Snakebit

by Linsey Lanier

  Labatte straightened and folded his arms, his coarse face skeptical. “And how do you know that?”

  “Because he wrote about it in a diary he keeps in his office. A ledger book he used as a diary. I snuck in there this morning and read all about it. He wrote about how he killed his mother. And yes, I work for him. I’m one of Baptiste Duval’s girls. My real name is Eileen Boyd. Baptiste calls me Raven because of my hair. He gives us all nicknames.”

  She touched a strand of her hair and Miranda’s heart squeezed as she thought of Mackenzie once again.

  She turned to Labatte. “I think she’s telling the truth.”

  “What do you want from us, young lady?” Parker said to her.

  “I want to help. I want to find out what Baptiste did to my friend, Katy May. If you can arrest Baptiste then maybe I can go home.” Her eyes began to well with tears as she handed Wesson back her bag. “Here you can have your purse back. I didn’t take anything. I just wanted to talk to you and I couldn’t do it with Danilo watching.”

  “Danilo?”

  “He’s one of Baptiste’s men. He keeps an eye on us while we’re working the streets. If anybody talks to the cops or tries to run—well, it can be bad. Real bad. If I don’t get back there soon, he’ll know something’s wrong and I’ll be in big trouble.”

  Miranda could only imagine what that might mean. Her mind began to race.

  She turned back to Labatte. “Sounds like this ledger book has the evidence you need. If you could arrest Baptiste, Dr. Boudreaux’s attorney can get a stay of execution based on the fact that his twin brother exists.”

  “Twin brother?” Eileen pressed a hand to her face. “Baptiste has a twin brother?”

  “We think he’s the brother of our client in Atlanta,” Parker explained. “We believe Baptiste might be guilty of killing his wife ten years ago. Baptiste’s brother has been charged with the crime and is awaiting execution.”

  Eileen’s eyes grew a little wild. “So that was what that newspaper was about.”

  A chill went down Miranda’s spine. “What newspaper?”

  “The one from Atlanta. I saw it on Baptiste’s desk this morning when I snuck into his office. It was turned to an article about a man on Death Row whose execution is coming up.”

  Baptiste was reading about his brother’s pending execution? “He must have done it, Parker.”

  “It could be a coincidence.” He turned to Eileen. “Do you know anything about what Baptiste was doing ten years ago?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve only been here three years. There might be something in the ledger book. I stopped reading after the part about his mother.”

  “Did this book say what Baptiste did with his mother’s body?”

  “No. But he wrote over and over how much he hated her. He wrote that he strangled her with his bare hands.”

  It wasn’t all they needed, but it was a darn good start.

  “Labatte,” she said. “You can get a subpoena to search Baptiste’s desk, can’t you?”

  Eileen shook her head. “That won’t work. Baptiste pays off the judges and the police in the area. I’ve heard him bragging about it.”

  Labatte rubbed his mustache. “We might be able to find an honest judge.”

  “That would take too much time,” Parker said.

  Miranda pursed her lips, her mind whirring with an idea. “We could steal it.”

  It would be evidence obtained illegally, but it would be enough to bring him in and to get a stay for Dr. Boudreaux. She was sure Labatte could get a confession out of Baptiste once he was in custody. She and Parker would help. And Wesson could get her feet wet questioning suspects. Besides, it was the only chance they had.

  “You would have to be careful,” Eileen said.

  “Why?”

  “He keeps something terrible in his office.”

  “What?”

  “A rattlesnake. He calls it Beelzebub. I thought it was just a rumor, but I saw it when I was in his office I knew it was true.”

  Now it was Miranda’s turn to blink. “You mean Baptiste Duval is into snakes?”

  “Oh, yes. He has lots of books on them. He even has a tattoo of one along his neck.”

  Miranda sucked in a breath, looked at Parker, then at Wesson. They were both just as stunned as she was. She thought of the psychic connection between twins Parker had mentioned. A mystic bond that united two beings who had once shared a womb in a mystical way. They might have the same thoughts, the same physical sensations. Even if they never knew each other. This bond was a creepy one. But it made her sure of one thing.

  She didn’t know how or why, but she knew Baptiste had killed Dr. Charmaine Boudreaux and set his brother up to take the fall.

  She turned to Eileen. “This snake. It’s in a case, right? It can’t get out.”

  “Yes, it’s in a case. But it’s frightening just the same.”

  Like its owner. Miranda stared at the dark graves surrounding her. “Then it won’t keep us from getting to the book.”

  Labatte stared at her in awe. “Steal Baptiste Duval’s ledger book? How will you do that, Ms. Steele?”

  Her mind still racing with the details she was putting together, she grinned and thought of Becker and his silly A-Team quotes. “Distraction, diversion and division.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  “Ouch.”

  “You’ve got to hold still, Steele. For a tough girl, you can really be a baby.”

  Miranda winced as Wesson tugged the long blond wig they’d bought in a shop on Royal Street that morning onto her head.

  For her own do, Wesson had wanted the pale blue bouffant with the gold flowers that was a mile high, but Miranda said hair like that would attract too much attention. They were supposed to be incognito. Wesson’s red locks would be fine.

  She batted her eyes at Wesson. “Be gentle with me.”

  “Just don’t move.” Wesson dug another hairpin into her scalp.

  Last night after hearing Eileen Boyd’s revelations in the graveyard, they’d gone back to the hotel with Detective Labatte and ironed out the plan to steal Baptiste Duval’s ledger book.

  Since there was no time to check out security, the best way to get into the riverboat casino, Miranda had reasoned, was through the front door. Parker had agreed. Labatte pointed out Baptiste might recognize the investigators from Atlanta, so they’d decided to go in disguise.

  Parker would pose as Lloyd Johnson, a wannabe professional gambler with a bankroll. Miranda would be his love interest with the innocuous name of Sue Smith. Wesson would be his assistant and second love interest on the side. She could use her own name, Miranda decided, since it hadn’t been in the media a dozen times over the past year.

  Labatte was familiar with the exterior layout of the riverboat, and Eileen had given them enough information of the interior to sketch out a map.

  On the main deck, Parker would play the tables in a way that would draw Baptiste’s attention. Distraction. Meanwhile Wesson would flirt with Baptiste’s men and keep them away from the staircase. Diversion. While all that was going on, Miranda would quietly slip away and make her way up those stairs to Baptiste’s private office. Division.

  As quickly as possible she’d find the ledger book, stuff it in her bag and come back downstairs before anyone knew she’d been there. She’d give Parker and Wesson the success signal, Parker would finish up his game and the three of them would leave as nonchalantly as they’d come in.

  Outside Detective Labatte would be waiting for them in his unmarked car. Once they were sure they hadn’t been followed, they’d hurried over to him, hand him the book, then follow him to the police station in Parker’s Mazda.

  There Parker would make copies of the relevant pages and sent them to Estavez, whom he’d already alerted about the plan. Meanwhile Labatte would work on getting an arrest warrant for Baptiste. Once Baptiste was in custody, Miranda was determined to get a confession out of him about his brother.

&nbs
p; Easy, peasy.

  If they all kept their heads.

  This was the hard part.

  “Suck it up, Steele.” Wesson held up the dress she’d picked out for her at the second shop they’d gone to. “At least you won’t have to suck it in, with your skinny middle.”

  It was a sleeveless multi-colored print maxi dress with straps down the back and a high slit on the side. They’d decided long flowing skirts would be easier to hide a weapon.

  Miranda lifted her arms and wriggled into the thing as Wesson held it up for her.

  Wesson stepped back to admire her work. “Looking good,” she grinned.

  Wesson was already in her choice of attire from the store. The flowing magenta georgette creation with the princess bodice hugged her shapely body as if she were born in it, while a long row of narrow straps crisscrossed her entire back, like an old-fashioned corset. Wesson was supposed to be a distraction, but in that dress, with her thick amaretto-colored hair flowing to her shoulders, Miranda hoped she wouldn’t attract more attention than they wanted.

  “Now for the shoes.”

  “Ugh,” Miranda groaned.

  “C’mon. They’ll only hurt for the first hour or so.”

  “Tell that to my toes.”

  In the shoe store they’d visited, Miranda had wanted the silver high-tops—fancied-up athletic shoes with arch supports and no heels. But Wesson had pooh-poohed all over that idea. In the end Miranda had had to settle for the silver gladiator heels, which Wesson thought were feminine enough. She stepped into them and laced them up.

  “Okay. I’m done.”

  “A little touch-up on your makeup.” Wesson reached for a lip brush and dabbed it over Miranda’s mouth.

  She’d gone all-out with false eyelashes, glitter and what felt like a pound of foundation. This was a good disguise. Even no one back at the office would recognize her.

  As Wesson finished with her lips, Parker emerged from the bathroom wearing the outfit he’d chosen on their shopping spree. A postman blue slim fit blazer over a gray striped Henley and dark Chinos. A pair of charcoal loafers completed the rich, casual look. He looked gorgeous and sexy as all get out. He’d also donned the fake mustache they’d bought that afternoon. It looked real, and he’d darkened the gray in his salt-and-pepper hair, making him look ten years younger.

  Hubba hubba, she almost sighed out loud. Instead she grinned and said, “Rhett Butler’s got nothing on you.”

  After drinking her in with his eyes, he raised a skeptical brow. “Frankly, my dear, I do give a damn.”

  She knew he didn’t like putting her or Wesson in a position like this. Walking into the lion’s den, he’d called it. But he knew they had no choice. If they didn’t get that book into Detective Labatte’s hands, in less than twenty-four hours, Dr. Boudreaux would be dead.

  “Wow,” she heard Wesson whisper under her breath. “I’ll give you two a minute alone.” And she scampered back into her room.

  Parker came over to Miranda, took her hands and spread her arms. “You look absolutely stunning.”

  She grinned, feeling herself blush. Parker was the only man alive who could do that to her. She wanted to press herself up against him and relish his embrace, but it would spoil the makeup.

  His look turned serious. “Be careful tonight, Miranda.”

  “I’m always careful. And I’ve got my Beretta with me.” She raised the hem of her skirt to show him it was neatly strapped around her calf.

  “I don’t want you to take any unnecessary risks. You’re more important to me than Clarence.”

  “The truth is what’s important.”

  “We still don’t know the truth. We know Clarence’s twin is an unsavory character, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he killed Charmaine.”

  He could be right. There were still dozens of unanswered questions about the murder. “We know Baptiste was reading a newspaper article about his brother’s execution,” she pointed out. “Why would he do that if he didn’t know Clarence existed?”

  “Duval might have read about us in those papers, as well.”

  They’d been over that this morning. “That’s why we’re wearing disguises. By the time he figures out who we are, Labatte will have him behind bars.” She reached up and smoothed the fabric of his shirt. “And we’ll know the truth about Clarence in a few hours after that.” It was all the time they had.

  “I hope you’re right.” He gave her a light kiss on her painted lips, then looked toward the window. “The sun’s gone down. It’s time we got going.”

  They’d had to wait until the time Eileen had told them Baptiste usually made an appearance on the casino floor. Miranda had hated having to watch the hours slip by, but it was the only way.

  “It’s going to be all right. I can feel it.”

  Actually she wasn’t sure what she was feeling. She knew they were close to the answers they were looking for, and Parker did, too. Maybe it was because this case had gone so fast, or because of this town with its revelry, ghosts, and voodoo, but her usual senses were off. Still, they knew what they knew, and they had to act on it.

  She grabbed a tissue from the dressing table, wiped a bit of lipstick off his mouth, and picked up the bag Wesson had picked out for her that morning—a silver shoulder bag, similar to the one Eileen had snatched last night. This was where she’d stash Duval’s ledger book once she got hold of it.

  Then she sauntered over and banged on her cohort’s door. “Operation Golden Dreams ready for lift off.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The Golden Dreams casino floated beside the southern shore of Lake Pontchartrain like an ivory castle.

  The huge Victorian-style riverboat was just over four-hundred feet, Miranda had read in Wesson’s guidebook, one of the largest vessels of its kind. It had been lucrative during the decades before Katrina, had survived the vicious hurricane with minor damage, and had done a booming business ever since. As they headed down the wharf, Miranda studied the red trim and the pretty white latticework railings that ran around each of the three decks.

  According to Eileen’s map, Baptiste Duval’s office was on the third deck, near the middle part of the ship. Shouldn’t be hard to find.

  But as they strolled under a white archway declaring, “Welcome Aboard!” and eager greeters giddily beckoned them inside, her nerves began to kick up.

  “Ladies?” Parker said in his low Southern voice.

  “We’re on,” Miranda whispered to Wesson, and they each took one of Parker’s arms and glided through the entrance.

  Suddenly they were plunged into the world of casino.

  Noisy bells and clanging video-game music from the slot machines, chatter and laughter from the guests, the sound of a live band playing near a bar across the floor, the smell of grilled steak from the restaurant. White columns decorated with gold leaf separated rows of slot machines from the rows of gaming tables where scores of customers were trying their luck, while servers in skimpy gold dresses jimmied their way through the crowd carrying drink-laden trays to thirsty gamblers.

  The place reminded her of Las Vegas and their first case as Parker and Steele Consulting.

  At several tables, women dressed in sequins and baubles were targeting lone male customers, urging them to bet more and guiding their hands to evocative places. Baptiste’s girls, as Eileen had called them. Miranda saw one young woman take a customer by the hand and guide him up a distant staircase.

  The staircase she would have to ascend soon.

  Again she scanned the floor. Baptiste wasn’t in sight. Eileen said he typically made an appearance about this time. He was late.

  “Let’s try this table,” Parker murmured in her ear.

  Parker selected one in the middle of the room where he could face the bar. He found an open spot, handed the dealer a hundred dollar bill. The dealer set down a stack of chips. Parker took them, placed them on the rack before him, and studied the shooter.

  A chubby bald man at the end
of the table had the dice. He shook them in his hand, tossed them to the end of the table. They came up with two.

  “Snakebit,” said the dealer as he settled the chips for each of the players’ bets.

  Brows raised, Miranda leaned over and murmured in Parker’s ear. “Snakebit?”

  “It refers to rolling a two after a run of bad luck,” he said to her quietly. “You can see the gentleman’s chips are getting low.”

  There were only two small stacks of chips before him. The chubby man took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow with it. Miranda hoped he wasn’t betting his rent money. He rolled again. Five.

  “Fever,” said another dealer, returning the dice to the man.

  Parker made a conservative bet of one hundred and waited for the man to roll again.

  This time the man blew on his fingers. His eyes bulged and he tossed the dice. The red cubes danced over the green felt—and came up with a four and a three.

  “Seven out,” dealer said, scooping up the man’s chips with his stick. He took Parker’s, too.

  Parker had lost intentionally, Miranda knew. They’d agreed to ten grand as the maximum loss tonight, and Parker had reminded her to record it on her expense report. Sheesh.

  Another dealer passed the dice to the woman standing next to the chubby man. A middle-aged woman with champagne blond hair in a blue flowered sundress that revealed a lot of boob, along with a swarm of freckles over her bare shoulders and arms.

  Parker exchanged more cash for chips. The woman began to roll, and Parker made his bets. One hundred. Five hundred. A thousand.

  He won on the last roll, earning a round of applause from the players at the table.

  It was then that Miranda scanned the crowd and at last caught sight of the man of the hour.

  Baptiste Duval leaned against the end of the bar, studying Parker intently. As he rose and made his way toward them, her heart felt like it had turned to stone.

  He looked just like Clarence. Same skin coloring. Same facial features. Same body shape.

  There were a few differences. He wore his hair in long ringlets that hung to his shoulders. His clothes were flashy. Purple and black silk and leather. His neck was decked with gold chains. But as he got closer she could clearly see what ran along his clavicle and up the side of his neck—the same snake tattoo his brother had.