Watch Me Die (37 page)

Malone straightened, looking sheepishly at his brother. “I feel like an idiot. Let’s get out of here before somebody—”

He stopped, his gaze going to a slash of bright orange peeking out from under a file folder. A hideous shade he would recognize anywhere: Coral Sunrise.

What he was looking for had been right in front of his eyes.

Percy followed his gaze. “Holy shit,” he said.

“You have gloves?” Malone asked. He did and handed them over. After fitting them on, Malone carefully extracted the paper.

On the unlined sheet, printed in all caps, were two words:
I KNOW.

Following the words, drawn with the garish orange lipstick, was a smiley face.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Thursday, August 18

9:15
P.M.

Malone sat outside Bayle’s small Bayou St. John home, a neighborhood defined by the bayou that ran along its western edge. He flexed his fingers, eager for the warrant to arrive so they could begin.

They had compared the smiley face symbol from the Sisters of Mercy scene to the one found on Bayle’s desk. They were nearly identical, a circle with the smile and eyes inside, a distinctive swoop at the top of the circle. It had been a piece of information they had deliberately kept from the press, just in case it turned out to be important. Now it looked as if it had. Unfortunately, it linked Bayle to the crimes.

Malone searched his memory. Who had seen the graffitied windows? Law enforcement who had worked the scene. Paramedics and CSI. A few members of the Sisters of Mercy staff. Mira Gallier and whoever helped her clean the windows. Deni Watts? Chris Johns?

And the killer.

He frowned. Where did Bayle fit in all this? Had she created the note, then never delivered it? Or had she been the recipient? And what did the note’s originator “know”?

A cruiser pulled up behind him. Another vehicle behind that, probably a tech to unlock the house. Despite what Hollywood liked to portray, they kicked in doors only when faced with no other option. Two uniforms stepped out of the cruiser, one of them with search warrant in hand.

The officer handed it to him, and Malone scanned it to make certain it listed everything and in a way that would least restrict their search: photos, journal, letters, e-mails, .45 caliber gun, lipstick in Coral Sunrise, sales receipts, Sharpie, broad tip in black. The list went on.

Malone nodded. “Let’s do this.”

They fell into step together, making their way up the brick walk to the front door. Within moments, the tech had it open. The uniformed officers shone their flashlights into the dark space, then stepped aside so Malone could enter.

He flipped on the foyer light. None of them spoke. It felt wrong. A violation. Bayle was one of their own, a decorated officer, a Katrina hero, a friend. And they were readying to poke through her life as if she were a stranger to them.

She was, Malone told himself. The woman they were investigating was not who she had portrayed herself to be. Not completely. This woman had, at best, withheld information pertinent to an investigation, and at worst, was a murderer.

“Where would you like us to start, Detective?” the officer who’d handed him the warrant asked.

“You take in here,” he said, indicating the living room. “Follow up with the kitchen. I’ll start with her bedroom. You’ve reviewed the list of what we’re looking for?”

He had, and they split up. Malone made his way into her bedroom, fitting on gloves as he did. He reached the room and switched on the overhead.

He swept his gaze over the interior. For a tough cookie like Bayle, it was surprisingly feminine. Soft colors, a ruffled bedspread. Bed pillows with beading and decorative tassels.

He crossed to the cluttered nightstand. A single framed photograph sat on its top. He picked it up. Bayle with a guy. Malone gazed at the photo, a simple three-by-five. It looked as if it had been taken at a bar, the lighting was bad and the resolution poor. The man with her wasn’t Connor Scott, but he did look familiar. Handsome, short hair, a winning smile.

Malone frowned in thought. Where did he know him from?

He studied it a moment more, then shifted his attention to the other items on the nightstand: moisturizer, cell phone charger, a bottle of Tylenol PM, a paperback novel.

Percy arrived. He greeted the other officers, then entered the room. Malone looked over his shoulder. “Take a look at the guy in this photo, see if you recognize him.”

Percy picked up the photo, then whistled. “Holy shit, I do know this guy.”

Malone met his brother’s surprised gaze. “Yeah? Who is it?”

“Jeff Gallier.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Thursday, August 18

9:40
P.M.

Mira had convinced Chris to swing by her house to collect Nola and grab a change of clothes and some other personal items. He’d been spooked and eager to get somewhere safe, but she’d insisted. After all, she didn’t know how long it would be before she returned home.

It had taken longer than she’d expected. She’d had to feed and walk Nola, then gather her things together. Now she realized she had forgotten her cell phone somewhere in the house.

Chris waited on the porch, playing lookout. Nola stood beside him, tail wagging. Mira brought him her duffel. “Anybody suspicious drive by?”

“Nada. All quiet.”

“That’s a relief. I need one more minute, I left my cell phone inside.” As if cued, it began to ring. “Be right back—”

He caught her hand. “Don’t answer it. Let’s just go. I’ve got a feeling we’re running out of time.”

She shook off his hand. “Don’t be silly, it’ll only take a minute. Besides, it may be Detective Malone with news.”

It was the detective, she learned moments later when she answered.

“Ms. Gallier, are you all right?”

“Fine,” she said, catching her breath. “I had to run for the phone, that’s all.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at home.”

“There have been some developments in the case. I’m going to send a cruiser to pick you up. Wait for it this time.”

Her heart leaped to her throat. “Is this about Deni? Is she all right?”

“Your assistant? As far as I know she’s fine. This is good news. We’re closing in on the killer.”

“Thank God! Was it that Bill Smith Deni was dating?”

“I can’t say much more than I already have, but I can tell you that it was not Bill Smith or anyone else Deni was dating.”

“Are you certain, Detective? When I went to her house, she wasn’t there. But she’d left her cell phone and her neighbor heard an argument before I got there.”

“I’m positive. Look, I bet she and her boyfriend had a fight, then made up. She forgot her phone when they went out.”

“What about the Magdalene window? Someone’s stolen it.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s gone. Chris discovered it. He questioned the neighbor across the street from the studio. She told him she saw Deni and a guy putting what appeared to be a wrapped window into a van around seven tonight.”

“We’ll look into it, but if she did take the window, it was unrelated to the murders.”

“How do you know? Maybe he killed her? Maybe—”

“Mira,” he said, cutting her off, “I’ve got to go. The cruiser is on its way, it’s urgent you stay put. The names are Officers James and Fosse. Don’t go with anyone else, not even Detective Bayle. Do you understand? I’ll be able to tell you more soon.”

He ended the call and she frowned, realizing she should feel relieved but was confused instead. Something about this felt really wrong. And why that final comment about Detective Bayle?

“Who were you talking to?” Chris asked from behind her.

“Detective Malone. He arranged for a couple officers to pick me up and take me to a safe location. Apparently, they’ve identified the killer.”

“We have a safe place to go, you and I.”

He sounded strange. Hurt, maybe. She tucked her phone into her pocket and turned around. “I’m not leaving you, Chris. I’m bringing you with…”

Her words trailed off. He was bleeding—blood stained the arm of his shirt and dripped from the cuff. “Oh, my God, you’re hurt!” She turned and grabbed a dishcloth. “What happened—”

Before she could finish the words, she was pressed face-first against the refrigerator, arms twisted behind her back. He was wrapping something tightly around her wrists.

It took that moment for her rational mind to come to grips with what was happening and begin to struggle. When she thrashed against his grip, he caught the back of her head, his hand like a vise. She gasped in pain.

“Stop it, Mary! I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Let me go, Chris … This is crazy … Please.”

Where was Nola? she wondered. Why hadn’t she come to her aid? Then she heard her, barking and clawing at the courtyard door.

“You’re possessed by demons. I’ll finish this and we’ll be together.”

She screamed then, the sounds ripping from her throat, one after another. Nola went nuts, barking and growling, throwing herself against the door.

Her only warning of what was coming next was the sudden jerk of the hand at the back of her head; in the next moment stars exploded in her head as her face smashed into the refrigerator.

Her knees gave. She crumpled to the floor, doubling over at the excruciating pain.

“It’s almost over, Mary. It’s going to be fine. We’ll be together forever.” He dug her phone from her pocket, dropped it, then stomped it with the heel of his work boot.

Her brain told her to try to run. She fought her way to a crawl, praying the police were close, that someone had heard her scream or Nola’s frantic barking.

He stepped on her lower back, anchoring her in place. “None of that, my dear. We don’t have time.”

She heard something tearing and a moment later knew what—a dishcloth, the same one she had grabbed to help him. He fitted it over her mouth, tying it tightly behind her head. She tasted blood and started to cry.

At her tears, his face puckered with regret. For a moment, she thought he might free her, then his expression hardened.

“Demons,” he muttered, using another strip to secure her ankles. “I’ll free you from them, I promise.”

He scooped her up and carried her out to his truck. So the killer wouldn’t know they were there, they had deliberately extinguished the porch and driveway lights. Hysteria bubbled up inside her. But the killer had known all along. Waiting for just the right moment.

Mira heard sirens in the distance. But she saw his truck, just steps away, passenger door open and waiting, engine running.

The police weren’t going to make it in time.

In a last, desperate attempt to escape, she rocked and twisted against his grasp. He tightened his arms, squeezing until she couldn’t breathe and feared her ribs were going to break.

He tossed her into the truck and slammed the door. A moment later, he was behind the wheel, tearing out of the driveway. No one to see them, she realized. Her closest neighbor was gone, murdered by the same monster who had her now.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Thursday, August 18

10:00
P.M.

Malone couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. He pressed his cell tighter to his ear. “What do you mean, Gallier’s not there?”

“Her vehicle’s here, her dog’s barking its fool head off, but all the lights are off and she’s not answering the door.”

“Did you identify yourselves?”

“Yes, Detective. Even used my big-boy voice. What do you want us to do now?”

Even though the woman had run off when he ordered her to stay put before, this felt different. And in light of the circumstances, terribly wrong. “Hold on a moment.”

He snapped his fingers to get Percy’s attention. “Call Gallier’s cell. She’s not answering her door.”

Percy did and a moment later shook his head. “Went straight to voice mail.”

Why would she have turned her phone off?

She wouldn’t have. Not now.

Heart thundering, Malone returned to the holding officer. “Do an exterior search of the premises, look for anything that seems out of order. Let me know what you find.”

The officer called back almost before Malone had gotten his cell reholstered.

“Detective, we found what looks like blood on the front steps and front door casing. You want us to go in?”

“Hell, yes. Sending backup and on my way now.”

By the time Malone and Percy got to the scene, there were three cruisers in place and Fosse and James had searched the house.

“Gallier’s not here,” Officer Fosse said, “and it looks as if she was taken by force.”

Malone followed the officer to the kitchen. Blood on the floor and front of the refrigerator. A bloody, ripped towel and what had been an iPhone. Mira Gallier’s, he’d bet.

He wanted to bellow with frustration but kept himself in check. What the hell did they do now?

“Crime-scene techs are on their way,” Percy said. “Officers have already begun a canvass of the neighborhood. If anyone saw or heard anything, we’ll know.”

Malone’s cell went off; he saw it was headquarters. Not just headquarters, he learned—Captain O’Shay.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“At Mira Gallier’s. And it’s not good news. She’s not here and there are signs of a violent altercation.”

“They’ve located Detective Bayle.”

“Where is she?”

“Downtown. The InterContinental hotel.”

“Percy and I are on our way. With your permission, I want to be the first to interview her.”

“Sorry, Spencer, but that’s not going to be possible.”

He stopped, hearing the edge in his aunt’s voice. He asked, though he suspected he wouldn’t like the answer, “Why the hell not?”

“She’s dead. It looks as if she killed herself.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY

Thursday, August 18

10:55
P.M.

Malone and Percy crossed the InterContinental’s stunning lobby, aware of the anxious gazes of employees. The manager hurried over with another man who Malone surmised was hotel security.