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Murder on Spirit Island E-Book

Jim Riley

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Herausgeber: Next Chapter
Kategorie: Krimi
Sprache: Englisch

Beschreibung

Young private investigator Niki Dupre faces her first big case, as she's called to investigate an alleged conspiracy of construction tycoons.

Strong-willed and resourceful, Niki faces more heat than any crawfish, gumbo or Boudin link she has ever tasted. Digging deeper into the mystery, she discovers layer after layer of deception and betrayal.

Soon, Niki discovers that the most dangerous predators on Spirit Island are not alligators, water moccasins or coyotes, but something else entirely. But can she find out who is behind the conspiracy and bring them to justice?

A fast-paced tale set in Cajun Country, Murder On Spirit Island is the first book in Jim Riley's Niki Dupre Mysteries series.

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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

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Leseprobe

MURDER ON SPIRIT ISLAND

NIKI DUPRE MYSTERIES BOOK 1

JIM RILEY

Mississippi River Delta

Present Day

Saturday Night

Early Sunday Morning

Sunday Night

Monday Morning

Monday Afternoon

Monday Morning

Tuesday Morning

Tuesday Afternoon

Tuesday Night

Wednesday Morning

Wednesday Noon

Wednesday Afternoon

Wednesday Night

Thursday Morning

Wednesday Morning

Wednesday Afternoon

Wednesday Night

Thursday Morning

Thursday Noon

Thursday Afternoon

Thursday Evening

Thursday Night

Friday Morning

Friday

Friday Afternoon

Friday Night

Saturday Morning

Friday Night

Saturday Morning

Saturday

Saturday Afternoon

Saturday Night

Sunday Morning

Sunday Afternoon

Next in the Series

About the Author

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

The Devil whispered in my ear, “You’re not strong enough to withstand the storm.” Today I whispered in the Devil’s ear, “I am the storm.”

Unknown

Murder is always a mistake. One should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.

Oscar Wilde

Under the rules of a society that cannot distinguish between profit and profiteering, between money defined as necessity and money defined as luxury, murder is occasionally obligatory and always permissible.

Lewis Lapham

You feel that last bit of breath leaving the body. You’re looking into their eyes. A person in that situation is God!

Ted Bundy, serial killer

We’ve all got the power in our hands to kill but most people are afraid to use it.

Richard Ramirez, the Hillside Strangler

MISSISSIPPI RIVER DELTA

1699

MISSISSIPPI RIVER DELTA

Humping Dog’s hormones soared like a water hawk when he looked across the mighty Mississippi River. Her stunning beauty stopped him cold. He had heard of the fair maiden of the Bayogoula tribe on the east side of roaring waters, but never in his wildest dreams did he think he would catch sight of the exquisite creature in the flesh. All her flesh. She bathed along a sandbar without a stitch of buckskins.

The fourteen-year-old from the Houma encampment on the west bank of the river suffered at the hands of the other kids in the thatched homes because of his moniker. His mother believed in the tradition of naming her offspring after seeing the first animal when leaving the birthing house. It could have been worse. His sister’s moniker was Limping Horse. His little brother was Shriveled Lizard, though Humping Dog was unsure if his mother saw a lizard. The kid only lowered his loincloth until at least waist deep in the water.

According to the rituals of the Houma elders, Humping Dog could pick out his adult name when he accomplished a feat of manhood. Taking Spotted Doe, the alluring Bayogoula girl on the far bank for his mate, would more than meet the criteria. He decided tonight would be the one that he, Humping Dog, would become a man. He would capture the daughter of the Chief of the Bayogoulas.

Long after all his tribe members were asleep, Humping Dog took his father's lance and crept down to the Mississippi. The youngster quietly untied a canoe and pushed off. The rapid current tried to push him south of the Bayogoula camp. He used every bit of strength in his wiry teenage body to keep the canoe on track.

When he reached the eastern bank, Humping Dog’s nerves almost failed. The moon cast long shadows from the cypress and willow trees. An owl screeched from his low perch. To the boy's chagrin, he came ashore where the post stood. This marked the boundary between the tribes. To trespass beyond the post would mean certain death if caught. Humping Dog possessed little bravery. Spiders scared him. Garter snakes scared him. Sounds in the night scared him. He gained two feet from the canoe and turned to go back to safety.

Then he remembered seeing Spotted Doe. He stopped. Nothing could keep him from claiming the prize of a lifetime. He imagined the reception he would receive among the tribal elders after securing Spotted Doe. Not to mention the newfound respect. He turned back around and stalked up the bank. As silently as a feather floating through the air, the aspiring warrior crept through the dense vegetation. The only sound came from his pounding heart.

He stayed off the beaten trail, not wanting to meet a real warrior on his way to the camp. Every nerve in Humping Dog's body tingled with excitement and fear.

After twenty long minutes, he approached the perimeter of the village. Peaking around a massive live oak, Humping Dog immediately sensed something was wrong. The Bayogoulas were not the only ones in the camp. He saw several fair-skinned men in strange clothing asleep by the fires. He had no way of knowing that these men were part of a French expedition led by Pierre Le Moyne d'Iberville that came to map the Mississippi River Valley.

d'Iberville found the village after over a month of exploration. He bought the chief's favor with flashy trinkets, blankets, and steel knives.

Humping Dog again felt the urge to abandon the mission and return to the safety of the west bank. But then he saw the tepee belonging to Spotted Doe. As the chief's daughter, she had the privilege of privacy. Her dwelling sat apart from all others, and the youngster knew she would be alone.

Creeping forward on all fours to the rear of Spotted Doe's tent, Humping Dog could barely breathe. His efforts came in gasps. Though he was making noise inhaling this way, he could not help himself. He was now beyond the point of no return.

Humping Dog cut a slit in the deerskin tepee with his father's lance. He parted the two sides and saw the unblemished face of the most beautiful girl. For a few seconds, he completely forgot to breathe.

After regaining a bit of his composure, Humping Dog crawled into the tent. He placed one hand over Spotted Doe's mouth and nestled the tip of the lance against her throat. The maiden's deep, intelligent eyes popped open. She started to scream, then reconsidered when the boy pushed the tip of the blade further against her smooth skin. The cold steel caused her lips to quiver.

Humping Dog spoke softly in his own dialect, not too different from the neighboring tribe. If she understood the words, they did little to calm the trembling girl. Even though Spotted Doe shivered in animated terror, he thought she was the most beautiful creature on earth. What a hero he would be when he returned with such a valuable prize.

He pulled the girl through the slit in the back of the tent and motioned for her to walk toward the Mississippi. Wobbly legs barely supported Spotted Doe, and she stumbled after taking only a dozen steps. Humping Dog reached down to help her up when he sensed another presence.

One fair-skinned stranger stood between the pair of youngsters and the river. The man hitched his long trousers with a curious gaze at the young Houma warrior. When his eyes shifted to Spotted Doe, the Frenchman's expression changed. He immediately picked up a funny-looking iron stick and pointed it at Humping Dog.

The young Indian laughed. A silly short stick against his father's sharp lance was no contest. Only the presence of others sleeping nearby kept Humping Dog from taunting the stranger. He leveled the lance and charged. To his surprise, the stick erupted with thunder and lightning. The fire from the jolt of lightning struck his pelvis, crushing it into tiny pieces.

Humping Dog had never experienced such agony before. Unfortunately for him, it was only the beginning of the pain and misery he would experience that dreadful night.

* * *

A few minutes after sunup, Pierre Le Moyne d'Iberville walked down to the mighty Mississippi with his newest gift, the beautiful daughter of the chief of the Bayogoulas. The old leader appreciated d'Iberville's efforts the previous night to save Spotted Doe and the pride of the whole Bayogoula tribe from a raid by the Houma warrior so much that he gave him his most prized possession, the hand of his daughter. The humiliation of losing his daughter to the neighboring tribe would have been unbearable.

The young maid cringed at the sight before them. Even the battle-hardened d'Iberville winced when he looked at the severed head of Humping Dog adorning the top of the pole that marked the boundary. The young man's blood covered the entire length.

From that point on, Pierre Le Moyne d'Iberville referred to that site along the Mississippi River as Baton Rouge. In English, the phrase is translated to Red Stick. Humping Dog's blood wasn't the last to be shed in this beautiful land along the great river, and the descendants of d'Iberville contributed their own bloodstains.

PRESENT DAY

BATON ROUGE

SATURDAY NIGHT

BATON ROUGE

Juliette d'Iberville had it all. She possessed a natural beauty that no woman could buy or any doctor sculpt. Long coal-black hair. Unblemished cream-colored complexion that was so smooth no wrinkles could penetrate. Symmetrical hour-glass body lusted after by men and envied by women. Powerful long legs. High cheek bones. A gracious smile.

As a descendant of Pierre Le Moyne d'Iberville and Spotted Doe, Juliette inherited the most envied features passed through generations. The best of them came to fruition in the young beauty.

Juliette won the Miss Teen contest in Louisiana. Then she won Miss Teen America, Miss Louisiana, and Miss America. Her picture appeared in fashion magazines, newspapers and television spots regularly. She blossomed as a feature speaker for national and local social functions and became a fixture at the most prestigious charity events.

The cream-skinned beauty also had stature. People knew her heritage, a descendant of the famous explorer and his striking Indian wife. They also knew her father, George, the governor of Louisiana. Before that, he held offices as a United States congressman and senator. Already, despite her age, rumors persisted that Juliette was next in line of the d'Iberville dynasty as a political dynamo in the Pelican State.

Tonight, Juliette felt unspeakable joy. More so on this day than any time in her blessed life. At a gathering of family and friends that ended only moments before, Dalton Bridgestone asked Juliette for her hand in marriage. With her father and mother looking on, the young senator knelt on the condo carpet and popped the question. Bridgestone, the most eligible bachelor in Louisiana, would become her husband. How could life get any better?

She was standing on the luxurious condominium balcony overlooking the mighty Mississippi River when she heard a light rustling behind her. Was it a guest who left an item at the party? Was it Dalton returning? She hoped for the latter.

She could not have been more wrong.

SATURDAY NIGHT

BATON ROUGE

Macy Harden thought her day had been exciting. Little did she know that the previous activities were mere props for the coming event.

The widow couldn't go to sleep, not with the events of the evening still dancing through her mind. The elderly widow attended the party across the hall in the condo complex. She witnessed her United States senator propose to the governor's daughter. She and Juliette had become close acquaintances since the dark-skinned beauty moved into the same building. They often shared tea or coffee while discussing the political events of the state capitol.

Macy's husband, Hank, served as a state congressman until he had a massive coronary on the capitol floor building while arguing against coastal erosion. Her invitations to the balls and galas she loved became more scarce as time passed. When Hank was alive, they never missed one, though now she was lucky to attend two a year. And then she felt out of place with all the other couples in attendance. Even with that discomfort, she longed for inclusion.

That was why this was such a good evening. Juliette invited her to the private gathering with the elite of Baton Rouge. She was only a few feet from Dalton when he knelt to propose. Macy hadn't felt so alive in years. What a story she could tell her other widowed friends at the bridge party. They would be so envious.

A sound from across the hall brought Macy out of her thoughts into the present. More like a gasp or a cry for help. The old widow wasn't immune from curiosity. She crept to the door and cracked it open just an inch or two.

At first, she saw nothing. Then Dalton Bridgestone burst from Juliette's condo. The initial thought Macy considered was that he had returned and asked for the ring back. She had no basis for these thoughts, but they were the first to enter her mind.

She saw the bloody knife in his hand, looking up at her with wild eyes. She couldn't read his expression. Macy couldn't move. She wanted to, but her body refused. Bridgestone stopped in the middle of the hall. He looked over his shoulder at Juliette's door. To Macy's surprise, he dropped the knife in the hallway before he sprinted for the stairs.

EARLY SUNDAY MORNING

BATON ROUGE

John d'Iberville gasped at the sight before him. The East Baton Rouge Sheriff's department detective stared at his cousin's dead body. The vibrancy once defining Juliette had abandoned the lifeless corpse. Her frame, though still spectacular, was an empty shell. He knelt beside her, ignoring all the forensic techs in the room.

“I'm sorry.”

The deep baritone could only come from one person. John looked up to see the massive Chief of Homicide peering down. Samson Mayeaux possessed an imposing figure, his height augmented by his tremendous girth. But neither physical attribute brought the fear exhibited by those below and above him in the Sheriff's department.

Samson's driving force derived from his personality. The humongous chief allowed nothing to deter him from the job at hand. The veteran cop disdained the political world more than the criminal habitat. To him, catching the perpetrator mattered. Nothing else.

Yet, here he was in the most politically sensitive murder in his memory. The daughter of the governor lay on the floor, and the main suspect was her fiancé, Dalton Bridgestone, the son of a former governor and currently a United States senator.

His lead investigator, John, was related to the victim and attended the party minutes before the murder. Policy dictated that he could not participate in the case due to the conflict.

“Thank you,” John replied. “She meant the world to me.”

“You and a lot of others in Louisiana,” Samson paused before continuing. “You know that you can't work this case.”

“I have to, Chief. She was part of my family, and I have to nail the son of a bitch who killed her.”

“Exactly what I mean. John, you're too close to the victim. Besides that, you're a witness. I can't let you run the lead on this one.”

John rose from his kneeling position, looking up to Samson. But then, so did most other people.

“I have to work it. I'm your best detective, Chief. With all the press around this one, you'd be derelict if you didn't put your best on it.”

“Do you have any doubt Bridgestone killed her?”

“None,” John replied. “Miss Macy, the woman across the hall, saw him come out of the condo carrying the bloody knife. She saw him drop it in the hallway. We've got it, and we'll get his prints off it. This one is as clean as we can get.”

“Okay, put out an APB for Bridgestone. Get a warrant for his house from whatever judge is on duty. Shouldn't be a problem in this case.”

“Already ahead of you, Chief,” John said. “His ranch is up in St. Helena Parish, and it's actually an exotic animal farm. But I'm working with the judge up there for the warrant.”

“Do whatever you must. We need this wrapped up before the news hits this morning. Juliette is the governor's daughter, so we can't let this thing slip.”

“Don't worry. We'll have Bridgestone behind bars by lunchtime.”

If only life were so simple.

SUNDAY NIGHT

SPIRIT ISLAND

Henry Welker enjoyed the spotlight. Just not this one. He shaded his eyes from the bright glare of the enormous beam aimed directly at him from the bank of the Mississippi River. His boat idled only twenty feet from the shore, but he could see nothing behind the focused ray.

“Hey, pardner,” Welker yelled from his boat in the channel between Spirit Island and the bank. “You're making it tough for me to see. Do you mind shining that light off to the side?”

Welker motored his boat sideways, glinting into the stream of light.

“Pardner, I don't know who you are, but I asked you real nice to move your light. I'm not gonna be so nice when I get out of this boat if you don't move it now.”

The light continued to point directly at Welker's face. Welker reached down in the boat to pick up his backpack containing his sunshades. The explosion from the first shot caught him squarely in the shoulder, blowing a huge exit hole out of the back of his jacket. Welker felt the hot lead tear the flesh and sinew as it passed through. Blood splattered over the steering console. The shock and surprise stiffened his body despite nausea developing in his stomach.

Welker reeled, his right hand instinctively going to his useless left shoulder, the entire left arm dangling at his side. Out of control, the boat swung back toward Spirit Island, creating a whirling eddy in the small channel. The second shot hit the side of the vessel with a loud clank.

“Who are you?”

Welker shouted above the noise of the motor as he tried to find cover in the small boat.

“Why are you doing this?”

Henry grabbed the metal gun case with his good hand and tried to open it. He had locked the case, buried it under some duffle bags to prevent too much movement, and knocked his expensive scope off during the short trip from the island to the bank. The sharp movement of the boat threw his body backward. He dropped the case to the side. Blood poured out of the hole in his back and sprinkled over the piles of clothes and equipment.

The last shot sent Welker over the edge into the eddy created by the out-of-control boat. The mighty Mississippi swallowed him like a krill in a whale’s mouth.

SUNDAY NIGHT

BATON ROUGE

An argument surprised no one at the Sheriff's Office, and especially when it came from Samson Mayeaux's office. But this one caught the attention of all within earshot.

“I may need to take a little time from the case,” John said.

“The hell you say,” Samson roared.

Neither man was happy. Dalton Bridgestone was still at large. The Sheriff's deputies searched his huge ranch house and had come up empty, and there was no sign of the fugitive.

“I have to. It's almost midnight, and my father-in-law didn't make it home tonight,” John tried to explain.

“Are you kidding me?” the chief roared even louder, spittle flying from his mouth. “We've got the body of the governor's daughter, and you're worried about your father-in-law missing. He's probably getting his nob shined somewhere in the projects. You wanted this case, and now you've got it.”

“But it's Henry Welker. He's a big contributor in Baton Rouge, and he owns half the politicians in this town.”

“Let me explain the facts of life to you, son. Until we catch Bridgestone or bury him, nothing else amounts to a rat's ass around here. Do you understand me?”

“Who do you want me to assign to the Welker case?” John asked.

“You're not listening.” Samson rose out of his seat and towered over the detective. “There are no other cases until we’re satisfied that we've got Bridgestone, and he's the man who killed the governor’s daughter. Until then, I don't have any spare men for a missing person.”

“What do you want me to tell my wife?”

“Tell her you hope to find Bridgestone and keep your damn job. Or tell her you're ready to sell life insurance to the elderly. I don't care.”

“Chief, with all due respect, I…”

“I don't care,” Samson interrupted. “You've got your orders. Either do them or turn in your badge. Either way is fine with me.”

John slowly backed out of the office, resolving to find a way to keep the chief happy and find his father-in-law.

MONDAY MORNING

WEST FELICIANA PARISH

Deputy Ed Dilsaver pulled his patrol car up to the landing, expecting little excitement.

He drew this assignment since he was the newest West Feliciana sheriff's squad member. The other two older officers were south of Baton Rouge in Sorrento, where they discovered Henry Welker's boat. He heard over the radio they had found blood in the hull and presumed it belonged to Mr. Welker.

Dilsaver parked as close to the landing as he could. His three-hundred-pound body and suffering knees tolerated little walking. The half dozen donuts he consumed every morning and his absolute refusal to do any exercise contributed to his girth. If his uncle wasn't a member of the city council in St. Francisville, he wouldn't have qualified because he didn't meet the physical requirements.

He exited the patrol car, trying to figure out what he should look for along the muddy banks of the Mississippi River. He found fresh boot prints in the miry clay and assumed Bobby had made them when he came to look for his dad earlier in the day.

The deputy walked out on the creosote dock and peered across the channel to Spirit Island. He saw nothing out of the ordinary on the small strip of land. He looked down at the swirling water and wondered if quicksand was truly under the channel. His thoughts took him back to the stories his dad used to tell him about the mysterious disappearances from the quaint-looking isle rising out of the brown water. According to the legend passed down from generation to generation, anyone who attempted to stay on the island for any length of time was doomed to a nasty end, either through snake bites, accidents, drowning or disappearing never to be seen or heard from again.

Dilsaver knew four men killed while hunting on the island in his short life span. Welker was the first to vanish with no sign other than the blood in his boat.

“Good morning.”

The voice behind the deputy startled him, almost causing his not-so-nimble body to fall into the water. He grabbed onto a creosote post and held on.

“I didn't hear you come up behind me.” He said after regaining his balance and recognizing the man. “What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“Same as you, I reckon. Looking for clues.”

The deputy was unsure how long the man had watched him.

“I was just looking at the island. As far as I know, Welker's son is the only one over there this morning. As soon as he heard about the boat, he came back and went down there with everyone else.”

“So you haven't been across the channel yet?”

“No, and I don't plan to go. Too many things happen to people who go over there. I'm gonna stay right here on this bank.”

Dilsaver walked back down the wooden dock to the bank.

“I don't blame you,” came the reply. “But I have to go over there and at least look. I can't go back without saying I looked around the camp to make sure he isn't still there.”

“You gonna take that boat?”

The onlooker laughed.

“Beats swimming across. Will you come with me? I'd feel a lot safer if you were there to back me up.”

The deputy looked down at the Smith and Wesson Model 66 revolver in a .38 caliber in his holster.

“I ain't sure this pea shooter would be much protection. At least it's better than the Glocks most guys carry.”

The deputy scratched his chin.

“I'd have to get my 12-gauge shotgun if I'm going over there with you.”

“That'd be great. I'd feel better if you were there if anything happened.”

The obese officer waddled to his patrol car and retrieved the pump-action shotgun. He struggled back out of the car with great effort and waddled to the boat. The onlooker held onto the rope and kept the boat right next to the dock.

“I'll hold it while you get in. Then I can push off and jump in after you get set.”

The deputy lifted his huge frame and almost fell into the vessel. The onlooker picked up the shotgun Dilsaver dropped getting into the boat.

“Why don't you get settled in the back of the boat and then I'll bring this back to you?” the onlooker said while holding the gun.

“Okay. I'm not as spry as I used to be when I played football in high school. It'll just take me a second or two.”

As soon as the officer turned toward the back of the boat, he felt it rushing away from the bank. He fell face-first in the bottom.

“Hey, what's going on?”

Dilsaver turned over and watched the onlooker getting smaller and smaller as the boat drifted away from the landing. He looked above the driver's seat and saw no key in the ignition.

“Hey, this isn't funny.” He yelled. “Where's the key? Somebody's gonna hit me out here.”

That is when he felt the first sting on his leg. He jerked his head down and gasped. Another large water moccasin's mouth implanted its fangs in his pants leg. He felt another and another. The brown slithering reptiles covered the area under the seat, exposing themselves only after getting disturbed. Panicked, the deputy pulled out the .38 revolver, and fired at the attacking snakes. He emptied all six shots from the double-action revolver in quick succession. Water spurted through the holes in the boat’s bottom.

In desperation, the overweight deputy dove overboard into the swift current and undertows of the mighty river. The man on the bank smiled, his mission for the morning accomplished. He had other steps to accomplish before he could rest.

MONDAY AFTERNOON

CENTRAL

Niki Dupre's life was about to get turned upside down.

The recent recipient of a degree in Criminal Justice from Southeastern Louisiana University had planned to become a Game Warden in East Baton Rouge Parish. Having graduated from Central High School in the suburbs of Baton Rouge, she could imagine living nowhere else that afforded the rich culture and heritage of south Louisiana. When she found the only openings for an entry-level position were in Cameron in the far southwest corner of the state and in Cotton Valley in the furthermost corner of northwest Louisiana, she opened her own investigation agency. She named it Wildcat Investigations in honor of her high school mascot.

The leggy strawberry blonde investigator struggled for the first two years, forcing her to seriously consider her choice of careers, and explore the option of closing the business. Her competition overpowered her credentials, with most of them having experience in law enforcement or security details compared to the highlight of her resume highlighting being homecoming queen her senior year.

Little did anyone care she was a Weapons Master in Kempo, the ancient Chinese martial art. The word Kempo is a Japanese translation of the Chinese word quanfa, and Ken translates into fist and po into themethod. The lean investigator spent three hours every morning perfecting the discipline. On this morning, she never changed out of her leotards.

Lundi Gras, the Monday before Fat Tuesday, a depression like the fine mist over the swamps south of Baton Rouge engulfed her townhouse. She checked her iPhone frequently, wondering if the battery was dead. She thought someone must need her investigative services on this date before the culmination of Mardi Gras activities in the capital city.

She knew, that with the local schools closed, many residents took advantage of the opportunity for a ski vacation in cooler climates instead of fighting through and around the many street closures. Others prepared to fight the throngs that wrestled over the beads thrown from the decorous floats. She witnessed people going bonkers over the cheap trinkets and doing things they would never do other times of the year to entice a float rider to toss a strand their way.

Niki sighed as she gathered the large mound of bills on her desk, sorting them into two stacks. She put the ones in the right pile that she knew she had to make at least a partial payment to keep the business going. The bills on the left compiled the list of those the strawberry blonde would call on Ash Wednesday and tell the Accounts Receivable departments they would have to wait until next month. She shrugged in disappointment as the right pile grew higher and higher. There needed to be money in the account to take care of even partial payments for the huge stack.

She decided to take her mind off of the debts. Kempo called for one hour spent training each morning going through the Daily Dozen. During these sixty-minute periods, Niki performed twelve stretching and agility exercises. One included spreading her long legs and touching the floor. She reached between her legs and placed both palms flat on the surface. Over time, she had extended her stretch to almost eighteen inches behind her body.

Niki jumped at the hard rap on the outer door of her office, but the routine called for her to hold the position for two minutes. She assumed it was Miss Monroe, the elderly lady next door. Miss Monroe was a lonely soul and often retrieved The Advocate, Baton Rouge's daily newspaper, and brought it to the detective. Mostly, it was an excuse to share a cup of coffee.

The other thought: Uh Oh. Somebody didn't wait for me to contact them about the late payments. They want their money now. What am I gonna tell them? What if they don't take 'no' for an answer?

“Come in,” she said a little too loudly, the nerves evident in her voice.

She looked between her legs as the door opened, already formulating excuses for the late payments, her frown turning to a smile when John d'Iberville filled the void in the open doorway. The expression changed when she realized her butt was the only thing he could see.

MONDAY MORNING

CENTRAL

He confidently strode across the small space in her one-room office and extended his hand toward Niki. The slim investigator tried to twist toward him and stand erect simultaneously. She almost fell and stumbled against him, grasping his body to steady herself.

“John, you're the last person I ever expected to see,” she stuttered as she tried to regain what little composure she could. “I thought you had forgotten us up here in the northern part of the parish after you made Detective.”

Niki felt his rock-hard body and looked up at his stone jaw, remembering the last time they had been this close to each other. He put a firm hand on her arm, sending shivers throughout her body.

“Sorry,” he replied. “I've been tied up with all the stuff going on in the rest of the parish. I'm working on the case of the governor's daughter.”

Niki nodded.

“I read about it in the paper. What happened?”

“That's what we want to find out.” He took his hand from her and stepped back. “The suspect has disappeared, and we can't find him.”

Niki sat in one client chair and motioned for John to sit in the other. She felt like she was back at a grade-school dance. Her hands would not stay still, and her toes tingled.

“Tell me about it.”

One glance at the stack of bills reinforced her interest. She had many anxious days and sleepless nights as a sophomore in high school, longing for any conversation with John. The old spark flickered once again.

“I'm sure you've seen the news reports.”

“Not really,” Niki replied. “I watch little TV these days.”

“Juliette, my cousin. Someone stabbed her to death in her condo, all the evidence points to Dalton Bridgestone.”

“I can't say that I know him,” Niki said. “I've seen his picture in the paper, but I don't know him.”

“Evidently, he had Juliette fooled. She adored the bastard, and thought the world of him.”

“Why would he kill her?”

“There are some reports she was gonna write a book and reveal some of the senator's inner circle workings. Maybe some of his other romances. The guy is a real sleazebag. Supposedly, there's some real dirt she was gonna make public. The current theory we're working on is he didn't want that information aired.”

“But you said they were engaged.”

John nodded.

“We figure he gave her a ring so she would forget the book idea.”

Nike looked at the intense face of the man in the chair.

“Looks like you're taking this personally.”

A deep frown crossed John's face.

“I am. Bridgestone's fiancée wasn't just any young lady. She was my favorite cousin. We were real close.”

Niki couldn't help but see the tear forming in the macho man's eye.

“I'm sorry. I remember now, but I didn't make the connection when I heard it on the news.”

She reached across the small space and rested her hand atop his.

“It's okay. I just hope I find that piece of trash first. We won't have to worry about the expense of a trial if I can get to Bridgestone before anyone else.”

“Do you have any idea where he went?”

“No. It's like the guy just vanished off the face of the earth.”

Niki withdrew her hand. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

John shook his head.

“Not with that case, but I came here to ask your help with another one.”

Niki laughed.

“I wondered what would bring you back to the slums.”

“Central is far from the slums. Compared to many of the neighborhoods I work, it's a resort area. You did well staying here and starting your business. You're in one of the best areas in the parish.”

Niki let out a big breath.

“Hasn't done much for my bank account lately.”

Her eyes settled on the stack of bills on the right side of her desk. John's eyes followed hers.

“That bad, huh? This is a tough business to crack, and a lot of folks will go with the more experienced agencies.”

She picked up two bills on top of the stack.

“It's been a tad slow.”

She paused before continuing.

“I know this isn't a social call. You haven't dropped in on me unexpectedly since you were a senior in high school and I was a freshman. Then you dropped me like a hot potato.”

John looked down at his shoes.

“You know I went to Ruston to play football, and I didn't come back to Central often.”

She laughed out loud.

“Excuses, excuses, excuses. You should have majored in agriculture.”

He glanced up with a confused look.

“Huh?”

“With as much manure as you just dumped here, I could grow a garden. Tell the truth. Why don't you fess up and tell me Donna Gaddy was the real reason you didn't call me again?”

John dropped his gaze back to his shoes.

“You know we're not together anymore. Donna couldn't do the things she wanted to do on a detective's salary.”

Niki shook her head.

“No, I didn't know. So is this a social call?”

The muscular man looked at her directly with his deep blue eyes.

“No. We have another case I'd like you to help with if you can fit it in.”

Niki stifled a laugh.

“Tell me about it. I'm sure I can squeeze it in somewhere for an old friend, even if he dumped me like yesterday's fish.”

John's face turned red.

“I didn't… It's not like that. I would have called.”

“Never mind. That's history, and I got over it a long time ago.” Niki lied. “Tell me about this other case.”

“A friend of mine… actually, he's my brother-in-law. Bobby married my sister, Rebecca, last year. Bobby Welker, that's his name.” He paused. “Anyway, my sister and I are included in the 'we' who wants you to help.”

Niki could see the discomfort in John's movements.

“Want me to get you some coffee? I don't keep a pot going, but I can brew some up in a jiffy.”

He shook his head.

“No, thanks. I’d rather get this all out while I can keep my train of thought.”

Niki picked up a paper notebook and a pen.

“Okay, shoot.”

John squirmed a little in his chair before looking back at Niki.

“Bobby's dad disappeared.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

John folded his hands in his lap.

“What happened?”

“His family and hunting club hold an annual fishing weekend on Spirit Island. I don't know if you're familiar with it, but it's in the Mississippi River right north of town, close to the Port Hudson Cemetery.”

Niki jotted down the notes on her pad.

“The old Civil War park?”

John nodded.

“That's the one. He's in a hunting club on the island. They get all the family and kids together for a weekend of fishing after every hunting season. It's a fun time for everyone to get with their families and clean up the camp after the deer season. You know, have a meeting and make plans for the next year.”

“What's the dad's name?”

“Henry. Henry Welker.”

“The hunting club's name?” Niki asked with her eyebrows arched.

“I don't know. Bobby's dad leases the land from the Amite River Drainage Authority. It's twenty-three hundred acres that were cut off when the Mississippi River changed directions and formed a channel isolating the island. No place on earth better to grow big deer.”

Niki nodded.

“I remember now. They were gonna build a conversion canal. I knew I'd heard of Spirit Island before. You said he disappeared last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he go missing trying to reel in a big catfish?”

“No. Mr. Henry was the last one at the camp on the island after everyone else had packed up and gone home. He is like that, according to Bobby. His dad likes to make sure everything is just right and doesn't trust anyone else.”

“How do you know he's missing? He could have spent another night in paradise.”

John shook his head.

“When he didn't show up at home, his wife called Bobby. He went back out to the island and looked for him but found nothing, including his boat. Everything was in place and locked up. He tried to call his cell but didn't get an answer.”

John paused while Niki caught up with her notes. After he saw her look up, he continued.

“This morning, a fisherman found his boat south of town near Sorrento. There was some blood in the boat, and we're assuming the tests will show it belongs to Mr. Welker.”

Niki looked up from the notes.

“Sounds like a case for the cops. That'd be you.”

“We looked into it. I looked at the boat, and there wasn't enough blood to determine whether Mr. Henry was dead or just hurt. The department is so tied up with the senator's fiasco, there aren't enough resources to launch a full-scale investigation without proof he's dead.”

Niki smirked.

“What you mean is there is so much press coverage of the other case, it's gonna take priority over everything else. Isn't that what you mean?”

John nodded and looked back down at his shoes.

Niki laughed. “I wish I held as much interest as your shoelaces.”

John smiled at her.

“If only you knew.”

Niki blushed and changed the subject.

“So, what do you want me to do with the case?”

“The family, my sister and Bobby, want you to find out what happened. They asked me to recommend someone I was confident would dedicate the time and energy to sort this out as quickly as possible. I thought of you.”

Niki frowned.

“That was awful kind of you, but aren't there a lot of firms with a lot more resources and experience in Baton Rouge?”

“True enough.” He nodded. “But I don't know them as well as I know you. This is personal to me. It's my sister's father-in-law, and I want the job done right, not relegated to some flunky who can't find his own mother on Mother's Day.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but what if I find nothing?”

John leaned forward in his chair.

“You will. I know you will.”

Niki blinked.

“And how would you know? You haven't exactly been really close in the last ten years, and that's a long time to keep faith in someone.”

John leaned back and sighed.

“I've been keeping up with your cases. You've done an outstanding job on the investigations you've worked.”

Niki gave a derisive laugh.

“There's been so few of them. I didn't think anyone would notice.”

“I noticed.”

Niki couldn't contain a smile.

“Thanks for the compliment. I had no idea you even knew I existed anymore.”

“I wasn't sure if you had fond memories or if you hated my guts. But I've kept up with you, and you're right for this job.”

Niki looked down at the stack of bills.

“I could use the work. Look, I appreciate the opportunity, but really, why me?”

“Because my sister was crying when she called me. She wants the very best person I know to work on the case. I tried everything I know to get Samson to assign someone to this, but he won’t budge for seventy-two hours. I'm not asking for a handout here. Money is no object.”

Niki placed her hand on top of the bills.

“I thank you, and my creditors thank you.”

“I've hunted with Bobby and Mr. Henry a lot over the last couple of years. We've become close, so I took the liberty of telling Bobby what I think would be a fair price for your services.”

Niki's mouth dropped.

“John, how could you do that? I have a lot of bills to pay, you know.”

The handsome man smiled.

“Don't worry. I looked at your files. Since you had to register to carry a weapon, we have your business profile down at headquarters. I sneaked a peek.”

The long-legged investigator let out her breath.

“Whew. That's a relief. I thought I might be doing discount work, and I can't afford it right now.”

She paused for another long look into John's deep eyes.

“I know how much this must mean to you. Even if I had to do it for free, I would have helped you.”

“Bobby's family can afford your services. In this case, they're more than willing to spend the money to get quick results.”

The tension left Niki's body.

“Good. If you have my files, you know I charge three hundred a day plus expenses, and I get three days upfront for a retainer.”

She paused while she glanced at the bills.

“That's nine hundred due now. Are they willing to do that?”

John inspected his shoelaces once more. “I… uh… I told him a different price. I didn't think three hundred dollars a day was fair.”

Niki rolled her eyes.

“Are you kidding? Do you know what it will require to find out where Mr. Welker is?”

John raised his gaze to her eyes.

“I didn't think it was fair for you to give up your other cases and focus only on this one for three a day. That's what I told Bobby.”

Nike shook her head in confusion.

“Huh? Other cases?”

“I didn't know what your workload was like right now. Before we go any further, can you adjust your cases to fit this one in?”

I wonder if he knows I haven't had a case in over a month except to look for Mrs. Richard’s lost chihuahua puppy.

“I think I can readjust my schedule,” she replied, trying to keep the grin from erupting. “I don't want to take advantage of the situation with Bobby and your sister, but for me to give up everything I'm working on, I'd need to get a five-day retainer. That's fifteen hundred. I don't mean to be all business, but I have to keep the doors open.”

“Are you willing to work full-time for Bobby until you figure out what happened?”

Niki nodded.

“On the condition that I get the five-day retainer upfront.”

The detective pulled an envelope from his pocket.

“I was hoping you would say that. I told Bobby I thought we could get you on the job for five thousand a day plus expenses, and he gave me this check for you if you agreed.”

John slipped the envelope across the desk toward Niki. She took it and with trembling hands, carefully opened it. Her mouth dropped wide open when she pulled the check from the envelope,.

“Jo… John, this is a check for fifty thousand dollars. What…?”

The detective laughed.

“I know. I gave it to you. I figured it might take up to ten days to get to the bottom of this, and I wanted to make sure you'd be on board.”

“For this kind of money, I'll swab the decks and steer the boat.”