Killer Takes All (12 page)

Thursday, March 10, 2005
11:45 a.m.

O
n her first trip to the French Quarter, Stacy had learned that finding a parking spot on the street was damn near impossible. She had cruised the network of narrow one-way streets, only to give up after thirty minutes and pull into one of the Quarter’s exorbitantly priced lots.

Today she didn’t even bother trying to look for a spot. She turned into the first lot she came upon, took a ticket and handed the attendant her keys.

New Orleans still amazed her. She felt like a stranger in a strange land. Dallas was relatively young; locals were proud when they could trace their roots back to 1922. New Orleans, on the other hand, was a historic city. One that boasted rich social traditions based on one’s lineage, beautifully crumbling architecture and hundred-year-old cockroaches. Or so she had been told.

And New Orleans was a city that reveled in its own excesses. Big meals. Raucous laughter. Too much drink. All perfectly acceptable in the city whose motto—Let The Good Times Roll—was more than a Department of Tourism tagline.

It was a way of life.

And nowhere was that attitude more apparent than in the French Quarter. Strip clubs and bars, restaurant upon restaurant, souvenir and antique shops, music clubs, hotels and residences all coexisted in the seventy-eight-square-block area that made up this, the original settlement of New Orleans.

In addition, the Quarter boasted dozens of poster shops and art galleries. Not big art, not the high-end pieces that carried price tags in the tens of thousands, but small, commercial art for the masses.

The reason for her visit today.

She intended to hunt down possible sources of Leo’s postcards. One was obviously mass-produced and probably sold at better than a hundred outlets in the Quarter alone. The other two, she suspected, were unique.

Stacy stood on the sidewalk, at the corner of Decatur and St. Peter Streets. All manner of people streamed by her, from men in business suits to a cross-dresser wearing fishnet stockings and a red leather miniskirt.

Stacy figured the cards were a limited edition by a local artist and sold at a limited number of shops. Leo had given her the card depicting the White Rabbit leading Alice down the rabbit hole. Spencer had taken the other as evidence. If it had been her case, she would have confiscated both.

Lucky for her it wasn’t.

She started up the block, walking until she reached the corner of Royal Street and a poster shop called Picture This. She stepped inside.

The clerk, a kid with a mop of wild, curly hair, stood at the counter, talking on a cell phone. When he saw her, he ended his call and crossed to her. “Can I help you find something?”

“Hi.” She smiled. “This card was sent to a friend, and I was trying to find one like it.”

He glanced at the card and shook his head. “We don’t have it.”

“Do you have any that are similar?”

“Nope.”

She held it out again. “Any idea where I might look?”

Another customer entered the shop. He looked her way, then back at Stacy. “Nope. Sorry.”

The next half-dozen shops proved near carbon copies of the first. Stacy cut over to the opposite side of Royal, heading back toward Canal Street. A poster shop called Reflections sat on the closest corner. She ducked inside, she saw immediately that the shop’s merchandise was more varied than the last stores she had visited, and ran more toward unique and one-of-a-kind items.

“Can I help you?” a man asked from the doorway to the back room. She saw that he had been eating his lunch.

“I hope so.” Stacy sent him a winning smile as she crossed the shop. “I’m wondering if you carry these?” She showed him the card.

“Sorry.”

She couldn’t quite hide her disappointment. “I was afraid you were going to stay that.”

“May I?” He held a hand out. She gave him the card. He studied the illustration, eyebrows drawn together in a slight frown. “Interesting imagery. Where’d you get this?”

“Several were sent to a friend. I’m a big fan of
Alice in Wonderland
and thought I’d buy a box, if they weren’t too expensive.”

He rubbed a corner between his index finger and thumb. “No one carries these by the box, I’m afraid.”

“Excuse me?”

“This is an original, not a print. “ He held it up to the light, squinting. “Pen and ink.” He ran his thumb along the card’s ruffled edge. “Good paper—one hundred percent rag. Acid-free. The artist knows what he, or she, is doing.”

“Do you recognize the artist?”

“I might.”

“Might?”

“I’ve never seen this image before, but the artist’s hand reminds me of a local artist. Pogo.”

“Pogo?” she repeated. “You’re serious?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t name him. He creates images like these. Disturbing. In pen and ink. He’s had a few shows, gotten good reviews. But never took off.”

“Do you know where I might find him?”

“Sorry.” He handed the card back. “But the curator over at Gallery 124 might. If memory serves, 124 hosted Pogo’s last show. On the corner of Royal and Conti.”

Stacy smiled and started backing toward the shop’s entrance. “Thanks so much for your help and time. I really appreciate it.”

“You won’t get them cheap,” he called after her. “I could show you something similar—”

“Thanks,” she said again, over her shoulder. “But I have my heart set on these.”

She stepped out onto the French Quarter sidewalk and headed toward Conti. Gallery 124 was just where the man had said it would be.

Stacy checked traffic, then darted across the street. As she entered the gallery, the bell above the door jingled. The too-cold air-conditioning spilled over her. Followed by the realization that she wasn’t as smart as she thought she was.

Malone had beat her there.

He stood at the back of the gallery, obviously waiting to speak with the curator, a woman in a dangerously short skirt and a brilliantly colored gypsy blouse. Her short hair was bleached almost white and worn in a spiky boy cut.

The word that came to mind was hip. With a capital H. Stacy had seen dozens just like her attending Jane’s openings over the years.

Malone looked her way. Their gazes met. And he smiled.

Or rather, smirked.
Cocky bastard.

She closed the distance between them. “Well, wonders never cease,” she said. “Detective Spencer Malone, in an art gallery. It just doesn’t seem like your style.”

“Really? I’m a big fan of art. In fact, I own several good pieces.”

“On black velvet?”

He laughed. “I heard about an artist I’m certain I’m going to be interested in. A guy named Pogo.”

She glanced toward the spiky-haired girl, then back at him. “How’d you beat me here?”

“Better investigative skills.”

“My ass. You cheated.”

Before he could respond, the woman finished with her customer and started toward them, cool smile fixed in place. “Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

Spencer showed her his ID. “Detective Malone, NOPD. I need to ask you a few questions.”

Her expression registered surprise, then unease. Stacy stepped in before the woman could respond. “I’m in a bit of a rush. Should I come back another time?”

“Excuse me? You’re not together? I assumed—”

“That’s quite okay.” Stacy turned to Spencer, smiling apologetically. “Do you mind? I’m on my lunch break.”

He arched one dark eyebrow, clearly amused. “Please. Take your time.”

“Thanks, Detective. You’re the best.” She swung back to the salesperson. “I understand you represent an artist named Pogo.”

“Pogo? We did, but we haven’t in better than a year.”

“No. I’m so disappointed. I had my heart set on one of his pieces.”

The woman perked up, no doubt calculating if she could somehow make the sale, anyway. “One of his prints?”

“A drawing. Pen and ink. Imagery based on
Alice in Wonderland.
Very dark. Powerful. I saw one and absolutely fell in love with it.”

“Sounds like Pogo’s work. When he was producing.”

“When he was producing?”

“Pogo’s his own worst enemy. Gifted but unreliable.”

“Are you familiar with his ‘Alice’ series?”

“No. They must be new.” She paused, as if weighing her options. “I could call him? Have him bring his portfolio by?”

“So he’s local?”

“Yes. Lives right here in the Quarter. If I’m able to reach him, I bet he could be here in ten minutes.”

Stacy glanced at her watch, working to look torn.

“He lives really close,” the woman added quickly. “Barracks near Dauphine.”

“I don’t know. I wanted something that would be a good investment…but if he’s unreliable…” As the woman opened her mouth, no doubt to assure her that her earlier statement wasn’t quite accurate, Stacy shook her head. “I’ll think about it. Do you have a card?”

She did. Stacy thanked her and strolled past Spencer, waggling her fingers at him. “Thank you, Detective.”

She exited the gallery, stepped out of the doorway and waited. Exactly two and a half minutes later, Spencer emerged from the shop.

He ambled over to her. “Sneaky, Killian. Brilliant performance.”

“Thanks. Was she pissed when you asked about Pogo?”

“Confused, mostly. I got his address from her, but I’d like to see you play this out. Tag along.”

She laughed. “You’ve surprised me, Detective. And I don’t surprise easily.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Strut your stuff, Killian.”

“Barracks and Dauphine, you familiar with the area?”

He nodded and they fell into step together. After a block, she angled a glance him. “So, how’d you pinpoint Gallery 124 so quickly?”

“My sister Shauna studied art. I showed her the card, she didn’t recognize it but directed me to Bill Tokar, the head of the New Orleans Arts Council. He suggested Gallery 124.”

“And the rest is history.”

“Is that grudging respect I hear in your voice?”

“Absolutely not.” She smiled. “Is Shauna your only sibling?”

“Nope. One of six.”

She stopped. Looked at him. “You have six
siblings?
”

He laughed at her disbelief. “I’m from a good Irish Catholic family.”

“The Lord said, be fruitful and multiply.”

“So did the pope. And my mother takes the pope’s directives very seriously.” They fell back into an easy stroll. “What about you?” he asked.

“Just me and Jane. What’s it like? Being part of such a big family?”

“Crazy. Sometimes irritating. Always loud.” He paused. “But really great.”

The affection in his tone made her ache to see her sister. To hold her new niece.

They reached the cross streets. The area was a shabby mix of retail and residential space. The eighteenth-century buildings stood side-by-side in various states of disrepair. All part of the Quarter’s charm.

“Okay.” She slid him an amused glance. “Bet you a cup of coffee I’ll have Mr. Pogo’s address in ten minutes.”

“That’s a no-brainer, Killian. Make it five and you’re on.”

She took the bet and scanned the street. Small grocery with lunch counter. Seedy bar. Souvenir shop.

She pointed toward the grocery. “You wait. Don’t want to scare the straights.”

“Funny.” Smirking, he looked at his wrist. “Clock’s ticking.”

Stacy headed into the grocery, stopping just inside the door. It appeared to be a mom-and-pop family business. A sixtyish-looking man stood behind the lunch counter, a like-aged woman at the cash register.
Whom to approach?
Aware of the minutes ticking past, she decided on the woman.

Stacy crossed to her. “Hi.” She infused her voice with what she hoped was the right combination of sincerity and friendliness. “I hope you can help me.”

The woman returned her smile. “I’ll try.” She had the raspy voice of a lifetime smoker.

“I’m looking for an artist who lives right around here. Pogo.”

The woman’s expression altered in a way that suggested there was no love lost between the two.

She held the card out. “I bought this card from him last year and I’d like to buy some more. I tried his phone, but it’s out of order.”

“Probably disconnected.”

“What’s that, Edith?”

That came from the man. Stacy glanced over her shoulder at him. “This lady’s looking for Pogo. She wants to buy some of his art.”

“You paying him cash?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said. “If I can ever find him.”

The man nodded at his wife; she scribbled the address on the back of a register receipt. “Next door,” she said. “Fourth floor.”

Stacy thanked the pair and headed back out to Spencer. He looked at his watch. “Four and a half minutes. You have the address?”

She held up the scrap of paper.

He checked it against the one he had gotten from the gallery curator and nodded. “I would have chosen the bar.
Unreliable
and
drink
go together.”

“Yeah, but everybody has to eat. Plus, bartender’s going to be more suspicious and less likely to be forthcoming. Nature of the business.”

“Coffee’s on me. Wait here, I’ll check him out.”

“Excuse me? I don’t think so.”

“Police business, Stacy. It’s been fun, but—”

“But nothing. You’re not going in there without me.”

“Yes, I am.”

He started toward the neighboring building. She went after him, stopping him with a hand to his arm. “This is bullshit and you know it.”

He inclined his head. “Maybe. But my captain would have my ass if I questioned a suspect while in the presence of a civilian.”

“You’ll scare him away. I’ll keep up the charade, pretend to be an art buyer. He’ll talk to me.”

“The minute he sees the card, he’ll know the gig’s up. I’m not about to put you in harm’s way.”

“You’re assuming he’s guilty of something. Maybe he was commissioned to do the drawings and has no idea what their purpose was.”

“Forget it, Killian. Don’t you have a class or something?”

“You are the most irritating, pigheaded creature that I’ve ever had the misfortune of…”