Voodoo Heart

  JOHN EVERSON

  Voodoo Heart

  FLAME TREE PRESS

  London & New York

  •

  For Geri

  PART ONE

  Bloody Beds

  Chapter One

  Tuesday, June 18

  Honey Moon

  I see them every day. They come here by the thousands looking for a good time. Drinking themselves into oblivion on Bourbon Street. Laughing and gorging and lifting their shirts to strangers in the ridiculous ritual of beads. Waking up in strange beds with partners they don’t recognize in the hard morning light. Walking through the voodoo shops and taking home Love Potion and Tranquility Tea.

  As if these things were spells to be toyed with.

  They have no idea.

  Voodoo is not a toy. I can’t really blame tourists for not understanding; it’s taken me my whole life to realize that. Most of them will never be given any reason to think otherwise. Because they’ll pack up their suitcases and pop a pill for their hangovers and head to the airport and whatever transgressions they’ve enjoyed in the Crescent City will be a blurred memory.

  Those of us who stay here, however, often grow to know better.

  My name is Detective Lawrence Ribaud. My friends call me Cork. But I don’t have many friends.

  What I do have is problems. New ones every day. Dead ones.

  Because that’s what you get when you’re a detective in New Orleans. Sweat and blood and booze…and death.

  And lately, a lot of missing bodies.

  Case in point: the bed in front of me was unmade, the sheets twisted and draped on the floor near its foot.

  There were two deep dents in the mattress; it was not a new bed by any means. The woman who slept on one side stood next to me, still in her nightgown, an old blue robe hastily sashed over it. Mary Mendel was talking, fast and animated, but I barely heard a word.

  She’d already said it twice before.

  When she woke up early this morning and got up to go to the bathroom, she’d realized that her husband wasn’t lying in bed next to her. When she’d come back to bed, she’d realized the sheets beside her were wet.

  That’s when she’d turned the lights on.

  That’s when she’d seen the blood.

  That’s when she’d screamed.

  That’s why I was here now.

  * * *

  There was no body.

  The sheets were drenched in blood on half the bed. Right around the area where Mr. Mendel’s shoulders would have been.

  But Mr. Mendel wasn’t there.

  A lump of something dark and crimson lay in the center of the stains. I bent over the mattress and nodded. The killer had cut out Mr. Mendel’s heart. And left it behind while stealing away the rest of him. A quick search of the small one-story house did not turn up a body.

  I wasn’t surprised. I’ve been through this before and knew it wouldn’t. Not that I could say that to Mrs. Mendel.

  Bloodstained beds, missing bodies and broken hearts (not to mention disembodied ones) had become a regular occurrence of late.

  “I’m not a sound sleeper,” Mrs. Mendel sobbed. “I don’t understand. How could someone have hurt him so bad and I didn’t hear it? Oh, my Lord, look at the blood. Could he be okay still after all that?”

  She clearly was ignoring the significance of the lump of flesh that lay in the center of the stain. “I don’t know, ma’am,” I said. “Let’s talk about what happened exactly.”

  It was a pointless but necessary process question. I knew the answer – I’d heard it in too many cases now.

  All unsolved.

  There was one commonality in all of them.

  Woman or man woke up. Spouse was missing. Their place on the bed was drenched in wet blood. There was no body.

  “I already told you, I woke up and Bert was gone. I thought maybe he’d just gone to the bathroom or maybe the kitchen to get himself something to drink. Bert gets insomnia sometimes and it isn’t unusual for him to be up wandering the house while I’m sleeping. But when he didn’t come back after a few minutes, I got up myself.”

  I put up my hand to stop her. “We’ve talked about this already,” I said. “But what I’m wondering is, did Bert have anyone who was angry with him? Had he had a fight earlier that day maybe?”

  Mrs. Mendel shook her head quickly. I was clearly frustrating her.

  “Bert is the nicest man alive,” she said. “There isn’t a soul who dislikes him. He makes friends with everyone he’s ever met.”

  I nodded and made a note in my case notepad. Occasional insomnia. Charismatic type.

  “Was he funny?” I asked. “Class clown type?”

  She grinned. “Bert can always make you smile,” she offered. “He can walk into the middle of a fight and have both sides laughing in two minutes flat and wondering what they’d even been arguing about in the first place.”

  “So, you’re not aware of anyone who wished him harm,” I reiterated. I knew the answer, but I had to ask all the standard questions.

  She shook her head violently. “No sir,” she said. “My Bert stops folks from getting hot, he doesn’t start fires.”

  Peacemaker and comedian, I wrote.

  “Was he away from home much?”

  She shrugged. “Not too much. He works at a shop just off St. Bernard Avenue. Sometimes they keep him late when it gets to be the busy season, like a couple nights this week, but mostly, he’s home by supper time.”

  We were interrupted by a metallic knock on the rickety front screen door. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a shoulder clad in uniform blues. It wasn’t often that I scooped the boys on their regular beat. But I’d been just a couple blocks away when I heard the radio call. They’d probably be annoyed.

  Mrs. Mendel was already at the door ushering the two beat cops into the small sitting room. I held my badge up over my head so they could see.

  “Detective Ribaud,” I announced. “Heard the call and was nearby.”

  I got a curt nod from what I assumed was the senior partner given the sprinkle of gray in his short brown hair. He didn’t say a word to me, but instead pointedly only addressed Mrs. Mendel. Yep. He was annoyed.

  “Officer Metaine,” he said, introducing himself. Then he gestured at the squat dark-haired man at his side. “And this is Officer Jarousch. Can you tell us what happened?”

  I listened to the story of Mrs. Mendel’s rude awakening for the third time and followed them into the bedroom. Eventually, they told Mrs. Mendel to go sit down while they looked things over closer. The short guy – Jarousch – moved all around the bed, shooting photos of the bloody mattress from every angle. When he was finished, he set down the camera, pulled a pair of rubber gloves from a pocket and gingerly picked up the red hunk of flesh that lay in the center of the crimson stain.

  “What do you make of this?” he asked, holding it up between thumb and forefinger. It was larger than my fist, and blood dripped from the end of it to soak back into the bed.

  “Looks like a human heart,” Metaine suggested.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Jarousch said, clearly disgusted.

  “That is the question, isn’t it?” I said.

  The two of them looked at me as if they’d only just noticed that I was in the room.

  “We’ve got this,” Metaine said.

  I nodded. Beat cops hated it when detectives they didn’t normally work with turned up to cramp their style. I filled them in anyway.

  “We had some cases just like this last month. And a few the month before. We’ve been able to keep
it out of the media so far, but I’m guessing this won’t be the only one we get a call for today. The number seems to be increasing each time it happens.”

  Jarousch opened his mouth to say something and then thought better of it. The silence between us grew uncomfortable.

  “Put everything you find in your report,” I said. They both rolled their eyes…as if….

  “And be careful with that heart,” I warned. “Somebody might want it back.”

  Jarousch realized he was still holding the thing between his thumb and forefinger and dropped it instantly.

  The orphaned heart made a soft splat as it hit the sheets.

  Chapter Two

  I walked in on a vampire joke at the Two-Headed Horse. It happens a lot here, thanks to Anne Rice. Raymond was sitting at a low round table and holding up a glass that I bet, after knowing him a long while, held more bitters than alcohol. He could ‘drink anybody under the table’ because the reality was, there was barely any liquor in his drinks.

  “Three vampires walk into a bar….” Raymond was saying. “The bartender looks them over and shakes his head. ‘We don’t serve the likes of you,’ he says. ‘No problem,’ the first vampire says, and grabs one of the patrons who already looks close to dead. The guy is leaning against the bar rail. ‘I serve myself,’ the vampire says, and takes a deep drink from the man but then abruptly stiffens and his eyes bug out.

  “‘That guy’s been drinking martinis with garlic olives all night,’ the bartender announces. ‘You should really pay a little closer attention to what you drink when you’re in a bar.’

  “The first vampire falls to the floor.

  “The second vampire shakes his head. ‘You really do have to be a little more selective when you’re out on the town.’ He moves to a woman sitting alone at a table with a glass of red wine in front of her. After talking to her for a moment, he leans in closer to her as if to whisper a secret. But just as his fangs extend and touch her neck, he screams. Smoke is suddenly billowing from his face and hair as if he’s just been set on fire. The woman reaches into her handbag and shakes something in her hand all over his head. He scrambles away from her on the floor as if he’s escaping from a fire.

  “‘She doesn’t wear the habit, but that’s a nun,’ the bartender notes. ‘She doesn’t have many friends, but she always has holy water. You should really pay a little closer attention to the kinds of friends you make when you’re in a bar.’

  “That left the third vampire,” Raymond continued. “Noting the fate of his friends, he takes a long look at the bartender. ‘If you were me, what would you suggest I do to have a good time in a bar?’

  “The bartender shrugs. ‘Pick out a good spot with the wall to your back so nobody can sneak up on you, and then pay attention.’

  “‘Good advice,’ the vampire says, and suddenly lofts over the bar and plunges his teeth into the bartender’s neck. ‘You’ve got the best seat in the house,’ he says as he draws a sip of warm, sweet blood.

  “And then his eyes pop wide and he gags and clutches at his heart. A wooden stake protrudes from the center of his chest. The bartender releases his hold on it and brushes his hands together as the vampire falls to the floor.

  “‘And I don’t intend to give it up,’ the bartender says. ‘You should pay a little closer attention to what your victims have in their hands when you decide to have a drink.’

  “The bartender raises a glass. ‘Bloody Marys are on the house!’ he says and the whole bar cheers.”

  “And the point of all that is?” I asked.

  Raymond looked surprised. “Well, I thought it was obvious.” He shook his head. “When you’re in a bar you need to watch what you drink, watch who you kiss and watch whose stick gives you a prick!”

  I shook my head in despair, but the three men around him broke up in loud guffaws. They’d clearly been matching Raymond drink for drink…and he was going to win.

  “So how was another day wearing the uniform?” he asked after taking a sip from his glass.

  I pulled up a chair and sunk into it with a loud sigh. “Just another day in paradise,” I said, looking around the bar. I hadn’t come here for Raymond’s meandering, pedantic stories. “Is Gen working tonight?”

  “What, four drunken fat men aren’t enough to keep you entertained?” Raymond laughed.

  “Not on the best of days,” I said, refusing to play his game.

  “I’m hurt,” Raymond said.

  “I’m not fat,” Caldwell said, the import of Raymond’s comment dawning on him after a moment.

  “And I’m not working the armpit of the Gulf of Mexico,” I said. “Is she here?”

  Stu piped up then and pointed across the room at a table with two silver-haired men and a dark-haired waitress leaning with one arm on their table.

  “She’s been trying to take their order for fifteen minutes,” Caldwell said.

  “And you couldn’t get up and give her a hand?” I asked. “Chivalry is dead.”

  “I don’t work for tips,” he drawled and lifted a glass with a shaky hand.

  “Pathetic lot, you all are,” I said, and pushed myself back up and out of the chair.

  Genevieve and I went back a long while. She had been a friend of my wife’s, but I didn’t hold that against her. Though if she’d been more of a friend to me, Amanda might still be alive today. I tried not to think too much about that, though it was never far from my mind.

  “Is there a problem with the order?” I asked, sidling up to the table she was working. The men traded guilty looks and then smiled.

  “No sir, we were just enjoying a little conversation with the lady. I hope we didn’t get her into any trouble.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Just so long as she’s served you well, that’s all we care about here at the Two-Headed Horse.” I played it up further and looked directly at Gen. “If I could see you by the kitchen when you’re done here?”

  She nodded, a faint smile tilting the edge of her pouty lips, and I walked away before they could pull me into further conversation. She’d be along.

  And a couple minutes later, she was.

  “Ever the knight, aren’t you?” she asked as she turned the corner and found me in the dark hallway between the bar and the kitchen.

  “Someone’s gotta tilt at windmills,” I said.

  She snorted. “Careful you don’t fall off your horse,” she said.

  Then she curtseyed. “Thank you, good knight, for saving me from the knaves. How may I repay the favor?”

  I ignored the drama and cut to the chase. “Tell me who Amanda was sleeping with.”

  She dropped the hem of her skirt and stood up straight.

  “Let it go,” she said. “I’ve told you a hundred times, I don’t know.”

  “And I know better,” I said. “She was with him the night before she was killed, wasn’t she?”

  Gen clenched her eyes closed for a second before reopening them with a look that was intense and final. “I don’t know. I only know she’s gone and nothing you can do will bring her back. So, stop. Just…stop.”

  “I can’t stop,” I said. “There’s been another murder. Or, as the official police reports say, “a disappearance.” Actually, when I left the station an hour ago there had been a half dozen disappearances reported today. More hearts left on the bedsheets like pieces of discarded clothing. The chief has managed to keep this thing fairly quiet up to now – the papers have reported most of the incidents as “missing persons” and haven’t connected the dots. But with that many in one night…I think it’s about to hit the fan. I need to know who Amanda was with that night. This all started in March, the night she was killed. And I’m not saying disappeared. I know better. I also know that she was cheating on me with someone. Whoever she was with could be the key to all of this.”

  She shook her head, an
d a hint of moisture glinted from the corner of one eye. “He didn’t kill her,” she said. “He didn’t do any of this.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  She looked away from me, and then stared at the ceiling, trying to regain her composure.

  “How do you know?” I insisted. “People are dying. Just like she did.”

  She turned her face back to me then and there was a look of anger there that I’d never seen before.

  “I know because the guy she was seeing is dead too. His wife found a bloody piece of meat in her bed instead of her husband on the same night that Amanda disappeared.”

  “You did know,” I said. My voice broke. The fact that the man was dead hadn’t sunk in yet. I was still stuck on the fact that Genevieve had known who my wife was sleeping with and had kept it hidden from me for weeks. “I knew there was no way that she would have kept it from you. Did you help her sneak around behind my back to meet him?”

  Gen threw back her head and laughed. It was a bitter sound. “What need to sneak? You were never home. The poor girl had to do something. She didn’t deserve you.” She choked then and turned her head away. “She didn’t deserve to die for it, either.”

  “I’m going to find the man who did it,” I said. “And when I do….”

  Gen looked at me sideways. “What makes you think it’s a man? Hell, what makes you think it’s one person?”

  “All of the killings have been the same. Bloody bedsheets. A heart left behind. And we’ve kept the details out of the papers so far, so it can’t be a copycat. There have only been a couple minor stories about disappearances because the first couple months it happened, the police were able to keep them quiet. They’re missing persons, not murders, and so the papers aren’t really picking up on it. But from the way these have happened, we know it’s got to be the same guy behind them all.”

  “I might have bought that the first couple times it happened. But do you really think one guy snuck around to all those houses last night and killed all those people and stole their bodies without help? No way. And why all on the same night? You haven’t had any of these for weeks and then…bam. A slaughter? And it was the same thing the last time…just not as many people died.”