New Orleans Noir

by Joanna Wayne

  “Anything to do with the serial killer?” she asked.

  “A drug deal gone bad. A machete attack among the crypts in an Algiers cemetery. On second thought, omit that last sentence. Not an appetizing addition to a dinner invitation.”

  Not appetizing at all, but Maspero’s was. Thinking of their infamous muffulettas made her mouth water. Unfortunately, having dinner with Hunter, even in a restaurant as casual and noisy as Café Maspero, would be playing with fire.

  “Thanks, but no thanks, on the dinner invitation. Let’s keep this strictly business.”

  “It was always going to be business, but people have to eat.”

  “I’d rather get this over with as quickly as possible,” she said. “We can talk inside.”

  “Making me the enemy is not going to keep you safe or help me stop a killer.”

  She nodded, knowing she was more afraid of her reactions than his. She could pretend that her heart had healed completely, but her body wasn’t convinced.

  They went inside, but this time settled at the small table in the kitchen. “I can offer you coffee.”

  “Love some.”

  She could have probably rustled up something more filling, but the more personal this became, the more risk to her emotions.

  Hunter took two cups from the cupboard and the carton of half-and-half from the fridge while she started a pot of coffee. He’d obviously spent enough time with Mia that he felt right at home.

  “How well do you know Alyssa Orillon?” he asked.

  “We’re not close, but I’ve known her since I was a kid. She and Mia were friends, so I guess I kind of inherited her as a friend.”

  “Do you think she’s credible?”

  “As a psychic?”

  “In general.”

  “She’s honest about her mystic abilities—or lack thereof—unless you go by the sign on her door. Advertisements usually contain a bit of hyperbole. So, yeah, I don’t see why she’d lie about her intuitions or about her customers.”

  “Specifically, one named Lacy,” he verified.

  “Right.”

  “Then we’re on the same page.”

  Hunter waited until Helena served the coffee before saying more. “I’ve never given any credibility to the sixth sense sort of predictions. I like solid facts and concrete evidence.

  “On the other hand, I frequently rely on hunches and some of the older guys on the force swear there were times Alyssa’s grandmother provided them with information that defied reason.”

  “Then you think Alyssa’s fears are legitimate.”

  Hunter sipped his coffee. “Legitimate enough that we should check them out. All four of his victims fit the same general description, which means Lacy fits it, too.”

  “Is that typical with serial killers?”

  “There are no hard-and-fast rules, but sometimes appearance seems to be part of the motivation for the next crime. And if Lacy looks that much like Elizabeth, she could be a trigger. That is assuming the killer is anywhere near the French Quarter.

  “In a space the size of New Orleans and the surrounding area, the chances they’d cross paths are slim to none.”

  Helena ran her finger over the top of her cup while her mind played with possibilities. “What will you tell Lacy that won’t frighten her and her friend to death?”

  “I’ll talk it over with the rest of the task force. The best option may be having an undercover female detective befriend them and warn them about hooking up with strangers even if they seem perfectly safe. She can also chat with them enough to find out if they’ve already been hit on. If so, we’ll follow up on that.”

  “I can’t imagine Lacy and her friend would just instantly bond with an undercover cop.”

  “That’s where the competence of our undercover officers pays off.”

  “Wouldn’t it be something if Alyssa earned the reward money Mia helped collect?”

  “We’re talking long shot here,” Hunter reminded her. “The killer’s been quiet for over six months. He could have moved out of this area completely. He may have been killed in a car crash or died of some cruel disease, though that’s likely too much to ask for.”

  Helena was relieved to hear Hunter hadn’t just brushed off the info from Alyssa, but she didn’t see how she fit into this.

  “Why rush over here to talk to me before even stopping to grab a bite or get down to the business of checking out Lacy?”

  Hunter finished his coffee before answering, visibly avoiding what should be a simple response as to why he was here. Finally, he stretched one hand across the table as if he were reaching for her hand.

  Instinctively, she pulled her hand away and placed it in her lap. One touch and the wall of heartache and regret separating them might disintegrate.

  Hunter pulled back his hand and propped his elbows on the table. “Lacy and her friend were not the only women who caused Alyssa to see frightening images.”

  “There were others? Who? When?”

  “Only one. You. Last night.”

  “Alyssa didn’t mention disturbing visions to me. She was dizzy but said it was nothing to worry about.”

  “She didn’t want to frighten you,” Hunter explained.

  “And you do?”

  “No. I want to keep you safe.”

  This made no sense. Alyssa had to be mistaken. “What kind of vision did she see?”

  “She saw you, covered in blood, being chased by a man with a knife.”

  “Who was the man?”

  “His face was too blurry to tell.”

  This was growing more bizarre by the second. “Alyssa must be hallucinating. She’s so scared by all this talk of the French Kiss Killer, she’s seeing danger everywhere—just like everyone else in this town.”

  “Probably, but I thought you should know, especially since you went looking for trouble today instead of avoiding it.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You headed straight for the Aquarelle Hotel when you left Alyssa’s this afternoon.”

  “How do you know that? Are you having me followed?”

  “Not yet. I dropped by the hotel after talking to Alyssa. You were in the bar talking to Connor Harrington, about what I don’t know. But we both know you were there because of what Alyssa told you.”

  “There’s no law against having a drink in a hotel lounge,” she quipped.

  “No, but there is a law against interfering in an investigation. It’s also dangerous.”

  He finished off his coffee and pushed his cup away from him. “I need to see your phone.”

  This was going too far. Helena stood and backed away from the table. “I wasn’t interfering with anything and I don’t need your protection. I’m not afraid.”

  “Of course you’re not. You’re Mia Cosworth’s granddaughter. Now hand me your phone and I’ll program my number into it and put it on speed dial.”

  She couldn’t argue anything he said, so she laid her phone down on the table in front of him. “I don’t expect the killer to contact me.”

  “Good. Neither do I.”

  “And I’m not planning to go looking for trouble.”

  “Also good because I’d hate to put you under house arrest.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  He was surely bluffing. When he finished with the phone, she walked him to the door.

  Instead of leaving, he held the door open and looked down at her, his gaze burning into hers. He leaned closer until his lips were only inches away from her mouth.

  Old urges erupted inside her, a hunger that she’d thought was lost forever.

  “Play this smart. Stay safe, Helena,” he murmured. And then he turned and was gone.

  * * *

  UNWIL
LING TO SUCCUMB to unbidden memories starring Hunter Bergeron, Helena spent the next two hours buried in one of Mia’s nonfictional horror tales. The book on the twisted and horrifying backgrounds of famous criminals made her blood run icy; she upped the temperature control to eighty and still shivered beneath a light blanket.

  Mia had made dozens of notations in the book, but none that made a lot of sense to Helena. The only obvious deduction from them was that Mia was trying to figure out how to use the book’s contents to help her understand the man who had killed Elizabeth—a madman who in the last few weeks of her life insinuated himself into more than her mind. He’d literally tormented her with his phone calls.

  When Helena had all she could stomach for one night, she kicked off the blanket and walked onto her balcony. There were no crowds this late on a Wednesday night, but she could hear music coming from somewhere and laughter and loud talk coming from a group of young adults hanging out on a balcony down the block.

  Normal people going on with their lives. She had to get back to that. She had faith that eventually law enforcement would win. The infamous French Kiss Killer would be apprehended and either be killed or face a lifetime in prison.

  But when and how many more innocent young women would he kill first? That was the question Hunter personally faced every day. Yet, even with that no doubt haunting his every breath, he’d found time to see her twice today.

  Was that all typical police business or perhaps from an allegiance he felt toward Mia? Or was he looking for more from her?

  Did he still have romantic feelings for her? Did he think they had a chance to recapture the love they’d once shared?

  If so, he was wrong. It had been six years. Her physical and emotional reactions were betraying her. Hunter had destroyed the love and trust she’d felt for him on her wedding day.

  The wedding that had never happened.

  She walked back inside, showered, brushed her teeth and put on a pair of cotton pj’s. Once she’d climbed into bed, she switched off her reading lamp and snuggled beneath the covers.

  Hopefully she’d sleep without dreams. In the present situation they’d inevitably become nightmares.

  In the foggy sphere between wakefulness and sleep, she heard her phone ring.

  Chapter Seven

  Helena jerked to an upright position, her heart pounding. Late-night phone calls were always alarming, but this was far worse than the usual trace of dread.

  This was her cell phone, not Mia’s home phone. That had been disconnected a few days after the funeral. There was no reason to think this could be Elizabeth’s killer, but still she hesitated to answer the call.

  She checked the ID. There was none. She checked the time. It was a few minutes before two a.m.

  Reluctantly, she took a deep breath and pressed the answer button. “Hello.”

  There was no response, but she could hear heavy breathing through the connection.

  “Hello,” she said again.

  Still no response.

  Resolve attacked her fear. “You have ten seconds to answer before I hang up.”

  “Je ne le ferais pas si j’étais toi.”

  French. The French Kiss Killer. It had to be him, except that he sounded like a young, mischievous boy. Hunter had warned her the caller used a machine to create a robotic voice disguised like either gender. She hadn’t expected it to sound like a kid voice.

  She knew some French, enough that she knew he was warning her not to hang up.

  “What do you want?”

  “To welcome you home. Bienvenue à la maison.”

  “Did you kill Elizabeth Grayson?”

  “You are curious like your grandmother and to the point. I like that. Yes, Elizabeth’s death was one of my great achievements.”

  “How could you commit such a sick crime? How could you kill a woman with her whole life in front of her?”

  “Lots of people die before their time.”

  “She didn’t just die. She was murdered—by you. The police are closing in on you. You’re going to rot in jail.”

  He laughed. The disguise did not hide his madness. “I’m much too smart for the police. They are a joke.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but torture is more satisfying when you share it. Give Hunter my regards. Good night and sweet dreams.”

  The connection went dead, yet the voice felt as if it were vibrating through every vein in her body.

  Helena no longer had a choice. She punched in Hunter’s number.

  * * *

  HUNTER REACHED OUT the front car window to retrieve his food with one hand and for his ringing phone with the other. Damn these full moons that seemed to bring out all the crazies. It was two a.m. He should have been off duty hours ago. He needed food and sleep before he collapsed.

  He thanked the worker and pulled away from the serving window before checking his caller ID. Helena. His heart slammed into his chest. Something big had to have happened for her to call him.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked in lieu of a greeting.

  “I think the French Kiss Killer just called.”

  Adrenaline struck like a tidal wave. “What did he say?”

  “That he called to welcome me home. Only he did it with a young boy’s voice. That made it all the more chilling.”

  “No doubt. What else did he say?”

  She repeated every word of their conversation, if not verbatim, then close, she assured him.

  “Okay. I’m five minutes away, tops.”

  “You don’t need to rush over here. Seriously, I’m not panicking now, though I may have been on the verge at first. I just thought you should know.”

  “You think? We’re talking a killer here.”

  “I’m not suggesting he’s not dangerous, but he was on the phone, not on the premises. The gate is locked. The dead bolts to the house are locked. Besides, from what you said earlier, his method is only to intimidate with phone calls.”

  His method up to this point. Who knew when that might change? They were dealing with a murderous madman.

  “Keep the doors locked until I arrive. I have the courtyard code and an emergency key to the house, both given to me by your grandmother. So don’t take me for the lunatic and shoot me when I reach the door.”

  “I don’t have a gun.”

  “We’ll remedy that.”

  “I don’t know how to shoot.”

  “We’ll remedy that, too.”

  He attached the portable flashing lights to the roof of his unmarked sedan and revved up the sirens as he maneuvered the narrow streets of the French Quarter.

  He needed this tie to the killer. Needed any link that might lead to a decent clue and his capture. But why the hell did it have to come via Helena?

  Six years of regret bucked inside him like a wild bull. He blocked it the way he had in Afghanistan when his buddies’ lives were at stake.

  When push came to shove, a real man did what he had to do.

  * * *

  ONCE THE CALL to Hunter had been made, the sense of terror began to ease. The killer had called Mia for weeks with no physical confrontation.

  It might not even be the real killer. For all she knew it was just some crazy person making crank calls. A way to boost his own self-importance with little risk—until he got caught. Maybe he only called when he was on a drug high.

  There was no time to dress or put on makeup before Hunter arrived, and even if there were, Helena refused to go to any trouble to look attractive for him. She pulled on her short robe and shoved her feet into her slippers. A quick brush of her disheveled hair and she headed down the stairs and took up guard position at the door.

  Concentrating on calming her nerves, she took deep breaths, exhaling slowly. He had the code to the gate. He wouldn’t need to be b
uzzed into the courtyard or let into the house for that matter.

  At this moment that was more comforting than disconcerting. The doorbell rang minutes before she expected him to arrive. She put her eye to the peephole to verify it was him before she opened the door.

  He burst inside carrying a large paper bag that reeked of peppers and onions.

  “You couldn’t have stopped for food and gotten here this quickly without a jet engine,” she said.

  “I had the burgers and fries, just not time to eat them. Sorry for bringing it in with me, but I’m famished. Still getting by on the coffee you gave me earlier.”

  “You haven’t been to bed yet?”

  “No, but I was about to head that way when I got your call.”

  “Then we’ll talk in the kitchen while you indulge in your unhealthy feast.”

  He followed her, dropping his bag to the table. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I told you that on the phone. You didn’t have to rush over here tonight. This could have waited until daylight.”

  His brows arched. “Now you’re going to tell me how to do my job?”

  “Of course not, but if my grandmother could handle talking on the phone with the monster without having hysterics, I’m sure I can, too.”

  “Point made.”

  He dropped into a kitchen chair. She took the one opposite his.

  Here they were, sitting in the cozy kitchen again. He was here as a police officer, but they were connecting on a far more personal level and that’s where the real risk came in.

  They’d bonded the first time they’d met when she was only nineteen, gone straight from strangers to lovers in less than a week, skipping over all the steps in between. She had no idea where this step would have fallen in their failed relationship, but she knew where it couldn’t go.

  “Tell me everything,” he said.

  “I did. Even with the heavy breathing at the beginning, the call probably lasted less than a minute. How many times did you say he called Mia?”