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“We’ve closed the coffeehouses the mob’s used as distribution points, shut down the refining operations for their illegal sex drug, and locked the doors to the plush gentleman’s club where they were drugging the johns and robbing them blind through theft or blackmail. And still we have guys ending up in the hospitals and the morgue from heart attacks brought on by an overdose of Category Five.”
“Ain’t no stopping them,” Mason said.
“We’ll stop them—one way or another.” And that’s what he liked about being an agent for New Orleans Confidential. They played by different rules than agencies like the FBI or CIA. The Confidential agents answered only to Conrad Burke and to their own conscience.
“We’ve slowed them down,” Mason admitted, “which means their supply of Category Five has to be running low. But the head pimp Maurice Gaspard is out on bail and still running his underage girlie show with the help of his heavies.” Mason walked over and dropped the file he was holding on top of Tanner’s desk. “Burke said to give this to you. It’s the autopsy report on that prostitute you found the other night with her skull crushed.”
“Courville said they got a positive ID on her last night,” Tanner said. “Samantha Lincoln, runaway from some town in Iowa. Age sixteen.”
“Sixteen. Those slimeballs. Got no conscience at all.” Mason turned and stared at the framed picture of Lily sitting on the top of Tanner’s file cabinet. “Don’t guess you’ve got any leads on the whereabouts of your daughter yet?”
“No. Hard to get anyone to talk when the price of squealing is death.”
“If she’s out there, you’ll find her.”
The empty consolation did nothing to dissolve the acid pooling in the pit of Tanner’s stomach. It had been two months since Lily had disappeared, and he’d gotten nowhere in his search. He couldn’t go on like this, trying to do his job for New Orleans Confidential when all he could think about was the fact that Lily was out there somewhere, maybe hiding out in some stinking crack house, just trying to stay alive.
He’d thought when they got Tony Arsenault off the street that the mob would loosen its hold. But Jerome Senegal apparently had no shortage of thugs to do his bidding. Tony the Knife and his infamous machete were in custody, but whether a person was sliced by Tony or beaten by another mob enforcer didn’t matter a whole lot. Dead was still dead.
Tanner let the report slip from his fingers, walked over to the file cabinet and picked up the photograph of Lily. It had been taken last Christmas—yet another holiday he’d missed sharing with her….
The intercom on his phone buzzed. He replaced the picture and lifted the receiver. “What’s up?”
“You have a visitor in the main building.”
“Who?”
“Georgette Delacroix.”
Not the best of news. “Did you tell her I was in?”
“No. Thought I’d check with you first, but if it sways your decision, Susie said she’s a knockout.”
Yeah, and an attorney. If that wasn’t bad enough, she’d gone freaky on him the other night, practically passed out in the hospital. Avoiding her was tempting, but on the other hand, if he played this just right, he might pick up some info from her.
It was always advantageous to get a little inside scoop on happenings in the D.A.’s office, especially now that they suspected the corrupt prosecutor was in Senegal’s back pocket. They’d get Sebastion Primeaux when the time came. It wasn’t here yet.
“I’ll walk over,” Tanner said. “Is there an office available?”
“The usual. I’ll tell them you’re on your way.”
Crescent City Transports was a legitimate trucking business that served as a front for the Confidential operation. Confidential’s offices were in the back and security-controlled, supposedly because they handled some hazardous materials as well as a few routine transports.
As far as any of the regular employees knew, the Confidential agents were garden-variety employees like themselves, and while they were aware they drove specially outfitted vehicles, they had no idea that the equipment consisted of the best surveillance technology money could buy. The back building was strictly off limits to regular personnel or visitors.
Tanner grabbed his blue one-piece driver’s uniform from the hook on the back of the door and slipped it on over his jeans and shirt. As far as Georgette Delacroix was concerned, he was just a truck driver.
GEORGETTE FOLLOWED Tanner Harrison down the hall, already feeling an unexplained shudder of apprehension, though so far the images of the blond woman hadn’t returned. He opened an office door about midway down the hall.
“We can talk in here.”
She stepped past him and into a room that, unlike Tanner, was warm and welcoming. There was a highly polished conference table in the middle of the room, surrounded by large wooden chairs with padded leather seats. Framed black-and-white prints of New Orleans landmarks hung on three walls, and a table beneath a row of windows held a coffeepot and white mugs.
“Would you like some coffee?” Tanner asked. “Or I can get you a soda if you’d rather have that.”
“No thanks.” She set her handbag on the table and slid onto one of the chairs. “Crescent City Transports must be a new company. I haven’t heard of them before.”
“We’re new and successful, but I’m assuming you’re not here because you want something transported.”
“No. I have a few questions about the woman you found beaten in the French Quarter.”
“I told you all I know.”
“Could you tell me again how you found her?”
“I stumbled over her like I said. She needed help. I called for an ambulance.”
“I visited the crime scene. It was through a narrow, gated passage between two brick buildings. Seems as if it would be difficult to stumble that far off the street.”
“I heard moaning and checked it out.”
“Most people wouldn’t have in that section of town. They might have called and reported it to the cops, but they wouldn’t have gone down a dark passageway on their own.”
“Guess I’m not like most people then.”
“You said you were looking for someone. Who?”
“I’d hoped to hook up with some friends in the Quarter that night. I didn’t, so I was walking back to my car. End of story.”
“The problem, Tanner, is that this isn’t the beginning or the end of the story. May I call you Tanner?”
“Sure, Georgette. Call me whatever you like. It won’t alter the fact that I’ve told you all I know. Now why isn’t that the end of the story?”
“The woman you found isn’t the first prostitute to die this way.”
“Newspaper this morning said she was number five.”
“At least. Five young women who should still be alive. We have to stop this needless killing, so if you know anything at all, please share it with me.”
“I wouldn’t have any reason not to tell you.”
Unless he was involved in this. She looked into his eyes. They were gray, cold and daunting. Tanner slid into the chair next to hers and her throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow. Even without the images, the man had a disturbing effect on her.
“You want to tell me why you’re really here?” he asked.
“I just did.”
“You’re not a cop. You’re a lawyer, and I’m not involved in one of your cases.”
“Then why do you think I’m here, Tanner?”
“You think I had something to do with the beating, and that if you keep harassing me I’ll blurt out the truth. But since you’re not a cop, I guess you’re just looking to pick up a big case and acquire some clout. Best of luck with that, but you’re still wasting your time with me.”
“This isn’t about clout. It’s about underage girls being sucked into a life of prostitution and being killed if they try to leave.”
“If you know that much,” he said, “why don’t you and the NOPD go in and shut down the operation? You surely know that mob boss Jerome Senegal and his second-in-command Maurice Gaspard are behind all of this.”
“Whatever information we have is privileged at this point.”
“Sure and you’d tell me, but then you’d have to kill me.” He leaned closer and something inside her head clicked on, releasing a rush of adrenaline and an out-of-breath feeling, as if she’d been running.
“If you attorneys with the D.A.’s office are so gung ho on getting the bad guys off the streets, quit throwing out the cases and take more of them to trial.”
“Everyone is innocent until proven guilty. We can’t take people to court without sufficient evidence to warrant it.”
“Well, you’re not going to find any evidence here, and I’ve got to get back to work.”
Just as well. Although she felt strong, disturbing vibes around Tanner, the images she’d expected hadn’t returned and she was getting nowhere with her questions. She opened her leather briefcase, took out her business card and laid it on the table between them. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”
“Nothing else to think of.”
Only he didn’t get up to leave. Instead, he picked up her card and studied it as if it were a puzzle he was trying to solve. “I guess you’ve questioned a lot of prostitutes,” he said.
“A few.”
“They must be running scared these days what with the attacks.”
“Some are.”
“What do they do when they get scared? Do they band together? Leave town? Have someone who helps hide them?”
“It varies.”
His questions suggested more than casual interest and reinforced Georgette’s original fears about Tanner. His gaze bored into hers, and the intense scrutiny stirred confusing emotions.
“I appreciate you taking time to talk with me,” she said, standing and extending her hand.
He took it, and she felt a rush of warmth, followed by needling prickles along her fingertips. The images of the young blond woman returned, full force, pushing reality aside.
Perspiration rolled down Georgette’s forehead and mud squished between her toes. There was nothing but endless swamp in front of her and the air was so fetid, it made her nauseous.
She reached out for something to hold on to as her knees buckled and she started to slide into the murky water, but all she caught hold of was the open briefcase which crashed to the floor at her feet.
“Hey, don’t faint on me.”
The voice sounded as if it were coming from a long way off. Finally, the images began to evaporate, leaving Georgette shaken, but aware that Tanner had an arm around her shoulder and was holding her steady.
She jerked away. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to be sorry, but you need to see a doctor.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You damn sure don’t look it, and you totally blacked out for a few seconds there.”
She raked her hair back from her face and took a couple of deep breaths. The images had faded, but the fear hadn’t let go of her. Fear so intense it was palpable, but it didn’t belong to Georgette. It belonged to a young woman. The same woman as she’d seen in the psychic visions the other night, but her hands and feet were no longer tied, and this time she was running through a swamp.
“Let me get you a soda,” Tanner said, already stooping to gather the papers that had apparently slipped from her briefcase.
“Thanks.” That would buy her some time. Besides, her throat was so dry she could barely swallow. Tanner was definitely involved with the woman in some way. So now what? She couldn’t question Tanner about the images, and she certainly couldn’t take this to Sebastion. One hint of the gift, and she’d lose all credibility, if not her job.
But when Tanner returned and she took the cold soda from his hands, she felt the strange connection take hold again. Someone was trying to reach Georgette through Tanner.
Or else the evil emanated from him.
“I WANT HIM out of jail—now.”
Sebastion Primeaux stared past Jerome Senegal and kept his gaze on the barge floating down the Mississippi River. It was late afternoon, but the sun was still relentless, and the humidity felt as if they were breathing through wet wool.
“I can’t let Tony walk, Senegal. The media will be all over me.”
“You’re breaking my heart here, Sebastion. I thought we were friends. Friends don’t let friends down.”
“I’ve done everything you asked up until now, but this is over the line. It’ll cost me my job and then it won’t matter if you blackmail me with those damn pictures or not.”
The mob kingpin stepped into Sebastion’s space, his breath reeking of garlic. “Does it matter if one of my guys pays a visit to that pretty little wife of yours? Does it matter if he slices up that face right in front of your kids?”
Sebastion felt the pressure pushing against his brain.
“So what is it, Sebastion? Tony or your wife?”
“Leave my family out of this, you—”
“What? You giving the orders now?” Senegal smirked, and his leathery face screwed into a thousand rutted wrinkles. “’Cause I don’t think you got the balls to go against me, Sebastion.”
And if he did, Jerome Senegal would cut them off or have one of his hit men do it for him. Meet Senegal on the street, and he was just another guy in his late fifties who’d eaten too much jambalaya and crawfish and spent too much time baking in Louisiana sunshine, but Sebastion knew him for what he was.
He’d earned his right to run the mob by killing anyone who got in his way, had beat their brains out with a baseball bat and had their bloody bodies delivered to their front door like some deranged Christmas package.
Sebastion turned around, half expecting to see someone climbing up the levee swinging a baseball bat, but there was no one there but them. Just two guys standing on the levee out near Bridge City, watching the Mississippi River roll by.
“Give me a day or two,” Sebastion said. “I’ll see that Tony’s released.”
“I knew you’d see things my way, but we don’t have a day or two. He’s got to walk today.”
Although Senegal didn’t spell it out, Sebastion knew the mob boss needed Tony to set up a new drug refining operation since the last lab had been shut down by the cops.
“There’s no way I can do what you ask.”
