The Devil Always Collects

by John Moore

  I took a gulp of my wine and went on the blog site. I must admit it was a thrilling feeling to see my very own site. And the name, Alex’s Daily Planet. Lois would be so proud. Tom, well, he’s no Superman, but he’s close enough for me.

  “You want to hide in the shadows, Bart Rogan, and play some sort of perverted chess game with people’s lives? Well, let’s see how you like the light of day,” I said. “Tom, I’m going to write about the Quarter Killer, his victims and the likelihood that he’s still at large. I’ll tell the whole story. New Orleans can read Mark Steven’s letter. I’ll paste the entire letter on my site. I’ll let the people know the city is trying to close the case prematurely.”

  “Awesome,” Tom said. “We can send your blog link to my entire network of ROLL members and everyone else we know. Hell, we’ll even send to all of the media outlets.”

  I typed the blog post and uploaded a copy of Mark Stevens’ letter. We sent the link to every person we could think of in the city. We poured another glass of wine each and watched my blog fill with comments. The fear felt throughout the city radiated on the computer screen. People were outraged that the police were so quick to call the cases closed in the face of the evidence. The pizza arrived, and we dined like royalty, blog spreading like wildfire. The city fathers were going to have a hard time ignoring the tremendous public outcry. I had just started my new career, Alexandra, investigative journalist blogger-a modern day Lois Lane.

  . Blogging along with the other participants was fun but my bed was calling me. We polished off a bottle of wine and I was feeling a slight buzz. My bed begged me to bring my lover to lie down and play. Who was I to fight that force? I gave in, and it was worth it.

  I stood up, gave Tom a come hither look and swished my backside to the bedroom. I looked back at him as I walked and asked in a sultry voice, “Are you coming to bed?”

  I started to undress but he stopped me. He placed a gentle kiss on my lips. “Let me.”

  Tom’s fire filled blue eyes looked deep into mine as he undid the buttons of my blouse and cast it to the floor. He unhooked my bra and pushed me backwards onto the bed, my eyes dimly gazing at the ceiling. Slowly he trailed kisses southward, circling my breasts and meandering to the flat section of my belly. He lingered for a moment to unsnap my pants. I entered a place without time as he continued his travels down my body. My skin was on fire. Finally he reached the place that longed for his kisses. I arched my back at the first touch. I felt our auras meld. My mind was consumed by his touch. The heat from my body was about to set the sheets ablaze. Tom ripped off his clothes freeing himself to enter me. We moved in rhythmic harmony until we led each other to a fevered pitch and then crashed like the waves on a rocky shoreline together.

  “Ahhhh, Yes!” I screamed.

  When the sun came up I felt revived, a smile crept on my face. Tom was still out. I looked at him with loving eyes. He was so good to me. I could get used to this, I told myself. I eased out of bed and started my coffee routine. When I turned on my computer and went to my blog, I was pleased to see the posts had continued all night long. I imagined Rogan shitting his pants about now.

  When I checked, I saw I had an email from Charlotte. Mr. Morris wanted to see me today at his office. I had nearly forgotten about my arrangement with Superior Sugar.

  Tom woke and I brought him coffee in bed. We chatted about the blog for a while. He said he had to go offshore to collect samples for the next couple of days and was concerned about leaving me alone. I reassure him that I would be alright, acting independent but secretly loving his protective nature. We both had careers, and we couldn’t let Rogan or anyone else stop us from enjoying them.

  “Alexandra, I hate to bring up a sore subject but what are we going to do about raising the money to stop the foreclosure on your family farm?” he asked.

  “I’ve thought about that,” I said. “According to Mr. Swartz, Sarah named me as beneficiary of her life insurance policy. I am calling the insurance company today to see what I have to do to collect the proceeds. Mr. Swartz said that the life insurance payout won’t go into the estate since she named me as beneficiary. I should be able to get the money before the farm is sold at the sheriff’s sale.”

  “That’ll be a relief,” Tom said.

  Tom and I both left my condo about the same time. I made sure everything was locked up tight. I liked this condo I was renting but longed for the day when I had my own house. It looked like my dream was about to come true. Sarah had left me her large house on St. Charles Avenue. I never thought I would ever live in such a place. It was my fantasy house, better than a castle, though I worried that living there would remind me of her death every day.

  I called the insurance company on my way to see Charlotte and Mr. Morris. Having anticipated their questions, I had all the pertinent information handy. The friendly customer service representative scanned the computer files and found no record of me as beneficiary for any policy. I gave her Sarah’s policy number, and she put me on hold to search for a record of the policy. A supervisor came back on the line to talk to me. She told me they were able to find the policy, but I was not the beneficiary. She said she’d spoken to the agent who wrote the policy. Sarah never made it into his office to sign the change of beneficiary form. She said her estate was the beneficiary and the succession would get the money. After I explained that I was the executrix of the estate, she said they would need a certified copy of the court order appointing me executrix and a copy of Sarah’s death certificate. Then they would write a check to the estate. Oh shit, I thought. The money will be tied up in the estate for who knows how long. It looked like I would lose the farm.

  I sat in the parking lot at Superior Sugar’s office and took a few minutes to compose myself after my latest disappointment. I knew the foreclosure clock was ticking on my family farm. This was just another minor setback, Alexandra, I told myself. It was just paperwork. It’d work itself out. With my renewed positive outlook, I looked at myself in the rear view mirror. I was taken aback at how good I looked. I’d lost a little weight over the last few days, and it showed in my face. But that wasn’t the change I was seeing in the mirror. It was the afterglow that really made the difference. I could get used to having an afterglow every day and memories of last night occupied my thoughts. For a few moments, I was back in bed with Tom. His lithe body above me…the passion in his eyes…the way his face scrunched up in concentration when he came. Oh shit, I was making myself blush. God, Tom sure knew how to make love to me.

  I walked as nonchalantly as possible into the lobby of Superior Sugar. Charlotte was waiting for me.

  “Look at you,” she said.”You look wonderful. You must still be seeing Tom.”

  I blushed again. I said, “Yes, I am,” downplaying my overwhelming joy. Could she see it in my face? Was my joy that obvious?

  “Follow me, Mr. Morris is waiting for us in his office,” she said. “Hey, I read your blog last night. Do you really think the Quarter Killer is still out there? That is so scary. Why would the police act like they’ve captured the right guy if they haven’t?” I could tell from Charlotte’s tone that she was more inclined to believe the police than me. She knew me personally and still believed the police. I knew I’d need more than just my words and Mark Stevens’ letter to get the investigation started again.

  I took her questions as rhetorical and didn’t answer as we walked into Mr. Morris’ office.

  “Good morning, Alexandra. Would you like a cup of coffee? We just made a fresh pot,” Mr. Morris asked. I nodded affirmatively and shortly after a tray arrived with our coffee. He wore a navy blue suit with a white shirt and red striped tie.

  “Thank you for coming in to see us, Alexandra. I’m going to cut right to the chase. Everyone on the sugar council loved your ideas. As a matter of fact, you will start seeing ads next month featuring your slogan, ‘Even Mother Nature added sugar to all of her fruits and vege
tables to give them her perfect loving touch of sweetness.’ We really love it,” he said.

  I sat up a little straighter in my chair waiting for the “but.” It never came. He really liked my work. He even wanted me to handle another project for him.

  “Alexandra, no one knows how the next generation will view sugar. One thing is for sure; sugar is getting some unwanted scrutiny now. Superior Sugar wants to hedge its bets. We are investing in a stevia plant farm in Paraguay. Stevia is a natural, no-calorie sweetener that may take off in the U. S. The FDA hasn’t completely approved it yet but I can see favorable winds blowing stevia’s way. We want you to help us create an image for stevia. Would you be interested in expanding your contract with us to help us market stevia?”

  I wanted to jump right out of my skin I was so excited. I told myself to remain professional and keep my game face on. I needed to get the details. Was he offering me a job that would require me to work a 9-5 schedule or what?

  “Sounds exciting, Mr. Morris. I am flattered you think I am the person to help you. How do you see this working?” I asked.

  “Well, that’s up to you. If you need an office here at Superior Sugar, we can arrange it. If you want to work from home or your own office, that will be fine too. Marketing stevia is a long-term project. It will take a couple of years for us to penetrate the market the way I envision. We are as flexible as you need us to be,” Mr. Morris said.

  We spent the next two hours working out the details. I left with a contract that gave me all the money I needed to operate my business and pay all of my bills. It was all I needed except the money to save my farm. At least now I knew I could make it day to day. I had security again. It was a good thing too because I’d gotten a voice mail from Dan Broussard while I was with Mr. Morris and Charlotte. He wanted to talk to me. I needed to think long and hard before I called him back. With what I’d learned over the last few weeks, I knew I couldn’t work with Bayou Oil. Not if Bart Rogan was connected in any way with them. Rogan was responsible for my mother’s death, and he was probably behind Sarah’s murder. I wanted his ass and I intended to get it.

  I decided to check in with Inspector Sophia Garcia. Over the last couple of days, we had become friends. I admired her fearless nature. She chased after El Serpiente without any hesitation, knowing he was a stone cold killer.

  Sophia answered her cell phone on the first ring, “Alexandra, there’s been another murder of a young woman in the French Quarter. I just got off a call from Detective Baker. He’s sure the Quarter Killer has struck again. Pick me up at the hotel and we’ll go see Baker together. He said your blog has the precinct buzzing.”

  Precinct buzzing? I wondered if that was good or bad. Did the cops look at me as meddling in places I had no business or were they on board with keeping the investigation going? As Sophia and I parked at the police station, I flashed back to walking into homeroom after publishing my scandal sheet about the lunch program in middle school. Was I about to get called to the principal’s office? I guessed if I was going to be an investigative journalist blogger, I’d better get used to people being pissed at me.

  Sophia and I were greeted at the station with smiles and welcomes. Seems like the cops on the front line didn’t appreciate the brass meddling in their business. These guys weren’t idiots. They knew the evidence said the killer was still out there. And they knew the smell of politics too. We went straight to Detective Baker’s office.

  “Come in, come in,” he said with a broad smile on his face. “The task force is not being shut down in light of today’s murder. I’m not happy another body was found, but I am happy I can still go after the real killer. Stevens was just a patsy someone tried to pin the killings on. He isn’t our guy. It was inevitable that the Quarter Killer would kill again. And I’m going to nail him. Inspector Garcia told me about this El Serpiente guy. He’s still in New Orleans and we think we know where. One of our informants told us a man fitting his description is staying in a sleazy motel on Highway 61. We are going to raid his room. Do you want to come with us?”

  “You know I do,” Inspector Garcia said.

  I decided to head home and research stevia for my new gig. Garcia and Baker suited up to go catch a killer.

  Chapter Twenty-Three:

  Back in Business

  As much as I hated to do it, I had to return Broussard’s call. Technically, I still had a contract with Bayou Oil to do their public relations work. I really wasn’t sure how much of Rogan’s extra-curricular activities Broussard knew about. But then, was it just a coincidence he was calling me now? Rogan had just offered a settlement to try to stop me from seeing what Sarah had in her safety deposit box. Was Broussard’s calling another part of a charm offensive? Or, was Rogan offering the carrot and Broussard wielding the stick? Making the call was easier now that I had a solid arrangement with Superior Sugar. Maybe I should wait till I get home, I thought. Who knows what direction our conversation will take? I needed to pay attention to the road and my mirrors to make certain I wasn’t being followed.

  I made it home unscathed, my stomach churning at the thought of dealing with Bayou Oil. Somehow walking into my place felt different this time. Maybe it was because my business was off the ground. Maybe it was because my blog was successful. Maybe it was because of Tom, or just maybe it was due to a new me.

  I made a cup of coffee and called Dan Broussard on his cell phone as he requested. He answered with a lilt in his voice.

  “How’s my PR lady doing? Hope your new life is agreeing with you.”

  “It is, Mr. Broussard. How can I help you?”

  Broussard seemed little puzzled by the confident tone in my voice. He hesitated for a few seconds before saying, “I am heading up a group that is negotiating the purchase of the Times. It looks like the deal will close in the next 30 days. Times have changed and so should the management at the paper. It needs a new direction; new blood, too. We want to bring in a younger group with a more multimedia approach to journalism. I thought of you immediately. You are the brightest star with the greatest potential. Before you say anything, I want you to come to my house for dinner a week from Thursday. I’ll be able to get to know you a little better and tell you the plans for the Times in much greater detail. Can you make it?”

  “That’s very kind of you Mr. Broussard. I’m not sure working at the Times is the direction I want to take my career,” I said.

  “That’s OK, Alexandra. You don’t have to decide anything. Just come and eat some of my wife’s New Orleans crawfish etouffee and we’ll talk about it. You know what they say, nothing ventured nothing gained.”

  “Alright, Mr. Broussard, what time should I be at your house? Are you still on the lake?”

  “Sure am. Been living in the same house on that lake for 35 years. Why don’t you come at 7:00 PM,” he said.

  When we hung up, I thought about the conversation. Why did he want me to come to his house? Should I really go? Working at a major newspaper like the Times used to be my dream job. Was it still? I liked the independence I had now as a part time PR person and part time blogger. If ACC or Bart Rogan was investing in the paper, I wanted nothing to do with it.

  Speaking of my part-time PR job, I needed to learn more about stevia. We are lucky to live in these times of easy research through the Internet; information at your fingertips. I Googled stevia and, bam, my search yielded 15,900,000 results in less than 30 seconds. Simply amazing to find all the information I needed to create a marketing campaign appear instantly on my computer screen.

  I clicked on Wikipedia and learned that stevia was extracted from the leaves of the Stevia Rebaudiana plant, commonly known as sweetleaf. It was related to plants in the sunflower family. One of the wonderful aspects of stevia was that it doesn’t raise glucose levels in human blood after consumption. The glucose molecules are processed by the bacteria in our colons and that’s a good thing. Those bacteria break down und
igested food to insure regularity. Should I be grossed out by that? I’ll have to find a better way to put it in my press releases.

  Sugar, on the other hand, has the reputation of contributing to the worldwide obesity epidemic. Many health problems are associated with being overweight. Yet we all, especially me, continued to eat more and more sugar each year. One hundred and fifty-six pounds. That’s how much added sugar Americans consume each year on a per capita basis, according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA). Can you imagine 31 five-pound bags for each of us? No wonder Superior Sugar is doing so well and the Las Vegas Airport looks like a fat farm.

  More and more studies were tying sugar to health hazards. The Journal of the American Medical Association International published a study concluding a sugar-laden diet may raise the risk of dying of heart disease even if a person isn’t overweight.

  I have to look at my habits, I thought. I am the worst. Zach used to fuss at me for eating so much sugar and he was right. Zach, where has he been anyway? He sure has disappeared since he quit the Cafe Du Monde. Maybe I should give him a call and catch up with him.

  Before I could even finish my thought, Sophia called to tell me about the raid on The Serpent’s hotel room. He had eluded them. She believed the task force had been compromised and that he’d been tipped off. There was a bit of good news though — he’d left behind a shaving razor, which was sure to have his DNA on it. Also a police forensic team dumpster diving found a copy of a police report containing the details of the Quarter Killer’s method of killing and the remainder of his M. O. Forensics was excited about the possibility of finding the fingerprints and maybe DNA of anyone who had handled it. Wow, I thought. Nothing in New Orleans is above reproach.

  Sophia and Baker were on their way to a criminal court judge’s office to get a search warrant for the contents of Sarah’s bank box.