Unhinged (10 page)

That was good.

Toliver hopped off the counter; then the camera swung around violently. Greg had to have grabbed him from behind. Now Toliver was blocking the front angle view.

“We need to get in there,” I shouted.

Everyone dashed out of the truck. Before I leaped onto the street, the last thing I heard on the monitor was Bienvenue's muffled screams.

I sprinted past my geezer partners, making my way up the rickety stairs first. The hell with Wayne's order. I kicked in the shoddy door and began yelling, “Police. Freeze. In the kitchen.”

“Nobody move,” Ron shouted as he rounded my side.

The three of us entered the kitchen with guns drawn just in time to see Toliver spring away from Bienvenue with the knife in his hand and Greg, naked with a chubby, rolling on the floor into a corner. His hands shot in the air, revealing two bushes of armpit hair.

Bienvenue immediately turned on his side and pulled up his shorts and Speedos, which were around his knees.

“Put the knife down, son, before I blow a hole through you,” Wayne said like a pro.

“‘Bout time you wipes got here.” Bienvenue was sweating. “He almost put it in my ass.”

I cuffed Greg, giving him the Miranda rights at the same time, while Ron manhandled Toliver. Wayne helped Bienvenue, wide-eyed and red-faced, to his feet.

“Everything good?” Wayne asked, looking him over.

“Yeah, they didn't tap anything, if that's what you mean.”

Toliver had an outburst. “What the fuck's going on here? Is this some kind of sting? You two again? Don't tell me you think I killed those people?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bienvenue yelled. “You're lucky I don't ram a broom handle up your ass.”

I'd never even come close to being anally raped before, but I couldn't imagine controlling my anger as well as Bienvenue.

Ron stood behind Toliver as he tightened the handcuffs. “I'd say you're going down for attempted rape and murder, Stinky. How do you like that, Pigpen? You have the right to remain silent—”

“You're breaking my arms,” Toliver cried.

“Calm down, Skunk, and let the man Mirandize you.” I turned to Bienvenue. “Maybe you should go on ahead before a squad comes by to pick these two up.”

“Yeah.” Bienvenue headed for the door. “I gotta get outta these clothes.”

“Don't worry,” Ron said dryly as he pushed Toliver toward the door. “We'll tell everyone that your man flower is still intact. Oh, don't leave mad. You'll think it's funny later.”

Bienvenue slammed the door behind him.

Wayne came from the kitchen as Ron and I dropped Greg next to Toliver on the living room floor. He shook his head at the duo, then smiled at Ron and me as all three of us stood in a triangle by the dilapidated sofa. “Well, this might not have gone as planned, but if either of them don't pan out as our guy, at least we got a couple of bad men off the street with the attempted rape.”

“Amen,” came from Ron.

“God, I want him for the killer.” I ran my fingers through my hair.

Wayne swung the front door fully open for the uniforms when they arrived. Resignation hung heavy on his face. I could read his thoughts as if they were my own. He didn't think Toliver was the killer. I agreed.

I knelt down by the leapfroggers to see if they had any useful information for us while we waited. “Whose house is this?” I questioned casually.

“I didn't kill anybody. I want my lawyer.” Toliver spit near my shoes.

“Me, too.” Greg copycatted.

W
e had no evidence on Toliver, and he was out on bail pending his hearing. All we could do was have a uniform check on him from time to time. At the end of each day, we waited for word of another double homicide, and each day it didn't happen. Greenwood eventually gave us other cases to work on, but Ron and I continued to discuss theories and go after far-fetched leads when we had the time. If this guy was to retire on a successful note, we might not ever catch him.

Special Agent Wayne's visits had become less frequent, and, in the last few days, contact had been minimal. I had heard he was getting ready to go back to Virginia to teach a criminal profiling class at the academy. Even though Greenwood told us Wayne was continuing the investigation on a nationwide basis, Ron and I figured he couldn't have been doing much.

The press had ended its blitz, only giving the story a minute or two of life every so often. The Absinthe Killer had apparently sobered up, and the reporters appeared to be disappointed.

Ron and I knew it was only a matter of time before two more bodies surfaced, a theory Wayne had even agreed with. He had to plan his next attack. The killer had to find two victims he could rape and murder, one directly after the other. It took time and patience. If he maintained his MO, he would need a homosexual who was interested in him and lived alone and a female nearby, who also lived alone. The neighborhood would most likely be dark and poor, possibly secluded.

We doubted he would do it a second time in the same neighborhood or even have the balls to go back to Breaux's where we'd assigned an undercover to mill about. Ron and I discussed several scenarios but couldn't get a grasp of what he might do next. We resigned ourselves to a waiting game.

On the bright side, two days earlier, confronting the fact that our investigation was waning, I had decided to go ring shopping. Jennifer and I were better than ever, and I wanted to get an engagement ring to have it for when the right time came.

On my salary, I had to be very careful. I went to Kay Jewelers and took out a payment plan on a three-quarter carat, ideal-cut diamond in a simple setting of white gold. It was more expensive than other bigger diamonds, but I had learned that ideal-cut diamonds were the best. It sparkled like it had a life of its own.

I hid the ring in my closet inside my spare holster that was secured in a shoe box. I was excited to have it, but I didn't want to rush into a nervous proposal. I was one step closer now, and it was the biggest decision I had ever made since becoming a cop. My only concern was to stay cool about it. Jennifer could always tell when I was up to something with her ultrasensitive, freaky radar. One day I'd figure out what tipped her off.

It was 11:30, and Ron and I sat above Bourbon Street on the balcony of the Cajun Cabin having a shrimp po'boy for lunch. Even if we weren't working on the case, we had come to like each other enough to have lunch occasionally. The sun was half on the table and half off, and we found ourselves leaning into the shade.

We talked mainly about Ron wanting to move across Lake Pontchartrain to Eden Isles when he retired and possibly become a volunteer firefighter. While we chatted, we watched the tourists below, meandering from side to side, most not wanting to skip over any of the novelty shops.

Earlier this morning, I had apprehended a suspect who had shot a street-corner guitar player and stolen his money. This was a unique case considering how we tracked down the killer.

After each song, the long-haired, bearded musician would write his initials on all of the bills that were thrown into his case. Upon checking with local merchants nearby, I found one of the top bills in the cash register had the man's initials on it. The clerk knew who had paid with that particular bill and told us where he worked as a dishwasher. We picked him up without incident, which was very satisfying.

The day was half over, and I was hoping we might talk about the Absinthe Killer again, but there was some other news I wanted to share. “I'm going to propose to Jennifer,” I blurted. I wanted Ron to be surprised, but I didn't expect it. I didn't think that even a bullet being fired at him could get his heart to race.

“‘Bout time. What have you been waiting for?” I couldn't get his reaction through his sunglasses.

“The right time.” I knew it sounded like bullshit.

“If you love her, it's always the right time. Congratulations. When are you doing it?”

“Don't know. I bought the ring, though.”

Ron nodded and drank his Coke, then turned his attention back to Bourbon Street. “I hope she says yes.” He smiled.

“Fucker.” I laughed.

I liked it when Ron joked with me. It was occurring more often lately, and that was a sign he was beginning to trust and accept me.

Ron's cell rang, and I listened to him agreeing with the person who called. He motioned for a pen while he talked, so I gave him one along with my pad to write on. He jotted something down and told the other party we were on our way.

“What was that?”

“It's what we've been expecting. Another double homicide. This time both bodies are in the same place.” He threw down a twenty-dollar bill, and we rushed out of the restaurant.

“Where is it?” I followed him down the stairs, onto the street.

“Kenner. The Kenner cops called Greenwood, and Greenwood's calling Wayne as we speak.”

Kenner was a long way from the Quarter. It was a little city that extended west, right up to the marsh where the Louis Armstrong Airport was located. Metairie and Kenner were considered to be a part of New Orleans, although different in many respects. I didn't spend much time there, as there was really no reason. Those two parts of the city were basically intact, not having had as much water damage from the storm as the Ninth Ward or the East.

We got in my Jeep and headed to the I-10. I blasted the air-conditioning as I started to get that same feeling of dread in my gut. I remembered June and Ryan and wondered if I was going to puke again. I also wondered if Ron was thinking about that.

Five minutes into the twenty-minute trip, I asked, “Any details?”

“No. He said to expect Wayne to show up.”

“I thought he left.”

“He did, and he came back for whatever reason.”

I picked up on the disgust in his tone. I didn't know if he had a valid point or was just jaded. Maybe Ron's dream had been to become an agent, and he didn't pass the test. Still, I couldn't imagine it, being as knowledgeable as he was. I just wanted to keep an open mind and learn from everybody involved. If what Ron said was true about the bureau's mentality, then I'd have to experience it for myself and earn the right to be as cynical.

We turned off Williams Boulevard into a subdivision of middle-class houses. The lawns were neat, and the cars were mostly new, shiny, and in good condition. Kids played carefreely in the street, apparently not accustomed to speeding motorists, while some adults worked in their gardens. The blue tarps on the roofs had disappeared.

Ron pointed at the street I needed to turn down. It was about two blocks long and had a No Outlet sign. We drove toward a dead end where a metal guardrail kept you from driving into a canal. There were waist-high weeds and grass behind it.

At the last house on the left, firefighters were putting their equipment back on their truck, and there were three squad cars parked at the curb, a fourth in the driveway. Some neighbors had come out to watch the excitement, and Ron mentioned that it was only a matter of time before the press smelled the dead carcasses.

The house was a white brick ranch with brown shutters. A bay window extended out on the right side, and the roof was missing a few shingles. The lawn was maintained but might have gone uncut for several weeks.

I followed Ron to the front door and steadied myself when I entered the house, craning my neck until I heard a crack. A faint aroma of burned flesh hung in the air.

Two men came into the living room from the kitchen, ending their conversation when they saw Ron and me. We all stood together next to the victims.

“I'm Detective Lacey, and this is Detective Dupree. We're from the Eighth.” Ron shook their hands, and I followed suit.

“Our captain told us you were contacted,” the taller man said. “I'm Detective Hazel. This is Detective Johnson.”

“We know this is your case,” Johnson said. He was a short black man with powerful arms. It looked as if his chest were going to pop the buttons on his shirt. “If there's any assistance we can offer, just let us know. I assume your guy did this?”