6. Chapter Six
Brody stretched, curling his toes under the blanket. He rolled his head towards the window, gazing at Grace’s sleeping face. He had no idea how long they talked after making love, but it was a conversation they needed to have for a long time. There was a lot unsaid between them when he left the University of New Orleans to take the job with the FBI. Now, it had all been said, and the air between them was clearer than ever. He reached out to gently push a lock of Grace’s hair from her forehead. God, he missed her. They stayed in touch while he was gone, but it wasn’t the same, especially when he was on an assignment that kept him out of contact.
He rolled to his side to face Grace and was going to lean in to wake her with a soft kiss when his phone rang. He reached back to grab it, silencing the ring. “Whalen,” he said softly.
“Did I wake you, boss?”
It was Brody’s assistant at the station. Brody rolled out of bed, slipped from the room, and walked downstairs to put on a pot of coffee. “No. I was trying to get motivated to make a pot of coffee and get up for the day.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry to call you on your day off, but I got you that number you were asking for. You know, that local historian I told you about.”
“Perfect.” Brody walked into his study and found a pen. He wrote down the number on a piece of paper and set his pen on the pad. “Any word on that sample we sent off? The sample of the substance the symbol was made from?”
“Got it back this morning. That was the other thing I was calling you about. It’s luminol.”
“Wait.” He clenched his cell phone between his ear and shoulder as he set up the coffee pot. “You’re telling me that the killer somehow got a hold of luminol and mixed it with the blood on purpose to make it glow on the wall?”
“Yup.”
“Fuck.” Brody’s mind was racing. “That’s not going to narrow anything down. You can purchase the shit online.” He leaned back against the counter, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Find anything else odd?”
“No. You went over the body really well, and other than the note the Sheriff found, it was clean. Nothing under the fingernails or on the teeth.”
“And toxicology?”
“Just alcohol. A large amount of it. Like she went on a bender. It’s common to see among the homeless.”
Brody scratched his cheek. “Yeah, but if the killer is targeting the homeless, they may be using alcohol to draw the victim into their confidence. Check the local liquor stores in New Orleans for large orders that seemed out of place to the owner or manager.” The coffee pot beeped, and Brody pulled two mugs from the cabinet, pouring the rich, dark brew into them. “All right. Call me if anything else comes up.”
“Sure thing. Oh…those cold case files you asked for? They are on your desk.”
“Perfect. I’ll pick them up on the way back from the university. Thanks for the update.” He hung up the phone, running his tongue over his teeth in thought. He picked up one of the coffee cups and took a sip, thinking about what his assistant told him. The information said to him that whoever the killer was, they had some knowledge of chemical reactions and how the substance actually worked. This killer was tricky and knew how to cover their tracks…literally. The crime scene was an alley, but no footprints were found because of the cobblestones that made up the alley’s surface.
Grace found Brody standing naked as the day he was born in the kitchen, holding his coffee cup, his eyes closed, and his left hand gripping the counter. She stared at him briefly before walking to the counter he leaned against. “Is this for me?” she asked.
Brody looked at her. “I was gonna bring it upstairs. Sorry.”
“I heard your phone ring, and you looked very much in thought when I walked in. I like this thinking pose.” Her lips twitched in mischief. She laid her hand on his stomach, leaning up to give him a kiss. “Good news or bad?”
After setting his coffee cup down, Brody caught her hand and pulled her into his arms. “Good news. I got the name of that historian in the Garden District. I was gonna call him and see if he’d be up for a chat since we’re both off.” He leaned down and kissed her slowly. “Or we could go back to bed,” he whispered against her lips. He grasped her waist and ground his hips against her. She turned him on like nothing else.
Grace ran her hands down his chest and stomach. “As tempting as it sounds, we’ve got work to do. We catch this killer, and you can keep me in bed for days.”
Brody chuckled and kissed her nose. “Fair enough.” He let her go and picked up his coffee cup. “Why don’t you go get a shower, and I’ll bring your dry clothes upstairs?”
“Why don’t I just go to the cruiser and grab my bug-out bag from the trunk?” Grace suggested.
“If you had a bug-out bag in the car, why didn’t you grab it last night?” he asked as she walked towards the back door and the garden gate. He followed her, standing in the doorway.
“It was pouring. And my bugout bag isn’t waterproof,” she called back as she slipped out the gate onto the main street where the cruiser was parked.
“It was pouring,” Brody mimicked with a bounce of his head. “I’ll show you pouring one day, missy,” he mumbled as he returned to the kitchen. He refilled his coffee cup and grabbed Grace’s as the back door closed. He headed upstairs to get ready to face the day.
By the time Grace and Brody got ready for their meeting with the historian, the sun was already high in the sky. He couldn’t resist making her breakfast and lingering over the first meal of the day. After all, it was their day off, and they deserved to take a few moments to themselves before jumping into the murder mystery they were faced with. They decided to take Brody’s truck instead of Grace’s police cruiser. He followed her to the station, where she returned her vehicle to the motor pool before helping him carry the cold cast files from his office.
“So, who is this historian we are going to see?” Grace asked as they made their way through the French Quarter to the Garden District.
“Dr. Marcus Duval. According to Deputy Daniels, if he can’t tell us more about the symbol and what that letter says, we’re not going to find out.” They left the close streets of the French Quarter and ventured onto the oak-shaded St. Charles Avenue. The houses here were a variety of styles and colors, from single-story cottages to stately homes used in television and movies. The historian’s home was one of the stately mansions. It was set back from the road, encircled by an ornate wrought-iron fence, and hidden from view by towering oak trees. Brody pressed the button on the gate, and it swung open slowly, giving them entrance to the grounds.
“Sheriff, Cooper, Sheriff Whalen, welcome. Please come in, come in,” Dr. Duval extolled from his place on the front porch as Brody and Grace exited the truck. “I do hope you like tea. I just brewed a fresh pot of Earl Grey. I could make you a London Fog if you’d like.” He stood at the door, holding the screen open as he ushered them inside.
“No, a cup of tea would be fine. You don’t have to do anything fancy for us, but thank you for the offer,” Grace responded. She smiled at the man as he slipped past them and tottered towards his office. She wasn’t expecting Dr. Duval to be as advanced in years as he was, but then, she wasn’t really sure what to expect. Not after the old man they spoke with the day before. As she walked into his office at the back of the house, she was greeted with the musty scent of old books and the soft creak of wooden floors. His office was once the library of the grand home. The shelves that lined the walls of the vast room were overflowing with dusty tomes and ancient artifacts.
“Dude is like Indiana Jones,” Brody mumbled under his breath as Dr. Duvall cleared piles of books and papers from the two chairs before his desk.
Grace nodded as she took in the items around the room. Brody wasn’t far off. Some of the things that were placed in front of the books undoubtedly belonged in a museum. She finished inspecting the room and sat down in one of the chairs. Brody took the second one as Dr. Duvall poured them each a cup of tea.
“So, I understand from Sheriff Whalen that you have found a unique symbol at a crime scene. This is very intriguing. Very intriguing indeed. Can I see and study the picture while you tell me about this investigation?” Brody handed Duval the image and sat back in the chair as Grace explained to the historian what they knew. She left out specific details, things the other man didn’t need to know or worry about. Duval listened intently, his eyes narrowing in thought. He pulled out a ruler, measured the symbol, and made notes on a pad of paper to his left. “Yes, yes, this symbol is tied to New Orleanss darker history.”
“Well, at least he didn’t burn this photo,” Brody quipped.
“You spoke with Marie LeBlanc. I can almost guarantee she told you to move along and forget you ever saw it,” Dr. Duval laughed. “I do love Marie, but she is superstitious. I am historic.” He tapped the image. “This is known as the “Mark of the Crescent.” It was the sigil of a secretive group known as the Crescent Order. Did she tell you it goes back to the days of the Civil War?” he asked as he leaned back in his chair with his cup of tea.
“She did. Right before she set it on fire,” Grace responded.
Duval nodded. “Typical. It is believed to be considerably older, but the Civil War is the furthest back anyone has ever traced it here in New Orleans. The Crescent Order was believed to be founded by a group of powerful, influential individuals intent on controlling the city from behind the scenes. From political manipulation to occult rituals, they are said to stop at nothing to maintain their power.”
“Surely they’re no longer in existence,” Grace stated. So far, Dr. Duval wasn’t telling them anything more than they already knew.
“Oh, no, Sheriff. The Crescent Order is still very much in existence. They usually don’t advertise quite this blatantly. I would say someone has upset the balance of order for them to be doing this.” He stroked his grey goatee for a moment. “They have long taken credit for all manner of nefarious activities that have plagued this fair city. From police corruption to influencing votes, the Crescent Order has long held sway over the affairs of New Orleans.”
Grace felt a chill run down her spine at Dr. Duval’s words. If the Crescent Order was behind the murder or the homeless woman – and some of the cold cases the office had never solved like Brody suspected – then they had an adversary they might not be able to take down.
“Do you know anyone who might be involved with the Crescent Order?” Brody asked.
With a grave expression, Dr. Duval nodded slowly. He calmly set his tea cup on the desk, straightening it on the saucer and placing his spoon next to it. Every motion was slow and deliberate. “There are whispers, of course,” he said quietly. “Rumors that some prominent figures in the city are part of the Order or who have ties to the Order. However,” he paused, meeting their gazes, “proving they are part of the Crescent Order will be very difficult. Tread lightly, Sheriff Cooper. The members are not known for their patience or kindness. Look at everything and trust no one.”
Grace felt a sense of urgency at Dr. Duval’s words. She finished her tea and stood up, offering Dr. Duvall her hand. “Thank you for the information.”
Dr. Duvall held her hand in his, laying his free hand over it. “Sheriff, they are everywhere. They use the sigil of the Loa, the voodoo spirits that watch over us, as their own. It is also a warning. You need to be wary of danger in the shadows.”
“What kind of danger?” Brody asked.
Dr. Duvall looked at him. “There are still those in the city that practice the old ways,” he said. “Ones who are looking for power and knowledge that go beyond this realm. This symbol is their sign. A reminder of their presence. It has not been seen in the city since the Second World War. Something is coming. If you want to know what, if you want the answers to the questions you have yet to ask, then there is a place in the bayou…take the Palmetto Trail from the parking lot into the swamp, and you’ll find a sort of temple, where the old rituals are still being practiced. That’s where you will find your answers.”
“The Palmetto Trail? The one in Barataria Preserve?” Brody asked.
Grace looked at her partner and then to Dr. Duval. “This is happening in the heart of Jean Lafitte National Historical Park and Preserve?”
“Yes. Go past where they have closed the trail to visitors, and be careful. I cannot say anymore, or else it will be my murder you will investigate next.” He let go of Grace’s hand and then shook Brody’s. “Good luck, Sheriffs.”
Once they were in Brody’s truck, Grace looked at him. “So, now we’re going to the bayou to figure out what is happening.”
“Seems like it.”
“Do you have hip waders?”
“Nope.” He reached over and tapped the GPS. “I need directions to Massey’s Outfitters.” Once the map came up, he headed towards the shop.
Grace couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched as they drove back into the French Quarter. She was determined to find out who was killing the homeless and why.
And bring them to justice.