Tortured Spirits (2 page)

The bronze men produced identical switchblades that snapped open in the heat.

Sizing up his opponents, Jake aimed a kick at the one who didn't seem to be a drug addict. His heel slammed into the man's sternum and drove him backwards into garbage that reeked of seafood. As soon as Jake's foot settled on the ground, he struck the crackhead's chest dead center with the palm of his hand, hoping to stutter the man's heart.

The addict's eyes bulged and he dropped his switchblade, which Jake retrieved from the ground. The crackhead remained standing, as immobile as a scarecrow.

Edgar cawed behind Jake, and when Jake turned around he expected to see the man in white reaching for the cage. Instead, the man dove into Jake, wrapping his powerful arms around his waist and tackling him to the ground. Jake dropped the switchblade.

The man squeezed Jake's arms, pinning them to his sides. “Get the bird!”

The man Jake had kicked to the ground got to his feet and staggered forward. Jake snared the man's ankles with his legs and brought him back to the ground. The man in white worked his head up, bringing his face within inches of Jake's, gritting his teeth, his eyes firing with sadistic glee.
Jake rocked his head forward, smashing the man's nose and enjoying the angry bellow that followed. The man's face turned bright red, his trembling grimace twisting, and he retaliated by pounding his forehead into Jake's scarred cheek. Jake's arms turned to rubber, and his head rolled back. Blinking, he saw the first bronze man back on his feet and reaching for the cage.

Seeing no alternative, Jake cocked his leg and drew his .38 again. As the bronze man set his hands on the cage, Jake aimed his gun at the man's feet. He hesitated, unwilling to risk shooting Edgar by accident. Then the bronze man raised the cage off the ground. Jake angled the .38 at the cement and squeezed the trigger.

The gunshot echoed off the alley walls, and the round struck the ground, flattened on impact, and traveled along the cement until it struck the bronze man's left foot. The bronze man's leg flew out from under him, and he yelped before he came crashing down. The birdcage rolled rattling across the ground to the opposite wall, with Edgar cawing and flapping around inside.

The man in white looked over one shoulder at the bronze man, who clawed at his injured foot with both hands.

“I'm shot! I'm shot!” the bronze man shouted.

The man in white lunged for the cage, and Jake hammered the side of his head with the .38's grip. On his hands and knees, the man in white shook his head.

Jake scrambled to his feet, seized the crackhead by his shoulders, and hurled him into his twin, who sobbed like a baby.

A crowd had already formed at the rear of the alley, and now one started to form ahead: tourists holding digital cameras, homeless people drinking from brown paper bags, and locals wearing black and gold jerseys.

“Get out of here,” Jake said to his attackers.

The man in white spat on the ground and stared at Jake. The bronze men hauled him to his feet and dragged him to the alley's opening, where the spectators parted, allowing them to pass.

Jake holstered his .38 and retrieved the birdcage. “You all right?”

Edgar croaked.

Jake heard a hissing sound behind him.

“Hon!” Jasmine, the French Lily's evening maid, stood behind a screen door. The young black woman's long, curly black hair framed her high cheekbones, and she wore a classic French maid's uniform. Jake had greeted her several times and had bordered on flirting with her more than once. She beckoned him forward. “In here!”

Jake knew she wanted him to open the door himself, so none of the gawkers would see her. Glancing at the curious faces at each end of the alley, he strode forward, made a show of jerking the door open, and hurried inside.

Jasmine slammed the inside door shut and locked it. “Take these back stairs to your room.”

Jake glanced at the narrow stairway. “I won't be hard to find with my partner here.”

“Don't worry. No one will finger you. Now hurry!”

“Thanks.” Jake climbed the squeaking steps two at a time.

On the third level, he rushed along the sagging floor to his door, which he unlocked, then carried Edgar inside the room. After locking the door, he set the birdcage down on the thick bed and exhaled. He peeled off his soaking wet polo and dropped it on the floor, then entered the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face.

Returning to the main room, he switched on the air conditioner, which rumbled to life. He needed a shower but didn't feel comfortable taking one now. Moving to the curtained front windows, he gazed over the iron terrace at the street below, where a small crowd remained outside the alley. Scanning the sidewalks, he saw no sign of the man in white or his henchmen, but they could be hiding anywhere.

Who would hold a raven hostage?

Just some low-rent grifters.
But that was exactly why he never let Edgar out of his sight and why he slept with his revolver under his pillow.

His gaze settled on a woman in the crowd. Wearing cargo shorts and a tank top, a navy-blue baseball cap atop her curly hair, she appeared in Olympian shape compared to the large shapes around her. Dark sunglasses and gold earrings framed her face, and her skin was the color of copper. Something about her seemed familiar, and he worried he had been in New Orleans long enough to recognize the locals, which meant they could recognize him. Maybe it was time to switch hotels.

A siren screamed down the street. When the white NOPD mini-police car stopped, the crowd dispersed, including the woman. A single officer climbed out of the
bubbled vehicle and addressed the departing spectators, who shook their heads as they ambled away.

Jake closed the curtain, picked up the phone, and called the front desk. “Walter, can you ask Jasmine to come up here, please? I have a chore for her.”

“Of course, Mr. Helman.” Walter spoke in a friendly voice.

A few minutes later, Jake heard tapping on his front door. With his shirt still off and his chest glistening, he answered it. Jasmine stood there, appraising him.

“Thanks for your help.” He held out a fifty-dollar bill.

Jasmine accepted it. “You're welcome.”

“I wonder if I can ask you for another favor.”

“Depends on what you want.”

“I need a shower, but I'm worried those guys from the alley might come up here. Would you mind watching my bird for a few minutes?”

Jasmine shifted her gaze to Edgar, who blinked at her from inside his cage. “They won't come into the hotel.”

“Just the same, it would mean a lot to me.”

Jasmine entered the room. “All right. Let me tell Walter.”

“You must all think I'm crazy.”

“Eccentric, maybe. Like the Duck Lady, a local street person who walked the streets with ducks following her.” She picked up the phone. “Walter, I'm going to babysit the bird in 307. I'll come down when I'm done.”

“I won't be long,” Jake said. He went into the bathroom and stripped away the rest of his clothes, which he left on the toilet seat with easy access to his .38. He twisted the
gold shower handles and stepped into the claw-foot tub without waiting for the water to heat up. The gentle spray hosed the day's grime off his body.

Three weeks in New Orleans. How much longer could he stay?

As long as it takes.

A shadow passed over the clear plastic shower curtain. Jake lowered the soap. Jasmine stood nude on the other side of the curtain. Feeling himself growing hard, Jake swallowed.

She parted the curtain and joined him in the shower's spray. “I told you those men won't come up here.”

Admiring her dark brown skin and full breasts, he took her word for it.

Jake ate breakfast at the same window seat in the French Lily's dining room every morning. He enjoyed gazing at the colorful people on the sidewalks, who outdid even those in Lower Manhattan. He identified the newer hotel guests because they nodded or pointed at Edgar in his cage, which Jake set upon the sill.

He had gotten a good night's sleep after spending a few hours online, rested after the workout Jasmine had given him. She was a lovely girl, and although he hadn't exactly reentered the dating scene, he appreciated her attention, fleeting though it may have been. He could get used to New Orleans.

Vincent's blue Dodge Challenger pulled over to the curb. Jake had hired the young man to serve as his guide on Walter's recommendation three weeks earlier, only to discover Vincent was Walter's nephew.

After finishing his second cup of coffee, Jake left a twenty-dollar bill on the table and returned the hostess's smile as he carried Edgar's cage out of the dining room, through the lobby, and onto the sidewalk, where the humidity blasted him.

Vincent opened the passenger door for Jake.

“I keep telling you that isn't necessary.” Jake set the cage down in the middle of the backseat and secured the seat belt and shoulder strap around it.

Edgar cawed at the calypso music rising from the speakers.

“A lot of things in life aren't necessary,” Vincent said. “But it's the little things that make a difference.”

Jake sat up front and closed the door.

Vincent slid behind the wheel beside him. “What you got planned for us today?”

Jake held up a sheaf of printouts. “Take me to the Ninth Ward.”

Vincent took the printouts from Jake and read the addresses. “Easy enough to get to, not so easy to look at, especially for a tourist like you.”

“I'll manage,” Jake said.

Vincent pulled out.

The Ninth Ward proved harder for Jake to see than he had expected, with its ruined houses and piles of rubble left like gravestones in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. He glimpsed the tattered remnants of disintegrating blue roofs, rusted-out trailers, and shattered tree trunks. His body turned numb at the sight of the devastation, even when
he saw signs of recovery: repaired houses sitting atop new raised foundations on the same block as collapsed houses in weed-choked lots. Deep down, he knew it wouldn't recover. The grim faces of residents who refused to leave their homes depressed him even more; they resembled the shell-shocked survivors of third world countries existing in a constant state of war.

Vincent turned down a street with cracked asphalt and tall weeds. “It's a little hard to find my way around without street signs.”

Staring at the ruins, Jake was sickened to think of the wealth hoarded and squandered by Karlin Reichard and the other members of the Order of Avademe, whom Jake had helped take down just three months earlier. The cabal members had been billionaires, and Reichard had flown a chocolate cake in from Germany for one of their dinners. Seeing misery around him, Jake found it impossible to rationalize the existence of Avademe, the mutant octopus creature the cabal had worshipped.

Vincent pulled alongside a trailer parked before the ruins of a house. Two black children, a boy and a girl, played in an inflatable swimming pool.

Jake got out, leaving Edgar in the car with Vincent.

A woman emerged from the trailer before he reached the swimming pool. She wore sandals, shorts, and a blue muscle shirt, her dark hair pulled back. “Can I help you?” Annoyance and suspicion tinged her voice.

“You can if your name is Elaine Roberts.”

“It's rude to ask who I am before you introduce
yourself.” She glanced at Vincent sitting in the car. “I know it isn't much, but this is my house.”

Jake took out his wallet and handed her a business card. “My name is Jake Helman. I'm a private investigator, and I'm trying to locate Miriam Du Pre.”

The woman looked up from the card. “That name doesn't mean anything to me.”

“Her mother was Louise Du Pre. Her sister was Havana Du Pre until she became Havana Evans, and her niece was Ramera Evans.”

The woman's brown eyes flickered. “My family lived next door to them. I was friends with Ramera when we were in school. She moved to NOLA from New York City after drug dealers killed her parents. I got my own place”—she gestured at the house—”after high school. Some place, right? Ramera attended Tulane U, then wrote some big book about vodou that riled a lot of the locals. Secret ways are supposed to stay secret, you know? After Katrina, her grandma Louise's body floated right down the streets. I never knew Ramera's aunt Miriam, but Louise mentioned her. Why are you looking for her?”

“Ramera's dead. I need to find Miriam to tell her.”

“Someone kill her?”

“No.” A lie: Edgar had killed the bokor, who had adopted the name of Katrina. “She fell at a construction site in New York City. Why would you think someone had killed her?”

“Because Ramera changed after Louise drowned. Who wouldn't? Last time I saw her was at Louise's funeral.
She was all fancy and educated, but she also seemed … dangerous. Dangerous and vodou don't mix well. I heard she went back to New York. Heard she got into trouble, did bad things.” She glanced at the children in the pool. “I guess things didn't turn out so bad for me after all. Who hired you to find Ramera's aunt?”

“Nobody. I'm doing this on my own. My best friend dated Ramera. Something happened to him. I'm told Ramera's aunt is the only person who can help him.”

The spirit of Jake's dead wife, Sheryl, had appeared in Jake's office and told him only a blood relative of Katrina's could reverse the transmogrification spell that had turned Edgar into a raven. Jake had since discovered Katrina's aunt was her sole remaining relative.

Elaine narrowed her eyes. “I heard Ramera was dating some big-time drug dealer out there. If he was your friend, that doesn't say much about you. If something happened to your drug dealer friend, I can just imagine what it was.”

“Ramera was trouble; I'll give you that. And she did get involved with some bad men. But my friend is a cop—a good, clean cop. He didn't know what kind of woman she was, and he didn't deserve what happened to him.”