he Bienville Arms on St. Charles Avenue was a haven for the
security-minded. It was a three-story red brick building with only one
front entrance and a revolving team of uniformed doormen who kept tabs
on anyone who entered. At the rear, a high wall with four metal doors
separated an alley from the patios of four garden apartments, one of
which was owned by the dead man. J.J. paused before the door leading
to McCree's patio, hunkered down, and studied a wad of paper that had
been pressed into the asphalt by the day's traffic.
Inside the dead man's apartment, he was greeted by his least favorite
homicide detectives, the officious Lieutenant Delroy Abadie and the
dense Officer Joe Voirre. They were being especially cooperative,
amused by the fact that one of Garrison's people was involved in the
crime.
"Accordin' to the watchmen, there was on'y four people here yestiday,"
Voirre said. "An' your boy, Chenovet, was the last in."
Chenovet wasn't J.J.'s boy; he thought the guy was an egotistical
windbag, but didn't bother to press the point. Instead, he surveyed
the book-lined living room/office crime scene. There was a soft
leather couch, several stuffed chairs and a good, plush carpet of a
dark green color. There was also an antique desk -- dark wood with
gold accents -- and a matching chair. And, on the floor near one of
the walls of books, the corpse, being studied by Dr. Macaluso from the
coroner's office.
McCree had been a diminutive man with black hair worn in bangs. He was
dressed in black slacks and a black silk shirt. There was not a lot of
blood. The silver letter opener resting in an evidence pouch beside
the body had done most of its damage internally.
"Got a guess about the time of death, doc?" J.J. asked.
"Somewhere between seven and ten last night," Dr. Macaluso said, "this
fella died very quickly." He turned to Abadie. "You gonna take care of
this book? Or don't you feel it's important?"
"Oh, it's important, all right, doc, " Lt. Abadie said, gesturing to
Voirre that he should bag the book resting under McCree's hand, a copy
of "The Rapist." "Dyin' man stumbles across the room to grab a book, he
sure as hell has somethin' on his mind."
"Any idea what?" J.J. asked.
The homicide cop's grin was so intense it stretched the tiny white scar
extending upward from his top lip. "It's the book Chenovet worked on.
He admits he came here last night to get McCree to pay him some money
he was owed. And McCree told him to go climb a rope."
"Chenovet admit to killing him?" J.J. asked.
"Naw. He claims McCree was fine when he left. But, as we all know,
Chenovet's got a short fuse." A few years before, Chenovet had
broken the jaw of a drunken reporter who'd made a few unkind remarks
about his then current girlfriend.
J.J. moved to the desk. A black leather appointment book rested
beside a brass lamp, opened to the previous day. There were three
notations. At four-thirty p.m., the word "Tina" had been printed in a
neat penmanship. At six, the word "Louisa." And at seven, "Chenovet."
J.J. raised his eyebrows. "Looks like McCree was a ladies' man."
Voirre snickered. "Not if you saw the pictures in his bedroom.
Strictly a man's man, you know what I mean."
"You might want to mention that to your boss," Abadie said with no
small amount of sarcasm. "Maybe McCree was part of that Clay Shaw crowd."
J.J. ignored the comment. "Who are Tina and Louisa?" he asked, his
eyes taking in the room, the desk, the French doors leading to the
patio.
"Tina is the stiff's sister," Abadie answered. "Little gal. Looks
sorta like him only not as feminine. She was his research assistant.
Louisa is Dr. Louisa Ordway, a shrink, who was helping McCree with his
next book. She says she left at six-thirty."
"You mentioned four visitors," J.J. said, strolling casually to the
French doors. "Who's missing?"
"Young guy named Stephen Page. He's not on the calendar because he was
working for McCree. Did the typing, answered the phone, ran errands.
Like that. It was him found the body this morning."
"He still around?"
"I sent him home," Abadie said. "He was all shook up. A wimpy college
kid. Loyola. Only worked mornings. Three other people saw McCree
alive after Page went home. And as the doorman says, nobody entered
this apartment after Chenovet left."
"At least not through the front door," J.J. said, stooping to look at a
wad of paper on the floor. It looked very much like the wad in the
alley. He stood and walked casually to the French doors.
"Those were locked," Voirre said.
"Have they been dusted?" J.J. asked.
Voirre nodded. "No prints at all. Not even McCree's."
"Wiped, huh?" J.J. said, returning to the paper wad.
"Hey, Sherlock," Abadie said, "want me to get you a magnifying glass?"
J.J. smiled at him. "Nope. This is big enough for even a blind man
to see."
Voirre reached down and before J.J. could stop him, picked up the hunk
of paper, unfolding it. "Just a torn piece of white paper," the cop
said.
"But it's enough to blow most of your case against Chenovet," J.J.
said.
Abadie sneered. "That little piece of paper? In your dreams, Cajun."
"As long as you've put your prints all over it, Voirre, fold it like it
was," J.J. said to the policeman, who complied. "Now take it to the
French doors and see if it fits into the slot opposite the latch bolt."
Voirre opened the French doors. The wad fit neatly into the recess in
the striker plate along the frame. When he swung the door shut, the
paper stopped the latch bolt from connecting.
"There's another wad in the alley near the patio door. So much for
Chenovet being the last person to see the dead man," J.J. said. "Any
of McCree's visitors could have fixed it so they could return later
without worrying about the doorman."
Abadie looked as if he'd bitten down on a sour grape.
"Cheer up," J.J. told him, pointing to the patio beyond the glass
French doors. "It looks like the plants have been watered recently."
"Yeah," Abadie said, confused. "The kid, Page, says that McCree liked
to wet 'em down first thing every morning. So what?"
"So, if he used that door yesterday morning to water his plants," J.J.
explained, "the lock hadn't been jammed. That means your suspects are
limited to just the four who were here since then."
"Including your man Chenovet," Voirre said.
"He's not my man," J.J. said. "But, yeah, including him."
"I guess we gotta invite 'em all down to Criminal Court for some more
interrigatin'," Voirre said.
"You be joinin' us, Cajun?" Abadie asked, obviously hoping for a
negative reply.
"I'll catch up with you," J.J. said. "Couple of things I have to do
first." He strolled to a book case and pulled down one of several
copies of "The Rapist."
Abadie eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and annoyance. Then he and
Voirre departed.
J.J. began to peruse the book. On just the first few pages he found
a few interesting things.
He replaced the book and checked his watch. It would be a couple hours
at least before Abadie could gather his flock. Time enough for a
dozen raw oysters at the Acme and maybe a slice of pecan pie, too.
First to arrive at the interrogation area was the dead man's sister,
Tina McCree. She was followed into the sterile waiting room almost
immediately by the part-time assistant, Stephen Page. The young woman
was a bit too short and thin for J.J.'s tastes, but, just as he was
forced to admit about the actress Audrey Hepburn, she was quite
appealing with her sculptured cheekbones and large, luminous eyes.
Page was nearly J.J.'s size, six-foot-three, with a mop of unruly black
hair and sideburns almost down to his chin.
Next in line was Lloyd Chenovet, his square-jawed, near-handsome face
touched with red, indignation puffing out his chest so much it threw
off the expensive tailoring of his blue blazer. He glared at Abadie
and Voirre, then turned to J.J. and said, "What're you doin' here,
Legendre? Huntin' for dirt to throw on my coffin?"
Abadie chuckled and said, "There you go, Cajun. No good deed goes
unpunished."
The hall door opened and the final suspect, Dr. Louisa Ordway, entered.
She was a tall, full-bodied woman with a generous mouth and a mane of
red hair. She wore a sedate skirt and jacket combination and
no-nonsense glasses with tortoise-shell frames that drew attention to
her green eyes.
Before the police lieutenant could begin, J.J. wondered if he could
ask just a question or two. "Be my guest," Abadie said sarcastically.
J.J. turned to Dr. Ordway. "You were working with Mr. McCree on his
next book. Was he using a particular psychiatric case study?"
"Not that he mentioned. This was only our initial meeting." Her voice
was low, carrying just a trace of a Southern accent.
"Miss McCree, anything to add about the new book?" J.J. asked.
"My brother," Tina McCree said, sounding a bit bored, "didn't pick
themes; he picked stories. He told me he'd discovered, and I quote, 'a
juicy little scandal involving sex therapy.'"
"No. He kept those specifics to himself until he began the actual
writing process."
"If you'll beg my pardon, Miss McCree," J.J. said, "you don't seem
terribly upset by your brother's death."
She gave him a fierce smile. "My brother was not a particularly
pleasant man. I didn't wish him dead, but I can't cry for him. I
don't know how Steve put up with his abuse."
"Tough guy to work for, Steve?" J.J. asked.
"N-n-not r-r-really," Stephen Page replied. "W-w-we got along just
f-f-fine."
"Have all of you read The Rapist?" J.J. asked.
Three of them nodded. Lloyd Chenovet said, "Read it? Hell, yes. I
was responsible for two-thirds of it."
Lt. Abadie said, "Not that I don't appreciate the help, Cajun, but I
think we'd better get started now."
"Started?" J.J. said. "We're finished. Don't you know who the killer
is?"