Thigh High (7 page)

Nessa knew Brad Rosewell. She liked him and Melissa. She had attended their wedding. But for the first time, she realized what the note meant. “So you liked Mr. Rosewell. You hadn't told him. You hadn't told
anyone
?”

“No one,” Melissa agreed.

“How did the Beaded Bandits
know
?” Nessa asked.

Jeremiah's face looked hard, unyielding, like one of the masks he deplored. “They timed everything perfectly. They came during the busiest time of the week, when everyone was distracted and wanted to go home. They wore costumes that both disguised them and, during Mardi Gras, attracted no attention. They deliberately picked Melissa and used her secret to slow her reaction time. Everything about the robbery proves they coolly plotted each move—and they observed Melissa enough to know what she believed was secret. Everyone in New Orleans seems to be under the impression, because the thieves don't steal large amounts and they write adorable little notes, that they are spontaneous. They are not.” For one second, his mask cracked.

He was coldly furious. He took these robberies personally.

Interesting. Nessa wouldn't have thought an insurance investigator would care so much.

“Mrs. Rosewell, tell Miss Dahl what else the note said,” he prompted.

“Please, without making a fuss, deposit $1,192.45 in small bills in the bag,”
Melissa recited.

“I vaguely remember hearing that is the most money taken,” Nessa said.

“The amount of money demanded has not escalated. In fact, the other robberies were for less.” Mac's frustration sounded like ground glass.

“I didn't know what to do. I was so stunned. I didn't think to hit the alarm button.” Melissa pushed the coffee away. “I didn't do anything, just stood there. Mr. Debutante reached into his purse. He pulled out a tiny silver pistol and he pointed it at me. I just…I thought…I still stood there, and the guy said, ‘Now.'”

Fascinated, Nessa hitched her chair forward. “What did his voice sound like?”

“Low. Husky.”

“Accent?” Jeremiah asked.

“Sir,
you
have an accent,” Melissa snapped.

Nessa smothered a grin.

Jeremiah said nothing, waiting patiently for the young women to get back on track.

“I didn't notice an accent,” Melissa said, “but I was scared. No one realized what was going on. The line was as long as ever. The other cashiers were busy. Cooper, our security guard, was dealing with the usual cranks who had arrived too late to get in, turning them away at the door. The other transvestite…the other transvestite held a much larger pistol in the folds of her skirt. His skirt. The skirt. Mr. Debutante said, ‘Don't push the silent alarm. Don't make me shoot you. Just put the money in my bag.' I knew if he shot me at this range, even with that tiny pistol, I would die. I didn't want to die. So I put the deposit slip in the machine, typed in $1,192.45, popped open my drawer, and pulled a handful of hundreds out.” She gripped the edge of the table. “The guy told me to count it out exactly. Didn't want more, didn't want less. I was counting, ‘One hundred, two hundred…' And all the while I kept thinking that the silent alarm button was right there by my knee, and if I scooted over a little, I could set it off. It was like he knew what I was thinking. He made a tiny circle with the pistol and said, ‘Don't do it.'” She stopped, gasping.

Scooting over, Jeremiah put his arm around Melissa. “Take deep breaths. It's over. You did the right thing. You're alive, and you're helping with the investigation. When you get scared, think of that.”

“I have nightmares sometimes,” Melissa admitted.

“Revenge will cure your nightmares. I promise.”

Nessa almost jumped when he smiled into Melissa's face.

Wow. He could turn on the magic. And…sweet? Yeah. Maybe sweet.

Melissa visibly calmed. “I would like revenge.” She smiled a little and straightened. “This is when it got really weird.”

“As opposed to being robbed by well-dressed transvestites.” Jeremiah was still smiling.

“Right. I said to Mr. Debutante, ‘I really need this job.' And Mr. Debutante said, ‘You need to finish college.' He sounded stern, like my mother. I finished counting out the cash, put it in an envelope, and shoved it across the counter. He took the money, said, ‘You don't want to work as a teller your whole life. You might run into someone like me again.' When he said, ‘Now step back from the window,' he glanced behind him, so I pushed the silent alarm, screamed, and threw myself on the floor.” Melissa glanced over Nessa's shoulder. “Brad!”

“Are you done questioning my wife?” Brad Rosewell spoke from behind Nessa.

She heard the anxiety hidden behind the hostility in his tone, and as she turned, she said lightly, “Almost done. I don't think we've taxed her too much. Have you met Mr. Mac?”

Jeremiah rose and the two men shook hands, measuring each other.

They were, in one way, almost identical. Both were tall, distinguished-looking men in dark suits, white shirts, red ties. Both sported an air of authority, but there the resemblance ended.

Brad Rosewell looked like a bank manager, a man who understood numbers and who worked well with employees and customers.

Jeremiah Mac looked like a thug in a designer suit.

“Mrs. Rosewell has been very helpful,” Jeremiah said. “Won't you sit down while we finish up?”

Brad slid a chair close to his wife and took her hand.

“I'm fine,” she said. “Really.”

Brad didn't relax, but leaned toward Jeremiah. “I want you to understand, I want those Beaded Bandits caught. At the same time, I hate rehashing that day. I almost lost my job, and worse, I almost lost Melissa.”

“What do you mean, you almost lost your job?” Nessa asked.

Mac sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

“That night, I got a phone call from Mr. MacNaught. That guy is psychotic about losing money. I mean, he's a banker, we're all psychotic about money, but he was over the edge. He pounded on me, asked me all kinds of questions.” Melissa rubbed Brad's arm as he talked. “I know he'd already received the security tape from the bank, so I don't know what he thought he could find out, but I thought for sure he was going to fire me.”

“Because your bank got robbed?” Nessa was incredulous.

“‘The buck stops here,' he said.” Brad blotted his forehead with a napkin. “Every Mardi Gras, I think,
Please don't let them hit my bank again.
”

“Mr. MacNaught sent me to find the culprits, so with your wife's help, you don't need to worry anymore.” Sitting in the shadowy coffee shop, Jeremiah looked like a stone carving.

“Thank you, sir.” Brad Rosewell stood and shook Jeremiah's hand again. “I'm glad to hear that.” Putting his hand under Melissa's arm, he hoisted her to her feet. “Come on, honey, I'll take you home.”

Jeremiah got to his feet also. “One more question, Mrs. Rosewell. Is there other information you want to pass on? Anything at all?”

She took a breath. Looked at her husband. At Jeremiah's stern face. And shook her head. “No. Nothing.”

The noise, scents, and appearance of the New Orleans streets spilled into the cramped lobby of the NOPD. Accents of every kind assaulted Mac's ears—French, Italian, Spanish, and Cajun. People smelled of sweat, perfume, and beer. They wore elaborate costumes. They wore masks. One guy wore tennis shoes and nothing else. A woman cried because her pocket had been picked. Another cried because she'd been caught picking pockets. A line of a dozen people stood waiting to talk to a frazzled-looking police officer. Policemen moved among the crowd, coercing, comforting, cajoling.

“They need a bigger building,” Mac said.

Nessa snorted. “They're lucky to have this. Since the hurricane, most of the fire departments are working out of trailers.

“Now, here's what we're going to do.” Nessa slid her sunglasses off her nose and hung them on the V of her blouse. “I'm going to get you in to talk to the chief of police. Chief Cutter's been involved in the investigation, and he's taken a lot of heat for not making any arrests.”

“I would hope so.” Mac removed his sunglasses and placed them in the sunglass case in the left inner pocket of his suit jacket, and used the excuse to look at Nessa.

He wouldn't have thought it possible, but she was prettier in person than on the video, with more charisma and a soft, warm voice that made his libido race like a Chevy 427. She reminded Mac of sex performed in the sunshine, of passion before a roaring fire, of love…. Pure, glorious, everlasting love.

She continued, “So you can ask questions, but when you do, smile. You can talk to whoever you want, but if I nudge you or kick you or step on your foot, you smile.”

“Right. Smile,” he repeated.

She could make any man lose his head, and Mac figured she did—once a year without fail.

She didn't suspect him of being anything but what he said, a guy investigating the Beaded Bandits, and she gave him her complete assistance. Why wouldn't she? Being in control of the investigator gave her the illusion of being in control of the investigation.

“I'm sure we could have gotten more information out of Melissa Rosewell if you hadn't been standing there with that big ol' stone face.”

“Mrs. Rosewell was very helpful,” he answered austerely.

Austere
was a good description for him, he felt, especially in New Orleans during the wild celebration that was Mardi Gras.

“But she didn't give us that last juicy little detail because you made her feel dumb,” Nessa lectured.

“All right. I got it. I'll smile!” Nessa was irritating, like a mosquito buzzing around his head—but he also thought she was right. Melissa Rosewell had had something else to tell them, and between her husband and Mac, she'd faltered.

“Practice your smile on me,” she suggested.

He manipulated his lips in that unfamiliar upward tilt.

She studied him quizzically. “Maybe you'll get better with practice.”

This was their last stop of the day. So far, they'd visited every bank that had suffered a robbery, met the managers, met the tellers, and eaten lunch. Now Mac followed her through the lobby to the long line that led to the desk sergeant.

Officer Ernie Rippon stood behind bulletproof glass. He looked ready for retirement, and more than that, he looked as if he'd heard every story and believed none of them. His sagging, bulldog face sagely observed every person who stepped up. He handed out forms, gave directions, and called for assistance with quiet efficiency.

But when Mac and Nessa reached the front of the line, Nessa smiled at him as if he were her best friend. Of course. “Ernie, you are looking debonair today.”

Ernie glared, then laughed. “Yeah, chère, I look debonair today. You can't find a more debonair officer on the force. But that's because”—he glared again from bloodshot eyes—“it's Mardi Gras!”

“Are the tourists crazier than normal?” she asked sympathetically.

“No. Yes. I don't know.” Ernie observed Mac in one sweeping glance. “You pick yourself up a tourist? Because I have to tell you, Miss Dahl, he's a big one.”

“I didn't pick him up. He was given to me.” She injected amusement and friendship in her tone. “This is Mr. Jeremiah Mac. Through no fault of his own, he is an insurance investigator.”

Mac nodded a greeting.

“Welcome to our fair city, Mr. Mac.” Ernie might be world weary, but he was courteous. “Are you here to celebrate or investigate?”

“He's here to investigate,” Nessa said firmly.

“Let the man talk,” Ernie said.

“No, he's not allowed.” She put her hand on Mac's arm as if holding him back. “Also through no fault of his own, he's a Yankee.”

Ernie laughed until he coughed, a smoker's hack that sounded as if he were bringing up a lung. “I do not kill Yankees for less than a misdemeanor.”

Nessa laughed, too, and dug her heel into Mac's instep.

Mac smiled.

“Mr. Mac wishes to see the tapes and transcripts of the Mardi Gras robberies,” Nessa said.

“Now?” Ernie's wide eyes bulged. “Miss Dahl, Chief Cutter hasn't got time now. After Easter, he can—”

Nessa smoothly interrupted his rant. “We can't wait until after Easter—you know that. By then there'll be another successful robbery, and the bank's insurance company will be angrier than they already are.”

That made sense to Mac, but Ernie almost spat with fury. “It's not the insurance company, is it? It's that CEO, that head of your lousy bank. He has made the chief's life miserable—”

“I know, Ernie.” Nessa verbally patted Ernie's hand. “But Mr. Mac is merely the poor man who works for the insurance company, and he is very sorry to be a bother—aren't you, Jeremiah?”

“Very sorry,” Mac repeated.

“But he has a job to do. And, Ernie, I promised to help him.” Nessa managed to look both sorrowful and determined.

“No choice, eh?” Ernie glanced at the ever-growing line behind them. “I'll call Rav Woodland to take you back. Might as well give the boy a thrill.” He winked at her. “And, chère, I'll see you tonight.”

She flopped a vague hand in his direction and walked toward the door that led into the inner sanctum.

Mac didn't understand what Ernie meant about Rav Woodland until the young redheaded officer stepped into the lobby, caught sight of Nessa, and blushed all the way to the tips of his ears.

The kid was maybe twenty-one, and he was in love.

Had one of the thieves hid red hair beneath his wig?

“Rav!” Nessa stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “How's your daddy?”

Mac thought she was using slang until the kid answered, “He's good, Miss Nessa. That surgery cleared the pipes and he's golfing again. How are Miss Hestia and Miss Calista?”

“Busy as always.”

“That's right. Tonight's the big party!” The kid's eyes snapped with excitement as he led them through the locked door and into the depths of New Orleans law enforcement.

The big party. Nessa's big party?

Mac observed her discomforted glance at him.

Yes. Definitely Nessa's party. If ever a woman showed signs of guilt, it was Nessa.

“You see, Jeremiah, when Chief Cutter hires his officers, he tells them he's giving them a pen, a club, and a pistol, and during Mardi Gras, they're to use them all at the same time, all the time.” Nessa walked backward through the maze of desks and partitions. “The first year makes them or breaks them. Isn't that right, Rav?”

“Last Mardi Gras almost killed me,” Rav agreed.

Mac observed that the chaos was organized back here, with handcuffed prostitutes and criminals being led through the paperwork of arrest, and every officer writing on a stack of forms or walking rapidly toward some unknown goal or scowling intently at a computer screen.

No wonder Nessa had been eager to bring him here. She wanted him to see the relentless pace Mardi Gras forced on the police department.

“Mardi Gras madness is why no one pays attention to the Beaded Bandits. I've got it.” Mac looked directly into her eyes. “But let me remind you that most thieves are not benign, and when they realize the weakness in my banks, they'll do the job and do it right. We'll be out a fortune, the insurance company will ask for my head, and the investors will scream bloody murder.”

She watched him with a half smile. “
Your
banks?”

Mistake.
“I represent those banks.”

“Okay. Point taken,” she said.

“Let me tell the chief you're here.” Rav knocked on a door and at a muffled call, leaned in to say, “It's Miss Nessa Dahl with some guy wanting to know about the Mardi Gras Robberies.”

“Oh, for cripes sake. Send them in.” Just like everyone from New Orleans, Chief Cutter had an accent. But if Nessa's voice was warm butter, the chief's voice was grated horseradish.

Rav backed out at a speed that told Mac how quickly that horseradish could bring tears to the eyes. “See you tonight, Miss Dahl.”

Nessa performed that same vague wave she'd used on Ernie, and strode in as if she hadn't a care in the world. She walked around the desk, leaned down to the dashing forty-year-old in the police uniform, and kissed his cheek, then danced backward as he made a grab for her. “No, you don't, Chief. Last time you had an affair, your wife aimed your service pistol at you and shot a hole in your refrigerator, and I know for a fact she's been taking lessons so that next time she doesn't miss.”

“But, darlin', a taste of you would be worth death.” Chief Cutter had narrow brown eyes surrounded by laugh lines, a face tanned by years in the sun, and rumpled blond hair.

When he eyed Nessa seductively, Mac wanted to jerk him right out of his polished black shoes.

Odd. Every guy they'd met today had hit on her. Why did Cutter's attentions bother Mac?

Because Cutter was the kind of man with the experience and ability to entice a woman.

“That would be fine if she was satisfied with
your
death. But I'm afraid she'd want to kill me, too.” Nessa put the desk between her and the chief. “I'd like you to meet Jeremiah Mac, the insurance investigator for—”

“Yeah, I heard you were coming. Take a look, Mr. Mac.” Chief Cutter brusquely switched out of amiable mode. He waved a remote at the television set up in his office, hooked up to a five-disk DVD player. “Robbery number one. New Orleans, Mardi Gras. The thieves wore masks.” He flicked the remote. The picture changed. “Robbery number two. New Orleans, Mardi Gras. The thieves wore latex masks that looked lifelike.” He flicked the remote again. “And robbery number three, Baton Rouge, Mardi Gras. Lifelike masks again.”

Mac had seen it all before. Seen it many times. But, as always, the images on the screen commanded his attention. The on-screen robbers appeared in costume, passed a note, pointed a gun, collected the cash, and disappeared into the crowd outside.

“Hurricane Katrina comes through. Wrecks the city.” Chief Cutter was grim, telling the story as if he weren't sure Mac had heard about the greatest natural disaster in American history. “The first year, Mardi Gras proceeded in defiance of fate. The next year, Mardi Gras was bigger, bolder. The Big Easy was back.”

“Well. At least…it had recovered a wisp of its old spirit.” Nessa pulled up a chair and watched the screen in apparent fascination.

“Those two years, the banks saw no action,” the chief said. “Then robbery number four, New Orleans, Mardi Gras. You'll recognize the bank branch on Burgundy Street, the branch that got struck the second year. The same thieves, the same MO.”

“Two men, dressed as women, entered the bank and handed the teller a note demanding money”—Mac watched Nessa now, not the videos—“and giving fashion advice. Then they disappeared onto the street and they were invisible in the crowds.”

“While everyone in the bank claims to be bewildered and shocked.” Chief Cutter used the remote to stab at the screen. “Someone somewhere knows what's going on.”

“That's what
I've
been saying,” Mac said in profound satisfaction.

“Isn't robbing a bank is a federal crime?” Nessa asked—as if she didn't know.

The two men nodded.

“Why isn't the FBI involved?” Nessa looked from one to the other.

“The FBI has given some time to it, but they put a low priority on the case because of the lack of violence and the small amount of cash involved. As far as they're concerned, our robberies are about one step above a raid on a kid's piggy bank.” Chief Cutter was disgusted.

“In addition,” Mac said, “Agent Adams claims that when Mardi Gras rolls around, every professional criminal in the country heads for New Orleans for the easy pickings and a chance to party, and they're too busy cleaning
them
off the streets.”

“That, at least, is true.” Chief Cutter gestured toward the packed lobby. “When I've got every cop on the force working as many hours as I can squeeze out of them simply to keep control over the crowd and deal with the vicious crimes, it's damned hard to give these robberies top priority.”

“I've heard that one before,” Mac said.

“Yeah, yeah.” Chief Cutter ran through the DVDs again. “I still don't know what that CEO, that piece of dog doo you work for—pardon my French, Miss Nessa—wants me to do. He has every bit of information I have.”

“Good to know.” Certainly Mac recognized every piece of paper he picked up. “For a piece of dog doo, he's very thorough.”

“Chief. Mr. Mac knows the, um, piece of dog doo,” Nessa said gently.

“Do I look like I care? What does that idiot think I'm doing here? Not solving the crime so I look stupid?” The chief's voice rose with each question.

“Mr. MacNaught's frustration is as great as your own,” Mac said in a clipped tone.