Mind Games (8 page)

“We need to get out of here,” Lucier said, “before your father breaks down the door.”

“What should I tell them?”

“Tell them to come with us if you want.”

She shook her head. “Better not. I don’t feel like answering his questions about tonight.” Nor did she want to expose Lucier to her father’s rarely-disguised prejudices.

“Then tell them I have police business to discuss, and you’ll speak to them tomorrow. Tell them you have a reading with the pope. Tell them anything you want, but let’s go.”

“Just don’t ask me any more questions until I’m ready to tell you. I need time to think.”

“Deal, as long as you tell me tonight. I have a feeling, and this is one time I don’t want to be right.”

Chapter Eight

The Chicken Wing from Hell

T
he spotlight bathed the jazz trio performing on the small stage with a hazy glow. Lucier held Diana’s arm as they waited. A dark-skinned man with a warm smile led them to an unoccupied booth in the far corner. He wore what looked like an expensive designer suit, lavender shirt and tie, and something not many people have seen other than in old movies: spats, which gave the place its name.

“Good to see you out, Lieutenant, and with a lovely lady. Makes it a double pleasure.”

“Diana Racine, meet Antoine Desenioux. Antoine’s an old buddy. Serves watered-down booze, hot wings that’ll clean out your sinuses in a hurry, and employs the best jazz trio in New Orleans.”

“Not
the
Diana Racine?” Antoine said.

“That’s the one. How about your best scotch for the lady and an Abita Amber for me. Oh and Antoine, scotch from the bottle, okay?”

“Nothing but the best for the lady tonight. From the bottle, Lieutenant.” He winked at Diana and hurried away as if he were about to serve Satchmo himself.

“What was that all about?”

“Antoine and I have a history. I needed some information about one of his regular customers. He didn’t want to share.” Lucier flashed a wicked smile. “I got it.”

“You threatened to close down his bar because of watered-down liquor.”

“On the nose.” Lucier made an admiring sweep of the room. “I’d’ve hated to close this place down.”

He ordered Cajun hot wings when the drinks came. “You have to try these.”

“I don’t know if I want my sinuses cleared out. They’re doing fine as they are, thank you very much.”

“You’ll hear better, trust me.” He drank half his beer and turned serious. “I’m not going to ask you anything; I’m going to tell you.”

“Huh?”

“From what you’ve told me the last couple of days, I’m going to tell you all about yourself.” The wings came, and as the fiery hot sauce filled his mouth, Lucier started sucking air. “Mmmm. Hot. Hot. Hot.”

Diana broke up. “You’re a masochist.”

He licked the thick red sauce off his fingers. “Come on, try one.”

“Okay, if you’re forcing me.”

She bit into a drumstick. Nothing. No reaction whatsoever.

“Delicious. You’re right,” she said taking a bigger bite. “These are great.”

He stared in amazement. “You’re kidding. I have to drink this beer to cool the volcano inside my mouth. You don’t think that’s the hottest wing you’ve ever eaten?”

“Naw, I’ve had hotter.” She tossed a naked bone onto the plate and picked up another wing. “You’re a wuss.”

“I can’t believe you. Every passage in my head is open. I’ll be damned.” He watched her bite into the second wing, leaned back, and shook his head. “Incredible.”

On his last syllable, she gasped, eyes filling with tears. She threw the half-eaten wing down and seized her water glass as if she’d just survived two weeks in the desert without a drop of water. “Jeez, that’s hot,” she wheezed, after emptying the glass in one long guzzle. “I thought I could pull it off, but I can’t. Damn.” She commandeered Lucier’s water and chugged that too. When she went for his beer, he yanked the glass away.

“Uh-uh. Not my beer. You deserve to suffer for that charade.” He choked with laughter. “You’re a trip. I can’t believe you carried that off as long as you did.”

She wiped the tear tracks lining her cheeks and managed a rasping concession. “Okay, okay, you win. My nasal passages are crystal clear, my hearing has reached Superman proportions, and my mouth feels like Vesuvius exploded inside.” Leaning back, she flapped her blouse to let in some air. “Whew.”

“Serves you right,” he said, still laughing.

Diana dabbed her forehead with the napkin, then used it to fan the burning heat. “I showed you how tough I am.” She blew out a breath. “Okay, you were about to tell me all about myself before we were so rudely interrupted by a chicken wing from hell.”

Lucier reeled in the remnants of laughter and took a swallow of beer. “Right. Okay, here’s what I think.” He dropped his wing in the plate and wiped his hands on his napkin. “I’m putting two and two together. Simple math.” He studied her for a moment. “Like you said, you never lost your psychic abilities, but you also said that as a child the visions took too much out of you. Maybe you told your father you’d lost your gift, I don’t know. So he created a performer. However he accomplished that feat might not have been exactly kosher, and that’s the part I don’t want to know. Like the watered-down booze, that’s not my objective.”

Diana didn’t respond.

“How am I doing?” he asked.

“Go on.”

“Okay. He devised the act; you go along. And you were what? Twelve, thirteen? You never wanted to disappoint your father—too much money involved, and he’d gotten used to the money.” He noticed a tic in her cheek at his last remark. “But you couldn’t turn off the visions or premonitions or whatever the hell they’re called. Until Francine Marigny’s party, you could handle them. Whenever someone got suspicious, you had an explanation.

“But the night of the party, something happened you couldn’t ignore, and tonight it happened again. Something about that woman reached into you and now you’re afraid, whether for her or for you, I don’t know.” He sat back with a fresh beer in hand that Desenioux placed at the table, took a drink, and planted his gaze on Diana.

Her arms stretched tightly around her chest, fingers digging into her skin. She looked like if she let go, she’d fall apart piece by piece. He verged on uncovering the inner workings of her act. Imparting certain information could mean the end of a lucrative lifestyle and, if he was right, an end to the comforts to which her parents had grown accustomed. Exposure would open them to allegations of fraud, which he guessed would be easy to prove on some level.

She hesitated, weighing her words. “That’s an interesting overview. Of course I shall neither confirm nor deny your hypothesis. Say you’re right, which I’m not saying you are, but for the sake of conversation.”

He rested his elbow on the table and clamped his chin between his thumb and index finger. “Okay, let’s.”

“If I think something’s going to happen to that woman, what could we do about it?”

“Since she didn’t divulge her name, I couldn’t track her down. Unless,” he paused, “she told you while you were chatting.” He was baiting her like the perfect police interrogator, something he’d done many times.

“Right,” Diana said. “She told me while we were talking on stage. Her name is Elizabeth Hartwell. From Mississippi.”

He nodded, pulled out his cell, and speed-dialed a number, keeping his eyes on Diana. “Sam, find out where an Elizabeth Hartwell is staying. Home state, Mississippi.” To Diana: “City?”

She looked away. “Gulfport.”

“She’s with her twin sister, so the hotel room might be listed in her name.” He tilted his head toward Diana, but she was watching the band. The word slipped out of the corner of her mouth. “Eleanor.”

“Sister’s name is Eleanor. Call me back when you find out.” He clipped his phone onto his belt and picked up another wing. “Glad you chatted with Ms. Elizabeth Hartwell of Gulfport, Mississippi, whose sister’s name is Eleanor. You just made our job a lot easier.”

Diana studied her drink.

“By the way,” he said, “did I tell you I thought your act was terrific?”

“No.”

“It was.” Her eyes were as black as the darkest night, and they just about twinkled when she smiled at him. Diana Racine had awakened something deep inside him he thought long dead, and he wasn’t sure he wanted it revived.

Chapter Nine

Pink Is the Color of Dead

A
fter Lucier dropped off Diana, he met Beecher at the Hartwell sisters’ hotel. The desk clerk hadn’t seen the women since early evening when they asked him to recommend a good restaurant near the theater. The two men sat down to wait. They didn’t wait long.

Around 2 a.m., Elizabeth Hartwell arrived arm-in-arm with a young man wearing a backward New Orleans Saints cap and layers of plastic beads around his neck. Obviously drunk, they giggled like silly children.

Lucier introduced himself. “We don’t wish to frighten you, Ms. Hartwell, but there’s reason to believe you might be in danger.”

Police presence did nothing to curb their giddiness. “That’s impossible. I’m standing right here.” She chuckled again and the young man joined in.

Lucier and Beecher exchanged glances after examining Elizabeth’s companion, and silent agreement passed between them. He stood no taller than five six, with a high nasal voice. Nothing like Diana’s Cyrano.

“Where’s your sister?” Lucier asked.

“How should I know? Am I my sister’s keeper?” The guffaw at her own pun bombed as three straight faces stared back, and a rational moment surfaced long enough for her to answer. “She left me at a bar on Royal Street to go off with some guy. Knowing Eleanor, she’s probably upstairs sleeping by now.”

“She’s not.” Lucier reached to touch her arm, hoping the physical contact would sober her up. “You need to take this seriously, Miss Hartwell.” His phone rang, and he flipped the cover to take the
call. “Patch her through. Diana, what’s the matter? I’m in the middle of talking to Elizabeth Hart―”

“Ernie, someone just delivered Eleanor Hartwell’s scarf to my room.” She broke down in tears. “It’s not Elizabeth. It’s her sister.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“What’s up?” Beecher asked.

Lucier pulled him aside. “Stay here with the Hartman woman. Get the name of the bar and send Cash to see if anyone remembers this guy. I’m going to Diana’s hotel. Someone sent her Eleanor Hartman’s pink scarf. She’s terrified.”

When he arrived at Diana’s hotel, Lucier asked the desk clerk who delivered the package for Ms. Racine.

“Some kid,” he said. “I didn’t pay much attention, except he was black, about ten or eleven.”

“Can you recall what he wore? Anything at all.”

“No, just a kid like a hundred other black kids running ’round the streets.” He glanced at Lucier, who had never looked like a hundred other black kids. “You know what I mean.”

Lucier couldn’t hide a smirk. “Yup, sure do. Thanks for your help.” He handed the clerk a card and told him to call if he saw the kid again or remembered anything else, then went to Diana’s room.

She pulled him inside. “Ernie, someone’s…playing games. This scarf…” It fluttered in her shaky hands as she paced the room. “This scarf…the girl. He’s taken the sister.”

“We’re not sure yet.” He guided her toward the small settee and sat down beside her. “Elizabeth’s at her hotel; Eleanor’s not with her. Beecher’s waiting there, and my men are checking out the last place she was seen.”

Diana stared at the floor, the scarf clenched in her hand. “She’s in a park…near the river. She’s cold, Ernie. She’s on the ground. Oh, my God, she’s so cold.” Diana hiccupped shoulder-shaking sobs.

Lucier pulled her close and let her cry. She couldn’t stop. He had to put up a wall between them, because what he felt now wasn’t what a cop should feel for a witness in a murder case. The scent of her hair filled his nostrils, the heat of her skin warmed his body as he hugged her close. He backed away.
Separate this, Ernie
.

“I feel responsible for the fate of these women,” she said. “He’s using me, but I don’t know why. Why is he doing this?”

He cleared his throat. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Seeing her reactions, he understood the unbearable weight that a small child suffered from finding dead people. This was tearing apart the adult Diana. Both Buffy Tyler and Eleanor Hartwell linked to Diana in some inexplicable way. If only he could find the connection. Then he shivered when he caught himself thinking of Eleanor Hartwell in the past tense.

Lucier called the station. “Get some men over to Woldenberg Park. That’s the park closest to where Elizabeth and her sister went for drinks. We’re looking for a twenty-something woman,” he continued. “If she’s not there, spread out and keep looking.”

Lucier hoped his apprehension was ill-founded. Maybe Eleanor Hartwell would turn up at the hotel, full of Mardi Gras cheer. Maybe.