Bad Karma In the Big Easy Page 10

  “What are you dressed up for old man, Halloween?” the second voice said. “Couldn’t you afford a real tie?”

  “I’m the medical examiner,” Broussard said. “I do a lot of my work bendin’ over examinin’ the dead. I found early in my career that a long tie gets in the way. Kind of like what you’re doin’ right now.”

  With the light out of her face, Kit played her own light over the two so she could see their hands.

  “Ohhh, get him,” the second thug said. “He ain’t scared. But you oughtta be old man.”

  The thug slipped his hand into his pocket and brought out an object. There was a snicking sound and Kit’s light caught the glint of a knife blade. She saw no guns.

  Before she could reach for the Ladysmith, she was grabbed in a bear hug from behind, pinning her arms. Her flashlight clattered to the floor. Instinctively, she threw her head back, hoping to drive her skull into her captor’s face, but he must have been expecting that because he moved his head to the side.

  “Your hair smells great,” he said breathing into her ear. “I’ll bet your pussy smells even better.”

  His breath curled around to the front of her face and went into her nose. Though the odor in the store was bad, his breath was worse. One of his hands slid down between her legs and his fingers began probing.

  She stamped on his right foot as hard as she could. But her soft deck shoes didn’t have any effect. She drove her left foot back into his kneecap. That didn’t accomplish anything either. Running out of options, she leaned into him and drove herself backward. He gave ground and they began to move, slowly at first, then faster as she continued to dig in. They hit the back wall a moment later with a thud. She heard the air rush out of him, but he didn’t loosen his hold.

  The guy with the knife advanced on Broussard.

  “He likes unusual ties,” the guy with the light said. “Cut his throat and pull his tongue through the opening. See how that suits him.”

  Kit watched with horror. They were both in trouble, but it was Broussard she was worried about. They were going to kill him and she couldn’t do anything about it. If she could just get free for a second... She struggled in the grip of the geek holding her, but he was too strong.

  Broussard shoved his flashlight into his back pocket. Fists raised, he edged forward in a crouch to meet the guy with the knife. The thug moved in closer, his hands making circling motions, trying to confuse Broussard about the direction the attack would come. He lunged.

  With surprising quickness, Broussard knocked the knife hand to the side with his left hand. He took a step forward and brought his right fist around in a looping motion that caught the thug hard on the side of the head. Stunned, the thug staggered sideways, turned, and fell on his ass. But he didn’t drop the knife.

  “I could be wrong, but I think you missed him, Chato,” the guy with the light said. “Try again.”

  Chato got awkwardly to his feet. Grinding his teeth and growling, he charged again. This time he swung the knife from Broussard’s left to his right in a huge underhand slicing motion. Broussard leaned back so the knife barely missed his face. He grabbed the thug’s arm and used the momentum of the guy’s charge to spin him around. Broussard then sent him sprawling onto the floor with a kick in the glutes.

  The guy with the light played the beam over his embarrassed lackey, then turned it back onto Broussard. “You’re not an easy mark, I’ll say that for you, old man. And I’ve enjoyed your performance. But now it’s time you were dead. Chato... again...”

  “I’ll help him,” the guy behind Kit said. He pivoted to his right and hooked his right foot around Kit’s legs, then loosened his grip and pushed her to the floor. The guy with the light hustled toward her, cursing. “Damn it, Roach, did I say let her go?”

  Kit rolled over and rose into a sitting position.

  Ignoring the rebuke from his buddy, Roach headed for Broussard, knife in hand. At the same moment, Chato closed in on Broussard from the front.

  Before the guy with the light could reach her, Kit bent down, pulled up the leg of her slacks, and yanked the Ladysmith from its holster. She raised the barrel to the ceiling and fired once.

  The sound echoed through the empty room. Plaster fell from the ceiling. The guy with the light played it directly on Kit, all of them staring at the gun.

  “Who wants the next round?” she asked angrily. She looked from thug to thug. “Any volunteers?” None of them moved. “No? Then get the hell out of here.”

  Slowly, the three men moved toward the door. Broussard pulled out his flashlight and lit up their departure.

  The leader of the three was the last one out. He paused in the door and looked back. “You two don’t belong down here. You get the hell out.”

  Then they were gone.

  Keeping her gun in play, Kit bent down and picked up her flashlight, which was still lit. She walked over to Broussard. “Lot of good those security checkpoints just did us.”

  Broussard shook his head. “Too big an area to monitor effectively.”

  “I didn’t know you could move like that.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Okay, I kind of knew.” What he meant was, he used to be able to do that kind of thing, but those dizzy spells in St. Gabriel had him wondering if he was still capable of defending himself.

  “You should feel proud of yourself.”

  “Why?”

  “If it wasn’t for you handling that first guy like you did, the one holding me wouldn’t have let go.”

  Broussard wasn’t pleased at her compliment. He’d felt so much better since returning home he’d pushed those thugs partly to test himself. It was reassuring to know he could still pass such an exam, but it had been a foolish act. “Should have been able to talk ‘em into leavin’ us alone. But I didn’t even try. And when they first came in, I got tough with ‘em.” He shook his head. “Just sets their kind off... like kickin’ a mad dog. If anything, I owe you an apology for puttin’ your life at risk.”

  “That’s just nuts.” Kit did not like to hear this kind of talk from Broussard. He was the standard by which she measured all other men. In the years she’d known him, he’d shown hundreds of times that he had impeccable instincts for doing the right thing. She’d never before heard him question himself. It was very unsettling. “We should leave before they come back with better weapons,” she said. “Assuming they’re part of the gang that left all those footprints you saw, there could also be two more of them.”

  “I want to take that clothing.”

  Broussard went over to the muddy clothes, shoved his flashlight in his back pocket, and gathered up everything in the pile. Kit led the way out. At the doorway, she paused and checked to see if any of the thugs were out there. “Looks clear.”

  And it was.

  On the way to the car Kit said, “Now that we know where the freezer came from, we could find out from the city tax records who owns the building. That could lead us to the killer.”

  “I hope it’s that easy. The office housin’ the computers with those records was under water. Those files may all be lost.”

  “What a pessimistic view.”

  “So I’m nuts and pessimistic.”

  “Well, just on the two issues we discussed.”

  At the car, Broussard put the clothes in the trunk and shut the lid. A few seconds later, they were sitting in the car, engine running, blessed cool air blowing over their sweaty bodies.

  “Boy, that feels good,” Kit said.

  “I used to believe concrete was the most important technology ever devised,” Broussard said, putting the car in reverse. “Right now I’m leanin’ toward air conditionin’.”

  While Kit craned her neck around to see if the three thugs were lurking close by or running toward them, Broussard backed the T-Bird into a tight turn, then headed toward Caffin Street. As they neared the building they’d just left, Kit saw it from a fresh angle.

 
; “Stop the car,” she shouted.

  Broussard hit the brakes. “What’s wrong?”

  “The suicide I told you about last night... I found a camera in his study that contained a lot of pictures taken just hours before the owner killed himself.” She pointed across the street, “And most of them were of that building.”

  Chapter 13

  Broussard stopped the car and looked at Kit. “You’re sure... there’s no doubt in your mind? Because if Jude Marshall took pictures down here the mornin’ he committed suicide, that’s pretty strong circumstantial evidence he was involved in the death of those three women.”

  “I know what I saw. But if he was involved, that would suggest he also had some connection with the surrogacy clinic...” Kit’s eye’s widened even further. “I wonder if he’s Arthur Loftin.”

  “I’ve got to head back to St. Gabriel and make sure everything is runnin’ smoothly over there, so I’m gonna need you to follow up on this.”

  “Guess you’re about to suggest I get a photo of Jude Marshall from motor vehicles and ask Duke Delcambre in Morgan City if that’s Loftin.”

  Broussard took his foot off the brake and gave the T-Bird some gas. “Always a pleasure to work with people who see the big picture.”

  “I’ll also check and see if you’re right about the tax records being destroyed.”

  “You mentioned earlier that Jude Marshall was married. If the tax records can’t be accessed, maybe you could find Mrs. Marshall and ask her if her husband owned that buildin’.”

  “She might not know. I could also try his brother. On my first visit to his business, Quentin said he didn’t think Jude owned any property that was flooded, but my question was very brief and very general. Now that we have a specific building and a street address, it might be worthwhile to ask him again.”

  They drove in silence for about ten seconds, then Kit said, “Why would Jude Marshall kill those three women?”

  “Could have somethin’ to do with all those dresses in the trunk.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe he liked to play dress-up with dolls as a kid.”

  “Oh, that’s sick.”

  “Can’t find any fault with that view.”

  THEY GOT BACK TO the office in Gretna a few minutes before three o’clock. That didn’t leave Kit much time for all she needed to accomplish by the end of the business day.

  First, she needed to obtain a copy of Jude Marshall’s driver’s license from the DMV. Believing as Broussard and Gatlin did that the New Orleans PD computer network wasn’t very reliable at the moment, she made her request by phone, through the Baton Rouge PD. While waiting for the license to arrive by e-mail, she did a computer search for the phone number of Duke Delcambre Realty, the company name she’d seen on the for rent banner at the clinic.

  She jotted the number on a piece of scratch paper, then did a search for the New Orleans tax assessor’s web site, where the owners of any piece of property in the city could usually be found by just entering the address. She had no trouble finding the link, but when she clicked on it, the server couldn’t locate the site.

  Score one for Broussard.

  She lugged out the New Orleans phone book the previous business had left on the premises and turned to the city government listing.

  A half hour later, having been unable to contact any of the city departments she’d called, she hung up the phone and checked her e-mail.

  Still nothing from Baton Rouge. And it was getting late.

  To see if she could hurry things along, she made a follow-up call, stressing the importance of a timely response to her request.

  Assured that she’d receive what she wanted within the next fifteen minutes, she hung up and sat back to wait. As she did, her thoughts went to Jennifer Hendrin’s parents and how much they loved their daughter. Suddenly, she realized she still didn’t even know what the girl looked like. Remembering what Broussard said about the Houma PD sending over some photos of her along with the missing persons report, she got up and went to his office.

  Broussard had his computer password protected. But he had given her the password in case in his absence she needed to check any of his records for her own work.

  She sat behind his desk, turned the chair to the table bearing his computer, and switched the machine on. When asked for the password, she typed in L’Amour, a choice she thought far too obvious if you knew Broussard at all.

  Looking over his list of documents, she quickly found a folder labeled ST. GABRIEL. Inside, were two sub folders, UNIDENTIFIED and IDENTIFIED. In the folder containing information on bodies that had been identified, victim information was arranged alphabetically, so she had no trouble locating Jennifer Hendrin’s files. She clicked on the missing persons report.

  Along with the document she’d already seen, there were two photos in the folder. She chose the first one listed.

  The image that appeared was a full figure shot of a vibrant, beautiful blonde with soft, shoulder-length hair. She was wearing rose-colored bell bottoms and a long- sleeve off-white pullover with rose threads woven through it. The bosom of the pullover bore a large rose-colored Asian symbol. The girl’s broad smile, accentuated with rose lipstick, looked entirely natural, as though she was having a great time.

  Looking at the photo, Kit remembered how Mrs. Hendrin said Jennifer had brought color into their lives. She could definitely see that in the picture. Whoever took this girl’s life had made the world a darker place. In that moment, Kit hated him for it.

  She clicked on the second picture. When it came up on the screen, she saw a slightly different close-up shot of Jennifer in the same pullover.

  Thinking she might have some use for a hard copy of Jennifer’s picture as the investigation unfolded, she sent the close-up to the printer. She then closed the photo file and exited the entire missing persons report.

  Her eyes fell on the next folder: COLLECTION AND AUTOPSY PHOTOS.

  The thought of what might be in there made her mouth an arid place. No way she wanted to see any of that.

  But her hand slowly moved the mouse cursor to the folder. She paused a moment, then clicked the folder open. There appeared a series of preview images so tiny she couldn’t make out any detail. A part of her wanted to close the folder and leave, but another part, one she didn’t fully understand, moved the cursor to the first image. Almost against her will, her finger clicked on the image.

  A photo appeared showing three nude and bloated bodies floating face-down among a pile of debris caught against a fence. Presumably, Jennifer Hendrin was among them, but it wasn’t possible to tell which one she might be. Kit’s rogue hand moved the cursor to the next picture.

  A grotesque mockery of a once-human face appeared on the screen. A bad taste filled Kit’s mouth, as though she’d bit down on some turgid, bitter insect. Her breathing became labored. It seemed incomprehensible that the monster before her could actually be Jennifer Hendrin. She wanted to make the image go away, but instead she stared at it, studying every mottled nuance, every blackened, distended vessel, each bloated inch of what was once the Hendrins’ beloved daughter. Revulsion at what she was seeing abruptly trumped curiosity. With a final shudder, she closed the file and shut off the computer.

  She sat for a moment, thinking about why she’d looked. There was a time in her life when she wouldn’t have. But that Kit was gone. She was now someone who would choose to look at the decomposing face of a dead young girl. But at least she had been disgusted by what she saw. Would there come a time when she would be unaffected by something like that? Standing and grabbing the photo from the printer, she sincerely hoped that would never happen.

  Returning to her own office, she checked her e-mail.

  Hah. There it was.

  She downloaded the replica of Jude Marshall’s license and made a digital copy. Using Photoshop, she cropped all the license information from the copy and saved both files.

  Now we’ll see who you’ve been prete
nding to be, she thought, pulling the phone closer.

  Her call was answered promptly by a female voice. “Delcambre Realty, we know Morgan City.”

  “Mr. Delcambre, please.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s out showing a property at the moment. Would you like his cell number?”

  Kit took the number and called it.

  “Duke D speaking...”

  “Mr. Delcambre, this is Kit Franklyn. We met this morning in front of the surrogacy clinic and spoke about Dr. Loftin...”

  “I remember. Did you find the rascal?”

  “I’m not sure. I’d like to send you a photo of someone I believe may be him. Would you take a look at it and tell me what you think?”

  “Absolutely. If it is him, I’d appreciate knowin’ how to reach him. How you gonna send the picture?”

  “As an e-mail attachment if you’ll give me the...”

  Without waiting for her to finish, he gave her his e-mail address, which she added to the scrap of paper with his phone number. Then, more faintly she heard him say, “I believe the roof was reshingled just last year.” Turning back to the phone, he said, “Gotta go. I’ll let you know.”

  Frustrated that she didn’t know how long he’d take to respond, or how he’d choose to get back to her, she hung up. A minute later, with her e-mail to him probably already at its destination, she sat back to see if maybe he’d pick up the message on his cell phone and answer right away.

  Five minutes passed with no phone call or no incoming e-mail. It was now three-thirty. She couldn’t just sit around any longer. With the business day nearly gone, she decided to drive over to Organogensis Inc. before trying Jude’s wife. Wishing she’d called Delcambre on her cell phone so he’d have that on his caller ID, she left the office and went to her car.

  It would have been much easier to simply call Quentin Marshall and ask him about the LeDoux street building, but considering the terse conversation they’d had earlier, he might not even come to the phone. And of course, there was her rule that whenever possible, all substantive questions should be asked in person so she could see the respondent’s face as they answered.