Mostly Murder (14 page)

“I don't think so. Like I said, her parents got killed. She and Rafe ended up living with their grandma. Now it's just Rafe and her, I'm pretty sure, but maybe her grandma's still around. You need to ask Rafe.”

“And her parents were murdered by this man in the mask, right?”

“It was awful. They just came in their house and shot them dead. We were there, too, Maddie and me, but we didn't hear anything. Not until he woke us up, and then we were scared to move. We just did whatever he said.”

“Did they catch the perpetrator?”

“The what?”

“The guy who killed her parents?”

“No, the detectives never could find him. They did say they thought that guy who took us was gonna kill us, too.”

Claire had been thinking the same thing. And all of this was connected. She knew it. She just had to line up the dots and draw the lines between them. Easier said than done, unfortunately. “Was that the Golden Meadow detectives?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Was her brother there when his parents got killed?”

Wendy shrugged. “Yes, but he was older and got to sleep in a room he liked out over the garage. He said he didn't hear anything that night. He just slept right through everything.”

“Where can we find him? We've got to notify him about his sister's death. It'll be bad if he reads it first in the newspapers.”

That idea seemed to horrify Wendy. “Oh, no, no. Wouldn't that just suck?”

Silence reigned as we all considered that remark, but it would suck, big time, of course. Then Wendy piped up again and became a veritable font of knowledge. “I think I remember Maddie sayin' something about him getting a job as a bouncer down at that biker dive in an alley somewhere off Magazine. Voodoo River, I think the name is, but I'm not positive. All I know for sure about Rafe is that he deals lots of drugs. That's where Maddie always gets her stash. I tried to get her off it, but I never could get her to stop. Wish I had, though. That's probably why she hung out with those guys.”

Zee and Claire nodded with sympathy, and Claire took some notes on all the information. Bourdain had mentioned Voodoo River, too, said Madonna might've done some hooking down there. Claire put that down as a target on her places-to-shake-down list. So, all said and done, and as it turned out, Wendy the Cheerleader had been more than helpful, more so than Claire had expected. Now Rafe Christien was in her sights, and his lowlife, dirtbag, druggie friends, who just might be into voodoo and killing his little sister and dumping her down on the bayou in Lafourche Parish. Whoever had set up that scary little altar was going to find out that he had discarded his murderous handiwork in the wrong neighborhood.

The new information about Madonna Christien's brother was the best lead they had at the moment, so they jumped on it and headed straight down to Magazine Street in search of the Voodoo River bar. As it turned out, the establishment was a real nasty little dive halfway down a real nasty little alley in a real nasty little part of town not too awfully far from the French Quarter. Not that Claire usually minded real nasty little dives down real nasty little alleys. She'd been in more than a few such places on official business. And she'd been in a few having some fun, too, and nearly always came out alive and kicking. Usually, however, at such times, she was more apt to be hauling off to jail some brutal, drunken guy who had used his wife as a punching bag and called it sport.

Zee had told her that he rather enjoyed rousting wife batterers, too, especially if he got to subdue the guy with a baton. But he only did that if absolutely necessary, of course. Sometimes, though, after seeing such a man's beaten and bloody wife, lying on her couch with an ice bag on her lumps and bruises and two black eyes swollen shut, he tended to really, really want to teach the guy a lesson. But he was a good cop; she'd found that nobody walked a straighter line than Zee did. Just like Claire, he went by the book. Unless the perpetrator resisted arrest and threw a punch—then the guy might get as good as he dished out to his helpless, frightened wife.

Zee pulled up across the alley from the sleazy bar and shut off the engine. They got out. Claire made sure Zee zapped his door locks. Not that she expected somebody to steal his pride-and-joy red Jeep Cherokee, but such things happened a lot in these sorts of environs. That and/or a broken passenger window and the ever-popular grab-and-flee crime.

Zee bopped along beside Claire, busily punching apps on his beloved smartphone.

“You got all your phone apps up and working, Zee?”

“Yeah, and I'm gettin' me some more. This phone is awesome. What apps you got?”

“I've got a cheap little Samsung TracFone, that's what apps I got. I can call out and text and people can call in. That's it.”

“No way. No games or music, no nothin'? No camera?”

“There might be, but I haven't seen it. I have better things to do than stare at a little screen on my telephone all day and poke in abbreviated words that take longer than dialing a number and talking straight into somebody's ear.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like rounding up Rafe Christien.”

“Okay, I get it. Let's go in.” He turned off his phone, but Claire sensed his keen reluctance. Those things were way too addictive. Black was almost as bad except that he had half a dozen for various and sundry reasons. He had given her one a couple of times, but she had a tendency to lose them. So she'd bought one at Wal-Mart for herself, one without all the bells and whistles and installment plans. Now if she lost the thing, no big deal. Zee glanced over at the pack of Harley Davidsons and other powerful motorcycles crowded together just down the alleyway. He said, “You got your weapon loaded, right? Looks like we might be crashin' in on some major thugs and felons.”

“I'm sure you're right. Keep your hand near your weapon, and so will I.”

Zee stopped outside the entrance. “Okay, I heard about this bar on one of my vice cases. These guys deal outta here and they kill outta here. Just sayin'.”

“Then like I said. Proceed with caution.”

Okay, granted. The place was a rowdy bar, lots of brawls, lots of assaults, lots of arrests, lots of cretins and morons and worse. So they had to be vigilant and put some impressively serious expressions on their faces as they stepped inside the dark, dank, crowded, smelly bar. They had to act as if they weren't the least bit scared of all the big, black-leathered, chained, tattooed guys with Yeah-I-killed-a-guy-last-night-and-so-what patches on their denim jackets. Inside, a plethora of Skulls were coiled around every table. Claire could smell weed in the air. Weed and spilled booze and filthy bathrooms and sweat and testosterone. Especially testosterone. No low T going on in Voodoo River.

Wary, Claire observed the scene first, took a second gander at one particular Skull associate that she knew rather well, but hadn't seen in a very long time. She hid her shock, hesitated, and then decided this was not the time or place to renew their acquaintance. Maybe he wouldn't remember her. He was sitting at the far end of the bar, and she let her gaze sweep past him as if she didn't know him from Adam and didn't want to. That would be better for both of them—oh, yeah, and for Zee, too. She hoped he had enough sense not to approach her with malice aforethought, or trouble would come calling and soon. She kept her hand on the butt of her weapon, just in case anybody felt the need to assault her.

Long and L-shaped, the bar was made out of scarred, burned, and punctured oak, said imperfections probably created by boozy bikers and other similar ilk that had missed their victims and stabbed their Bowie knives into the wood instead. It also looked to be stained with something grossly unpleasant and had seen nary a Clorox wipe in a month of Sundays.

Claire's previous acquaintance had one arm draped around a—how should she describe the gal? Scuzzy but slightly attractive hooker, perhaps? Yes, indeed, the woman did show signs of being a genuine, fully initiated biker babe. First clue? How about the tattoo proclaiming
ROCCO'S SLUT
in big red letters on her bulging left breast? Yes, her major attributes were barely contained inside a tight, white nylon tank top. Claire did hope those delicate bosoms were held up with reinforced, double-stitched, industrial-strength bra straps. If the dam broke, it wouldn't be pretty.

Rocco's Slut appeared to be his girlfriend, since the name Rocco was embroidered in curly gold script across the breast of his sleeveless black denim vest. Nothing underneath but bare skin and jailhouse tats and lots of muscles. Rocco wasn't the name Claire knew him by, of course, but she had a feeling he had lots of names and lots of jackets with lots of highly imaginative, embroidered aliases. A quick glance alerted Claire that Rocco was still as tall and tough and intimidating as he had been the last time she had run into him. His black hair was longer now, tied back at his nape with a leather strap, and he had grown himself an incredibly silly-looking Jack Sparrow mustache and goatee.

Even worse, he'd braided his chin hair, which struck Claire as rather juvenile and immature, even for a Skull. A Confederate-flag scarf was tied around his forehead, also ala
Pirates of the Caribbean
. He was wearing the aforementioned sleeveless denim vest designed to make sure everybody knew how big and bulging his biceps were. And was that black man-cara on his eyes, just like Johnny Depp's? Oh, my, Rocco did have an affinity for swashbuckling. Claire looked for his cutlass and turned-back, high-heeled boots like Puss in Boots wore, but didn't see any.

Claire did notice that there were a couple of blood-dripping knives and sharp hatchets added as cutesy curlicue embellishments around the name Rocco on the vest. He had numerous patches sewn on, lightning bolts and stars, stuff like that, their biker meanings something Claire shuddered to think about. She didn't see the skeleton death patch earned when somebody died painfully by one's hands, but maybe he was just shy about mentioning his murder rampages.

Rocco saw Claire grimacing at his attire and glanced away, which was a good thing. He kept his face averted and appeared so completely bored that she almost believed it. She stared at his companion, Ms. R. Slut, until the girl shifted her eyes away, too. It took the woman a few seconds longer though, pretty much until right after she saw the badge dangling on the chain around Claire's neck and the loaded Glock in her holster.

The bartender was beefy and red-faced. Why were all bartenders beefy and red-faced? Now the center of attention, Claire and Zee strolled over to the bar and sat down on a couple of swiveling stools where their backs wouldn't be such an open invitation for sharp knives and/or prison shivs. Claire avoided looking at the pool of something rather black and rancid on the bar. Whatever it was, it smelled really bad. But she preferred clean air and the smell of Downy and flowers. So there you go.

The barkeep was leaning against the wall, staring at them, chewing on a toothpick, or maybe it was a nail. “What can I get for you, Officers?”

So everybody saw the badge. Well, good. Zee was being watchful, hand on his hip, very near his weapon, too. Claire was pretty certain that nobody was going to accost two police officers, but bikers never talked to police officers, and didn't snitch on each other, either, so she didn't expect to get much information without a couple of strategically inserted deadly threats.

Claire met the bartender's stare. “How's it going?”

“What's it to you?”

Enough small talk. “You know a guy named Rafe Christien?”

“Rafe Christien? Let me think.” He pressed his fore and middle fingers up to his forehead as if contemplating. A real card.

Zee said, “Somebody told us that he mops up around here. That true?”

The Real Card swiveled his gaze to Zee. “Maybe.”

Claire said, “Maybe you should tell us then.”

He shrugged and idly wiped a dirty dishrag over the dirty counter with his dirty hand. Again, the place did not appear to be a
Good Housekeeping
test kitchen. No casseroles, no cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches, no million-dollar-winning recipes, no mop, no anything that equated with clean.

“Yeah, he mops sometimes, bounces sometimes, too. That's all I know.”

“That's not much. Is Christien here now?” Claire glanced around and decided that everybody in the place looked like bouncers. She also found about thirty pairs of beady, mean, and possibly whiskey-fogged eyes boring into her. Luckily, she'd seen other cop haters before so she wasn't inordinately upset. Zee was trying to be friendly now. He smiled and nodded to a bald-headed guy, the one who'd sidled up and claimed the bar stool right beside him. His new friend displayed a rather skillfully rendered skull-and-crossbones tattoo on his scalp, just above his right ear.

The bartender finally decided it wouldn't hurt to answer her question. “Nope. Ain't seen him.”

“Know where he is?”

“Yep.”

“And where would that be?”

“My guess is he's sittin' in jail since a couple of your NOPD buds came in a coupla nights ago and roughed him up. Last I saw they was shovin' him into the back of a cop car.”

“Gee, poor guy. I bet he missed Communion Mass, and everything. What'd they charge him with?”

He shrugged. “I didn't see him do nothin'.”

The bar was suddenly quiet, pin-dropping silent in fact. Even the jukebox shut itself off.

The friendly bartender must've decided it wasn't such a healthy choice to cooperate further, not with everybody hanging on his every word. He said, “Ain't none'a my business.”

“You better make it your business, or you can come down to the Lafourche Parish Sheriff's Office and talk to us there. So, I'll ask again, Christien work here long?”

“Three, four months, I reckon.”

“What about this week?”

“He ain't been here much. He done some crabbing somewheres down around Chauvin. Hell if I know. I ain't his mama.”

“You didn't see him earlier this week?”

“I ain't keepin' track.”

A few more questions got a few more disingenuous and evasive answers. Claire took a casual gander down at the end of the bar and found Rocco nuzzling said slut's neck. Lucky gal. She better check for fang marks.

Old Skull and Crossbones beside Zee decided to stand up and glare down at Zee, arms akimbo, frown rather intimidating.

“Quit starin' at me, asshole,” he sweet-talked Zee. The guy was clenching and unclenching his fists, as if fantasizing about Zee's neck.

Unfortunately, Zee decided a reply was in order. “My pleasure, man.”

It appeared that Zee didn't particularly like people messing with him. He didn't appear to be a man to take insults lying down either, giant ugly biker, or not. But Zee could take care of himself—at least she hoped so. She did know he had won trophies for karate and jujitsu. And he did have that great big loaded gun to pull out.

The tension was so thick that it felt like a heavy fog pressing down on her head. She took a deep breath, now fairly certain that the situation would soon escalate into a rather unpleasant, nuclear evening. Them's fighting words, and all that. Several more tough guys scraped back chairs and flexed inked muscles. Including Pirate Beard and his lovely companion. Rocco's Slut slid away from the bar and the probable onset of physical violence, which only proved that she was probably smarter than she looked.

“Yeah,” growled Rocco, walking slowly toward them, calm as could be, but the menace was there, and everybody could see it. “Who do you think you are, bitch, coming in here and bustin' our balls?”

“I think I'm an officer of the law. You interested in doing something about that, Rocco?”

Zee turned to face all their newfound friends, leaned his back against the bar, but kept one eye on the man behind the bar, who had lots of bottles at hand to break over their heads. Rocco was close enough now for Claire to smell the whiskey on his breath. He said, “You busted me once, bitch. Ain't gonna happen again.”

Zee decided it was time to pull his weapon. He did so. Everybody noticed.

Nobody moved for a couple of beats. Claire decided to defuse the situation. Couldn't hurt. She preferred to avoid shootouts.

“Don't be stupid, Rocco. I'm not hassling you. I'm asking questions about Rafe Christien and his whereabouts.”