Artist (3 page)

“Well,” he said, strug
gling off his knees. “They sent the Boy Wonder out on this one.” Jim Case was one of the older agents in the ME’s office. In almost thirty years he had worked hundreds of murder cases, mostly routine. Known for being precise and curt to the point of rudeness, he rarely missed anything. Dupond worked with him on several occasions, the last time a domestic violence case that started out as an accident and ended up being murder. Case turned that one on the shape of the wound. A stairway banner left a different mark than a baseball bat.

“What do you know so far?” asked Dupond. It was better to get right into things with Case, otherwise he would go off into insults and innuendo.

“The victim is a 21-year old female, roughly 5’ 1”, 105 pounds, brown hair. No distinguishing marks, a small mole on her right shoulder, another one on her left thigh. No surgery scars, no tattoos, no exceptional disfigurements. Graff here,” he nodded at the young patrolman, “and his partner found a purse with a driver’s license. Jill Chaisson seems to be her name. She has a student ID at the University of New Orleans in there and her bag contained Art books so we’re getting in touch with the Arts Department over there.”

“Who found her?” Dupond asked. Sometimes a mur
derer, if someone close to the victim, would be the one to report in, hoping to draw suspicion away.

“A friend of hers,” Case said.

“Male?”

“Nope.” Case said, picking up the thought. “Her parents live in LaPlace and called in asking for someone to check on her. She called her mother every night. Every night according to them anyway. When they didn’t get
a call last night, and nobody answered her phone, they called one of her girlfriends and asked her to come by and check on her.”

Graff spoke up. “
The girl couldn’t get an answer so she called the fron desk.We knocked on the door. Nobody answered. We took a look around the outside, didn’t see anything. I looked in that window,” he pointed to a lace draped window with a carved bedside table underneath, “and I could see an arm with a rope around it. We managed to jimmy the door open with a credit card and found her just like you see her. She was already cold so we didn’t touch anything, backed out and called it in.”

“Ok, you did good,” Dupond said. “Next time, if there is a next time, look around for any sign of forced entry. If the guy came in the door, he might have jimmied it like you did. More than likely though, she knew him. No broken windows or anything? What about the back door?”

“There’s a door that opens up to the backyard but there’s stuff piled up against it, like, plastic lawn chairs. It doesn’t look like anyone has been using it.”

“OK, either she let him i
n or he had a key or he got in the same way you did,” Dupond said. “What else, Jim?”

“Preliminary cause of death is strangulation, obviously. We’ll confirm that of course. I’m going to cut her loose in a minute but look at this.” He bent and pointed to her wrist. “Look at how she’s tied. I don’t think I’ve seen a knot like this before. It’s not your usual quick loop kind of thing. It took a minute for each one. Here’s why I think that.” Case took the girl’s head and eased it to the side.

“There’s a slight bit of bruising on her forehead, like she hit it on something. If she’d lived she would have had a hell of a bruise there I think. She was probably unconscious, or at least dazed, while she was being tied up I’d say. The guy had time to work.”

“We both keep saying guy,” Dupond said. “Is there any reason to think it wasn’t?”

  Case pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Statistically it’s an almost an absolute certainty. Throw in the fact there’s some bruising in the genital area and I think it confirms a male assailant. No semen evident, we’ll swab it, but he probably wore a condom. Nothing on the bedspread I can see but of course we’ll look closer at the lab.”

  Dupond looked down at the body, ta
king in the scene. The same knot restrained all four limbs. There were impressions in the bedspread, up high between her legs, like knees. The skin was unblemished, fading now into a dark grey. He knew blood would be pooling in the skin below, lividity. The bedspread was a white background, spattered with flowers on light green stems, a woman’s bedspread. There were no indications of a male presence in the room or the apartment, just a young girl with well to do parents, living alone within walking distance to college.  He started at her feet, the knots staring him in the face, working his way up. Her back was clear. He reached the neck. “Hold on, Jim. What’s this?”

Case had
moved her head after taking several pictures, examining the neck itself. When he did, the hair fell off back, where it had been partially covering the rope. Just underneath the loop, on the upper part of the back, there were fine scratches, almost invisible. Case moved in closer. “Wait a minute.” he said. He turned away from the bed, reached into a bag, and came back with a magnifying glass. Bending over, he focused in. “Jesus, it looks like letters. Like initials or something. Let me get my camera again.”

While Case went back to his bag, Dupond took the glass. “Is this what I think it is?”

Case came back, changing lenses on the camera. He leaned over, took three quick shots, turned on the flash, took three more.

“He can’t be crazy enough to have carved his initials in her neck,” Dupond said.

“I don’t know,” Case said, putting the camera back in his bag, “but I’m seeing it too.”

  “C
..L..V, right?” Dupond asked, “That’s what it looks like to me.”

“Me too,” Case said. “C..L..V.”

He met her in Port of Call, a bar and restaurant on Esplanade, frequented by tourists and locals alike. It was perfect. Too many people went in and out for any one person or group to stand out if they didn’t want to. A steady stream of customers ran in and out of the place all night, most of them feeling no pain after a few Neptune’s Monsoon
s, a strong rum drink capped with fruit juice. A partying visitor to New Orleans who missed the place just wasn’t looking. It was the first stop for anyone trying to get their game on early and the last stop for those whose game was almost over and who wanted to fill themselves with the prime burgers offered in the late night.

The
Artist pushed through the door and into the packed crowd, the groups waiting for tables. There was a single seat at the end of the L-shaped bar and he wedged himself in, caught the attention of the bartender, and ordered a drink. It would be his only one of the night. He nursed it, watching the crowd. It was a mix of young and old, Law students from Tulane or Loyola, a few businessmen in suits, couples, threesomes, and larger groups. The man to his right was older, wearing a button down flannel shirt, scuffed cargo pants, and tennis shoes. He worked his drink quickly, ordered another, and downed that one just as fast. The Artist waited.

A half an hour went by before the older man pushed away from the bar and took off. The spot filled immediately. The woman who moved in was fortyish, a little on the heavy side, blonde hair, wearing jeans and a low cut silver shaded top without sleeves. She gave him a quick smile before sitting down.

“You’re not saving this for anyone are you?” she asked, hesitating.

“No, no.” He smiled back. “It’s open. I guess we’re both lucky to find a spot. Pretty crowded in here.”

“You can say that again. I was about to take off when that old man left.”

“Do you come here a lot?” he asked. He slapped his hand to his forehead. “Oh, man. I’m sorry. That sounded like a worn out pickup line didn’t it? Sorry.”

  The woman laughed and waved it off. “Don’t worry about it. The answer is no, I don’t come here at all, or hardly ever. I’ve been once or twice. I just got through with a meeting with a client and stopped in to get something to eat. I have a friend who raves about the place. What’s good here?”

  He picked up a menu, opened it on the bar. “Well, I come here every once in awhile and I’m partial to the burgers. The mushroom burger is good and you get a baked potato with anything you want on it. I have to warn you though, it’s a lot of food. You eat it all and you might have to be carried out.

She laughed. The bar was just a shade lighter than dark, overhead fixtures bathing the place in pale gold. He could see a thin silver chain around her neck, trailing down between her breasts into the shadow. She was wearing matching earrings, silver, in the shape of hearts and enough makeup to accent blue eyes. A well put together woman, professional but friendly.

“You meeting someone?” he asked. “I’ll be leaving in a little bit if you need the spot.”

“No, no. I just wanted to grab something to eat before I went home. I’m tired of TV dinners.”

The waiter finally reached her and she ordered the mushroom burger and a loaded potato, a Windjammer. “Would you like another drink?” she asked, pointing at his nearly empty glass.

“Oh, no. Thank you. I’ll be taking off soon. You said you had a meeting. What kind of work do you do?”

“I’m an interior decorator. I’ve got a guy who just got an apartment in the Quarter and wants me to give him some ideas on decorating it. It looks like the first thing I have to do is convince him he doesn’t have a clue about decorating. He wants to fill the place with the most horrible leather sofas and chairs I’ve ever seen. He’s got plenty of money but no sense of style at all.”

“Really? Do you have a card? I just got a new place out by the Lakefront and I know I don’t have a clue how to pick out the stuff. My wife kept everything. I’ve got a bed and a rickety kitchen table and a futon and a TV.”

“Divorce?” she asked, looking at his left hand holding his drink.

“Yep, can’t you tell?”

She leaned back, looking him over, l
aughed again. “No, not really, but I know what you’re going through. Mine went through about a year ago. It was rough for a while but I’m doing OK now. Better anyway. Here.” She dug in her purse, a big over the shoulder thing with a silver buckle, and came out with a business card. He took it, strained to read it in the light.

“Cindy Kelt. Well, it’s nice to meet you Cindy. I’m Jean.” They shook hands, the first intimate contact he thought, maybe not the last. Her hand was cool and dry, her grip tentative. Not a business shake, a social shake. “If I call you can you give me some advice? I don’t have a lot of money like your client. My wife got all that, too.”

“No worries. I do all kind of things. We’ll figure out a budget and go from there. I know all the secondhand stores and you’d be surprised what you can pick up for not a lot of money. We can get you started and add pieces as we go along. That’s the nice thing about decorating sometimes. You don’t have to do it all at once. You pick up things here and there, things you like, and build your own space, you know? You make it into something that reflects you.”

The
Artist smiled. “Well, I don’t know what that reflection would be. I’d just like to have the place look halfway decent instead of looking like the bill collectors took everything.” He got up and pushed his chair back up to the bar. It was time to go. Patience would reel this one in. She was perfect, a good looking woman, just divorced, with a job that would take her away from an office and get her out where he could arrange the moment. Set the hook. “It’s been very nice talking to you,” he said. “Would you mind if I called you in a few days..you know.. to look at my place and see what you think?”

Cindy Kelt took the bait. “Definitely. Call me. I’ll be happy to take a look.”

With that, The Artist smiled and left, making his way down Esplanade to his car. On the way, he thought of Cindy, and all the other Cindy’s to come, smiled, and felt the need building within.

Wesling kept an office downtown in a nondescript building off Canal St. The sign on the door listed her name in gold letters and underneath the caption “Import – Export.” Nothing was ev
er imported or exported or handled but no one asked either. It was from this space that Wesling intended to handle Cassie. Now, as she waited for the girl to arrive, Wesling thought back over the long road to this place.

Three years ago she
was an analyst for the US Government, an intelligence officer for an organization unknown to 99.99% of the population. Those who did know, or found out about it, did their best to forget it when they finished with whatever brought them into contact. In essence, it began as a military style intelligence gathering unit, run by an ex-general, Philip Archer, who handled only the most delicate of operations. During the course of his career, Archer stumbled upon Cassie Reynold and her boyfriend Ronnie Gilmore, a seemingly normal pair of children. They turned out to be anything but average.

Both Cassie and Ronnie were
born blessed, or cursed, with extraordinary psychic ability. That discovery touched off two distinct plays for power, separated by years. The original, handled by Archer, occurred when his agent attempted to abduct the pair and use them for his own personal power. Ronnie, and especially Cassie, fought back with deadly results. While the boy was formidable, it was Cassie who possessed the stronger personality and the deadliest instincts. Agents died in bundles before Archer was able to bring things under control and forge a bond with Cassie predicated on their personal freedom and his delicate touch.

Three years later Archer died. His successor, an agent named Luke Fr
ancis, lacked the finesse of Archer. He pursued both Ronnie and Cassie, who by this time were in college and planning marriage, with a determination that proved his undoing. Ronnie’s capture, and Cassie’s attempt to rescue him, ended in a tragedy that to this day made Wesling shudder. Cassie killed Luke Francis herself, but the bullet that tore out the heart of Francis also ended the life of Ronnie Gilmore, the only boy Cassie had ever loved and possibly the only person in the world who would ever understand the power and the weight of her ability. Wesling pulled Cassie from the carnage in Virginia, nursing her back to some form of mental health in the American Southwest. It took another three years. During that time, Cassie came to what she saw as an inevitable conclusion. She was born to kill. Wesling sensed an opportunity and set out to turn Cassie Reynold into the most potent weapon the intelligence community had ever seen. Now it was time for the real world.