Calling the Dead Read online

  “Does that go for me too?” Sept asked softly as she lifted the yellow crime scene tape. Scenes like this weren’t so common after the hurricane. Fewer people meant less crime, especially since so many citizens, including the criminals, had evacuated to other parts of the country. Now places like Houston were dealing with their killers and drug pushers.

  “Anytime you want to get up close and personal with my handcuffs, Detective, feel free to call,” Lourdes whispered back. Sept made no secret of or excuses for her lesbian lifestyle, so some of the female cops flirted whether they were straight or not.

  “Tempting,” Sept said with a smile. “Tell me what you’ve got.”

  “Male, about forty, shot in the chest a few times from the looks of it, and his pockets were turned inside out,” Lourdes said. “Simple robbery gone bad, if you ask me.”

  “What’s the big fuss, then?” Sept took her pad from the inside pocket of her leather jacket and headed toward the Dumpster. She waved to Nathan, who was walking too slowly.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Lourdes laughed. “Somebody gets popped behind Blanchard’s,” she said slowly, as if Sept would catch on. “This is Della Blanchard we’re talking about. Her family is like the royal family of New Orleans cuisine. They own this place, Della’s, uptown, and the Le Coquille D’Huîte in the Quarter.”

  “I know who the Blanchards are. I just don’t see why this is a major case.”

  A woman standing by the restaurant’s back door interrupted them. “Because the guy we found this morning is our pastry chef, and it upset my grandmother. According to her, his raspberry tart soufflé was to die for. We just didn’t take her that seriously.” Her arms were crossed, her thick red hair pulled into a tight ponytail, and her pressed chef’s uniform was pristinely white. “Della Blanchard is a hard worker, but hardly royalty, Officer,” she informed Lourdes.

  “That’s her granddaughter, Keegan,” Lourdes whispered, and pointed stealthily.

  “Who found him?” Sept asked.

  “One of our cleaning crew this morning.” Even though Sept had addressed Lourdes, Keegan answered and kept her eyes on Sept the entire time. “And you are?”

  “Detective Sept Savoie, Ms. Blanchard.” Sept nodded in Keegan’s direction. “If you could wait inside until we’re done, I’m sure I’ll have some more questions later.” Keegan didn’t move at first but gave in as Sept opened her mouth to say something else.

  “Tell me what you see, Nathan.” Sept took a step back, carefully placing her feet so as not to compromise any evidence. Her father had used this method to teach her, and it was a good way to judge Nathan’s potential.

  “He stepped out here to smoke, some guy shot him, then emptied his pockets. Lourdes was right, it’s a robbery gone bad.”

  “Did you offer to wash my father’s car for the rest of his life in exchange for this job?” She held her hand up to keep him from moving. “If that’s all the effort you’re planning to put in, I suggest you go sit in the car and plan your return to patrol.”

  “What am I missing?”

  Sept squatted by the body and used the end of her pen as a pointer. “He was stabbed, not shot, since the hole, not holes, in his chest shows no sign of a gunshot but rather a long, even cut. There aren’t any cigarettes anywhere near him or on him, so we can assume he was out here for something else.”

  “The killer could’ve taken his pack.”

  “He was killed for his pack of cigarettes?” Sept phrased it so Nathan would understand what an idiot she thought he was.

  “What’s your theory?”

  “Step over here.” She walked to the area behind the restaurant and away from the cameras, but in view of the kitchen’s windows. “How close do I have to be to you to stab you in the chest? Remember, one stab most probably hit his heart, from the position of the wound.”

  Nathan stepped within arm’s length of her, and she slowly put away her pen and notebook. “About this close, if you have to swing hard enough to sink it in that deep.”

  “Think you’d let someone you don’t know this close if you’re just outside for a smoke?” She inched nearer, to the distance she thought she’d need to be.

  “No,” Nathan said hesitantly.

  “Uh-huh.” Sept glanced toward the back of the restaurant and noticed Keegan Blanchard watching her. With enough speed to make the blow more of a surprise than anything, she punched Nathan in the chest so hard he doubled over. She punched him in the jaw next, dropping him to his knees. “If I’d had a knife in my hand you’d be dead from the first blow.”

  “Then what the fuck was the second shot for?” Nathan spit out a good amount of blood.

  “For going into a crime scene with your eyes on Lourdes’s ass instead of what they’re supposed to be on.” She held her hand out to help him up. “Want to walk the scene again, or you ready to hit the beat?”

  “You gonna clobber me again?”

  “Depends on how slow a learner you are,” Sept said, already walking away from him. “Come on, Watson, we’re wasting time.”

  “Does that make you Sherlock?”

  “Let me teach you a few things and you be the judge.” She stopped three feet from the body. “Start at the most obvious thing and work your way out.”

  “How about you use this one as a tutorial?”

  “The dead guy is the most obvious thing,” she said as she reached for her pad again. “As I just demonstrated, he probably knew who killed him, since he let him or her into his comfort zone. Whoever it was stabbed him in the heat of the moment, then two things probably happened.”

  “What?” Nathan asked.

  “Panic and regret.”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  “So skeptical already?” Sept laughed, then squatted closer to the body. “I could just say human nature. Wouldn’t you panic if you’d just fatally stabbed someone? Wouldn’t you regret that?” She pointed to the guy’s chest.

  “I’ve never killed someone, but yeah, I think I’d feel bad.”

  “Most people never contemplate murder and don’t consider it a normal way to handle a situation.”

  Nathan stepped closer. “Are you saying it is for some people?”

  “A handful has a driving need to kill. I call them hunters.” Sept pointed to the right side of the body. “But in a robbery it’s all about speed. They do the deed and want to get out before anyone sees anything.”

  “Is that what happened here?”

  “The victim allowed the person close enough to kill him. That’s the main thing. There was minimal struggle, he got stabbed and died where he landed, since I can’t see any blood trace anywhere else. But have forensics go through here carefully.”

  “Sure thing,” Nathan said as he took notes. “What else?”

  With her pen Sept pointed to the blood pool. “This is what doesn’t fit with the true murder-for-robbery scenario.”

  “If he’s been out here all night, it’s not weird that he’s got all that blood around him.”

  The victim looked like he’d lain down, then someone had poured a can of blood over him and it had run three feet to the left side of his torso. “The blood isn’t what’s out of place. It’s that.” Sept pointed to the two indentations in the blood pool opposite them. The spot was on the side closest to the building and obscured from the street because of the three Dumpsters and some newly planted shrubbery. “He was stabbed and fell here, then whoever did it knelt next to the body. The low temperatures last night made the blood congeal faster, but still it didn’t happen instantly. And with only one wound for the blood to drain from, it took quite a while for that pool to form.”

  “Why’d the killer do that?”

  “A good question.” Sept waved over the department photographer who’d just arrived. “Unfortunately, I don’t know, since the killer didn’t leave a note with the details of the how and why.”

  “What’s your best guess?”

  Sept stood and stepped back. “W
hat’s your guess?” Nathan stayed quiet the whole time the forensic team went through their procedures, and Sept assumed he was thinking through his answer.

  “From what you said, they were probably sorry they did it. Maybe they knelt there for a long time because they were in shock.”

  The answer surprised her, but revealed some of why her father had given Nathan a chance. “That’s good, but take it one step further.”

  “A step further?”

  “Whoever perpetrated this knelt here long enough to leave evidence that they were here. Who does that?” Sept asked as she kept her eyes on the windows of the kitchen that faced the side where they were standing. Only one person was interested in what they were doing, and Keegan Blanchard locked eyes with her.

  “Someone who knew him?” This time Nathan answered with much more authority. “That makes sense, doesn’t it? He killed the poor bastard and felt bad about it.”

  “There’s hope for you, Blackman. Come on, let’s go find our killer.”

  “Wait.” He grabbed her by the sleeve and let go when she turned around and stared at him before she dropped her eyes to his hand and he removed it. “You think someone who works here killed him?”

  “Do you know if he’s married or seeing someone?” Sept was still, but her attention was again on Keegan, who stood at the window.

  “I haven’t even gotten his name yet.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She pointed to the large pool of blood. “People who have something to be passionate about carry out crimes of passion, and we end up with a poor bastard next to a trash pile. In this case I’m guessing it was someone in there.” When Sept cocked her head toward the building, Keegan disappeared.

  As Sept and Nathan stepped through the door, Keegan drove a large chef’s knife into the breast of a duck. She sliced through it so easily she seemed to be cutting soft butter.

  “Ms. Blanchard,” Sept said, to keep her distance. “Today’s special?” She indicated the duck.

  “One of them.” Keegan cut the duck up and moved to the next one. “I don’t usually get to do this, but the storm scattered our staff, so we’re all having to kick in to keep the restaurants at the level people expect.”

  “Having a dead guy outside doesn’t throw you off your game just a little?”

  “His name was Donovan Bisland, Detective, and even though we’ll miss him, the business has to go on.” Keegan wiped her hands on a towel, then laid them on the stainless steel surface not covered in poultry. “Are you finished?”

  Sept concentrated on Keegan’s hands and noticed the bandage on each of her knuckles on her right hand. “We’ve almost finished outside, but we have some questions for you. Can someone take over for you?” Sept asked, meaning the ducks.

  “You can ask me whatever you like right here.”

  “Okay.” Sept dragged out the word. “How long have you been sleeping with the victim?”

  “What?” Keegan screamed, clearly outraged. “I was not sleeping with him,” she hissed, before she stormed out through the swinging doors that led to the first-floor dining room.

  “Is your nickname Subtle Savoie?” Nathan asked as he studied more carefully the knife Keegan had left behind.

  “Is that your way of begging me to pop you in the face again?”

  Keegan was sitting at the center table, tapping her foot. “Did you think of some less stupid questions?”

  Before Sept answered, she unclipped her phone from her belt and answered it. “Savoie.” She wrote a few things in her pad. “What’s your best guess on the time?”

  Sept hung up, then asked Keegan, “Where were you last night between ten and midnight?”

  “I was having dinner with my grandmother, mother, sister, and our business advisor at Le Coquille D’Huîte in the Quarter. We had dinner at eight, then talked about business until eleven thirty.” Keegan fell silent for a moment, then scowled. “You think I had something to do with this?”

  Sept figured she could play Keegan one of two ways, and if she picked wrong, the Blanchard family would quickly put a team of attorneys around Keegan that the Pentagon couldn’t break through. If that happened, the next time she’d see Keegan was in court wearing a designer suit and a smug smile, but only if she was lucky enough to build a case against her.

  “I didn’t say that, Ms. Blanchard. We eliminate people until we find someone we can’t.”

  “I suggest you start canvassing the neighborhood, then, because no one here is the killer.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll do our jobs.” Sept flipped to a new page in her pad. “Could you tell me why Mr. Bisland was here so late? Granted, it was Wednesday night, but it was still kind of late.”

  “Do you moonlight as a chef?”

  The question made Sept smile. “If I did that, I’d have more than one lawsuit pending.” The words made Keegan visibly relax. “I’m not trying to be flip or disrespectful, Ms. Blanchard, but I need to find out what happened.”

  “Donovan liked to stay late and try out new recipes, and late nights are the only time he had the kitchen to himself. We’re famous for our bread-pudding soufflé, and he always wanted to find something to top it.”

  “Did anyone ever stay with him?” Sept figured that giving Keegan the upper hand was working, so now she just had to ask short questions to keep Keegan talking.

  “After a long day most of the staff is ready to go home,” Keegan said as she shook her head. The mask of control was staring to slip as her eyes filled with tears. “Usually the only one who volunteered to stay was me.”

  “Can you tell me what happened to your hand?” Sept kept her eyes on the fingers with the Band-Aids. Keegan started to flex her hand but stopped halfway to making a fist. Probably because it hurt.

  “It’s an occupational hazard. You work with food that makes your hands wet and slippery, and sometimes the knife slips. But don’t worry. My cuts are well covered and won’t affect my cooking ability.”

  Keegan had given an answer, but not the one Sept was looking for. “I was cutting a duck like you just saw me do and the knife slipped.” That was the difference between answering directly and answering in a nondescript way. “Does it hurt much?”

  “No.” Keegan answered as if words were at a premium.

  “Were you and Mr. Bisland seeing each other socially?”

  “Donovan was a creative genius in the kitchen, Detective, and he was a wonderful person to be around. That doesn’t always translate into wanting to sleep with someone.”

  If Keegan had gotten close to breaking down, Sept realized that moment was gone. “I didn’t ask if you were sleeping with him, ma’am. We covered that in the kitchen. There’s a difference between sex and seeing someone socially, like in the occasional date.”

  “The way you keep harping on it makes me think otherwise.”

  “When did you cut yourself?” Sept changed tactics again, which made her sound like she suffered from ADHD, but questions out of sequence sometimes garnered more truthful and forthcoming answers than an interviewee intended.

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “Anything else you want to share with me about Mr. Bisland?”

  “He was my friend and someone viciously killed him. Stop wasting your time on me and go find whoever did. You owe him that.” Keegan pushed away from the table and stood, then stalked out and slammed her way into the kitchen.

  “That went well,” Nathan said, his eyes on the still-swinging doors. “What now?”

  “Now you ask the rest of the people in the kitchen the same questions I just asked Martha Stewart on steroids.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because Ms. Blanchard is busy telling everyone in there what a bitch I am, so it’s up to you to find the disgruntled cook wannabe to give us the real story on her.” She shook her hand at him when he took a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak. “Trust me, someone in the place is always ready to roll on the boss. Also it’ll show Keegan she’s the only person I picked to talk
to. People get nervous if the lead detective breaks them away from the herd.”

  “How come she won’t think I’m not the lead detective?”

  Sept couldn’t help but laugh. “Mainly because she’s not an idiot and she watched me punch you earlier. The fact that you stood there whining like a girl defined the chain of command for her.”

  Chapter Three

  When Sept stepped back outside, she had to zip up her jacket because of the strengthening winds and the overcast sky. The crime scene tape was still up, but now that the body had been removed, the media had thinned out. Sept watched the two forensics guys examine the area.

  George Falgout was twirling a print brush along the front of the Dumpster closest to where the body had lain, and his assistant Alex Perlis was taking pictures of the crime scene from every angle possible. The killer had most likely put his hand on the square George was checking to get back on his feet.

  Still in his crouched position, George said, “Don’t tell me you’re going to run me ragged again, Sept? I’ve been enjoying the lull.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Find anything?”

  “A lot of blood in this one spot, and not one fingerprint except on top of this damn thing.” George expanded the area he was dusting. “Did you check these Dumpsters out?”

  The question made Sept look at the three large metal boxes. Wiring coming out the back of each one was attached to an electric-appearing box. “What are the power stations for?”

  “They’re refrigerated,” George said. “Like a big icebox full of bad food, and someone comes out here regularly and wipes the outside down.”

  “I guess the exorbitant prices for an entrée inside means no take-away from the Blanchards’ dining experience.”

  “If you’d ever met Della Blanchard, kid, you’d understand the attention to detail.” George finished his fingerprint search and began taking blood samples.

  “Did she pass that along to her granddaughter, you think?” Sept ignored George for the moment and tried to imagine what the area looked like at night, because in the light, the place seemed fairly wide open. “It would take someone with a tremendous capacity for detail to not leave a trace of themselves at a scene like this. You know what Pop always says, Uncle George.” The way Camille’s brother stared at Sept reminded her of her mom when she was concentrating hard on something.