“I guess.”
“You don’t sound very sure about her.”
“She’s just something I had on the side,” he said, “a waitress I met.”
“So you weren’t going to leave your wife for her?”
“Hell no. I never even thought about it. Rita likes to think I killed Judy for her. Like it’s some big romantic deal. I didn’t tell her it started as an accident, and then ...”
“Got out of hand?”
“No,” he said, “and then I realized it was what I should do. For me. It wasn’t for anybody else but me.”
“So you’re not sorry you killed Judy?”
“Jesus, I wish I’d done it sooner.”
“What do we do now?” Gil asked. “How do we stop them?”
“If we try something . . . drastic,” Longfellow said, “we might spook him. We just have to be patient now.”
Holliday was on the radio, trying to get the cooperation of city and county police in covering all exits off 44. If Claire’s car didn’t get off soon, they’d come to the point where 44 became 55, at which time she’d have to decide whether to head north or south.
“What happens when we get to Fifty-five?” Gil asked. “Can you cover all those exits, too?”
“We can try,” Holliday said, hanging up the mike. “Does your wife use her signals?”
“Most of the time.”
“Good,” Holliday said, “then we’ll have some warning when they’re going to get off.”
Five minutes later, Claire’s turn signal started blinking and she moved into the left lane.
“Eighteenth,” Holliday said, “they’re getting off at Eighteenth Street!”
“Get in the left lane,” Whitey said. “The exit is coming up.”
She obeyed. Suddenly, Whitey shifted to the right and she could see his face in the rearview mirror.
“When we get to Jefferson, turn right. If you don’t, I’ll kill you.”
“But you’re going to take me someplace and kill me anyway. ...”
“Don’t make it harder, Mrs. Hunt.” It was the first time he’d said her name.
“Claire,” she said.
“What?”
“My name is Claire.” Maybe if she became more of a person to him, and not a personality, he wouldn’t kill her—but he’d killed four women already. What chance did she have?
“Here’s Jefferson,” Whitey said, bringing his hand up and over the back of her seat so she could see the gun. “Turn right.”
She braked at the stop sign, but before she could make a right turn, the passenger’s side window was suddenly shattered.
“What’s happening?” Gil shouted.
They all had seen the figure come running from the abandoned building, approach Claire’s car, and swing at the window with a crowbar.
“Car jack!” Holliday said. “Come on.”
He screeched the car to a stop several lengths from Claire’s car and he and Longfellow jumped out. Gil scrambled out of the backseat and took off after them.
“Where’s your damn purse, lady?” the thief screamed. It was usually right on the seat next to the bitches. Why was this one different?
Claire had small pieces of glass stuck in her hair and sprinkled across her lap. Whitey was confused. He pointed the gun at the kid—eighteen, maybe nineteen years old—whose head was stuck in the window. “Get away! Get outta here!”
“Whatchooo gonna do, shoot me, motherfucker?” the kid demanded. “Shit! I’ll jack you—gimme your fuckin’ wallet!”
“Get away or I’ll kill you!”
“Fuck you!”
Claire released her seat belt and reached for the door handle.
“Hey, wait—” Whitey yelled, grabbing her.
“Help!” Claire shouted.
“Whatchoo, kidnappin’ this lady? Man, that’s foul!”
“I warned you,” Whitey said. Without hesitation, he squeezed the trigger and shot the kid in the face. The amount of blood that sprayed into the car shocked him and he jerked back, releasing his hold on Claire.
Suddenly, Gil was there, pulling her out of the car. Holliday and Longfellow pointed their guns at Whitey from opposite sides of the car.
“Give up, Belmont!” Holliday shouted as Gil pulled Claire to the ground.
Whitey looked from one detective to the other. “All right!” he shouted. “Okay! I give up!”
“Throw the gun out of the car!” Holliday instructed.
“Now!”
Whitey did as he was told. After seeing the kid’s face explode, he didn’t feel like shooting anybody else anyway.
“Are you all right?” Gil asked Claire.
She hugged him, kissed him, and then said, “Where’ve you
been?”
“Right behind you, sweetie,” Gil said, “right behind you.”
Chapter 52
“Tell me again why we’re here?” Claire asked
Gil held the door open for her. “To celebrate. You’re alive, you got a raise, and all’s right with the world—at least our world.”
“No,” she said, “I mean this particular restaurant.”
“Well, it was recommended, in kind of a roundabout way.”
Claire looked for the hostess as they stood waiting in front of a small desk. “Oh, yeah, Maureen, your psychic friend.”
“Ever since she told me that Kathleen Sands used to work here, I guess I’ve been curious, wanted to have a look around.”
Claire shook her head. “Those poor women. I can’t stop thinking about how they all just came together by chance and ended up making friends with poor Judy Belmont.”
“Who happened to be married to a crazy, controlling guy like Whitey,” Gil added. “Holliday said the guy even recorded the miles on his wife’s car before leaving for work every day . . . just to keep track of how far from home she went.”
“No one deserves to live . . . or die like that,” Claire said.
“No, they don’t.”
A young woman dressed in a black suit greeted the couple, then led them to a small table near the window.
“And you still don’t think I contributed to any of those women’s problems?”
“Definitely not,” Gil said, “and neither does Thurman.”
“Him!” Claire picked up her menu. “He’s still on my shit list.”
“Even after the raise?”
“Yes,” she said, “even after that.”
Gil smiled. “That’s fair. I guess he should have to pay with more than just his money to win back your friendship.” He leaned toward her. “So, dear wife, tell me what you’d like to celebrate tonight.”
Claire smiled. “I want to drink a toast to how fortunate I’ve been to be surrounded by so many inept men lately.”
Gil’s mouth dropped open slightly. “Should I take that personally?”
“When are you going to learn that when I talk about men in general, I never mean you,” Claire reassured him. “But just think about it. If Whitey hadn’t been such a sloppy criminal, I might have been killed. Then there was that poor kid, trying to steal my purse. If he’d done it right, broken into the driver’s side, I could have been really hurt. And then there’s . . . Benjamin Thurman. If he hadn’t been such an insensitive, slimy jerk, I wouldn’t be able to buy you dinner tonight.”
“I hate to admit it, but you do have a point.”
“Unfortunately, I do. But now it’s a woman I’m concerned with.”
Gil picked up his menu. “What woman?”
“Even though Whitey confessed to killing all those women and leaving the tapes behind to implicate me, there’s still his girlfriend. After all, she’s the one who had a friend in Motor Vehicles who looked us up and gave him our address.”
“Maybe she was just doing it for love?”
“Are you kidding? She was a coconspirator, an accessory. I want her, too.”
“You’re a hard woman, Claire,” Gil said.
“And you love me that w
ay.”
“Desperately.”
She reached for his hand. “When I saw you in that car behind me, all I could think about was what I would do if Whitey shot you.”
“I was thinking the same thing about you.”
She squeezed his hand and went back to reading the menu.
“You know,” Gil said, “the funniest thing, if there can be anything funny about it all, is that George Belmont turned out to be an accountant, a man who managed other people’s money, but he couldn’t handle his own.”
“Ironic,” she said, “that’s what he meant in the car when he talked about irony, I guess.”
“What else did you two talk about?”
“Van ladies, pickup trucks, his love life.”
“Sounds like you hit it off.”
“Oh sure, until he was going to shoot me. We did talk about his girlfriend, though. He even mentioned her name once. I remember thinking it sounded familiar.”
Gil smiled. “Well, in your line of work and the way our lives have been going lately, we’ve both met some real doozies. Like that woman at the GA meeting.”
A tall woman with a mass of black hair walked toward them. Bracelets clanked on her arms as she adjusted her shiny belt.
Claire stared down at the table, straining to remember. “It started with an R. That woman with all the jewelry, you know. Her name was—”
“Hi, I’ll be your server, my name’s—”
“Rita!” Gil and Claire said in unison.
“That’s right,” Rita said in a friendly tone—before realizing who her customers were.
A Look At: The Masks Of Auntie Laveau (Gil & Claire 2)
When Claire Hunt is sent to host her home shopping program on location in the Big Easy she and her husband, Gil, cannot resist having him come along. A book dealer back home in St. Louis, Gil is eager for the chance to poke around in the French Quarter's shops. The food, the history, the mystique--all of it delights the couple . . . until they're meeting with the Voodoo Queen, Auntie Laveau.
The strange woman presents the duo with a collection of miniature Mardi Gras masks, hoping Claire will sell them on the air during her show. However, when the real Auntie Laveau is found murdered the police begin an official investigation.
As the Hunts unwittingly become entangled with Louisiana's supernatural subculture Gil finds himself embroiled in the search for a missing girl who may or may not become the next victim. As he, himself, becomes endangered Claire and her son, Paul, frantically search the French Quarter for her husband before he can become a victim of the Voodoo Queen as well. But wait. Auntie Laveau is dead-or is she?
AVAILABLE NOW FOR PRE-ORDER
About The Authors
Randisi was born and raised in Brooklyn, N.Y., and from 1973 through 1981 he was a civilian employee of the New York City Police Department, working out of the 67th Precinct in Brooklyn. After 41 years in N.Y, he now resides in Laughlin, NV, 90 miles South of Las Vegas, on the Colorado River, with his 25-year partner-in-life-and-crime, Marthayn Pelegrimas.
He is the author of the “Miles Jacoby,” “Nick Delvecchio,” “Joe Keough,” and “Dennis McQueen,” mystery series, and the co-author of the “Gil & Claire Hunt” series. He has been nominated four times for the Shamus Award from the Private Eye Writers of America, in the Novel and Short Story categories.
For more information:
https://wolfpackpublishing.com/robert-j-randisi/
Christine Matthews has published over sixty stories under her real name, Marthayn Pelegrimas, as well as her “Matthews” mystery pseudonym. She has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Deadly Allies II, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Lethal Ladies, For Crime Out Loud I & II, Mickey Spillane’s Vengeance Is Hers, Cat Crimes On Holiday, Till Death Do Us Part, Hollywood and Crime and Crime Square. Her stories have been chosen five times for Ed Gorman and Martin H. Greenberg’s Best of the Year books, the most recent being the 2011 edition. She is the author of four novels and the editor of several anthologies.
Murder Is the Deal of the Day Page 19
