Murder In Louisiana Politics

by Jim Riley

  "There is nothing pure about a lynching."

  "And that's why the incident will be investigated. We'll find out what really happened."

  Niki pushed her plate away, no longer interested in her favorite food.

  "What century with this investigation wrap up?" She asked.

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Saturday morning

  Central

  David Martin and his wife took some clothes and toiletries and checked into a hotel off of Corporate Boulevard. It offered a suite with a dining area, a bedroom and a kitchenette.

  He was not sure how long they planned to stay, but after the Molotov cocktail was tossed through his window, he did not feel safe at home. No matter how much he and his wife had scrubbed, the smell of musty smoke permeated throughout the whole structure.

  Sometime after midnight, they gave up. He called the hotel, found there was a room available and decided to move to the suite temporarily. When they pulled out of the driveway, he stopped his car in the middle of the street. He took a final glance at the home where he and his wife had spent the last eighteen years, a fortress of comfort and safety. Those were the terms he once thought of when thinking of his home.

  At the hotel counter, the chirpy young clerk smiled and greeted them as though they were long lost friends.

  "Thanks," David replied. "Do you have a room on one of the middle floors?"

  Somewhere, David had read that the bottom floor of any hotel was the most dangerous followed closely by the top floor. The safest place to stay was right in the middle.

  "We certainly do," the clerk beamed. "We have a double suite on the third floor. I can give it to you for the same cost as a single."

  "That will work fine. How about some food? Is the kitchen closed?"

  "I'm sorry," the clerk said, looking genuinely sad. "But I can get a cook to whip something up for you if you're not too particular."

  "Right now, I'd eat the south end of a northbound mule. Whatever he can fix will work."

  They checked into the room halfway between the bank of elevators and the staircase at the end of the hallway. Dave he could not have selected a more perfect room.

  While they were putting away their clothes, his wife was not as content. Her face was wrinkled and taut at the same time.

  "What's wrong, Honey?" He asked.

  "Should you really have left it up to the cook to fix whatever he wants? It's probably going to be leftovers the other guests decided not to eat."

  "I don't think he'll send up a half-eaten hamburger or some French fries with ketchup already covering them."

  "You know what I mean," she shot back. "What if we get a stale salad and some cold, oily fish?"

  "Then we'll get in the car and go to Whataburger. They stay open twenty-four seven, and you love them."

  "Let's go ahead and go. They've got the best chicken sandwich in town."

  "We can't," he answered. "We promised that pretty little thing at the front desk we would take whatever the kitchen fixed."

  "I saw how you looked at her, like a tiger slobbering over a piece of meat. I can't believe how obvious you were."

  "Come on, Honey. It doesn't matter where I build my appetite as long as I eat at home. And you're my home."

  "Your home smells like a garbage dump. I think I'll get a shower."

  She left him to finish the unpacking while she took a small case into the shower. Soon, the steaming hot vapors freed the pores in her skin from the awful clammy feeling.

  David finished unpacking and sat in a comfortable chair before flicking on the television. The normal late-night show was interrupted with breaking news. A fellow named George Thomas had been arrested and charged with three counts of attempted murder.

  A sense of contentment overwhelmed David. He did not know who threw the firebomb into his home, but he recognized George's name. If the consultant had tried to kill Jimmy Gill, David rationalized there was a very good chance he was the one who tried to burn his house down. He had nothing else to fear.

  The blanket of serenity was still wrapped around him when he heard the knock at the door.

  "Room service," the young feminine voice announced.

  David broke into a big grin. He pictured the front desk clerk standing outside his hotel door. Then he glanced sourly in the direction of the running shower. If his wife was not in the hotel with him, he might have had a chance. Now he would have to settle for another long look at the clerk's bumps and curvatures.

  He opened the door and was surprised. The front desk clerk was not the one holding the tray in the hallway. But he was not disappointed. The gorgeous young lady was not as vivacious as the perky clerk, but she had plenty of curves in places most females could only dream about.

  "Room service," the girl repeated. Even the sound of her voice sent a tingle up David's leg.

  "Right over there," he pointed at the counter of the small kitchenette.

  The girl took the silver tray over to the flat surface and lifted the top. She revealed an enticing array of Louisiana seafood. Fried crawfish. Fried shrimp. Crab fingers. Catfish filets. Boudin balls. Raw oysters. Two different sauces accompanied the seafood; one seasoned to an extreme and the other mild.

  "Do I need to sign the check?" David asked.

  "It's complementary. We like to welcome all our distinguished guests," she replied.

  Although he wanted to grab a handful of the popcorn crawfish instantly, David could not take his eyes off the view of the departing young lady.

  "Building your appetite?" His wife asked from the doorway to the bedroom.

  "They gave us all this food. No charge." He tried to change the subject, pointing to the tray on the counter.

  "Is that all she offered to give you?"

  "Now, Dear. Let's enjoy the food instead of fighting. After we finish all of this, we won't be in a mood to fight."

  David took a fried shrimp, dumped it in the hot sauce and popped it in his mouth.

  "Geez," he rasped. "That's some of the hottest cocktail sauce I've ever had. It's great."

  His wife broke off a piece of catfish filet, dipped it in the sauce and placed it in her mouth.

  "My goodness, what in the world did they put in that?"

  "I don't know, but I love it," David replied. "Remind me to get the recipe from the chef."

  "I think I'll stick with the mild sauce."

  Both were more hungry than they realized and wiped out the tray of goodies in no time. They were eating the last raw oyster when they heard a knock at the door.

  "Mr. Martin?"

  Another knock.

  "Who is it?"

  "Butch DeGeneres. I'm the night manager."

  "What can I do for you, Butch?" David asked before opening the door.

  "I need to speak to you. Please let me in."

  David peeked through the eye-hole in the door. The gentleman on the other side was dressed in a coat and tie and looked harmless. He cautiously opened the door.

  "What is it?"

  "When did Jesus deliver the food to you?"

  "Must've been thirty minutes ago, maybe forty."

  "Was there anything wrong with him? Did he act normal?"

  "It wasn't him," Dennis replied. "It was her."

  David did his best to describe the alluring young lady without revealing what he was thinking when she was in the room. He did not go into great detail about the girl's finer assets with his wife listening.

  "We have no one in the hotel who fits that description," the manager said. "Did you get her name?"

  "I didn't," he had been too busy rating those assets to think about a detail like her name.

  "I don't feel good," his wife said behind him.

  Butch quickly sized up the situation. He grabbed the radio on his belt.

  "Get an ambulance coming this way. Also, get poison control over here now," he shouted. "Room three twelve."

  The word struck the very core of David Martin. That attractive little girl had smil
ed at him the whole time she was killing him. Those were his last thoughts when the poison invaded his heart.

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  Saturday morning

  Lane Memorial Hospital

  Zachary

  "Looks like the same poison," Mayeaux said.

  "That means Paula didn't give up when the firebomb didn't work," Niki replied.

  "They found the kid who was supposed to take the tray to the room tied up in a closet. At least, she didn't kill him."

  "I wonder why," Niki took a sip of coffee. "She seems to enjoy killing people."

  "She didn't kill the twins," Samson countered.

  "I'm still trying to figure that one out. Something isn't adding up with it."

  "How would she know David and his wife were in this hotel?"

  "She had to be following them. After the check-in, she improvised. I bet she was close enough to hear the clerk and David discussing Room Service."

  "They found the poison in both sauces."

  "Will either of them survive?" Niki asked.

  "I doubt it. Mrs. Martin is already dead and David had a bunch of his organs shutting down. The doctors don't give him much of a chance to make it."

  "I'm glad he described Paula to the night manager. Any surveillance footage?"

  "We have film of her coming out of the elevator taking the tray to the room. The next time we picked her up with the cameras, she came out of the room and walked out of the front door. She even waved to the desk clerk."

  "She's getting too bold. That's a mistake on her part. Maybe she believes she is invincible."

  "So far she has been," Mayeaux snorted. "She's pretty much done whatever she wanted to do and we're sitting on our thumbs watching her. If I were her, I'd be feeling pretty cocky myself."

  "Do you think George Thomas hired her?"

  "Everything is pointing in that direction."

  "That makes me feel better. If you think it's a good working theory, then it can't be all bad." Niki said.

  "Maybe we can wrap this up," Samson replied.

  "I only have one question."

  "Uh oh," Samson's countenance fell.

  "Why did George take a shot at Jimmy Gill? Neither of us believe it was Paula. And the rifle was found on George's property. Why did he need to kill Jimmy?"

  "That's actually two questions and I'll answer both of them at the same time. I don't know and probably never will."

  "Were you able to trace the tip about the embezzled money? Any idea who sent it?"

  "Nope," Samson shook his head. "It was a burner phone. We're trying to trace down where it was purchased, but no luck so far."

  "That leaves Kenny Long. He would already be dead if those four kids would have left things alone."

  "I wonder how long it will take for Paula to go back after him."

  The doctor appeared and informed Mayeaux that all of David Martin's organs had shut down. He was dead.

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  Saturday night

  Goor Road

  Central

  "Chrissy, who would've known George was stealing money the campaign?" Niki asked.

  The young assistant in the neat, little house looked more like a display in a toy store than a politician's aide.

  "I don't know. Omar might have figured it out. If he did, he never mentioned it to me."

  Niki stared at the girl. Not a single hair out of place. Not a single wrinkle in her blouse. Not a single blemish on her perfect skin. Niki could not imagine looking like Chrissy and living in the real world. Especially in Niki's world.

  "How did you set up the campaign fund that lists you as the manager?"

  "How–?" A crack in the perfect armor.

  "Did you use money from that fund to hire someone to take the pictures of Kenny Long in Belize?"

  "Omar didn't have a lot of spare money set aside to hire an investigator. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out where Kenny got the money to go to Belize. Even if he had been truthful, it would have hurt him in the polls. Luckily for us, it turned out that was exactly what he did."

  "Where did you get the photographs?"

  "You're not the only private investigator in Baton Rouge. We hired someone to find them."

  "Did this investigator furnish you the pictures?"

  Chrissy nodded. "The whole thing costs us more than we would have liked, but it was worth it. Kenny was no longer a factor in the race."

  "You said we. Do you mean you and Omar?"

  "That would have been illegal. Omar was not involved in the strategy or the execution of the plan."

  Niki was amazed at how easily Chrissy lied to her without giving it away. The private investigator was accustomed to being told untruths, but she usually could spot differences in delivery or tone. With Chrissy, she saw neither.

  "So who was the other part of we?" Niki asked.

  "I'd rather not say. It's not important now, anyway." Chrissy closed the topic.

  "How do you think George got the money?"

  "It wouldn't have been difficult. He was the point man for Omar's image building and was the lead for rounding up donations. He could easily have diverted some of the money to his own account before sending the rest to either mine or Omar's. It would have made more sense to take the money from the funds meant for the Super PAC."

  "Why?" Niki asked.

  "The PAC never had to disclose the donors or how much they gave. If a guy or company donates five hundred thousand, the only record will be on their end. If the same amount shows up in the PAC account, everyone would assume the whole check was deposited."

  "So if the two companies donated money to the PAC, then George could have diverted the check from one of them, and both would assume the money came from them."

  "You might have a future in politics," Chrissy smiled. "It's all about the money for most. Omar was one of the few who truly served to make a difference in the lives of the people in Louisiana."

  "Why did he take all the campaign donations if he wasn't in it for the money?"

  "Because, despite his great heart, Omar was a realist. He knew to get in the position to help the people, he had to get elected. Unfortunately, to get elected in today's environment, it takes money. Lots of money. That's why he took donations."

  "I might not be the only one with an aptitude for politics," Niki replied.

  "To be honest, I thought about it. Working for Omar inspired me to want to help the people."

  "Will you try to get on the staff of the winner this year? There are only two candidates left."

  Chrissy stood and paced back and forth. She did not answer Niki for a long time. Finally, she returned to her chair.

  "I'm not sure yet. I want to be involved in politics, but I don't know if either of those guys can have the same impact as Omar."

  "May I ask you a personal question?"

  "Sure," Chrissy replied.

  "You told me before you and Omar were involved in a relationship. Do you think your feelings for Omar might have obscured his defects?"

  "Omar had no defects," Chrissy was firm in tone.

  Chapter Ninety-Nine

  Sunday morning

  Central

  "Alicia, we're still trying to piece this all together. I'm hoping you can fill in some of the blanks." Niki spoke to Omar Philbin's widow.

  "I'll do what I can, but as I told you before, my relationship with Omar had become more business than personal," Alicia responded.

  "Would it surprise you if Omar was having an affair with his assistant?"

  "I think you may not be exactly correct."

  "I talked to Chrissy Becker. They were involved in an affair."

  "No," Alicia responded. "She may have thought it was an affair, but the word insinuates two people with a feeling for each other. Omar was not capable of having feelings for anyone but himself."

  "If so, he had Chrissy fooled."

  "He was a politician. Most of his job involved fooling people, mostly his constitu
ents."

  "Are you saying he had no feelings for Miss Becker?" Niki asked.

  "I'm sure he had feelings. He liked feeling her ass, and he liked feeling her breasts, but that was true of any female he met under thirty."

  "Did it make you angry?"

  "How would you have felt if you were married to Omar?"

  The question caught Niki off guard. She could not imagine being united with a man who was faithfully unfaithful. Nor did she want to imagine such a scenario.

  "I didn't know Omar, and I was not in a position to want to cause him harm." The private investigator answered after some thought.

  "So that's what this is all about? You're back to considering me as a suspect?"

  "We must consider all the possibilities."

  "I've heard rumors you guys already had it figured out. Didn't you arrest George Thomas, and then let him get killed in jail?"

  "He committed suicide," Niki replied.

  "From what I heard, he had marks on his wrists from being tied up. It's hard for a man to put a rope around his neck with both hands tied behind his back."

  "I'm not aware of those facts," Niki wondered if Alicia had heard some exaggerated rumors or if Samson had withheld that information from her.

  "I also heard George had been violated by the other prisoners before they killed him."

  "Sounds like the rumor mill is still alive and well, but you can't believe everything," Niki said.

  "I know that. If George had pictures of young boys on his computer and a room where he tortured them, then I can't say I blame the other prisoners too much. I know that sounds horrible, but when I think of those boys–"

  "We don't know yet he tortured any kids in the room."

  "You will. From what I've heard, they've already matched the blood the detectives found to three different DNA samples of missing boys."

  Niki wondered who might be the source of this information. She needed to get Drexel and Donna on it as soon as possible.