Not Dead Enough Page 3

  “So you checked her out?”

  “Yes. And I found nothing.”

  “Nothing to make you suspicious?” Danny asked.

  “No, just nothing. No record of her. Or nothing that I could trace back to her. Plenty of A. Smyths—and Smiths in the Atlanta area, but no Aimee with her spelling. Check written from a small out-of-state bank. Nothing bad, but most people leave paper trails. I couldn’t find hers.”

  “You think she faked it?”

  “I don’t know. If she did, she was good. Usually something comes up, the death certificate for the person whose identity they took, an address that doesn’t exist. But nothing like that. It could be she was one of those paranoid people, no credit cards, locked everything down as tightly as she could.”

  “Have you found the sister?”

  “I wasn’t going to start looking until the check cleared,” I admitted.

  Joanne gave a dry chuckle. “No one said you weren’t smart.”

  “I might be able to give you more if I look over my case file.” I might be able to quiet my still-roiling stomach if I got out of the morgue parking lot.

  “Okay, thanks, give me a call,” Joanne said.

  “Yes, thank you, Micky, this has been helpful. First break we’ve had on this,” Danny added.

  I nodded and got in my car, not waiting for them to get in theirs before pulling out of the parking lot. About a block down the street, I rolled down my window, letting the hot air in, but I needed real air, the distraction of the normal smells of summer.

  Two blocks later, I rolled the window back up. Greasy fried chicken was not a helpful odor.

  It might have been quicker, but I avoided the spaghetti around the Superdome and went up to Broad to head back downtown. There was a less than remote chance I might have to pull over to the side of the road, and it would be easier to do it on this route.

  I grew up out in the bayous. Stumbling over a dead critter—or even killing one—was common. Why was my stomach acting like a roller-coaster ride? Time, maybe. And knowing. It’s one thing to catch a whiff of decay, then see the dead gator, skimming by in a boat. Another to park in the lot of the morgue and know I was going to view a body of someone I’d known—albeit slightly. The minutes of walking down the hallway, knowing what was coming, not the random turn in a bayou. And death out there was part of life, expected, the inevitable changing of the seasons. But this was too soon, too sudden. Too deliberate. The woman I had seen in my office was only hot and sweaty, not the gray, hollow face of someone in such poor health she was likely to turn up dead in a day.

  And she had given me a quest—okay, a case. But it mattered to her. Someone lost; wanting them to be found.

  It’s not your case anymore, Micky, I told myself as I turned onto Esplanade. Instead of going back to my office, I headed home. Two bathrooms there instead of one. My stomach still wasn’t sure which way it would go.

  But it nagged at me.

  Maybe I should try to find Sally to at least say her sister tried to find her before she died.

  And maybe I’d do it if the check cleared.

  Chapter Three

  Coffee made. My piled up desk stared at me. I could do invoices. I could do filing. I so didn’t want to do either.

  I looked at my bank account. The check still hadn’t cleared.

  I should just bundle up the case file for Aimee Smyth and drop it on Joanne’s desk.

  And come back to my invoices and filing.

  I looked up the phone number she had given me.

  Dialed it.

  Maybe someone was looking for her. As heartbreaking as it was, leaving them in uncertainty was crueler than the truth. Aimee wasn’t coming home.

  Three rings. Maybe it was ringing in her pile of clothes in the morgue.

  “Hello?”

  It sounded like her voice.

  I almost dropped my coffee before pulling it together enough to answer.

  “Hi, this is Micky Knight. The private detective you hired?”

  “I’m sorry, who?”

  “Michele Knight,” I answered.

  “Oh, okay. Look, this isn’t a good time.”

  “When would be a good time? There are some things I’d like to discuss.”

  “Can you find my sister?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Call me when you do.”

  “No, we need to talk. There is someone who looks a lot like you—it might be your sister—in the morgue. I need to—”

  The phone dropped.

  Well, that was smooth.

  The phone was picked up again.

  “I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.” She hung up.

  No one answered when I tried again. I tried from my personal cell phone, but still no answer.

  “Well, fuck,” I muttered. Someone had answered her phone. Female voice, about in the range of hers. But was it her? Or was the woman who had been in my office on the slab in the morgue? There was no way I could know for sure.

  But then who the hell answered her phone? And knew about looking for her sister? And why the clumsy pretense of claiming it was a wrong number?

  Not your case. Hand it to the police.

  I waited only long enough to finish my coffee before heading to Joanne’s station and dumping the copy I’d made of her case.

  She picked it up.

  “Not much.”

  “No,” I admitted. “She didn’t give me much. Said the best contact was her cell phone—the one she’s not answering. Didn’t fill in the address part of the form. And I hadn’t really started looking.” I gave her a rundown of the methods I’d used to look for both Sally and Aimee. Joanne nodded and took a few notes. She’d have to do it all over again. But she also had law enforcement resources that I didn’t have access to.

  I debated telling her about the phone call. Cowardice won and I left it out. It didn’t add much and I’d only get the—well-deserved—lecture on messing in police business.

  She nodded, thanked me, and it was time to go. It was a workday for her, and lingering disreputable private detectives wouldn’t make it any easier.

  Out in the street again. It still smelled like greasy fried chicken here. Oh, wait, there was a fowl place down the block. I was somewhat relieved to know the smell of chicken fat hadn’t taken over New Orleans. Or my brain.

  Duty done, it was time to head back to my office and pretend I loved, just loved, filing.

  The pretense lasted about ten minutes if I included making another pot of coffee and taking a bathroom break.

  Who in hell had answered the phone?

  Not your case anymore, Micky. It’s murder now, and the police don’t play with murder.

  But who had answered the phone?

  Clearly I didn’t love—or loathe—filing enough to be distracted from thinking about the phone call.

  Just enough to only notice the sound of footsteps when they were coming up the final flight of stairs to my office. I’m the only one up here, so they were either way lost (a few coffee shop folks have sought the bathroom up here) or on their way to see me.

  Filing did not put me in the mood for unexpected visitors.

  Without a knock, the door opened.

  And nothing would have put me in the mood for this unexpected—and unwanted—visitor.

  Impeccably dressed as always, white pants, probably linen, loose and flowing, white shirt, sleeveless, showing arms that spent time at the gym but not too heavy on the weightlifting, to only hint at muscles, without being unfeminine about them. A deep navy belt added color and contrast to the outfit. Her hair was perfectly blond, as if just coming from a sun-kissed beach, twisted up in a chignon. Understated jewelry, a pendant necklace with a deep blue stone echoing the navy of her belt, matching earrings. A ring on her left hand. Well, that was new.

  “I need your help,” she said.

  “I’m the last person you should ever ask for help,” I replied. I stood up, as if I was about to go to the door and
usher her out.

  “I know that. Believe me, I do know that. But you’re the only one who can help.”

  I wanted her out of my office. But, damn my inquiring mind, was also curious about what could possibly bring her to my door.

  Karen Holloway had hired me, long ago, and hadn’t been exactly up front and honest about her reasons. Let’s just say it was messy in more ways than I cared to think about. Karen was also a first cousin to my ex, Cordelia. When we had been together, I’d occasionally run into Karen and her various lady friends at some charity function that Cordelia was expected to go to, meaning I got dragged along. Since we’d broken up, I hadn’t seen Karen, didn’t even know if she was still in New Orleans or not.

  The last place I’d expected to see her was here in my office.

  “Only one, huh? What kind of betrayal do you have in mind this time?”

  “Don’t be like that! I’ve changed. Really, I have.”

  “Karen, what do you want?”

  She started to cross the room toward me, but I put up my hand like a traffic cop. I wanted her as close to the exit door as possible.

  “Can’t I at least sit down?”

  “No. You have two minutes. One second past, I will escort you out and call security if you don’t leave. Use your time wisely.”

  I crossed my arms.

  She did the same, then realized she was mimicking me and dropped them to her sides. “Why do you have to make it so hard?”

  “Because you’ve made it so hard in the past. One minute and thirty seconds.”

  She gave a sour glance, then said, “As you may know, I’ve gotten into real estate—”

  “What? Your trust funds aren’t enough?”

  The look soured even more. “After taxes, no, not really. Barely 100k a year.”

  She ignored my snorted opinion.

  “I just made a deal on a house. A really good one, in the Garden District, just over a million.”

  “That should help your trust fund,” I interjected.

  “Don’t use up my time.”

  I waved her to go ahead.

  “A woman from out of town. Atlanta. She wanted to make it a cash deal, she seemed to check out, deposit cleared the bank okay, submitted proof of the other funds. We’re supposed to go to closing tomorrow.”

  I glanced at my watch. “I don’t do real estate cases.”

  “This isn’t real estate. The woman’s name is Sally Brand, and she listed you as her local contact.”

  I stared at Karen, then quickly looked away, out the window. Karen may have been venal, but she wasn’t stupid. I didn’t want to give away what a bombshell she had dropped in my lap.

  I coughed, grabbed a sip of water from the always present sports bottle on my desk. Recovered. Somewhat. “Did she say why I was her contact?” I added, “I’ve never met anyone by that name.” True enough. I’d never met Sally, only her sister Aimee.

  “I don’t know. She gave me a pile of paper, and it was only on the last sheet.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Real estate takes a lot of paperwork. I can’t read over every word in front of the client. Look, she gave me all the contact info I thought I’d need. Home address, cell phone, home phone, business phone, two emails, one business and one personal. How was I to know she’d disappear and leave only your name?”

  With a sigh I didn’t bother to hide, I motioned her to sit down. Karen was wise enough not to smirk at her victory.

  Barely letting her get seated, I began a barrage of questions. “What do you mean by disappeared?”

  “What people usually mean. I can’t find her, can’t contact her.”

  “What have you tried?”

  “Everything! I wouldn’t be here if anything else had worked.”

  It was, as usual, going to take effort to get useful information out of Karen. I considered throwing her over to Joanne—they weren’t exactly bosom buddies—since it was possible this was related to the murder.

  But my curious—and not perfectly ethical—mind wanted to see what I could get from Karen first.

  “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  With a few prompts, she did. Called her cell just to finalize a few details. No answer. Left a message. Two days ago. No call back. Called her work phone. Disconnected. Went to the hotel she was staying in—where they’d initially met. No one by that name was staying there. They couldn’t tell her if anyone by that name or her description had stayed there. Confidentiality. Email to both addresses. No answer to the personal. Work bounced back.

  Fifteen minutes later I said, “Yep, looks like she did indeed disappear.”

  “Thanks,” Karen huffed, “I knew that. What are you going to do about it?”

  “What am I going to do? Are you hiring me to find her?”

  “She listed you as the person to contact as the last resort!” Karen seemed appalled that she might have to spend money and not get her problem solved.

  “Without my permission. Or even notification.”

  “But why would she do that? It makes no sense!”

  “Does it matter? You said the deposit cleared. The seller gets to keep it, right? So you find another buyer.”

  She huffed again. “It’s not that easy.”

  “There are tons of people moving from Brooklyn who think our prices here are cheap.”

  “That doesn’t help me if this falls through.”

  “You cut corners,” I guessed.

  “No! But we had several offers. I pushed for this one because it was full list and in cash.” She twisted in her seat, not looking me in the eye. Oh, Karen, do you have to be so predictable?

  “Even though it wasn’t as solid as some of the others.”

  “They all were solid. At least on paper. Cash and full price. It seemed a no-brainer.”

  “So why did you have to push for it?”

  “One of the other bidders was local; he bought his last house with us. But it was complicated. He’d have to sell that house to buy this one. He wasn’t happy when we turned him down. So if this falls through…we lose this sale and have pissed off a repeat customer.”

  “Life in the real estate business is harsh.”

  “But why would she do that? Throw away a chunk of money to hold the property, then disappear?”

  “Maybe something happened to her.”

  “Why? What do you know?” Karen asked. Amoral, yes. Stupid, no. She knew there was something I wasn’t telling her.

  It was too big a coincidence to think Aimee hired me to find her sister, and her sister randomly picked my name out of the phone book (online directory?) as a contact for a house she was buying. It seemed Karen and I had something in common—being pawns in someone else’s game.

  And a deadly one. There was a body in the morgue. Aimee? Sally? Could the sisters look enough alike to pass for each other? Especially from a brief moment, like the one in my office? Or with a new Realtor? Switch the clothes and jewelry, and a family resemblance could be enough. Maybe they were even twins, although that sounded so soap opera weird. But why? Any contact would have worked as well—a hotel clerk, a waitress. Why hire a private detective and go through the motions of buying a house to create witnesses to an identity switch? The house deposit. My fee. Why did money have to change hands?

  Karen was staring at me.

  I could send her out of my office and claim I knew nothing. She wouldn’t believe me for the very valid reason that I would be obviously lying. I could tell her she needed to talk to Joanne, but that might be a bridge too far for Karen—at the mercy of a police officer who didn’t approve of her ethics.

  Or I could tell her what I knew. Maybe in the small piles of information we both had, something would stand out. Or maybe it was my excuse to pursue who had answered the phone. Who had dumped me into this mess?

  “A woman claiming to be Sally’s sister hired me to find her. And someone who looks a lot like her turned up in the morgue.”

  Karen cove
red her mouth with her hand, shock on her face. “What? But her sister isn’t my buyer.”

  “Unless she is,” I pointed out. “I couldn’t find much of a paper trail for the woman, like she didn’t exist. She could have used a fake name.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “You got a better explanation?”

  “No, that’s no explanation at all.”

  She was right.

  Karen continued, “Are you sure?” Not waiting for my answer, she said, “That might be the best outcome for me.” At the look on my face, “Yes, horrible for her and her family—I’m sorry and all that—but if she was killed, then it means I didn’t screw up and pick a flake for a buyer.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said as sarcastically as I could.

  “Oh, fuck your snotty attitude! Yeah, I’m sorry she’s dead. I didn’t kill her and I’d be happier if she were alive and taking possession of the house right now. She’s not any more dead by my benefiting from it.”

  “It’s one problem solved,” I conceded, still leaving the sarcasm in my tone. “But it doesn’t solve the larger problem.”

  Karen stared at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “Why? Why would she hire me? If her sister was buying a house from you, she’d be easy to find. Just check the property records. Why would the woman claiming to be the lost sister put down a deposit on a house and list me as the contact?”

  “It makes no sense.”

  “Not to us. But someone had a plan.”

  “But if she’s dead, it got messed up.”

  “Unless that was part of the plan.”

  Karen stared at me. I couldn’t tell if she thought I was crazy or was worried at where this was going.

  “Think about it,” I continued. “She hires me. Engages you to sell her a house. Actions long enough that we can ID the body—”

  “I’m not looking at a dead body.”

  “You’re going to have to,” I told her bluntly, making no effort to be kind about it. “If it’s your client and my client—who both gave different names—the police need to know that.”