Black Silk. Metsy Hingle
her cell phone rang. “Le Blanc,” she answered as she hit the defrost button on the dashboard.
“It’s Kossak,”
“What’s up?” she asked Vince Kossak, her partner for the past two years.
“We’ve got a possible 187,” Vince informed her, giving her the code for a homicide.
“What’s the location?” she asked.
“The Mill House Apartments in the Warehouse District,” Vince replied. “I’m headed there now.”
“I’m on my way.” Maybe she had yet to find justice for her sister Emily, but at least she could try to find justice for someone else.
He stood across the street shadowed by both his umbrella and the trees in the small park. Smiling, he watched the activity unfold at the apartment building. It had been risky for him to hang around, but the camouflage of the rain made it too tempting to resist seeing the reaction to his handiwork.
Everything had gone according to plan. The discovery of Francesca’s body by the maid couldn’t have gone better if he’d scripted the scene himself. Which, come to think of it, he had—at least indirectly, he thought proudly. Maybe when he finally collected the money due him, he would invest some of it in the movie business. Making movies in Louisiana had become big business and it made sense for him to get in on some of the action. Better yet, instead of simply being the moneyman, he would act as the movie’s director. After all, he had directed the players in the drama going on across the street for months now, hadn’t he? And look at what a masterful job he’d done. Yes, he thought with a chuckle, the idea of directing appealed to him—almost as much as killing Francesca had appealed to him.
The M.E.’s van pulled up and he shoved his plans for the future aside. Another group of the city’s gofers exited the van followed by a tall woman wearing an ugly beige raincoat. Mid-forties, moderately attractive, he thought, studying her. After speaking to the doorman for a moment, she turned and began giving instructions to the men accompanying her. The medical examiner herself, he realized, his gloved fist tightening on the handle of his umbrella. Another woman in a position of power—power that she wielded over the men beneath her. Adrenaline surged through him as he considered the prospect of showing her what real power was. He couldn’t risk it, he told himself as he watched her and her minions enter the building. Besides, she really wasn’t worthy of his attention.
Now the pretty, blond detective who had arrived flashing her badge was another matter altogether. He smiled. He hadn’t anticipated that the police department would assign a woman to Francesca’s case and certainly not one so young and attractive. Even all wet and in the bland clothes, she was a looker. And hadn’t he always been partial to blondes? She was a bonus, one he hadn’t expected. He was going to enjoy sparring with this one. And maybe he would do more than just sparring, he amended with a smile as he touched the black silk stocking in his coat pocket.
But the lady cop would have to wait, he decided. First…first, he had to put the next part of his plan into play. Whistling, he strode down the street toward his car.
By the time Charlie turned onto the street where the Mill House Apartments were located, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. But the wet streets had caused a slew of fender benders that had turned what should have been a ten-minute drive into twenty. With a touch of impatience, Charlie pulled her unmarked car to a stop behind a silver Rolls-Royce.
“Ma’am, this is a no-parking zone,” a uniformed doorman holding a black umbrella told her as she exited her car. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to move your vehicle.”
She didn’t bother pointing out that the Rolls was in the same no-parking zone as her car. Instead she flashed him her badge. “I’m here on official business. The car stays here,” she informed him and strode toward the apartment building.
Nervously tailing her, he called out, “But, ma’am—”
“Detective,” she corrected without breaking her stride, making her way to the building’s entrance. Once a working cotton mill, the Mill House was one of several vacant buildings that had been converted into luxury apartments following the success of the city’s 1984 World’s Fair. The place bore little resemblance to the old mill now, she thought as she reached the porte cochere that had been part of the building’s original architecture. She climbed the dozen steps and was about to open the door when the doorman practically jumped in front of her.
“It’s my job,” he explained when she leveled him with a look.
“Thanks,” Charlie murmured as he pulled the door wide. This had to be a first, she thought. She couldn’t recall ever being greeted at a crime scene in such a manner before. Then again, this wasn’t the typical place for a homicide. Although New Orleans held the unwanted distinction of ranking number one in the nation for murders per capita, most of the crimes were committed in the poorer sections of the city. Nine times out of ten, where the poverty was most prevalent so were the drugs, gangs and turf wars that so often resulted in murder. It was a sad fact of life and a black eye on the city of New Orleans, despite the current efforts being made by the police chief to rectify the problem. But barely into the second month of the calendar, the murder rate had already exceeded one a day.
In her five years on the police force Charlie couldn’t ever recall a murder occurring in one of the city’s upscale apartment buildings. And there was no question this one was upscale, she conceded as she marched across shining marble floors, past urns filled with fresh flowers and over to the front desk.
A nervous-looking clerk in a gray-and-red uniform that matched the doorman’s looked up and asked, “May I help you?”
“I’m Detective Le Blanc,” she said, flashing him her badge.
The man paled. “You must be here about poor Ms. Hill.”
“That’s right,” she said, assuming poor Ms. Hill was the victim. “What’s the apartment number?”
“Let me call Mr. Blackwell for you. He’s the building manager,” he explained. “He’ll take you up to Miss Hill’s apartment.”
“That’s all right. I can manage on my own. Just give me the apartment number,” she told him.
“It’s 513. But—”
“Thanks,” she said and started toward the elevator.
“Wait! Ma’am. Officer—”
“It’s Detective,” she corrected, pausing at the panic in the young man’s voice.
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, Detective,” he said. “If you’ll just wait a minute. I’m supposed to notify Mr. Blackwell—”
“It’s all right, Dennis,” a portly man with a horrible comb-over said as he materialized from a door behind the desk to stand beside the nervous clerk. “I’m Mr. Blackwell, the manager of Mill House Apartments,” he advised her with a pomposity that annoyed her.
“Detective Charlotte Le Blanc,” she told him with a flash of her badge. “New Orleans Homicide.”
“So I see,” he all but sniffed. “Several of your associates have already arrived, Detective. Perhaps you would like to remove your coat before you join them.”
The disdain in his voice was clear as he surveyed the wet tracks she’d left in her wake, and Charlie suspected he would have preferred showing her the exit instead of allowing her further access. And because she’d never understood why some people thought a fancy title or money entitled them to act pompously, she said, “It’s a bit chilly in here. I think I’ll just keep it on.” And without waiting for his response, she walked past him, down the corridor to the elevator,