A French Quarter Violet

By E.J. Findorff

Officer Violet Babineaux is called to the scene of a suicide where she finds her childhood friend Charlotte Labarre lying on a blood-soaked couch with a gun in her hand. Violet believes she could have prevented her suicide with a simple call. 

 

Determined to find out what really happened, Violet launches her own investigation, despite the warnings. As she delves deeper into her friend's past, she uncovers a horrible truth that threatens to unravel her entire life. And to make matters worse, Violet discovers her friend's murder to be related to an ongoing serial killer case.

Will she be able to prove her friend's death was a murder, or will she become his next victim? Find out in this gripping thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat until the very end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neutral Ground Publishing
• Release date: Feb 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781953602077

Book preview

1

The paramedic didn’t bother to lift his hefty ass off the rear bumper of his ambulance, but managed to flick the butt of his cigarette toward my feet as if marking his territory. I could guess his attitude came from my being female or my being a cop or maybe both. He acted like a grade school bully, with thin lips and close-set eyes that measured Lenny and me.

Tourists wandering the French Quarter encroached as if we were street performers, but Lenny ushered them along. A piercing trumpet and dull drumming on an upside-down bucket could be heard near Bourbon Street as the afternoon sun descended.

I pulled out my little notebook of facts, ready with my pen. I’m Officer Violet Babineaux and this is Officer Lenny Blake. What we got?

Young, white female. The medic lit a new cigarette. Gun in the mouth. Brains on the wall. Looks like suicide. He imitated the sound of a gun firing and used his fingers to demonstrate her head exploding.

I can say the same about smoking. Lenny’s baritone carried as he plucked the newly lit cancer stick from the man’s lips and tossed it onto Royal Street, adding to the discarded debris the French Quarter tended to collect.

Hey. The medic squinted, not quite sure if he wanted to mouth off to an angry black cop large enough to body slam him.

Where’s the other medic?

She’s still with the body.

Is one of them the landlord? I pointed at one man consoling another on the curb in front of Diamond Minds, a quaint jewelry store with a torn green awning. One was a thin fellow, curled up with his knees to his chest, showing the whites of his eyes. His unkempt gray Afro lifted in the breeze and his ears hung low. The other man was pale, with deep wrinkles.

Black guy’s the landlord. Mr. Bud Dooley. He’s freaked out. Says the girl’s name is Charlotte something.

Wait. Charlotte?

The medic continued, The white guy is the jewelry store owner. Apartment’s right above. He pointed to an aging window with yellow shudders.

Lenny turned to me. Let’s hit it, Babineaux.

My blood pressure dropped and my stomach growled, and for the third time I wished we had gotten lunch before the call. The second-story window caused my intuition to rise up in my throat. Charlotte’s attempt to contact me had to be a coincidence. The demon possessing that apartment called down to me. Come up and see your friend.

We approached Mr. Dooley, who responded at a snail’s pace. Lenny bent at the waist to get his attention. Mr. Dooley. I’m Officer Blake and this is Officer Babineaux. We’re going to check out the apartment. We’ll be back down in a few minutes to take your statement, okay?

Horrible. So horrible. His lips trembled for more words that didn’t come.

Poor man. I’m glad he didn’t say Charlotte again. I don’t think I could take hearing her name come off his lips. It wasn’t her up there. It couldn't be.

We entered a green door that was propped open on the side of the jewelry store. I noticed that the paramedic had crossed the street to join us, not wanting to waste another cigarette. My noodle legs climbed the narrow flight of stairs, holding the railing with a tight hand. I’d been called to suicides before, but this could devastate me, seeing my closest childhood friend who had just reached out to me yesterday, and whom I had completely ignored.

At the summit of the stairs, a long, dreary hallway came into view. Light beamed through an open door, which had a crooked 2C barely hanging on. The medic and I entered behind Lenny as the second EMT rose from the kitchen chair. Her pants exaggerated wide curves and she had a butch haircut. Medics weren’t allowed to leave a body alone until relieved. My brain filtered Lenny’s words into sputtering noises as I crept closer to the body on the blood-spattered couch.

It was my Charlotte; the Charlotte that stood by my side during the Little Magnolia Pageants; the Charlotte whose fun-loving personality withered with our friendship until I ran away to start a new life at fifteen. It was the Charlotte who had just yesterday left a note on my door. My Charlotte.

She had shot herself in the mouth. Blood soaked her concert tee-shirt above her cute pink shorts. Her body was still in shape, but from metabolism, not working out. Blackish, pasty film coated her mouth, shoulders, and chest. Bits of her skull on the couch proved there would be a nasty exit wound. The gun rested on her side, inches from her hand.

Violet, what’s wrong?

Ignoring Lenny’s question, I stepped up to the couch to face her head-on, leaning over to confirm what I already knew. Childhood memories prevented any thoughts of my calming down. Small points of light invaded my vision and the room swirled. Finally, my knees gave out. Charlotte’s body rushed towards me until I saw the nothingness.

The faces of the two paramedics came into focus like big balloons floating inches from my nose. Bert and Ernie came to mind. I smelled spearmint and musk. With a satisfied look toward each other, they backed away. The male paramedic said I would be fine to no one in particular. 

What happened? I moaned.

Lenny knelt beside me. You passed out.

I rolled my shoulder and sat upright. My recollection of climbing the stairs and seeing Charlotte blurred in my mind like it had happened years ago. A sticky red coating covered my shaky hands, and I looked to Charlotte who had changed positions ever so slightly. Dark splotches stained my chest.

Oh, no.

Yeah. Lenny shook his head with a worried smile.

I sprang to my feet and scooted past the paramedics to the bathroom mirror where I saw the ugly tint smeared on my face. My career flashed before my eyes as it dawned on me that I had passed out on top of a suicide victim.

You know her? Lenny’s voice had lost all humor.

We used to be best friends, I whispered.

The detectives are on their way with the Crime Scene Unit. Sweat beaded on his forehead. What's our story?

I turned on the faucet with my elbow and Lenny took over washing my trembling hands. I don’t know. My brain feels like Tapioca. What do you think?

Believe it or not, your knowing her helps. I think we do a combo of reasons, starting with skipping lunch. I just don’t know if that’s going to cut it, so we add that you were startled.

I bent over the sink and splashed water on my face, saturating the blood so it would come off. It was low blood sugar, that’s all.

Lenny spooled some toilet paper around his hand and wiped at my cheeks, then flushed it so as not to leave confusing evidence. If only those paramedics hadn’t seen this, especially the dick I was a dick to. Okay, you skipped lunch and when you saw your friend, you got light-headed.

Her name’s Charlotte Labarre, I finally admitted, keeping my hands calm under my armpits.

Twenty-four, right?

I can only see her as a kid. I inspected my clean, rosy face in the mirror one last time. My seven-year-old reflection stared back at me, caked in eye shadow, blush, and hairspray and covered in sequins. Could I have saved Charlotte if I had just pressed send?

Late afternoon crept in and the coroner finally wheeled Charlotte out of her apartment. Detective Walter Wild had been given the case. The detective sported the long brown hair of a nineties grunge band singer and an inch-long beard in need of a grooming. He wore one of those intimidating blue windbreakers with Homicide in yellow scrawled broadly across the back. He embodied a certain type, meaning dark and brooding, with a face accentuated by comforting whiskers. Something about him seemed attractive, like a young Tommy Lee Jones, but I didn’t have enough experience with men to explain it. He scratched at his beard, probably to show frustration.

I fidgeted on a kitchen chair as Wild tried to draw me out with several pictures he found of Charlotte and me together. He showed me one. You two were close. I can tell.

Like sisters. My arms couldn’t find a comfortable place to rest.

He slid out a second picture of Charlotte clinging to my back. Who was the trouble-maker?

I almost smiled. She was. No fear. I turned away to wipe my eyes.

In between Wild’s small talk, one of the CSU team with the same colored jacket interrupted us. The older woman kept a stone face. Did you touch the coffee table?

I blinked a few times. I don’t know. I passed out.

You went in the bathroom. We going to find your prints there?

Wild slapped his thighs as he sat erect. We’ll talk about what you find later.

The tech’s eyelids closed a bit. She turned away. We’re going to need your clothes.

Lenny appeared. Can’t you see she’s distraught? Give her some space.

You can go wait outside if you want, Lenny. Wild continued to eye me.

Waiting outside sounded fantastic. My gaze strayed to the window. Does it matter? It's not a crime scene, right?

Detective Wild sucked in a breath as his nostrils flared. I’m not ready to put my stamp on anything just yet.

But nothing is contaminated.

Except the friggin’ body. He raised his hand, but then deflated. Sorry, I know that was your friend. But, this could have been a major screw up. It’s an embarrassment at the least. I’ll talk to the medics about keeping their yaps shut, but I don’t know how your captain is going to react.

Lenny spoke from behind the detective. Wild, let’s talk.

Not now, Lenny.

Now. Lenny hadn’t raised his voice, but it held the weight of lead.

Detective Wild turned to see Lenny already retreating, and resignation registered in his whiskered face. What was this power Lenny had amassed? I also knew that the two of them had a history that had grown into legend around the NOPD, involving a pickup basketball game that neither of them ever talked about. I watched my partner pull Wild into the corner for a couple of sentences, then the discussion continued in the bedroom where heated murmurs floated through the wall.

Without the detective to confer with, the two CSU techs returned to packing up their bags and making calls. My mind wandered to one of the last times I ever saw Charlotte happy. We were fourteen and had been separated about two months, despite living three blocks apart. Missing her immensely, I had met her at a Godfather’s Pizza close to each of our houses. I didn’t know which side of Charlotte I would encounter, but she embraced me with a laugh, to the point of crying. We sat, we ordered, and we were just two girls talking about girl stuff. The pepperoni was greasy and the cheese stretchy. I still remembered it as the best pizza I ever had.

2

The cold air from the station’s floor vents helped keep us from falling asleep. However, the temperature did nothing to get my mind off the visual of Charlotte’s bloody, lifeless corpse. I rubbed at my goose-pimpled skin at my desk, remembering that the restaurant I had worked at kept their dining room chilly so patrons wouldn’t get comfortable and linger. Cold air was welcome in New Orleans, until you had to sit in it for long periods.

Occasionally shivering, I sank down to rest my forehead on my palms with my eyes closed. I wondered how my conversation with Charlotte would have gone. If she’d still be alive after we had that conversation. It didn’t make sense that she took her life one day after reaching out to me. But if she hadn’t pulled the trigger, that would mean she was murdered. And according to Detective Wild there were no signs of foul play, although I’m sure he was holding back.

Lenny’s distant voice snapped me out of my trance. On the other side of the room, his wide girth squeezed out of Captain Tammy Pickler’s office and he winked as my back straightened for action. Pickler poked her head out like a whack-a-mole, intense and concerned, with her brown hair in a bun, plucked eyebrows, and sharp nose like a proper Victorian maid. Her head retreated again without changing expression. I rose, took a fist bump from Lenny, and entered her office with dignity.

How you feeling, Babineaux? Her head balanced forward on a long neck.

Fine. Fine, now.

Charlotte Labarre a good friend of yours?

Yes, Ma’am.

Pickler spun a pen under her fingers. I think you should take leave until the case is resolved.

I’m good, Captain.

Let me rephrase that, Violet. You’re taking time off. The pen stopped rotating. You passed out. On top of the victim. There’s no argument.

I’m a damn good cop, I blurted.

And that’s the reason I got your back. Her eyelids stayed closed a few seconds. You don’t have to repeat the story you and Lenny worked on. At least not to me.

Thanks?

Don’t thank me. Thank Wild for holding off on his report until the family is notified.

How long am I taking?

Her eyebrows popped up. Until we know we’ve kept this contained. An officer passing out on top of a suicide victim? Can you imagine the press?

"Captain, this job is all I have. That’s not just a saying. It’s all I have. I’m looking to make detective, to move up the ranks. How will this affect that?"

Pickler’s face relaxed. You’re young and impulsive. You better prove you can rein it in. Go home, live at the gym, have a beer at the lakefront… find something to do. You’ll be back in no time.

Yes, Ma’am.

I stepped out of Pickler’s office with a dazed feeling of waking up in a foreign country. Standing motionless at the desk, I debated what to do next. Lenny’s hand found my shoulder from behind, but he didn’t see the tear fall. No one did, as I casually wiped it away.

His soothing voice sounded like a radio disk jockey. You ain’t gotta take anything with you. Go home, clean up and then come over to my place for supper. Birdie’s making fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans. Won’t solve your problems, but you’ll forget ’em for while.

Thanks, Lenny, but I think I want to be alone tonight.

Supper’s 7:30. Don’t be late. You don’t want to get on Birdie’s bad side. He wrote on a small piece of paper and handed it to me, looking at my teary eyes. C’mon dahlin’, this is the NOPD. It’ll all work out.

I offered a puny laugh for his effort and shoved the address in my pocket. Does anyone say no to you?

My partner had a point about the city’s finest letting things slide. I don’t know of any other police force that the FBI had investigated more. Cops on the take, abusing their power, working for drug dealers, or administering their own justice. Most of the world heard about the cops gone bad during the flooding from Hurricane Katrina, but the terrible actions by those cops were birthed from a seed planted long before my generation of cops ever hit the streets.

3

My one-bedroom, single-lady’s sanctuary set me at ease, being comfortably messy without the worry of roommates. I had no cats, no dog, not even a goldfish. Abstract paintings made by University of New Orleans art majors hung on the wall, bold and daring, shouting to be figured out, although I stopped trying long ago. Who knew what had meaning and what was a happy mistake with a student’s art? All of my furniture came straight out of the rejection room of a local dealer, defective in some way and priced to sell.

I had an hour before Lenny’s supper. Alone in the dark on my sofa, I finally let myself cry over Charlotte. Not quite sure why. It had been about nine years since we last spoke, and years before that since it actually had been meaningful. But I had held out hope that one day we would be those two giggly kids again. One day we would have that same bond in adulthood, having crawfish boils and a weekly girls’ night out. I’d hoped that Charlotte and I might come out the other side with a sister’s bond.

Normally, I had no after work plans, opting to spend time curled up with a good detective novel or researching topics such as profiles on serial killers, past and recent. The routine had been engrained in me since moving here, so it felt a little off to disturb that groove. Before I could change my mind, I looked up Lenny’s address. My routine changed just like that.

Lenny's kindness had stirred something in me, and I decided to take the first step in dispelling the loner reputation my estranged parents Betty and Phil had created. Tonight probably wasn’t the best night for this supper, but I could power through it, and meeting Birdie would be a bonus. That lady had her man wrapped around her little finger.

Google’s directions led me into the Marigny neighborhood just outside the le Vieux Carré, the Old Quarter. It could be sketchy in the wrong places, but Lenny assured me that his house was nestled on a good street. I parked my 2003 beat-to-shit maroon Camry on the curb next to a modest yellow-and-green double shotgun house that Lenny had converted to a single family home: a long, narrow rectangle where each room opened into the next without traditional hallways, named because you could theoretically fire a shotgun from the front door to the back door without hitting anything in between.

Like conjoined twins, two front doors still existed on opposite sides, but only the left one functioned. Two windows also mirrored each other with iron bars fastened into the frames. Considering the neighborhood, I pulled my personal piece out of the glove compartment and carried it with me. Just in case.

There was no porch, no stoop or any landing, just steps with no railing and then a door. His wife greeted me from behind a screen as I climbed four forest-green steps. Birdie was a classic beauty wearing middle age well, with deep ebony skin smooth as silk. Her dark brown eyes seemed to assess and approve me all within two seconds. Dangling earrings gently swayed like miniature wind chimes.

Hello, Ms. Violet Babineaux.

Hi, jumped from my lips.

I'm Birdie. I’m so glad you decided to come. She stepped back to allow me a path. 

Your husband can be persuasive. I caught a whiff of home cooking that immediately filled my lungs. That smells fabulous.

Hope you’re hungry.

You bet. I brought my gun in. Can I leave it here by the door? I shook it in my hand.

Of course. Lenny has several stashed around the house. Don’t worry me none.

Her front den had all the charm of a warm, loving couple, probably cleaned up for company as I caught a faint hint of air freshener. They had many local paintings and pillows emblazoned with fleur-di-lis. We walked through the living room, which opened into a bedroom, past the bathroom and into a small dining room and finally to the kitchen, where a wave of stove heat brushed my face. Birdie said the other half of the double shotgun was closed off to visitors because they needed it for storage. She took pride in her home, despite not having the nicest things. I liked this woman already.

Dinner was served on a small, intimate table with a brown tablecloth as Satchmo played from the living room on a real vinyl record player, softly traveling the length of the house. Three tall candles burned at the table’s center, one purple, one green, and one gold, the vibrant colors of Mardi Gras. A pot of green beans, mashed potatoes, and a pitcher of homemade sweet tea completed the table.

This fried chicken is fantastic. I inhaled it, barely chewing.

Lenny chuckled with a crispy leg in his hand. Damn, Birdie. The day I invite a white woman over for dinner you serve fried chicken. Way to enforce the stereotype.

I felt a rush of blood, but his tone was unmistakably light. I countered, How can a fried chicken stereotype be bad when it’s this good? Shit, I'd be proud.

Lenny kept his grin. We got watermelon for dessert.

Leonard, Birdie interrupted. Turning to me, her tone went soft. No, we don't. We have sweet potato pecan pie.

Lenny sipped his tea. You told any of the boys you were coming over to eat?

Just Pickler. I thought maybe she was going to ask me to have a drink with her.

She’s cool like that. Lenny nodded at his wife. Birdie, tell her what you did.

Birdie glared at Lenny for a tense second, then looked at me. I Googled you last month when Lenny told me you were going to be his partner. I found beauty pageant pictures of you as a child. It sounded more like a question.

I sat up straighter, rubbing my pant legs. Yeah, those. Sweat tingled under my arms despite the coolness of the house.

Little girl beauty pageants, Birdie said without apology. Is that why you don't wear makeup?

I tapped my head with my finger. Very insightful.

Sometimes parents don’t always know best. She paused. Len told me you don’t speak with your parents anymore.

Birdie’s understanding prompted me to open up. I haven’t seen them since I was fifteen. My mother could have found me if she’d really tried, but she chose not to. Phil had given up on me long before that. I bit my lip rather hard.

Birdie put her hand over her mouth.

Lenny just looked mad. Shit, you left home at fifteen?

That’s not suppertime conversation. I smiled and picked at my plate. My eyes searched for a clock to use as an excuse to leave. My cell phone rested next to my gun by the door.

Birdie sensed my discomfort. I’m sorry. We'll change the subject. Change the subject, Lenny.

But my partner kept his wide eyes on mine, processing the information. Sure. Sure. You heard who they want for king of the Bacchus parade next year?

Birdie lit up. I heard it was that sexy Bradley Cooper.

Lenny and I shared a laugh, but his expression changed when his wife rose to get the dessert, indicating we would talk more later.

Light conversation continued on through the best sweet potato pecan pie I ever had and I’d had it maybe three times. Birdie left to clean up the dishes, insisting that Lenny stay to keep me company at the table. My partner got us each what he called a dessert beer from the refrigerator in the garage, which was a Turbo Dog.

Lenny held the bottle out so I could tap its neck in a toast. To living good.

Amen. I swallowed. Lenny? What were you two arguing about in Charlotte’s bedroom?

You mean Wild? He leaned