The Unforgiven Page 9

  “No, thanks. I’m going to check on...on my employer,” he said.

  “Good idea. You should know, we have agents out, blending in with the locals and tourists, watching out for Miss Delaney and anything suspicious. And I know Ryder has cops out on the street, too, some in uniform, some not. They’ll be keeping an eye on Miss Delaney, I’m certain, but I understand your fear for her, too.” Axel hesitated. “There are serial killers out there all the time, but my gut tells me that, even if we’re looking back twelve years, this is somehow related. Even if there is a history of such crimes specifically in New Orleans.” He shook his head ruefully. “That’s why Adam wanted me to approach you.”

  “Yeah? Well, thank God I didn’t burn any bridges. I resigned with fair notice. I didn’t bash any attorneys to their faces or in the press. I just... I don’t know. After that case, I had to get out of Florida. I love it there, but I was so frustrated. Such heinous crimes, and we could do nothing. I’d owned the place here for years... It belonged to my grandparents. My sister got their home in Baton Rouge, and I got the one in the French Quarter. Anyway, after the last trial, it seemed time to relocate here.”

  “And for six years you’ve been a PI,” Axel said. He grinned. “How’s that working out?”

  “It sucks. But it was the right move at the time.”

  “You may be ready to move on from that, too,” Axel told him. “Anyway, see you at five.”

  They parted ways. Dan drove home. Though he was in the French Quarter, parking for one car was easy. The old carriage house—part of the horseshoe design of the home and courtyard—was easily big enough for his SUV.

  It was about an eight-block walk down to Jackson Square. He headed toward the river until he came to Royal Street. He didn’t want to be on Bourbon, but he did want to see how locals and tourists were doing out among the many shops and restaurants on the popular street.

  He heard constant snatches of conversation as he moved along, passing the Cornstalk House and—while he really wasn’t hungry yet—he knew there was a Community Coffee shop just ahead, and coffee did seem like a good idea.

  He waved to a friend as he passed by Fifi Mahony’s. Mrs. Leary was one of his neighbors, who did costuming for various events and always suggested a good wig would help with any costume. He figured she was busy at work.

  At CC’s, he ordered their darkest coffee, black, and was starting out when Mrs. Leary came in, her most recent purchase in a box. She was shaking her head anxiously.

  “You know, boy, I need to talk to you!”

  Dan smiled. She was a dear from another lifetime. He let her call him boy.

  “Okay.”

  “New Orleans is always wild. We’re famous for wild!”

  “Yes.”

  “Dan, those murders! So horrible.”

  “Yes. Mrs. Leary—”

  “And people, on the streets, they’re talking about buying dogs and shotguns. People are so scared! But when this is over, are they all just going to throw the dogs out?”

  “I doubt that, Mrs. Leary. But guess what? I’m giving a press conference soon, and thanks to you, I will mention the fact that if people get dogs for security, they have to remember they’re bringing home a family member, not to be abandoned, okay?”

  “Six,” she said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “People are getting crazy out there. There was a couple on the street. He played a violin, she was dancing. She had a card with a six on it in her hat, a steampunk getup. Then another man went up to her and ripped the card out of her hat! And he was yelling that the sign of six was not to be seen! He huffed off into the crowd, and she just looked after him, all angry. And she started shouting after him, ‘Six, six, six.’ What the hell? It’s a number!”

  “No one hurt anyone, right?” he asked her. Mrs. Leary seemed upset.

  She shook her head. “Just acting crazy.”

  “You do have an alarm on your home, Mrs. Leary, remember? I made you get it two years ago? You remember to set it, right?”

  “I will now,” she said sharply.

  “Mrs. Leary, you make sure that you do,” he said.

  “My good boy, thank you. Yes, I will.” She smiled. “And, of course, I have Muffy.”

  Muffy was a Pomeranian, a little ball of puff. Not the kind of dog one associated with protection, though he did love his owner unconditionally.

  “Muffy is great, but please set the alarm.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, I promise,” she vowed.

  Dan headed out, coffee in hand, only a few blocks from Jackson Square, the cathedral and the park with its striking statue of Andrew Jackson.

  He cut down to Chartres Street and then followed the park to Decatur.

  He was grateful to see that Katie’s carriage was just pulling back into its spot on the curb.

  * * *

  “The area was claimed by an explorer, a Frenchman named René-Robert Cavelier, Sieur de La Salle, in 1682. And then the city, Nouvelle-Orléans, was founded in 1718 by a man named Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne, Sieur de Bienville,” Katie said. “Lots of places’ names now go back—”

  “Man, they had long names back then,” the boy with his dad in her carriage said, not being rude, just enthusiastic. “I see French names all over.”

  “The city has been under several flags,” Katie said, drawing the carriage into its spot. “But the French founding runs deep.”

  She turned to smile at the boy. He’d been great. His father had gotten the rest of the carriage to refrain from Axeman questions because his son was in the carriage. The other passengers, a young couple and two young women, had complied. The boy—his name was Tim, and he was nine years old—had asked all kinds of questions about the city that were easy to answer. Yes, the zoo was wonderful, and they should visit. The aquarium was also beautiful and informative, and both were great for boys his age and for adults. The National World War II Museum was first-rate—and yes, they had a restaurant, and yes, she had eaten there and the food was good. It was getting near five, though, so they might want to start out in the morning. If they headed to the zoo, they could also prowl Uptown and the Garden District, and if they had time, they could perhaps start at the aquarium and spend a few hours there and then head over to the WWII Museum in the CBD. But they could look up exhibits and maps and check on times best for them. And if they hadn’t done the museums in Jackson Square, those were great, too.

  “I can see the document that gave us a third of America!” Tim said excitedly.

  “The Louisiana Purchase, yes. You can see it. And there’s the Pharmacy Museum, the Jazz Museum, all kinds of things. Tim, I think you will love both the zoo and the aquarium.”

  Her group crawled out of the carriage, thanking and tipping her. One of the young women paused as she and her friend took pictures with Sarah.

  “You were great with that kid,” she said to Katie. “And you know what? I’m grateful his dad asked us not to talk about gruesome murders. First, I was thinking he should have hired a small, individual carriage. Then I was grateful. Oh, my God, that’s all anyone is talking about. And some nut this morning at our hotel was talking about six dead goats that had been found not long ago. How do you compare goats to people? Not that I have anything against goats, and I don’t want any animal suffering, but...the goats, to this dude, were a forewarning. Anyway, thank you. We were happy to hear about pirates and Mardi Gras and even storms—anything other than lunatic killers.” She was a pretty blond woman in her late twenties. She looked at Katie anxiously. “We’re in a big chain hotel on Canal, and they have security. We’re okay, right?”

  “I would think you’d be okay. Just don’t open your door unless you’re absolutely positive about whoever is outside. I think, however, the killer—if he tries to strike again—will find a house. On a dark and quiet street. Canal... Well, there are people coming and going f
rom clubs and Harrah’s around the clock. At a big chain hotel...too many people around all the time. Just be careful,” Katie warned.

  The girl hugged her and gave her a nice-size bill. As she walked off, Katie saw Dan Oliver was there, casually leaned against the high fence that surrounded Jackson Square. She wondered how long he’d been watching her and if he’d been waiting for her last tour to return.

  He was smiling, leaning back, one foot back up against the fence, his arms casually crossed over his chest. He was in a navy windbreaker, jeans, sneakers and sunglasses.

  He did cut a striking picture.

  “You’re a people person,” he told her.

  She shrugged. “I, uh, guess?”

  He pulled his sunglasses off, and his eyes met hers. “I imagine even the dead people wandering around like you.”

  “Who knows? Who can explain any of it?”

  “Not me. I’m already beginning to doubt what I saw yesterday.”

  “I imagine it’s a...hard thing to accept, especially when you’re older.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean, well, I wasn’t that young, but I was fifteen and was dealing with so much already. Then, of course, I realized that my privateer had saved me. I was grateful.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I just wanted to check on you. I need to meet Ryder and the team at the police station. We’re doing a press meeting from there. Are you going to be out here tonight? What are your plans?”

  She sighed. “I was awake bright and early. Sarah and I were down here by about eight this morning. I’m going to bring her back in around six. We’ve had a busy day, and she’s a great mule, but mules need their rest and fuel just like people.”

  “People and animals,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  He laughed. “My mother would have loved you. She said people who were nice to other people were usually good, but now and then they were devious. And people who were good to people and animals were almost always just really good people.”

  “Well, I try,” Katie said lightly.

  “I’ll come right back here,” he said. “Wait for me? I’ll have someone drop me, and I’ll take Sarah back into the stables with you.”

  “That’s okay. I’m capable. I’ve been doing it for years—”

  “I never suggested you weren’t capable. Maybe I need the help,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

  A cop car was heading down Decatur, and he stepped out to hail the driver who stopped and, after a brief conversation with Dan, nodded gravely and let him into the car.

  “You have all the luck,” Katie heard, and she swung around.

  Lorna was staring at her, smiling and shaking her head. Her mule and carriage were drawn up behind Katie’s.

  “I do?” she asked. Katie had never thought it good luck to have your parents brutally murdered, but Lorna wasn’t thinking of the past, and she knew that.

  “Damn, he’s...hmm. Something.”

  “Something, all right.”

  “Where do you know him from?”

  “He was a cop down in Florida when I went down for George’s trial.”

  “Ah, and therefore, you...you what? He’s here for these axe murders?” Lorna looked at her with curiosity. “It’s weird. There’s like this strange electricity around you both with a push and pull, a magnet, coming close...opposite ends, pushing away... Ah, then they spark again, then...”

  “Then nothing, Lorna. He and a few other cops are just asking me questions, going back into what I can remember about what happened down in the Keys.”

  “Right.”

  “Come on, it’s dead serious. Bad choice of words. Someone hacked people up with an axe, Lorna. I’m going to do everything I can to help.”

  “Oh, of course,” Lorna said, earnest then. “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know, I know. It’s okay.”

  “You could have gotten stuck with an ugly detective.”

  “He’s not a detective anymore. I don’t think he was detective. I think, technically, he was called a special agent. But he’s a private investigator now.”

  “Oh! Here, in New Orleans?”

  “Yes, seems he had family here, too.”

  “Wow!”

  “Yep. Anyway...”

  There were other carriages on the street, but Matt D’Arcy, the third employee of Monty Trudeau’s carriages, was out with a group.

  And there were tourists on the street sizing up the guides and the mules.

  “I guess we should get to work,” Katie said. “And I’m calling it quits in a bit. I came out here super early today.”

  “Cool. I’m staying on until ten, and Matt said he’d be out here until midnight, which seems about right since he showed up an hour ago.”

  Their hours were loose. They just needed good reports from those who rode in their carriages. With the internet and customer reviews, it made for keeping a business nicely afloat.

  “Okay, sounds good. Oh, see that little girl heading toward Sarah? I’m going to jump on it—I love taking kids these days.” Katie said.

  “Grab that group,” Lorna said. “I see a crowd of young men coming. I’m going for them. Maybe I can meet a good one this way. I will not close my mind to the possibilities.”

  Katie waved at her and strode back toward the little girl and Sarah. She still had a few bits of apple in her pocket. The child’s mother was near, so she asked if it was okay to let the girl give the mule the treats. A few minutes later, they were off, and Katie was glad. The little girl and her mother also had a dad and two teenage boys with them. The father told her in a whisper before climbing up that he didn’t want to hear about the Axeman. She nodded.

  “Hey! There’s the place we had beignets,” one of the kids said.

  And Katie was happy to tell them Café du Monde had been there since 1862, a coffee shop for the French Market, which had also offered goods and a sales venue for many of the Italian immigrants who had come to the city as well.

  New Orleans had been under the French flag, the Spanish flag, the French flag again, and then become part of the United States. People in the city were from all over the world; many still had French roots, but the English had flooded in, a revolution had caused Haitian people to come, and almost every nationality known to man might be found in the backgrounds of many current residents.

  “It’s a great big melting pot.”

  “All-American,” the dad said cheerfully.

  Katie was enjoying giving a tour to this lovely group. The kids loved her stories about Lafitte and Jackson and how they won the Battle of New Orleans.

  She was halfway through when she heard the wife whispering to the husband. “There’s a live report, Arthur. A spokesperson is talking about...events. He’s warning people to be vigilant and careful, especially at night. To lock up carefully. He is also warning against becoming overly fearful and vigilantes. He believes the killer looks for those whose homes are vulnerable.” The woman fell silent. Despite them wanting to keep talk of horror away from the children, she turned up the sound on her phone.

  Katie could hear the press conference.

  “Are you concerned that the populace is going to arm itself?” someone from the media shouted.

  Then Dan’s voice. “Here’s the thing with turning care and vigilance into panic. The wrong person usually gets hurt. We need to keep an eye out for the unusual, for strangers haunting neighborhoods, and report anything suspicious. The police and the FBI will have a heavy presence in the city and environs. Call the emergency line. We’re prepared for many instances that may be nothing. But better to check it out.”

  “Get a guard dog!” someone called.

  “Dogs are great, but they’re living beings. They’re not disposable. If you decide you need a big dog, make sure you get one you intend to keep a
nd care for. We don’t need the shelters being overburdened when this is over.”

  “Will it be over?” someone else shouted out. “They never caught the Axeman of New Orleans back in 1919. And they never caught the axe murderer at work in Florida.”

  “This is the twenty-first century, and we have a lot available now in forensic science that wasn’t around in 1919. We have a large population, and we’re hoping vigilant people will help us every step of the way. There were two terrible events in Florida, and like this, those events shook everyone with their savagery. But we have the FBI and the NOPD and other agencies working on this as well. Every officer and agent in the city has been briefed with all information available. And New Orleans is tough. It has weathered a lot. We have you, those who call New Orleans home, those who come often and those who are visiting. With your help, we will stop this heinous killer. Thank you.”

  Katie couldn’t see Dan, but she could imagine him stepping back. She had to admit he had done a good job, not denying any questions but working with them.

  “Can we get back to the pirates?” one of the boys asked. “Whatever happened to Jean Lafitte? He was a hero, but he left?”

  “He was wounded in the battle in Mexico in 1823. He was trying to take two Spanish merchant ships. Remember, in 1823, there was no internet, and records weren’t as complete as they are today,” Katie said. “But it’s believed he died from injuries received then at dawn on February 5. He was buried at sea.”

  “So he was a pirate!” the other teen said.

  “A hero and a pirate, I suppose,” Katie said.

  “Did he have kids?” the mother asked.

  “Sadly, a son who died in a yellow fever epidemic,” Katie said.

  They passed the LaLaurie house, and she took care as to how she told the story of the woman and the doctor who had tortured slaves. The pair had escaped in their carriage after one of their victims had set the house ablaze rather than endure more. Rumors abounded about them as well.