Take the Monkey and Run (4 page)

The petite woman who was unfortunate enough to be the
recipient of his ire had dark hair and a sweet-looking face. She motioned to a stack of papers in his hand.

“You can see from our files that—”

He cut her off by waving the paperwork in her face. “You're telling me the wild animal marauding our properties came from elsewhere?”

The zookeeper sighed. “Sir, that's exactly what I'm saying.”

“Hogwash.”

“Sir, we're doing everything we can to help catch the monkey.”

“I am the president of the Fleur-De-Lis Homeowners' Association, and we will not stand for this!”

The woman planted her hands on her hips, clearly at her wits' end.

I felt for her. Dealing with unreasonable, self-important people had to be one of the circles of hell.

I decided to intervene, or try to, and rushed toward the two.

“You work here, right?” I asked the woman with feigned wide-eyed breathlessness.

“Yes. What is it?”

With a dramatic sigh, I placed my hand over my heart and pointed down the path. “I just saw someone tossing candy to the baboons.”

Lips thinning, the zookeeper said, “You'll have to excuse me, sir.” Without waiting for his reply, she turned her back to the man and walked away.

He sputtered, clearly outraged, and looked at me.

I gave him a farewell nod and, without a hint of sarcasm, said, “Have a good day, Mr. President.” Then hurried after the zookeeper.

“Hey,” I said quietly when I caught up to her in front of the baboon exhibit. “False alarm. Everyone's safe.”

Frowning, she looked at me, then into the enclosure.

“I thought you needed a break from that guy,” I explained.

Still frowning, the zookeeper studied me. “I did. Thanks.”

“I guess there's an animal on the loose and he's blaming the zoo.”

“You from out of town?”

“Got in earlier today.”

She nodded, as if that explained everything. “The papers have been calling him the Mystery Monkey. He's been sighted all over but mostly in Uptown.”

“In this cold?”

Her expression went from annoyance to concern. “We haven't had a freeze yet—but it's on the way.”

“Poor little guy.” I pursed my lips, not wanting to think about the little capuchin huddling all alone on a freezing night. “Any idea where he came from?”

“None. It's illegal to own a primate in the city of New Orleans, but people break the rules all the time.”

“I'd like to help. I'm Grace, by the way.”

“Marisa.” She shook my hand and I fished a card out of my jeans pocket and offered it to her.

No, the card doesn't say I'm a telepath. I'm not quite ready for that, but it does give me the title of behaviorist and lists my website, which is filled with testimonials.

“I know this sounds a little crazy but I'm very good at what I do. You can go to my website and check the references. I've done a lot of work for the zoo back in Jacksonville.”

“Okay.” She spoke the word slowly and without much conviction.

“Anyway,” I said because it was clear the woman thought I had a screw loose, “what I'm saying is you can call me if you find him. I can help catch him.”

I could also ask him more about Logan.

“Actually,” I said, remembering I didn't have a phone and cursing Logan again, “my phone isn't working at the moment, but I'm staying at the Monteleone. You can leave a message at the front desk.”

“Sure,” Marisa said, slipping my card into her pocket. “Look, the park is going to be closing soon.”

“Right. I'll head out.” It was getting close to the time Logan had written on his card, and I still had no clue where the place was.

I was going to meet Logan if for no other reason than to give him a piece of my mind and demand to know his role in what was going on.

“And if he doesn't give me my phone, so help me . . .” I muttered as I walked toward St. Charles.

My threats were all empty bravado, of course. I had no power over Logan.

Unless . . .

Logan was a wanted man. I could call the police and tip them off to where he was going to be in the next thirty minutes.

I knew it wouldn't work. Logan was known as the Ghost by cops and criminals alike. He'd earned the name for two reasons. One—no one knew who he was. Two—he possessed the almost supernatural ability to appear and vanish at will.

Logan always managed to escape the long, grasping arm of the law. Always.

He'd get away and I'd never get answers.

It was fully dark by the time I reached a busy-enough street to find a cab. The driver plugged the address into his GPS. I watched longingly as it zeroed in on the location and plotted a route.

I'd gotten too dependent on my phone.

By the time I arrived at the address—which turned out to be a divey little bar—I'd almost convinced myself to forget about my smartphone and simply carry around a Jitterbug.

Almost.

The bar was small and almost empty so I picked a barstool toward the back, where I could see the side and front entrances.

Aside from the large flat-screen TV, the place looked like it had been transplanted from 1981. There was a Pac-Man
machine and on one wall I spotted a poster of Cheryl Tiegs in a bikini signed,
To Lenny—great grilled cheese! XXX
.

Ashtrays were large and readily available.

The bartender, a woman with dark eyeliner and a frothy nimbus of blond hair, asked, “What you need, honey?”

I was so mesmerized by the woman's resemblance to Stevie Nicks that it took me a second to answer.

“I'm waiting for a friend, so, water for now.”

“You want it out of the tap or something fancy?” Stevie asked.

“I've had a long day, so let's go for fancy.”

“One fancy water—coming right up.” She turned in a swirl of fringed cloth and returned with a bottle of Perrier and a glass garnished with a lime wedge.

I sipped the water and pretended to watch ESPN, only half listening to the sports commentators debate the merits of playoff teams and make predictions about the Super Bowl. A clock next to one of the TVs read ten past seven.

Logan should already be here.

The side door swished open. I dropped my gaze from the TV to the mirror behind the bar. A trio of women scuttled in out of the cold. The door bounced closed. No Logan.

There was an abandoned
Times-Picayune
newspaper on the adjacent stool and I picked it up. The headline read:

M
YSTERY
M
ONKEY
E
SCAPES
C
APTURE

Apparently the little capuchin had made a name for himself outside of Uptown.

After reading about the Mystery Monkey sightings and numerous escapes, I skimmed over a few more articles. One highlighted a fire in an abandoned warehouse where a body had been found. The police hadn't identified the body but had determined the cause of death was not related to the fire.

I caught myself wondering what type of forensic analysis was being used in the investigation and almost laughed.

See what happens when you date a crime scene investigator? Kai was rubbing off on me. Thinking about him made me want to call and see what he was up to. Which, of course, I couldn't do.

Where was Logan?

Bartender Stevie walked past holding a platter of chicken wings and a basket of fries. My stomach grumbled.

Mostly, I'm a vegetarian, though I confess to eating a scallop or two and eggs on occasion. My favorite food, aside from pizza, is salad. Recently, I'd been introduced, via one of my sister's caterers, to kale salad with sliced almonds, sunflower seeds, and dried fruit, topped with some sort of magical mustard vinaigrette dressing. It was by far one of the most delicious things I'd ever eaten. I didn't think I'd find it here.

I located a menu tucked between the salt and pepper shakers.

Stevie noticed and swished over to ask, “You need anything?”

“This says your grilled cheese is world famous.”

“Sure is.”

“Then I'll take one. And another Perrier.”

The grilled cheese was delivered a few minutes later, but Logan still hadn't shown. I was about halfway through the sandwich when I heard a phone ringing behind me.

I turned to see a pay phone affixed to the wall next to the men's restroom.

“You have a pay phone?” I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen an honest-to-goodness
working
pay phone.

“We do. And it's probably the oldest and crappiest one in all of Louisiana.”

A thought occurred to me as the phone continued to ring. Logan might have chosen this place so he could call me. I slid off the barstool, thinking I'd had a eureka moment, but hadn't made it more than a step when a man wiping his hands on an apron scurried out of the kitchen and lifted the receiver.

I watched him for a few seconds. The call was obviously for him.

Sitting back down, I tried to muster some enthusiasm for the greasy grilled cheese, but couldn't do it.

I looked at the clock—it was getting close to nine. It was time to call a spade a spade and realize Logan wasn't late. He'd stood me up.

I wasn't sure whom I was more aggravated with—him, for being a no-show, or myself, for waiting this long.

After paying my tab and getting quick directions to my hotel from Stevie, I bid her good night and stepped out into the night.

In the hours I'd sat in the bar, it had gone from cool to cold. The wind tugged at my hair and made me wish I had a scarf. I took a second to button my coat up to my neck, got my bearings, and started toward the hotel.

The New Orleans winter seemed to be a lot like North Florida's. The heat of the sun made the days mild but high humidity let the cold cut right through you on windy nights.

Shivering, I quickened my step. I thought about the little capuchin and hoped he'd found a warm place to bed down for the night.

Waiting had given me plenty of time to think and become a little paranoid. Even though it meant going out of my way, I decided to turn and walk down Bourbon Street. Safety in numbers, right?

The cold didn't seem to bother the partygoers. Shouts and laughter mingled with every type of music imaginable. I even passed a place with a polka band.

By the time I made it to the cross street leading to the Monteleone, I'd decided on plan A. Get a good night's sleep and call Kai in the morning.

The number to the Jacksonville Sheriff's Office was easy enough to look up—I could reach him at work and ask him to look into Anya and Dr. Schellenger. Kai would also be able to give me law enforcement/cop advice on what to do.

I was about to round the corner onto Royal Street when I saw him.

The only reason he didn't spot me was because I'd paused to tighten the belt of my coat before turning onto the windy street.

As I huddled against the building's corner and fumbled with the knot with cold-numbed fingers, I glanced up and noticed Dr. Barry Schellenger walking past the opposite corner.

I eased back farther into the shadows.

What was he doing here?

He was headed toward the Monteleone. My gut told me to stay put and watch where he went.

A gust of wind howled down the street, making the lower part of his coat flap open like the wings of an unsteady bird. He hastily pulled his lapels together but not before I saw what was holstered at his waist.

A gun.

Crap!

Okay—looks like plan A is off the table. Time to go with plan B.

In case you're wondering, plan B for me usually boils down to one thing—
run
.

Hoping the sound of the wind-tossed leaves skittering over the sidewalk would cover my footsteps, I turned and fled.

I didn't know if he'd spotted me and I didn't stop to look back.

Thanks to my dog, Moss, I was used to running in sand. A cobblestoned sidewalk, uneven as it was, was much easier. I'd sprinted halfway down the block before Barry would have made it across the street.

The question was—where was I going?

Head to the noise and crowds of Bourbon Street? Circle the block and try to find a second entrance into the hotel? I nixed that idea as soon as it came to me.

Heart pounding, I turned onto Bourbon Street and immediately ducked into a small, dimly lit bar. Without pausing to look around, I scurried to a dark corner by a window. Taking a moment to catch my breath, I scanned the street for signs of Barry. When he didn't materialize after a few minutes, I allowed myself to relax.

Maybe, by some miracle, even though I was wearing a recognizable bright red coat, he hadn't spotted me, which meant he was probably still watching the hotel.

“Buy you a drink?”

I glanced over at the businessman who'd come up to stand beside me. He hadn't slurred the question, but both his glasses and tie were askew.

“No thanks.”

“You sure? Absinthe is the house specialty.” He raised his glass and swirled it for emphasis.

I'd never tried absinthe, and might have been tempted, if I hadn't just been running from a guy with a gun.

“No really, I'm fine.”

“Come on—just one. If you don't like it I'll drink it.” He gave me a wink that was probably meant to be charming.

Great.

Seemed like tonight was my night to be pursued by weirdos, one way or the other.

My wooer motioned toward the bar, where I saw several large, fancy glass urns filled with clear liquid. Each had dainty taps protruding from the bottom at glass height.

I watched as the bartender positioned a goblet of what I assumed was absinthe under a tap. Across the rim of the goblet, he placed an odd flat spoon with what looked like a sugar cube on top. The liquid dripped onto the spoon and into the glass.

I couldn't help but ask, “What's in the big urns?”

“Ice water. They have to cut the absinthe, otherwise, it's too potent. Makes people crazy.” He grinned. “But I know the bartender. He'll give it to us straight if you're feeling frisky.”

Oh good grief. I was tempted to ask the guy if his absinthe lines ever worked, but decided I didn't want to know. I was about to tell the guy to get lost when out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a familiar figure walking along Bourbon Street.

Barry scanned the faces of the revelers as he walked slowly by.

I eased away from the window. Predictably, the absinthe
aficionado followed, still trying to sell me on the fun we'd have if I'd give it a try.

From where I stood—especially with the drunk guy blocking the window—I was pretty sure Barry couldn't see me, even if he happened to look through the window.

Still, I didn't want to make a scene and attract any attention, so I waited until Barry was out of sight before telling the guy to take a hike.

He told me to come find him if I changed my mind, and wandered back to his friends at the bar.

“You shouldn't let him turn you off absinthe,” an older man seated at the closest pub table said.

I looked at the glass in his hand. “Doesn't it make you hallucinate?”

“Not that I've noticed. But this is New Orleans—hard to know if what you're seeing is real or . . . magic.”

He snapped his fingers and, suddenly, he was holding a rose.

I blinked at him. “Magnificent Marvo?”

In the dim light, without the top hat or tails, I hadn't recognized him.

“Our paths cross again—it must be fate. Please join me.”

Keeping one eye on the window, I accepted the invitation. Marvo signaled to the cocktail waitress and a few minutes later, a glass of absinthe was placed in front of me.

I took a tiny sip and made a face. “Tastes like licorice with a kick.”

“It's the kick you have to be careful of,” he said with a wink.

“So I've been told,” I said, checking the window again for Barry.

“Everything okay?”

“Fine,” I said, lifting the glass of absinthe. “Cheers.”

He tapped his goblet to mine and we both took a swig. I can say this—I wasn't feeling much of the cold anymore.

It turned out Magnificent Marvo had lived all over the
world. He spoke several languages fluently and had called the Big Easy home for thirty years.

“You keep looking out the window,” he said after we'd been talking for a while. “You sure everything's okay?”

“Depends on your definition of
okay
.”

“Using my mystical powers of insight, I'd say you're looking for someone—and not in a good way,” he said.

“Yeah . . .” I paused to think about what to say. I liked the old guy, but I didn't want to go over the whole story. Heck, I didn't even know the whole story. “There's a man I'm trying to avoid.”

“I see,” he mused, stroking the white hair of his pointed goatee. “Not something you can go to the police about?”

I lifted my absinthe, peering at the cloudy green liquid. I had considered contacting the police, but didn't know if that was the best idea. They'd want to know the whole story—which included Logan. Add a wanted criminal into the mix and the waters got muddy as the Mississippi, quick.

Taking a sip of my drink, I allowed myself to wish I had my phone so I could call Kai. He'd know what to say to the cops.

“I'm not sure the police will be able to help,” I told Marvo. “Maybe you could teach me how to disappear?”

“You know, I might be able to do just that.” He turned, rummaged through his bag, and placed what looked like a wadded-up ball of paper held together with a piece of masking tape on the table.

“What's this?”

“A smoke bomb. With some added flash for show. You need to get away—this will give you a chance.”

“How does it work?”

“Just throw it on a hard surface. The ingredients inside mix and,
poof!
”

I gingerly lifted the ball and squinted at it. “Is it dangerous?”

“Not really. It requires a bit of force to work. Just don't sit on it.”

“Thanks.” I slipped the smoke bomb into the inner pocket of my coat.

“It's the least I can do. You saved my doves, so if there's something else you need, say the word.”

“Well, I no longer have a place to stay while visiting the city. Any recommendations on a hotel that might have a vacancy?”

“No, not a hotel, but I do happen to know someone with a bed-and-breakfast. Belinda will take care of you. But it's on the other side of the Quarter. A bit of a walk.”

“I don't mind walking.”

He seemed to be considering something. Then his eyes drifted toward the door.

I glanced to where he was looking. A beautiful, curvaceous blonde had entered and was weaving slowly through the crowd, smiling and making eye contact with as many patrons as possible. In her left hand she carried a tray. On it was a clear, plastic rack containing two rows of what looked like test tubes filled with colored liquid.

Marvo caught the girl's eye and waved her over.

“Evening, Shay, how you doing?”

“Freezin' my fanny off,” she said, and shot a wink at me.

It was no wonder—she was dressed in a pair of skintight gold leggings that didn't appear to be insulated, a low-cut top showing lots of cleavage, and a black velour hoodie.

“Slow night?” Marvo asked.

“I've had better.”

“Is your husband working tonight?”

“Yeah, Michael's with his brother at Oz.”

Marvo dipped his head in my direction. “This young lady is headed to Belinda's, but there's a man looking for her and trouble.”

Shay's lovely dark eyes narrowed. “Give me a sec,” she said, pulling a phone out of her hoodie's pocket. “I'll text the family.”

I raised my brows at Marvo.

“Shay's whole family works in the Quarter. Shot girls, dancers. Her husband, Michael, is one of twenty-plus kids.”

“Seriously?”

“Okay,” Shay said, stuffing her phone back into her pocket. “I've got Sheba and Judith coming. We'll walk you to Oz. Michael and Gabriel will take it from there.”

Before I knew it, two more lovely shot girls flanked Shay.

“Come on, baby,” Shay said. “We'll get you where you need to be.”

•••

They got me
almost
where I needed to be.

At my insistence, Michael and Gabriel—who wore matching rainbow Speedos, suspenders, and not much else—stopped at a corner and stepped close to a wall to get out of the wind.

“I can find it from here, guys, really,” I told them.

“Belinda's is across from the church,” Michael said, pointing at a building down the street.

“You can't miss it,” his brother added.

I thanked them and the shivering young men hurried back to work.

I was glad I'd let Emma talk me into wearing my fleece-lined boots. They hit me just below my knees and had been a pain at airport security but were proving to be an asset on the cold, cobbled streets. Despite the boots, gloves, and coat, I was half frozen and ready to get inside.

I found the church easily enough—it took up an entire corner. Across the street, I saw two businesses: a place advertising psychic readings and a real estate office. Neither was open and neither was a bed-and-breakfast.

Damn.

I heaved out a long sigh. For some reason, the cloud of fog produced by my breath made me feel colder and suddenly defeated.

Maybe I was on the wrong side of the street? I turned and
scanned the area but saw nothing bed-and-breakfast-like. In fact, the area was pretty deserted. It was quiet but for the soft
click-clack
of heels on the pavers.

Glancing in the direction of the sound, I made out the figure of a tall woman walking toward me, with two tiny dogs in tow.

Pomeranians, I thought, though I couldn't be sure until they reached the circle of light cast by the closest streetlamp. As the trio grew closer, I saw I'd been right about the Poms, but not their owner.

Clad in a long, elaborately embroidered kimono, marabou-trimmed sandals or not, the Adam's apple was a dead giveaway.

She was definitely a he.

He was well over six feet tall, had dark skin, and was wearing the kind of head scarf I'd seen my sister don when removing particularly heavily applied makeup.

“There you are!” the dog walker said with a wide smile.

I knew he was talking to me, as I was the only one on the street. Still, the familiar greeting threw me. “Um . . . hi.”

“Ain't it somethin'.” The voice—a husky contralto—went with the shoes. My brain kept wanting to refer to him as her, so I went with that.

“What am I going to do with you?” she asked.

“Um . . .”

“Room or reading?” she mused, tapping a perfectly polished fingernail on full lips.

I glanced at the sign glowing in the window. It featured a crescent moon and other celestial symbols.

Still not sure I was in the right place, I asked, “You're Belinda?”

“In the flesh.”

“In that case, I could use a room, actually.”

She snapped glitter-tipped fingers. “I knew it. Come on, let's get you settled.”

I followed her inside and found that the interior of the shop
was as unique and surprising as its proprietor. Kind of Scheherazade goes on an African safari and has an estate sale.

There was fabric draped everywhere. A nook by the front window featured a small table with a set of tarot cards and a crystal ball.

“Thanks for opening up for me,” I said as Belinda walked to a life-sized statue of Nefertiti.