Thrill Kill Page 2

  ‘I give you my former residence, Levy. Detroit, Michigan. I mean, the craziness there is at an all-time high. About fourteen thousand violent crimes per year and ten times the national average of murders. I can’t even tell you how many elected officials are in prison. It’s staggering.’

  ‘I’ve got twenty-one thousand violent crimes last year, Archer. We’ve got politicians in jail, and we’ve got the highest murder rate of any city in the US.’ Levy stopped and folded his hands. ‘Well, we trade those figures with Baltimore and Detroit, but still …’

  ‘Bragging rights.’ Archer shoved his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Finally, Detective Archer, does Detroit have a Chill epidemic? Is there a can of Chill beside your Motor City murder victims?’

  Archer was silent for a moment. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Then shut up. I’ve got a city that tops your Mo-Town.’

  Archer gave him a grim smile.

  ‘Seriously, Q, New Orleans is an entity all to its own. You can’t compare this city to any other.’

  Archer nodded. The detective was right. Even though Detroit had been a huge thorn in his side, in his life, there was no comparison.

  Archer checked his cell. A six-year-old black girl had been shot in a drug deal gone bad. She was declared dead at University Medical Center on Canal and they wanted him to respond ASAP. Jesus, it never stopped.

  FOUR

  There was a chill in the air, the temperature never rising above the mid-fifties for the past several days. The throngs that clogged the city streets to see the parades and revel in the debauchery and festivities wore jackets, coats, boots and stocking caps. Only the hardcore tourists and the flamboyant partiers wore shorts and flip-flops or something even more revealing.

  Solange Cordray walked briskly, working her way through the crowd that jammed up the French Quarter. From her small shop on Dumaine Street she moved up Barracks and turned left on Dauphine. Grown men and women meandered past her wearing green-and-purple joker hats, green wigs and the occasional sequined bra and thong. Men and women. Dozens of brightly colored plastic beads hung from their necks, and many wore half-masks made of glittery fabric and exotic patterns. Beside her a goth-looking woman walked a pig on a leash, the animal painted purple and yellow, and as Solange picked up her pace, a skeleton with a black top hat stepped into her path, a maniacal grin on his face and a green plastic Hand Grenade cup in his hand, filled with gin, whiskey, melon liqueur, rum and vodka. Recipe for a major hangover. The slender black girl dodged the bare-boned character and was immediately confronted by an older woman with fake cloth breasts hanging from the bottom of her T-shirt to her knees. There was no dress code during Mardi Gras. A ragged Dixieland band played ‘Rampart Street Parade’ in the middle of the street, and a rowdy mix of young people threw quarters at them, the coins bouncing off their wood and shiny brass instruments and covering the street.

  ‘You are one hot mamma.’ A glassy-eyed drunk reached out for her and she deftly moved, wondering if she should even be flattered by the compliment.

  Water’s Edge Care Center loomed on her right, the concrete two-story building stark against the gray Louisiana sky. A hairy gorilla ambled down the street, holding a white poodle sporting a tutu. The beast bumped her as he passed. Walking up the steps she entered the center, nodding to the young black woman with tight black braids behind the counter. Signing the ledger book, she waited while the woman printed her identification tag, then was passed through the security door into the inner sanctum. Kathy Bavely met her on the other side, her blue eyes sparkling and her streaked blond hair hanging just below her ears.

  ‘You’re late, Solange.’

  ‘You’ve seen the crowds. I’ve got to add ten minutes to my walk,’ she said. ‘It’s literally a zoo out there.’

  ‘I saw Ma earlier,’ Bavely said. ‘You know I don’t believe many of these people who live here have any memory left at all, but half an hour before you arrive I often see your mother glancing down the hall as if she’s anticipating your arrival. I think she knows you’re coming.’

  ‘I hope that’s true.’ They walked down the corridor to the coffee shop, first stop of the day.

  ‘I saw Paul last night.’

  Solange laughed. ‘Hands-On Paul? I thought you were tired of all that physical attention.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, but I think there’s more than just a physical attraction. We actually talked. He may not be as bad as I’ve painted him. You know he’s a journalist and I got him to open up about some of the stories he’s worked on. You’d be surprised at what he’s writing. He’s actually an interesting guy.’

  ‘Well, you told me he was cheap, and you said he’s always trying to cop a feel.’

  ‘I’m not saying that didn’t happen.’ Grinning at her friend she lightly punched her arm.

  They poured coffee into paper cups and sat across from each other at one of the twelve cheap plastic tables scattered around the room.

  ‘Any current news on you and the Detroit cop?’

  Solange took her first taste of the bitter coffee. ‘There was never any old news. I told you that.’

  ‘I thought when you helped solve that murder you two sort of connected.’ Kathy Bavely looked into her eyes. ‘I didn’t just imagine that, did I?’

  ‘He’s an interesting man too.’ She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘But after his wife was killed in Detroit he’s not ready to entertain anything else at this moment. Trust me, I know.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You need a life, Solange. Look at you. Young, very good looking, great personality.’

  ‘Divorced. You left that out, Kathy. Right, like all I need is another guy in my life. I don’t think so.’ She ran a hand through her dark untamed hair. ‘So tell me, what stories did Paul write?’

  ‘One he sold involved schemes that came out of the big BP oil spill several years ago. It took him several years to document everything in the story. Companies that sprang up from nowhere, making millions of dollars at the expense of commercial fishermen, and then disappearing without compensating anyone.’ She sipped her hot beverage. ‘One of the articles is about some guy who leased oyster beds in the bay from the state of Louisiana. This guy’s territory happened to be in an area where there was some severe damage from the leak. Though his beds were unharmed, he ended up receiving like thirty million dollars from BP. Thirty million dollars. Talk about a windfall. Of course the guy didn’t come forward to refuse the money! I’ve got the transcript and decided I should read some of his stuff. I mean I should probably learn something about this guy Paul, you know?’

  ‘So, a deeper level of your relationship is about to be unveiled.’

  ‘I don’t know if there’s any future with him. It’s still day to day. Some of the stuff he deals in is truly nasty.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘He seemed more than anxious to tell me about his work on an article involving sex trafficking.’

  ‘In New Orleans?’

  ‘In New Orleans. In 2013, if you remember, we had a Super Bowl here.’

  ‘I’m well aware,’ Solange said. The tourism traffic had been horrific, but her business had gone through the roof. Mostly drunken men who wandered into her shop hoping to have their fortunes told. After they met her, many were hoping to get lucky. She had them pay up front for the read, and then told them that their future did not include getting lucky in her shop.

  ‘Almost one hundred people were arrested for sex trafficking. Some underage prostitutes, some of-age prostitutes, but a number of the arrests were of pimps. Men and women who were selling people for sex. Apparently Super Bowls are the largest market for sex trafficking in the United States.’

  ‘I assume some people came here to see the game,’ Solange took a swallow of coffee. ‘Or am I just naive?’

  ‘Whenever there’s a party, like the ones in our fair city, people do things they would never do at home. The drinking, drugs
, sex, it’s all available at a much higher level. It doesn’t surprise, but apparently a lot of tourists, a lot of men, come to these events specifically for those vices. People who live perfectly respectable lives. Paul says that political conventions, Super Bowl and Mardi Gras are like a license to screw around. Mostly with people you shouldn’t screw around with. He equates sex trafficking, human trafficking, to modern-day slavery. It’s a serious problem here. And maybe Mardi Gras is second to a Super Bowl.’

  ‘So he writes about unseemly topics. I mean, someone has to expose these things, right?’

  ‘I suppose,’ Bavely said. ‘That doesn’t make him a bad person. He was just a little creepy when he told me that story. I think he was going for shock value. But that’s what he writes about, investigative stories about manipulators, crooks, perverts and the people they abuse. He’s become rather friendly with Senator Marcia LeJeune. Do you know who she is?’

  ‘LeJeune. Sure. She’s the lady who is pushing legislation on human trafficking, right? She pops up in the news a lot,’ Solange said.

  ‘She was just on local TV last night. Paul has interviewed her several times. I guess she’s shared stories with Paul for his investigative piece, but she’s very cautious about revealing too much. He complains that she won’t divulge names of places that use trafficked people. He wants specifics and apparently she won’t share. She did tell Paul that she wants much harsher penalties on the traffickers and wants penalties on the victims relaxed. Did you know that the women who are being sold as sex slaves often go to jail? Like they’re the criminals.’

  ‘And I would guess their pimps get off a good deal of the time.’

  ‘Paul’s invited me to hear a speech by the senator. She’s speaking downtown at a fundraiser for a shelter for women and kids. I’m actually excited about going. I’m sure I’ll learn a lot more there.’

  Solange sipped her coffee. ‘Hey, it sounds like you’re actually getting interested in Paul’s stories. And maybe Paul as well?’ She smiled. ‘Listen, I hope the senator is successful and I hope Paul does well with the article. It’s really unbelievable that in a Western civilized country this could go on.’

  ‘There’s an underground in this city that connected people know is there, but they prefer not to talk about it. Telling that story is his job, and he seems to do it very well.’ Kathy took a swallow, then leaned forward and in a soft voice said, ‘I keep thinking he’s probably a great catch, Solange. An intellectual equal, someone I could partner with. But it’s early, and what really bothers me is, like I told you, he’s just a little …’

  ‘Cheap and pushy,’ Solange said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Bavely said. ‘He’s intense in everything he does. Very intense. And as I said, at this point in our relationship, much too hands on.’

  The two of them laughed.

  ‘I’m going down to see Ma. It’s a little chilly so I don’t know if I’m taking a group up on the levee to see the river, but I’ll talk to you later this afternoon. Let me know what you decide about Paul. I’m curious.’

  ‘I will. And I want you to meet him. You have this ability to read people. I’m sure he’d give you a lot to work with.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ she said.

  ‘You need to find a guy, Solange. I keep thinking about who I could fix you up with.’

  ‘Now who’s getting intense?’ She folded her hands on the table. ‘Seriously, I’m not looking, Kathy. Please, just drop it.’

  ‘OK …’ Bavely reached across the table and touched Solange’s hand. ‘You’re the only person I can talk to about this kind of stuff, and I thank you for listening. Obviously no one here is going to pay any attention. And I don’t really have a lot of close girlfriends. I feel better when I talk to you, you know? You’re a great listener, Solange. You are seriously a great listener.’

  It’s what I do, Solange thought. The same thing my mother did. We listen to other people’s problems. It’s my job.

  Ma was in an easy chair, staring at the ceiling. She never changed her focus as her daughter walked in the door.

  ‘Ma, Kathy said you were checking the hall to see if I’d arrived?’

  There was no sign of recognition.

  ‘It’s Mardi Gras, Maman. You used to keep me protected that week before Ash Wednesday. Remember? When I was a little girl, you told me the evil spirits were on high alert, passing through the city on ghostly wings and causing serious mischief. We would play silly games, huddled together, and you would use chants and prayers that no evil would harm me.’

  The old lady stayed focused, looking up at the textured plaster.

  Solange stood next to her, stroking the silver streaked hair. ‘You were my protectrice, Maman. You kept me safe. Now, it’s my job to keep you safe.’

  The lady’s eyes lowered. She gazed at Solange, for a brief second connecting, and the girl felt a tremor. The moments were few but she believed she had gotten through.

  ‘The throngs are thick, Ma, and it takes longer to make the journey. Believe me; the most important part of my day is visiting with you. I will leave earlier tomorrow so we can spend more time together.’

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and she quickly wiped them away. She never wanted to be weak in her mother’s eyes. She needed to be strong during the brief seconds that they shared intimacy.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to hold her mother’s hand and she prayed to Damballa. ‘Sky Father, primordial creator of all life, give my mother back her mind, give her peace and tranquility. Give her a voice again so she can help do your work.’ She asked the snake god every day. And every day he was silent. Much like the dementia patients at Water’s Edge Care Center.

  Dementia stole the voices of those affected. But she believed there was a deep-rooted soul that could someday, someway be resurrected. Someday, someway she would see Ma whole again.

  FIVE

  Roofless houses damaged by the hurricane still dotted the landscape, and corroded remains of the twisting roller coaster that had once been the signature ride of Six Flags Over America were visible from highway ten in East New Orleans. Six Flags had abandoned the one hundred and fifty acre property after Katrina flooded the land, and now urban adventure tourists were among the few visitors who frequented the deserted grounds. Archer surveyed the deteriorating park, a wasteland of decaying amusements and buildings, and a midway of cracked overgrown pavement.

  ‘I was the one who called 911.’ The young man in a plaid flannel shirt tugged at his cap. ‘We decided to hike out here and see what was left,’ he said, clasping his girlfriend’s hand. ‘They filmed Jurassic World out here you know. And I think one of the Planet of the Apes movies. This place has some history and we just thought it would be cool to visit and see the remains of the old amusement park.’

  ‘We never expected to find the remains of a person.’ The girl shivered, wrapped in a heavy cloth coat with a scarlet scarf draped around her neck. ‘One of the worst trips I’ve ever taken.’

  A chilly wind blew across the bleak landscape, and Archer watched as white-coated paramedics placed the victim in a body bag and lifted it into the ambulance. Looking up he saw the curving metal track of the coaster swooping up and down like a giant silver crane. To his right was a small crumbling concrete open-air building with Cool Spot painted on the side. A faded Coke sign announced the former sponsor. Ghostly structures stood empty, tall weeds, ivy and scrub trees slowly swallowing them and taking over the grounds.

  ‘What do you want me to do with that, Detective?’ The uniformed officer pointed to an object nestled in the ground where the body had been.

  Archer stared at the item and shook his head. ‘Bag it and we’ll check for fingerprints and content at headquarters.’

  The officer carefully picked it up with latex gloves and placed it in a plastic bag. Turning to Archer he said, ‘Content seems pretty clear, Detective Archer. The spray can is clearly labeled.’

  Archer gave him a frown. The can was labeled. Chill.
But this time things were a little different. The victim hadn’t been killed here. Shot twice through the heart, there should have been a lot of blood. There was no blood.

  ‘Have your officers canvas the grounds,’ he said.

  ‘The entire park?’

  Archer nodded.

  ‘That’s a lot of territory.’

  ‘With snakes, boars, alligators …’ Archer trailed off. The area was far from safe. ‘Tell them to be careful, OK?’

  ‘Exactly. What are we looking for?’

  ‘Blood,’ Archer said. ‘We’re looking for a large pool of blood. I want to know if this man was killed within the park area.’

  Two hours later he had his answer. The man had been killed somewhere else.

  He’d been there before. Too many times in his short New Orleans career. The corner of Earhardt and Clayborn. The coroner’s office and the city morgue. A stone’s throw from the old train station and a series of rebuilt low-income housing projects.

  ‘Blake Rains,’ Marsha Monroe, the coroner, said.

  ‘Should I know the name?’ Archer asked.

  The petite young lady in the white lab coat shook her head. ‘You haven’t lived here long enough to remember him, Q. I have.’

  ‘And he was memorable because?’

  Smoothing the white smock over her hips, she said, ‘A writer named Paul Girard did a story on several city council members about five years ago. He singled Councilman Rains out as someone who abused the Sunshine law, holding illegal meetings behind closed doors. If memory serves, Girard also accused Rains of hiring illegal immigrants to work a remodeling project on his home, supposedly paying them with city funds. And there was a complaint filed by a Guatemalan woman who worked as his maid. She claimed he underpaid her, forced her to work long hours and made sexual advances. There were actually rape charges filed that were eventually dropped. The article got picked up by a syndicate and went national.’

  ‘And you remember all of that about Rains from five years ago?’ Archer studied the lady’s face.