The blond man’s name was Stuart Crenshaw. He and Brett went to high school together in Chicago and then separated for college, Brett ultimately going to law school before returning home. They’d both recently moved back to the city and renewed their friendship. The third man was Peter Boswell. He also went to high school with Stuart and Brett and essentially invited himself along on the trip because he’d never been to New Orleans and wanted to see the city. Both Stuart and Peter had girlfriends who were back at the hotel, still sleeping and unaware of what had happened.
“I truly am sorry for your loss,” Sully started.
“You’re sorry?” Kim sputtered, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. If she kept this up, they would be swollen shut in the next hour. “My boyfriend is dead. My ... heart ... is shredded. How can you sit there and say that you’re sorry?”
“Because I am,” Sully replied simply. This was hardly his first time interviewing bereaved individuals and he knew better than antagonizing them. “I need some information from you. First off, what hotel are you staying at?”
“The Grand Laveau over on Royal Street,” Peter replied dully. “We got a good deal on rooms.”
Sully nodded in understanding. “The Laveau is older, but it’s beautiful. You made a good choice When did you arrive in town?”
“Two days ago.”
“When are you scheduled to leave?”
“Not for another five days. Although ... now ... .” Peter flicked his eyes to Stuart, helpless. “What are we supposed to do? Should we call his parents? I think they’re in town this week. They should know.”
“I’ll handle notifying his parents,” Sully countered. “That’s standard procedure.”
“Oh, right.” Peter rubbed his forehead. “Are we supposed to stay here? I mean ... it doesn’t seem right to continue on a vacation that Brett was supposed to be part of. Of course, we can’t change our plane tickets because we got them through one of those booking deals and nobody can afford to pay for a second flight.”
This was hardly the first time Sully had heard a similar story. “It would be best if you hung around, at least for a few days. We’re trying to ascertain exactly what happened to Brett. If it’s determined to be foul play, I might have even more questions. As for now, did you notice anyone following you during your time in the city?”
Kim worked her jaw. “We were just six friends on a vacation together,” she complained. “We weren’t doing anything to get noticed. Heck, we were barely spending any time on Bourbon Street because it was so crazy.”
In truth, since it was the off-season, Bourbon Street had been relatively quiet for weeks. To someone who came from a different environment, though, he could see why they might think the infamous party boulevard was something to avoid. “I’m not saying that you purposely made someone angry ... or that Brett deserved what happened. I’m merely trying to get an idea of your everyday activities because I want to track down a suspect as soon as possible.”
“You’ve said that word twice now,” Stuart noted. “Suspect. Do you think Brett was killed? I couldn’t see that well in the photo but ... what happened to him?”
“We honestly don’t know right now.” Sully opted for honesty. “There were no marks on his body. That means we could be dealing with a variety of possibilities, including the fact that he died of natural causes. He might’ve had an undiagnosed heart ailment ... or a stroke ... or something else.”
“No way.” Kim adamantly shook her head. “He was as strong as an ox. He wasn’t sick. I would’ve known if he was sick.”
Sully didn’t argue with the assessment. “It’s also possible he drank to the point that he poisoned himself and that killed him.”
“I don’t know,” Peter hedged. “We had a lot to drink last night — we all did — but he didn’t drink that much more than the rest of us and we’re fine.”
“And yet he remained behind and the rest of you returned to your hotel,” Sully pointed out. “Why is that?”
“We were tired. He only planned on having one more drink and then heading back. The hotel was only like two and a half blocks away. It wasn’t a far walk.”
“I didn’t realize he didn’t come home last night,” Kim admitted sheepishly. “This is my fault because I passed out as soon as I got to the room. If I’d stayed up later, alerted the authorities that he was missing sooner, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“You can’t blame yourself,” Sully chided, his voice gentle but firm. “This is not your fault. Even if you had called, the individual answering the phone would’ve put you off because being an hour late to return to a hotel in New Orleans isn’t a crime ... it’s an everyday occurrence. It happens all the time here.”
“I know but ... .” She trailed off, uncertain. “What happens now?”
“Now we find out how he died. I’m going to have to search your hotel room, too.”
Kim balked. “Because you think I did something to him?”
“No, because it’s possible he had an allergic reaction to something he ate or drank ... or that maybe he had medication he didn’t want you to know about hidden in his suitcase. I have to check for those things. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.” Realization dawned on Kim’s pinched features. “I guess that makes sense. I just ... I don’t understand how this is happening. I keep thinking it’s a terrible dream and I’m going to wake up. I know that’s wishful thinking but ... I just hate this.” She dissolved into a fresh round of tears, Stuart automatically sliding an arm around her back.
“I know this is difficult,” Sully supplied. “I can’t ease your pain. All I can do is promise that I’m going to figure out what happened, whether accident or foul play. That’s all I can do.”
OFELIA COULDN’T KEEP HERSELF AWAY from the scene of the crime. Once she sniffed out the hex magic, that’s all she could focus on ... to the point of distraction. She left her father in charge of Krewe — with the tunnel cordoned off for the investigation, nobody could get into the bar anyway — and headed back down to watch the technicians work. It was there that she overheard an interesting tidbit.
The dead guy had been identified and he was staying at the Grand Laveau. Detective Sully was apparently questioning his friends, which meant she had an opening, however slight, to do a little digging of her own.
She set out at a brisk pace. It was quicker to walk through the French Quarter than attempt to drive. The Grand Laveau was only two and a half blocks away ... and she happened to know the concierge there. Fairly well actually, since Michael Horton had gone to high school with her and developed a raging crush on Felix at one point. Ofelia wasn’t afraid to use that link.
“Hey, Michael.” She was all smiles when she landed in front of his desk. “How is life?”
Michael was the friendly and flamboyant sort. He enjoyed karaoke at the Cat’s Meow and dressing up for various parades. He was not, however, an idiot. “What do you want?”
Ofelia’s smile slipped. “What makes you think I want something? That’s not a very nice thing to say to one of your oldest friends.”
“You are one of my oldest friends,” he confirmed without hesitation. “You’re also a manipulative witch ... and I stress the word witch.”
Ofelia frowned. Her magical abilities were hardly a secret. In New Orleans, being gifted was something to be exalted rather than feared. That didn’t mean she wanted Michael to spread the word far and wide. “I need to get into Brett Johnson’s room,” she replied without hesitation. “I don’t need much time ... but it does have to be now.”
Michael furrowed his brow as he started typing on his computer. “Why do you need to get into one of our guest’s rooms? That’s kind of rude.”
“He’s dead. He won’t care.”
Michael snapped up his chin. “He’s dead? How do you know that?”
“Because a police detective dragged me out to the alley behind the tunnel to look at his body.” Ofelia glanced around to make sure nobody was paying attention to them
, but the lobby was completely empty. Even during peak tourist season the hotel wasn’t always full ... and if it was, it was so old and dated the guests couldn’t wait to flee to Bourbon Street to get a break from the ancient electrical issues and pine paneling. “I sensed hex magic.”
Michael wasn’t magical himself, but he’d done a lot of research over the years because he had a distinct interest in the occult. He understood what Ofelia was insinuating better than most. “You think someone cursed him to death?”
She held her hands palms out and shrugged. “I think it’s a distinct possibility. I just need to get inside the room. If there’s a hex bag in there, I’ll be able to find it quickly.”
“And then what?”
“And then I’ll be able to track the magic back to the source and find out what happened to him.”
“And then what?”
Ofelia wrinkled her nose. “What do you mean? Then I’ll go after whoever did this. We can’t just let an evil individual who would kill some innocent young man from Chicago run around the city. He or she could do it again.”
Michael let loose a dramatic sigh. “Fine. I’ll take you up there. If we get caught, though, I’m telling everyone you hexed me to make me do it. I hate this job, but I need it right now.”
Michael’s mother was undergoing cancer treatment and her health insurance didn’t cover all her bills. He was working two jobs — eighty hours a week — just to make sure she had a house to go back to when she was finished in the hospital. Ofelia admired him for that.
“I won’t let anything bad happen to you,” she promised. “I just need to see if I can find the hex bag. It shouldn’t take long.”
“Then let’s do it.”
Michael led her to the second floor, wisely avoiding the elevator, which he referred to as a “death trap from a Saw movie” and landing outside within two minutes. He knocked even though Ofelia informed him the girlfriend was at the Bancroft answering police questions and then opened the door.
It looked like a typical hotel room, two queen beds against one wall and a rickety table against the other. There were two suitcases open on the floor along the far side of the room and that’s where Ofelia pointed herself ... until something caught her attention near the bed.
“Do you smell that?” she asked, making a face.
Michael, who was understandably nervous, shook his head. “All I smell is the black mold that I’m sure is infesting this place. I really wish someone would buy it and gut it. It would be fabulous with a little TLC.”
Ofelia didn’t disagree with him, instead focusing on the bed. Her hands prowled under the covers, inside the pillowcases, and finally between the mattress and the box spring. That’s where she found what she was looking for.
“I knew it!” She practically crowed but managed to hold back an obnoxious fist pump.
Michael couldn’t contain his eye roll. “And what does that tell you?”
“Nothing until I have someone look at it. He was definitely hexed, though. I smelled the dark magic on his body.”
“Do you think a hex could kill him?”
“Definitely. I think the better question is: Who would want to hex him?”
“That is a fascinating question,” Michael drawled. “Are you done here, though? I really don’t want to get caught.”
“I’m done.” Ofelia followed him toward the door, stopping long enough to look back a final time before slipping outside. There was nothing else of interest that she could sense in the room. The hex bag was a good start, although there were still more questions plaguing her than answers.
SULLY FOUND HIMSELF AT THE Grand Laveau about ten minutes after Ofelia slipped out the side door. He had no idea the bar owner was investigating on her own. Why would he even think that? She had her own business to run.
Hank Pastorelli was the hotel manager. Sully knew him well enough because he’d investigated a handful of murders at the location since being promoted to detective with the New Orleans department. When Hank realized who was knocking on his office door, his sour expression turned outright dour. “Oh, what are you doing here?” he whined.
Sully smirked. “Why are you acting like you’re not excited to see me? I know it’s a highlight when I stop by for a visit.”
“It most certainly is not.” Hank was adamant. “Whenever you stop by we get bad press. I don’t want any bad press.”
“Well, I have bad news for you.” Sully’s expression was rueful as he slid into the chair across from the persnickety hotel manager. “You’re going to at least be mentioned in the newspaper. The good news is, nobody died here this time. The bad news is, one of your guests is dead ... he just died over by the Bancroft.”
“Well, that bites.” Hank leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead. He’d been feeling great until Sully showed up. “How did he die?”
“I have no idea.” Sully launched into the tale, mentioning the deceased’s name and the conversation he had with the friends. “I need you to take me up to his room so I can do a quick search.”
“Sure.” Hank knew better than to argue. He grabbed a master keycard and motioned for Sully to follow. “We’ll take the stairs. It’s on the second floor and the elevator has been acting up. We don’t want to risk being trapped in there for the day.”
“Definitely not,” Sully agreed.
Hank opened the door to the room in question. “Here you go.”
The second Sully entered the room he was overpowered by an odd scent. Anise and cloves. He’d smelled it before ... and recently. He absolutely adored whatever it was ... perfume, body spray, powder. He couldn’t be sure of which. He recognized the scent because Ofelia had smelled exactly the same way when he first approached her at Krewe.
“What is that?” Sully asked, lifting his nose into the air. He had a heightened sense of smell, which was sometimes a help and other times a hindrance.
“What smell?” Hank asked blankly.
“It smells like black licorice and clove cigarettes.”
“Clove cigarettes are no longer a thing and I don’t smell anything.”
Sully frowned. “Nothing?”
“No. I think you’re imagining it.”
That seemed unlikely, but Sully let it go. “Have you had any trouble with employees lately?”
“You think one of my employees killed a guest at a different hotel? That doesn’t seem likely to me. You’re the detective, though.”
Sully held up his hands in capitulation. “It wasn’t an accusation. I was simply asking. I need to know everything if I’m going to figure this out.”
Hank heaved out a dramatic sigh. “There’s only one ex-employee giving me fits, and I very much doubt you can tie her to this event because I fired her weeks ago. Henrietta Wells.”
Sully’s eyebrows drew together. “Why do I recognize that name?”
“She’s the tarot reader we used to have in the lobby. We thought it would draw people in ... although that turned out not to be the case. We had to fire her because she was stealing money from guests’ purses and wallets. She was a standard grifter.”
“Oh, I do recognize that name,” Sully said, bobbing his head. “I saw her here a few times. I didn’t realize she was fired.”
“I had no choice. She didn’t go quietly either. She threatened to keep coming back if I didn’t give her a severance package.”
“Did you give her a severance package?”
“Of course not.”
“Did she come back?”
Hank hesitated and then swallowed hard. “I’ve seen her around a few times. I don’t think she could’ve had anything to do with this, though. I mean ... what would the motive be?”
“I don’t know. I’m still going to want to talk to her.”
“I’ll get her contact information.”
“Great.”
Outside the door, in the hallway, Michael stood with his hand on the knob. He needed to inform his boss of a delivery arrival. He’d become caught up
in the conversation before he could deliver the news, though, and couldn’t help but wonder if Ofelia would want the information about Henrietta. He’d honestly almost forgotten about her ... which was a miraculous feat because she was the sort of woman it was impossible to forget.
Michael knew he should keep his nose out of trouble, but he couldn’t think of a single reason not to tip off Ofelia. It was just one friend helping another. There was no harm in that.
Right?
Four
After making family notifications, something he hated — especially over the phone – Sully went to the coroner’s office for an update. He didn’t know if tracking Henrietta down was even worth his time until he had a cause of death.
Jimmy was in the middle of his examination when Sully entered, causing him to make a face and pull up short. He’d always hated autopsies. It wasn’t the sights as much as the smells. He was often overwhelmed by smells, and in the French Quarter, there were plenty to choose from. He assumed Jimmy would be done. Apparently he was mistaken.
“I can come back,” he offered lamely, hoping he sounded stronger than he felt. He wanted to be respected, not laughed at behind his back. Image was everything when it came to the New Orleans Police Department, and word would spread fast if he showed weakness.
“It’s fine.” Jimmy, his rubber glove covered with blood, offered up a haphazard wave. “I’m almost done.”
“Okay.” Sully steeled himself and moved forward. It was always hard to see the dead in this manner. It seemed there should be more dignity for those who passed, something other than laying naked on a table with external organs on display, but he didn’t make the rules. “Do you have anything?”
“Well, if you consider nothing something, then I have a whole lot of something.”
The Hexorcist Page 3
