Take the Monkey and Run (17 page)

“Yeah,” Hugh chimed in. “Aren't there surveillance cameras?”

“They were mysteriously disabled during the break-in.”

“Seriously? Someone turned them off?” I asked.

“I didn't get the full story but it boils down to this: I showed up and everything went south—therefore, the best way to reestablish equilibrium is to get rid of me.”

“Asinine,” I said.

He shrugged.

“You don't seem very upset.”

“I get it. I don't like it, but I get it. The good news, for now, is I'm still on good terms with Mike.”

“That's the guy Jake introduced you to?” I asked.

“Yeah. He's in a different division, so we're okay for now.”

“Good,” Emma said. “Because we have a favor to ask him.” She walked over to the kitchen table and grabbed the list we'd been working on. Handing it to Kai she said, “We need to know how old these four ladies are.”

“You're hoping one of them is Ronnie's grandmother.”

“It's a long shot but it's better than no shot.”

“You're right. I'll call Mike and see if he can run the names.”

Kai stepped out into the courtyard and returned a few minutes later with the information we needed.

“Two Preauxs match the race and age we're looking for.” He handed me the list and pointed at the names. “Judy and Sylvia.”

“Hugh and I could go to one address while you go to the other and have a look around,” Emma suggested.

“Grace is the only one who would recognize anything.”

“He's right. There's no point in all of us going.”

“Okay,” Emma said. “I had an idea when we were looking at the map earlier. You guys go and I'll see if I can get it to percolate into something useful.”

Because Moss had not had adequate exercise in the last few days, he insisted on being included in our outing.

We stopped at a deli for a quick lunch and pulled up to Sylvia's house just after one. At first glance, it had all the right stuff. The foliage looked similar, as did the fencing. But one thing made me cross her off the list. “Brick pavers,” I said to Kai. “Ronnie's grandmother was walking on brick pavers. This is all concrete.”

We moved on to Judy Preaux.

I studied the wrought-iron fence as we pulled up. I couldn't be sure, but it was a close match.

“Are there pavers?” I asked, straining to see the walkway through the landscaping.

“Yep.”

“Okay. Let's go talk to Judy.”

Moss had gotten to share some of Kai's lunch and was happy to nap in Bluebell while we went to knock on the door.

The woman who answered didn't look old enough to be Ronnie's grandmother, but I asked about her anyway.

“I don't know anyone by that name,” Judy said. “There are a lot of Preauxs around, though. You said she's missing?”

We both nodded.

“That's just awful.”

I glanced at Kai. I wasn't picking up any deceit from the woman, but people weren't my forte.

“Thank you for your time, ma'am,” he said, which told me he didn't think Judy was hiding anything, either.

I hadn't really expected to find Ronnie's
mamere
, but still felt deflated that we'd reached another dead end.

As we turned to go, there was a crash from somewhere inside the house. For a moment I thought we had been right and Anya or Barry was bursting through the back door, until I heard the barking.

Three Yorkshire terriers came charging out onto the front porch. They zipped around us, a whirlwind of jumping, yipping energy.

“Oh!” Judy exclaimed. “They must have knocked down the puppy gate again.”

She managed to grab one of the dogs and scoop him up into her arms, but when she reached for a second puppy, he darted away.

Kai had more luck with the Yorkie bouncing around his feet. He caught the dog easily and we were left with one hyperactive canine to capture.

“Banjo, come here!”

The dog ignored his owner—he was having too much fun to stop the game.

Judy tried to grab the little whirling dervish but she was no match for him. I, on the other hand . . .

“Banjo.” I spoke the name softly, but mentally added a dose of calm, dominant energy.

The dog paused, both intrigued and a little confused. He didn't know what to make of me.

“Come here.” I squatted down. Banjo obeyed without hesitation and let me pick him up.

Judy stared at me in surprise. “How did you do that?”

“I have a way with animals.”

Kai's phone rang. He handed the dog he'd been holding to Judy, excused himself, and walked down the porch steps to answer the call.

I headed inside with Judy, who couldn't carry all three dogs, and got them settled in their puppy play room.

As soon as I set Banjo on the floor, he began jumping at the gate.

“Behave, Banjo,” Judy scolded gently.

She shook her head and murmured something under her breath that tickled the edges of my memory and made me ask, “What did you say?”

“Oh.” She shrugged. “I called him some names. He doesn't speak Cajun so it doesn't hurt his feelings.”

“
Possédé
,” I said, suddenly remembering what Layla had called Ronnie. A
possédé
Preaux. I'd forgotten to ask Belinda about the word.

“
Possédé
means
crazy
,” Judy said. “Well, maybe
naughty
's a better word.” She eyed Banjo. “Like a naughty, misbehaving
chien
.”

“Would it be used as a nickname?”

“Maybe, but not a very nice one.”

I wondered if the fact that Ronnie had been a
possédé
Preaux was significant. I asked Judy if she'd heard the phrase. She hadn't but offered to call some relatives to ask about Ronnie.

I gave her my card and headed out the front door just as Kai was ending his call.

His brows were knit, though I couldn't tell if he was angry, worried, confused, or none of the above.

“That was my contact from NOPD.”

“What happened?” I asked. “Mike didn't blacklist you, did he?”

“No.” Kai turned and started down the paved pathway. I walked next to him as we headed toward Bluebell. “He widened the search for information on Veronica, AKA Ronnie, Preaux.”

“And got a hit?”

“It turns out she's from a small town about an hour south of here named Gallous.”

“That's good, isn't it? We know where she's from. Maybe someone there will have information that can help us.”

“Maybe. Her name came up because she was listed as a person of interest in a murder.”

That stopped me. “What?”

Kai paused and turned to face me. “Her uncle, Sean Preaux, was killed.”

“And she was a suspect?”

“The case is still open. Mike didn't have much information. If we want to learn more, we'll have to talk to the detective in charge of the case.”

“In Gallous?”

He nodded. “What do you say? Are you up for a trip to Terrebonne Parish?”

I called Emma to let her know Kai, Moss, and I were heading to bayou country and urged her to take the night off and do something fun with Hugh. She agreed a little too easily, which made me wonder if she'd actually do as I'd suggested.

As I steered Bluebell toward I-10, Kai called the police department of Veronica's hometown to make arrangements to meet with the detective who'd handled the investigation.

I was so focused on navigating around the Superdome to get to the on-ramp, I didn't hear his side of the conversation and was lost when he hung up and said, “Looks like we're headed into the swamp. Literally.”

“What?”

“Detective Besson just retired. He's staying out at his fish camp, which, according to the deputy I spoke to, is in the boonies.”

“Did you get directions to these boonies?”

I glanced at Kai. He was typing a number into his phone. “Nope. You can only get there by boat. But I set up an appointment to meet with the detective who took over the case.”

We headed west on the interstate, and not far past the airport we turned onto highway 310, headed south. Instantly, the scenery changed. Apartment buildings and strip malls
were replaced by marshland and cypress trees. The late-afternoon sun bathed the swamp in golden light and made the barren branches of the trees less stark.

We skirted bayous, passed plowed sugarcane fields, and drove through small, rambling towns with places advertising frog legs, turtle meat, and hog cracklin'. Moss sat up and sniffed. Bluebell's windows were closed, but that didn't matter to his canine nose.

Treat?

“No way, man.”

“What?” Kai asked, looking over his shoulder at my dog.

“Moss wants to try some of the local cuisine.”

“You never know—it might be tasty.”

Tasty treat
, Moss agreed.

“We'll get food on our way back,” I said.

“I've noticed several gas station–casino combos,” Kai said. “I bet one of them has a restaurant.”

“We can get gas, play poker, and try some cracklin'?”

“When in Rome,” he said.

After a while it was clear we were nowhere near Rome. Nor were we close to Gallous, Louisiana.

I can't say we got lost on our way to Ronnie's hometown, because we knew where we were, but here's the thing—knowing where you are and having a way to get where you want to be are two different things.

Which is a lot like life, come to think of it.

In any case, we ended up on the wrong side of the bayou. The detour added an hour to our travel time, which meant we were late arriving at the police station. I parked Bluebell under a huge oak tree and took Moss to stretch his legs and have a quick potty break. After loading him back into Bluebell, I lowered the windows enough for the nippy breeze to ruffle Moss's fur when he stuck his twitching nose out of the crack.

“I'll be back soon,” I promised.

Knowing Moss would be fine until we got back, Kai and I headed inside for our delayed appointment. Detective
Bryant didn't seem too put out once Kai apologized and explained we'd gotten turned around.

“Easy to do, in these parts,” the detective said as he showed us to his office.

The man was whip thin except for a perfectly round paunch that made him look about eight months pregnant. The guy hadn't given up on his receding hairline, though, and what was left of his dark hair ringed his skull like a furry horseshoe.

“Have a seat,” he said as he walked around his desk to take his own chair. “I was told you're with the Jacksonville Sheriff's Office.”

“I'm with the crime scene unit,” Kai confirmed.

“And you?” He looked at me.

“I'm a consultant.” It was true. I'd handled sticky animal situations for the JSO in the past.

Bryant focused his attention back to Kai, clearly waiting for confirmation that I was telling the truth. He nodded.

With a last glance at me, the detective asked, “You want to know about the Sean Preaux murder?”

“Informally,” Kai said. “We're looking into another matter involving his niece Veronica.”

“I heard she left town. Moved all the way to Florida, huh? Can't say I'm surprised.”

“Why's that?” Kai asked.

“After all the trouble she stirred up . . . But that's what you're here to talk about, isn't it? Well, I'll tell you this—Ronnie and her brother Max are murderers, and that's a fact.”

“You think they killed their uncle?” I asked.

The detective frowned at me. Maybe consultants were not supposed to ask questions.

“Ronnie knew where to find the body. Took us right to it,” he said smugly. “What does that tell you?”

“Can you give us an overview, from the beginning?” Kai asked.

Bryant leaned back in his chair. “Sean went missing. After a few days, Ronnie came here, saying she knew her uncle was
dead. When we asked how she knew—she wouldn't say. Every time we tried to get her help, she refused to cooperate.”

“But if she was involved with the murder,” I said, earning another frown from the detective, “why tell you about the body? It just makes her look guilty.”

“I've been at this job awhile. And I can say this—criminals aren't half as smart as they think they are. And that's a fact.”

“She just incriminated herself for no reason?” Maybe I was giving Ronnie too much credit, but it was hard to believe. Yes, criminals could be stupid, but still . . .

“Oh, there's always a reason. In this case, it was money.” He gave Kai a you-know-the-story look. “Sean Preaux had an insurance policy for which his niece and nephew were the beneficiaries. What they didn't know was that if someone just disappeared, they'd get nothing. At least not until a death certificate was issued.”

“She told you where the body was to make sure the terms of his policy were met,” Kai said.

“Precisely.”

“Where was he found?” Kai asked.

“In the bayou, fifty miles from nowhere.”

For a moment I wondered if Nowhere might be the name of a town or if he was attempting the use of hyperbole.

“And her brother, Max,” Bryant continued. “That boy has been arrested more times than I can count. And that's a fact.”

“What was the COD?” Kai asked.

I'd gotten used to hearing Kai talk about cases and knew he was asking about the man's cause of death.

“The body wasn't in the best condition so it was hard to tell. But the coroner concluded it was drowning due to blunt force trauma.” The detective looked at me. “Somebody hit him in the head and he drowned.”

I could understand him wanting to speak in layman's terms for my benefit, but something about the way he said it made my hackles rise.

“Why weren't Ronnie or her brother ever charged?” Kai asked.

The detective's lips twisted in distaste. “She's got some hotshot lawyer boyfriend. Works for the district attorney. He's got a lot of connections. We gave them all the evidence we had—”

“But the DA decided not to file charges,” Kai finished.

“You know how it goes.”

Kai nodded. “Well, thanks for your time, Detective.”

“Wait,” I said. “Quick question—have you heard the name Anya Zharova?”

“No, why?”

“How about Dr. Barry Schellenger?”

He looked at Kai. “Is this about the Preaux murder?”

Kai answered, “No.”

I said, “Possibly.”

Looking somewhat miffed, Kai took out his phone and brought the photo of Anya up on the screen.

The detective studied the photo and shook his head, then did the same with Barry's picture. We thanked him a second time and headed out of his office.

“What?” Kai asked when he saw me shaking my head.

“That guy is a goober.”

“Grace . . .”

“And he's full of himself. Which is a bad combination.”

“Ahem.” A man who'd been standing in the doorway we'd just passed said, “'Scuse me, miss.”

I turned, ready to eat crow from some deputy who'd taken exception to my assessment of his boss, but the man standing in the doorway held a mop and was rolling a bucket of soapy water into the men's restroom. The name embroidered on his overalls was Walt.

Before speaking, he glanced down the hallway in both directions. “You should talk to Detective B if you want to know the truth about that Preaux business,” he said.

I studied the janitor. Gnarled hands gripped the wooden
mop handle, and his wispy gray hair lay like a cobweb over skin as specked as a robin's egg.

Walt was no spring chicken, but intelligence radiated from his watery eyes.

“Detective Besson retired to a fishing camp,” Kai said.

“He did, for true. But if you want to know what happened, you need ta find 'im.”

“We'd have to have a boat,” I said, remembering what Kai had told me about the remoteness of the fishing camp.

Walt shook his head. “Not just that. You'd need a guide. T. Paul's Swamp Tours. He'll get you there.” Walt glanced down the hall and said more loudly, “I should be finished here in a few minutes, sir. Just have ta pass a mop over dese floors.”

“That's okay,” Kai said. “Thank you.”

Walt nodded and set to mopping the floor. Before turning to follow Kai, I glanced over my shoulder and saw what had prompted Walt to cut our conversation short.

Detective Goober had stuck his head out of his office and was watching us.

I gave him a casual nod and bent to take a sip from the water fountain. I pressed the button, lips pursed and ready for the arcing stream of water. Nothing happened.

“It's broken,” Goober said. “All the water fountains were disconnected after Katrina.”

I straightened and nodded an awkward farewell, then turned to catch up with Kai.

“You could never be a spy,” he said as we walked to where Bluebell and Moss were waiting.

“What are you talking about? I'd be a great spy.”

“No, because the second someone told you, ‘Don't look now!' you'd look, and that would be that. Cover blown.”

“Whatever. I can talk to animals.” I stopped to unlock the passenger side door and looked up at him in challenge. “Beat that.”

He shook his head. “You can't do it from far enough away and you're prone to passing out afterward.”

“I'd just need a partner to catch me.”

“You've already got that.”

I smiled at him and, because I didn't know what, if anything, he was insinuating, I quickly headed around to the driver's side.

Moss gave me a quick sniff as a greeting and wanted to know when I was going to make good on my promise.

Treat?

Not yet, buddy.

No treat?

Later.

With an audible sigh, my dog settled into the backseat.

“What do you think of Detective Goober's version of Sean Preaux's murder?” I asked as I started Bluebell's engine.

“Without looking at the case file and evidence it's hard to say.”

“But do you think Ronnie might be one of the bad guys?”

“Detective Goober thinks so.”

“Logan did grab her,” I said, cranking the heater. “Maybe he had a good reason.”

“Like what?”

“Maybe we've been looking at this the wrong way. Ronnie might be in trouble because she is trouble.”

“So she deserves to be tied to a table and who knows what else?” Kai said.

“No, but—”

“Is this about you wanting to believe Logan's not such a bad guy?”

“What? No. I know Logan's a bad guy.” As I said it, I remembered his words.
“
Grace, please.”

“You're not a very good liar,” Kai said.

“Maybe not, but I'm getting better.” Not wanting to talk about Logan, I changed the subject. “What's the plan? Are we going to try to track down Detective Besson?”