Natalie's Revenge (5 page)

CHAPTER 4

Friday, 25 July 

When Frank entered his boss's office at nine o'clock, the look in Morgan Vobitch's slate-gray eyes said it all. F-bombs coming right up. He took the chair in front of the desk and kept his mouth shut.

"Fuckin politicians." Detective Lieutenant Morgan Vobitch swiped back his thick mane of silvery hair, his face dark with fury. "They think we just wave a magic wand and grab the killer, slam-bam, end of story.”

Prior to joining NOPD fifteen years ago, Vobitch had spent ten years with NYPD. Now he supervised the homicide detectives in Districts One, Three and Eight. He was built like a Sherman tank and often behaved like one, steamrolling anyone or anything that got in his way. He resembled Detective Sipowitz on
NYPD Blue
and spoke a Bronx patois laden with F-bombs. If he didn’t want TV reporters to quote him, he dropped the F-bomb on camera on purpose.

Frank loved the guy. They had the same take-no-prisoners attitude:
Nail the fuckers and put ‘em in jail
.

“Take a look at this." Vobitch tossed him a copy of the
Times-Picayune
. A front-page headline said: Babylon East executive murdered in French Quarter hotel.

He scanned the story, zeroing in on the quotes from outraged politicians.

"Our great and glorious city is a tourist destination!" said the councilman whose district included the French Quarter. "People come here from all over the world to enjoy the sights and sounds of the French Quarter. How can they do that when a man is murdered in one of our finest hotels?"

French Quarter business owners and the bigwigs running the Babylon casino and Hotel Bienvenue were equally outraged, saying the publicity was ruining their image and costing them business.

Then came a quote from the New Orleans mayor. "I understand Mr. Peterson was shot execution-style in the head." Great, Frank thought. Leaks about the crime scene were already spawning rumors, rumors that were certain to multiply. He scanned the rest of the article.

The final quote was the kicker. "I've asked the Attorney General to assign their most experienced prosecutor to the case, District Attorney Roger Demaris," said NOPD Superintendent William Atkins.

Bad news. Roger Demaris was a pit-bull. He was also a royal fucking pain in the ass, demanding daily updates from the lead detective on the case.

He set the newspaper on the desk near the pink message slips that littered a green blotter dotted with coffee mug stains.

"Roger Demaris is on the case," he said. 

"Correct. Now we got the number-one prick in the DA's office breathing down our neck." Vobitch's lip curled in a sneer. "Thanks to our fat-fuck NOPD Super and his Slick-Willie media manipulation."

Some said Superintendent William Atkins, a jumbo-sized black man, had won the position due to his ability to sweet-talk the media, not his crime-fighting skills. He was quick with a quote, and reporters loved his suave articulate demeanor. But Atkins had far fewer fans within the ranks of the NOPD. 

“No mention of the Hotel Bienvenue security video."

An icy stare from Vobitch. “For now. No way that stays under wraps. Sure as shit some bigwig’s assistant will blab to a reporter to score some brownie points."

"Maybe the Super will give us more bodies to work the case.”

“We don’t need more bodies,” Vobitch griped. “We need a solid lead.”

“A lead would be great, but I need help. I have to interview the hotel guests, check Peterson's financials, eyeball every security video from the time Peterson left for work on Wednesday till the security guard found his corpse. Jesus, if I watch ‘em all myself, I’ll go blind.”

"I'll get some District-One detectives to help you. Let's talk about the autopsy." Vobitch flashed a sardonic smile. "Which, thanks to the VIP victim, was completed in record time. Christ, we got dozens of homicides this year, none of 'em made a ripple. I'm still waiting for autopsy reports on two of 'em."

But they weren't VIPs found in a posh French Quarter hotel, Frank thought.

"According to the coroner," Vobitch said, reading from the report, "marks on Peterson's wrists and ankles suggest that he was tied up. No defense wounds to indicate he fought the killer."

"We didn't find any ligatures or cuffs in the room, but the killer could have taken them with him."

"No semen stains on the body or the bedding. Significant?"

"I talked to the hotel housekeeping director. Peterson had a standing order for the maid to leave fresh towels and change the sheets every day."

"Frank, every murder comes down to means, motive and opportunity.

"We searched the hotel for the murder weapon and didn't find it, but the killer could have ditched it in a storm drain or a trash barrel. Plenty of those in the French Quarter."

"So that leaves motive and opportunity. You said Holt seems pretty comfortable sitting in Peterson’s chair. Big job, big bucks, that’s motive.”

"True, but his wife swore he was home with her all night and I believed her. You want motive? How about Peterson’s gambling debts? And his wife knew he was cheating on her."

"You think she killed him?"

“She said she was home with her kids and right now I can’t prove she wasn’t. I'll ask around, see if anyone saw her near the hotel. But she’s not the woman on the video. You saw it. Wrong build. She could hide her face and wear a wig but she couldn’t change her height and weight.”  

“She had to be pissed about the girlfriends, might have been pissed about the gambling, too. Killing him wouldn’t solve the financial problem, but at least he couldn’t run up more debt betting on the ponies or whatever fuckin thing he was putting money on.”

“But we don’t know if she knew about the debts. And if he borrowed money and didn’t pay, there’s another addition to the suspect list.”

“Christ on a crutch!" Vobitch exploded. "The guy didn't get along with his co-workers, couldn’t keep his dick in his pants, couldn’t stop gambling . . ."

"Maybe I’ll get something from the men on the Peterson enemies list." He checked his notes. “Ken Volpe and Ivan Ludlow.”

“Lean on Peterson’s wife about the gambling debts, too. Christ, we got no leads and a shitload of suspects: his wife, his enemies, throw in the angry spouse of some woman he was screwing ...” Vobitch smiled his killer smile. “And then, of course, there’s my all-time favorite, the Big Bad Bogyman.”

Vobitch's phone rang. He glanced at it, but didn't answer. "Frank, I think the woman on the video is the hitter. We got tape of her entering and leaving the room. She could've had a gun in that fancy purse. A snub-nosed .38 would fit into it easy.”

"She's got attitude, I'll give you that. She walks like Linda Fiorentino.”

A blank stare. “Who’s Linda Fiorentino?” Vobitch didn’t watch crime shows on TV or violent movies. His wife, a former ballet dancer, hated them.

“She played a gun-toting sexpot with attitude in a movie.”

“I don't give a shit about her attitude. What we need is motive. Did someone hire her or did she have her own agenda?"

"She looked pretty relaxed after she left the room. Maybe Peterson wasn't dead yet."

Vobitch lowered his head and gave him his steamroller glower. "Frank, we got enough complications already. Let's not invent more.”

“I don't want to assume the woman on the video killed him. She might look like our best bet now, but I'm not going to exclude other possibilities. It's too soon."

"She had means and opportunity. All we need is motive.”

"Kenyon thinks Peterson's wife might have hired her to blackmail him. If she had pictures of him in bed with a hooker, she'd have power over him."

"So who took the pictures? Forget Spiderman climbing the fire escape. And if his wife hired the woman so she could blackmail him, why kill him?"

"I don't know. The coroner didn't find any tape residue near his mouth. No attempt to keep him quiet."

"She had a gun. That'll keep a guy quiet."

“I don't buy your female hitter theory. We don't know she had a gun. We don't have the murder weapon. Who is she? Why did she kill him?"

"I don't know, but
we got tape of her entering and leaving the room. She goes inside, disables Peterson somehow and cuffs him so she can question him. That’s why she didn’t tape his mouth."

"Question him about what?"

"Hell if I know. She pops her questions, doesn’t like his answers and kills him. Frank, we gotta find her."

"Yeah. Piece of cake."

Vobitch gave him an icy stare. "That's our job, Frank. And that's exactly what that prick Roger Demaris is gonna tell me every fuckin chance he gets. We don't solve this case fast, heads are gonna roll and I don't want one of 'em to be mine. Find the woman in the video and get her in here."

_____

3:30 p.m.

She checked out of the Sunshine Inn, a low-budget hotel two blocks from the French Quarter, and towed her suitcase around the corner to her rental car. The three extra-strength Excedrin she'd taken had done nothing to ease her blinding headache, and the sweltering heat didn't help. The air was thick with humidity, and leaden clouds hung low in the sky, hinting at rain. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, but already she was sweating.

June Carson had paid cash in advance to rent the room for a week. On her fake documents, she liked to use names of birds, like Robin, or the names of months, like June. She was saving April for the Main Event.

She locked her suitcase in the trunk. Leaving it in the car was risky, but the Circle K was only three blocks away. One more errand and she’d be ready to leave New Orleans. Hop in the car, hit the highway, put on some music and relax.

As she strode up the street two dragonflies flitted across her path, chasing each other. A good omen. Dragonflies brought good luck, and if last night was any indication, her luck was holding. Thanks to her meticulous preparations everything had gone without a hitch. Exhilarated, she had returned to the Sunshine Inn. Unable to sleep, she’d curled up in bed and listened to the night sounds—honking taxi horns, muted laughter, snippets of conversations—just as she’d done as a child.

Killing Peterson had been essential to her plan and it had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. Now she had his words on tape, incriminating words that she would use to complete her mission.

Then she would be free.

Intent on her errand, she rounded the corner onto Esplanade Avenue. For years her life had been a long dark tunnel with no light at the end. Along the way there had been a few good times—befriending Gabe, living in Paris, even loving Willem had been wonderful for a while—but a series of ordeals had brought pain, sorrow and years of hard work that brought her no joy and little reward. For years her goal had been simple: Avenge her mother’s murder.

It had taken her years to track down the killer. Now there was no doubt. Now she was ready to take revenge on the monster that killed Mom. For years, this overwhelming sense of obligation had consumed her, ruling her life. Soon the crushing burden that sat on her back like a demon from hell would be lifted.

But then what would she do? Who would she be?

An image of Arnold Peterson’s terrified eyes flashed into her mind, the moment before she’d shot him. The recurring image had kept her awake most of the night. Peterson was a rich man with powerful friends, accustomed to being in control. But last night he wasn’t. She was. At that moment she'd felt an awesome sense of power. Even now the memory revved her heartbeat.

Peterson wasn’t the monster that murdered Mom, but he had aided and abetted the man who did. Mom had waited twenty years for her murder to be avenged. Soon the wait would be over. But she had to get out of New Orleans fast. Peterson's murder was all over the news.

Careful to avoid the twisted slabs of cement heaved up by the roots of giant oaks, she lengthened her stride, ignoring the relentless pain in her temples. The Circle-K convenience store was on the next corner. Her rental car was gassed up and ready to go, but she needed supplies. Once she got on the highway, she wouldn't stop for at least 200 miles. Rest areas had security cameras, and she couldn't afford to leave any trace of her departure from New Orleans.

A bell dinged as she entered the Circle-K. Unlike the air outside, the store was cool. The sudden chill made her head throb. Glass-front coolers in the rear of the store held refrigerated items. She took out a large bottle of chilled Aquafina and a small packet of ham and cheese. As she moved along the grocery aisle the bell dinged again, another customer entering the store.

She tucked a box of Triscuits under her arm and continued down the aisle. Gallon jugs of bottled water lined the bottom shelf. She stooped to take one off the shelf, straightened and froze. Someone was watching her.

The back of her neck prickled, a creepy sensation, as though a swarm of spiders were crawling over it. Her sunglasses were in her tote. Should she put them on? No, too obvious.
Leave the store, get back to the car and go
.

Ducking her head, she edged down the aisle toward the register. In her peripheral vision, she spotted the man but didn’t look directly at him. “Never look into the eyes of a grizzly bear,” one of her American clients had told her over dinner at a fine Parisian restaurant. “If you do the bear will charge and kill you.” She didn't know if this was true or not, but it seemed plausible.