I sprinted past my geezer partners, making my way up the rickety stairs first. The hell with Wayne’s order. I kicked in the shoddy door and began yelling, “Police. Freeze. In the kitchen.”
“Nobody move,” Ron shouted as he rounded my side.
The three of us entered the kitchen with guns drawn just in time to see Toliver spring away from Bienvenue with the knife in his hand and Greg, naked with a chubby, rolling on the floor into a corner. His hands shot in the air, revealing two bushes of armpit hair.
Bienvenue immediately turned on his side and pulled up his shorts and Speedos, which were around his knees.
“Put the knife down, son, before I blow a hole through you,” Wayne said like a pro.
“‘Bout time you wipes got here.” Bienvenue was sweating. “He almost put it in my ass.”
I cuffed Greg, giving him the Miranda rights at the same time, while Ron manhandled Toliver. Wayne helped Bienvenue, wide-eyed and red-faced, to his feet.
“Everything good?” Wayne asked, looking him over.
“Yeah, they didn’t tap anything, if that’s what you mean.”
Toliver had an outburst. “What the fuck’s going on here? Is this some kind of sting? You two again? Don’t tell me you think I killed those people?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Bienvenue yelled. “You’re lucky I don’t ram a broom handle up your ass.”
I’d never even come close to being anally raped before, but I couldn’t imagine controlling my anger as well as Bienvenue.
Ron stood behind Toliver as he tightened the handcuffs. “I’d say you’re going down for attempted rape and murder, Stinky. How do you like that, Pigpen? You have the right to remain silent—”
“You’re breaking my arms,” Toliver cried.
“Calm down, Skunk, and let the man Mirandize you.” I turned to Bienvenue. “Maybe you should go on ahead before a squad comes by to pick these two up.”
“Yeah.” Bienvenue headed for the door. “I gotta get outta these clothes.”
“Don’t worry,” Ron said dryly as he pushed Toliver toward the door. “We’ll tell everyone that your man flower is still intact. Oh, don’t leave mad. You’ll think it’s funny later.”
Bienvenue slammed the door behind him.
Wayne came from the kitchen as Ron and I dropped Greg next to Toliver on the living room floor. He shook his head at the duo, then smiled at Ron and me as all three of us stood in a triangle by the dilapidated sofa. “Well, this might not have gone as planned, but if either of them don’t pan out as our guy, at least we got a couple of bad men off the street with the attempted rape.”
“Amen,” came from Ron.
“God, I want him for the killer.” I ran my fingers through my hair.
Wayne swung the front door fully open for the uniforms when they arrived. Resignation hung heavy on his face. I could read his thoughts as if they were my own. He didn’t think Toliver was the killer. I agreed.
I knelt down by the leapfroggers to see if they had any useful information for us while we waited. “Whose house is this?” I questioned casually.
“I didn’t kill anybody. I want my lawyer.” Toliver spit near my shoes.
“Me, too.” Greg copycatted.
Two weeks later
Special Agent Wayne’s visits had become less frequent, and, in the last few days, contact had been minimal. I had heard he was getting ready to go back to Virginia to teach a criminal profiling class at the academy. Even though Greenwood told us Wayne was continuing the investigation on a nationwide basis, Ron and I figured he couldn’t have been doing much.
The press had ended its blitz, only giving the story a minute or two of life every so often. The Absinthe Killer had apparently sobered up, and the reporters appeared to be disappointed.
Ron and I knew it was only a matter of time before two more bodies surfaced, a theory Wayne had even agreed with. He had to plan his next attack. The killer had to find two victims he could rape and murder, one directly after the other. It took time and patience. If he maintained his MO, he would need a homosexual who was interested in him and lived alone and a female nearby, who also lived alone. The neighborhood would most likely be dark and poor, possibly secluded.
We doubted he would do it a second time in the same neighborhood or even have the balls to go back to Breaux’s where we’d assigned an undercover to mill about. Ron and I discussed several scenarios but couldn’t get a grasp of what he might do next. We resigned ourselves to a waiting game.
On the bright side, two days earlier, confronting the fact that our investigation was waning, I had decided to go ring shopping. Jennifer and I were better than ever, and I wanted to get an engagement ring to have it for when the right time came.
On my salary, I had to be very careful. I went to Kay Jewelers and took out a payment plan on a three-quarter carat, ideal-cut diamond in a simple setting of white gold. It was more expensive than other bigger diamonds, but I had learned that ideal-cut diamonds were the best. It sparkled like it had a life of its own.
I hid the ring in my closet inside my spare holster that was secured in a shoe box. I was excited to have it, but I didn’t want to rush into a nervous proposal. I was one step closer now, and it was the biggest decision I had ever made since becoming a cop. My only concern was to stay cool about it. Jennifer could always tell when I was up to something with her ultrasensitive, freaky radar. One day I’d figure out what tipped her off.
It was 11:30, and Ron and I sat above Bourbon Street on the balcony of the Cajun Cabin having a shrimp po’boy for lunch. Even if we weren’t working on the case, we had come to like each other enough to have lunch occasionally. The sun was half on the table and half off, and we found ourselves leaning into the shade.
We talked mainly about Ron wanting to move across Lake Pontchartrain to Eden Isles when he retired and possibly become a volunteer firefighter. While we chatted, we watched the tourists below, meandering from side to side, most not wanting to skip over any of the novelty shops.
Earlier this morning, I had apprehended a suspect who had shot a street-corner guitar player and stolen his money. This was a unique case considering how we tracked down the killer.
After each song, the long-haired, bearded musician would write his initials on all of the bills that were thrown into his case. Upon checking with local merchants nearby, I found one of the top bills in the cash register had the man’s initials on it. The clerk knew who had paid with that particular bill and told us where he worked as a dishwasher. We picked him up without incident, which was very satisfying.
The day was half over, and I was hoping we might talk about the Absinthe Killer again, but there was some other news I wanted to share. “I’m going to propose to Jennifer,” I blurted. I wanted Ron to be surprised, but I didn’t expect it. I didn’t think that even a bullet being fired at him could get his heart to race.
“‘Bout time. What have you been waiting for?” I couldn’t get his reaction through his sunglasses.
“The right time.” I knew it sounded like bullshit.
“If you love her, it’s always the right time. Congratulations. When are you doing it?”
“Don’t know. I bought the ring, though.”
Ron nodded and drank his Coke, then turned his attention back to Bourbon Street. “I hope she says yes.” He smiled.
“Fucker.” I laughed.
I liked it when Ron joked with me. It was occurring more often lately, and that was a sign he was beginning to trust and accept me.
Ron’s cell rang, and I list
ened to him agreeing with the person who called. He motioned for a pen while he talked, so I gave him one along with my pad to write on. He jotted something down and told the other party we were on our way.
“What was that?”
“It’s what we’ve been expecting. Another double homicide. This time both bodies are in the same place.” He threw down a twenty-dollar bill, and we rushed out of the restaurant.
“Where is it?” I followed him down the stairs, onto the street.
“Kenner. The Kenner cops called Greenwood, and Greenwood’s calling Wayne as we speak.”
Kenner was a long way from the Quarter. It was a little city that extended west, right up to the marsh where the Louis Armstrong Airport was located. Metairie and Kenner were considered to be a part of New Orleans, although different in many respects. I didn’t spend much time there, as there was really no reason. Those two parts of the city were basically intact, not having had as much water damage from the storm as the Ninth Ward or the East.
We got in my Jeep and headed to the I-10. I blasted the air-conditioning as I started to get that same feeling of dread in my gut. I remembered June and Ryan and wondered if I was going to puke again. I also wondered if Ron was thinking about that.
Five minutes into the twenty-minute trip, I asked, “Any details?”
“No. He said to expect Wayne to show up.”
“I thought he left.”
“He did, and he came back for whatever reason.”
I picked up on the disgust in his tone. I didn’t know if he had a valid point or was just jaded. Maybe Ron’s dream had been to become an agent, and he didn’t pass the test. Still, I couldn’t imagine it, being as knowledgeable as he was. I just wanted to keep an open mind and learn from everybody involved. If what Ron said was true about the bureau’s mentality, then I’d have to experience it for myself and earn the right to be as cynical.
We turned off Williams Boulevard into a subdivision of middle-class houses. The lawns were neat, and the cars were mostly new, shiny, and in good condition. Kids played carefreely in the street, apparently not accustomed to speeding motorists, while some adults worked in their gardens. The blue tarps on the roofs had disappeared.
Ron pointed at the street I needed to turn down. It was about two blocks long and had a No Outlet sign. We drove toward a dead end where a metal guardrail kept you from driving into a canal. There were waist-high weeds and grass behind it.
At the last house on the left, firefighters were putting their equipment back on their truck, and there were three squad cars parked at the curb, a fourth in the driveway. Some neighbors had come out to watch the excitement, and Ron mentioned that it was only a matter of time before the press smelled the dead carcasses.
The house was a white brick ranch with brown shutters. A bay window extended out on the right side, and the roof was missing a few shingles. The lawn was maintained but might have gone uncut for several weeks.
I followed Ron to the front door and steadied myself when I entered the house, craning my neck until I heard a crack. A faint aroma of burned flesh hung in the air.
Two men came into the living room from the kitchen, ending their conversation when they saw Ron and me. We all stood together next to the victims.
“I’m Detective Lacey, and this is Detective Dupree. We’re from the Eighth.” Ron shook their hands, and I followed suit.
“Our captain told us you were contacted,” the taller man said. “I’m Detective Hazel. This is Detective Johnson.”
“We know this is your case,” Johnson said. He was a short black man with powerful arms. It looked as if his chest were going to pop the buttons on his shirt. “If there’s any assistance we can offer, just let us know. I assume your guy did this?”
“Yep. This is our guy, all right,” Ron said.
There was an empty bottle of Absinthe Original sitting on the coffee table next to a glass that had about an eighth of an inch of absinthe left in it. I looked at the shredded remains of the vics and felt terrible for them but also relieved when I didn’t get that unpleasant lump in my throat.
“Should we have someone pick up Toliver?” I asked Ron.
“Toliver?” Johnson asked. “That’s the name on the driver’s license of the dead guy. Don’t worry. I didn’t touch the body. The ID was left on his chest by the killer.”
Ron squatted down, read the identification, and then wiped his forehead. “Well, Toliver’s not our killer unless he did this to himself.”
“Great. The perp is watching us.” I walked around Ron to take a better look at the bodies and observed that the female had a red bow tied around her neck. Looking past the ribbon to her face, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I recognized this woman, too. I tried to rationalize how it could be. It was as if the world were on pause. I only realized that I had moved after my feet stopped. Was I going to look back at the girl and see a different face and shake it off as an illusion?
These murders had something to do with me. How could they not? The sound around me became audible again, and I sensed my balance faltering.
I looked at Ron. “I know her. Her name’s Angel Moretti. She was my very first girlfriend when I was fifteen.”
I checked again to see if I was mistaken, but even with her head shaved and a heavy coating of makeup over her bruises and lacerations, I could tell it was her. The two moles next to her left ear confirmed it. I saw that the other two detectives’ curiosity was piqued. They both stared at me as if I were about to share the meaning of life.
“With Toliver, and you knowing the female, it’s not a coincidence.” Ron searched my eyes for an explanation I didn’t have. “This killer knows you.”
I was stunned. I looked past Angel at Toliver. For now, we had to assume it really was him considering his features were melted on top of a cookie sheet. At least the killer was concerned about not burning down the houses.
“Deck, do you know anyone who may be out to get you? An old collar? An old friend? If this guy knew who you first kissed and who your first girlfriend was, then he has to be somebody you were once very close to.”
My brain was spinning. All of a sudden, everything was on my shoulders. The weight of this new information made it hard for me to breathe. It wasn’t the dead bodies I was standing over, either. It was the fact that someone was doing this on account of me. And now Jennifer’s life could be in danger.
In fact, any past relationship of mine could fall prey to this killer. Although I couldn’t imagine someone hating me so much they’d commit murder. What could I have possibly done to someone to generate this kind of revenge?
Ron put his hand on my shoulder. “What do you think?”
“I can’t think of anyone. I was a clean-up detective. I never had any real collars. I patrolled before that, writing tickets and busting teenagers.”
“What about someone you worked with? A buddy you hung out with? A childhood friend you might’ve teased? And the absinthe is definitely a clue.”
“Could be a family member,” Detective Johnson said, suddenly making me aware that there were still other people in the room.
A relative was out of the question. My mind stalled, and I glanced at Angel, fixating on that red bow around her neck. The absinthe meant nothing to me, but the bow was familiar.
Ron stutter-stepped toward the bodies, then bent down to get a better look.
Sure enough, Toliver’s penis was missing. It looked as if he had bled out from the wound. I absently looked around, hoping to get my train of thought back, but I couldn’t. I rubbed my eyes, probably making them more bloodshot than they already were.
“Why don’t you go outside and clear your head,” Ron said as he lifted an article of clothing with the pen I had given him. “The detectives and I can take it from here. You need to think about who might be trying to get to you.”
I attempted to organize my thoughts, but my mind was working like a bicycle in low gear. I’d seen movies where the serial killer played games with the in
vestigator. But that was only supposed to be in movies.
As if jumping forward in time, suddenly I was outside. The humid air didn’t help my breathing any, but the sun felt good on my sweaty skin.
A black Camry pulled behind one of the squad cars, and Agent Wayne stepped out, spotting me immediately, and raced to my side. He shook my clammy hand, but I didn’t feel any strength in my arm when I squeezed. “What have we got?” His clothes were neatly ironed, and he was dressed to impress. It looked as if he had been inside an air-conditioned office all morning.
“He struck again. Detective Lacey’s in there right now going through the house. I needed to take a breather.”
“Is it that bad?” he asked.
“You saw the pictures from last time, right?” My full weight was up against the squad car. “Same thing. The only difference is that the woman has a red bow around her neck. I knew her, too.”
“So, you knew both female victims? There’s our connection. He has to be mentally unstable enough to believe he can somehow get to you, upset you, hurt you, by doing this. I’ve come across cases like this before. You’re the person he’s choosing to connect with. Do you have a uniform picking Toliver up to check out his alibi?”
“It seems Toliver is the male victim in there. The perp has to be watching us.”
“He actually got Toliver all the way out here? He must be someone Toliver knows pretty well.”
I glanced at the growing crowd. Two news vans had just pulled onto the block.
Agent Wayne patted my shoulder. “Take your time. Relax. I’m going to go in and check with Detective Lacey. Stay away from the media. Don’t let them get you on camera.” He stared at me for a moment, then rigidly walked to the house, showing his identification to the uniforms.
The reporters had already begun to thrust their microphones into the neighbors’ faces.
I slipped down along the side of the squad car until I was sitting on my butt. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t think past the end of my nose. Behind me, reporters started interviewing the firefighters, and cops tried to hold back the cameramen. I could barely make out their questions.