Polly Iyer - Diana Racine 03 - Backlash (5 page)

Emile tried to turn the tic in his cheek into a smile. “No, I guess not.” He escorted Diana to the door. “Nice to meet you, Miss Diana.” He whispered in her ear, “Please don’t tell on me.”

She played dumb, but she knew what he meant. “Same here, Emile. This is a cool place, and the shrimp is to die for. We’ll be back.”

Lucier said his goodbyes and they left.

“Did you expect to find anything?” Diana asked as they walked back to the district through the jostling New Orleans tourist crowd, where street musicians strummed and drummed, tooted and hooted. Mimes performed their immoveable statue acts.

“No, but I had to try. Moran’s computer was smashed. Was the shooter looking for something or trying to throw us off track? Why didn’t he tear up the rest of the place?”

“Because he knew what he was looking for was in the computer?”

“Possible.”

“Knowing Keys, he’d hide anything important behind so many trap doors, or however they do those things, only a master hacker like Keys himself could retrieve it. My guess is whoever trashed the hard drive knew that.”

“The tech department couldn’t extract anything.”

“Then your guess is as good as mine.”

Lucier took her hand. “By the way, what did Emile whisper to you?”

“Not to tell.”

“Tell what?”

“When I touched him, I saw something, and he knew it. Must’ve felt guilty.”

“Are you going to tell me or tease me?”

She debated. What good would telling Lucier do other than ruin the relationship between Emile and Miss Kitty? But she’d held back things from him before, and it always ended up biting her in the ass. “I saw him in an amorous situation with Keys.”

Lucier stopped in his tracks. “Jeez. Isn’t anyone monogamous?”

“Don’t tell, Ernie. I don’t know if their relationship was serious or a fling, but they had something.”

Lucier put both hands on her shoulders. “I won’t unless I have to, and you knew that before you told me. Emile might have killed Moran to keep him quiet. Hell, Miss Kitty could have found out and killed Moran herself.”

“Miss Kitty would probably kill Emile first, but ―”

“No buts, Diana. For once, no buts.”

D
iana
slid into the booth at the small French restaurant. Soft music, white tablecloth with roses in a crystal vase, and a bottle of estate Bordeaux, opened and ready to pour, confirmed again the special thought Lucier put into the evening.

“Lovely,” she said. “You’re a romantic.”

“Nothing’s too good for my lady,” he said.

“Now I’m blushing.”

A waiter brought a serving of
brie en croute
; the sommelier poured the wine. Diana cut two pieces of the cheese pastry and put one on each small plate. “Who’s Denny Chenault?”

“A cop with an ego the size of Texas,” Lucier said, once they had privacy. “He’s had affairs with more than a few women, including a couple of cops’ wives. Two divorces resulted from his cheating ways, plus his own.”

“Sounds like his escapades would have preceded him.”

“Being a cop’s wife isn’t easy, Diana. The divorce rate is high. Cops have breakdowns, commit suicide, PTSD, to name a few. Someone comes along and pays attention to a neglected wife, and, well, Chenault has a way of zeroing in on them. He’s usually successful, even with his womanizer’s reputation.

“When I was married, I tried not to bring home the bad stuff, but some crept in anyway. In the eight years since my wife and kids died, I answered only to myself. If I’m in a mood, no one suffers but me.”

“I’ve never seen your moods.”

“Because we don’t live together. You can’t do this every day without stress taking a toll. You see horrible things in this line of work ― abusive parents, dead kids, heinous murders.”

Lucier leveled those gold-flecked eyes at her, and her heart fluttered like a schoolgirl’s, especially when he confided his deepest thoughts, which wasn’t often.

“Nothing much bothers Chenault. He likes the streets, and the meaner the better. Violence, the next conquest, whether police business or a woman, is what gets him off. I doubt he ever second-guessed himself, no matter the result. Don’t get me wrong. He’s a good cop because he’s fearless, and he has his partner’s back.”

“How well do you know him?”

“We were at the academy together, so I know him well. Denny regarded everything as a competition, and I almost always beat him out ― on the shooting range, in written tests, and in physical fitness. I’m not saying this to brag but to explain why we could never be friends.

“He rationalizes his relationships to the wives by saying a happy woman wouldn’t cheat on her husband in the first place. He even made a pass at my wife at one of the police functions.” Lucier snorted. “Told her he liked
ethnic variety
.”

Lucier rarely talked about his dead wife and kids, and Diana never forced the conversation. Eight years passed between the death of his family and his life with her. He even wore his wedding ring those eight years until one night he took it off in front of her. His family memories were important, and she’d told him to keep them in his heart always. She meant it.

“Chenault hit on your wife when you were nearby?”

Lucier nodded. “She’d been to the ladies room, and he caught her in the lobby.”

He stopped.

Diana imagined his memories brought him back to that night.

“Nikki was as straight as they come. Churchgoer, helped out at the children’s shelter, always there for friends. She was horrified and told me immediately. Unfortunately, Chenault’s wife was coming out of the bathroom too. She overheard her husband’s pitch. She must have been living in a vacuum not to know his reputation, because she was as shocked as Nikki.”

“They say the wife is the last to know,” Diana said. “What did you do?”

“I confronted him. Not then. I didn’t want to embarrass his wife or mine any more than they had been. The next day I surprised him at his district. Told him if he ever hit on my wife again, he’d have to deal with me. If someone had killed Chenault eight years ago, I’d be first on the suspect list, because a few cops overheard the threat. I didn’t care. I said what I meant.”

“Now you find out that gender is no barrier for him. A man for all seasons.”

“If so, I’m surprised. One comely young TV reporter is practically on his payroll. She writes him up as if he were Batman and Superman rolled into one.”

“What does this guy have that makes women cheat on their husbands?”

“He’s good looking, if you like the type. I’ve heard a few cops call him pretty. A friend of my wife’s, who barely escaped his lure, said he made women feel as if they were the only one in the room. I’m sure you’ve met men like that.”

Diana’s guffaw turned heads in the restaurant. She lowered her voice. “I spent years in show business, darling. Most of the so-called heartthrobs I’ve met over the years tended to be so full of themselves I couldn’t take them seriously.”

Lucier smiled, exposing his overlapping front tooth, which she adored.

“I love you,” he said. “If I’m moody when we’re together, kick me in the ass.”

“It’ll be my pleasure.” She cut into her
coq au vin
, savored the rich flavor. “You think Chenault killed Keys?”

“Possible, if they were lovers and Moran threatened to out him.”

“Don’t forget the guy with the bullet hole in his forehead. Those silver eyes.” Diana shivered. “He’s part of the equation.”

“Mathieu Soulé. Maybe he and Moran were lovers.”

“No way. Keys was a classy guy. A gangbanger wouldn’t be his taste. A good-looking, charismatic cop is another story. Even if Chenault and Moran had a thing, that doesn’t mean Chenault killed him. And where does Soulé come in?”

Lucier shrugged. “We’ll wait until after Beecher questions the girl’s family.” His phone beeped. “Speaking of the devil.” He answered, “Lucier,” and listened. “A couple of years ago, right?”

He paused again, his expression twisting into one Diana couldn’t decipher.

“Cross check similar court cases like Soulé and Winstead in the last few years. See if you come up with any who’ve gone on to that great jury in the sky. I’ll be there after we finish eating.”

Diana waited.

“Three years ago a guy by the name of Henry Winstead got into his car, dead drunk. He’d already racked up two DUIs. He crashed into a family coming back from vacation. All four people in the car died.”

A moment of hesitation interrupted Lucier’s delivery. Had the Winstead story been another reminder of his family, killed when a truck driver fell asleep at the wheel and crossed lanes head-on into his wife’s car? The moment passed, and he continued.

“Winstead walked away without a scratch. He got ten to twenty, paroled in eighteen months because his rich daddy called in a few markers. That was two years ago. He went missing a couple of weeks ago. Most everyone thought he was on a bender. Divers searching Bayou St. John for a missing woman found his body in his submerged car.” Lucier sighed. “I wouldn’t think anything of the discovery if we hadn’t discovered Soulé’s murder.”

“So you believe Soulé’s dead?”

Lucier took a bite of his steak and nodded.

“You think they’re connected?”

“I’ll let you know after Winstead’s autopsy, but I have a bad feeling.”

“Finding Soulé’s body might give us a clue,” Diana said.

“Us?”

“Yeah.”

“Just might.”

“Well, then?”

A
t eight
the next morning, Diana sat in the same chair as the first time she’d channeled an article of clothing in Lucier’s office almost a year ago. In spite of the fleeting months, she felt as if she’d known him her whole life.

He’d made sure they were the only two in his office. Beecher kept everyone else out, though the team knew what was going on.

Soulé’s black T-shirt with the face of a skeleton emblazoned on the front lay draped on the desk.

Lucier studied her. “Ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

He leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips. “I’m here. Remember that.”

She picked up the shirt and took a few deep breaths. After letting out a long, steady stream of air, she offered Lucier a half-hearted smile and closed her eyes. She hoped the result justified his confidence.

The cotton shirt heated in her hands. Warm but not hot. Time disappeared; everything stopped. Darkness provided a backdrop to whatever image developed, fuzzy at first, now growing sharper. Would she view the scene as the victim or the killer?

A few steps in his shoes, and she knew she’d become the person who put an end to Mathieu Soulé’s life. “The ground is rough. Rocks and sand. Trash and junk.” Fleeting images flashed across her mind. “A boarded-up house, decay. Grass overgrown. It’s nighttime and dark. No lights anywhere.” She strained to see. “A dark boot kicks at a blue door with a board across the middle. The door pushes open, hanging on by one hinge.”

Her heart thumped. “Inside is pitch black.” Sniffing the air, she said, “The room smells earthy and dank. Musty, like it’s been closed a long time.” Her nose pinched from the odor. “Two sets of hands heave a black tarp into a corner. An old sofa is tossed upside down over the tarp. It lands with a thud.” She turned her head, bit her top lip.

“Can you see anything with a name on it outside?” Lucier asked. “A street sign? A number on the house?”

She shook her head, stopped. The vision faded. Diana didn’t move. She fought to hold the image, but the cotton in her hand had cooled. She opened her eyes. “That’s all. If Soulé was in that tarp, he’s in that house.”

In spite of all the tests, all the successes, people still doubted her gift, except for Lucier, the love of her life. “What are you going to do?”

“Search for the body.” He clicked the intercom for his team, and within minutes the three men entered the office. He brought them up to speed on Diana’s vision.

Halloran perched on the corner of the desk. “Could be anywhere.”

“I’m betting it’s in New Orleans,” Lucier said.

“The lower Ninth Ward?” Beecher said.

Lucier nodded. “My guess. Parts of that area are still like they were after Katrina. How many blue doors could there be?”

“And inside,” Cash said, “is ―”

Diana tossed the shirt on the desk. “Mathieu Soulé.”

* * * * *

C
harlie
Cothran scheduled Henry Winstead’s autopsy for one p.m. Lucier arrived at three, donned a surgical gown over his suit, covered his hair, and dabbed menthol gel under his nose to disguise the smell of a decayed body. Watching an autopsy wasn’t his favorite thing. Most cops agreed.

Except for the table on which the body lay, the room was a pristine visage of stainless steel tables and sinks, tile floor and walls. Floor drains allowed the room to be washed down of spattered blood, bone, and tissue matter.

Cothran, standing over the eviscerated remains of Winstead, acknowledged Lucier with a nod. He wore scrubs covered by a surgical gown and a Tyvek apron, gloves, and protective eyewear. He continued dictating his findings into a mic hanging overhead.

Lucier waited patiently and listened.

Winstead’s murder was payback for taking the lives of an entire family, just as Soulé’s death was revenge for the rape of a little girl. Now, with Diana seeing two sets of hands, at least two people were involved. There was nothing worse than psychopaths on a fanatical mission, and the more Lucier learned, the sooner he and his team could stop them from killing someone else.

Soulé and Winstead were dead. Were there more, and where did Keys Moran fit in this bizarre puzzle?

An hour later, Cothran called for an assistant to close the body. He motioned his visitor into his office. Lucier, anxious to hear Cothran’s findings, removed the stack of papers on the extra chair, placed them on the desk, and sat.

“Winstead was in the water for a week, a little less. After death, alcohol in the blood increases, but this guy was soused when he went in.” Cothran pointed to Winstead’s head. “Bruises on his jaw and neck suggest someone forced his mouth open, possibly to pour liquor down his throat.”

“If we can confirm another death, I think we have an avenger or two.

“If you can’t confirm the death, how can you be sure there is one?”

Lucier cheeks warmed.

“Never mind,” Cothran said. “Ms. Racine had a vision, right?”

Lucier shrugged.

“Hard to ignore her track record. Who’s the victim?”

“A twenty-three-year-old gangbanger by the name of Mathieu Soulé. He’s disappeared. Both Soulé and Winstead left victims in their wakes. Someone doesn’t think they paid a high enough price. Soulé raped an eleven-year old, and Winstead ―”

“Committed vehicular homicide,” Cothran said, finishing Lucier’s sentence. “I remember the case because two of the family members wound up on my table. I also remember the uproar when he served less than two years and got parole, thanks to his wealthy daddy greasing the palm of the right people. MADD was mad, mothers united against the decision, protesting in front of the courthouse. I agreed with all of them. I’ve seen too many people with their lives in front of them dead on my table for someone to be bought out of murder, or in this case, manslaughter.”

“Agreed.”

“So what now?”

“Dunno, but your findings bolster my suppositions. Henry Winstead was forced to drink until he was dead drunk. Then someone drove him into Bayou St. John in his chosen murder weapon.”

“His car,” Cothran said. “Live by the sword, eh?”

“Exactly.”

“The way verdicts are coming down these days, your avenger has an endless supply of potential victims. To tell you the truth, if you’re right, I kind of admire what he’s doing.”

One part of Lucier wanted to agree. “Except he’s taking the law into his own hands and playing God, determining who should receive the ultimate punishment.”

“He’s righting a wrong.”

“Our judicial system isn’t perfect, Charlie. Judges make bad decisions, some on the highest court in the land, depending on which side you are. But it’s all we’ve got, and it’s worked relatively well for almost two hundred and forty years. We can’t become a vigilante nation. It’s only a matter of time before this guy will make a mistake and kill to protect his mission. He may already have.”

“Moran?”

“Maybe.” Lucier wouldn’t mention Moran’s alleged connection to Denny Chenault. Not until he had more facts, and those facts could only come from Chenault himself. This was an interview he’d conduct alone. He wouldn’t expose a cop’s sexual preference if the cop chose to remain in the closet. And he wouldn’t make the interview official.

Lucier called Chenault as soon as he left the morgue. “Eaten lunch yet?”

A long hesitation prefaced Chenault’s response. “Um, no. Been busy.”

“I’m over your way. How about Hot Diggity Dog?”

“Ten minutes?”

“Perfect. See you then.”