Polly Iyer - Diana Racine 03 - Backlash (2 page)

D
iana
Racine hated housework. She did it, but she hated it. This morning, she separated her laundry into whites and colors, then put the whites into the washing machine and turned it on. Now she could relax with her second cup of coffee as a mini-reward.

Her new smartphone signaled a call from Lucier. Even after all these months, the sight of his name bumped her heart rate up a few notches. “Good morning. Since you left less than an hour ago, I assume you miss me already.”

“I do, but that’s not why I’m calling. I have a situation here. Better I explain everything in person.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Think Keys Moran, or should I say Donny Harwood? Be there in twenty.”

She stood with the phone in her hand for a long minute. Lucier knew more than she thought, because Keys Moran and Donny Harwood were the same person.

She’d known Keys as Donal “Donny” Harwood, his real name and the name he used when he hacked into the personal files of her credit-card-paying audience participants, a ruse her father dreamt up when he devised her psychic stage act. Donny adopted his mother’s maiden name, Moran, when he played the piano in New Orleans clubs after he left her employ. Keys was a natural nickname.

She’d never mentioned Donny’s or Keys’s name to Lucier, though her company listed Donny as an employee on her tax returns. His job description cited many tasks, but hacking hadn’t been one of them. Lucier never probed about the details of her act, unless he’d done so privately, and none of her former employees could expose her without exposing themselves.

Diana turned on the TV for local news, hoping she’d find out what was going on before Lucier arrived. Every station broadcast their version of morning talk shows.

She hadn’t seen Donny in years, though they’d talked on the phone when she settled in New Orleans, promising to get together soon for a drink. That was months ago, and now she felt guilty for forgetting, especially if something had happened to him. When a cop said a situation was serious, you needn’t be psychic to read between the lines.

She poured a third cup of coffee.
Just what I need to calm my nerves, more caffeine.

Lucier had a key to her house but always chimed his special ring before entering so she’d know it was him. This time, she wasn’t sure she wanted to see him.

He entered her kitchen, and she remembered the first time she saw him. She’d never thought of being attracted to a black man before, but Lucier, with his
café au lait
skin and topaz-colored eyes, set her heart aflutter at that moment, and she’d never lost the feeling.

“Any coffee left for me?” he asked, entering the kitchen.

“Sure.” She poured him a cup. “What’s up?”

“Keys Moran, or as you knew him, Donal Harwood, is dead.”

Diana put the cup on the counter and lowered herself into a kitchen chair. The coffee overload turned to acid in her stomach. “Dead? Tell me he died of natural causes, like a heart attack or drowning in his bathtub. Say he did, Ernie. Please.”

“Sorry, hon, he was murdered. Shot. M.E. says he died sometime before dawn yesterday morning. Moran didn’t show up for his gig at Kitty’s Kabaret last night, so someone went to his house this morning to check.”

She was too young for hot flashes, yet her whole body sizzled. “No one in the neighborhood heard or saw anything?”

“Most people are still sleeping at that hour. The killer muffled one shot with a pillow, the other went straight into Moran’s chest. The crime scene techs are over there now.” He looked at her long and hard. “Captain told me Moran helped out Vice on occasion, doing what he did for you when he was Donny Harwood. That’s all hush-hush, because using him is probably close to crossing a legal boundary.”

“How long have you known?” she asked. “Did you check me out from the beginning? What else, my taxes?”

“Caution beforehand prevents problems after the fact, and that includes employing you as a consultant. So yeah, I checked. I also checked out Harwood and Jason, and a couple of guys before them.”

“But you hired me anyway and never brought it up?”

“What for? I knew you were the real deal. Saw it with my own eyes. I’d have done the same thing if I’d’ve been a kid in your position. Your father’s the one who should be behind bars, for more reasons than I care to mention.”

“He didn’t think he was doing anything wrong,” she mumbled, ignoring Lucier’s raised brow.

“Sure he did.”

Both dropped the subject of Galen Racine, Diana’s con-man father. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“You seemed to want to keep that part of your act a secret. Labeling Harwood, AKA Moran, and Jason’s job description as publicity directors stretched the limit, though, don’t you think?”

Diana hired computer tech Jason Connors after Keys left. Lucier knew about Jason, had even used his services a couple of times. No one mentioned the word “hacker.”

“Your father was all the publicity director you needed. I added two and two a long time ago, and remember, Jason looked into a few things for me. I’m complicit right along with you.”

Diana’s stomach rumbled. “So now you know I’ve been a cheat and a fraud for more than half my life.”

He took her by the shoulders. “I never suggested you were either. You did what you had to do.”

“Did I? I could have stopped the con any time, but I didn’t.”

“Because you wanted your father to think you’d lost your psychic ability, so he couldn’t contract you out to every police department and relative searching for a missing person.” Lucier stopped, ran his hand through his close-cropped light brown hair. “Am I doing the same thing I hate your father for doing?”

“I’m not fourteen anymore, Ernie. I can handle the murder scenes better now. Besides, I’m making up for years of scamming.” She stood and kissed him. “I’ll be all right, as long as that pesky reporter doesn’t get on my case. One whiff of scandal about me and Moran, and not only will my reputation be ruined, but Jason’s too. He’d lose his job and probably wouldn’t be able to find another, that’s if he wasn’t arrested for hacking into credit card companies. He wouldn’t be alone. My father would be with him, and I’d be in the women’s prison.”

“Jake Griffin? Don’t worry about him. When your association with Moran comes out, and it will, don’t deny it. Say he handled your online promos, website, and whatever else he did. Be upfront. No fudging, because you’re telling the truth.”

“Yes, he did all those things,” Diana said. “Keys set up our show’s computer system, my personal computer too, including all the protection software. He devised the bookkeeping program, blogged, ran the website and Internet promos, and arranged the schedule. Everything went into an online backup system so we didn’t lose anything. He worked for us for five years
,
and when Jason took over, he said he couldn’t have done a better job. My father didn’t know how to turn on a computer, but he knew what he wanted both men to do, and they did it.”

“I’m surprised your father hired Keys, considering he was black.”

“And gay, but let’s not go there, okay? Galen hired Keys because he was good at what he did. They had very little to do with each other.”

While he poured more coffee, Lucier mumbled, “No surprise there. I bet his heart broke when Moran quit.”

“After one of our Mardi Gras performances, Keys decided to stop traveling and settle in New Orleans, his home town. Believe it or not, Galen was upset. Keys was good at what he did, and my father liked him.”

She put her coffee cup in the sink. “Now let’s get down to business. You want me to go to Keys’s house with you, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do. I jumped the gun and checked with the captain, but if you don’t want to get involved, I’ll understand.”

“What kind of person would I be if I didn’t help find a friend’s killer?”

B
arricades
and crime scene tape cordoned off Moran’s street. The cop guarding the area recognized Lucier and let him pass. A sad mood descended on Diana. She and Keys had enjoyed an easy relationship. They’d become friends, gone out for drinks together in spite of her father’s evil eye. The same evil eye he’d leveled at Lucier in the beginning. Work for me and break the law, but don’t go near my daughter.

Galen understood Keys wasn’t interested in her sexually, and so did she. He never talked about his private life; she never asked. Wherever they went, he played the piano, and people applauded; he was that good. Now he was dead.

Lucier parked in front of a brightly painted shotgun-style house. “This is the Bywater section of New Orleans. Even though Bywater is close to the river and part of the Ninth Ward, it escaped much of Katrina’s flooding because of its higher elevation. The Lower Ninth Ward wasn’t so lucky.”

“Half the houses on the street look refurbished,” she said. “The other half don’t. Keys’s house is impeccable. Look at the flowers he planted. He was a dapper guy, always dressed in the latest fashion with his own inimitable flair.”

“Looks like he created his house in the same way. Come on.”

They got out of the car. Gawkers milled around the safe zone, straining to get a closer view of what was going on inside the house. A few people recognized Diana and called her name. Then a few more, until a frenzy developed.

“Gotta do this,” she said to Lucier as she turned and waved.

“I’m beginning to think I’m worse than your father,” Lucier said. “Instead of finding missing persons, I’m making you find murderers.”

“No one’s making me do anything. I
want
to find this person.”

Beecher nodded to Diana when they got to the front door. “Perfect timing. Crime scene techs are ready to pack it in. Whoever did this wiped the place clean. Desk’s been ransacked though. Computer hard drive’s smashed. They’re taking the pieces to Headquarters to see if one of our techs can decipher something we can track.

“Killers always leave something behind,” Lucier said. “If this one did, our boys’ll find it.”

“Damn shame,” Beecher said, pulling out his notebook. “Donal Harwood, stage name Keys Moran. Played at Kitty’s Kabaret in the quarter. The wife and I have gone to hear him a number of times. Sings all those Gershwin era songs, along with some jazz favorites. Other New Orleans musicians would sit in, singers hopped onstage, and the place would rock. He had a big gay following, gay himself. He put on a terrific show. The man could tickle those ivories.”

“He was talented,” Diana mused.

Lucier glanced at Diana. “In more ways than one.”

“Did you ever watch his show, Ernie?” Beecher asked.

“I know Kitty and her man, been to Kitty’s Kabaret for lunch but not for the entertainment. Now I’m sorry I missed Moran’s act.”

“Won’t be the same over there without Keys,” Charlie Cothran, chief medical examiner for Orleans Parish, said, joining them at the door.

“What’cha’ got, Doc?” Lucier asked.

Cothran tipped an imaginary hat to Diana. “One bullet to the midsection, close range, forty caliber. A second to the heart for good measure, through a pillow. I’m assuming that one killed him. I’ll know for sure when I get him on the table.”

“Time of death?”

“He’s still in partial rigor,” Cothran said. “My educated guess, taking into account the heat in the room, is that he died between thirty and thirty-six hours ago.”

“He was scheduled to go on at Miss Kitty’s last night around ten,” Beecher said. “So he bought the farm between his last performance and his scheduled time last night.”

“What time did he get off?”

“Around two. Miss Kitty said she phoned last night around eleven when he didn’t show up, but no one answered and no one’s found Moran’s phone. Techs took the pieces of the hard drive, along with the hammer that did the job.”

“Wonder what the killer thought was on it,” Lucier said to no one in particular.

“I’ll be going,” Cothran said. “You’ll have my report as soon as I can get to him. Be nice if you can find the bastard who did this, Ms. Racine.”

That familiar feeling of unrealistic expectations hit Diana, and she was a twelve-year-old child all over again. “I’ve never been that good, Dr. Cothran. I’m here because Keys was my friend. This is personal.”

“Well, good luck, ma’am. Later, Lieutenant.”

“Body’s in the bedroom,” Beecher said.

Lucier and Diana followed Beecher. Lucier scanned the room. “A lover, you think?”

Beecher nodded. “If so, a smart one. He wiped down the vacuum cleaner and every other surface in the place. Our guys vacuumed and took the basket. If anything’s left, they’ll find it.”

Diana swallowed hard when she saw the lifeless face of the man she knew as Donny Harwood on the floor. She didn’t look at Lucier. “My parents tried to keep me from seeing scenes like this, for good reason, but I saw them anyway.” She stared long and hard, her remembrances going back to the elegant charmer with whom she’d spent countless days. “He was ten years older and called me kid.” She wanted to smile until she eased back to the present.

“You okay?” Lucier asked.

Her eyes steadied on Moran. “Why would anyone want to kill him?”

“Who knows?” Lucier said. “Could be any of a thousand reasons ― lovers’ quarrel, money, or a random murder.”

Diana noted the surroundings. “Keys was one of the neatest people I’ve ever known. Meticulous. He hadn’t changed.”

“The killer cleaned up,” Beecher said. “No telling what it looked like before.”

“Neat,” Diana said. “I’d bet my last dollar.”

Lucier put his arm around her waist. “Let’s get this over with.”

Who killed you, Donny Harwood? Tell me. Show me.
She knelt beside the body, put her hand on the dead man’s forehead, and scrunched her eyes closed.

Teetering between two worlds, she vacillated from one to the other until the present disappeared. Her heart raced. Galloping hooves pounded in her ears. She embraced the familiar darkness and shook off the noise to describe the static image as it appeared in her vision.

“A thin, darkish man, Latino maybe, tied to a chair. He’s naked. There’s … there’s a tattoo on his upper arm, a chain fastened with a padlock.” Her breath quickened, she wobbled. “Oh God, a black hole in his forehead.”

Diana gasped, and she jerked back, yanking her hand away from the dead man’s head. Lucier clasped her arm and helped her up.

“Enough,” he said and pulled her close while she shivered in his arms.

The picture of the man faded when she opened her eyes.

“You going to faint?”

“No.”

“Come on. Let’s get out of this room.” He guided her to the living room and sat her down. “I assume the description wasn’t Moran.”

“No. It wasn’t Keys.” Diana closed her eyes, reluctant to resurrect the image again but aware of how important it was to translate what she saw. She dug into her memory until the scene materialized. “This man was young, with light-colored eyes. Pale green or blue. No, silver. They were silver.”

“Silver?”

She nodded. “I’ve never seen anything quite like them except in scary movies.”

“Anything else?”

She searched the image for something more and shook her head. “I was seeing through Keys’s eyes. Something he saw.”

“Whatever you saw must have happened in another location, and Moran saw it. If the murder happened here, the techs would have found something.”

“Ernie, Keys couldn’t kill anyone. He wouldn’t harm a fly. That wasn’t in his nature.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. We’ll do our best to find out who killed him.”

Lucier signaled the two men standing outside, and they rolled in the gurney to take the body to the morgue. He tucked his arm around Diana’s waist and led her outside. “I’m hungry. We’ll talk over lunch.”

She felt Lucier’s comfort and strength, breathed in the fresh air, but nothing erased the vision that somehow caused the death of her friend.

“One other thing. The image I saw looked like a photograph.”