“Think about the conversation you had with the killer. Maybe he left you some hidden land mines that you don’t think are important,” Prejean said in a perfect, flat Midwestern tone.
“That’s really good there, NOLA cop. I told the Detroit PD all this already. The killer said I should look for black magic in Detroit.”
“It sounds like you’ve got a good lead on that already. What else?”
“One thing I keep coming back to, the killer said he had his uniform and knife ready. If he wears a uniform for his job, he could be anything from an airline pilot to a sanitation worker. That’s a tough one to narrow down.”
“Unless he wears a special outfit for each of his murders.”
“Navarro mentioned that, too. Maybe the killer is role-playing.”
“Navarro’s the cop who was on the phone when you called me?” Prejean asked.
“That’s him. He’s a great detective and has been a friend for a long time. We’re seeing each other.”
“A cop? No go, Julia. I don’t think that’s a good choice for you. Most cops get divorced, at least twice. The job gets to them and that’s a relationship killer. It doesn’t matter what gender you are.”
“You’re not that way,” Julia said.
“About me and Claudette, things haven’t been going great for a while. We got married so young. People change and grow apart.”
“I don’t like where this is going.”
“We’re still friends, but we’re more like roommates now. Claudette and I decided we’re going to separate. It was a mutual decision. We’re still living together, but we’re going our separate ways.”
Julia pictured pretty blond Claudette sitting with her on the front porch of her home on Royal Street in New Orleans. The two women drank sweet tea as Claudette patted Julia’s hand and reassured her she was going to be okay in her new city.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I figured you two would be the exception,” Julia said.
“It’s okay. I’ll always have the greatest respect for Claudette. It’s a good time for a change for both of us. Our son is graduating from high school this year. It’s hard to believe, but Claudette had him when we were both just twenty-four.”
“You want my two cents?”
“I don’t think I’d be able to stop you, even if I didn’t.”
“You’re forty-three?” Julia asked.
“Don’t be adding on another year. I’m forty-two.”
“If you’re having a midlife crisis, buy a convertible. You and Claudette were really good together.”
“It’s not like that, Julia. People change. Claudette is thinking about moving to Florida and selling the place in Ann Arbor. Depending on how things go with the Detroit PD on this case, I’m keeping my options open about moving to Michigan. I’ve already got a friend here,” Prejean said, and gave Julia’s shoulder a light, friendly jab.
“You’re thinking about a transfer?” Julia asked.
“Twenty years working New Orleans, I’m ready for something new. I don’t want you to feel bad for me. I feel more alive than I have in years.”
“I’m not exactly thinking I should say congratulations somehow.”
“If you’re done grilling me about Claudette, I have some questions for you.”
“I’ve told you everything I know about the Magic Man Killer, but go ahead.”
“It’s not about the case. This one’s personal. You never told me about what happened to your brother. Claudette had on CNN one morning over the summer, and I almost fell out of my chair when I saw you talking about how you helped find your brother’s killer after thirty years. How come you never told me?”
“That story is mine. It isn’t a good one to tell.”
“You’re going cold on me, girl. I feel it. You always kept what was important to you close to the vest,” Prejean said. “You don’t want to talk about your brother, I’m fine with that. But this cop you’re dating. You need to be careful.”
“As far as Navarro goes, that’s a battle you’re never going to win.”
“Down, girl. You and this cop are serious?”
“Very.”
“I’ll let you know what I think of him.”
“No, you won’t. Navarro doesn’t need your endorsement,” Julia said.
“I don’t want to get off on a bad foot with you here. You’ve always been like a little sister to me. I just don’t want to see you hurt. I know cops.”
“So do I. I’m not twenty-two anymore, Prejean.”
The two drove on in silence for a few minutes, Julia not wanting to hear any more of Prejean’s unsolicited advice, and Prejean likely getting the message loud and clear that he better not go there with Navarro, as he busied himself with his phone.
“You can’t be mad at me anymore when you hear this,” Prejean said. He put his phone on the SUV console and the first few mixed strains of accordion, Cajun fiddle, guitar, and drums intertwined into a lively pulse of zydeco music that filled the car.
“‘Good-bye, Joe, me gotta go, me oh my oh,’” Prejean sang in a smooth tenor.
Julia kept her focus on the highway in front of her, trying her best to ignore Prejean, but Prejean grabbed her right hand from the steering wheel and moved it to the tempo of the music.
“Come on, bébé, you know you want to sing along. Remember this song?” Prejean asked.
“It’s been a long time. But, sure, I remember.”
“Laissez les bon temps rouler,” Prejean said. “Let the good times roll, darlin’.”
Julia smiled, but took her hand back from Prejean, since the only people she let hold her hand these days were two little boys and a six-foot-three Detroit detective.
“Sorry about before. We got off on a bad start. I realize I was giving you a hard time about your new man. But you’ve got to admit, you haven’t always made the best decisions in that area. The guy you married certainly didn’t turn out to be a prize.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
“What was the name of the doctor you were dating when I first met you? The one I had to send packing back to Detroit?”
“A bad penny that keeps showing up. Alex Tillerman. I ran into him recently. I could tell he’s still a jerk.”
“The doctor. I remember. Claudette told me he traced you down to New Orleans after you left Detroit and was giving you a hard time.”
“You met him at the airport.”
“Let’s just say, I scared him straight. Our soil in New Orleans is too pure to have a loser like him set foot on it. He got on a plane back home to Michigan real quick after I made him see the light. He was a jealous, possessive ass, as I recall.”
“Your memory is correct. I don’t think he cared about me. He just wasn’t used to a woman breaking up with him,” Julia said. “Do me a favor? Turn up the music. That way I won’t have to hear you roasting me. But you don’t have to worry about me now. Navarro is a good man, the best I’ve ever met.”
“It sounds like the girl’s in love,” Prejean said.
“I am.”
Prejean gave Julia a smile and turned up “Jambalaya,” rapping his hands to the rhythm of the music on the dashboard, while Julia turned the conversation she had with the Magic Man Killer over in her head, until she grabbed Prejean’s cell and tossed it in his lap.
“Turn that down for a second. There’s something else the killer said that I keep coming back to.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Prejean said. “What you got?”
“The killer told me he had a smile as wide as the Cheshire cat’s,” Julia said.
“Alice in Wonderland. Are there any connections to the book and Detroit?”
“I already looked into that angle. The only links to the city I could find were an Alice in Wonderland performance at the Bonstelle Theatre last summer, and a Mad Hatter Tea Party at the Detroit Institute of Arts a few years ago.”
“You held that back. What else?”
“The killer said he and I were alike.”
“He’s messing with you, trying to get into your head, to make you unsure of yourself so you’re vulnerable,” Prejean said.
“He said something else that I thought was off. The killer asked me if he’d gone mad. Maybe he was looking for me to validate it.”
“I know that line. It’s from the Mad Hatter. He says it to Alice and she answers something to the extent that he’s nuts, but all the best people are. The killer wants your acceptance for his actions and his warped state of mind.”
“You can quote passages from Alice in Wonderland?” Julia asked.
“Almost every word of that story is embedded in my brain. My kid, Brian, he was in a school production of it last year. He played the Mad Hatter. He’s not into theater anymore, but I heard him and Claudette rehearsing his lines around the house so many times, I’ve never been able to get them out of my head, God help me. Hey, girl, that’s your block,” Prejean said, and pointed to a quickly approaching street.
Julia swung her vehicle onto the 1300 block of Broadway and snagged a parking spot across from the apartment building Tyce had told her about.
On the street, Julia dug through her purse for any stray quarters to plug into the meter. Prejean stood next to her, still humming the “Jambalaya” song, but then abruptly stopped and grabbed Julia by the wrist.
“We’re in the right place,” Prejean said. He slid his aviator sunglasses down to the bridge of his nose and pointed overhead. “Check out the sign.”
“ ‘Henry the Hatter,’” Julia said.
“ ‘Detroit’s exclusive hatter since 1893,’” Prejean read. “The Mad Hatter. You found the place, baby girl.”
CHAPTER 12
Julia hurried across the street to the Broadway address and shoved her cell phone in her pocket, having just debriefed Navarro in under a minute flat about Tyce Jones and the woman she and Prejean were about to visit.
“Navarro’s ten minutes out. He’s going to meet us,” Julia said. “His partner will catch up with us later. Russell is trying to track down a potential suspect in Grand Rapids.”
“Score one for you, but the Detroit cops should’ve gotten this first.”
“No, Navarro and Russell are the best. They interviewed someone who might have met the Magic Man Killer,” Julia said. “I just got lucky I had a source who knew about this woman.”
“What’s her name?” Prejean asked.
“Roseline Alcy. She’s from Haiti.”
“Haitian and New Orleans voodoo are two different things. Granted, there’s some crossover, but if the killer is linked to Louisiana voodoo, I’m wondering why he brought you here.”
“Like you said before, he’s probably mixed up with more than that. That triple-goddess moon symbol he drew on the pictures he left with the victims, you said that was pagan, not voodoo.”
“Doesn’t matter. With that Hatter business across the street, we’re in the right place.”
The Broadway apartment building was a stately brick high-rise. Julia buzzed apartment 8-G in the glass entryway and waited as static crackled from the intercom, followed by a woman’s voice with a silky Caribbean accent.
“You have an appointment?” the woman asked.
“No. I’m Julia Gooden. Tyce Jones called you about me.”
A single, long blast from the buzzer sounded and Julia opened the door to the complex, quickly, before Roseline could change her mind. Julia and Prejean then snagged the elevator to the eighth floor.
Prejean took the lead down the hallway when they arrived, but Julia pushed ahead and gave three hard raps on Roseline’s door.
“I know it’s your instinct to want to be the alpha dog here, but my source referred me to Roseline, not you. I want us to win her trust so she’ll talk,” Julia said.
“Got it. It’s good to see you’ve grown.”
A tall, regal-looking woman with lustrous ebony skin opened the door partway. Julia estimated Roseline was somewhere in her midsixties. Her lips were painted crimson and she wore a red-and-turquoise head wrap and a matching satin turquoise dress.
“Thank you for meeting me. I’m Julia Gooden. Tyce Jones is a mutual friend. I’m a reporter, but I’m not here about a story. I’m looking for information about two women who were killed, and I think the person who murdered them has a connection to you.”
Roseline stayed planted, blocking the entrance, and kept an unblinking, tethered stare on Julia. “Tyce didn’t tell me about any dead women. He said you wanted information for a story. I don’t like this.”
Roseline started to close the door, but Prejean put his arm in front of it.
“Who’s this man? I don’t want any trouble, and that’s what I see you bring to my home.”
Prejean started to answer, but Julia swept in quickly.
“I’m not trying to cause you any problems. I’m just looking for answers. I swear. This is New Orleans detective Doug Prejean. He’s an old friend and he came here to help out with the case. Please. A woman’s life is at stake.”
Roseline narrowed her eyes, continuing to assess Julia, as if she were doing an inventory of her soul.
“Okay then. You can come in. I take your word that nothing is going to come back to me. I run a clean business here.”
“Thank you. Just so there aren’t any surprises, another friend, a Detroit police officer who’s running the case, will also be coming by to ask you a few questions. The person who killed the women, we think he has ties to voodoo, and possibly Satanism and black magic.”
“Those are very different things, each precise in its own study and beliefs. Satanism isn’t welcome here.”
“I understand. For full transparency, the killer gave me clues about his next victim and one led me to you. We don’t think you’re at risk in any way, but you may have information that can help us find the woman.”
“Then I better clear my name. It’s best to face bad luck when it’s in your path. Follow me,” Roseline said, and led Julia and Prejean down a hallway with dark cherry hardwood floors and soft yellow walls, until she reached the bright and open main living area.
Julia was surprised at the modern appearance of the place, figuring Roseline’s home would be dark with candlelit shrines and walls lined with potions, voodoo dolls, possibly live snakes, and God knows what else. Instead, Roseline’s apartment looked more like a page from a Pottery Barn catalogue.
“You from New Orleans?” Roseline asked Prejean. “Then you know a little bit about what I do.”
“I know a lot about Louisiana voodoo. But Haitian is different.”
“That’s right. But both are spiritual in their nature.”
“But sometimes those spirits are dark, aren’t they? We need to ask you about your customers,” Prejean said. “You got anyone who walked through your door, a male looking for a love spell? Maybe he told you he was obsessed with a woman he couldn’t have. He came to you for help and believed what you sold him—a gris-gris, a mojo bag, a dark spell—gave him the power to kill those girls as a sacrifice to get the woman he wants.”
“No, no, no. That’s not how I play. I don’t go into the black arts, and I’d never take money to help kill a person, no matter how much someone offered. I don’t like where you’re going with this.”
“We’re not saying you helped the killer,” Julia interrupted, and shot Prejean a look. “No one is suspecting you of anything right now. All we know for sure is the killer led us to you. We need to figure out why.”
Three sharp knocks sounded down the hallway and Roseline retreated back to her front door and peeped through the keyhole. “Your Detroit cop a big guy?” she called out. “Handsome boy with dark hair?”
“That’s him,” Julia answered.
Roseline opened, but still did her “hover at the door” routine, like she had done to Julia and Prejean, and assessed Navarro before she let him through.
“How’d you get up here?” Roseline asked.
“One of your neighbors buzzed me through the front. I’m Det
ective Ray Navarro of the Detroit Police Department. Pleased to meet you,” Navarro said, and shook Roseline’s hand. “May I come in?”
“Sure. You have better manners than that other boy. Come on now,” Roseline said, and returned to the living room with Navarro.
“Ray, this is Doug Prejean,” Julia said, making the introductions.
“Pleased to meet you. Julia speaks very highly of you,” Navarro said.
“Likewise,” Prejean said in a friendly tone, but Julia could tell he was sizing Navarro up. “Let’s get down to business.”
“I was just telling Roseline one of her customers may be the killer,” Julia said.
“You keep a list of people you do business with?” Navarro asked.
“It’s confidential. Just like our conversation is going to be.”
“I’m not here to get you in a jam,” Navarro said. “But this is a murder investigation, and we’d like your help. The person we’re looking for is male. We believe he’s somewhere between the age of thirty to midforties. And we think he has ties to New Orleans voodoo and possibly some darker elements. The women he killed, he dressed them up in a black wig and blue dress. Both victims had a hand-drawn picture the killer left behind on their stomachs. The pictures had a symbol of a voodoo goddess in the center.”
“Erzulie,” Julia said.
“The goddess of love, sexuality, and passion,” Roseline said. “Most of my clients, they’re women. I do love spells for them, sure. Most people who come through my door are looking for love, money, or success. A few look for retribution. I don’t guarantee it, but I clean their energy and help them tap into what they need.”
“Your male clients, are any of them in the military or law enforcement?” Navarro asked.
“A cop?” Julia asked in surprise, but Navarro kept his attention on Roseline.
“I don’t know what kind of jobs my customers do. Could be military. Could be teachers. Could be doctors. Could be anybody. What they do for a living makes no mind to me. I’m here to help them have a better, more spiritual life. I use my gift to help people who need a breakthrough to the other side.”
“Do you have any customers who like books?” Navarro asked. “Maybe you have someone who reads a lot and mentioned it to you. Horror or occult novels maybe.”
You Fit the Pattern Page 12
