Cold Blood

Chapter 12

Lorraine sat on a wide and slippery banquette sofa, richly upholstered in vermilion silk damask printed with gold fleurs de lys, while Lloyd Dulay lowered himself into a matching chair opposite. Lloyd had decided to receive Lorraine in the drawing room to impress her with the full splendour of his house: his improvements to this room were limited to covering one wall with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, in which two Hepple-white chairs were reflected as though standing in an airport lounge. Golden scrolls and swags were everywhere visible — the drapes, of course, were a mass of corn-coloured fabric tied back with chocolate-box bows, and ornate gilded plasterwork adorned the fireplace, the huge overmantel mirror and the firescreen which stood in front of two artificial logs on a stand. The central ceiling medallion extended for six feet of plaster wheat-ears, garlands and rosettes, and another splendid chandelier hung like a huge gilded lily beneath. A number of modern abstract paintings were suspended by taffeta ribbon bows from the picture rail and every surface in the room was cluttered with lamps, knick-knacks, bibelots, and bulky arrangements of both dried and fresh flowers. Lorraine hated the place and she was uncomfortable, her mouth dry and the thought of a drink coming persistently to her mind, but she forced it out of her thoughts.

‘You wanted to see me, Mrs Page, on a personal matter?’

‘Yes, Mr Dulay, I did.’

He nodded his mane of white hair and pointedly looked at his watch. ‘Then get to the point, I have people for lunch.’

‘I am investigating the disappearance of Anna Louise Caley.’

‘Are you now? Well, I wish I had a million dollars for every one of the so-called agents I have spoken to. Quite truthfully, I don’t think there is anything I can add that would be of any use at all. I have business dealings with Robert Caley and I have known his lovely wife for more than thirty years, so I have known little Anna since she was knee-high to a grass-hopper.’

She loathed him, his loud voice, his condescending, imperious manner. His vast house made her cringe because it was the very reflection of the man — big, loud and heavy. She felt there should be a family crest over the doorway that read: ‘I have billions of dollars, so fuck you.’

She pushed on. ‘Everyone I have spoken to about Anna Louise says the same thing, that she was naive, shy, beautiful. Tell me what you thought of her.’

He closed his eyes. ‘She was all those things, and affectionate, sweet, with a smile that would break any man’s heart. I loved that little girl, Mrs Page, I loved her.’

‘Did Robert Caley love his daughter?’

For a fraction of a second he was thrown. ‘Why, yes, he was her father.’

Lorraine met the tiny, cold blue eyes. ‘What do you think of Robert Caley?’

Dulay laughed, but she knew he was confused. ‘Why do you ask?’

She held his nasty stare and he was the one to look away. ‘Maybe if he was fucking his own daughter she had reason to disappear!’

The huge man rose out of his seat. ‘If you were a man I’d knock you right through that wall.’

‘But I am not, I am just investigating the disappearance of a young girl, sir.’

He towered above her. ‘Lemme tell you this, Mrs Page. If I thought for one moment that what you have just said could be true, I’d get a gun and shoot the bastard myself.’

‘If you also discovered that Anna Louise was not as sweet or naive as everyone makes out, how would that make you feel?’

‘I don’t follow you, Mrs Page.’

She took out the photograph, slowly, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

He scooped it up in one massive hand and held it up to the light, his eyesight, unlike his presence, not so strong. ‘What the hell is this disgusting thing?’

‘A photograph,’ she said sweetly.

‘I know that, woman, but where in God’s name did you get it? Because this isn’t the little girl I knew, this is... Dear God, it breaks my heart.’

‘Maybe Robert Caley isn’t the man you know either, so what can you tell me about him?’

He was really shaken. ‘Does Elizabeth know this exists?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Robert?’

‘No.’

He shook his big head, slumping back into his chair. ‘She was as precious to me as my own beloved daughter. Dear God, why did she subject herself to this disgusting show?’

‘Maybe because she was abused, angry, I don’t know. All I am hired to do is find her, dead or alive.’

‘Is she dead?’

Lorraine looked away. ‘I hope not.’

She could hear the clock ticking on the mantel as he continued to stare at the photograph. At one point he withdrew a printed silk handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

‘I know that Anna Louise has a large trust fund.’

His head jerked up, the photograph forgotten.

‘Mr Dulay, I am looking for motives for Anna Louise’s disappearance. And that is why I am asking you about Robert Caley. The trust’s assets amount to one hundred million dollars.’

‘Do they?’ he said softly.

‘I am also aware that right now, with this casino development, Mr Caley is stretched to his financial limits and—’

‘Mrs Page, I said before that if Robert Caley harmed a hair on that little girl’s head I’d get a gun and shoot him, not just for myself but for Elizabeth. That said, I do not believe for one moment that the man I have known for twenty-odd years would have any such inclination towards his own daughter. The thought is sickening, degrading and unjust. He’s not a great man, but he’s a hard worker and has earned his money the hard way. I am one of a number of advisers who take care of Elizabeth’s money and investments, and a trusted family friend, so much so I feel that I must make sure you leave this house with no aspersions cast on Robert Caley’s name.’

Lorraine retrieved the photograph, slipping it back into the envelope. ‘Do you know that Elizabeth Caley has a very serious drug habit?’

‘No, I won’t believe it.’ Lloyd got up and stared arrogantly into the mirrors behind Lorraine’s head, as though finding confirmation of his beliefs in his own image. The purpose of the mirrored wall was more than clear — it allowed Lloyd to enjoy the sight of his reflection as well as the sound of his own voice.

‘I can give you the address of the clinic she is in right now.’ She waited as he sat down, his face concerned and confused. ‘I am sorry if what we have discussed disturbs you, and obviously I must ask for your total—’

‘I would never divulge what you have told me, Mrs Page, not to anyone, so help me God. I am stunned, stunned... shocked, because if what you say is true it means that those nearest and dearest to me are nothing but liars.’

‘Not necessarily.’ She smiled.

‘What?’

Lorraine snapped her briefcase closed. ‘Perhaps they chose for you not to know. As an investigator, it is my job to find out what lies beneath the surface.’

‘Isn’t your job, Mrs Page, to find Anna Louise?’

She nodded, walking to the door. ‘Yes, Mr Dulay, it is, but if during my attempts to trace her I uncover certain discrepancies or illogical statements, then I have to follow them through. If you have nothing to add or nothing that can help me, then I thank you for your time.’

‘Robert Caley is a good man,’ he said lamely.

She turned at the door. ‘Yes, I think he is, but I have to make certain that he is in no way connected to his daughter’s disappearance so I can eliminate him as a suspect.’

He rose slowly from his chair, moving towards her. ‘Is he suspected by your agency?’

‘Everyone I meet is a suspect until I get to the truth, Mr Dulay. If there is any way you could find out for me if Mr Caley has been using his daughter’s trust fund, I’d be very grateful if you could let me know. May I call you again?’

Dulay agreed. He didn’t say goodbye as Lorraine closed the door behind her and found her own way out. The big man sat in a dazed, uncomprehending state, feeling outraged and betrayed. He decided there and then that he would withdraw from the Caley development. He wanted to confront Robert Caley to his face, but first he wanted to know if the bastard had touched a cent of Anna Louise’s trust fund. He more than anyone could check it out — the hundred million dollars had been his.

Lorraine felt used up and disgusted with herself at the same time. She knew what she had just done was wrong and unprofessional. Part of her didn’t know why she wanted to put so much pressure on Dulay but perhaps in reality it was a roundabout way of putting it on Robert Caley because of what Tilda Brown had said. She hated him to be under suspicion, wanted him to be innocent. At the same time she was sure he was guilty, but of what? She refused to believe that it was now more than likely that he had murdered his own daughter.

Rosie at last found the sign for the Voodoo Museum on Dumaine and entered the building nervously to find a group of eight other people, mostly women, standing in a small reception area buying a variety of charm powders, novelties, dolls and candles offered for sale, while they waited for the tour to begin. Behind the young woman at the desk was the portrait of an imposing woman dressed in the costume of the last century; she wore a kerchief on her head and gold hooped earrings, while her skin was a rich yellow-brown with just a hint of copper, her eyes a fathomless black. Even in painted form her gaze seemed to penetrate the years, and her presence dominated the room. When the tour guide appeared, it was to this painting he first drew their attention.

‘This, ladies and gentlemen, is a portrait of Marie Laveau, the most powerful queen of voodoo this city has ever seen, called the Popess of Voodoo by the time she was forty years old because she was consulted by the gentlefolk of that time, as well as by her own people, and even by royalty, so that her reputation was known all over the world. Her powers were legendary, and when she walked in the streets the crowds would stand silent and hold up their children to catch sight of her: it was as if they knew people would still be talking about her for a hundred years after she died. She held her rituals near the Bayou St John, and people said they saw her walk on the water; she could make the sun go dark and call down the spirit of the storm, and she could call up the spirits of love, and, of course...’ he stopped and smiled, ‘of destruction too.’

Rosie looked into the ageless eyes of the great sorceress: she felt certain she had seen the face before, but she racked her brains to remember where.

A hush had now fallen on the gaggle of tourists as the guide led them down a narrow passageway in which hung the portraits of a number of voodoo queens, none, however, of Marie Laveau’s pre-eminence, some she had been taught by, and then vanquished or eclipsed. The guide stopped in front of a portrait of another light-skinned young black woman in a formal, old-fashioned dress, with black ringlets knotted at the back of her head and arranged in front of her ears: these eyes were cruel.

‘This, people say, is Marie’s daughter, Marie II, if you want to call her that, said to be more drawn to the darker side of her powers than her mother. People said they saw Marie Laveau up to 1918, 1919, and it was more likely Marie number two they saw, though there are people say Marie her mother never died: you go rap on her tomb and she’ll hear you.’

‘Did Marie Laveau have any other family — like, are there any of her relatives living today?’ asked one of the group with interest.

The guide laughed. ‘There’s a lot of voodoo practitioners say they can trace a connection to the bloodline of Marie Laveau, but the strongest claim is that of the Salina family — there are two sisters who were both practitioners at one time, and those of you who are staying for Carnival will have the opportunity to see a daughter of the family, Ruby Corbello, who will be queen of a new black krewe that has been formed this year.’

The guide ushered them further down the passage to a room from which issued a rhythmic and strangely tranquillizing drum-beat; the group stepped hesitantly inside to find themselves surrounded by an eerie collection of carved masks and statues, some decorated with beads and jewellery, and with dishes containing offerings of various kinds and lighted candles arranged in front of them. One corner of the room was separated from the rest by old iron cemetery railings: inside were tombstones and animal and human bones that made Rosie shudder despite the guide’s explanation that, for a religion believing in communion with the departed ancestors, signs of death were not to be feared, but cherished for protection. He pointed out one glass case of drums and other shamanic instruments to facilitate the journey to the spirit world, and another containing a wide variety of bones, dried animal claws and skins, roots, powders, beans and barks: each one of these, he told them, was a mojo, and their combination by a skilled practitioner yielded a gris-gris, a powerful protective amulet often worn in a sealed bag around the neck. In the final corner of the room was a large number of small statues and dolls, for the most part crudely made of a handful of straw or dried grass tied around two crossed sticks and covered with a few scraps of material, with tiny, oddly fierce skulls and faces then painted on. Some of these, the guide said, were to enhance fertility: he said nothing about any other use.

The sweet smell of incense greeted them at the door of the next room: here the masks and statues were brightly painted and seemed joyful and celebratory after the shadows next door. Richly worked hangings and religious paintings showed many signs of Christian influence and images of Catholic saints were pinned up over a cloth-covered table on which stood more candles, statues and a bottle of rum. In front of them a picture of the crucifixion faced a small prie-dieu, and the guide proceeded to explain how voodoo was not a set of evil spells, but a religion which had been the only link with their own culture black people had been allowed to retain in the days of slavery, and which had sustained the people through those harsh times. It saw God latent in the whole of creation and later had blended easily with Christianity, the loas, or individual spirits, becoming identified with the angels and saints.

Marie Laveau herself, he went on, had attended mass regularly at St Louis Cathedral, had friends among the clergy and had done much charitable work among condemned prisoners and during the fever epidemics. None the less there was a frisson of unease when the guide indicated that the small wooden structure in the corner housed a python named after Marie Laveau’s famous snake, Zombi, symbol of the bridge between spirit and material planes, and a few members of the group craned their necks to peep nervously through the glass panes.

The tour was officially over, and Rosie stepped closer to the altar while other members of the group looked at the snake or examined the old tree-stump into which Marie Laveau’s followers had dropped prayers and petitions, and saw four more of the disturbing dolls arranged on a rack above the candle flames. The presence of a world she did not understand, but which still lived in the city around her, filled her with awe and a touch of fascination, and she bought some souvenirs and a booklet describing the career of Marie Laveau before she left. The beautiful and commanding face seemed to haunt her, provoking a persistent feeling of déjà vu, but perhaps Marie Laveau had made everyone who had ever seen her feel that they had always known her, that in her the mysterious and the familiar met.

Rooney sat sweltering in his rental. He’d been parked outside the designated meeting point for over half an hour, and felt a little uneasy to be sitting in the tough downtown waterfront area with a rental firm’s sticker in the back window, someone obviously off his home turf. He was about to give up the wait when he saw the patrol car cruising slowly behind him. He adjusted the driving mirror to watch his contact approach. He shook his head. Men, and cops in particular, come in all shapes and sizes, but he had never seen one that resembled Harris J. Harper.

‘You Rooney?’ Harper said at the car window. Close to, his face was as weird as his fat, wobbling body. He must have been one of those beautiful bonny babies with an upturned nose, rosebud mouth and bright blue eyes, because whereas the rest of his body had grown, his face had remained the same size, his cheeks puffed out, and his layered chins gave him the unfortunate appearance of having no neck whatsoever.

Rooney nodded, and Harper waddled his way round to the passenger door. When he sat inside the car it felt like the springs would give way.

‘You been waitin’ long?’

Rooney nodded. ‘Yep, since ten, but that’s okay.’

‘Could do with a beer, huh?’

You said it.’

‘Okay, Captain Rooney, you follow me, I know a bar a block away, just stick on my tail.’

‘Thanks.’

Harper eased his blubbery body out and then leaned in. ‘Er... five hundred bucks okay with you?’

Rooney hesitated. ‘Hope it’s worth it, that’s a lot of dough.’

Harper shut the door and patted the top of the rental. ‘Be worth it, Captain, be worth it.’

Rosie continued. ‘Voodoo is a religion as serious as any other. There’s a lot of occult, kinda dark stuff that’s got associated, but that’s not the point. It is a way of connecting with positive, spiritual parts of experience, and is very natural, an important part of a lot of people’s lives...’

‘It’s all bullshit,’ Nick said, yawning.

Rosie leaned forward. ‘I don’t think so. Everyone thinks it’s a lot of evil stuff about killing people and turning them into zombies, you listening, Nick?’

‘Yeah, it’s rivetin’ Rosie.’

‘What making someone a zombie actually is is a form of sanction against people who committed some very serious crime, like murder maybe—’

Nick rolled his eyes. ‘Give me the good ol’ electric chair any time, baby.’

Rosie looked at him in irritation. ‘I won’t tell you if you mess around. The priest could give them a kind of nerve poison that would produce a state a Western doctor would think was death, and the person would be what they called “passed by the ground” — buried and then dug up again. That’s why white people call zombies the walking dead.’

Nick looked up and saw Lorraine heading towards their table. ‘Here comes one now.’

Rosie looked up. ‘What?’

‘A zombie. It’s Mrs Page.’ Lorraine slumped into a seat beside Nick and Rosie in the shaded garden of the hotel.

‘Listen, we maybe need to rethink a few things. I paid a call to an old pal, used to be in the drug squad with me, Leroy Able. In fact, I’ve not been in contact with him for more’n ten years but we used to get on...’ Nick drained his beer before continuing. ‘Okay, you know there are high priestesses in the voodoo church, they are pretty powerful women, and the top of the heap in the voodoo pile is always, you will be pleased to know, a woman. It’s a big deal, Lorraine, they are like royalty down here and very powerful.’

‘I’ve been to the Voodoo Museum,’ Rosie began, but Lorraine cut her short. Neither of them had given her a moment even to say hello.

‘Christ, Nick, what has this got to do with our case?’

He snapped, ‘I’m gettin’ there, all right? There are two sisters who are real big-time, very dominant with the potions, whatever the hell they do. Rosie’s got some stuff from the museum you can read for yourself. According to Leroy, Juda Salina and her sister are the top dogs.’

Lorraine was stunned. She reached for a Coke can and shook it — empty. She looked over the table for something else to drink. The thirst had started.

‘Why didn’t you tell me that?’ Rosie asked.

‘I was getting to it, Rosie.’

‘Juda Salina’s sister, Edith Corbello, still lives here in a real low-grade area, though she’s not so active now. Remember you wanted Raoul checked out? Well he is Edith Corbello’s son, Juda Salina’s nephew. There are another two boys, called Willy and Jesse, and two daughters, the youngest called Sugar May and last but not least, Ruby Corbello, hairdresser, wannabe model, who is going to be a queen in the Carnival this year.’

Lorraine now really did need that drink — her mouth was dry, and her head throbbed. ‘Okay, now let’s piece all this together because my hair’s standing on end, Nick — oh, and can you pour me some water?’

Rosie poured a glass of water for Lorraine, her attention on Nick.

‘Just forget all this voodoo crap and look at Juda Salina. She had a hold on Elizabeth Caley, knew her from here, they even brought her back here to try and help trace Anna Louise.’ Nick lit a cigarette and passed it to Lorraine, then lit one for himself. He had seen the way she had gulped at the water Rosie had passed to her, noticed that her hand was shaking visibly as she drained the glass.

‘All along we’ve been looking for a motive, a reason, what if it was blackmail? I mean, you found those pictures of Anna Louise, you dug up stuff on Elizabeth Caley...’

‘Wait, wait, Nick, not so fast. You suggesting the motive all along was blackmail and it went wrong?’ Lorraine frowned, rubbing her temples as she tried to assimilate everything that was being said to her.

‘Yeah, led by that fat bitch Juda Salina. She’s got enough family down here to move a body, she may have even gone to them...’

Lorraine dragged on her cigarette. ‘I better see this, what was her name, Corbello? Any more water, Rosie?’

Nick took her hand. ‘A second, I don’t believe in all this shit, right? An’ my pal Leroy said he doesn’t, but what he does believe is that these people are dangerous, not with the spells and that crap but they’d kill you soon as spit in your eye. And he warned me to go very carefully because they got a whole army. They beat them drums and you’re never seen again.’

‘Like Anna Louise Caley?’ Lorraine said softly, her hand already reaching for the glass of water Rosie was pouring for her.

‘Exactly, but this moves Robert Caley into second position now because we got something outside, something that maybe makes more sense, nothing to do with his casino or his money...’

‘Drugs?’ she asked, gulping at the liquid.

‘Could be. We know Anna Louise boozed and got stoned with her little friend Tilda Brown. Maybe on that night she disappeared she went to the Corbello woman’s house to score and saw something? Say that Juda Salina, whom we know she went to see, was drug-pushing, not just here but in LA.’

Lorraine ran her hands through her hair. It was wringing wet — she was soaked in sweat. ‘Shit, Nick, I think you’re right, we’ve been on the wrong fucking track all along.’

Nick nodded. ‘And I don’t think Elizabeth Caley’s involved either. Maybe she’s just one hell of a good customer and we know she needed to score drugs, so the link is Juda Salina and her family.’

Rosie left the table and made her way out of the courtyard: Lorraine hardly seemed to notice that she had got up.

‘Where are you going?’ Nick called after her.

‘Going to get some more refreshments if it’s all right with you,’ she replied, without even turning round. Nick stubbed out his cigarette, looking sidelong at Lorraine.

‘What’s up, sugar?’

‘Nothing’s up, Nick, maybe I’m just tired.’ She hunted for another cigarette in her purse: Nick tapped another out of his own crumpled pack, lit it and passed it to her as before.

‘I hate this brand, like smoking something from out of the refrigerator,’ she said, none the less dragging hard on the cigarette, her foot tapping nervously against the table leg.

Nick acted as though nothing were out of the ordinary. ‘Been a tough day, huh?’

‘Nothing I can’t deal with.’ She reached for a can of Coke that Rosie had left, but knocked it on to its side and the dregs spilled over the table.

‘Shit,’ she snapped, dabbing at the tablecloth, and now Nick gripped her hand.

‘You’re all stressed out, just take it easy.’

Lorraine bowed her head, holding on to Nick’s hand.

‘I want a drink so bad sometimes, Nick, it drives me nuts. It comes over me and I just can’t think straight, or maybe I’m thinking too much...’

He moved a strand of her hair gently away from her cheek and leaned close to her.

‘Just hang on in there, Rosie’s bringing some more Coke an’ I’ll get you some more of your cigarettes.’

‘Thanks.’ She liked the strength of his hand, didn’t want to let it go, but she glanced up and saw Rosie on her way back with another bag of Cokes and potato chips. She banged it down and yelled, ‘Ah, look what you’ve done to my book, I was reading that and you’ve got beer and Coke all over it! Honestly!’

Lorraine leaned across the table and picked up the blue paper booklet, shaking Coke off it. As she did so, she noticed the picture of Marie Laveau on the front.

‘What’s this?’ she asked Rosie.

‘She’s Marie Laveau, the most famous voodoo queen ever.’

‘Why is this so familiar?’ Lorraine said, almost to herself.

Rosie took the booklet. ‘Well, I felt the same thing, like I’d seen it before, her face.’

‘The turban, the robes... gimme it back, Rosie.’ Lorraine was up on her feet, walking up and down. ‘Shit! I don’t believe this, it’s staring us right in the face, Rosie.’

‘What you talking about?’

Lorraine slapped the photograph down. ‘This is Elizabeth Caley, she’s got this painting in her drawing room, it’s from a film.’

‘No, it isn’t. That’s from a painting of Marie Laveau, I got it from the Voodoo Museum, but you’re right, she’s the spittin’ image of her.’

‘Swamp,’ Lorraine said, clapping her hands, congratulating herself. ‘The film was called The Swamp, it was the first movie Elizabeth Seal made, wasn’t it, Rosie?’

‘Maybe it’s on video,’ Rosie suggested.

‘Good idea, let’s see if we can get it. She’s a big number round here, so you never know. Attagirl, Rosie, this is really good.’

‘Thanks.’ Rosie smiled.

‘I mean it, you’re doing good — make an investigator of you yet!’ Lorraine stood up and gave Rosie a hug, beginning to feel better herself.

‘If it’s okay with you, I’m going to take myself off for a zizz, I’m exhausted, maybe take a shower.’ Rosie put the paper pamphlet away in her purse as Lorraine touched Nick lightly on the shoulder.

‘I’m okay, Nick,’ she murmured. ‘Don’t keep looking at me. I just need a couple hours’ rest.’

Nick shrugged his shoulders as she walked away.

‘What was that about?’ Rosie asked.

‘Nothing,’ Nick replied.

‘Oh yeah? She looked pretty strung out to me, you think I should go up and sit with her?’

‘Nope, maybe get on to tracking that video. I’ll hang around here, wait for Bill.’

Rosie gathered her things together and looked at him sidelong. ‘Maybe you’d like to babysit her ladyship? She looked like she needed a friendly shoulder.’

‘Well, I’ll be right here. And leave the Cokes, huh?’

Left alone, Nick sat toying with the chilled can of Coke, wishing he could go up to Lorraine’s room and lie next to her — and not just as a comforting friend.

The Crawfish Bar sat on a dingy corner of the wharf district, a peeling clapboard building with windows covered in rusting wire mesh. It had been an old grocery store and you had to buzz the door to get inside: it was clear they didn’t want any casual trade. The place was almost deserted and Rooney and Harper sat on two stools at a counter against the back wall under the television, the commentary of the basketball game masking the sounds of their conversation.

‘I’m not sure if I’m gonna like these,’ Rooney said, looking at his plate of boiled crawfish and the ugly black plastic dish, virtually the size of a trash-can lid, which had been slapped down to take the heads and shells.

‘Sure you will, these little critters are known as “mud bugs” because they live in the freshwater streams, and this place, lemme tell you, pal, serves the freshest in the whole of New Orleans,’ Harper said as he tucked a napkin under his chin. Rooney stared disbelievingly at what looked like toy lobsters to him.

‘Right, now, you follow me. First you grasp the head between thumb and forefinger of one hand like so...’ Harper demonstrated, dangling it in the air, and Rooney dutifully followed suit. Harper was more interested in his lunch than talking, saying they should eat and down their beers before they got to business. So it was at least half an hour before he volunteered any information, and not before his 500 bucks were stuffed inside his wallet.

‘So what you need to know, Bill?’

‘What you came up with on the disappearance of Anna Louise Caley.’

Harper shrugged his fat shoulders. ‘Sweet fuck-all!’

‘That all I get for five hundred fucking bucks?’ Rooney snapped.

Harper gave a furtive look around. ‘Depends on what else you want to know...’

‘Any dirt on Robert Caley?’

‘No, sir. Well-respected man, got his real estate licence, hadda wait a while even though he is married to Elizabeth Seal, but he didn’t give any bribes, just applied as a resident of New Orleans through the right channels.’

‘But he’s not exactly a resident, is he?’

‘You kiddin’ me? They got palatial residences, three, maybe even four. Rch as Croesus. Mind you, rumour was while back now, more’n twenty-five years, that she, Elizabeth Seal, and a big tycoon by the name of Lloyd Dulay were an item, and he kind of added to the lady’s fortune.’

‘He’s one of the partners in Caley’s casino development, isn’t he?’ Rooney asked.

‘Yep, a couple of heavy hitters on his side. I’d say it’ll go through eventually. Just a question of time.’

‘You ever hear any rumour ’bout Elizabeth Caley having a drug problem?’

‘What, you kiddin’ me? No fucking way.’

Rooney sighed. ‘So, can you give me more details on how your investigation was set up? There was a big reward out and quite a few claimants, right?’

‘True, but by the time we sifted through their so-called eye-witness reports it was all bullshit, and a number of ’em had been set up by a few officers trying to get their hands on the reward...’

‘What do you think happened to her?’

Harper wiped the sweat from his face. ‘The girl picked up some drifter, they got into an argument and he killed her. There was only one arrest, old jazz player by the name of Fryer Jones, somebody said they’d seen him talking to her out in the Quarter.’

Rooney frowned. ‘You had an arrest? But that’s not in any report back in LA.’

‘Well, it wouldn’t be, would it? LA is LA, this is New Orleans, and things happen a little bit different down here. You might not even find a report on Fryer Jones in our department either.’

‘Why?’

‘Because nobody likes to get on the wrong side of that old buzzard. He’s very influential and we got people here with heavy superstitious minds. Fryer’s real clever at twisting minds to suit himself.’

‘I don’t follow, how strong was the case against him?’

Harper shrugged. ‘Just someone thought they had seen Anna Louise Caley talkin’ to him. Like he’s not far from the hotel, not in the same kind of district, mind, but his place is no more than a ten-, fifteen-minute walk away. We got nobody else to verify the eye witness’s report and he was found floatin’ in the river ’bout five months back, so like I said—’

‘You think he was murdered because of his report against this Fryer?’

‘Quite possibly, but there again he was a junkie so he could’a easily tripped and fallen into the river.’

‘So no charges were brought?’

‘Nope. Fryer denied seeing Anna Louise Caley and he had ’bout twenty witnesses that said he never left his bar that night, so we let him go.’ Harper checked his wristwatch. ‘I’m on duty.’

‘You think he’d talk to me?’

Harper hitched his pants over his belly. ‘Up to you, but I wouldn’t go near his bar alone or at night, it’s kinda off limits. We don’t bother him and he don’t bother us, and like I said, he’s a man I keep my distance from because believe it or not, that voodoo crap really fucks with your head, know what I mean?’

Lorraine felt better after she had taken a shower and two aspirin, and not until she was wrapped in her bathrobe did she check the messages that had come in for her. There were four messages to contact Robert Caley and one to call Lloyd Dulay. She stared at Caley’s name, wanting to call him but afraid even to hear his voice, so she called Lloyd Dulay, who was not at home. She was just about to lie down on the bed when there was a rap at her door.

‘It’s me and Bill,’ Nick called.

She sighed, not wanting to see them.

‘I was just going to take a shower,’ she lied as she opened the door.

‘Go ahead, I’ll join you,’ Nick grinned.

Rooney was not amused. He was hot and sweaty, his feet felt like swollen balloons, and he sat on a straight-backed chair as Nick slumped down on the single bed.

‘Well, you can both hang on until we’ve talked a few things through,’ Rooney said with a touch of irritation. ‘Right, this cop had some very interesting information.’

‘I hope so, you coughed up five hundred dollars for it,’ Nick yawned, his face twisting as he rubbed at his leg. ‘Christ, I hate this city, my leg is driving me nuts, it’s the damp.’

Rooney flicked out his notes. ‘Can we get down to business?’

The phone rang. Lorraine looked at Nick. ‘Can you get it? If it’s Robert Caley, say I’m not here, and if it’s reception, will you tell them to hold all calls?’

‘Sure.’ Nick reached over and picked up the bedside phone, pleased by the fact that she didn’t want to see Caley. ‘Mrs Page’s room.’

‘I interviewed this cop, right?’ Rooney went on, ‘And he told me that the bastards down here had made an arrest.’

Nick gestured to Lorraine. ‘She’s right here.’ He covered the phone.

‘Who is it?’ she whispered.

‘Something to do with Tilda Brown, it’s the cops.’

She pulled a face and took the phone, inching on to the bed beside Nick.

‘Lorraine Page speaking.’ She listened, then her body straightened. ‘Yes, I did, today, yes. I’m sorry?’

Rooney and Nick were all ears; just by her body language they knew something was up.

‘Yes, of course, I’ll come straight away. Oh, then I’ll wait outside the hotel.’

Lorraine replaced the receiver. ‘Tilda Brown hanged herself sometime this afternoon. They want to interview me, they found my card in the pocket of her robe, they know I was there this morning...’

‘Shit,’ Nick said softly.

Lorraine was really shaken, pressing her hand to her forehead. ‘They’re sending a squad car... Oh, shit, goddamn it! The stupid, stupid girl.’

Nick reached for her hand. ‘Come now, get yourself together. If you want I’ll come with you.’

She eased away from him. ‘No, no, stay here, talk over everything we’ve come up with. Oh, God! Why did she go and fucking do this, why?’

‘Come on, you can’t blame yourself, Lorraine,’ Rooney interjected.

Lorraine headed for the bathroom and then turned. ‘No? I really grilled her, I even showed her that fucking picture of Anna Louise and... I didn’t have anything to do with it? Who you kidding?’ She slammed the bathroom’s inadequate louvred door.

Nick looked at Rooney. ‘Maybe go to my room, leave her alone for a while.’

Rooney sighed. ‘Okay, but I need a beer or something, this heat is wearing me to shreds.’

‘I’ll be right with you.’ Nick waited for the door to close before he got up and walked to the bathroom; he didn’t knock, but walked straight in. Lorraine was standing shaking, gripping the wash-hand basin with both hands, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t even have the energy to tell him to leave, and he prised her hands loose, then drew her close, holding her tightly as she rested her head on his shoulder.

‘Sshhh, don’t fight me, you just let it all out. It’ll make you feel a whole lot better, believe me, I know.’

She clung to him, and he scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. He laid her down on the bed, and as he had so wanted earlier, lay beside her, holding her in his arms, and even kissing her gently as she wept. She needed him, though she didn’t want him as badly as he wanted her, but even being close to her gave him hope, still more when she leaned on her elbow and looked into his face.

‘You’re one of a kind, you know that, Bartello?’

‘Yeah, it’s been said before.’

She smiled, and he wiped her cheek with his finger. ‘That’s my girl. Now, do you want me with you?’

‘No, I’ve got to straighten myself out, I’ve made enough mistakes already, Nick.’

She took him by surprise when she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him on the lips, sweetly and platonically, but he was thrown into turmoil none the less. He was wise enough — and had enough self-control — not to push things any further, but the kiss had given him more hope than ever before.

‘You got me, Mrs Page, you know that, don’t you?’

She drew away from him, already disciplining herself to get moving and face the police.

‘Did you hear what I just said?’

She turned and looked at him in the way he adored, her head on one side and her hair falling across to hide her scar. ‘Maybe, Nick, I ain’t worth having!’

He laughed as he sauntered to the door, and walked out without looking back. ‘I’ll be the judge of that!’

By the time Lorraine was dressed, two little white message envelopes had been posted beneath her door: Lloyd Dulay returning her call, and Robert Caley, saying that he needed to see her urgently and that Elizabeth Caley was arriving in New Orleans that evening. She picked them up as she left for the waiting patrol car.

‘I was here this morning with a group,’ Rosie said to the young man who had taken over the later shift at the Voodoo Museum: he seemed graceless in comparison to the smiling young woman who had been at the desk earlier.

‘If it’s lost property we ain’t found nothing today,’ he said, without even looking up from his newspaper.

‘It isn’t. I want to make enquiries about a video,’ Rosie persisted, passing over the Page Investigations Agency card.

‘This isn’t a video store, ma’am.’ He didn’t even glance at the card.

‘I know that, but it’s a particular video, an old film called The Swamp, starring Elizabeth Seal as Marie Laveau, and none of the video stores have it. I know the film was made, I’ve seen the portrait of Miss Seal as—’

The paper snapped shut. ‘I think you must be mistaken, Elizabeth Seal is white, Marie Laveau was coloured. If you want another guided tour...’

His eyes bore into Rosie, frightening her, but she didn’t back off. ‘They use make-up, you know, and...’

‘And you didn’t hear me right, ma’am, you got the wrong information. And if you don’t want a tour then you should leave.’

‘Thank you, I’ll have another tour.’

He sullenly took her money for another tour ticket and ignored her as she moved past him and said she would wait for a guide inside. She stood in the dim, scented room for some minutes, but no one joined her. She waited on, her heart beating. Then came the soft drum-beat, and she wondered if the young man had turned on a tape.

Rosie stepped into the hallway and looked at the portraits of the queens, but it was Marie Laveau’s image she saw constantly in her mind’s eye, the glowing face, the eerie, pitch-dark eyes. She physically jumped when she heard someone behind her, not the young guide but a tall, austere-looking black man with iron-grey hair. He wore a smart grey suit and a white shirt with a stiff collar and tie. He held Lorraine’s card in one large, finely made hand.

‘Are you Mrs Lorraine Page?’ His voice was quiet and deep.

‘No, I am her assistant, well, partner, my name is—’

‘Please come through,’ he said, gesturing to the room at the back.

Rosie was so scared she was hyperventilating. She was sure it was much darker than it had been, and the drumbeat was becoming unnerving.

‘What precisely are you investigating?’

Rosie shifted her weight from foot to foot. ‘Well, that is really a private matter, but we have been hired by Mr and Mrs Robert Caley.’

‘What for, precisely?’ the man enquired, keeping his eyes fixed on her face.

‘Er, they had a daughter, her name was Anna Louise Caley and she disappeared eleven months ago from here. Well, not exactly here here, but from her hotel in New Orleans.’

‘Mmm, yes, I recall reading about it,’ his deep voice rumbled. ‘So what has this film to do with... Caley, you said?’

‘Yes, it’s just that Mrs Caley used to be Elizabeth Seal.’

‘Ah, yes, so she was, the film star, a very beautiful woman.’

Rosie felt more confident and stepped closer. ‘Her first film was called The Swamp and there is a painting in her home, almost identical to the portrait of—’

‘Queen Marie Laveau.’

‘Yes. And we, that is Mrs Page and I, and Captain Rooney who is also part of the agency, well, we would like to see the film.’

‘Why?’

Rosie licked her lips. ‘Er, I don’t know, to be honest, it’s just that we are trying to piece together backgrounds, that sort of thing, and it was such a coincidence, me being here and seeing the painting, that’s all really.’

‘Mmm, that’s all. But you see, it isn’t quite as simple as that.’

‘I’m sorry?’

He leaned forward, the candlelight illuminating his handsome features. ‘Let me try to explain something to you. Queen Marie is a very special part of our heritage. We are proud of her, we worship her, she brought hope and faith when there was none. We took great exception to this film you referred to. It was a betrayal of our faith, a typical Hollywood commercial vehicle that was a distortion of the facts. This film is dismissed, disowned, and no one in New Orleans, in the state of Louisiana, will acknowledge its existence.’

‘So it was about voodoo, this film?’

He stared at her and then shook his head, smiling. ‘Let us say it was an attempt to portray our great queen and it was an insult to her memory. To begin with, they cast a white woman in the role: Elizabeth Seal may have black blood in her veins but she is ashamed to admit it, even though she has for many years been a generous benefactor to our cause.’ He gave a formal bow. ‘So if you will excuse me.’

‘Are you saying that Elizabeth Caley—’

‘Is a believer and a very generous and caring woman. Please pass on my condolences to her regarding her daughter. Good evening.’

‘Thank you very much,’ Rosie stuttered, still unsure if she had heard correctly. But she didn’t wait around. The drum-beats were in time with her own heart and it scared the hell out of her.

Lorraine sat in the stifling, overheated office in the New Orleans police department. A female officer was taking down her statement. A wiry detective sergeant sat behind a cluttered desk, his chair creaking at every twist of his body.

‘So you do not know of any reason why Miss Tilda Brown would have taken this tragic course of action?’

‘No. As I have already said, I was there for no more than three quarters of an hour, going over, in fact, your previous enquiries, whether or not Anna Louise Caley visited her on the night she disappeared, routine questions...’

‘Did she seem perplexed or upset?’

‘Yes, she was Anna Louise’s best friend so she obviously got upset.’ Her brain was ticking over at ninety miles an hour, deciding not to mention the photograph, or the insinuations regarding Anna Louise and her father being lovers.

‘Well, it’s a tragedy, but who knows what goes on in a youngster’s mind?’ said the sergeant, his chair creaking ominously.

‘Yes, who knows?’ she repeated, and then hesitated. ‘Are you sure it was suicide? Did she leave a note?’

He frowned. ‘We have no indication any other party was involved.’

‘So there was a note?’

He nodded. ‘I am unable to disclose its contents as it was personal to her parents. She was their only child.’

‘But it was suicide?’

‘Yes, it was. She was wearing only a silk kimono and she had taken the belt, tied it to a curtain rail, stepped up on a small dressing-table stool and kicked it away. There were no visible signs of violence on her body other than the marks left by the belt. Her mother found her, and is under sedation. As I said, she was an only child.’

Lorraine stopped at the hotel reception, said that although she was in she wanted no calls and did not want to be disturbed by anyone, that included her associates also staying at the hotel.

There were more white envelopes with telephone messages posted beneath her door, but she stepped over them. She hadn’t even opened the ones she had taken with her. She felt drained and didn’t want to face anyone, talk to anyone, even Robert Caley, because she blamed herself for Tilda Brown’s death. She wanted to go over everything that she had said, everything Tilda Brown had said, because somewhere there would be a clue as to why a beautiful eighteen-year-old girl with everything to live for had gone to such tragic lengths. Maybe there was even a clue to Anna Louise Caley’s disappearance.