Kill and Tell Part 3

"He wouldn't do that. Too much chance of being overheard."

That made sense, and Stephen accepted the statement from Raymond as he would not have from anyone else.

"If you don't trust hima" Raymond said slowly, letting his words trail off, inviting the senator to pick up the thought just as he had done forty years ago when he was teaching the boys how to hunt and they had to antic.i.p.ate what a big elk would do.

"Then don't use him," the senator said, and sighed. "I wouldn't, but I need his contacts. He's a good buffer, and I don't believe he would talk. After all, his livelihood depends on his reputation. If he couldn't keep a confidence, no one would use him."

"He has the situation handled?"

"The blackmailer has been taken care of; there are still, however, certain loose ends."

"Loose ends are like loose shoestrings; they'll trip you up every time." Raymond sipped his coffee again, his big hands handling the transparent china cup with a certain delicacy.

"Steps are being taken."

"Good. Mr. Waltera well, I wouldn't want anything to come out that might hurt him. He's a great man. He did some things people might not understand, not knowing the whole story. He doesn't deserve to have people saying bad things about him, especially now when he can't protect himself."

"No," the senator said, and sighed. "He doesn't."

"Caucasian male, seventy-one and three-quarter inches tall, weight one hundred eighty-two pounds, age fifty to fifty-five. Gray hair, brown eyes. Distinguishing marks: a 'Semper Fi' tattoo on the left forearm, a surgical scar four inches in length on his lower right abdomen, a two-inch keloid scar diagonally on the right quadricepsa""

Marc tuned out the a.s.sistant medical examiner's detailing, for the record, of the victim's many scars. None of the scars looked like a bullet wound, but several of them did look as if he'd had some close encounters with sharp blades. Most of the scars, though, were the sort people collected just going through life: childhood falls that cut the knees, various nicks and sc.r.a.pes. The most important detail, for purposes of identification, was the tattoo. Not only had he been in the military, but the tattoo narrowed down the branch of service for them. They would soon have a real name for this John Doe.

As predicted, the morning television news announcers had waxed eloquent, and in rounded funereal tones so listeners would know how serious the issue was, about the early-morning murder in the Quarter. The New Orleans murder statistics were trotted out again, followed by a noncommittal statement from the police department, followed by a pa.s.sionate statement from the mayor to the effect that the citizensa"and touristsa"of New Orleans must and would feel safe in the city. It was a good campaign slogan; he had used it before.

Marc dispa.s.sionately watched the autopsy. He had a strong stomach and had never puked the way some detectives did. Like the medical examiners, he could ignore the smells and concentrate on what the body told them. Working homicides, it was a handy knack to have.

This body wouldn't have much to say. A bullet in the brain was pretty obvious. The where, when, and how weren't in question, just the who and why.

The young women who had discovered the body hadn't been any help. None of them could remember seeing anyone else, period, either walking or driving. The shooting had to have happened just minutes before, but no one, not even anyone living close by, had heard a thing.

The victim's personal effects, such as they were, hadn't yielded anything except a wedding ring, carefully sewn inside the cuff of his pants. Maybe he had stolen it, but it had fit his ring finger, and he had kept it carefully hidden, which told Marc he had valued the ring beyond what money it would bring in a p.a.w.n shop. The guy had once been married, maybe still was.

"You're getting on my nerves, Chastain," the doctor said testily, clicking off the microphone so he could speak off the record. He was a busy man, impatient and harried, and he seldom spoke personally to the detectives who attended the autopsies.

Marc lifted one eyebrow in silent question.

"That's what you're doing." A stained scalpel was jabbed in his direction. "You just stand there, quiet as a rock and about as active. You don't interrupt me to ask questions, you don't turn green and gag, you just watch. d.a.m.n it, you hardly even blink. What do you do, go into a trance?"

"If I have any questions, I ask them when you're finished," Marc said mildly.

The scalpel jabbed once more. "You're still doing it. You didn't even change expressions. Do me a favor; do something human before I start thinking you're a robot." Behind him, his a.s.sistant smothered a laugh.

"If you're in doubt, when you're finished, I'll let you watch me p.i.s.s." The offer was made totally deadpan, and this time the a.s.sistant didn't manage to control the laugh.

"Thanks, but I'll pa.s.s on that wonderful opportunity."

"I don't make the offer to just anyone. You're the only man who's ever heard it, so you might want to reconsider. Just don't get any wrong ideas about my s.e.xual orientation."

Behind her mask, the a.s.sistant's eyes were sparkling. The doctor shot her a sour look. "Don't even think about volunteering for the job."

"Too late," she admitted cheerfully.

Marc winked at her.

"Forget I said anything," the doctor muttered, and switched the microphone on again, putting an end to the discussion. Pity. Marc had enjoyed needling him, and evidently the a.s.sistant had enjoyed the exchange, too. It was the first time Marc had seen the brusque doctor interrupt any autopsy to make a personal remark.

Just for the pure h.e.l.l of it, he stuck his hands in his pockets and began jingling the change. After two minutes, the microphone was clicked off again. "Forget I said anything," the doctor snapped again. "And stop jingling your change, d.a.m.n it! You sound like Santa Claus."

Marc shrugged and took his hands out of his pockets, but his eyes were glittering with amus.e.m.e.nt.

Sometime later, the body of the victim had told them that except for being dead, he was in remarkably good shape. No sign of disease in any of the major organs, no blockage in his veins, good muscle definition, no needle marks on his arms or between his toes to indicate intravenous drug use. The toxicology report wasn't back, and it might indicate some other type of drug use, but overall the victim looked too healthy to have been a user.

Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head, fired at medium range, no exit wound. The penetrating missile was a .22-caliber bullet, which had also sent several bone fragments through the soft brain tissue. The kinetic energy of the tumbling projectiles had destroyed ma.s.sive amounts of tissue, like a tidal wave rolling through the brain and smashing everything it touched.

X rays and photographs of the victim's teeth had been sent to the Marine Corps for identification. Depending on how efficient they were, the victim's ident.i.ty should be forthcoming within a few days. Marc would begin trying to locate any family, and maybe, just maybe, within a week or two the poor guy could have a burial.

He was surprised when the identification came back the next day. Someone in the vast tangle of military and civilian bureaucracy was on the ball; either that, or by pure chance the victim's teeth had been in the first batch checked for a cross-match. There was a name now: Dexter Alvin Whitlaw, from Keysburg, West Virginia. Next of kin was a wife, Shirley Jeanette Allen Whitlaw, and a daughter, Karen Simone Whitlaw. Marc had their social security numbers and their last known address. He could find them.

The message light was blinking when Karen got home from work. She was tempted not to listen to the messages, just to take a quick shower and fall into bed. Since she'd sold the house and moved into an apartment four months ago, the nights had seemed even more lonely; after working all day, she hadn't had either the energy or the interest to do much unpacking, and a lot of her things were still in boxes, which made her feel as if she were living in a spa.r.s.ely furnished motel rooma"or a warehouse. The rooms seemed to echo, intensifying her sense of being alone, of missing Jeanette.

She hadn't been sleeping or eating well, either, and was losing weight. In an effort to jar herself out of her depression, she had switched shifts with one of the other nurses and was now working nights. The strategy had worked, to some degree. She was so tired when she dragged home early in the mornings that she literally fell into bed and slept like a log. After the first disastrous day, when she had been awakened eleven times by telemarketers and wrong numbers, she learned to turn off the phone.

Lately, she had been trying to stay up for several hours after getting home, to mimic the routine of daytime jobs, but not today. This was the morning after the night from h.e.l.l. She wanted nothing more than to get off her aching feet and just sleep.

She worked on the surgical floor, where noncritical patients were placed after surgery. They were all in pain, but everyone had a different tolerance for pain. Some were so stoic only their blood pressure would indicate whether or not they were hurting; others screamed b.l.o.o.d.y murder at the least discomfort. Tonight had been a night for the screamers. They hurt, d.a.m.n it, and wanted something now: another pill, turn up the morphine drip, anything. Of course, the nurses couldn't exceed the doctors' prescribed dosages without authorization; all they could do was take the heat. Tracking down a doctor in the middle of the night to authorize more pain medication was usually an exercise in futility; the nurses practically needed a team of bloodhounds to track down the doctor on duty, who had a genius for being somewhere else and not hearing his page.

Then a patient, a thirty-two-year-old mother of two, had gone sour on them. She was in for a ruptured appendix and had been very sick for several days but was recovering. Tonight, just after supper, she had been walking to the bathroom and suddenly slumped to the floor. A blood clot had lodged in her pulmonary artery, and she was gone, despite all their efforts. It happened sometimes, but the shock never really lessened. The only thing that had changed was that Karen had learned how to work through the shock, to keep going, to push it away. All nurses and doctors had to learn that, or they couldn't function.

But the kicker was when some idiot let a nineteen-year-old boy, wacked out on drugs, escape from the psych unit, where he had been taken because of the security. Some security. And where had the kid headed? Straight to the surgical floor, where all the good dope could be found.

He had shed his hospital gown somewhere along the way. Stark naked, his pupils so contracted he looked like an alien, hair standing out in wild tangles, he had wrecked the desk looking for drugs. Finally, he had found the locked cabinet, but Judy Camliffe, the floor charge nurse, had the key in her pocket. Security got there as he was trying to tear the metal doors apart. Unfortunately, subduing a naked man is tricky; there are no clothes to grab, and bare skin is slippery. The kid fought free so many times Karen lost count. They wrestled in the halls, upsetting carts, dumping files and charts everywhere, waking patients who then either became alarmed or decided they needed more pain medication. By the time the kid was finally subdued, the surgical floor was a wreck. By the time the nurses finished with their shift, so were they.

The message was probably from a salesman or a charity; she hadn't had time yet to make friends with any of her new neighbors, and all of her other friends were nurses who knew what shift she worked and wouldn't call to chat. She couldn't think of any remotely urgent reason she should listen to her messages, but still she dropped her bag and went over to the machine. She wouldn't be able to sleep knowing that red light was blinking.

Out of habit, she picked up the notepad and pen she always kept by the phone, just in case there might actually be a call she needed to return. She punched the play b.u.t.ton and listened to the tape rewinding.

After some whirring and a couple of clicks, a drawling baritone voice broke the quiet of the room. For some reason, her breath gave a little hitch. The voice was somehow beguiling, with warm, dark, pure masculine tones that quivered along her nerve endings, almost as if she had been touched. Even disguised by the drawl, there was a hard edge of authority evident as well. He said, "Miss Whitlaw, this is Detective Marc Chastain with the New Orleans Police Department. I need to talk to you concerning your father. You can reach me ata""

He recited the number, but Karen was so taken aback she didn't write down a single digit. Hastily, she punched the stop b.u.t.ton, then replay. When the whirring and clicking stopped, she listened again to the brief message and once again was so distracted by his voice that she almost missed the number a second time. She scribbled it down, then stared at the pad in a fog of fatigue and bemus.e.m.e.nt.

Dexter was evidently in trouble and thought she would bail him out. No, he thought Jeanette would bail him out; he couldn't know his wife had been dead for six months. Had the detective said "Miss Whitlaw" or "Mrs. Whitlaw"? His drawl had slurred the word.

She couldn't resist. She replayed the message one more time, as much to hear that voice as to determine if he had thought he was calling her or her mother. Listening closely, she thought he said "Miss," which was politically incorrect of him, but she still wasn't certain.

She didn't want to call. She didn't want to hear about Dexter's troubles, and she had no intention of bailing him out of anything, anyway. All she wanted to do was get off her feet and go to sleep.

She thought of her mother, how Jeanette had taken him back time and again, how she was always there if he needed her. He had never been there for them, but Jeanette had never wavered in her devotion.

Suddenly, Karen felt swamped by an exhaustion that had nothing to do with physical tiredness and everything to do with a lifetime of bitterness, of wariness, and these last lonely six months of grieving for her mother. She was tired of being dragged down by her father's desertion. It was done, and nothing she could do would change it. She didn't want to be one of those people who spent their entire lives whining about their past troubles, as if that excused them from responsible behavior in the present. She had loved her mother dearly, still loved her and would continue to grieve for her, but it was time to get on with life. Instead of letting the empty apartment depress her, she should get her things out of the boxes she had packed them in to move, and make a home here.

Maybe she would take more cla.s.ses, get her master's degree in nursing. She might go into the critical care field. It was challenging but fascinating for those who could stand the pressure. She was calm during emergencies, able to think fast on her feet, both necessary characteristics in a good critical care nurse.

She took a deep breath. For the first time since Jeanette's death, she felt in control of herself, of her life. She had to deal with Dexter, if only for her mother's sake, so she might as well make the call. Without giving herself any time perhaps to change her mind, she picked up the receiver and punched Detective Chastain's number.

Unconsciously, she held her breath, bracing herself to hear his voice. How silly of her, to let herself to be affected by a man's voice on the telephone, but recognizing the ridiculousness of her reaction didn't mitigate the strength of it.

The phone rang several times, but no one answered it. Surely detectives didn't keep bankers' hours, she thought.

She glanced at her wrist.w.a.tch. Seven forty-five. "Idiot," she muttered under her breath, and hung up. Louisiana was in the central time zone, an hour behind Ohio. Detective Marc Chastain was definitely not in his office at six forty-five in the morning.

She couldn't stay awake until a reasonable time for him to be there. She couldn't stay vertical another five minutes. Dexter would have to wait.

But she would call. When she woke up this afternoon, she would call.

That decision made, she stumbled into the bedroom. Fatigue made her clumsy as she undressed. Yawning again, she stretched out between the cool sheets and sighed with bliss, arching her aching feet and wriggling her toes. She tried to imagine how Detective Chastain looked. Voices almost never matched appearances; the detective was probably a pot-bellied good old boy, edging toward retirement, with a couple of grown kids. But he had a voice like dark honey, and it was with her as she drifted to sleep.

The shrill ringing of the telephone jarred her awake. Confused, startled, Karen bolted upright in bed, then groaned as she realized she had forgotten to turn off the ringer before she went to sleep. The digital clock taunted her with big red numerals: nine-thirty.

She grabbed the receiver just to silence the obnoxious noise. "h.e.l.lo," she said, her voice foggy with sleep.

"Miss Whitlaw?"

That voice. Just two words, but recognition tingled down her spine. She cleared her throat. "Yes."

"This is Detective Chastain, New Orleans Police Department. I left a message for you yesterday concerning your father."

"Yes." She started to say she had intended to return his call this afternoon, but he was already speaking again, the warm tones noticeably cooler.

"I'm sorry, Miss, but your father was killed two days ago in a street shooting."

Shock made her go numb. Her hand tightened on the receiver until her knuckles turned white. "Two days?" Why hadn't someone called before?

"He didn't have any ID on him. We identified him by his military dental records." He kept talking, saying something about her coming to New Orleans and verifying Dexter's ident.i.ty. He was brisk, businesslike, and Karen fought to organize her scattered wits.

"I'll try to catch a flight today," she finally said. "If nota""

"The airlines have special arrangements for emergencies," he cut in. "You can be here this afternoon."

If you want to. She heard his unspoken accusation in his clipped tone, and resentment stirred. This man didn't know anything about her; who was he to stand in judgment on her relationship, or lack of it, with her father?

"I'll call you when I get there," she said, anger making her voice tight.

"Just come to the Eighth District on Royal Street."

Karen repeated the address, then said, "Thank you for calling." She hung up before he could say anything else.

She pulled her legs up and rested her head on her knees. Dexter was dead. She tried to absorb the news, but it was too unreal. She knew she should be feeling something other than shock, but she was empty. How could she mourn a man she barely knew? It was his absence, not his presence, that had shaped her life.

Throwing the sheet back, she got out of bed. She felt like a walking zombie, but she had to make some calls, arrange a flight, pack a bag. Only duty drove her, but duty carried a big whip.

Her father was dead. The thought kept reverberating in her mind as she stood under a cold shower. She hadn't really known him, and now she never would.

Chapter 6.

"Karen Whitlaw, Karen Whitlaw." A man named Carl Clancy stood at the pay phonea"it had taken forever to find one with a directorya"and ran his finger down the tissue-thin page. It was just after noon, and the sun was baking him. He shifted position so his body blocked the glare from the paper. No Karen Whitlaw was listed, but he found a K. S. Whitlaw. He would bet that was her. Single women always used their initials; the practice was so common they might as well go ahead and have their full names printed, except for the simple precaution of protecting their full names.

He dropped some change into the slot and dialed the number. After four rings, he heard the click of an answering machine, and a pleasant female voice said, "You've reached 555-0677. Please leave a message."

Smart girl, he thought with approval. She hadn't given out her name to any jacka.s.s who happened to dial her number. People did that all the time, gave out their names on their answering machine messages, even put signs on their mailboxes or in their yards announcing "The Hendersons," or whatever. Fools. All some burglar had to do then was look up Henderson in the phone book until he came to that address, then call to see if anyone was home. If no one answered, he could waltz right in, secure in the knowledge he was alone.

In this case, however, Carl already knew her name. The call had just verified her address. She was probably at work; the information he'd received on her said she was a nurse. He could take his time, give the house a thorough toss, find the book Hayes wanted. If he couldn't find it, Hayes said, torch the house, just to be on the safe side. Maybe the book was in a safe deposit box, but people were seldom that cautious with valuable items; they just found what they thought was a clever hiding place somewhere in their home.

Returning to his car, he took out the city map he had bought and located Karen Whitlaw's street. He could be there in fifteen minutes, max; plenty of time to do the job and catch his late-afternoon flight.

He drove through the neighborhood, looking for Neighborhood Watch signs and neighbors who were out gardening or mowing their lawns. The houses were smallish and past their prime. He saw only a few children playing, and most of the cars in the driveways were older sedans, which told him that the majority of the houses were owned by old people whose kids had long since grown up and left or young couples who had bought their first houses and hadn't yet started their families. The houses with no cars in the driveway would belong to the young couples, who were at work.

That was both good and bad. There weren't many people at home in the neighborhood, but those who were would likely be old people. Old folks were nosy. They knew what cars belonged in the neighborhood and what cars didn't, and they didn't have anything better to do with their time than peer out windows.

Well, a few old folks couldn't keep him out of a house he wanted into. The trick, if he was seen, was to look as average as possible and to act as if he had every right to be there. Even better was if no one saw him. He was good at not being seen; that was why Hayes had picked him for the job.

He drove around until he found a convenience store and parked the rental car as far to the side as he could. In case the clerk was watching out the window, he went inside and bought a soft drink, taking care not to make eye contact or do anything that would make him memorable. Leaving the car there, he briskly walked the three blocks to Karen Whitlaw's house.

When he reached her street, he began cutting through backyards, using shrubbery and fences for cover. People put all sorts of junk in their backyards, which was great for concealment. Generally, his biggest problem was dogs. Dogs were a pain in the a.s.s. He could hear one of the little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds now, yapping its head off inside the house he was now behind. Carl settled into place behind a bush, remaining motionless until the yapping ceased.

Finally, he reached the Whitlaw house. Getting in was a piece of cake. The lock on the back door wouldn't keep out a determined ten-year-old; he opened it within seconds. G.o.d, if people only knew.

He did a walk-through of the house first, checking the most obvious hiding places: the freezer compartment of the refrigerator, on top of cabinets, under chairs. He didn't know exactly what the book looked like; no one did. Just look for a little notebook, Hayes had said. It'll be old and dirty.

There weren't any old, dirty notebooks in any of the obvious hiding places. Methodically, Carl began tossing the house. He looked in every drawer, took every drawer out and checked for anything taped behind or underneath. He felt the curtains to see if anything had been sewn into the hems, examined all the cushions and pillows for a resewn seam or any suspicious lumps. He didn't wreck the place; that was for malicious amateurs. The real art was to get in and out without leaving a trace of his presence. He didn't slash the furniture, and he put everything back in place after he had examined it.

There were framed photos sitting around, some of them of a smiling young couple. He a.s.sumed the pretty little blonde in the pictures was Miss Whitlaw. He wouldn't mind having her as his nurse, especially if she sat on his lap the way she was doing with some grinning idiot in one of the photos. The grinning idiot was the guy in the other pictures; evidently, he was the man of the moment.

In the bedroom, he found men's clothing in the closet and shaving gear in the bathroom. He clucked his tongue. Miss Karen had a live-in boyfriend, or at least one who stayed over regularly enough to leave some of his clothes here. Maybe she had even married him, recently enough that the number in the phone book was still listed in her name.

The house was small; he was efficient. Within two hours, he had covered it, and the book wasn't there unless she had gotten real clever and hidden it under the house or, somehow, in the ceiling. He found the trap door into the attic area and peered around, but everything was dark and dusty, and it was more than a hundred degrees up there. Nor was he inclined to crawl around under the house; that wasn't a good hiding place, because it was so dank. The moisture ruined everything.

He was certain the book wasn't on the premises, but Hayes's orders had been to burn the place if he didn't find the book. He shrugged. Orders were orders, and Hayes was a careful man. Carl set about following those orders.

In his opinion, the best way to burn down a house was a grease fire in the kitchen; there weren't any accelerants to raise suspicion, and it always looked like an accident. Fires started in kitchens all the time.

He whistled softly as he set to work. Bless her, Miss Karen had fried up some bacon that morning and left the pan of grease sitting out to cool. Using a towel, he turned on the gas burner and set the pan on top of it, then arranged the towel so that it was close enough to catch fire when the grease blazed up. He made a silent bet with himself, then opened the cabinet door closest to the stove. Yep, that was where she kept the cooking oil, in both bottles and spray cans, right where they were closest to the heat and were most likely to catch fire. She couldn't have made it any easier for him if she had tried.