Not Dead Enough Read online

  “Well, then Torbin should have…” I didn’t even know what Torbin should have done.

  “Not that you weren’t there—he understood why you avoided it. But that you felt you couldn’t be there. You were polite enough to keep the elephant out of the room and let him do his show.”

  “Who knew I was so noble?”

  “Or at least aware enough of everyone else around you.”

  “You don’t like her, do you?” I asked.

  Joanne looked out the window. I thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then she sighed and said, “I’ll deny I ever said this. But…I think she feels she has to win this unspoken battle. Make us Cordelia’s friends.”

  “Sounds like love to me,” I said. Big sarcasm font.

  “Not my idea of it. But I’ve noticed how she crowds you out—inviting us over for dinner, making plans so our time is taken with them and not you. Saying how fun it would be to see Torbin and pushing to go.”

  “No one pushed back.”

  Joanne was again silent. “Danny did. Said you’d be there. And Nancy pretty much said what you did—it’s a public space. That it didn’t seem fair to miss the fun.” Joanne paused. “She’s…very nice. Not pushy in the way loud people are. Just nice and reasonable.”

  “Aunt Greta,” I said, the prim and proper aunt who took me in after my father died. “She was always nice.” And blind to everything except what she wanted to see.

  “Yes, sort of like that. No easy place to say no. Or even ‘wait a minute.’”

  “It’s okay, Joanne. You’re not expected to be the savior of the world. I could organize dinner parties as well and invite everyone over.”

  “If you wanted to play that game. I suspect you’d be much better at it than she is. I appreciate that you’re not.”

  She smiled at me. I even smiled back. I didn’t tell her the truth—I would have been happy to play the game, but I was too tired and busy. I could barely think about what to cook for myself, let alone organizing and cooking for all my friends. “Well, maybe I should pick up pizza and invite you all over.”

  “Maybe you should. Or we should all go out some night. In any case, I will do better to balance things and not be swept along with the tide.” She stood up.

  “You might want to sit,” I said.

  She cocked an eyebrow at me.

  “Work,” I said. “I might have a name for the woman in the morgue.”

  Joanne sat back down. “Do I want to ask how you got a name when we’ve found nothing?”

  “Probably not,” I admitted.

  “Illegal hacking?”

  “No. But it’s going to be messy.”

  She pulled a notepad from her brief case.

  “Andrea Brande, from Atlanta.”

  “Where you were this weekend?”

  “Yes. A daughter of the Brande family, who are probably well known to law enforcement in the area. They have very traditional ideas about sex roles.”

  Joanne, as I suspected, didn’t just take the information down but instead starting questioning me. I finally admitted where I’d been. I left out a few things—like Anna-Marie’s name and our flirting. I talked about the party and Donnie and Ellis and Junior’s not-so-romantic advances. And my response to them.

  At the end, she looked at me and said, “You beat the crap out of a mobster?”

  “Mobster’s grandson,” I corrected.

  Then I saw the repressed smile playing at her lips. “I can’t say I approve, because I don’t. You could have easily disappeared and never been found.”

  “I’m not that easy to get rid of,” I replied.

  “Okay, so you think it’s the twin of the woman you met. Possibly the same woman who was in your office?”

  “I think so. I’d have to look at them side by side to be sure,” I said.

  “But why?” Joanne said, putting down her notebook. “Why hire you? Put down money for a house with Karen? Then die?”

  “Her family killed her to keep her from breaking free. She knew too much. Maybe she thought New Orleans was far enough away.”

  “Sounds naïve for someone who grew up in a mob family,” Joanne said, shaking her head.

  “Yes, it does. Maybe she only saw what she wanted to see.”

  “Awful thing to do to someone in your family,” Joanne added.

  “Nothing like blood hatred added to contempt for women. She may not be the first woman in the family killed for not being docile enough.”

  “We’re not positive it was murder,” Joanne said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Overdose. Fentanyl.”

  “Wait, she was an addict?”

  “We’re not sure. Not much evidence of track marks. Just a few needle sticks. No signs of long-term or regular use.”

  “Someone gave her a hot shot,” I stated.

  “Possible. But it’ll be hard to prove. Even with…the amount she had in her.”

  “Meaning someone wanted to make sure she overdosed.”

  “Probably,” Joanne admitted. “That’s our working theory, but as I said, it’s hard to prove someone intentionally murdered her that way.”

  “It’s not likely the Brandes will cooperate,” I said.

  “They would have reported her missing by now if they had any thought of that. Not expecting they will. But we can check ID other ways. Forensics these days. A woman in her forties, no children, good teeth, clearly taken care of.”

  “Wait, forties? Andrea Brande is in her late thirties.”

  “We don’t have a birthday. Possible they’re off by a few years. We’ll check.”

  “What else do you know about her?”

  Joanne paused. I was a civilian and she wasn’t supposed to talk to me. Even if I had just handed her a big chunk of info—the name and a connection to a major crime family. “Her purse/wallet was taken but none of the jewelry, so it seems more like trying to hide her identity than a robbery. She was found in an empty lot, near the bridge.”

  “That’s not a great place to dump a body,” I said. Yes, there are a lot of industrial lots, but many of the homeless live under the bridge and it’s a major traffic route.

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” Joanne said. “Someone who didn’t know the city well enough to know it’s not really a deserted area. Two homeless women said a late-model silver/gray SUV stopped there around two a.m. They said it stayed long enough for them to wonder, then it suddenly sped off. They let it get away, then went to see. Once they got close enough they saw the body. Neither had a phone, so they didn’t tell anyone until they saw a shelter worker they knew. Shelter worker called us.”

  “So she was out on the street, what five, six hours?”

  “First patrol got there around five, so not that long. If the women are right about the two a.m. drop.”

  I was silent. Knowing Anna-Marie, I now felt like I knew the woman. Enough to not want her lying on the side of an empty lot on a steamy night. Then I asked the question I knew Anna-Marie would ask. “Any signs of assault?” I hoped I wouldn’t be the one who answered it.

  “No sexual assault. Some bruising on her wrists. Could be someone grabbed her. But could also be from banging hard with the bracelets she wore. Some bruising on the torso. Some of it faded. Again, hard to know for sure.”

  “Nice ladies don’t get bruised like that.”

  “They do if their husbands or boyfriends aren’t nice.”

  “Or girlfriends. We’re not immune,” I added. Andrea Brande wouldn’t be the first woman to assume another woman was safe and find out the hard way she wasn’t.

  “No, we’re not,” Joanne answered. Then briskly, “That’s all we’ve had so far. A body that someone should miss—dentist visits, nice clothes, in good health save for elevated cholesterol. Expensive jewelry.”

  “Not a body that should get dumped and forgotten.”

  “Unless the people who should remember are the ones who did it.”

  With a look at her watch, Joanne sto
od up.

  “Places to go, people to see?” I said.

  She nodded. “At least back to the office. I need to follow up on your lead—contact some people in Atlanta.” She turned to go. “Thanks for the air-conditioning.” Took a step, then turned and said, “How about a pizza night this weekend? I’ll see if Danny and Elly want to join us. We can go out. You don’t even need to clean.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  Joanne nodded, then left.

  I sat back down at my desk. Knowing the details of her death made it real. More real than I wanted to know. Even a few hours on a hot summer night meant the insects were at work. I shuddered. Then took another sip of coffee. It was cold.

  My phone rang. An unknown number. Atlanta area code.

  Anmar’s burner phone? Or spam from me being in the Atlanta area?

  I answered.

  “Hey, it’s me,” she said as if I would recognize her voice. Which I did.

  “Hi, how are you?” I asked. I had been worried about her after the abrupt summons home.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Where are you?” I asked, hearing noise in the background.

  “Shopping at the mall. Donnie dropped me off. Thinks I’m here to get my nails done and pick out a few bangles.” She added, “They’re keeping a tight leash. Just not tight enough to dig through my purse and see if I have a phone not bought from Ellis’s store.”

  “Keep lots of tampons. That always scares the men away.” Then I asked, “Why? Do you know?”

  “They talk and forget we’re human enough to listen. Someone tried to divert funds from a family account. To buy a house in New Orleans.”

  “Really?” I said, glad to be on the phone, so I only needed to bend my voice and not my face to deception. “What’s wrong with buying a house here?”

  “It would have to be approved. It’s not the house buying, it’s the diversion of funds. Some deal with the accounts. Someone got into places they shouldn’t.”

  “Could it have been Andrea? Trying to get away?”

  Anmar snorted. “No way, she’s not that stupid. If she had enough money to buy a house, she’d be on the first plane for Kathmandu…we always wanted to go there. Liked the name. Or at least Paris or London, a big enough city to disappear in and a long air trip away.”

  “Maybe she wanted to make a place for you to get away as well.”

  “No, not a house. We’d travel. We talked about it—late at night when no one was about. How we might make an escape. It was leave and keep moving. Nothing as permanent as a house. Especially one as close as New Orleans.”

  I didn’t press it. Anmar knew her sister, but even people we know can have surprises in them. “Is that why you got called back? The accounts and the house?”

  “Barn door with the horse long gone. Because someone decided to try something, those of us who didn’t, get punished.”

  “Do they know who it is?”

  “No. If they do, they’re not saying, but I suspect they don’t. That’s why they’re treating us all with suspicion. With Andrea missing, they assume she’s part of it, so they assume I probably helped her. Too bad I didn’t. They con and use people, so they think everyone does. They seem to feel one of us did it and is remaining around to pretend we didn’t.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think. Why buy a house so close? It’s not like we haven’t done things in New Orleans. It’s almost like they wanted to be caught.”

  “But why would they want that?”

  “Con and use. Ellis has mega millions, and he uses it to rule the rest of us. Do his bidding and you get a few nickels. Cross him or even displease him and you get nothing. Someone got tired of it.”

  “But why in New Orleans? And something like real estate?”

  “I don’t know. But Ellis and Donnie are running around and yelling at everyone. He never imagined anyone would dare cross him like this. If someone has access to one account, they might have access to others. No money, no power. My best guess is this is meant to rattle his cage, make him overreact. And distraction. While everyone is focusing on New Orleans and the house, it means they’re not focusing on other things.”

  “It still makes no sense,” I said, hoping to prompt her to keep talking.

  “I don’t know. All I can do is watch from the sidelines. You might be careful, I know they’re sending some of the boys down to New Orleans.”

  “Junior Boy?”

  “Is that what you call him?”

  “He never bothered to introduce himself. Not the most polite behavior when escorting someone home.”

  “If that’s all he did, you’re lucky.”

  “He tried to grab me.”

  “Damn. I hope he didn’t hurt you.”

  “Nope. This old lady knows how to fight. I don’t suppose he admitted that I kicked him hard in the groin and left him on the ground moaning.”

  She barked a laugh. “No, he did not. Came back, muttered about needing to get some more vodka, and drove off in one of the big, black trucks.”

  As I had suspected, Junior Boy did not admit he’d gotten beaten up by a girl. “Ah, well, I was long gone by then.”

  “Good for you.” Then in a whisper, “Donnie’s here. Have to go.”

  And she was gone.

  My conscience wasn’t easy about deceiving her. I’d never said I wasn’t a private detective. But I never said I was either. I had presented as someone who stumbled into the party. I knew things she needed to know, but I couldn’t tell her. I hoped that I’d be relieved of that burden, that the police would be the ones to break the news to her. And that she’d find some way to escape to a safe place.

  I could also wish to ride a unicorn home from work. And world peace while I’m at it.

  I pondered what she said about Junior Boy and possibly some of the other minions coming to town. Karen might need to worry, if it was her real estate deal they’d found out about.

  But me? What were the chances? New Orleans isn’t a large city, but it is a city all the same.

  It was lunchtime. I’d worry about all this when I had a full stomach.

  Since I hadn’t done that grocery run yet, I’d brought nothing with me. My stubborn refusal to spend money at the coffee shop only to subsidize the rent they paid me meant I had to go out in the heat and get into my hot car. The other option was to walk five blocks, and it was too hot for that. Outside would not cool down; my car would.

  Lunch. A shrimp po-boy. I’d eat a salad tomorrow. Today was a day to make up for too much bland, bad road food. I got back in my almost cool car and headed back to the office and its air-conditioning. Only mad dogs and New Orleanians would be out in weather this hot. And only because we had to.

  I had to park farther down the street than I would have liked because a big, black SUV was doing suburban parking, leaving half a car length between it and the next driveway and another three-quarters of a car between it and the corner. Usually we can fit in three reasonable-sized cars there.

  I was almost across the street when I spotted him.

  What where the chances? Way too fucking good. Junior Boy was standing half in/half out of the coffee shop door.

  He looked up.

  Saw me.

  He wasn’t expecting to see me. His face showed surprise, then consternation.

  “What are you doing here?” he blurted out.

  Brazen through it. “I live here!” I said, doing my best outrage. “What are you doing here?” I shot back to him.

  “None of your business.”

  He didn’t know who I was, I realized—other than the woman at the party. He had the address of my office but didn’t know I was M. Knight, Private Investigator. I don’t hide I’m a woman, but I don’t advertise it either. Junior Boy hadn’t done his homework—I doubted this was the first time.

  “I’m calling the cops,” I said.

  “Now, wait a minute.” He took a step toward me. A look of remem
bered pain crossed his face and he stopped. “I don’t want nothing to do with you.”

  No, I didn’t correct his grammar. Too many missed homework assignments for me to bother. “Then what are you doing here?” I again demanded.

  “Working. Gotta track someone down.”

  “You need to leave! Or I will call the cops.”

  “I don’t give a damn about you. I’m not here for you,” he argued.

  “Well, I am here and I live here!”

  “In this building?” he asked, the wheels of thought too clearly turning across his face.

  “No, a few blocks down. I’m here for the coffee shop. I’m a regular.” Never mind the po-boy tucked under my arm. He wouldn’t know what it was.

  “You know a guy named M. Knight? Works in this building?”

  Stupid on steroids. A woman you recently tried to assault is not going to answer your questions. “No clue. I will call the police. I should have reported you in Atlanta. I can’t believe you’d follow me here with some bullshit story about work!” I was shouting, hoping the hipsters in the coffee shop would get a clue that all was not right just outside their door.

  “Look, bitch, don’t you dare call the cops on me.” He flicked his windbreaker back to show the gun tucked in his belt. Of course wearing a jacket, in this weather, was the road to heat stroke. Between the temperature and his agitation, he was turning a steaming shade of pasty pink.

  The big question for me was if he was stupid enough to shoot me here on the street with multiple witnesses. That would so ruin my lunch plans. I decided to ask, “What are you going to do? Shoot me here on a busy street?” To prove my point, a bicycle tour came around the corner and slowly rolled past.

  He looked like he was thinking. Very slowly.

  I pulled out my phone. Then shouted, loud enough for the bike tour to hear, “And you can see a typical New Orleans robbery, right here on the street. Notice the big lug with the gun and the woman he’s robbing.”

  “Shut up!” he said, clearly still not doing much in the thinking department.

  The bike tour kept rolling, thinking this was all part of the show.

  “You need to be quiet right now,” he continued. “I got work to do. Go get your coffee and get away from me.”