into this, anyway?”
A waitress emerged from the darkness with fresh drinks, though they’d barely touched the first round. Rusty almost waved her off, then figured it was probably a two-drink minimum. He paid the waitress, using the brief interval to regain his cool and hope Monday was doing the same.
“Just help me understand this,” he said in a calmer voice. “Abellard came to the ward two weeks ago, right? Prosper said it’s been more than a month since she broke it off with him.”
“That’s true. I was thrilled when she told me. Like, finally.”
“You think he was trying to get her back?”
“I don’t think he ever believed she’d left him. Doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d just accept it. But that’s not what they were arguing about. There was something else. Something about the hospital, I think. I only heard bits and pieces before the guards dragged him off.”
“Did you ask her what it was all about?”
“Sure. She wouldn’t say, just made it clear she was done with him and not to worry about it. I’d tell you if I knew more.”
“Fair enough. What else is there to know about this guy? What’s his line?”
“He owns the Carnival Casino, out in Vacherie. Know where that is?”
Rusty nodded, though he only had a vague impression. “Cajun Country, right? To the east?”
“About eighty miles, but it might as well be off the map. Vacherie is half swamp, half plantation land. Whole lot of nothing in every direction. Really poor country, aside from the tourists who bus in to see what it was like in Old Dixie.”
“Seems like an odd place for a casino. Pretty out of the way.”
“I agree, which makes me think they got more going on than blackjack. Being in the sticks probably gives Abellard a lot of breathing room. To do exactly what, I wouldn’t try to guess.”
“Ever been out there?” Rusty asked.
She nodded, wrinkling her nose with distaste.
“It’s a shithole. Makes the riverside casinos in Shreveport look like Monte C
arlo. I went one time with Marceline, back before she called it quits with Abellard. We didn’t stay long, just had a drink and I made her drive me back.”
“How’d she get hooked up with him in the first place?”
“Some charity event at Tulane. I gather he’s involved with various do-gooder things. Probably to whitewash his image, which I’m sure needs it.”
“You saying he’s a crook?”
“He’s a casino boss in the middle of Cajun Country,” Monday answered with a shrug, as if that was a distinction without a difference. “Got a few other businesses out there, too. Couple of car washes, shrimp and po’ boy shack on the old River Road, stuff like that. Fronts, I’m guessing.”
“Hard to see her getting involved with someone like that. Granted, we parted ways quite a while back, but it seems out of character.”
“Maybe she just has poor taste in men.”
Monday gave Rusty a blunt look to drive home that observation. He didn’t offer a retort.
“Abellard probably has his charms,” she continued after draining her drink. “I tried to steer Marcie away, but didn’t make a dent. She kept insisting he’s a respectable member of the legal gaming industry. Finally, she got wise.”
“Yeah, maybe too late for her own good,” Rusty uttered. He took a swallow of scotch, fighting off a tide of unease that swelled with each new detail Monday provided about the man whose baby Marceline was carrying.
“I gotta get back on the clock. Hope I’ve been able to help a little.”
“You have. Really, I appreciate the time. Especially since Marcie hasn’t given you much reason to think I was worth it.”
Monday started to step away but paused. Rusty didn’t need to employ any mentalism techniques to read the unasked question on her lips.
“What are you wondering about?”
“I was going to ask what went wrong with you two, out in Vegas.”
“Like I said, long story. You can hear it chapter and verse, once I know she’s safe.”
Monday shook her head, a long amber curl falling over the rose tattoo.
“None of my business, and I don’t need to hear another sad story in that department. That’s why I tried not to give Marcie too much grief about Abellard. With my track record, it’d make me a bigtime hypocrite.”
“The cops questioned him, you know. Not the NOPD, the Sheriff out in Vacherie.”
Monday’s brows arched with what looked like surprise.
“No shit. What did he say?”
“Doesn’t know where she is, and he claims to be worried. I don’t know anything more specific than that.”
“Maybe it’s the truth. I’d like to think so.”
“Not good enough for me. I’ll be dropping by the Carnival Casino tomorrow, and I won’t be leaving till I get a little face time with Joseph Abellard.”
Rusty delivered those words without raising his voice to be heard over a blaring metal track that heralded the next dancer’s appearance on stage. Monday heard him clearly enough. She appraised him for a moment, her face taking on a warmer aspect.
“Let me see your phone,” she said, reaching out with an upturned palm.
Rusty handed her his mobile and watched as she dialed a ten digit number with a 504 prefix.
“Call me when you learn something. I’d really like to know our girl’s all right.”
She turned and disappeared into the hazy neon gloom of Temptations. Rusty cast a quick glance at the stage, where a curvy Latina was stepping out of a white lace thong. With a deft flick of her foot, she launched it airborne toward a drunken trio hunched below her.
Rusty watched the guy in the middle snatch it from the air with a triumphant leer and decided he’d had enough of this place. He rose without bothering to finish his drink and cut a straight path for the exit.
11.
The fetid air outside Temptations didn’t offer much relief. Rusty drew in a lungful of what passed for fresh air on Bourbon, then cut a quick left onto St. Luis. His pace accelerated, fueled by a craving for the king bed in his suite. It had been a frustrating day, and tomorrow’s trip to Vacherie loomed tall in his thoughts.
His cell phone vibrated as soon as he reached Royal Street. A 504 area code showed on the screen, but it wasn’t the number Monday had given him.
“Diamond,” a gruff male voice intoned. “Dan Hubbard, NOPD.”
The hairs on the back of Rusty’s neck rose, responding like sonar to an invisible threat.
“What is it, Detective?”
“There’s…well, there’s a body for you to identify. At the coroner’s. I just came from there.”
Rusty’s feet kept moving, but he had no awareness of forward motion.
“Turned up about an hour ago,” Hubbard continued. “Busboy found her in a dumpster behind the Crescent City Oyster House. Fits the description we have for Ms. Lavalle. Black female, average height. Looks to be in her twenties.”
Rusty swallowed before asking, “Was she—”
“I thought it best to call you,” Hubbard interrupted, “instead of the father. Figured this might be too much for the old guy.”
“You made the right decision. Was this woman pregnant, Detective?”
Hubbard gave what sounded like a sigh before answering.
“We think so. Given the condition of the body, it’s hard to say for sure.”
“What are you telling me?”
“Look, you should know what to expect before you walk in there.”
A brief pause elapsed. Rusty felt the heat of his phone pressed against his ear, a sense of dread seeping in through every pore.
“The coroner’s initial examination suggests she was carrying,” Hubbard continued. “That hasn’t been verified yet. A proper autopsy will tell us, but that’ll be a few days.”
“Did you see the body yourself?”
“I did.”
“So how can you not know?”
“She’s cut up bad, OK?” Hubbard paused before adding, “Bad as anything I’ve seen in twenty-two years.”
Rusty barely registered the last few words Hubbard had spoken. He froze on the sidewalk, drilled to the damp ground in front of the show window of an art gallery selling framed lithograph prints of historic New Orleans.
“Jesus Christ,” he said shakily.
“Yeah. Like I said, thought you should know before walking in there. We normally don’t call people in to do a formal identification, but I know you’ve been worried about Ms. Lavalle. I thought you’d want to know soon as possible.”
The potential reality of what he was hearing sunk in. Rusty felt the flagstones start to swim beneath his feet.
“Where do I go?”
“2116 Earhart Drive, off Claiborne. Technically they’re closed right now, but I told them to expect you. There’s an attendant waiting with the body.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Call me at this number, soon as you make an ID. Don’t worry about the hour.”
“I will.”
Rusty thought Hubbard had hung up, then heard the creak of a wooden chair over the line. He pictured the detective leaning back from the cluttered desk in his cramped office.
“I hope it’s not your friend, Diamond.”
The call went dead.
“So do I,” Rusty uttered to the empty street around him. Snapping into focus, he started to run back toward Bourbon where it would be easier to flag down a cab. Then he remembered how close he was to the Cornstalk. His rental car waited in the parking lot.
Turning on a heel, Rusty didn’t stop moving until the Mustang’s gearshift was in reverse. He backed out of the lot with a screech of rubber and without bothering to see if the road was clear.
• • •
Nineteen minutes later, Rusty pulled the Mustang into a parking space in front of a gleaming marble building that occupied an entire block of Earhart Avenue, less than a stone’s throw from the I-10 overpass. He’d barely tapped the brake during the drive, blowing mult
iple red lights through some of midtown’s busiest intersections.
He killed the engine and got out on rubbery legs. The lot lay mostly empty. He forced a measure of composure upon himself, then climbed a broad set of concrete stairs leading to the main entrance of the Orleans Parish Forensic Center.
Rusty crossed the expansive breezeway in five hurried steps, finding a pair of glass doors locked. He pressed an intercom buzzer built into the marble edifice, hearing a faint digital ring emanate from inside.
The front desk, visible through the smoked pane of the door, appeared to be unoccupied. Rusty kept his thumb on the buzzer until he noticed the top of a bald head rise from behind the desk, followed by a formidable pair of shoulders cloaked in a dark blue night watchman’s uniform.
The watchman blinked away sleep as he rose from his napping position. He punched in a security code while giving an unfriendly scowl through the glass, then pushed open the door.
“I’m here to ID a body,” Rusty said, hearing a quiver in his voice that sounded alien, like it belonged to someone he didn’t know and didn’t want to meet.
“Uh huh,” grunted the watchman.
“Detective Hubbard of the Sixth Precinct called me. He said you were notified I’d be coming.”
“Uh huh,” the watchman repeated. “We been notified.”
“Gonna let me in?” Rusty asked after a weighted pause. “I’d like to get this over with.”
The watchman stepped aside to let him enter, then closed the front door. Rusty heard an automatic metal lock click into place.
Returning to his post at the front desk, the night watchman sunk into a padded chair behind a bank of computer screens. He tilted his head toward the far end of the lobby.
“Take the stairs, one floor down. Room 013.”
Rusty nodded and brushed past the front desk. A haze of humming electricity burned down from the high ceiling above. It struck him as surreal. The lobby was overlit and elegantly designed in a style that felt inappropriate to this building’s grim purpose.
Every surface gleamed—from the polished floor, to the curved brass sconces holding two symmetrical lines of overhead lights, to the steel handrail along a set of stairs leading to the subterranean examination rooms.
Blind Shuffle Page 7
