Dead Spaces

Chapter 1-3

Which just went to show how good deeds got punished. Sometimes really fast.

She sighed, which Ingrid took for a yes.

“You’re the best.”

Ingrid stripped off her gloves and tossed them in the trash. She eased the door open, grinned back. “I’ll email you the photos as a thank you. I got the best shot of them all with their jaws slack. It’s epic.”

Hannah had to grin then, though it still had some wry in it. At least there didn’t seem to be much in the coffins. How sad was it that she was sorry there wasn’t a moldy old body for her to puzzle over? Yeah, that would be why she spent most of her Friday nights at home watching CSI shows on NetFlix.

It felt a bit weird to be alone with the coffins and the dolls. Were there any horror movies with killer dolls? There was a good reason she didn’t watch horror movies, she decided, glancing around the suddenly too quiet room. She rubbed at the hole in the side of the doll head. Was this a message? Or a teenaged joke? They’d all been secured in place. The three Kens lined up like corpses. And Barbie? That she’d been secured in the mooning position did seem like a message. Had they thought the coffins would be opened sooner? Or had it been meant as a private joke?

She lined the dolls up on the table usually reserved for human bodies, and began her search of the coffins’ interiors. Bagged a few dead bugs and some of the dust. Never knew. Maybe someone would shake loose some money so they could parse the dirt, investigate this like they did on TV. Yeah, and Elvis was gonna walk through the door any minute now.

The Ken coffin netted lots of dirt and a Ken loafer that she almost missed. Why was it always one shoe that went missing? The surface under the lining was hard, even where a body usually lay. Maybe they didn’t pad coffins. It’s not like a corpse needed soft. She lifted the rotting fabric as much as she could without ripping it more. Looked like some kind of stone under there, possibly to weight the coffins so they’d feel properly heavy. Ingrid was gonna have a cow when she saw them if she had to catalog them all.

She shifted attention to the Barbie coffin. Bricks under the lining, too, or so it seemed. She felt along the sides until her hand bumped something hard. She shifted the debris carefully aside. A ring had been tucked—or fallen?—between the side and the bottom. She grabbed her cell phone and took a couple of shots, then extracted it. She rubbed enough grime off to see that it looked to be a fairly cheap version of a high school class ring. She held it up to the light, felt a rising unease as the school initials became visible. It was her dad’s high school insignia, one of the smaller, private high schools in the area. She put it under a magnifying glass, and saw, barely legible through the dirt, some words engraved on the inside. It was just a coincidence. Had to be. Was it possible to pull prints off it after all this time? She bumped up the magnification and gently blew off as much debris as she could.

Charles Evans Baker.

She leaned against the table to support knees that all the sudden felt weak. How had her Uncle Charlie’s high school ring ended up in a coffin buried almost twenty years after he’d disappeared?

“Do you think it’s some kind of message?” Alex said broodingly.

Ferris stopped next to Alex, just outside on the loading ramp, in the shadow of the big freezer trucks where the bodies were stored. The air was hot and thick, but despite being an alley, it smelled better than inside the NOCC. He glanced at his partner and resisted the urge to shake his head. Love was kicking Alex’s rear. He was so far up the river denial, he needed an airlift rescue. And if he wanted to get punched out, he’d tell Alex that. Since he was constitutionally opposed to getting punched, Ferris considered Alex’s question instead.

“Yeah, sure.” Seemed to Ferris it was a pretty succinct message: kiss this, jerks. With maybe a touch of: your turn is coming. That made him frown a bit. Been a long time coming. Those coffins had been interred a long time ago. Pretty private message. Or inside joke. Really inside joke.

“Three wise guys. One girl. What if Ellie Calvino helped her daughter and the St. Cyr kid get away and that’s why…”

Ferris had heard bits of the story. Though Ellie Calvino had been listed as missing for thirty-some years, the conventional wisdom was that her loving husband had her put down quietly. Bettino did have some experience in making inconvenient people go missing permanent-like. As did Aleksi Afoniki and the late, unlamented Phineas St. Cyr. Way the story went, the three had competed for her hand, Bettino had won, then had buyer’s remorse. What Ferris found interesting is that one of the two losers hadn’t killed Ellie quicker for the crime of not picking them. Neither of them were what you’d call good losers. The three wise geezers had been a huge, stinking pile of brown stuff before they became geezers. A pile that didn’t seem that much smaller since St. Cyr got his well-deserved bullet to the brain last month.

If Ellie Calvino had survived, she’d be on his suspect list, but it was St. Cyr’s widow who was out on bail for the hit on her husband. Sounded like they had a solid case, too, even if the hired shooter’s brain had short circuited a bit after his arrest.

As he recalled, the sorta geeky Hannah had been the one to dig the bullet out of St. Cyr’s skull. Why did he find that kind of sexy? He’d had a thing for smart girls since high school. He liked it when she turned her analytical gaze on him. Just wish it stayed longer. Holy Hannah. Pity a partner’s sisters were off limits. Especially when his partner had so many of them. All blonde and all easy on the eyes. It was Hannah who tested his self control, though. So far he’d managed to keep it. He didn’t want to get punched. Alex had been wanting to punch someone since people started shooting at his girlfriend. Pity Calvino or St. Cyr hadn’t given him an opening. Dude needed to feel better, even if it wouldn’t last.

While Nell did nothing for Ferris, he could see why she had Alex’s wheels spinning. They both had that look couples got when love whacked them upside the head. He wasn’t one to wish marriage on a bubba but dude, it was coming, with or without the wishing. He’d wish Alex luck if Nell weren’t related to two mob families. Okay, he did wish him luck. The guy was gonna need it.

Why, he wondered, did Alex care if Ellie Calvino helped them or not, other than her being Nell’s grandmother. Man, the guy was up to his eye balls in crap. He needed to step back and take a breath. Use his brain. Ferris would have told him that—which brought him back full circle to not wanting to get punched. He looked speculatively at Alex. On the other hand, maybe he was distracted enough to not notice Ferris chatting up his little sister. If the other sister hadn’t been in there, he might have made an excuse to stroll back in—

Alex’s cell shrilled. He answered with a curt, “Baker.” Then his eyes widened. He lowered his arm, a frown forming on his face.

“What?” Ferris knew that look. Someone had died, but a someone whose death made the world a better place.

Alex rubbed his face. “Someone popped Bettino Calvino.” He made a gun with his hand and pointed at his temple, then added, “In City Park.”

So why the frown— Ferris stopped. “Don’t tell me we’re Guido’s alibi?”

Alex’s frown deepened to a scowl. “One of these days, he’s going to give me an excuse to hit him.”

“Be better to arrest him,” Ferris pointed out mildly. Ingrid Baker was on duty, so that meant she’d have to go to the scene, leaving Holy Hannah all alone…

“I need to talk to Nell, hopefully before this hits the news.”

Ferris looked at his watch. “Lunch hour?” He cast a speculative glance back at the NOCC. “Why don’t you pick me up back here?” Alex arched his brows. “Body’s gonna end up here. Maybe I’ll hear something.”

Alex nodded an okay. “Want me to bring you something?”

“I’ll figure something out,” Ferris said easily, pulling the door open as Alex headed for their wheels. He didn’t rush retracing his steps. In the park with the gun. In the head, too. Like the Kens. Did that mean Afoniki was next in line to get his? A guy could hope. And wonder why it had taken so long…

Guido Calvino found it easy to let Claude—clod—get ahead of him. Four bodyguards waiting outside? Claude probably thought it made him look powerful, not scared of his own shadow. He’d waited too long for power. Should have taken the old man out years ago. It had been obvious to everyone that Phineas St. Cyr had neither feared nor respected the spare heir.

St. Cyr had liked to think of himself as the “gentleman” mafia king. Guido could admit to wondering why his Uncle Bettino hadn’t moved on St. Cyr. He’d been the weakest of the three—his thoughts stalled.

This Ken is a fake, a ringer.

Another day, Guido might have been intrigued with the idea, but St. Cyr was dead. A clod was now in command of his empire. If—if there had been some sort of agreement between Bettino, Afoniki and St. Cyr, it would be void, would it not? Not that Guido was eager to kick up Afoniki’s anthill by making an obvious move on the clod’s stuff. Afoniki made Uncle Bett—who saw himself as old school mafia—look like the family pet. St. Cyr had been a polite killer and Uncle Bett a practical one, but Afoniki? He liked it, the power, the corrupting and the killing. Guido knew better than to let it show, but he’d been as uncomfortable at Afoniki’s dinner party as his reluctant new cousin, Nell.

If Afoniki had hoped to turn the girl back to her roots, well, he’d failed and not just for now. Nell had been remarkably resilient, not to mention resistant to exploring her darker roots. His cousin, Cinzia, had it right when she’d said her bedroom was probably cleaned by singing birds and mice.

He’d never been opposed to corrupting the innocent, but Alex Baker had made it clear, you messed with Nell, you messed with him. In this city, there was one truth even his side knew to respect. You messed with one Baker, you messed with them all.

The hounds of hell would be easier to manage.

It was possible the ill-timed shooting at the dinner party had tipped the balance for Baker. He couldn’t be steered, led, or warned off. No one had owned up to it, but then if someone did, it would be their last act in this life.

Nell’s return to New Orleans had stirred up more than old dirt.

Guido paused in the hallway, watching as Claude’s SUV halted long enough for him to scramble inside. Guido smiled. He would be lucky to survive to the end of the year. Not that Guido wanted to ignite a turf war with Afoniki. Both the old man and his heir were most likely formulating their own plans for seizing what Phin had left so ill-protected. The widow, she might have been able to keep it together, but Claude was weak. And Helene was old and under indictment. She would be of limited help to Claude. Always assuming he wanted her help. Or she wanted to give it. No love lost there.

If there was an agreement between the three old men, how very much he’d like to see the details. It must be powerful indeed to have kept three such men in check for so long.

And where did Nell Whitby fit in? What did uncle Bett fear from her? Was there a secret still waiting to ooze up out of the past? And was it a secret that would help—or damage—Guido’s very bright future?

Guido flexed his hands, feeling his own readiness to assume control. He was fond of his great uncle, but that would not stop him if he saw a chance. It was, after all, what uncle Bett had done.