Natalie's Revenge (2 page)

CHAPTER 1

July 24, 2008   New Orleans

The stench, a pungent mix of urine, feces and rank body odor, was brutal. Twenty-plus years as a detective, he’d smelled his share of stinky corpses, but not many in ritzy hotel rooms. This one was naked, sprawled on a four-poster double bed. A large yellow urine stain soiled the sheet. His head lay on a blood-soaked pillow, a gunshot entry wound centered in his forehead.

Sometime after midnight someone had called the Hotel Bienvenue desk to report a problem in Room 635. A big problem, big enough for the hotel security guard to call NOPD and have them roust Homicide Detective Frank Renzi out of bed at one a.m.

Whoever popped the guy shut off the A/C, maybe after the shot, maybe before. Maybe the guy was into hot sex.

He studied the corpse. No defense wounds, no visible bruises. No doubt about the cause of death. One bullet to the head, over and out.

Adrenaline boosted his energy level, upping his heart rate. No matter how many murder cases he worked, each one was a fresh puzzle. Who's the victim? Who killed him? And why?

The person who'd called in the problem hadn’t hung around. Now it was 1:35 a.m. An NOPD officer posted outside the room would fend off any unauthorized visitors. The crime scene techs and a coroner’s investigator were on their way, and so was Kenyon Miller, his partner.

The cherry-wood desk beside the window was squeaky clean, no dust, no notes. Heavy drapes covered the window, not that anyone could see into a room on the sixth floor. The victim’s clothes lay in a heap on the floor beside the bed, a pair of white jockey shorts on top.

His partner ambled into the room. “Yo, Frank, smells like we got a stinker,” Miller said, h
is voice a deep rumble like a slow-moving freight train. He eyed the corpse. “Mm, mm, mm. This’ll cause a shitstorm.”

“Why? You know him?”

“Yeah, and I’m not talking about his Yankee Doodle.”

Every black guy he’d ever worked with had an arsenal of terms for male genitalia, but Yankee Doodle? That was a new one. “Who is he?”

Built like an NFL linebacker, Miller mopped sweat off his shaven pate with a handkerchief. “Arnold Peterson. Be all kinds of pressure on this one. He's marketing director for The Babylon."

The Babylon, a recent addition to the French Quarter, was a big gambling casino similar to Harrah's.

“You positive it’s Peterson?”

“No doubt in my mind. He's a high-profile guy. I’ve seen him at Saint’s games hanging with his bigwig buddies in a VIP suite.”

It had taken Frank a while to understand that pro football reigned in New Orleans. Everyone here was a Saints fan. Where he came from the Celtics ruled, or the Red Sox.

He gestured at the corpse. “Looks like a hit. One shot to the head.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. What I hear, Peterson’s a real prick, screwed a few people to get the job.”

“Feels like the A/C’s been off for a while, might complicate the TOD.”

“The COD is obvious enough," Miller said.

“I’m going down to the desk and find out who rented the room. Nail down the time of the problem call, too.  I want to know who called it in."

Miller shot him an aggrieved look. “Sure. Go down to the
delightfully
cool lobby while I sweat it out with the smelly corpse. While you're there why not have a beverage in the air-conditioned lounge and ask the bartender if Peterson was there tonight?”

“Hey, partner, cut the jive. Neither of us will get much sleep for a while. I’ll do the notification. After the coroner's investigator releases the body, canvass the guests on this floor to see if they heard anything. Then you can go home and catch a few winks.” 

Miller had a wife and two teenagers at home, but no one was waiting for Frank Renzi. Thanks to the real estate slump after Katrina, he’d bought a small condo a year ago. Thanks to his workaholic tendencies, he wasn’t there much. He spent most of his free time at Kelly's house. She was a cop, too.

On the way to the elevator, he spotted a security camera at the end of the hall. Maybe they’d catch a break with that. They might need one. New Orleans was the murder capital of the country, but most of the victims were drug dealers and gangbangers. A VIP corpse? The media vultures would go crazy. Summers here were brutal, hot and humid, no telling when a hurricane might churn into the Gulf and spawn a massive evacuation with horrendous traffic jams. Just what he needed to go with a murder in a ritzy French Quarter hotel.

He didn't care if the vic was a VIP or not. Peterson might have been rich and powerful, but rich pricks deserved justice too, and he intended to get it for him. Which meant he wouldn't catch up on sleep anytime soon.

It also meant he wouldn't see much of Kelly. Bummer.

He got in the elevator, recalling his last high-profile case. Two years ago a black drug dealer had killed a white woman. All kinds of black-on-black crime in New Orleans, but black-on-white crime? Fuggedaboudit! The ball-busters in the local media put on a full-court-press, badgering NOPD to solve the case on which Homicide Detective Frank Renzi was the lead investigator.

That’s how he'd met Kelly. He hadn’t seen her since Sunday, and if Miller was right and the corpse was Peterson, he wouldn't be seeing her anytime soon. As lead investigator, he’d be under the gun. Nothing new there.

Working for Boston PD he’d taken plenty of heat.

And he knew exactly how unpleasant that could be.

The elevator swooped to a stop and he stepped into the Hotel Bienvenue lobby. To his left, beyond glass double doors, Royal Street was shrouded in darkness. Just another sweltering night in New Orleans, except for the corpse upstairs. The lobby was deserted. Most of the guests were out partying on Bourbon Street or asleep in their rooms.

Except for Arnold Peterson, who was in permanent slumberland.

Light from recessed spotlights in the two-story ceiling dappled the marble floor and tastefully upholstered sofas grouped around low tables. Off to his right, the desk clerk was talking on the phone. He stifled a yawn.

Those cushiony sofas looked mighty inviting. Thanks to his always-iffy sleep patterns, he hadn't had a good night's sleep in a week. Two nights ago a recurring nightmare jolted him awake. A little girl's face, innocent in death, tears on her cheeks, a blood-soaked shirt. The image still haunted him. He went out for a run, dozed on his couch until it was time to go to work. Last night, weary and exhausted, he'd fallen asleep at midnight, but his ex-wife called at two-thirty, in the midst of one of her frequent panic attacks. He talked to her for a half-hour until she calmed down. But could he get back to sleep? Of course not. He'd tossed and turned until sunrise. 

And now he had a murder to solve. He went to the desk and flashed his ID at a frazzled-looking man in a dark suit. Got no welcoming smile. Bad for business, a guest found murdered in a luxury French Quarter hotel.

“Did you take the call about the problem in Room 635?”

“Yes, sir.” A muscle bunched in the desk clerk’s jaw.

“What time was that?”

“I'm not sure, exactly. Sometime after midnight.”

“Was the caller male or female?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I was checking in two guests at the time.”

“What did the caller say, exactly?”

“Exactly?”

He wanted to smack the guy. He needed to talk to the bartender, and the dull ache in his temples did nothing to improve his mood. “Tell me what the caller said. Tell me whether the voice sounded like a man or a woman. Pretend your job depends on it.”

Clearly annoyed, the clerk heaved a sigh. “The caller said there was a problem in Room 635 and hung up. I called security, told them to check the room and got back to registering our guests. I can’t tell you if the caller was a man or a woman.”

He could tell this was going nowhere. “Okay, who rented Room 635?”

The clerk got on the computer, hit some keys and stared at the screen. Anything to avoid the eyes of the pissed-off homicide detective before him.

Laughter floated across the lobby, high-pitched trills and low-pitched guffaws. Frank turned and watched two well-dressed couples leave the lounge and approach the elevator.

“The room was registered to Arnold Peterson,” the clerk said.

Bada-bing. VIP murder case coming right up.

“Is the security camera on the sixth floor working or just for show?”

“Not for show, sir. All our security cameras are fully functional.”

“How do I get a copy of the tape?”

“You’d have to speak with Mr. Taylor about that. He’s our security director.”

“Is he here now?”

“No, but I’m sure he’ll be along soon.” The clerk didn’t seem happy about it. Maybe he wasn't looking forward to answering the security director's questions either.

“When he gets here, tell him I need to watch all the security videos you recorded tonight. All of them, not just the one on the sixth floor. Tell him if anything happens to them he'll catch hell from NOPD."

_____

Recessed lighting in the Bienvenue Lounge cast a discreet glow over the opulent teak-paneled room. Below a crystal chandelier with twinkly lights, high-backed barstools flanked a circular polished-wood bar. Small tables sat between the bar and the tall windows that faced Royal Street, only one occupied, a well-dressed young woman and her male companion. Two older couples and a couple of singletons sat at the bar, nursing the last of their drinks.

Frank eased onto an isolated barstool, and the bartender came over, a distinguished-looking gray-haired man. He was wearing a white shirt, a black bow tie and a red cummerbund. And a professional smile.

“Good evening, sir. May I get you something?”

“NOPD,” he said quietly. “I've got some questions about a guest.” He opened his jacket to flash his ID, but the bartender waved him off.

“No need for that, sir. I’ve seen you on TV a time or two.”

He flashed the disarming smile he used to cajole witnesses. “Man, I hate when they put me on TV. Could I trouble you for a glass of ice water?” The lounge was cool but he’d worked up a thirst in the sweltering room upstairs, not to mention questioning the not-so-forthcoming desk clerk.

“Ice water coming up.” The bartender scooped ice cubes into a tall glass, filled it with water and set it in front of Frank. “My name’s Syd. How can I help you?”

“Thanks, Syd. I’m Frank Renzi. Does Arnold Peterson stay here a lot?”

Syd’s face took on a guarded look. “Yes. Mr. Peterson rents a crash-pad on the sixth floor by the month. To be close to his office, I guess.”

He guzzled some ice water. Given Syd’s expression, Peterson might have had reasons other than work to stay here. “Does he use it often?”

“He’s here most week-nights.”

“A hard worker, huh?”

Syd's gaze shifted away. “I don’t know about that.”

He heard raised voices and turned to look at the young couple at the table. The woman appeared to be on the verge of tears, no telling about the man, whose back was turned.

When they quieted, he said to Syd, “Tell me about Mr. Peterson.” 

“He comes in here most weeknights around eight.”

“Alone, or with somebody?”

“Mostly alone.” Syd hesitated. “But when he leaves sometimes he isn’t, if you get my drift.”

“I do. And the person he leaves with is usually female?”

“Definitely.”

“Working girls?”

“No, sir. We don’t allow that in here.” Syd tipped his hand back-and-forth. “Well, I’ve seen a few that were questionable, but I keep an eye on them if they come in alone and sit beside a man. No, I think Peterson sometimes picked up women who stayed in the hotel.”

The sound of shattering glass interrupted their conversation.

Syd frowned. Frank left the bar and approached the young couple at the table. The woman was crying.

“You fucking bitch,” said her companion. “I don’t know why I bothered with you.” The guy looked like a wrestler, broad shoulders inside a snug polo shirt, muscular forearms bigger than battleships.

Frank squeezed his shoulder and Loudmouth rose to his feet. He was three inches taller than Frank, at least six-four, but when he tried to turn he stumbled, his coordination impaired by alcohol. “Who the hell—”

He twisted the guy's arm and rammed him against the wall. “You want to come down to the station and cool off in a cell or you want to play nice?”

“Let go of my arm. You’re gonna break it!”

“I’ll let go when you tell me you’re gonna get in a cab and go home. Without the young lady.” When he got no response he jerked the guy’s arm.

“Okay, o-
kay.
I’m going.”

Frank pushed him toward the exit and Loudmouth shuffled away.

“Are you okay?” he said to the woman, who was wiping her eyes with a tissue. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, about the same age as his daughter. But he couldn’t imagine Maureen putting up with the kind of crap this jerk had been dishing out.