Detective Defender Read online

  “I’ll be out front.”

  The call ended, and Jimmy thought for about ten seconds about stretching out again, but there was nothing in the world he loved as much as his job—not even sleep when his head was thick and his ass was dragging. Add in Murphy’s personal connection to a homicide case, and he moved fast enough that he was standing on the sidewalk when Murphy pulled to the curb.

  Jimmy slid into the passenger seat, angling the computer away to give himself some space. He fastened his seat belt and reached for the travel mug of steaming coffee in the holder nearest his seat. A carefully wrapped muffin sat on top of the cup—carrot and walnut, by the smell of it. Evie Murphy was a princess among wives. Murphy was damned lucky to have her.

  Jimmy’s behavior in his one and only marriage had proved he didn’t deserve any kind of wife. The way he’d treated Alia must have seriously pissed off the gods; judging by the sorry state of his relationships since then, it seemed they were done with him.

  With his dark hair standing on end and his tie looped around his neck instead of tied, Murphy was stoic and silent, not yet awake. He drove through the freaky, patchy fog, following empty streets past houses where outdoor lights cast dim halos. It wasn’t raining, but everything was wet, and the dampness helped the cold penetrate deeper into a person’s bones. Jimmy hadn’t even begun to warm up until his muffin was gone, he’d downed half his coffee, and a swirl of ghostly blue and red emergency lights ahead announced their destination.

  “A cemetery?” He glanced at Murphy. “You volunteered me for a case in the middle of the night at a cemetery that looks like a set for Halloween 47: Everyone Dies?” Then he realized he hadn’t shown the courtesy of asking about the connection. “Do you know the victim? Does Evie?”

  “No.”

  “Favor to family?”

  “No.”

  “A former employee? A neighbor? Parents of one of your kids’ friends?”

  Murphy parked near the other vehicles and shut off the engine. He pulled on gloves before picking up his own coffee. “The only thing the victim had on her was a prepaid cell phone that had made only one call—to Charms, Notions and Potions.”

  Jimmy blinked. He was familiar with the business name. He’d worked half his life in the French Quarter and spent the other half partying, celebrating, crashing or living there. The cutesy name belonged to a shop owned by Martine Broussard, Evie’s best friend, where up front she sold tourist stuff: good luck charms, candles, voodoo ritual kits, how-to books and worry dolls, along with the usual New Orleans T-shirts, coffee mugs and mass-produced voodoo dolls. In the back room she offered the serious practitioner stuff. Her market for that was mostly local. Tourists rarely ventured through the door separating the two rooms.

  Family friendship aside, Jimmy wasn’t sure he would have dragged himself out before dawn to Halloween 47 just because the murder victim had called Martine’s voodoo shop. Maybe she’d wanted directions. Maybe she’d been looking for a love potion or an Obatala candle for self-purification, or maybe she’d wanted to know if the bar across the street whose name she couldn’t remember was open yet.

  Not that it mattered. Murphy had wanted the case, and they had it. Now it was time to get out of the car, wander into the cemetery and start working it.

  The cars belonging to the officers assigned the initial call and those of the crime scene technicians were parked along the street. Bright lights had been set up some fifty yards away among the graves, and a canopy had been erected to protect the body from the elements. As Jimmy buttoned his overcoat, he noticed it was starting to rain, just small half-hearted drops, as if the fog had worn itself out and was liquefying in the sky.

  He’d spent a lot of time in cemeteries—investigated a few murders that took place there, attended plenty of victims’ funerals to see who else showed up and even gone to a few funerals for friends or distant relatives. Cemeteries didn’t normally creep him out, but there was something about this scene...the weird weather, the unusual hush of the voices, the edginess that kept everyone focused on their duties. He wasn’t the only one who’d rather be home in bed.

  Yellow-and-black crime scene tape draped limply from crypt to crypt, cordoning off the area where the body lay. Uniformed cops stood outside the perimeter, detectives and crime scene investigators inside. Between them, he caught a glimpse of legs, ankles showing between sodden pants hiked to the calves and canvas sneakers, the skin unusually colorless under the bright lights.

  “Detectives.” A grim-faced patrolman lifted the tape so they could duck under, keeping his back to the scene. He looked so young that this was likely his first body, and he was doing his best to avoid it.

  It was far from Jimmy’s first, and probably just as far from his last.

  “What do we know?” he asked, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

  It was a uniform who answered. “Neighbor out with his dog saw suspicious activity by the angel.” He gestured behind him with one hand. “Myself and my partner didn’t see anything from the street, but when we walked over here, we found...” He gave the body a quick nod that prevented any details from registering.

  Everyone under the canopy mimicked his look at the victim, then turned to the angel. It adorned a spire atop the crypt twenty feet away, its gray marble turned dingy by time and weather. Her face was tilted to the sky, her wings stretched out. In prayer? Pleading? The promise of protection?

  Had the victim seen the angel? Had she had a chance to pray? Or had she already been dead when she was brought here?

  “She has no ID,” Leland, the senior of the crime scene guys, said. He and Jimmy had started with the department at the same time, Jimmy an ambitious patrol officer, looking for arrests, wanting to make a meteoric rise through the ranks, and Leland a lab rat, perfectly content with handling corpses. The dead were so much less annoying than the living, he’d insisted. He’d risen through the ranks, too, to the point that he often had to deal with the living, as well. “No driver’s license, no credit card, no jewelry, nothing. Just two hundred bucks cash in her jacket pocket and the cell phone with its one call.”

  “So it wasn’t a robbery.”

  Jimmy didn’t notice who’d stated the obvious—not him, not Murphy. He studied the woman instead: wet hair of dirty blond or light brown. Thin face, sunken cheeks, deep shadows under her eyes. Lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes, signs of worry or general unhappiness. Her T-shirt clung to her in wet folds, once white but now a vague shade of gray. She’d lost weight recently, judging from the long loop of drawstring that held her pants around her skinny hips and from the way her skin sat uncomfortably on her frame. Her clothes were cheap, maybe secondhand, but something about her didn’t strike him as a secondhand-clothes person. There was a line on her left index finger where she’d long worn a ring, not a tan but a bit of shiny skin where the ring had rubbed back and forth, and all ten of her nails were bitten to the quick.

  What there wasn’t was an obvious cause of death. She didn’t look like she was just sleeping, though Jimmy had seen his share of dead people who did. No, it was apparent with the quickest of glances that this woman was dead. The lights were out; the soul wasn’t home.

  Which meant the cause was on her back side. “Can you roll her over?” he asked, and the crime scene guys moved to comply. Something dark stained the back of her head. Blood, possibly from a blunt object, possibly the entry wound of a small-caliber bullet.

  “There’s something under her shirt,” Leland said, and they returned her to her original position. He pulled up her T-shirt to reveal a large bandage, sticky clear film protecting some type of dressing. It was centered over her chest, crossing her breasts, extending above and below several inches.

  “So she has surgery, someone kills her and dumps her in the cemetery?” It was the same voice that had stated the obvious earlier. This time Jimmy looked and ide
ntified its owner as one of the crime scene guys who’d so far managed to stay on the perimeter, not doing much of anything. Maybe one of their lab rats who’d thought working out in the field would be fun, or maybe a new guy who was destined to get on Jimmy’s last nerve pretty quickly.

  Ignoring his coworker, Leland began peeling back the edge of the dressing. He worked it loose carefully, teasing the adhesive from the skin, as gentle as if his patient were alive and watching, then abruptly he stopped. He looked a moment, then folded back the flap of bandage as his distraught gaze met Jimmy’s. “I think we’ve found the cause of death.”

  Jimmy and Murphy both leaned forward, concentrating on the small area of chest that had been revealed—not pale smooth skin but a wickedly ugly wound and, inside, emptiness. Not real emptiness, of course, but the essence of something missing. Something important.

  “Damn.” Jimmy breathed the word the same time Murphy did, then looked to Leland for confirmation. Leland nodded.

  “The killer removed her heart.”

  * * *

  After a restless night, Martine gave up any hope for peaceful sleep, pulled her robe on and shuffled to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. She’d had dreams all night—ugly, unsettling ones involving deep shadows, woods, birds screeching that had raised the hairs on her arms. If she were fanciful, she’d say the fog was keeping the happy dreams at bay. It didn’t want her nights to be any more cheerful than her days had become since it moved in.

  “It’s just fog,” she groused, pouring cream and sugar into her coffee. “A cloud of tiny water droplets hovering above the earth. It doesn’t think or care or even know you exist, Tine.”

  The old, almost forgotten nickname made her pause before taking the first sip of coffee. Where was Paulina this morning? Had she checked into a motel or crawled into a hole and pulled it in after her? Had she stayed safe last night? Had she gotten anything hot to eat?

  Was she crazy?

  Martine had tried to put all the memories behind her when she got back to the shop yesterday, a task made easier by an influx of tourists. They’d worn a variety of N’Awlins T-shirts, a few had sported Mardi Gras beads or feather boas around their necks, and they’d done their best to project the carefree, good-time-in-the-Big-Easy air that most tourists came by naturally, but it had been a struggle for this group. Even inside the brightly lit shop, they’d huddled together in small numbers, their voices muted, lamenting the lack of sunshine and the mild weather they’d expected. They’d been worried without knowing why, and they had cleaned the shelves of every single good luck charm and candle in sight before leaving the way they’d come.

  After the shop was closed, after Martine had finished off a po’boy from down the street and locked herself inside her cozy apartment, the memories had come knocking again. A search of the internet had proved true one of Paulina’s claims: Callie Winchester had died three months ago in Seattle. The details reported by the news outlets were scarce, but the obituary confirmed it was their Callie. Her parents, who’d once lived two blocks from Martine’s family, were now in Florida, and her twin, Tallie, made her home in London.

  Callie...dead. Though Martine hadn’t seen her in twenty-four years, though she hadn’t thought about her much in twenty of those years, it hurt her heart to know she was dead. Callie had always been so vibrant, full of humor and wild ideas that usually ended in trouble for all of them. She’d been beautiful, with sleek black hair that reached down her back, olive skin and gray eyes, and she’d done a perfect imitation of her posh mother’s British accent, but there had been nothing refined or elegant about her huge booming laugh. Tallie, identical in every way except the laugh, had compared it to a braying jackass, which merely made Callie laugh even harder.

  And now she was gone. Someone had stolen her very life and discarded her for someone else to deal with, as if she were no more important than an empty burger wrapper.

  That thought raised goose bumps on Martine’s arms and stirred an ache in her gut. She was browsing through the pantry, looking for something to settle it, when the doorbell rang, echoing through the floorboards.

  The clock on the microwave showed the time was 7:23. No one came to visit her before nine, and rarely without a phone call to alert her. Maybe it was just some punk, walking along the sidewalk and pressing doorbells. But no sooner had that thought cleared her brain, the bell rang again, seeming more impatient. Her nerves tightened, and apprehension throbbed behind her eyes. Whoever was downstairs on this ugly dreary morning after her ugly restless night couldn’t possibly be good news for her.

  Unless it was Paulina, come to take her up on her offer of coffee and beignets.

  Hope rising over the dread, Martine hurried down the stairs as the bell rang a third time. Reaching the bottom, she jerked the security chain loose, undid the dead bolt lock and yanked the door open, prepared to meet her friend with a smile and a comforting hug—

  But it wasn’t Paulina. Jack Murphy stood on the stoop, dressed in the white shirt and dark suit that were his usual work clothes. He looked as if he’d slept in them, hadn’t had time to shave and had forgotten to comb his hair, and his eyes were dark and somber with shadows.

  Panic clutched Martine’s chest, cutting off her breath. “Oh, God, please tell me nothing’s happened to Evie or the kids.”

  His eyes widened, an instant of alarm followed by sudden regret. “No. No, God, no, they’re fine.”

  Her knees going weak, she sagged against the doorjamb, one hand pressed to her chest. “Aw, jeez, you about gave me a heart attack! Don’t do that again!” For emphasis, she poked him with one finger. “Not ever!”

  “Is she always this ditzy?” a voice drawled from the curb, and Martine realized Jack wasn’t alone. He’d brought along her least favorite police officer in the world—her least favorite person. It was too damn early in the morning—too damn early in the year—to face Jimmy DiBiase.

  Especially when she was wearing what passed for pajamas and a robe: tank top, shorts, an old boyfriend’s flannel shirt. She was exposed from the top of her thighs to her bare toes, to a letch like DiBiase with a freakishly cold fog silently creeping everywhere. No wonder her skin was crawling.

  She was torn between slamming the door and fleeing upstairs to wrap up in her favorite quilt and inviting Jack inside while pointedly leaving DiBiase in the cold. Neither action would surprise Jack; he knew DiBiase was an acquired taste for most women besides strippers, hookers and cop groupies.

  Then the realization clicked in her brain: Evie and the kids were okay, but Jack was still here, still in work mode. That meant someone else... “Who is it? Anna Maria? Reece? Jones? Alia? Landry?” Her brain was spewing forth names faster than her mouth could get them out.

  Paulina’s voice sounded faintly through the mist, sending a bone-deep shiver through Martine: They’re coming after us, and they’re not going to stop until we’re dead.

  Dear God, could it be her?

  “I’m sorry, Martine,” Jack said. “I’m handling this badly. We’ve got a...victim.” The grimness returned to his expression. “No ID, nothing but a call to your shop yesterday afternoon.”

  Martine thought longingly of the quilt, and of the coffee she’d left on the kitchen counter. She needed warmth. She needed a lot of it to melt the ice that suddenly coated everything inside her, slowing her heartbeat, making it difficult to breathe. Paulina had warned her, had told her they were in danger, and Martine had done nothing. Had let her walk away. Had let her die.

  Because she knew in her heart Paulina was gone.

  “Oh, God.” She swayed forward, and a hand caught her arm, holding her steady. It was a big hand, strong, the skin olive-hued, the fingers bare, and the overcoat sleeve above it was gray. Jack’s overcoat was black. She knew, because she’d helped Evie shop for it. Which meant this coat belonged to DiBiase.

  The hand
holding her up was DiBiase’s hand. For one brief moment, she let herself accept the warmth and comfort and strength that seeped from him, just one moment when she was too weak to do otherwise. Then, with the stubbornness she’d been legendary for back home, she tugged free, folded her arms over her chest and hid her fisted hands against the soft flannel.

  “I guess you should come in.” Her voice was flat and numb, a pretty good match for the dismay and sorrow building inside her. She’d been a fool for letting Paulina walk away. Paulina had obviously not been herself; she’d needed taking care of. Needed someone to pretend to believe her, to take her home and help her until she was better able to help herself.

  Twenty-four years ago, Martine had been the person Paulina turned to first, before anyone else. Oh, Tine, he broke up with me for good. Tine, I’m failing algebra, and my dad will take my car away for sure. Tine, my mom and dad are fighting again. Tine, I think I’m pregnant, but I’m too young to have a baby!

  They had been best friends—had had a bond that should have been unbreakable. But now, after all those years, when Paulina came to her again, Martine had let her down. She hadn’t even tried. She’d just wanted to get out of the cold and go back to her shop and take care of business. She’d wanted to stuff the past back into its cramped little corner of her brain and never take it out again.

  At the top of the stairs, she turned left into the kitchen. “I’ll make coffee,” she suggested with the same numbness.

  “We’ll do it.” Jack touched her arm. “Go get some clothes on.”

  She glanced down. Her legs and feet were an unflattering shade of blue, thanks to the cold, and goose bumps covered every bit of skin. When she lifted her gaze again, it automatically went to DiBiase, who was also just lifting his gaze. Jerk. Self-centered, unfaithful, two-timing, arrogant—

  Giving him a look of loathing, she went down the hall to her room, where she dressed in comfort clothes: fleece pants, a long-sleeved shirt, thick wool socks and cozy slippers. By the time she returned to the kitchen, the two men had their coffee, and Jack had reheated hers in the microwave until it steamed.