Natalie's Revenge (4 page)

It sure was. “What do you mean?”

Holt pursed his lips like a prissy old maid. “He was about to be fired.”

“Fenwick, we'd save a lot of time if I didn’t have to pull every detail out of you like I was pulling bubblegum out of my daughter’s hair. Why was Peterson about to be fired?”

“He had a gambling problem. He asked Mr. Weston for an advance on his salary. When Mr. Weston asked why, Arnold said he had gambling debts.” Holt smiled tightly. “I don’t know how much he asked for, but Mr. Weston told me it was more than Arnold made in a year.”

Letting him know he was tight with the CEO. “Did you know he had a gambling problem?”

“No.”

“Was Peterson gambling here?” He couldn’t imagine it, but things were getting weird. 

“No, he wasn’t stupid enough to do that. Arnold was into sports betting.”

Frank thought about Corrine’s statement: When they’d met in Chicago, Peterson had been recruiting athletes to endorse Gillette products. Lots of pro teams in Chicago: the Bears, Black Hawks, Cubs and White Sox. Maybe that’s when he started gambling. Big cities offered plenty of betting opportunities, legit and otherwise. He wondered if Corrine Peterson knew about the debts.

Holt ostentatiously looked at his watch. A busy man.

“Tell me about Peterson's schedule yesterday. Did he have any unusual appointments?”

“No.”

“I’d like to see his appointment calendar.”

Holt flipped a page in a leather-bound calendar and handed it to him.

“Thanks. I’ll need to keep this for a while."

Holt frowned. "Well, I don't know ..."

"I can get a court order, Fenwick, but why not play nice. I'll sign a receipt for it, let you off the hook. I'm sure your employer would want you to help us solve Mr. Peterson's murder."

Holt's mouth quirked. "Fine. Take it. I'll have to reconstruct his schedule from his computer."

"I hear Peterson made some enemies on his way up. Can you give me some names?”

“Who told you that, his wife?” Holt sneered. “She’s got no complaints, takes her fat ass to the country club every day to booze it up with her friends.”

He revised his take on Fenwick Holt: self-important, snotty, and misogynistic. “Do you know anyone who wanted Arnold
dead
?” Leaning on the word to shake him up.

Holt’s eyes widened. “No, I don’t. I mean, I’m sure some people didn’t like him, but I don’t know of anyone who’d want to kill him.”

“Seems like you’re next in line for his job.”

Holt’s jaw dropped halfway to his chest. “You think I killed Arnold?”

“Where were you last night between ten and midnight?”

“Home with my wife! Ask Linda. She’ll tell you.”

“I’ll do that.” He stifled a yawn, calculating how much sleep he’d get tonight. First thing tomorrow he had a meeting with his boss. He was willing to bet the NOPD brass and the local politicians were already leaning on Detective Lieutenant Morgan Vobitch. A Babylon East executive murdered in one of the French Quarter’s premier hotels? Hell, that was a sure thing.

And his suspect list was growing. If Peterson borrowed money from a loan shark, maybe the shark sent his enforcer to collect the vig and the guy killed him because he wouldn't pay. Great. Add loan shark to an angry widow, disgruntled co-workers, and a self-important asswipe lusting after the dead man's job. Throw in the jealous husband of one of Peterson’s girlfriends, the possibilities were endless.

“If you think of anything helpful, give me a call. I’ll ask your wife to confirm your alibi.”

Holt stared at him, looking less self-important. “Hey, you want names? Talk to Ken Volpe and Ivan Ludlow. They weren’t too happy when Arnold landed the Marketing Director position.”

Nothing like being a murder suspect to cause an attitude adjustment.

“Do they still work here?”

“Hell no. Arnold forced them out.” Holt shot him a sanctimonious smile. “They aren’t grieving over Arnold’s death, I can promise you that.”

_____

Outside The Babylon, he dug out his cell and called Miller. 

“Yo, Frank, how'd it go with the widow? You think she killed him?”

“Hard to say at this point. Did you get anything from the hotel guests?”

“Got diddly. Two rooms on the sixth floor were unoccupied. The guy next door to Peterson's room went to Harrah’s last night, didn’t get back to his room till four a.m. The folks on the other side are on their honeymoon, went barhopping on Bourbon Street, didn’t get in till three. Nobody else heard a shot, no commotion, no screams. Wanna grab some lunch?”

He checked his watch. One-thirty, and he hadn't eaten. “Sure, but someplace close. We've got to watch the hotel security videos, remember?”

“Yeah. That'll be hours of fun. Better get me some Murine.”

He closed his cell and headed for the Eighth District Station. The first forty-eight hours of a murder investigation were crucial, and they had no leads.

What they had was a long list of people who might want Peterson dead.
 

CHAPTER 3

She stepped out of the stairwell and sauntered down the hallway.

A floppy broad-brimmed hat hid her face, but the grainy black-and-white video couldn’t conceal her athleticism, striding along in spike heels, a small purse slung over her shoulder. The spaghetti straps on her low-cut dress revealed well-toned arms, and the short skirt displayed her long muscular legs.

She stopped at Room 635 and tapped on the door.

Frank glanced at Miller, standing next to him behind the Hotel Bienvenue security chief. Miller mouthed:
Bingo.

Frank asked the security chief to pause the tape. Seated on a padded swivel chair, Stephen Taylor hit a button on the video control board. A balding man in his fifties, Taylor wore a dark business suit and reeked of cologne. The scent was overwhelming in the eight-by-six-foot cubicle. Crammed with equipment, the viewing room sported three tape decks, two sixteen-inch flat-screen monitors, a heavy-duty computer on a metal desk and an ink-jet printer on a stand beside it.

Frank noted the timestamp. At 10:14, the woman had entered Room 635, Arnold Peterson's room. Moments ago, they had watched Peterson enter the room at exactly 10:00 p.m. 

“Okay, Mr. Taylor. Start the tape.”

The video sprang to life, the door to Room 635 opened and Ms. Incognito stepped inside. An adrenaline-fueled buzz hit his gut. They had something, but he didn’t want to get too excited.

“Could you fast-forward the tape, Mr. Taylor?”

Taylor hit a button and images of the hall whirred by on the monitor. No one entered the hall from the stairwell. No one got off the elevator. No one entered or left any of the rooms. The tape kept rolling.

Antsy with anticipation, Frank focused on Room 635. At last, the door opened. Ms. Incognito stepped into the hall and closed the door. Taylor paused the tape and Frank noted the time. 11:30 p.m. 

“She was in there more than an hour,” Miller said.

“Shall I continue the tape?” Taylor asked.

“Not yet. Can you print out a freeze-frame when she leaves the room?”

Taylor got on the computer. Seconds later the printer spewed out a sheet of paper with a black-and-white nine-by-six-inch image.

"Thanks," Frank said. "We’ll want more, but for now let the tape roll. I want to see what she does.”

They watched her walk down the hall. She didn’t seem to be in a hurry, sashaying past the elevator. She opened the door to the fire stairs and disappeared. Frank toted up his impressions. Sexy. A long-legged stride. Confident. Athletic. Was she a hooker? The dress had a short skirt and a low-cut neckline, but the outfit was classy, not chintzy-looking. The shoes and the purse looked stylish. Expensive. Maybe she was Peterson's girlfriend. If she was a hooker, she was a high-priced hooker. 

“Let’s fast-forward the tape,” Miller said, his voice a low rumble in the cramped cubicle, “see if anyone else leaves the room.”

Images of the hallway whirred past on the monitor. No one left Peterson's room. No one appeared in the hall until 12:17 a.m. when a security guard left the elevator and trotted down the hall to Room 635.

“We’ve seen enough for now,” Frank said. “Could you rewind the tape to where she comes out of the stairwell and print some freeze-frame photos?”

Taylor hit Rewind, paused the tape when the woman appeared and printed a photo. Frank examined it. Only the lower part of her face was visible. The rest was hidden by the hat brim and her sunglasses. Ms. Incognito was taking no chances, wearing a floppy hat and shades, walking with her face angled away from the security camera. As though she knew it was there.

Girlfriend or hooker? A tough call. If she was Peterson's girlfriend, she might not want her face on a security video for any number of reasons.

Taylor handed them three more shots of the woman. Miller studied them a moment and said, “Long hair. Looks light colored, maybe blonde.”

“Could be a wig,” Frank said.

“Nobody else in or out of the room.” Miller looked at him, deadpan, but his eyes had a familiar mischievous look.

He waited for the zinger. A former LSU middle linebacker, Kenyon Miller was a mean presence on the job: six-foot-six, two-forty, all the more menacing because of his dark skin and shaven pate. Not only that, he was college educated and street-smart. Not only that, Miller had a wickedly-warped sense of humor, a welcome asset in a job that often involved revolting sights and smells, not to mention dangerous situations. All in all, a terrific partner.

"Frank," Miller said, “did you check under the bed last night?”

He cracked up. Humor didn’t erase the horrors they encountered, but it often allayed the tension. “No,” he said, “did you?”

“Well,” Taylor said, swiveling his chair to face them, “actually . . .”

Instantly alert, Frank said, “What?”

“There’s a fire escape outside the window of Room 635. That’s why Mr. Peterson rented it. He said he didn’t want to be trapped on the sixth floor if there was a fire.”

Miller rolled his eyes. “Great. Let’s go see it.”

Five minutes later Taylor let them into Room 635. The room was cool now, but a faint unpleasant odor lingered. Only the box spring remained on the four-poster double bed. The forensic techs had taken the mattress and bedding. The hotel wouldn’t be renting this room anytime soon.

Frank went to the window and pulled back the drapes. Two latches on either side of the casing were open. "It's unlocked. Kenyon, you got a pen?"

Miller handed him a felt-tipped marker. Using Miller's marker and his own ballpoint pen, he eased open the window. It slid up smooth as silk, without a squeak. He leaned out and took a look.

A wrought-iron fire escape bolted to the rear of the hotel zigzagged down to the second floor. Below it was an alley lined with green dumpsters.

He backed away so Miller could take a look.

“Better get the techs to come back and dust for prints,” Miller said.

“Can I close the window?” Taylor asked.

“No, leave it,” Frank said. “We’ll need to take that security video.”

“Yes, sir. Did you want to watch the other tapes now?”

Miller shot Frank a look that said,
No way
. Aloud Miller said, "Let’s watch the tapes for the lobby, do the rest tomorrow.”

After Frank put in a call for the forensics team, they watched the videos that covered the hotel entrance. Several women entered and left the hotel between ten p.m.  and one-thirty a.m., but none wore a floppy hat and a dress with a mini-skirt and spaghetti straps. Frank bagged and tagged the tape with the mystery woman, told Taylor they’d be back tomorrow and they left.

Inside the elevator they took turns yawning. Neither of them had gotten much sleep last night. Now it was four o’clock. Almost seventeen hours since Ms. Incognito with the confident long-legged stride entered Peterson’s room and did whatever she did. If she shot Peterson and left the hotel, she wasn’t on the security tapes that covered the entrance. Another puzzle to solve.  

“Man, the fire escape was a curveball,” Miller said. “Maybe Peterson's wife hired her so she could blackmail him. Maybe the shooter used the woman to get Peterson in a compromising position."

He thought about it. Most widows begged him to find their husband’s killer, but not Corrine Peterson. The spouse was always the prime suspect, but her anguished expression when he asked why she hadn’t filed for divorce remained an after-image in his mind. At forty-five, Corrine figured her options were limited. Maybe she was right. Would he date her? Doubtful.

They were almost the same age, but she was angry and bitter. He figured he had a lot of good years left. Besides, he had Kelly, a woman he cared deeply about, and they still had great times in bed. This morning he'd woken up with a hard-on. He was looking forward to seeing her on Friday. But if they didn't get a lead on the Peterson case, he might have to work. Bummer.

"She's not your typical grieving widow, but I don't get the sense she killed him. Peterson had gambling debts. Maybe he didn't pay the vig."

"Frank, you really think Peterson told some mobster to go fuck himself, and the guy shot him?”

“Hey, right now anything’s possible."

“My money’s on the woman. Coulda had a mean little gun in that fancy purse she was carrying. Mm, mm, mm. A female hitter. That's a first for me.”

"Me, too. Maybe she's Peterson's girlfriend. It’s obvious she didn’t want to be seen, used the stairs instead of the elevator to avoid running into anyone. But the fire escape opens up a whole new scenario. We can't discount the possibility that someone else got in and out of the room that way.”

"Frank, you're making it too complicated. Did you see
The Last Seduction
?”

“Yeah. Great flick. Linda Fiorentino was something.”

“No kidding. She was hot, before it was hip to be hot," Miller said. "She also knew how to use a gun.”

_____

He left the Holt residence at 5:30 and got in his car. According to Linda Holt, Fenwick had come home at seven Wednesday night, after which they ate dinner, watched TV and went to bed. Pictures of Jesus and religious statuary decorated the Holt living room. Linda wouldn’t lie to him in front of the Virgin Mary, would she?

Cross Mr. Self-important off the suspect list. Unless he’d hired a hitter.

Frank toyed with that scenario. The woman was the hitter. Dressed like a hooker. Flirts with Peterson, goes up to his room and pops him.

He couldn't picture it. A female hitter? In the movies maybe, but in real life? Doubtful.

Another possibility. The woman was a hooker or paid to look like one. She goes in the room, unlocks the window while Peterson's in the bathroom, gets him hot to trot and the hitter comes in through the window. He didn't like that scenario much better than the first one.

Miller was right. He was over-thinking the case, conjuring complicated scenarios. The woman went in the room and killed Peterson. Simple. Over and out. But why?

Walking away from Peterson's room she didn't behave like a killer. She acted nonchalant, like she didn't have a care in the world.

A new possibility hit him. What if Peterson wasn't dead when she left the room? What if the hitter was still in there with Peterson? What if she didn't know Peterson was about to get whacked?

Overtaken by weariness, he yawned. Man, if he didn’t get some sleep tonight, he’d never make it to the weekend. He dug out his cell and hit the speed-dial for Kelly's home phone.

“Hey, Frank, how’re you doing?” she said in a low husky voice.

The husky voice that always turned him on. “Wasted and I’m not talking alcohol. How about you?”

“Hold on, okay? I need to shut off the torch.”

After her NOPD workday his lover fired up her creative side. She made jewelry in a workshop in her garage, not tacky little trinkets, not chintzy beads strung into necklaces like you'd buy on Bourbon Street. In addition to being a smart detective and sexy as hell, Kelly O’Neil was a master welder. She fashioned small pieces of brass into elegant earrings, brooches and bracelets, which she then painted with various shades of enamel.

She came back on the line and said, “Looks like you’ve got your work cutout for you, huh? The Peterson murder is the lead on all the local channels. All kinds of wild rumors and speculation.”

“Yeah. I'm meeting with Vobitch first thing tomorrow. He's under the gun, all kinds of politicians crawling up his ass.”

“Nothing new there. How’s it going? Any leads?”

“Got leads up the wazoo. The guy was a ruthless son-of-a-bitch. He was also screwing around on his wife. And then there’s the mysterious woman on the security video ...”

“Ooooh,” Kelly crooned. “Tell me more.”

“I would but I gotta go back to the office and prep for the meeting and then I better crash. Are we on for dinner tomorrow night?” They had dinner together every Friday.

“Sounds great. I’ll get the takeout. You’ve got enough to worry about.”

“Thanks. I’m not sure what time. I’ll call you around five and we’ll figure it out.” He flipped his cell shut and smiled.

Talking to Kelly always put him in a good mood.

If he wasn’t so tired he’d go over there right now and jump her.