Bad Karma In the Big Easy Read online

  In no time at all, she saw the hood of the red car as the vehicle was about to pass. Though she shouldn’t have done it because it exposed more of her face than she wished, she slid her head to the left and with one eye, took a quick peek at the driver.

  What she saw was a shock.

  The car whizzed past.

  “I saw the driver,” Kit said. “It was Quentin Marshall.”

  “Did he recognize you?” Teddy asked.

  “No. He was talking on his cell phone and looking straight ahead. A morning visit to his brother... Makes me wonder just how close they are.”

  “You don’t happen to know Quentin’s address do you?” Broussard asked.

  “I can find out pretty fast.”

  Kit drove past the estate’s grounds until she found a wide part of the shoulder where she could pull off the road. She got out her cell and navigated to a set of Internet-linked area white pages. A few more pushed buttons and she turned to Broussard with a surprised look. “Quentin wasn’t visiting his brother. He lives there.”

  Chapter 27

  “They live in the same house,” Kit said. “What are the chances Marion could have killed those three woman without Quentin knowing?”

  “It’s possible I suppose,” Broussard replied.

  “But if Jude killed himself because he knew what was going on, doesn’t it seem likely he’d have told Quentin what Marion was doing?”

  “Not necessarily. From what you said, Jude and Quentin weren’t close.”

  “Could you get a search warrant now?” Teddy asked.

  Broussard looked over his shoulder. “What we’ve just learned is interestin’, but from a legal perspective, doesn’t advance our case.”

  “I’d like to get a better look at his home and grounds,” Kit said.

  “To what end?” Broussard replied.

  “I don’t know... just to get a better handle on them.”

  “You can’t go wanderin’ around their property.”

  “No... that wouldn’t be smart.”

  “Or legal.”

  “What about a helicopter?”

  “Isn’t that a bit...”

  “A bit what?” Kit said, anger suddenly flaring. “Marion knows where I live. He attacked me almost in my apartment. I want to know as much about him as he does me. And I will know that, with or without your help.”

  Broussard had been around Kit long enough to appreciate how stubborn she could be. So he took her at her word. He also knew that sometimes her zeal overcame her better judgment. To make sure her fervor didn’t compromise the investigation, he decided to help her get what she wanted. “Let me see what I can arrange. But it won’t happen today.”

  TRYING TO GET OUT of her apartment that morning unseen by anyone who might be keeping her under surveillance had been so much trouble, Kit decided to risk a different approach. She and Teddy spent the next few hours renting a motel room and buying enough toiletries and fresh clothes for the next few days, thinking that at least now, Marion wouldn’t have any idea where she was. When she called and told Gatlin about the motel, he thought she was making a bad decision. But he couldn’t change her mind. Even though she wouldn’t be there, Gatlin told her he would keep a cop in her courtyard.

  “THAT’S IT COMING UP,” Kit said into the boom mike attached to her helmet and pointing through the windshield of the Kiowa reconnaissance helicopter, where she was sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. Next to her at the controls, Jeff Lyons, the cadaver escort and navy reserve pilot Broussard had met at the FEMA mortuary, nodded. Even with the noise-suppressing helmet on, the sound of the helicopter blades throbbed inside her skull.

  “Better take her up a little,” Broussard said into his mike from the back seat next to Teddy. “If there’s anyone outside, we don’t want ‘em to know they’re the purpose of the flyover.”

  Lyons changed the pitch of the main rotor and twisted the throttle for more power, sending the chopper higher in the sky.

  In seconds, they were over the Marshall estate, which sat like a green gem among wilderness chaff. Their course took them across the rear of the property. As they passed the mansion, Kit caught a glimpse of what looked like three people sitting at a table on the back patio. She tried to see them better through the binoculars she’d brought, but by the time she got the lenses to her eyes, the angle was wrong and she couldn’t even find the patio.

  Over the receiver in her helmet, Kit heard Lyons say, “If you’d like a better look at those people, I’ll get you a close-up digital photo of them and the grounds on the return.”

  Kit gave him an okay sign.

  “We should go downrange at least ten minutes before we come back,” Lyons said. “That should be far enough to keep them from becoming suspicious.”

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, LYONS and his three passengers were standing by the now silent Kiowa at Alvin Callender Field, the naval air station airport in Belle Chasse, where they’d departed.

  “Thanks so much for your help,” Kit said, shaking Lyons’s hand. In her head, the helicopter blades were still whipping the air.

  “The photos should be on your computer by the time you get back to the office,” Lyons said.

  Broussard and Teddy added their thanks and followed Kit to her car.

  “ANYBODY WANT TO LAY bets whether they’re here?” Kit said, twenty minutes later, as she booted up her computer.

  “He seems like a competent guy,” Teddy said. “I wouldn’t bet against him.”

  The little on-screen hourglass icon disappeared and Kit opened her e-mail program. Just below some spam with a gibberish topic line, she saw a message: FLYOVER PICS. She opened the message and selected the first attached image. Broussard and Teddy moved in for a better look.

  The screen quickly filled with a wide-angle shot of the Marshall estate and its surrounding environs that included the complex system of bayous that criss-crossed the wilderness at the rear of the property.

  The next shot, at a much higher magnification, was restricted to the back of the house. In this one, the three figures seated at the table were clearly visible, but their features were not discernible.

  The third picture was the money shot: A close-up in which each of the three faces, which were all turned up to look at the helicopter, was captured in such clarity it was easy to see that one of those present was Quentin Marshall. There was also an older woman there and...

  “It’s him,” Kit said, pointing at the second man. Even Broussard and Teddy, who didn’t have the best view, could see the port wine stain on Marion Marshall’s face.

  “I’m obviously all for doing anything necessary to catch the guy who attacked you,” Teddy said. “But I don’t understand why it’s legal to fly over someone’s backyard and take their picture. Shouldn’t we have had a court order to do that?”

  “I don’t know all the fine points of the legal issues surroundin’ surveillance,” Broussard said, “but the primary issue in any of these things is whether the subject has a reasonable expectation of privacy. What we just did was okay because no one could reasonably expect they’d never be seen sittin’ in their backyard.”

  “But we didn’t just see them. We photographed them with a zoom lens.”

  “That’s less clear. I know it’s legal to use the zoom function on a camera to enhance what can be seen, but when we took the pictures, we may have been over the line. I don’t really care.”

  “I’d love to know what they were talking about,” Kit said. “And you know...” She clicked back to the wide angle shot. “They’re only about thirty yards from the water in this bayou. I’ll bet if someone was in a boat back there, they might be able to hear them.”

  “But then they’d stop talking,” Teddy said.

  “Not if the boat was hidden in these grasses and cattails.”

  “You’re not thinkin’ you should do that are you?” Broussard asked.

  Kit shook her head. “No.”

  Remembering all the other times Kit had put her
self at risk with ill-advised behavior, Broussard said, “Promise me you’re not gonna do this.”

  “Somebody should.”

  “I disagree. If he’s the killer, he’s too dangerous to be around, especially when he’s in his comfort zone. Besides, what do you think would be heard that’d be useful?”

  “Who knows? But at least we’d be doing something that might help prove he’s our guy. What’s our plan now?”

  “Right this minute, I don’t have one.”

  “There you are.”

  “I’m workin’ on it. Meanwhile, I’m still waitin’ for your promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “Say it in a sentence.”

  “I promise I won’t try to overhear any conversation in the Marshall’s backyard. Satisfied?”

  Broussard shook a finger in her face. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  “I’ll be good.”

  In truth, there was no chance Kit would go back on her word. She was simply too frightened of Marshall to get that close.

  “I’ve got to drive over to St. Gabriel... see how things are goin’,” Broussard said. “Be back in a few hours. Maybe I’ll get some ideas on how to proceed durin’ the drive.”

  “Then we’ll see you later.”

  IT WASN’T FAR INTO his trip that Broussard began to wonder if maybe a sting could be set up to trap Marshall into attacking Kit in front of witnesses. They could get a policewoman, disguise her as Kit, and put her in a boat behind the Marshall estate. Have a lot of other cops positioned in the weeds where they could see what was happening... fake Kit pretends to be doing surveillance behind the property, but purposely gives herself away somehow.

  No... That’s no good. Even if he fell for it, all he could be charged with was assault.

  AFTER BROUSSARD LEFT THE office, Kit returned to her computer and sent her fingers flying over the keyboard.

  “What are you doing?” Teddy asked.

  She initiated the Internet search she’d set up and gave him a satisfied look. “I’ve got an idea,”

  Chapter 28

  Kit scanned the signs along the street. “There it is.” She pulled into the parking lot that served a small brown-painted brick building and shut off the engine.

  “My little eye, private investigations?” Teddy said, reading the sign.

  “Yeah, I would have preferred a more aggressive-sounding operation myself, but this is the only detective agency anywhere close.”

  “What are we doing?”

  “I promised Andy I wouldn’t go back to the Marshall house. I didn’t say I’d forget the idea. I’m going to hire a professional to do it. Bring those pictures.” She got out of the car and headed for the agency’s front door.

  Inside, they found a young blonde in a crisp yellow and white-checked linen suit standing on a chair. She was arranging the tendrils of a plant that had grown almost completely around the room from a surprisingly small clay pot. Kit found the extensive growth reassuring as it indicated the agency had been there awhile and was therefore likely a good one.

  Hearing them enter, the girl stepped off the chair. “May I help you?” She had great receptionist eyes; bright and shiny that made you feel you’d made her day simply by coming in.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Hennepin,” Kit said, referring to the M. Hennepin addendum under the agency’s name on its sign.

  “Of course. Just one minute.”

  The girl went to a door in the rear of the room, knocked, and stuck her head in. “Someone’s here to see you...”

  The girl opened the door fully and turned to Kit and Teddy.

  “You can go in.”

  Kit was expecting that Hennepin would be a heavy-set tough looking guy in his fifties. She was right about the heavy-set part and the age, but she missed the sex, for M. Hennepin was a woman, dressed in bib overalls.

  “Marge Hennepin,” she said, rising from her chair behind her big desk, where she had apparently been looking through several stacks of photos that now lay face-down.

  Kit crossed the room and shook Hennepin’s rough hand. “

  I’m Kit Franklyn. This is my friend, Teddy LaBiche.”

  Hennepin and Teddy shook hands and Hennepin said, “Have a seat and tell me what’s troubling you.”

  It was probably the first time Kit had ever seen rocking chairs provide for clients in an office. As she sat, she said, “Ms. Hennepin, I have to say...”

  “Call me Marge.”

  “Marge, you’re not what I expected.”

  “I wouldn’t be a very good detective if I was, would I?”

  “What I meant was... This job I have could be very dangerous.”

  “So it needs a man?”

  “That is what I was thinking.”

  “Would you like a list of all the males whose ass I’ve kicked in the last twenty years?”

  “Well... I...”

  “If it makes you feel any better, after I got out of the army, where I was trained in every infantry weapon system they had, I became a professional female wrestler. I am not someone to be underestimated, not by you, not by anyone.”

  “How’s your hearing?”

  “Your watch is working.” She pointed at Teddy. “His isn’t.”

  Teddy looked at his wrist. He raised his arm and held his watch to his ear. “She’s right. The battery must be dead.”

  “Okay,” Kit said. “Here’s the situation. I’m a death investigator for the Orleans Parish medical examiner...”

  For the next several minutes, Kit laid things out for Hennepin and showed her the photos taken from the Kiowa. “Since I’m employed by the ME’s office, I’m bound by the same legalities as the police. As my agent, you will be as well. That’s why I asked about your hearing. Anything you overhear with the unaided ear will be admissible in court. If you use any sound-amplifying device, it all could be suppressed.”

  “Got it.”

  “We did our flyover this morning a little after eight. I have no idea if they’re out there every morning, but we’re going to assume they are. So I’d like you to be in position tomorrow morning by seven o’clock. Will that be a problem?”

  “We haven’t discussed my fees.”

  “What will this cost?”

  “Let’s establish some ground rules first. Say they don’t appear by eight, or eight-thirty. How long should I wait for them?”

  “I guess the longer you wait the more it’ll cost...”

  “Time is money.”

  “Ten o’clock. If they’re not out by then, call it off until the next morning.”

  “Was it a covered patio?”

  “No.”

  “Then weather could be a factor.”

  “If it’s rainy, don’t go.”

  “It’s not that simple. If I’ve made plans to do something, that means another job doesn’t get done.”

  “So it’s going to cost me either way.”

  “Half if it rains.”

  “What’s the total tab going to be for good weather?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “Can we do it day to day?”

  “Decision each day by noon, payment daily in advance. Any morning the weather doesn’t cooperate, next day’s advance will only be two-fifty.”

  Kit reached in her bag and took out her checkbook. “Make it out to My Little Eye?”

  “If you would.”

  Kit scribbled out a check for five hundred and handed it across the desk. “Don’t think I’m underestimating you when I say this, but there’s a decent chance the guy with the birthmark on his face has access to a semiautomatic shotgun.”

  “That’ll make two of us.”

  Chapter 29

  Marge Hennepin shifted onto her left cheek to restore circulation in the opposite half of her rump. She’d been sitting in her camouflaged-painted flat-bottom boat surrounded by cattails and rushes since sunrise, waiting for the sound of a human voice. But apart from the occasional splash of a bream snatching something off the b
ayou’s surface, the intermittent call of a redwinged blackbird, and the frequent drone of a mosquito trying to fly into her ear, she’d heard nothing.

  She checked her watch: eight-forty... another hour and twenty minutes before she could pack it in for the day.

  At her side was a rod and reel, its line hanging limply in the water, the hook unbaited. If discovered, she hoped to appear as nothing more than an old woman out fishing. If her disguise failed and her hand was forced, she would fill it with the Streetsweeper shotgun lying in the bottom of the boat under an old shirt. But that was not her only protection.

  She reached into one of the big pockets on the cammies she was wearing and got out her cell phone. She navigated to the text message function and sent a template she’d made yesterday after Kit had left the office: How are you doing?

  Across the bayou, also well hidden by cattails and grasses, Mark Dabaldo, her former wrestling manager and current operations back-up felt his phone vibrate. He checked the message and returned one of his own: Bored to shit. You?

  Marge sent back: Enjoying not hearing you talk.

  Mark typed his reply: Sure. Piss off your protection.

  But before he sent the message, he saw someone come onto the patio from the back door. Hastily, he changed the message: Subject now in view.

  Seeing the message, Marge began to listen harder.

  Her phone vibrated again: Subject coming... object in hand.

  Oh shit, Marge thought. They know we’re here.

  She bent down and threw the shirt off the shotgun. She snatched up the weapon and looked toward the Marshall’s boat dock. A few rapid heartbeats later, a man walked into view. She was close enough to verify that it was the guy with the facial birthmark in Kit Franklyn’s aerial photos.

  He did a quick look around. Muscles all over Marge’s body contracted as though they could make her smaller. But by the time his head turned in her direction, she was still as bulky as ever.

  In the next instant, he seemed to be looking right at her. She wanted to raise the shotgun in his direction, but couldn’t afford to move.