Long Night Moon (Bad Mojo Book 1)

by Sharon A. Austin

  BJ lifted a menu off the black wooden stand of the missing maître d’.

  CHAPTER 23

  After dinner, Gary lingered over coffee. “Tell me about your current novel in progress.” He held up his right hand. Smiled. “I’m a cop. I swear I won’t steal your idea.”

  BJ stared at him. His play on words with the cop and thief stuff failed to amuse her.

  Gary grew visibly uncomfortable.

  “Okay. Let’s see.” She looked right at him. “Um, have you read my first novel?”

  “No, sorry. I haven’t had a chance.” More discomfort.

  A slight shrug. “I only asked because my current story is the sequel. If you had read Suite Sue, you’d already know what the story’s about, and then I wouldn’t have to spend a lot of time filling you in on all of the background stuff.”

  Gary slanted his head to the side. “Am I keeping you from something more urgent?”

  “Huh?” BJ frowned. “Oh. No, not at all. It’s just, no one’s ever expressed an int…” A quick sip of coffee. She collected her thoughts. “This story’s another psychological thriller. It’s about a, um, an abused woman.”

  Gary nodded. “A lot of potential there. Tell me about it.”

  She fidgeted with a corner of her napkin, unaccustomed to anyone wanting to hear anything she had to say, much less spend so much time with her. “Her name is Alma LeJeune, and she had an unspeakably horrific past. Born to an alcoholic father and a mamma that wasn’t there for her, she saw things a child should never see, experienced things a child should never experience. Her mamma died when Alma was little. Her father couldn’t wait to send her to live with his brother. Her uncle thought she was evil. To drive Satan from her soul, he bound her wrists together above a tree branch that extended over a swamp. With her legs bent at the knees to keep her feet out of reach, she dangled unsteadily above the gaping jaws of several alligators that had crawled up onto the bank. A bug landed on her cheek. Alma thinks it might be spider. If she struggles the rope will come loose and drop her. If she screams the bug might get in her throat and cut off her airway. She would’ve peed in her pants, only she hadn’t had anything to drink while she was locked in the firewood bin for several days. A steady flow of tears washed the bug away. The gators lost interest and disappeared below the dark water. Her uncle backed up his truck. He got out and loosened the rope enough for her to fall into the bed of the truck. He rolled her over to cut the nylon rope, er, zip tie, off her wrists. Stretched out beside her, he told her to be a good girl. As he slid her cotton dress up,”

  “Damn,” said Gary.

  Thrown out of the story, BJ felt a flash of anger as though her blood pressure had skyrocketed. She sipped coffee that had grown cold, and tried to get back in character.

  “Ah jeez, I’m sorry. Please, continue.”

  “It’s okay. Um, when Alma was sixteen she met a boy named Rex who showed an interest in her. He told her he loved her. She’d waited her whole life for those three words, and that’s all it took for her to quit school and run away with him. All she really did, though, was to go from one bad situation to another. Rex treated her worse than her parents or aunt and uncle ever did. So, s-she tries to change her life in a big way. She loves the architecture of New Orleans so much she went and got her G-E-D in order to qualify for a drafting course being offered by the local community college. Rex scoffed at her efforts. Planted seeds of doubt in her mind. He pointed out, gleefully I might add, if her dimensions were off by just a hair the building would collapse. She searched for something less demanding. She’s the creative type, so she signed up for an art course. Discovered she’s quite good. Happy with her pictures, she proudly displayed them on the wall in the stairwell of their townhouse. One day Rex brought a colleague home for lunch. When he caught his friend looking at the artwork Rex said, see the shit I have to put up with? She could’ve sworn the man admired her work, until he laughed along with her husband. As soon as they left, she tore down all of the pictures, balled them up, and threw them in the trash. She finally came up with a career choice Rex might actually appreciate. She went to real estate school. When the time came for her to take the final exam, she’d been so beaten down by her husband and the others, she failed the test five times before passing on the sixth try. No one noticed, much less cared. She managed to find a real estate broker who wanted her to work at his realty company, but from day one, all he did was try to get her in his bed. He didn’t care how many sales or listings she could bring in. That wasn’t why he’d given her a desk. She gave up. All Rex ever did was bitch and moan that she’s only looking for a job just to keep from tending to her wifely duties. He crapped on every idea she ever had. Never took a moment to at least consider her ideas. If they weren’t his ideas, they had to be shit. In the end, she felt nothing but bitterness and hatred toward all things male. Repressed rage ate her until...”

  BJ glimpsed toward the front of the house. The maître d’ still hadn’t returned.

  “I’m thinking about luring him, I mean, my character is thinking about luring Rex to the swampland in Chalmette, oh um, I mean, to a swamp, somewhere, anywhere, and feeding him to the gators.” A half smile, resembling a smirk. BJ wadded up her napkin, set it beside her plate. Scooted her chair back. “Excuse me.”

  Gary watched her walk toward the kitchen. She’d spoken in such a low realistic monotone, the hairs on his arms stood up. The same arms he wanted to wrap around her, earlier. But there was this hardness about her he found a bit off-putting.

  When she returned to the table, he noticed a change in her attitude. “BJ?”

  “I think you should know, I have a stalker.”

  CHAPTER 24

  While having dinner with Detective Mick Boutin at Such-and-Such restaurant, Alma tells him she has a stalker. She says

  <>

  BJ leaned back in her chair, and rested her chin on her palm. “She says what?” As soon as she told Northcutt she had a stalker she quickly downplayed the statement.

  She found an inkpen and a tablet. Wrote: give the restaurant a name.

  A haunting melody came on the stereo.

  She began again.

  <>

  Alma decided to get out of the house, but go somewhere different for a change. Someplace where she didn’t have to talk to anybody. Perhaps the wooded trail at the park? While lacing her running shoes, the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Alma. Did you get my email, pretty girl?”

  “Who is this? What do you want from me?” Without waiting for a reply she shouted, “I have nothing you want!”

  “Yes you do, Alma. You have everything I ever wanted in a woman. And I could make you very happy.”

  Alma slammed down the receiver. Pretty girl? Roger’s the only one whoever called her that.

  <>

  BJ paused. Idly fiddled with the pencil holder on her desk to help her think. She changed Roger to Jeff.

  <>

  The voice had been muffled. Alma wasn’t sure. Trembling uncontrollably, she poured a little brandy. The trip to the park was forgotten. Two more shots of the syrupy substance, she brought the receiver to her ear and listened for a dial tone. Tapped out the number on the business card Detective Boutin had given her at the restaurant.

  “Homicide,” said Detective John Doughnut on Mick Boutin’s phone, which started ringing when he walked by.

  <>

  She clicked a strikethrough on Doughnut. Stopping just to come up with a name for a character or a place always screwed up the rest of her thinking.

  <>

  “I need to speak to Detective Boutin,” Alma blurted out. Her heart thumped wildly.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Tell him its Alma LeJeune. Please hurry.”

  “Hang on, Miss. He’s downstairs.”

  She listened to the steady tick of the clock.

  It seemed to take forever for Boutin to answer.

  “Alma, what’s wrong?”

&
nbsp; She noticed there was no reason for him to ask what’s right. She took a deep breath, and then said, “I just got a call from that maniac. My stalker.” Tears flowed unchecked.

  “Give me your address.”

  “I live in the French Quarter, 1313 Bonbon Street.”

  “Got it. I’m on my way. Don’t answer the phone or let anyone in but me. Understand?” At the sound of thunder, Mick reached for his windbreaker. “Um, Alma, where’s your husband?”

  “He’s up north somewhere. Ohio, I think. Please hurry, Detective Boutin, I’m very frightened.”

  <>

  BJ pushed away from the computer. A quick pee break. Then she went to the kitchen, and poured a shot of tequila. Swallowed too fast. Coughed. Poured a little more.

  She returned to the story.

  <>

  Mick Boutin parked in front of Alma’s townhouse. Announced his arrival while rapidly tapping a brass knocker. He felt a tug on his heartstrings the moment she opened the door. She was crying, defenselessly. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and comfort her, but that was her husband’s job. Mick not only didn’t want to create any problems, he sure as hell didn’t want to receive any. Particularly from a jealous or irate husband.

  No sooner had he closed the door, than she fell into his arms, buried her face against his chest and continued crying. Taken by surprise, he didn’t know what to do.

  He lightly patted her back. “Everything’s going to be all right.” He loosely folded his arms around her. She felt small. Fragile.

  Alma grew aware of her actions. She stepped away from him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I, I was just so upset. His voice, it was downright creepy.”

  “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay,” he reassured her as best as he could. A vision of his wife’s face replaced Alma’s. He released her. Cleared his throat, stepped back. “Tell me what happened.”

  “He asked if I had read his email. He said I had everything he ever wanted. Then he said not only could he make me very happy, he planned to show me how. I-I hung up the phone before he could say anything else. His voice, it was muffled, garbled, like maybe he’d put a handkerchief over the mouthpiece.” She snatched a handful of tissues from the box on the foyer table, patted her eyes dry.

  “I hate to tell you this, but there isn’t much I can do for you. You could get a new phone number. That’d be a start. An unlisted number.”

  “I couldn’t do that without discussing it with my husband first. When he’s out of the office or his cell phone is off for any number of reasons, his calls come here. Everyone he knows would have to be contacted. Everyone. I have no idea how many people have our number. But beyond all of that, what possible reason could I give him for wanting the number changed?”

  Wringing her hands, she paced the large foyer. Ever so often, while dabbing dry eyes, she’d peek at him from behind the tissues, and assess his reactions and facial expressions.

  “Rex was supposed to go from Dayton, Ohio to Houston, Texas today.” She glimpsed at her watch. “If everything went according to plan, he’ll be checking into his hotel room around five this evening. I’ll give him a call later, and ask him to come home.”

  “Good for you,” Mick responded, encouragingly. “He needs to stick around more often, and do something to help you with this awful situation you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  “No! He’ll just get angry and scold me, or worse, for messing around with the Internet in the first place. I can’t tell him. Don’t you see?” On a softer note she added, “I’ll have to think of another reason for him to come home.”

  Mick nodded. “Call if you need me.”

  Alma locked the door behind the detective. She sat on the couch with the phone on her lap. She couldn’t call Rex.

  <>

  BJ reread the last sentence.

  She wasn’t quite ready to call Detective Northcutt.

  She scrolled back to the start of the chapter so she could relay the details of her stalker exactly the way she’d written them.

  “I wonder if he’ll bitch a fit if he finds out how I’ve used him to get this novel written?”

  CHAPTER 25

  Gary Northcutt sat with his elbows resting on his desk. He lazily played with his moustache, which had, so far, remained untouched by the gray creeping up his hairline.

  He craved a cigarette for the first time in a long time. A couple of months ago, chasing a robbery suspect through a neighborhood left him gasping for air. Unable to keep up with the crook or the other officers, he sat on the curb with a hand pressed against his chest, and prayed he wouldn’t die. He quit smoking the next morning.

  Dylan Dirck strolled in carrying a cup of coffee. He slid a stick of chewing gum out of his pocket. Tossed it to Gary.

  “Thanks. How did you know?” He opened the bright yellow wrapper. Folded the gum in half and stuffed it in his mouth.

  “I’m a detective, remember?”

  Dylan Dirck’s also a comedian of sorts. Everyone in Homicide warmly referred to him as Little Dick. He wasn’t just the smallest member of the detective squad he’s also the youngest and prettiest. To the older more seasoned cops, he was too baby-faced to be taken seriously. His impressive portfolio impressed no one.

  However, with sandy blonde hair and pale blue eyes, he made one helluva good-looking woman and was thereby chosen to play the female role during certain sting operations.

  “Y’know, Gary, sometimes being a detective is no different than being a proctologist.”

  “Yeah? How so?” Gary wadded up the chewing gum in its wrapper and tossed it in the trashcan beside his desk. He fixed a cup of coffee.

  “I just had an altercation with a perp I arrested on suspicion of murder. I damn near had to ream the guy to get him into the back seat of my car.”

  Gary laughed, lightly. Not exactly getting the joke.

  Dylan noticed. “Okay, here’s a better one. I heard this on the radio last night while I was driving home. A woman went to see a doctor named Newton about getting her breasts enlarged without using implants or drugs. He told her, when she wakes up in the morning say the words sits knits quits I want bigger tits. One day while she’s in a diner having lunch she realized she’d forgotten to say the words that morning. Speaking in a low tone, she said sits knits quits I want bigger tits. A man sitting at a nearby table heard her. He tapped her on the shoulder and asked if she’d been to see a quack named Newton. She said yes, and asked why. He said, tickity clickity clock.”

  Gary chuckled.

  Suddenly, Dylan was on the bottom of the emotional seesaw. “You know what gets to me the most? People hurting animals. It breaks my heart when I read or hear about animal cruelty. In most foreign countries, they have total disregard for the feelings of animals. The barbaric things they do just kill my soul. It’s bad enough just knowing what the scumbags in this country do.”

  A couple of sips of hot coffee intensified the anger.

  “Why don’t people understand? If it bleeds it CAN feel pain! And you know what? I think anyone who looks the other way is just a bad as the offender. Just because an animal is destined for the meat market doesn’t give people the right to sadistically abuse the trapped and helpless creatures right before slaughtering them. If you think about it, what some places serve isn’t much better than road kill, for chrissake. I won’t even watch movies where they depict animals being hurt or killed. I know it isn’t real, but I hate that shit all the same. I just hate it!”

  Gary frowned, confused by Dylan’s behavior.

  “What brought this on?”

  Dylan shrugged. Parked his butt on the side of his desk. Lightly traced the crease in his slacks with his thumb. “Lobo died last night. Somehow, he got out of the back yard and ran into the street. A car hit him. The sonofabitch drove away and left him lying there. Didn’t even bother to see if he was still alive. Didn’t bother to take him to the vet. Didn’t bother to do any damn thing.”

  Dylan hurried
to the other side of the room. Sniffling once, he refilled his coffee cup.

  Gary knew how much Dylan loved his dog. He didn’t know what to say to make the hurt go away. He, too, lost a dog a few years ago. Someone had stolen her right out of the yard.

  An apologetic smile on his face, Dylan returned to his desk. “Um,” he cleared his throat, “I heard about the case you and Cantin are working on. Any new leads?”

  “Not yet. We had one possible suspect to question, but we don’t think he’s guilty of murder. He didn’t strike us as being a career criminal. He might be guilty of being a piss ant but not for killing the woman in the alley.”

  “Mm, so, what’re you calling this case?” Dylan brushed a stray tear from his cheek.

  Gary pretended not to notice. “We haven’t given it a name. At this point, we’re not sure if this is the beginning of some seriously bad shit, or if it’s just an isolated incident.”

  The phone rang.

  “Homicide, Northcutt speaking.”

  “Hi. It’s BJ Donovan. I need your help. I, I just got a call from my stalker.”

  CHAPTER 26

  “Hi baby, I’m Sarri. How can I be of service, tonight,” she asked. Bent at the waist, she leaned in close to the open window of the man’s car. She held her hands against her thighs and twirled the wedding band on her right finger. Something she always did for a bit of good juju.

  “How much?” Jeff Wentzel eyeballed the area for any other cops. Mainly, the undercover type. His gaze returned to the petite blonde. Her resemblance to BJ Donovan kind of creeped him out. “Well?”

  “Ooo, such a chaw-muh, you are.”

  Jeff glared at her. Or him. He wasn’t sure which. “How much, dammit?”

  “Twenty, minimum.”

  “Twenty, huh? And what will the maximum give me?”