Mostly Murder (24 page)

“So, what you two are telling me is that you've pretty much come up with nothing, other than probably ruling out Jack Holliday as a suspect since his paternity tests came back negative and all his alibi witnesses turned out to be telling the truth. Not to mention that he was with you and Nicholas Black and about a hundred other witnesses around the time the second victim was murdered with the same M.O.? Is that about it, Detectives?”

Sheriff Russ Friedewald leaned back in his swivel chair and leveled his piercing gaze at Claire, then gave another measuring stare to Zee, which caused Claire's young colleague to shift uneasily in his chair. Claire was used to such eyeballing. Charlie Ramsay, her sheriff in Missouri, was a lot more intimidating and used a heck of a lot more cusswords. They sat together in the departmental conference room, the slats open on the mini-blinds. Russ liked to hold his meetings there instead of inside his own spacious office, which usually remained pretty much sacrosanct for him, and for him alone. He sat at the head of the table with Zee on his right and Claire on the left. They all had unopened bottles of water in front of them, in case the grilling got too hot and Zee and Claire had to douse each other. On the other side of the conference room windows, where only she could see him, Eric Sanders stopped and blew them a kiss. Quite a comedian, he was, oh yeah. An annoying comedian, too. He was on his way outside to have a smoke, no doubt.

The sheriff continued, “And these murders are being splashed all over the newspapers as we speak with our office front and center and empty handed. And somehow the New Orleans press has dug up enough information to christen our perpetrator as the Voodoo Doctor. Do I have my facts in order?”

Claire answered for the two of them. “Yes, sir. I'm afraid that pretty much sums it up.”

More silent facial examination of them ensued. Russ Friedewald was a really nice man, a transplant from Springfield, Illinois, in his mid-sixties, turning gray but still a youthful-looking, handsome guy and a real whiz at computer technology. According to Zee, he had been married for many years to a wonderful woman named Rita, had some kids and grandkids that he adored, was honest and straightforward, and ran a clean operation. He didn't like loose ends, he didn't like controversy, and he didn't like the media climbing on his back when former celebrated sports figures got themselves publicly involved in his murder cases.

“I don't suppose either of you have been watching the news programs.”

“No, sir,” said Zee.

Claire had. She had seen a news report on one of the New Orleans stations that had pretty much been a mishmash of unsubstantiated half-truths and half-conjectures indicating that, seeing that Wendy had been one of their cheerleaders, unnamed players on the Saints team could possibly be involved in her murder. The report had also included a liberal dose of Jack Holliday's name as the man who represented most of them. Claire didn't want to admit she'd seen it, though, much less discuss its ramifications with Russ. So she kept her mouth shut, which ten times out often was the best thing to do. And Russ hadn't missed the fact that Claire, Black, and an undercover DEA agent had almost been blown to smithereens near the first crime scene.

“There was a really nice shot of you, too, Detective Morgan.” Russ aimed that comment at Claire. “Leaving Mimosa Circle. Somehow you forgot to mention to me that you visited the crime scene on the day that I told you to stay home and recover.”

“I'm sorry, sir. Rene called us as a professional courtesy, because the crime scene held a voodoo altar identical to the one we found in the Christien case and felt the two murders were connected. He wanted our input on the scene.”

“And I guess you didn't think I'd be interested until the next day about a houseboat blast where one of my detectives got blown into the bayou, either. Seems to me everyone knew about that before I did.”

Claire swallowed hard at that one because she
had
put off calling him. “I called you, sir, as soon as I could. We were at the emergency room most of the night. We were all fairly shaken up.”

Claire watched his jaw flex into a tight line, astute enough to realize he was not a happy camper. She hadn't been aboard his team long, but she already knew that he rarely ever showed what he was thinking. He said, “I thought once we ruled out Jack Holliday we were home free, but that appears not to be the case. For your information, Rene Bourdain called me and informed me of the particulars and indicated there's a note addressed to the victim in Holliday's handwriting. I take it that's true?”

Well, thank you, Rene.
Russ was ticked off, all right. “Yes, sir.”

“Why didn't you apprise me of that instead of leaving it for Bourdain to do?”

“I was gathering facts, trying to find the parallels in both cases so I could fill you in with a comprehensive overall picture as soon as you got back from the conference.” She had used this reason before with Charlie to good avail and hoped it would work again.

“But in the meantime, you took time off to get yourself nearly blown to hell?”

“That may or may not be connected with Christien's murder. Gabriel LeFevres was on the boat with me, and as you know, he's been working undercover in the Skulls biker organization.”

“Yes, and he is a very good undercover officer. I'm sorry to see him have to give up this assignment before he was ready to.”

Well, I'm not
, Claire thought. “We do have a few leads that might help us find the killer, sir. Would you like to hear them?”

“Please, Detective, feel free.”

Flipping open the manila folder on the table in front of her, Claire took out the enlarged pictures of the tattoos on Madonna Christien's inner wrist and slid them across the table. “This same tattoo was found on both victims left on the voodoo altars so we're trying to determine when and where they got it. Here's the photo of Wendy Rodriguez's wrist that Rene faxed to us. We have already discovered that this symbol is a voodoo Veve dedicated to the deity called Papa Damballah.”

Russ picked up the photos and examined each one in turn. “So they are exactly the same? Any progress on this really being a legit voodoo connection?”

“That's what we need to find out. When we go down to Golden Meadow for the funerals, we can question the victims' families about it. The two victims grew up together—you know, a BFF thing. And Wendy told us that they were both abducted as children. We think the tattoo might be linked to that. Maybe even the same perpetrator, getting rid of survivors of his crimes.”

“Well, did Wendy tell you it was linked to their abduction?”

“No, sir, because we weren't aware she also had that tat until we found her body.”

“What the hell's a BFF thing?”

Zee spoke up, obviously feeling he could handle that one. “You know, Sheriff, Best Friends Forever, like on Facebook.”

“And that's supposed to mean something to me? What the hell's Facebook?”

Claire explained that it meant they were lifelong friends and told him what she knew about social networking, which wasn't much. Then she said, “Now we think it's his signature. The same image was scratched in cornmeal in front of the two bodies. Serial killers sometimes mark their victims, as you know.”

“Oh, that's all we need. This thing just keeps getting worse. Okay, just get on this fast. The media's all over the Rodriguez murder because of her cheerleader status, and they're not going anywhere, trust me on that. I got a call from Jack Holliday's attorney this morning, wanting to know why they haven't been apprised of the Rodriguez homicide and warning us that they don't want Jack hassled anymore.”

Claire said, “There's no proof that he was ever in Wendy's apartment, just the note he sent her and it was stamped and went through the U. S. postal system. Rene hasn't given us all the forensic reports yet. Besides, Jack was with us at the Cajun Grill. Lots of other people noticed him there, too. Time of death was estimated to be somewhere between six and nine on Tuesday night. I don't believe it could've been him. Neither murder, actually. However, we have yet to explain that hurricane glass with his prints, since he swore he's never been to Madonna's apartment.”

“Well, finally some good news. Maybe the firestorm will die down if we can announce that Jack Holliday is no longer a person of interest in either case. He's had the good sense to stay out of sight and keep his mouth shut so far, and his lawyer says he hasn't given any interviews, and isn't going to.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, go on, get back to work, and I want frequent updates on this from now on, and written reports. Do you understand me, Detectives? Don't leave me in the dark again.”

“Yes, sir,” they both said as one.

They headed out of the building quickly before Russ could come up with something else to berate them about. Once outside in the parking lot, Claire stopped. “Madonna's funeral starts in an hour, Zee. You ready to go?”

“Let's do it. Even a funeral is better than gettin' chewed out like that.”

 

Golden Meadow turned out to be a representative slice of small-town America. Madonna Christien's funeral was held in a tiny clapboard Catholic Church with a square bell tower off the beaten path, and there weren't that many beaten paths. The sanctuary was full of people, more than Claire had expected. To her surprise, most of the Skulls were there, too. They all sat hunched together in the back pews like a gathering of leather-clad black crows. The rest of the mourners sat as far away from them as they could possibly get. Zee joined the fastidious townsfolk on the other side of the central aisle. Claire sat down in a pew next to Manny of tattooed head fame, just to show them she wasn't afraid of them. She also wanted to get a few questions answered about who the hell had blown their friend Rocco off that boat.

“Hey, Manny, how's it goin'?”

“I ain't answerin' none a your questions.”

“Gee, you're a friendly guy, aren't you?”

He gave her a blank, yet surly look. He was as dumb as a stump, no question about it. All eleven of the bikers were now looking at her. Ever heard of eye daggers? That was the case at the moment. “So, where's the fearless leader of your motley little pack? I heard he was tight with Madonna. He not like funerals, or what?”

Manny tensed up, shoulders hunched. “What d'you care what Rocco do?”

“I don't care.”

The Skull sitting in front of them was a tad more interested. He turned around and showed Claire his scarred-up, unpleasant face. “We thinkin' maybe you done got him locked up. He ain't been around nowhere.”

“Yeah.” That came from Rocco's Slut, aka Bonnie, the reckless FBI gal, who looked about the same as she had in Voodoo River. “He went off and didn't come home. You got him in your jailhouse up in Thibodaux, just like you said you was gonna do, don't ya? Why you got him in there? He didn't do nothin'.”

So Bonnie was sending her a message. Claire deciphered it right off as the Skulls didn't know where the hell Gabe was, which meant they hadn't thrown the grenades to get rid of him. The fact that Bonnie was still with them and not floating face down in the bayou, also pretty much verified they hadn't found out her true identity, either. She needed to get out now, while she could still walk around in one piece.

“Maybe he got up in the wrong cop's face and started making threats,” Claire told them calmly, giving the band of morons something to think about, if they were even capable of logical reasoning, and then she got up and joined Zee across the aisle on the other side of the tracks.

“What are you, crazy?” Zee muttered in a low voice. “All we need is a brawl to break out at the memorial service. Friedewald's pissed enough already.”

Claire glanced at the cameraman and blond reporter standing at the back of the church. She leaned close to Zee's ear. “I just found out they don't have a clue about what happened to Gabe. The girl tried to tell me that in so many words. She'd be long gone if she thought they had any inkling that he was a cop.”

“You couldn't pay me enough to infiltrate that band of idiots,” Zee informed her.

Then the music began at the front of the church, loud and mournful organ chords that engendered a lot of weeping and sniffling in the front pews. She glanced at the Skulls, who all looked bored. They'd probably had their tear ducts removed.

After the Funeral Mass, they sought out Grandma Leah Plummer, who looked about a hundred years old, as white as a Hilton hotel's sheet, and unsteady on her feet despite a cane. Apparently, Rafe hadn't made an impression on the judge at his hearing because he was nowhere in sight. After the graveside prayers, they approached Ms. Plummer and she agreed to sit down inside the church and talk to them.

“Thank you for speaking with us, ma'am. We know this is a hard time for you.”

“Yes, it is. Little Maddie, such a terrible life. That poor child was never the same after that evil man killed her mama and daddy and took her off. Just couldn't get over it, poor baby girl.”

“I'm very sorry to bring up unhappy memories, Mrs. Plummer, but could you tell us about that snake tattoo on her wrist?”

“Oh, yeah, he marked her up good. Her and Wendy, too. They were his then. They didn't have a chance.”

“Who marked them?”

“The snake man. He took 'em, and they was lucky to even get away. He been watchin' them all these years, just waitin' to finish what he started.”

“Did he contact them again? Or was there ever a second attempt to abduct them?”