Dani was frustrated. There wasn’t one goddamn thing in the ME’s report she could use. Just the facts: Tommy “Beaker” Downing, age thirty-seven. Tattoos on his forearms covered old needle tracks, but his system had been clean when he died. Last meal: a fast-food taco. Cause of death: someone bashed the back of his head in. That was it.
Tolley had personally run the evidence from Crease Martin’s murder, confirmed the handkerchief was a match for Hawk’s tie, no surprise there. The murder weapon was confirmed as part of the rare set of knives Hawk had purchased at auction. There were no fingerprints on the handle. Why would a man use a knife that could be tied directly to him and then wipe the fingerprints clean? Same reason a man would wipe the fingerprints from his own bedroom. In other words, he wouldn’t.
Which left her looking for someone who wanted Beaker dead and could kill a witness using knives from a private collection. Someone who knew about Hawk and the auction or the knives. Someone with access to his private rooms at the Charbonnet mansion. It could easily be Julian. But why would he want Beaker dead and why try to pin it on his own son? Did he already know about Hawk’s planned defection?
She started with the auction and a warrant.
“This is Detective Danielle Delacroiux, Généreux Police Department. I need to speak with the person in charge of the Scottish Artifacts auction last month.”
She waited through the sappy music while the clerk fetched a Mr. Underwood, and wondered what Hawk was doing now.
She’d hated to leave him, but she’d needed to get to work early this morning. He was so beautiful when he slept. Classically handsome, his nose was straight, lips as perfect as an ancient statue, except for the soft and kissable part. His cheeks and chin were dark with a day’s beard plus a little more, his dark eyelashes fanned perfectly. What was he doing with someone like her?
She wasn’t being modest. She knew she was cute enough, in a wholesome, Southern kind of way. The blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and freckled kind of way. With a figure that many men appreciated, but not men like Hawk Charbonnet. He was the type who wore a model on his arm, a long, lean beauty to match his elegance.
Shit. Whatever it was he felt for her would burn away like a bayou ground fog, once the uniqueness of boffing a cop wore off. Any one of the suits he wore cost more than her entire wardrobe. Hell, her best dress came from Target. Not that there was anything wrong with that.
Her mom had plenty of money, and her stepdad was filthy rich. But at her core Dani knew she was a Delacroiux, daughter of a working-class cop, granddaughter of a restaurant owner. She’d long ago decided to make do on her cop salary, which was why she lived in her shitty apartment. Taking this apartment from Hawk, even though she was paying rent, would mean she was giving up a bit of the blue-collar identity that meant so much to her.
“This is Mr. Underwood,” a crisp British accent informed her, breaking into her jumbled thoughts. “How may I be of service?”
“This is Detective Danielle Delacroiux, Généreux, Louisiana, Police Department, and you can answer some questions about a set of seventeenth-century Scottish dirks sold at auction last month.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Delacroiux—”
“Detective Delacroiux,” she corrected.
“Yes. As I was saying, Detective, our client information is confidential. I’m afraid I can’t release any information about our auctions.”
“Check your fax machine, Mr. Underwood. I have a warrant that says you can and will answer my questions. Unless of course, you’d like me to call my good buddies down at your local precinct and have them haul your ass into an interrogation room so you can wait for me to question you in person. Did I mention I’m not from around your parts? I expect I can be to New York in about five or six hours. I’m sure your wait will be as pleasant as possible.”
“Detective. And you have fifteen seconds to decide. Then I am hanging up, and a black and white will be there shortly. If you leave before they arrive, the officers will simply wait on premises for you to return.”
Dani knew that in his business of high-end auctions the last thing he’d want would be to be seen with uniformed patrol officers. Especially if they were putting him into the back of a police car. She made a mental wager he’d crack in under ten seconds. She won handily.
“One moment, please, while I look in our database.” She heard the clack of a keyboard, a heavy sigh, and then her answer. “That lot was sold to Mr. Hawk Charbonnet, a
very good
and regular customer of ours.”
“I need the details of that transaction. How much, how did he pay, how was it delivered? You know the drill.”
Apparently having coughed up the name, Mr. Underwood found the rest of the details easier to spill, and he now rattled off the facts. Hmm, maybe he wanted to get rid of her?
The bid came in via a text link, and no, he couldn’t verify it had been Mr. Charbonnet himself who’d actually made the purchase. The money was transferred electronically and the items delivered to Mr. Charbonnet’s address in Généreux via a private courier service that specialized in shipping antiquities. When he named the price for the Scottish dirks, Dani's stomach lurched. It was more than a house cost on outskirts of Généreux.
Moving on, she made a few more calls. She located Crease Martin’s next of kin, determined Beaker Downing’s only family was the faceless foster system, and confirmed delivery of the dirks to the Charbonnet household. Signed for, interestingly enough, by Julian himself.
She grabbed the blazer that matched her slacks and covered her weapon, then headed out the door. It was going to be a long day.
*
Dani hated notifying the next of kin, though it had never before taken her two days beyond the death to get around to it. She told herself it was because she’d been busy, but in reality, she’d made the assumption that someone like Crease had no next of kin. She should have known better.
Crease had a daughter, Margo Nett, who lived, surprisingly enough, in Généreux. She hadn’t expected to find any relative, let alone one so close. Why would anyone live on the street if they had family close by? Why hadn’t Crease asked for help? She knew that despite her cop exterior, there were just some things she saw through Delacroiux-colored glasses. No matter how much they hurt you, family was still family.
Dani pulled up in front of a tidy single family home in a middle-income neighborhood. There were bikes in the neatly groomed yard and brightly colored begonias and cosmos that spilled from pots on the porch. Dani walked briskly to the front door, painted a stylish brick red, and gave a sharp knock. In her experience, it was best to do this quickly. There was just no easy way to tell a woman her father was dead. She wondered if Margo even knew Crease lived in Généreux.
The trim blonde who answered the door took one look at Dani, and said, “It was my father, wasn’t it? The bum that was found the other day?”
“May I come in, Mrs. Nett?” Dani asked holding her identification so the woman could see.
“What? Oh, is that necessary?”
“Yes, ma’am. I need to speak with you for a few minutes,” Dani said, wondering at the attitude.
“Listen, I don’t want my kids upset,” Margo said and stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind her. “I’d rather be out here. I don’t have anything to tell you anyway. It was my father, right?”
“Yes, Mrs. Nett. I’m sorry to tell you that your father was killed. I’m Detective Danielle Delacroiux; I’ve been assigned his case. Can you tell me the last time you saw your father?”
Margo gave a sharp bark of laughter, the planes of her face hardening into a mask of indifference. “He wasn’t my father. Not really. Not for the past twenty-five years or so. Maybe not ever. He walked out on my mom when I was two years old. I don’t remember him and I don’t remember him leaving, but she told me about it later.
“He just simply didn’t come home from work one day. She called the cops—she was terrified something had happened to him. They found him in a cell. He’d been scooped off the street, passed out drunk. He lost his job, kept drinking. They went through that a few times before Mom had enough. She filed for divorce and told him if he got himself straight, he could come home. He never did, and she never recovered. Mom died five years ago, still with a broken heart.”
Margo’s voice was as cold and bitter as a January morning. “Donald Martin never once came to anything I did as a child. Never sent a card, never called. As far as I know, he never knew I got married, and thank God, he never knew he had grandchildren. As far as I’m concerned, he died a long time ago. I can’t help you, Detective. I’d rather not have any further contact, but if you feel it’s absolutely necessary, then you can call me. Please don’t come by here again. My family doesn’t know about him, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
****
Dani worked the bars, stores, shelters, and cardboard boxes in the alleys, trying to locate anyone who recognized a face of her small array of photos. To keep it legit, she had a couple of the undercover cops in the pile, along with Hawk, Del, Constantine, and Julian. She knew it was a long shot, but she only resorted to the photos when every other line of questioning failed. It was her second pass through the area, but it was a different time of day, so maybe she would have better luck.
When she stopped to grab a bite to eat at the Cheatin’ Heart, she tucked the stack of photos in her pocket and sat at the bar, staring into her iced tea, looking for seemingly nonexistent answers.
“Hey, Dani. what’ll you have?” Steve asked. The bartender’s smile always seemed to make her feel welcome, his happy banter a balm to frazzled nerves. She needed a good dose of happy right now.
After placing her order, Dani leaned back and thought about Margo’s tale of a broken family. It made her look at the men on the street and in the shelter differently. She tried to picture them as fathers, brothers, sons. Anything but the dirty rags she’d seen them as. Christ, when had she become so jaded?
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” He asked the question, placing her sandwich and drink on the bar top. “You’re not looking your beautiful, happy self. You look down.”
“I am a bit. You knew Crease, right? Homeless guy…used to hang out near here? Always getting handouts from cops. I just heard a part of his story, found out he had a daughter in town. He walked out on her and her mother twenty-five years ago and crawled into a bottle. It just makes me sad. Hell, it made me wonder about all those other guys out there. Where do they all come from? Where are their families?” Dani asked.
“You sound just like your brother. Del said the same thing to me just the other day, sitting on that very stool, drinking an iced tea, same as you.”
Dani went very still, felt herself shifting back into cop mode, and fought to relax into the conversation without it sounding like an interrogation. “What do you mean, Steve?” she said and took a bite of her shrimp po’boy.
“Del came in after his shift at the shelter.” Steve noticed the look on Dani’s face. “Shit. You didn’t know about the shelter, did you? He told me to keep it quiet. He didn’t want anyone to know. I figured since you came in spouting the same story he did that he must have talked to you about his work there. Look, I’ll tell him I accidentally let it spill to you, but please don’t tell anyone else. I don’t know why the big deal about secrecy, but it seemed important to him. I’ll be right back.”
Dani watched as Steve worked the bar, freshening drinks, taking orders, and thought about what he’d said. Del had a legitimate reason for being down at the waterfront. That was the first good news she’d had all day. She would head back to the shelter and ask her questions of Ms. Gail in a different way. The shelter director probably had thought she was protecting Del’s privacy, but this might just be the break Dani needed to clear him. No more avoiding her questions.
“On your tab, Dani?” Steve asked, pulling her from her thoughts.
“Oh, no. Here you go,” she said and tossed a bill on the bar. “Keep the change. Hey, Steve, when was the last time you saw Del down here?”
“Easy. Same day Crease was shot. Del was in here when we got the word. He’d been over to the shelter, stopped by on his way home. It was the second time he’d been in here this week. I don’t usually see him that often, now that he’s clean. He avoids the nighttime bar scene, but since I’m working days this week, we had a nice couple of chats. He’s looking good. Who knew? Sobriety and Nicolette both seem to be doing him good.”
Steve shifted, his posture suddenly a little hunched in, a little less sure of himself. “Seen Tolley around lately?” he asked, trying for casual.
“Yeah, Steve, I have,” Dani said and patted his arm. “He’s doing okay.” As she walked out the door, she thought that some breakups were hard on everybody.
****
Settling behind the wheel of her car, Dani yawned so hard her jaw creaked. She’d stayed at the station late in order to update her notes and make sure everything she’d uncovered today was documented, including her ideas about the direction she would go next. She’d gotten very little sleep the previous night, but pushed those thoughts from her mind, grateful she’d been so busy all day. She wanted as little thinking time as possible. Good thing it was a short drive home.
Today had turned out more productive than she’d expected. Steve had really come through with the tip on Del. She didn’t have enough to clear him for Beaker’s murder, but he was definitely golden when it came to Crease. Ms. Gail had finally confirmed that Del had been volunteering at the shelter a couple of times a week, specifically working with men with substance abuse problems, as part of his own recovery program.
Her quick visit with Julian had been interesting; and he’d been strangely forthcoming with his information, agreeing that he had indeed signed for Hawk’s collectibles, as he called them. He’d showed her into the main living room where he said the dirks had been unpacked and laid out on a side table for inspection. According to Julian, since Hawk had not been expected for several weeks after the shipment arrived, he’d thought it important to check the contents. Julian had very neatly confused the issue of who had access to the knives before the murder, insisting they’d not been secured other than by being in his living room. He made sure she understood that anyone who’d visited could have taken one of the dirks and it likely would not have been missed.