Old Black Magic Page 7

  Hope Williams: 22 years old, agnostic, African American, nursing student. Murdered in San Francisco, California, on Saturday, May 3, 1986.

  Betty Galonardi: 47 years old, Italian Catholic, school teacher. Murdered in New York City on Sunday, June 12, 1988.

  Andrea Allen: 59 years old, Christian right-to-lifer, housewife. Murdered in Chicago, Illinois, on Thursday, January 25, 1990.

  All of the victims had been beaten and stabbed repeatedly.

  “I left out Mary’s photo and I don’t have one of Rubin yet.” Sweeney pushed a piece of paper toward me. “Now take a look at that. NeVille can be traced to each of those cities around the time of the murder, with one exception. The dyke in Massachusetts.”

  “Eileen Anderson was a lesbian?”

  “Appears so. Why you interested? It somehow more important when a sister’s killed?” His jaw muscle twitched.

  “Sweeney, are we working together on this, or are you just getting kicks from plucking my nerves?”

  “That’s right. Fuck me. That’s right.” He laughed. “I’m used to working alone, so I can get mighty ornery. You keep me in place, girl. Ha.” He was on his second scotch. I hoped I wouldn’t be around when he got to three.

  “Rubin may have been bisexual,” I said.

  “That so?” He started to make a comment, but I shot him a warning look. “The other vics were straight, so we don’t got a pattern. Something wrong with your Dixie?”

  “I’m just taking my time, which may not be a bad lead for you to follow.”

  “Hey, this here’s my second drink. For a former alcoholic, this shit’s like watered-down piss. Case you didn’t notice, it was a bitch of a day.”

  Former alcoholic, my ass. I wondered if Ryan knew that Sweeney was drinking again. I fought off the temptation to knee him. “What’s this page? I can’t read your handwriting.”

  “Notes on some searches Ryan ran.” He leaned over and pointed. “That’s shorthand for the National Center for, what the hell is it? Oh yeah, the Analysis of Violent Crime. You know, the Quantico place, run by the FBI’s Behavioral Sciences Unit, or BSU. This is VICAP—”

  “The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program and Profiler.”

  A slap of boozy breath swept over me. “Ha. Nice. Show me your stuff. By the way, Ryan thinks the guy’s escaping profiling the way Bundy did, who was far from a loser. You know about Bundy? He was a good student, dated women, had a good work history. Got away with murder for years. This guy may be smarter than Bundy. Look at these notes. The crimes differ in almost every aspect. No wonder the FBI won’t even sneeze our way.”

  “You honestly think NeVille is smart enough to maneuver this.”

  “Fuck. Maybe not. I’m spinning. You know how many times I’ve run this crap? I read and read, interview some shit-heads, think I got something and it all falls apart. Then I come back to NeVille. Everything makes sense for about ten minutes. Look.” He stabbed the notes. “He was in the right place at the right time when Mary bought it. He was back in town when Williams got it. A year later he moved to Chicago. Boom. Down goes Allen. Then he moves on to the Big Apple and the spinster gets blown. Now here we are with Rubin. Don’t it stink to you?”

  The coincidence was hard to explain. Or ignore. I downed the rest of my Dixie and signaled for another. Sleep was a long way off. Sweeney’s files were all handwritten, with details Ryan had not shared with me earlier. None of it made sense. Once we really got down to business, Sweeney lost his antagonism and Louisiana swagger. There were times I felt as if we were trying to put together a single image from jigsaw pieces belonging to six discrete puzzles. The murdered women had differed in age, careers, lifestyles, religions, marital status, style of dress, hair, eye color and body types. Based on the crime scene photos, in some instances the killer’s actions seemed consistent with the profile of an organized mind. In others, he had been clearly disorganized, once even leaving behind a very clear imprint made by a tennis shoe. In three of the six murders, items had been stolen from the victim, most notably their wedding rings. With the exception of Allen in Chicago, all had been sexually assaulted. Besides the proximity to hotels and discovery of eggshell remnants, the cases shared one other common thread. Bizarre, nonsensical artifacts had been found on or near the victims—a different one each time. A smoking pipe made from a tropical American tree called calabash, a new snakeskin wallet filled with packets of ground coffee, a bottle of pine needles and bark, a knotted red neckerchief and, the most strange, three slices of bull’s testicles curled around ice in a glass masonry jar. At two in the morning, we both gave up.

  “No wonder you’re so ornery,” I muttered as I slipped my notepad into my back pocket.

  “Thanks for understanding. I gotta give you credit for hanging in. I haven’t worked with a woman since San Francisco. You haven’t been seeing my best side.”

  “You have one?”

  “Give me time, hon. Believe me, it gets better. C’mon, I’ll walk you back to the hotel. You think I’m rough, wait until you see the element we got outside.”

  “I’ll be fine.” He leaned over and grabbed my hand. I said, “What?” impatiently and he squeezed hard.

  “Listen to me. Ryan said you had good instincts. So far I ain’t seen much to confirm that. Someone’s watching you. Hard. Hard enough to follow your ass here. Maybe it’s NeVille or one of his buddies, or maybe some criminal genius who’s got us all tied up in his own sick game. All I know is that tooth’s not from some goddamned good-natured fairy. I gotta think you just got a warning to stay out of this. Me, I got nothing to lose. But I don’t think your hole’s as black as mine.”

  “I’ll watch my back. Don’t worry.”

  I didn’t like the way he laughed. “If we wasn’t in public, I’d give you another show and tell. This one a knife cut across my back. Happened in Chicago when I was investigating Allen’s death. I was taking a piss in a pub when the cut came. Next thing I know I wake up in Rush’s emergency room. That time, only thing that saved me was an off-duty cop who’d beered up enough and needed to take a leak. Guy saw the perp’s behind drop out the john window. Nothing more. That was my warning. I took it seriously, much as I take anything seriously these days.”

  “I’ll sleep on it.”

  “Right.” He shook his head and pulled out his wallet. The conversation had ended.

  We paid up and staggered out. The air was still and heavy. Instantly, my body started to steam; sweat beads dripped from my chin. Between exhaustion, painkillers and more rounds of beer than I wanted to remember, my legs felt like Silly Putty.

  “Whoa.” I leaned on Sweeney for support and cursed myself instantly. He was a good detective but a pig nonetheless, and I wanted to avoid physical contact at all costs.

  “Yeah, soon you’ll be begging for it. Women.”

  “Ah, shit, Sweeney, you are predictable.”

  His laugh was good-natured for a change as he guided me into the surge of clammy human sludge outside the bar. We headed back toward the center of the Quarter. “Whatever you do,” he said, “don’t rat me out to Ryan. Confidentially, he told me he’s got some strange paternal thing going with you. Only reason I was willing to bother with you. Though now, I gotta say, you’re starting to intrigue me.”

  “Don’t get too intrigued.”

  “I understand you got a lady friend with you. Pregnant, too. Now how’d you manage that?”

  I jammed on the brakes. “The line gets drawn here, Sweeney. No teasing, no questions. My friend is off limits, you understand?”

  We faced off in the middle of Bourbon Street. No one noticed. Why should they? Over Sweeney’s shoulder, I noticed a male couple in a dimly lit alley. They appeared to be indulging in what looked like unsafe practices.

  “So the female dick’s in love. Huh.” Sweeney had a peculiar facial expression, as if it struck him as odd that lesbians could actually be in love.

  I sobered up real fast. “Go home, Sweeney. I’ll take my chances with th
e other swine.”

  “Like I never heard that before.”

  He didn’t follow me. I was relieved to be rid of him, although I had no way of knowing how differently I’d feel in just a few hours. Maybe it was the time, or maybe the beers, but I was feeling pretty edgy. I was too tired to sleep and too wired to trust. At another time in my life, I would have headed for Oz, a sleezy gay bar, and picked up some trouble, but that option was long gone. I suppose I could’ve gone back to the hotel and woken up K.T., but I knew from experience that a pregnant woman is hard to rouse. Besides, I smelled like smoke and booze, a combination unlikely to enliven K.T.’s interest. Instead, I got myself some coffee, claimed a street corner and ogled the crowd. It took me a while to figure out why so many college-aged kids were pointing at me and giggling. I leaned back and looked up. A swing above my head carried a pair of shapely blow-up legs, complete with ruby-red high heels. The bar’s name, Red Light Gals, and my posture made me wonder if I’d been tagged as a working girl. Not good. I changed locations immediately. That’s when I saw Egghead.

  He was with another man, shorter, sporting a crew cut. From the back, it looked like NeVille but I couldn’t make a firm ID. They were sharing a one-liter bottle of cheap beer. Egghead glanced my way, appeared to make eye contact, then muttered something to his companion. An instant later, both men ambled into a side street. Now, I’ve done some stupid things in my life, but wandering after a suspected serial killer down a dark alley was not one I wanted to add to my repertoire. I figured I’d get to the corner and just watch where they went. Period. I’ve been wrong before.

  I scrambled across the street, darted over to the first doorway and stopped. I was less than twenty feet from Bourbon, but I could’ve been beamed straight to a bombed-out section of Beirut. Enter the twilight zone. The pounding music had transformed into a hard pulse that vibrated up my legs. The garish lights disappeared into thick, damp shadows. The swarming crowds evaporated. My breath was so loud, it filled my head. All the houses were boarded up, except one. A voodoo shop. Christ figures carved from wood, black candles, hand-made dolls, African fertility statues and buckling photographs of saints crowded the window display. There was no sign of Egghead or his buddy. No sound of footsteps. It took me sixty seconds to make a decision.

  Chimes sounded as I opened the door to the shop. The place was ten by ten, no bigger. Other than me, the only occupant in the store was an elderly woman knitting with the intensity of a brain surgeon. One needle slipped to the floor and she fumbled trying to retrieve it. Clearly, her eyesight wasn’t great. The needle had fallen right by her foot. I handed it to her, then pretended to check out a plaster Madonna draped in a shredded wool shawl. A dish of coins and dollar bills rested in her outstretched hand.

  “You make an offering, she bring you good luck.” The raspy, deep voice startled me. I turned around. The old woman pointed a long, knotted finger that appeared to be caked with clay. “Make an offering. The devils will stay away.”

  When she lifted her face toward me I saw that her eyes were opaque. Cataracts, probably. They could’ve been marbles.

  “Maybe you want High John the Conqueror root?”

  “I’m just looking.”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding to herself. “You’re bleeding.” Again, the finger stretched.

  I glanced down. A bandage on my hand had begun to weep. How the hell? I waved my hand at her. She didn’t react. I made a face. Still no response. Then a frown, sharp and distinct, disfigured her face. “So much death,” she rasped. “Don’t point at a grave, your finger will rot. Please, ask the Madonna for sanctum.” I headed for the exit. “The cost of disbelief so steep,” she muttered as the door chirped behind me.

  The street was empty. I took a deep swallow of the still, sultry air. Perspiration pooled under my arms, in the small of my back. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. My legs felt rubbery. Dehydration, I thought. The cost of too many beers and fierce humidity. It was time to go back to the hotel, shower, sleep, crawl into bed with my swelling girlfriend and abandon this nightmare. I took one step toward sanity when a shriek pierced the night. My head snapped to the right. Another howl, clearly female. This time it broke off suddenly, as if a hand had been clamped over someone’s mouth. The shout appeared to have come from the opposite corner, away from Bourbon. I glanced toward the main drag. The drunken parade continued undisturbed. I swung the door open to the voodoo shop and shouted, “Call the police. Someone’s being mugged down the block.”

  The old lady smiled and shook her head. “The damned Herriot place. Yes. Spirits are restless tonight. Old deaths. Old sorrows.”

  I cursed her superstitious mumbo jumbo first and my rescue instincts second, then dashed up the block, breathless with fear. The screams had dissipated into a strange mewling, the heartbreaking cry of kittens suffocating in a paper bag. My heart was thumping hard and I’d broken out in a rolling sweat. Where the hell were the cries coming from? A woman’s cry burst into the air, a shotgun pellet of sound that bounced off the buildings, clear for an excruciating instant: “Help me.” Then silence.

  I paused to catch my breath and sniffed. Smoke. The scent a match makes when it’s blown out. I paced in frantic circles, scanning the buildings studded with wrought-iron that loomed around me, toothless grins on ancient, mocking faces. Suddenly my attention snapped to an abandoned structure at the far corner. A light flickered in the second-floor window. Nothing more. But it was enough.

  I weighed my options. The only weapon I had with me was my knowledge of tae-kwon do. But retreat was not possible. I sprinted across the street and up a short flight of steps. The taste of stale beer percolated into my throat.

  I swallowed hard, grimacing as I fingered the splintered plywood planks nailed across the entry. Someone had smashed through them, and judging from the sharp edges, the break-in had been too damn recent. Heat rushed across my cheeks. I pressed my hips between the planks and palmed the door. It swung open easily. In an instant, the stench of mildew swept over me. Yet the air stank of something else as well. It took a few seconds for the smell to register. Cloyingly sweet, the scent inflamed my sinuses. Incense. No doubt about it.

  The darkness beyond the threshold was unrelenting. The first step was the hardest. Spider webs collapsed into my hair. I batted them out in a sudden panic. In the distance, a siren wailed. Good. Maybe the old lady had called the cops after all. I pulled back the door and wedged a piece of wood underneath. I wanted them to find me easily. Then I retraced my steps. Under my feet, the pine boards bowed and swayed. Through the gaping slats, I glimpsed water, black and glistening like oil, emitting a smell of sewage that made my stomach churn. Too late I realized I was about to vomit. I lurched toward the central staircase and heaved. So much for the element of surprise. My retching echoed through the building. I had to find cover fast. The building style was known as a five bay, with a central hall and rooms to either side. All the doors on this floor were planked over. I scurried away from the stairs, then yelped as my right foot crashed through the floor. A splinter the size of a cigarette protruded from my ankle. No time to remove it. Someone was coming down the stairs and coming fast. I hoisted my foot up from the hole and limped toward the front door. Suddenly, it slammed shut. I hadn’t seen anyone move the wedge, hadn’t heard anyone on this floor. None of that mattered compared to the sudden blindness I experienced. I spun around, my hands in front of me, waving wildly, searching for a wall, a door, a hint of direction. The footsteps had slowed, one careful thud after another on the stairs behind me. Each creak gave me hope. Maybe the staircase would collapse. I fell to my knees and crawled deeper into the shadows.

  A clear, repulsive splat sounded. I glared at the staircase, but I couldn’t make sense of the image. A silhouette of a man perhaps, but something was wrong. The figure was too wide in the middle. There was, oh God…he was holding a limp body in his arms.

  I stood suddenly, ramming my forehead into a door knob. Shit. I threw my shoulders
into the door with all my force and gasped as it disintegrated around me. Dark, wet air rushed toward me as I noticed dully that I was falling, my hands bracing for a floor that had disappeared a long time ago.

  Chapter Six

  Tuesday, May 4

  Water dripped on my forehead. One bead after another. It pooled and rolled into my eyes. I blinked, moved my head to one side and moaned. Where the hell was I? My hands closed on the sheets. K.T.? Wait. Not sheets, drop cloth. I rubbed my fingers over the rough, damp canvas. A warning bell went off in my head. This was not the Royal Orleans. My sense of smell kicked in and I jerked myself off the floor. Regret hit at the same exact moment as the nausea. I had moved too fast. Five minutes later, I was wiping my mouth and recapping my last conscious thought.

  He had killed again.

  So why was I still alive?

  I scratched muck off the face of my watch and checked the time. It was five-forty. A pale lavender light slipped in from cracks in a distant wall. Dawn. In New Orleans, houses are typically built with a basement-like ground floor designed to withstand floods. This structure was no exception. I took in my surroundings. At some point someone had begun renovating this place. From the looks of it, the work had stopped suddenly. I was standing among a heap of drop cloths, mouse turds, mildewed plasterboard, rusted paint cans and, I noted with a smile, an ancient but usable ladder. My first piece of luck in twenty-four hours.

  My next task was assessing the damage I’d done to my body. Things could’ve been worse. Several of the cuts I’d received in the bayou had begun to bleed. My left arm and shoulder seemed badly bruised. What really concerned me, though, was the sliver of wood piercing my ankle. Pus had already begun oozing from around the wood and the surrounding skin was hot to the touch. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed the edge of the splinter and, after counting to ten twice, yanked it out. Blood spurted from the wound. I found the cleanest corner of my T-shirt, ripped it off with my teeth, then tied it around the wound. A doctor visit had better be in my very near future.