Kill and Tell Read online

  "Yeah, I know. It doesn't feel right to me, either, but like I said, he wasn't working for us, so I don't have a clue what he was really doing. For all we know, this was nothing more than pure damn bad luck, and a sorry-ass punk accidentally got off some good shots."

  "What about Rick's weapon? Was it found?"

  McPherson shook his head. Vinay hadn't really expected an affirmative answer. No piece of street shit would pass up an expensive weapon such as Rick Medina carried. Nor would they be able to pick up a thread on the serial number, because Rick would have made certain no weapon could be traced back to him.

  "Where's John?" McPherson asked softly.

  "On assignment."

  "You gonna tell him or leave him in place?" Any assignment John Medina was on was, by definition, crucial.

  "Tell him. I trust his judgment." Not only that, only a fool would withhold from John the news of his father's death.

  "Tell him to give me a call," McPherson said, rising to his feet.

  Vinay gave his old friend a searching look. "Jess? You know something you haven't told me?"

  "No, but John might. And if he goes after whoever did Rick, well, I'd consider it an honor to help."

  * * *

  Chapter 8

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  Karen slept so deeply that when she woke the next morning, she felt slow and thick-headed, unable to get stirring. Her eyes felt gritty, and her pillowcase was damp. Dimly, she remembered crying during the night, surfacing briefly from sleep and feeling overwhelmed with despair and loss.

  Finally, she dragged herself out of bed and stretched, feeling every muscle pull and reluctantly come awake. She opened the curtains and stared out at a blindingly bright day; she could already feel the heat pulsing against the window. Thanking God for the efficiency of the Marriott's air conditioning, she stumbled to the shower and let cool water pelt down on her, dispelling more of the mental cobwebs.

  She had just finished blow-drying her hair when she heard the phone ringing. Pulling her robe around her, she dashed into the bedroom. "Hello?"

  "Good mornin'." The warm, dark voice in her ear instantly identified the caller. "I hope I didn't wake you?"

  "Good morning, Detective. No, I was already awake. I just got out of the shower." Twisting, Karen peeked at the digital alarm/radio bolted to the night-stand. She blinked, but the red numbers remained the same: ten twenty-three. "I can't believe I slept so late," she blurted, surprised. "Is it really almost ten-thirty?"

  He chuckled, the sound so warm her stomach began to melt. "Yes, ma'am. You were so tired yesterday, I thought you might sleep late, so I waited to call. I need to turn over your father's effects to you, if you feel like doing it today. If not, it can wait."

  It could wait until tomorrow, he meant, but she had scheduled the funeral for tomorrow, and she didn't think she could handle both ordeals in the same day. "No, I'll come down there as soon as I've eaten."

  "If I have to leave on a call, I'll let you know, save you the walk down here."

  "Okay," she agreed. After breaking the connection, she called room service and placed her order, pushing away the dread that settled in the pit of her stomach like cold oatmeal. Dexter's effects would be shabby clothing and worn shoes, perhaps with holes in them. She hated to think of him without adequate clothing, without a safe place to sleep or shelter from the weather. She had always imagined him living a carefree, rootless life without his wife and daughter; she had never imagined him in need of the most basic requirements of life.

  It hurt. He could have lived a normal life with his family, but he had rejected them in favor of… nothing. No home, no job, sleeping in cardboard boxes, getting his meals in missions and soup kitchens or what he could dig out of a garbage can. Had he stolen a shopping cart from a supermarket and trundled his worldly goods around in it? He had turned his back on them for that?

  How could a man do that? Didn't he feel any connection, any responsibility, to his family? How could he have hurt her mother that way and still feel free to show up or call her whenever he got the urge? What was it about him that Jeanette had loved until her last breath?

  "Oh, Mom," Karen whispered, aching for her mother, whose pain had been the greatest. She, at least, had never known her father that well, and so she hadn't suffered so much on her own account but rather in sympathy for her mother. She was grateful Jeanette hadn't had to see that videotape and wouldn't have to claim a pitifully small pile of possessions.

  She had just dressed, as comfortably as possible, in a sleeveless peach sheath and sandals, when room service arrived with her breakfast. Her appetite had faded, but she forced herself to eat. The coffee was scalding hot and impossibly strong; after one sip, she pushed it aside and drank the glass of ice water instead. Perhaps if she cooled her insides, the heat wouldn't seem so oppressive.

  At least Dexter hadn't been cold. At least he hadn't died somewhere in the dead of winter, with snow on the ground and holes in his shoes, newspapers stuffed inside his shirt for warmth.

  Her stomach heaved, and Karen pushed the thought away, along with the tray. Swiftly, she brushed her teeth, put on lipstick, and secured the room key in the zippered section of her shoulder bag. "Ready as I'm going to be," she whispered, and left the room.

  The morning was hot but fresh. New Orleans was a city of food, and a multitude of scents filled the air: pastries baking, spices simmering, chicory-flavored coffee brewing. The aroma was especially strong when she walked past Brennan's, renowned for its exotic breakfasts. Everything was so different from what she was accustomed to in Columbus that she could have been in another country. Even the people looked more exotic, more dramatic in both coloring and dress, almost gypsyish. She heard a multitude of accents and languages around her as she briskly walked past strolling tourists and lingering shoppers. She saw sequined Mardi Gras masks in shop windows and glittering harlequin faces draped with strands of colorful beads. An enormous leopard, carved from a single piece of wood, watched from one shop window as she passed.

  The ambience of New Orleans sucked at her, trying to slow her steps to the accustomed pace. Sweat beaded between her breasts, trickled downward, telling her how silly she was to hurry. Everything would wait, would still be there if she stopped to look in a shop window. She resisted the urge.

  She could see the Eighth District ahead on the right, the mellow, gracious building drawing her with its promise of coolness. She knew there were the ordinary municipal buildings in the city, she had seen some of them yesterday when Detective Chastain had taken her to the morgue, but the Eighth District building was like New Orleans itself: seductive, stylishly old and gracious, lazily sinful. What had those old walls seen? What scandals and murders had been unraveled under that roof, what torrid love affairs had been conducted there? One didn't normally associate a police department with love affairs, but this was New Orleans, this was the Quarter, and anything was possible.

  A different police officer sat at the desk in the huge front room, where the ceiling fans ceaselessly paddled in circles in the thick air. Karen gave her name and was allowed to proceed past the desk. She wound her way through the warren, the old floor creaking under her feet.

  Detective Chastain was on the phone when she reached the tiny, cluttered office. He looked up when he saw her standing in the doorway and motioned her inside.

  Her heartbeat jumped, then settled into a rapid tattoo. Karen sank onto the straight-backed chair, clutching her shoulder bag on her lap. There was a sack on his desk, an ordinary brown grocery sack, and she tried not to look at it. Instead, she looked at him, desperately focusing on details such as the contrast of his gold wristwatch against his tanned wrist, the short dark hairs on his forearms, revealed by his rolled-up sleeves. He was wearing a plain white collarless shirt and black slacks, a simple, stark outfit that made him look more like a choreographer than a cop, except for the holstered pistol he wore on his belt at his right hip.

  She consciously tried not to listen to his conver