Authors: Erica Spindler
“Tell me what’s happening.”
“That’s what’s so confusing. Besides the murders there’s—” She looked down at her hands, realizing she had them clenched into tight fists. She relaxed them. “I wonder … My husband died in Katrina, but…”
She couldn’t bring herself to say it. Stacy gently prodded. “But what, Mira? You can tell me.”
“I wonder if he’s alive.”
“Why would you wonder that?”
“I think he’s been in our home. I smelled his aftershave, saw the indentation of his head on his pillow and … he called me. Said he’d be home soon.”
Stacy didn’t comment and Mira went on. “I know I sound like a pathetic lunatic. It’s so impossible but so … real. I don’t know what to do.” She looked Stacy in the eyes. “Do you think I’m losing my mind?”
“Can I tell you a story? Six years ago my sister Jane was being stalked by a psychopath. Someone from her past. He turned her life upside down. She nearly died.”
“What happened? I mean, how did she—”
“Beat him?” Mira nodded and Stacy went on. “Let go of everything you
think
you know. Start over. A fresh slate. It’s what good cops have to do.”
“How so?”
“Look, sometimes cases are simple. They come together neatly, just the way you expect them to.
“But sometimes, what we know, without a doubt, is leading us in the absolute wrong direction. To get the job done, we have to clear the slate.”
It made so much sense.
Mira smiled weakly. “You’re a good cop, aren’t you?”
“I like to think so.” She stood. “When’s the last time you ate something?”
She honestly couldn’t remember and said so.
“How about I get us both a muffin and a glass of iced tea?”
“That would be really nice.” She pressed a hand to her suddenly rumbling stomach. “I’m starving.”
Stacy smiled. “Great, I’ll be right back.”
When Stacy turned to walk into the house, Mira saw she had a handgun tucked into her waistband at the small of her back. Mira stared at the weapon, heart leaping to her throat.
What the hell was she doing? Was she out of her mind? Stacy was a cop and she was a suspect. Yet here she was, spilling her guts, acting like some sort of freaked-out psycho.
Stacy was probably calling Spencer at that very moment.
Mira leaped to her feet and hurried across the porch and down the stairs. She didn’t look back until she was in her car, driving off. Stacy stood on the porch, staring after her, two glasses of tea in her hands.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Wednesday, August 17
8:35
A.M.
Spencer moved his gaze around the table. Bayle sat beside him, his brother beside her. Percy’s partner and the district commander were also in attendance, as well as Captain O’Shay, the head of Community Relations and the deputy chief.
On the walls and whiteboards were photographs of the three victims, along with the particulars of each homicide. Richards, the new Community Relations point man, was talking. “Okay, so nobody out there gives a shit about Preacher, he’s not even on the media’s radar—”
“Which is good,” Deputy Chief Krohn said. “The superintendent and I want it kept that way. The last thing we want is the public fully aware that these three victims are linked.”
“—but,” Richards continued, “the other two have caused an uproar. First a popular parish priest and now Anton Gallier, a former King of Rex. The media is having a field day whipping the public into a frenzy.”
Captain O’Shay shifted her gaze to Spencer. “What do you have so far?”
“Two strong suspects. Gallier’s former daughter-in-law, Mira Gallier, and her friend Connor Scott.”
Bayle stepped in. “Scott’s a bit of a mystery. But Gallier has a connection to all three victims. She has a motive for two of them, and a strong motive for Anton Gallier.”
“Which is?” Captain O’Shay asked.
“She hated his guts. He tried his damnedest to have her charged in the death of his son. When that failed, he brought a civil suit against her.”
Malone took over. “Apparently, days before his murder he’d launched a new attack against her. She had a very public argument with him about it at the Crescent City Club.”
“Scott was with her,” Bayle continued. “The victim also challenged him. According to witnesses, Scott was visibly angry. The two could be in this together. I suspect they’re romantically involved.”
“What about the biblical messages?” Krohn asked. “Any help there?”
“Not much,” Malone answered. “The first two are pretty universally Christian. Everyone we questioned knew them. But the third, from the Gallier scene, is more obscure.”
Bayle jumped in. “Mira Gallier is the only one who knew it referred to Christ expunging Mary Magdalene’s demons.”
“The only one who
admitted
knowing,” Malone corrected.
Captain O’Shay looked at Malone. “And what do you think? Are she and Scott together in this?”
“It’s possible, though I like Scott for it. There’s something with this guy that’s just not right. For me, the coincidence that he comes home from the war and all this shit starts is a little hard to swallow. With her, I just don’t see it. My sensors aren’t going off.”
“Not those sensors, anyway,” Bayle muttered.
He looked at her, eyes narrowed. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means it’s hard for you to think the pretty, little widow did it.”
“That’s complete bullshit,” he said, furious that she would suggest this, especially at a table with their superior officers. “Wherever you’re coming from—”
Krohn cut him off. “You two work it out and do your jobs. What I want to know”—he tossed a couple copies of the day’s
Times-Picayune
on the table—“is how’d the press get this?”
A headline from the front page screamed:
JUDGMENT DAY KILLER?
A groan rippled over the group. Spencer held up his hands. “Not from anyone on my team. Right?” He moved his gaze between Percy and Bayle. Neither said a word. They didn’t even blink.
Spencer turned back to the deputy chief. “Source could be EMTs, CSI, or even the suspects.”
Krohn leaned forward. “The crimes are connected, no doubt. But do we have a serial killer on our hands?”
“Not in the traditional sense,” Captain O’Shay said. “The acts of true serial killers are rituals, ones they repeat over and over. We’re not seeing that here.”
“True,” Spencer agreed. “But what if, instead of a ritual, our perp is telling a story? What if all we have so far is the prologue?”
Krohn’s face reddened. “Three victims, a prologue? Son of a bitch, Malone. Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Explain,” Captain O’Shay ordered.
“It’s the biblical shtick. Judgment Day, casting out demons … Sure, it may be a smoke screen by a perfectly sane, methodical killer to throw us off. Or it may be a religious whack job who really believes he’s the one sent to do the judging.”
“By way of murder,” Percy said. “His own little holy war.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.” Deputy Chief Krohn looked directly at Captain O’Shay. “We don’t want another victim. Is that understood?”
“Of course,” she answered. “Absolutely, sir.”
Spencer and Percy exchanged glances. The brass was always saying shit like that. As if the captain or any of the detectives under her command wanted
more
victims. Or the fun those victims brought with them—the superintendent crawling all over their asses.
She turned to Spencer and Bayle. “What about physical evidence? What do we have?”
Bayle jumped in first. “We retrieved a bullet from Gallier. A .45 caliber. Ran it through national ballistics network. Came up empty.”
“Lifted some clean prints from the Gallier scene,” Percy offered. “From the coffee cups and take-out bag. Didn’t get a hit from the local database, running them through IAFIS now.”
Bayle took over. “The prints gave us a rock-solid link between the Father Girod and Gallier homicides. Prints taken from the two scenes were a match.”
Spencer nodded. “Additionally, we located three French Quarter restaurants that use the same combination of those cups, lids, tray and take-out bag. They also sell the same croissants and scones, acquired from the same supplier, Bakers Dozen.
“We’ve questioned the bakery’s owner and are making the rounds of the three cafés with photos of Mira Gallier and Connor Scott.”
Spencer’s cell, holstered at his hip, vibrated. He glanced at the display, saw it was Stacy and excused himself from the table.
“Is everything all right?” he asked the moment he stepped outside the room.
“I’m fine. Mira Gallier was just here. Looking for you.”
“What the hell?”
“She was behaving strangely. Keyed up and anxious. Said a few bizarre things including that she couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten.”
“And how did you learn that?”
“I invited her to breakfast.”
“Son of a bitch, Stacy. She’s a suspect in a murder investigation.”
“Exactly why I invited her. Also why I kept my friend Mr. Glock with me the whole time.”
Stacy was a cop. A good one. She knew all the right things to do, but he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit being shaken by the thought of a murder suspect showing up on his doorstep.
“She give you anything I can use?” he asked.
“She said she didn’t know what to believe anymore. Or who to believe in. She also mentioned three victims, Father Girod, her father-in-law and Preacher.”
“That’s it?”
“Nope, there’s one more thing. She thinks her dead husband’s been paying her visits. She claims he called her last night.”
“In other words, she’s certifiable.”
“Or close to it.”
He let out a frustrated breath. “She’s gone now?”
“Yes. Up and left when I went to get the tea and muffins.”
After extracting her promise to call immediately if Gallier showed up again, he hung up and headed back to the table.
“Everything okay?” Captain O’Shay asked.
“That was Stacy. Mira Gallier was just at my home, looking for me.”
No one spoke. The silence was heavy. They all worked law enforcement, some were married, some had kids. A perp learning where they lived, showing up and exacting revenge on the ones they loved was their worst nightmare.
Finally, Percy spoke. “That’s screwed up, bro.”
“Did Stacy feel threatened?” Captain O’Shay asked.
“No. In fact, she asked her to stay for breakfast.” A ripple of laughter moved around the table. When it died, he added, “According to Stacy, Gallier was acting weird. Hyper. Said she didn’t know who or what to believe. Mentioned all three vics. Thinks her dead husband’s been paying her visits.”
Another ripple of laughter circled the group. Captain O’Shay spoke up. “How did she find your residence?”
“Her glass studio is in the neighborhood. Stacy and I had been in before, bought a piece of her art for our front window. Gallier and I made that connection when I questioned her after her encounter with Preacher.”
The captain nodded, expression thoughtful. “When we brought Gallier in, did you interview her?”
“No, Percy did. I interviewed Scott.”
“Good. She thinks of you as a neighbor, a friend. That’s why she just ‘stopped by.’ You need to maintain that trust. Let Percy or Bayle be the bad cops. You’re there to ‘help’ her. If there’s a chance she’ll confide in anybody, it’ll be you.”
“Got it,” he said. “What do you want our next step to be?”
“Pay her a visit. Just you, Malone. Real friendly. Tell her you hate it, but your captain is making you bring her downtown for questioning. Tell her, if it makes her feel more comfortable, you could request to be the one who interviews her. My guess is, if she knows anything, she’ll either give it up for you or go a long way toward it.”
“And me, Captain?” Bayle asked.
“I want you and Percy in the viewing room.”
The meeting wrapped. As they dispersed, Spencer touched Bayle’s arm. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure.” She stepped back into the conference room. “What’s up?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
“I don’t follow.”
“That crack. About Gallier.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Come on, Bayle. You questioned my judgment by suggesting I was influenced by Gallier’s looks. I haven’t done anything to make you think that.”
She opened her mouth as if to argue, then shut it. “You’re right,” she said stiffly. “I was out of line.”
It wasn’t good enough. Not this time. “So what’s your problem, Bayle? Is it with me? Men in general? Or do you have some issue with Gallier?”
She looked away, then back at him. “I don’t have a problem with you. Or anybody else. Just doing my job.”
“Bullshit.”
She didn’t respond and he shook his head. “Partnership is about honesty. And trust. I’ve got to trust you’ve got my back, no matter what. And after the stunt you pulled in there, I’m feeling a little shaky about that.”
“Does having your back mean keeping my mouth shut while you mess up? ’Cause I’m not built that way.”
He leaned toward her, tamping down his anger. “That’s not what you did in there, and you know it.”
“You’re right.” She sighed. “I’ve seen a lot of that sort of thing on the job, but I shouldn’t have lumped you in with those types. It won’t happen again.”
Bayle moved past him, into the hall. As she walked away, Malone wondered what it would take to get Tony Sciame to reconsider retirement.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Wednesday, August 17
9:20
A.M.
Mira let herself into the studio. The bell over the door jangled. Deni’s Beetle and Chris’s truck were both in the lot, so she called out a greeting.
Her assistant appeared at the workroom door, face flushed. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick!”
Mira stashed her purse behind the counter and headed for the workroom. “I’m fine.”
“You show up last night, talking crazy—”
“I wasn’t talking crazy.”
“Yes, you were. You tell me Jeff’s alive, that he called you—”
“He did. It was his voice. I promise you, Deni.”