Natalie's Revenge (28 page)

Natalie Brixton was gone.

NATALIE

March 2000

Ten days after Mardi Gras on March 17, 2000, the call I'd been eagerly awaiting came. "I got the copy of the file," Nick said. "Sorry it took so long, Virginia. But I said I'd get if for ya and I did. How do you want me to send it to you?"

Mom's murder file, with a list of Jane Fontenot's suspects.

I wanted to shout and scream and jump for joy. But I decided to wait until I was holding it in my hand. "Could you fax it to me?"

"Sure can, dawlin. But we need to settle up first."

"Of course. How much do I owe you?" I didn't care what it cost. I couldn't wait to see the file.

"Wahl, first off, I hadda pay the New Orleans cop two grand. He was afraid he'd get fired, said he hadda bribe the guy that signs out the files to let him take it out and bring it back without putting his name on the log book. And then there's my travel expenses an
d
"

"How much is it all together?" My heart was jumping in my chest like a jackrabbit running from a Texas hound dog. I didn't want to haggle over money. I wanted to see the file.

"You already paid me three grand, Virginia, and I gave you a break on account of it took me longer than it should've to get it, what with my hernia operation and all. So all's you owe me is fifteen hundred."

"Fine. I'll have my bank wire the money into your account. I don't have a fax machine but I know a store that does. I'll call you back in an hour. By then the money should be in your account."

I arranged to have my Swiss bank execute the transfer. Then I went to a print shop two blocks from my apartment and got their fax number. When I called Nick back, he said everything was all set, so I gave him the fax number.

"I'll include an itemized account of my expenses," he said. "I hope this gets you what you need, Virginia. You ever need anything else, gimme a call."

I thanked him, hung up and danced around my kitchen. My heart was bursting with joy. At last I was about to get some answers.

Thirty minutes later I was holding the file in my hands. My hands were shaking. I raced back to my apartment and began to read. The autopsy report was disgusting. The black-and-white photographs were worse. Mom, sprawled on a bed naked, her eyes vacant and staring, her face smeared with blood where the monster had hit her.

Tears filled my eyes. What was Mom thinking when he put his hands around her throat? Was she thinking about me?

I flipped several pages and found Jane's notes. On the third page there was a list of names. Nine men known to frequent the hotel with prostitutes. I clenched my teeth and kept reading. Four of the men had alibis. They could prove they'd been out of town, either with boarding passes for plane flights or receipts from hotels in other cities. That left five names. Two of them were single. Forget them. Jane Fontenot had said that her prime suspect's wife had provided him with an alibi.

I studied the last three names.

Roger Monson. Albert Honeywell. Beau Beaubien.

I was certain one of them had killed my mother.

Jane had interviewed the men first, then their wives. Roger Monson said he'd been gambling that night at a casino in Pas Christian, Mississippi. He'd come out ahead and had a dated receipt for his winnings. Albert Honeywell said he and his wife had attended a Louisiana Philharmonic concert that night. His wife confirmed this and showed Jane the ticket stubs. I turned the page.

My hands felt tingly, the way they did when I slept on my arm all night. Jane had put a check mark beside the next name. Beau Beaubien, also known as BoBo, claimed he was home that night with his wife Joereen. Joereen confirmed this. Beside her name was a big question mark and a scribbled word that started with the letter B. I couldn't decipher the rest of it.

Unable to calm my racing heart, I paced my kitchen. I was almost certain BoBo was the monster that killed Mom, but I didn’t dare call Jane Fontenot and ask her. I couldn’t say I was Natalie, and if I pretended to be Natalie’s friend again, she might get suspicious.

That night I didn’t have a client so I got on my laptop. First I used Internet search engines to find information about BoBo. Like Jane said, he was an important man and my search turned up many articles about him. I learned a lot. Some of it surprised me.

His family was poor, so BoBo grew up in a housing project. He quit school when he was 16 and got a job at a supermarket. Later he became a bartender. That gave him the idea that led to his success. When he saw how the men ogled busty woman, he decided to open a bar with go-go dancers. Not strippers or hookers, he was adamant about that. His bar would feature women dancing in scanty outfits to show off their sexy bodies. It took him a while to get the money.

One article hinted he got it from a mobster and remained beholden to him. It didn’t give the mobster’s name. To celebrate his 20th birthday in 1975 BoBo opened his first GoGo bar. Not in the French Quarter. Bourbon Street had plenty of bars with strippers. BoBo’s GoGo Bar was in the Central Business District and featured plush seating, fancy appetizers and fine liquors and wines to attract wealthy businessmen.

That year he married his high school sweetheart, Lurleen. Soon they had a son, Beau Junior. BoBo doted on him. But he didn't neglect his business. His first bar was so successful he opened another one on the west bank, a third in Baton Rouge, and started making obscene amounts of money. In one article, he told the reporter that if people had to pay higher prices, they figured they’d get better quality.

That part made me laugh. He was right, of course. The men who used The Service figured they were getting the best women in Paris because of the outrageous prices they had to pay.

By then it was midnight. I was hungry, but I didn't want to stop to cook a meal. I wanted to find out more about the man that murdered Mom. I poured myself a tall glass of iced tea, put a frozen dinner in the microwave (something I hardly ever did) and continued my research while I ate.

Like most wealthy men, BoBo liked to show off. He bought expensive car
s
Lamborghinis and Alfa Romeos, BMWs and Audi
s
and put them in a showroom with big windows for everyone to see. For the Carnival parades he sponsored spectacular floats and paid glittery gals in skimpy costumes to toss Mardi Gras beads and coconuts with BoBo’s GoGo Bar logos to spectators.

But in 1980 Lurleen filed for divorce and asked for sole custody of Beau Junior. BoBo called him Chip, as in Chip-off-the-old-block. A photograph showed them at a Little League baseball game. Chip was only five but he already looked like BoBo: blonde hair, big blue eyes and a cocky grin. No way was BoBo going to lose his cherished son. Ugly charges and countercharges followed. I’d have given anything to know what they were, but the judge sealed the divorce papers. One article said BoBo paid Lurleen a huge settlement and serious alimony to win custody of Chip.

I got up and poured myself another glass of iced tea. My mind was in a whirl, my neck had a crick in it, and my eyes felt gritty from staring at the computer screen. But that didn't deter me. I got on my laptop and read the next article the search engine delivered. Two years after Lurleen divorced him, BoBo married his second wife. Her name was Joereen.

Did he ever get confused, I wondered. Lurleen? Joereen?

Then I thought: He probably calls her
honey
. That's what I called my clients. It saved me the trouble of remembering their names. 

A low-flying plane scattered rose petals over their wedding ceremony in City Park, and the New Orleans Symphony played the music. Joereen bore him two daughters, but BoBo ignored them. He took Chip everywhere, surfing in Hawaii, skiing in Aspen, trips to Europe, including a visit with the Pope. Without Joereen. By the time BoBo turned 30 in 1985 his chain of GoGo Bars had expanded to Houston, San Francisco and Chicago.

Despite its fairy-tale beginning, BoBo's second marriage also fell apart. He didn't care about losing his daughters, but he hated parting with his money. When Joereen accused him of domestic battery, he accused her of adultery. Seven years after their spectacular wedding, the divorce became final.

The date sent shivers down my spine. January 20, 1989.

Three months after Mom’s murder. If Joereen was fooling around, maybe BoBo was too. And if he was beating Joereen, maybe he was also beating up women he saw on the side. Like Mom.

I flipped back to the page where Joereen said BoBo was home with her the night Mom was murdered. I studied the scribbled word that began with B. Bullshit? Bully?

Did Jane think BoBo beat up Joereen to make her give him an alibi?

I went to the
Times-Picayune
website, NOLA.com, and searched for more articles about BoBo. First I concentrated on 1989. Joereen's lurid accusations hadn't damaged BoBo’s carefully-crafted image one bit. One article praised his philanthropy, saying he donated thousands of dollars to the Santa Fund every year and gave ten needy teenagers scholarships to the University of New Orleans. Another described an extravagant party he threw at his house, hundreds of guests dancing to disco music until the wee hours. When his neighbors complained about the noise, BoBo dismissed them as cranks.

BoBo attended all the important social events. A color photograph showed him in an elegant white suit, looking tanned and youthful. I studied his face. He was handsome enough. Thick blond hair crowned his head like a golden halo, but he had a cruel-looking mouth. He also had a beautiful young woman on his arm. That made me want to puke. Like some of my clients, BoBo used sexy young women to proclaim his sexual prowess to the world.

A feature article hinted at his ruthless business tactics. One man, who wouldn’t give his name, said two thugs came to his club and threatened to break his legs if he didn’t sell it to BoBo. Three months later the club became a GoGo Bar. But that wasn't the  most interesting part. The
Times Picayune
had obtained copies of the financial statement BoBo had filed during his divorce from Joereen. In 1989 his net worth was $210-million; his annual income was $10-million.

What could one man do with that much money? Then I remembered what Jane Fontenot said: Spread it around and become even more powerful.

I sank back in my chair and drank some iced tea. When he murdered Mom in 1988, BoBo was 33. Having seen the disgusting photographs in the murder file, I found it hard to believe someone that young could be so cold-blooded. Now it was 2000, twelve years later.

Did he ever think about it? Did he regret it? Did he have trouble sleeping at night? Probably not. BoBo was a monster.

Next I focused on what he'd been doing since his divorce in 1989.

One article said that after playing the field for six years, BoBo had married wife number three in 1995.

Playing the field for six years.
Bullshit.

Paying women to have sex with him
was more like it.

His third wife's name was Helena. After their wedding at St. Louis Cathedral in the French Quarter, some questioned why the twice-married-and-divorced BoBo rated a Catholic wedding. But a church spokesman said his first wife had died, and his marriage to Joereen had not been consecrated in a Catholic ceremony. Apparently having an airplane scatter rose petals over their wedding in City Park didn't impress the Catholic church officials.

I checked the recent social events on NOLA.com to find out what BoBo looked like now. And there he was at a Mardi Gras Ball last month with his third wife. Helena looked much younger than BoBo, drop-dead gorgeous in her swanky dress and sparkly jewelry. BoBo looked a bit like Donald Trump: Blonde, blue-eyed, a toothy self-satisfied smile. His eyes had bags under them, as though he had been burning the candle at both ends for years.

Maybe as far back as 1988. When he became a monster.

When Chip graduated from Archbishop Rummel High School in 1993, BoBo threw him a big party. He expected Chip to manage his business empire someday. Unlike BoBo, Chip had graduated with honors. He was all set to major in marketing at Loyola. To become rich and powerful like his father. 

Exhausted but content, I leaned back in my chair, looked out the window and saw the faint pinkish glow of sunrise. I'd been up all night.

But I didn't care. Now I knew who my target was. BoBo Beaubien.

And he still lived in New Orleans. A prominent resident who drew plenty of attention in the
Times Picayune
and elsewhere.

Now that I knew his name I could monitor his activities while I saved enough money to punish him for murdering Mom.

CHAPTER 22

Frank entered the Surf and Turf at six-thirty and stopped short. Beyond the foyer Gina sat at the bar, working on a glass of Chablis.

Seeing her gave him a visceral jolt.

During their nine year affair this had been their favorite haunt, a small restaurant with stunning ocean views where they could talk without running into anyone they knew. Several times a month they would meet in the bar and gab over a drink before dinner. Now he felt an overwhelming sense of regret.

He hadn't seen Gina in five years. A hollow feeling formed in his gut. If he'd stayed in Boston, would things have been different?

Now a spectacular sunset sprinkled orange-gold rays over the shimmering sea. Almost like old times. But after his wife named Gina the
other woman
in their divorce case, Gina’s husband had also filed for divorce. Two years ago Gina had remarried, happily this time. Or so she’d said when she called to tell him. But she didn’t look happy now.

In fact, she didn’t look well. Her skin was pale and her face, framed by ringlets of curly dark-brown hair, looked gaunt. He went in the bar, kissed her cheek and slipped onto the barstool beside hers.

Gina hugged him. “What’s the scoop, Franco?”

“I’m glad to see you. That’s the scoop.”

She smiled, but her brown eyes were tinged with sadness. She touched his hand. “I’m glad to see you too. It’s been a while.”

“Push comes to shove I could tell you exactly how long it’s been. How you doing?”

“I’m okay.” She fished a pecan out of a dish of mixed nuts on the bar. “Tell me what you found out today. I hear there’s a CIA agent involved.”

He laughed. “Still got your sources at Boston PD, huh?”

She gave him a sly look. “Not as good as you, but I’ve got a couple.”

A journalist with attitude, Gina Bevilaqu
a
she used her maiden name on her bylin
e
was one of the feistiest women he’d ever met. She'd graduated from Boston University with a journalism degree, but rather than apply for work at the
Globe
, the grand dame of Boston newspapers, she got a job at the
Herald
, their tabloid rival. Thanks to her smarts, her quirky writing style and her Boston PD contacts, she soon won a promotion to cover the crime beat.

That’s how they’d met.  

He ordered a glass of Chianti and told her what he knew about Natalie Brixton, recapped his meeting with Hank Flynn and Hammer and asked what she thought. Back in the day they had often kibitzed on murder cases.

“Seems like you’re looking for a phantom." Gina twirled a lock of curly dark hair around her finger. "Natalie left Texas 13 years ago, disappeared, surfaced in New Orleans and murdered a wealthy businessman.” She grinned and did the quote-thing with her fingers. “Allegedly. Then she pops a guy she went to school with in Texas and splits.”

“Ever think about being a homicide detective?” He was only half joking.

“Nah. The shit these dumbbells pull? It’s more fun writing about them."

Now that they were talking about work she seemed like her usual happy, dynamic self. He was glad. Seeing her sad and forlorn made him ache for her. That had happened a few times, back in the day. Bad times for both of them, months of emotional turmoil. If he'd stayed, maybe things would have worked out. But he didn't want to think about that.

“Okay, Sherlock,” he said. “Why did she kill Oliver James?”

Gina sipped her Chablis and adopted the pensive look she got when she was concentrating hard. “From a woman’s perspective? I’d say she was pissed that he dug up dirt on her. Seems like he must have told her, or gave her a clue at least. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have brought the gun to the hotel.”

“But why worry about him knowing she wasn’t who she pretended to be? He didn’t know about the murders in New Orleans.”

“Maybe he did,” Gina said.

"Damn. You're right. I told Hammer I read about Oliver James on the
Globe
website. But the
Times-Picayune
has a website, too. Maybe Natalie was afraid he might read it. But why would he? How would he know? Hammer didn't.”

Gina munched another pecan. “I don’t know. Anything interesting in her apartment?”

“No. Nothing in the fridge, no prescriptions, clothes still in the closet.”

“No birth control pills?”

Appalled that he hadn’t thought of that, he stared at her. This was why he loved hashing over cases with her. One reason anyway. Mostly, he just liked talking to women. “No. You think we could trace her through a prescription?”

“Maybe. But nowadays you can get birth control pills over the Internet. Or maybe she had her tubes tied.”

“I’ll have Hank check the birth control angle. Her apartment looked like a transient lived there, no books or personal items, just an old Japanese print of birds flying around a mountain.”

“A Japanese print. You said Natalie Brixton's part Asian, right?”

“I don't know for sure, but her eyes look Asian in her yearbook picture. Listen, do you know anything about French fashion?”

“Ha!” Gina beamed. “Ask me anything. I’m into fashion big time.”

Enjoying her gleeful response, he grinned. Gina was five-four and wore spike heels to appear taller. She also haunted fashion outlets for clothes that would flatter her short chunky body. Not that she was overweight. Her body was gorgeous. But he didn't want think about her body, didn't want to remember how fantastic it was when they made love. Already his groin felt hot and achy, not an erection, but close. Time to focus on the case.

“Okay, Ms. Fashion Bug, I found a silk dress in her closet with a label that said Yves St. Laurent, Paris. Mean anything to you?”

“Yeah. Expensive. Did you like it?”

He stroked her forearm with his finger. “Gina, the only way I can tell if I like a dress is when there's a woman inside it. Could she buy a dress like that here, or did she get it in Paris?”

“Paris. Yves St. Laurent doesn't sell dresses here with labels that say Paris.”

“So she’s been to Paris.”

“That’d be my guess.”

“You want to order dinner?” he said. “You look like you need fattening up.” She gave him an odd look and her eyes got shiny. He touched her hand. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“I guess I might as well tell you. I’ve avoided it long enough.” But she didn’t say more, just drank some wine and looked at him.

“Avoided what?”

“For my 39th birthday last year I got an interesting present.”

A not-so-good present, judging by the look in her eyes.

“a bad mammogram.” She flashed a quick smile. “I had a couple of scares before, but this time it was bad. Biopsy said cancer. Stage three.”

It hit him like a flash-bang. His throat closed up. Forcing himself to maintain a neutral expression, he rubbed her back, doing slow circles with his hand. “That sucks. Where’d you go for treatment? Someplace good, I hope.”

“Yeah. The doctor was good.” Her mouth quirked, painful to watch. “They gave me chemo to shrink the tumor. Then he did a mastectomy and took two lymph nodes. To make sure it hadn’t spread.”

He had a million questions, but now wasn't the time for questions.

He leaned close and murmured, “You feel like eating or you wanna go sit in the car and neck?”

She burst out laughing. “That’s my Franco, always the wiseass. Let’s go sit in the car.”

_____

They rolled down the windows of her Mazda 626 to catch a breeze off the water. Lights from the Boston skyline twinkled at them through the windshield, another reminder how much he missed Boston. And Gina.

He pulled her close and kissed her. She responded with her usual passion. Just like old times, nine years, savoring the precious moments they spent together, Gina vibrant and alive, dark eyes flashing as she talked about her work. Her flair for personalizing a story had won her a journalism award after she interviewed the grandmother of a shooting victim, a young black teenager killed by a stray bullet in a turf war that had nothing to do with him.

Feeling her soft pliant lips against his, he wanted her as much as ever. For nine years he’d loved Gina with all his heart, nine years when, except for work and spending time with his daughter, he’d lived to be with her. During the devastating days after the little girl died and the endless Internal Affairs investigation, Gina had gotten him through the times when his wife looked at him every morning with eyes that said
How could you
? As if he’d planned it.

The same reaction when Evelyn's girlfriend saw him with Gina and told Evelyn. “How could you?” Evelyn had said. What he wanted to say, but didn't:
If I wanted to stay celibate all my life, I'd have been a priest.

But now he felt torn, like an old snapshot ripped in two. He was deeply involved with Kelly. He'd never forget the sheer panic he'd felt when she got shot, desolated at the thought that he might lose her. It would be easy to take Gina to a hotel and make love to her. He sure as hell wanted to. If he and Gina made love tonight, Kelly would never know. But he would. And it would tarnish their relationship in a way that he couldn’t bear. Reluctantly, he pulled away.

“What’s going on at home? Are you and Greg okay?”

Her eyes grew distant, like she was reliving an unhappy memory. “We were until I got breast cancer. Since then things haven’t been so hot.”

“Such as?” He had an idea, but he didn’t want to say it.

“Bed. Greg’s not so hot to trot these days.”

He traced a finger along her cheek and down her jaw.

“It’s the scar, I guess. He doesn’t . . . he can’t deal with it. We tried to talk about it but . . ." She shrugged. "Before the diagnosis we were talking about having kids. But that’s not something I want to think about right now.”

Kids. He’d never pictured Gina with kids. She was too gung ho about her career. Until she got a birthday present with a bitter twist. He stroked her cheek. “You need to take care of yourself, Gina. That’s the important thing. Make sure you’re healthy and feeling good. Greg needs to understand that.”

What he wanted to say but didn’t:
Greg needs to understand that you don’t love a person and when she gets sick decide you don’t want to deal with it.

When she remained silent, he said, “You want me to talk to him?”

She gave him a look:
Are you crazy? 

“Okay,” he said. “Stupid idea.”

Gina touched his cheek. “You’re just trying to help. I know that.”

“Yeah. You want me to go punch his lights out?”

They dissolved in laughter.

“It’s still fun, isn’t it, Franco.”

“Yes,” he said in a husky voice. Still fun and he wanted her as much as ever. Maybe more.

They were quiet for a while, gazing at the sunset and the ocean.

“Gina, I’d love t
o
”

“You don’t have to say anything. I figure you’ve got somebody else now. Why shouldn’t you? I got married an
d
”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

Her eyes glistened with tears. “I care about you, too, Franco. You deserve to be happy after what you went through with . . . how’s she doing?”

Meaning his ex-wife. “Panic attacks in the middle of the night every so often. She calls me. I calm her down.”

Gina nodded, then smiled. “How’s Maureen?”

“Great. She's an orthopedic surgeon now, joined a group practice in a Baltimore suburb last year. We’re having lunch at the airport before I leave tomorrow. She's up here visiting her mother.”

He felt a twinge of guilt. Maureen had wanted to have dinner with him tonight, but he’d told her he was busy working a case. All these complicated loyalties were eating him up.

“I wish you’d called me when you got the diagnosis, Gina. You held my hand a few times when I was hurting. After my mother died. The fuckup with the little girl.”

“That’s what friends are for. We were never just lovers, Franco.”

“Right. So next time
call me
if you’ve got a problem. Call me any time. I want to know how you’re doing.” It took every once of willpower he had not to take her in his arms and say:
To hell with dinner, let's go to a hotel. 

“I will." Her eyes took on a steely look. "Greg and I will work it out. One way or the other.” Then she smiled, the smile he remembered so well, the smile that said
I love you and we’re okay
.

“I’m ravenous, Franco. Let’s have dinner.”

_____

Tuesday 12 August

Delectable aromas permeated the Legal Sea Foods inside Terminal B at Logan Airport. The place was busy, not a vacant table anywhere. He and Maureen had claimed two stools at a high table in the corner. His daughter was all grown up now. Looking at her, he felt proud, but sometimes he missed the little girl he used to play catch with and drive to riding lessons and read to at bedtime. She had inherited his build, tall and rangy, but she had Evelyn's green eyes and auburn hair.