Flash Point

Kelly clicked off several shots in succession, then zoomed in on the driver’s face. She loved studying a person’s face. It was like a road map, she thought, as she noted the man’s weathered skin. Skin that she guessed had seen more than a half century of sun, wind and cold. A river of lines bracketed soft brown eyes, and given the smile on his face, she suspected a great many of those wrinkles were the result of laughter. The bushy brows and salt-and-pepper hair gave him a dramatic flair. She’d always heard that the carriage drivers tended to embellish history a bit in order to make the rides more exciting and their tips more hefty. Since it was Halloween, she imagined tonight’s passengers were in for some ghoulish retelling of the city’s already colorful history. When the driver sat down, flicked the reins and drove away, Kelly recapped the lens of her camera and returned it to her bag.

The place was growing more crowded by the minute, she realized, and a flicker of uneasiness went through her. For a moment, she debated leaving. Just as quickly, Kelly nixed the idea. She was being ridiculous. She could handle this, she assured herself. It wasn’t as though she was trapped in a crowd with no means of escape. No one was bothering her. Everyone was wrapped up in their own little dramas. And although she didn’t want to eavesdrop, the close proximity of the tables made it impossible for her not to overhear bits and pieces of the conversations going on around her.

“Come on, Joey,” the tallest of a trio of boys at the table to her left began. “We put on these monster masks and that dude at the door ain’t gonna be asking us for no IDs.”

While at the next table, a petite brunette declared, “I swear, Sara Beth. I must have been out of my mind to let you talk me into going on that ghost tour with you. I’m not going to be able to close my eyes tonight.”

“You’re drunk, Mark,” the woman at the table directly behind her snapped. “You made an ass of yourself at the party. Now, drink the damn coffee so we can go home.”

Trying her best to ignore them, Kelly drummed her fingers on the tabletop and cast an anxious glance in the direction of the kitchen. Unable to see past the steady stream of patrons and waiters, she sighed and focused her attention on her own table once more. She was about to pick up her camera again when she noted the newspaper lying on the chair next to her. It had been days since she’d even looked at a newspaper or listened to the news. Picking it up, Kelly gasped as the vision hit her.

“It’s about damn time you showed up. I’ve been waiting in this alley for twenty minutes and nearly got mugged twice.”

“I was detained,” she told him.

“Well, you’re damn lucky I waited. Another two minutes and I’d have been gone.”

“Then I guess it’s fortunate that I showed up when I did.”

Smart-mouthed, stuck-up bitch, just like her mother, he thought as he climbed into the car. Too bad he needed the money, because he’d like nothing better than to tell her he’d changed his mind and watch the bitch stew.

“Then let’s not waste any more of each other’s time, Doctor. Did you bring the document?”

“Of course I brought it. But first I want to see the money.”

She opened the bag and his mouth watered at the sight of all that cash. To hell with the casinos on the Gulf Coast, he’d rent himself a suite at that fancy new hotel they’d just opened and try his luck at Harrah’s. Maybe he’d even find himself a lady or two. Already anticipating the night ahead, he reached for the cash.

“Not so fast, Doctor,” she said, snapping the bag shut. “First, I want the birth certificate.”

He hesitated a moment, wondered whether he should have asked for more money for the damn thing. “You know, your daddy sure loved that little girl. Used to call her his princess. I imagine he’d have paid a lot of money to find out she didn’t die in that fire after all.”

“Unfortunately for you, my father’s dead. And I can assure you I don’t place the same value on her that he did. My one concern is protecting my family’s good name. It’s the only reason I agreed to pay you for that birth certificate.”

He tapped the envelope against his palm, gave her a measuring look. “I imagine your sister would be willing to pay a great deal to learn who her daddy was. Of course, if you was to—”

“I don’t have a sister,” she snapped. “And I suggest you quit trying to shake me down for more money, Doctor. Otherwise, I might reconsider whether or not I’ve made a mistake by not going to the police and telling them about your offer.”

“Now, hang on a second. There’s no need to go dragging the police into a little business transaction between friends.”

“You and I are not friends, Doctor. And I doubt that the police would see your proposal as a simple business transaction.”

“We had a deal and it’s too late for you to try to back out now,” he said, and shoved the envelope at her.

While he dug through the bag of cash, she stared at the paper a moment before crushing it in her fist. “You’re sure this is the only copy?”

“What? Yeah, it’s the only one,” he lied. The bitch would find out soon enough that he’d kept another copy, he thought. Eager to get to the casino, he began stuffing the money back into the bag.

“Then I guess this is goodbye, Doctor.”

Something in her voice—a cold amusement—alerted him. He looked up and saw the gun. But it was too late. Before he could say a word, she pulled the trigger.

“Lady? Lady, are you all right?”

Kelly dropped the newspaper and came spinning back from the dark alley to the table in the Café du Monde. Her heart still racing, she looked up at the worried face of her waiter.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” he asked again.

“I…yes,” she told him, although it wasn’t true.

“You sure? You look kind of…strange.”

“I’m all right,” she assured him.

Looking skeptical, he placed her beignets and coffee in front of her. “That’ll be $4.75.”

Still reeling from the vision, Kelly grabbed her camera bag and dug out her wallet. She retrieved a five-dollar bill and one-dollar bill and slapped them on the table. “There was a man who was sitting at this table earlier, the one who left that newspaper. Do you happen to know who he was?”

The waiter shrugged. “Beats me. When I came on duty at ten o’clock, the paper was already there. Figured I’d leave it in case somebody wanted to read it. But if it’s in your way, I can toss it.”

“That’s all right,” she said, while in truth she wished to God she’d never touched the thing. She didn’t want to get involved. All she wanted was to see the Mother Superior at the convent and satisfy herself that Sister Grace’s death had been a peaceful one, sign any paperwork the attorneys had for her regarding the nun’s bequest and go back to New York. But how could she ignore what she’d just seen in the vision? What if the murder hadn’t happened yet? If she did nothing, that man was going to be killed.

And what if he’s already dead? Do you really want to be the butt of all those jokes and whispers again?

Oh, God, she didn’t want to get involved. But what choice did she have? As unpleasant as it would be to open herself to the speculation and talk, she couldn’t honestly live with herself if he died because she’d done nothing. She had to do it. She had to go to the police.

“Ma’am, are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” she replied, already feeling the weight of her decision settle upon her. She pushed the six dollars across the table at the waiter. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks,” he said, and shoved the money into his pocket.

When he started to leave, she said, “One more thing. The police station, is it still on North Rampart Street?”

He shrugged. “No idea. I’ve only been in town a couple of months.”

“It’s still there,” a scruffy-looking fellow nursing a coffee at the next table told her.

“Thanks,” Kelly told him. Using a napkin, she picked up the newspaper and shoved it into her camera bag. She stood and slid the strap of the bag onto her shoulder.

“Ain’t you going to eat those doughnuts?” the old guy asked.

“No. My stomach’s not feeling all that well,” she said honestly. “But it would be a sin to let them go to waste. Maybe you’d do me a favor and eat them?”

“Well, seeing as how it’s a favor, I guess I could do that,” the fellow said, his eyes lighting up as she placed the plate of beignets in front of him. “And no point in letting that coffee go to waste, either.”

“You’re right.” After setting her untouched coffee on the guy’s table, she hurried out of the café and prayed she wouldn’t be too late.

Two

Police Sergeant Max Russo did his best to ignore the chaos surrounding him in the precinct. Eying the clock on his desk, he willed the next twenty minutes to pass quickly so that his shift would finally be over and he could head home.

“Yo, Guthrie, this is a police station—not a dog pound,” Detective Sal Nuccio called out when an officer came through the precinct doors with a six-footer wearing a bedraggled brown fur costume and a pair of handcuffs.

“You’re a real funny guy, Nuccio,” Guthrie fired back.

“I’s a werewolf,” the culprit replied, his speech slurred from too much hootch or drugs or both.

“And I’m Little Red Riding Hood,” Guthrie replied. “Come on.”

“It’s true,” the shaggy fellow insisted. And as though to prove his point, he began to howl like a wolf.

“Knock it off,” Guthrie commanded, and smacked the fellow on the back of the head while the rest of the station laughed.

Max shook his head. Halloween certainly brought out the weirdos, he thought as the new rookie, Palmisano, marched in with three dames wearing black leather and carrying whips. Make that two dames, he amended when he noted the tall blonde had an Adam’s apple.

“Officer, you’re making a terrible mistake. I told you that we were only trick-or-treating. There’s no law against trick-or-treating in New Orleans, is there?” the flashy brunette asked.

“No, ma’am. But there is a law against offering to do the kind of tricks you were suggesting in exchange for money.”

The wolfman howled again.

“I told you to knock that shit off,” Guthrie ordered.

“Maybe you ought to get him a leash, Guthrie,” Nuccio chided.

“Up yours, Nuccio. Come on, wolfman. Let’s go get those paws of yours printed.”

The wolfman shuffled a few steps, then stopped dead in his tracks. “Say, man, I’s not feeling so good.”

Max looked at the man’s face, recognized the shade of green. “Guthrie, if I were you, I’d get him to the can first. And I’d be quick about it.”

“The can? But what—” Guthrie swore. “Listen to me, you dirtbag. You puke on me and your ass is going to rot in this jail,” the officer promised as he hauled his collar down the hall.

Max chuckled, as did the rest of the precinct, when moments later they heard Guthrie let loose with a string of four-letter words. He sure was glad he was behind a desk now and no longer walking a beat. Max stole another glance at the clock. Another fifteen minutes and he’d be heading home to his Rosie. He could already see himself kicking back in his favorite chair to watch that Indianapolis Colts game he’d set to tape before leaving home this afternoon. While he remained a die-hard Saints football fan he had a soft spot for that Peyton Manning, since the kid was from New Orleans. ’Course, he’d also watched the boy’s daddy quarterback the Saints a couple decades ago. Yep, he thought. Having Rosie serve him an ice-cold one with some of that gumbo that she’d had simmering on the stove while he watched the game was the perfect way to end this crazy day.

Whatever you do, Lord. Don’t let me get stuck with some pain-in-the-ass case that’s going to make me work late.

But Max no sooner sent up the silent prayer when he saw her walk in. A fresh-faced blonde dressed all in black and white, lugging a bag on one shoulder that was almost as big as she was. Nuccio, who thought himself a ladies’ man, wasted no time in making a beeline over to her. Not that he blamed the guy, Max admitted. The lady was a looker, even if she was a bit young for the likes of an old geezer like him. For a minute Max wrote her off as one of them college kids, then he got a better look at her face as she brushed off Nuccio and headed toward him.

Nope. The lady might be young, but those eyes were way too serious to belong to some wet-behind-the-ears kid, he decided. And he didn’t imagine any college girl would ignore the scuffle going on only a few feet from her the way she did. Nor did he suspect any college kid would appear so unconcerned by the four-letter words coming from the foul-mouthed drunk, or the way the half-naked perp was leering at her. A cool one, Max thought as she approached the desk.

“Are you the person in charge?” she asked.

“I’m the desk sergeant on duty. Max Russo. What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“I’m here to report a murder.”

It was the last thing he’d expected her to say, Max admitted silently. “Why don’t you have a seat, Miss…?”

“Santos,” she replied as she sat down. “Kelly Santos.”

“All right, Miss Santos. Now, why don’t we start by you telling me who it is that was murdered and your relationship to the victim.”

“I don’t know who he is. I mean, I never met him. And I don’t know his name. But I saw…I saw him sitting inside of a car and he…he was shot.”

Max looked up from the pad he was writing on and asked, “Do you know who shot him?”

Kelly shook her head. “No. But it was a woman.”

“All right.” He jotted down the shooter was a female. “And where did you see this shooting take place?”

“I don’t know. Not exactly. It was dark and I didn’t recognize the area. The car was parked at the end of an alley. Somewhere in the French Quarter, I think, because I could hear musicians playing nearby.”

Max paused. He looked up from the paper on which he had been scribbling notes. “I’m afraid that somewhere in the French Quarter with musicians covers a lot of territory. I take it you’re not from around here?”

“Yes. No.” She let out a breath. “I was born in New Orleans, but I’ve lived away for a long time. I came back…I came back to take care of some personal business. I only arrived from New York late this afternoon.”

“Well, the city hasn’t changed all that much. Maybe if you tell me what street you were walking on when you saw the shooting, we’ll be able to narrow it down a bit.”

The lady hesitated. A strange look crossed her face.

“Miss Santos?”

“I wasn’t out walking when I saw the shooting. I was sitting in the Café du Monde waiting for coffee when I picked up a newspaper.” She unzipped her camera bag, and using a paper napkin, she retrieved the newspaper and placed it on the desk in front of him. “This newspaper. It belonged to the man I saw get shot.”

Max glanced down at the folded newspaper and then lifted his gaze back up to meet hers. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Miss Santos. What does this newspaper have to do with the shooting?”

“Everything.”

Max arched his brows. “Come again?”

She took a deep breath, released it. “Sometimes when I touch a person or a thing, I…I can see what’s happened or what’s going to happen to that person. Tonight when I touched that newspaper,” she said, pointing to the item, “I saw the man who’d left it behind. He was sitting in a car in a dark alley with a woman. She was paying him for some document, a birth certificate. Only, once he gave it to her, she pulled out a gun and shot him. What I don’t know is if he’s already dead. That’s why I came here. On the chance that you can stop her if she hasn’t already killed him.”

Max put down his pen and sat back in his chair. He’d heard some winners, but never one quite like this, he thought. “I see.” And what he saw was that the lady was either on something or a nutcase.

“Trust me, I know this all sounds crazy, Sergeant. It sounds crazy to me, too. But I’m telling you the truth. I have this…this ability to see things. Visions from the past or the future.”

“Uh-huh. And tonight when you touched this here newspaper,” he said, tapping it with his index finger, “you had one of them visions of a man being murdered?”

“Yes.”

Max rubbed a hand along his jaw. The lady was loony tunes if she thought he was going to buy this story. “Miss Santos, when was it you said you arrived in town?”

“This afternoon. I flew in from New York.”

“New York? That’s a mighty big place. That where you live?”

“Yes. I’m a photographer.”

Did those photographer types fiddle around with drugs? he wondered. “That bag there must be for your camera, then,” he said, indicating the bag she’d set on the floor beside her and wondering if a search of the thing would reveal whatever she’d been using.

“Yes, it is.”

“You mind if I take a look?” he asked.

“Be my guest,” she said, and handed him the camera bag. “But I can save you the trouble of looking for drugs. There aren’t any.”

He hesitated a moment at her response, then told himself the conclusion was a reasonable one and had nothing to do with her being able to know what he’d been thinking. But to satisfy himself, he checked out the bag, anyway. Other than the camera and film, it contained only her wallet and a lipstick. “That’s a mighty fancy piece of equipment. You here on business?”

“No. As I told you, I’m here on a personal matter.”

“So you did.” He slid the camera bag across the desk to her. “Never been to New York myself. My wife, Rosie, has though. She went with her sister a few years ago. I seem to recall her saying it was about a five-hour flight.”

“More like three and a half,” she informed him.

He ran a hand through his hair, aware that the now-salt-and-pepper strands seemed to be growing thinner on the top with each passing day. “Funny thing about flying. My Rosie, she doesn’t bat an eye when a hurricane’s coming or the streets are flooding, but put the woman on a plane and she’s a nervous wreck. But usually a glass of wine or a cocktail on the plane helps to calm her down. You one of them nervous flyers, Miss Santos?”

“No, Sergeant. I’m not a nervous flyer. And I didn’t have anything other than water to drink on the flight.”

“And what about at dinner? We’ve got a lot of good restaurants in New Orleans, probably lots of new ones since you was last here. Nothing more relaxing than to sit down to a fine meal with a glass of wine,” he said in what he hoped was a friendly, good-old-boy tone that would put her at ease. The way he figured, if the lady just fessed up to having a few cocktails and making up the story, he’d send her on her way and he could head home to Rosie, a beer and a cup of gumbo, and enjoy the game he’d taped. “You had yourself a glass of wine or two with your dinner tonight, Miss Santos?”

Kelly leaned forward, met his gaze evenly. “I’m not drunk, Sergeant Russo. And I’m not on drugs, either. What I am is wondering why you’re sitting here asking about my eating and drinking habits when I’ve told you that there’s a man out there somewhere,” she said, pointing to the street, “and if he isn’t already dead, he soon will be unless you do something.”

“And what is it you want me to do, Miss Santos?”

“I want you to try to find him.”

“And just how am I supposed to do that? You said yourself that you don’t know the man or even where he is.”

She remained silent, but an expression crossed her face. Sadness? Frustration? Max couldn’t quite read it or her.

“Miss Santos?”

Her brown eyes returned to his face. “What if I describe him and the location to you?”

Max sighed. This simply wasn’t his day, he decided as he watched the clock click within minutes of the end of his shift. May as well let her get it off her chest. “Go ahead.”

“He’s in his late sixties, a heavyset man with thinning gray hair and brown eyes.” She closed her eyes a moment and he wondered if she was going to go into one of her supposed trances. But then she continued. “He’s wearing a dark suit coat that’s too small for him, and he has a gold ring with a ruby stone on his pinkie finger. And he’s in a dark car—black or maybe dark gray. It’s a big car, four doors with a tan leather interior. Not new, an older model. It’s parked at the end of an alley next to a building with ferns hanging on the balcony.” She opened her eyes, looked at him. “He’s not from here, so the car might have out-of-state plates. Maybe from someplace along the Gulf Coast.”

“That’s quite a description.”

“I told you. I saw him when I picked up the newspaper. In fact, his prints are probably on it. Maybe if you run it through your system, you can find out who he is and get a better description of the car.”

He gave her his most indulgent smile. “I’m afraid it only works that fast on TV and in the movies. It takes a bit longer to check for prints, and if he’s not in the system, we have little hope of getting a match.”

“Then take what I’ve given you and use it. If you radio the police officers out on the street, they might be able to find him in case…in case he isn’t dead yet.”

“You honestly expect me to issue an APB on some unknown man based on what you think you saw in some sort of a vision?”

Some of his co-workers shot looks in her direction. If she noticed, she gave no indication. “I know it sounds crazy,” she told him, frustration lacing her voice. “But I’m telling you the truth, Sergeant. If that man isn’t already dead, he will be unless you do something. Please, you’ve got to believe me.”

“I do believe you,” he assured her in an attempt to settle her down. “You see, I’ve got myself this aunt, a real sweet little lady in her eighties, who likes to read those books by Anne Rice. And every time she finishes one of them books, it’s like clockwork. She’s on the phone to me in the middle of the night swearing she’s seen one of them vampires lurking around her place. But the truth is my aunt’s an impressionable woman and sometimes those vampire stories she reads…well they sort of get all mixed up in her dreams. It’s late and it’s Halloween. You’ve been traveling and I’m betting you’re tired. Maybe you had yourself one of those waking dreams a body has when they’ve had an extra-rough day.”

“I didn’t dream that a man got shot, Sergeant Russo. I saw him.”

“I’m sure it seemed real enough, Miss Santos. Just like my aunt’s dreams about those vampires seem real to her. But that doesn’t mean it was real.” Deciding to put an end to the nonsense, he stood. He was more than ready to get home to his Rosie, kick back in his chair with a brewsky and a bowl of gumbo to watch the game. “Maybe what you need is a good night’s sleep. If you’d like, I can have an officer escort you back to your hotel.”

She stood. “I don’t need an escort to my hotel, Sergeant,” she snapped, and there was nothing remotely girlish about the look she slanted at him. But the last thing he expected was for the lady to reach over and grab his arm.

“What the hell—”

“What I need is for you to stop wasting time thinking about kicking back in your easy chair, eating gumbo and drinking beer while you watch some dumb football game and try to find that man before it’s too late.”

Max jerked his arm free. He could feel the color drain from his face. He dropped back down to his chair. “How in the hell did you know that stuff?” he demanded, his voice a harsh whisper.

“I told you. I can see things, sense things.”

Sweet mother of God, he thought, shaken by her response. No, it couldn’t be, he reasoned. There had to be an explanation.

“Hey, Max. Everything okay over there?” Nuccio asked.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” he muttered before turning his attention back to the woman. He narrowed his eyes. “You had me going there for a minute. That stuff you just said about the gumbo and beer and the game, you were guessing, right?”

“No.”

“Then you must have heard me say something to one of the guys earlier,” he offered, wanting, needing to believe that’s what had just happened, even though for the life of him he couldn’t recall saying a thing about the gumbo to a soul.