Murder Mystery New Orleans
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The manager of the historic, elegant hotel was a small, wiry man with close-cropped grey hair and an unkempt beard. He stood in his office doorway, watching as the detective from St. Louis walked towards him, hands behind his back, head slightly bent forward as if he were taking careful notes.
The detective was wearing a dark blue suit that made him look like a character in one of those old black-and-white movies where everyone wore suits. Except for the three other men sitting on either side of him, who looked like they were waiting to get their oil changed at Pep Boys, this was the only time in recent history that I had ever seen Richard Gere without his shirt off.
“Mr. Rucker,” said the detective. “What brings you to our city?”
Richard’s voice sounded calm but there was something about it – the intonation, perhaps – that struck me as odd. As he spoke, I noticed that he held himself differently than when we’d last met, eight months earlier in St. Louis. It wasn’t anything obvious, just a little different; more controlled, less casual.
As if he’d been through some kind of therapy or self-discovery program, or maybe he hadn’t taken down the Christmas lights yet. But whatever the reason, it was clear to me now that Richard had become a man with a purpose, someone who knew how he wanted to live his life and was working hard every day to make sure it happened.
In the past, he’d always seemed so insecure and unsure of himself, but suddenly everything felt clearer to me: his plans for the future, his relationship with Diane, and even his feelings about what had happened in New Orleans.
He’d changed. Maybe he’d done the same thing for Marie too.
I had no idea why Richard would be here in New Orleans, but seeing him again after such a long absence was both comforting and disturbing. I couldn’t help thinking that he was still hiding something, some secret that he didn’t want people to know about.
And he clearly hadn’t heard all my stories about Marie yet. Although she was dead, Richard had never met her; he’d only talked briefly to her once before she died. There was a lot of stuff that I needed him to tell me about Marie, especially the part where he claimed she had murdered Maisie, but I thought it best not to bring it up right away.
For now, I decided to keep things light. After all, this was just another murder case, and I was happy just being able to talk shop.
“It seems like just yesterday that I was here, investigating the death of your wife,” I said. “That was quite a coincidence.”
“Yes,” agreed Richard, “but I’m glad we’re meeting in person. You might have called first, though, so I could put on pants.”
We laughed awkwardly at each other.
“Do you know what brought me here, Mr. Rucker?” asked the detective. His tone was light enough, but his eyes told me that he already knew the answer.
“No, I don’t,” replied Richard. “Why did you come?”
“Your brother-in-law, Alan, is a guest at the hotel and mentioned that he’d sent you a message asking for help with a missing woman. Then I read the article in the Washington Post about your daughter and I thought it might be something interesting for you to check out.”
Richard nodded absently, still holding himself stiffly. “Did Alan say anything else about the case?”
“Not much,” said the detective. “But I’ve spent most of the past couple of days talking to people who knew your family in St. Louis. Some of them remembered hearing from you recently, while others said they hadn’t spoken to you in years. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but it’s important information.”
Richard took a deep breath. He opened his mouth as if he was going to speak then stopped. At last, he glanced over at the two detectives on either side of me.
“Have I got any other guests staying here tonight?” asked the detective.
“Just you, Mr. Rucker,” answered the manager.
The detective smiled slightly at that. “Then why don’t we go downstairs, sit down and chat? We can discuss the details of your visit, but first I need to get your thoughts on the case.”
When I saw the look of reluctance on Richard’s face, I quickly interjected.
“It sounds like it would be good for everyone to hear what you have to say in one place,” I suggested. “Besides, you looked pretty tired standing up there.”
I watched the detective smile at the reference. It was true that Richard appeared exhausted, but that wasn’t unusual for him these days. He must have worked through the night, traveling to New Orleans and then spending hours talking to the police. If he’d been able to take a break, he probably wouldn’t have left the office.
“Okay,” said the detective. “Let’s go downstairs then. The coffee is better in the lobby.”
***
As we walked downstairs, Richard started telling me about his trip to New Orleans. He’d arrived in town on Saturday morning, visited his father and the rest of Alan’s family, and then stayed with them until Sunday afternoon. On Monday, he’d traveled to the Bayou Country Club where he’d met some of Alan’s friends from college.
All of the men were members of the club, so Richard had no trouble getting into the country club. As far as the detective could determine, none of the people Richard spoke with had seen or heard anything suspicious when they arrived at the golf club. This was likely because the clubhouse was built in an exclusive neighborhood where property owners tended to keep to themselves.
One of the guests had mentioned that he’d seen someone lurking around the clubhouse on Monday night, but he had assumed it was a groundskeeper. When the man later returned to the clubhouse to leave, he found that his car had been broken into. The thief stole his keys, cell phone, and wallet, leaving the doors unlocked.
A few minutes later, a female member of the club was also robbed by a group of thugs. They forced their way inside the women’s locker room and made off with several pieces of jewelry. Luckily, the woman was unhurt.
After that, Richard had gone to Alan’s parents’ house in Metairie to meet with more of Alan’s friends. Most of these men worked for the city and lived nearby, but they all seemed fairly tight-lipped. However, after interviewing a few of the men, the detective learned that Alan had been dating a girl named Missy since spring.
Missy was twenty-three and lived near the campus of Southern University. According to the detective, she was a promising student, studying biology and chemistry, and her family was well-known in the community.
She’d grown up in a big house in a quiet subdivision, but a year ago, the family had moved to Metairie so Alan could attend Southern. Since then, she’d been living at home with her younger sister and her parents were rarely at home.
“What do you know about Missy?” asked the detective.
“Nothing,” lied Richard.
He didn’t need me to answer. Although Missy’s name had been mentioned in the newspaper article, he couldn’t remember anyone ever mentioning a relationship between Alan and the young woman. No one had even mentioned hearing Missy’s name before, although they did mention Alan’s girlfriend.
“Alan’s parents seem to know something about her, though,” said Richard. “They told me that Missy was a great kid and that they were very proud of her. She was taking classes at Southern and working part-time at a local restaurant, but she was thinking about attending graduate school next fall.
They also said she was nice to their kids, which was good to hear. Of course, I only heard what they wanted me to hear—that Missy was a wonderful daughter and that her parents loved her. They tried to make me feel guilty about not visiting enough.
Then, of course, they asked about my business. As I’ve said, they’re old money and clearly prefer to stay close to the center of things, but Missy seemed like a friendly young woman.”
Richard paused. “Do you think she knew any of the guys who came to visit us?”
“No,” answered the detective. “Missy has no idea how Alan died.”
“I hope you never find out,” Richard replied quietly.
We walked into the lobby and stopped at the front desk. Richard headed toward the coffee machine while I stood in the middle of the lobby, watching the detective talk to the receptionist.
“She hasn’t seen any of your officers here recently,” the woman explained. “But there’s been a lot of traffic coming in and out of the station house lately. We usually get a good crowd on weekends, but this past weekend was worse than usual. Today’s Friday, so I’m sure that explains why the lobby is full of cops.”
The detective nodded and thanked the woman. After a moment, they shook hands and the detective motioned for Richard to join him.
“There’s nothing unusual about the security cameras,” the detective began. “In fact, we can use them to check that Alan left the club on Monday evening. The problem is that the camera system hasn’t worked properly since Hurricane Katrina.
It might have been knocked offline by the storm, but if not, the software on the computers controlling the cameras is probably outdated and needs to be replaced.”
“Why doesn’t somebody just fix the system?” Richard asked.
“It would cost a fortune to replace it,” said the detective. “And even if someone wanted to spend the money, there aren’t many qualified people in town who are willing to work on such a complicated system and they’re expensive to hire. We don’t have the budget for that.”
Richard looked at the floor. He hadn’t thought about the cumbersomeness of a modern digital surveillance system—the sheer amount of technology required to manage all of those cameras and lenses—much less its expense.
But as he watched the detective, he remembered that the detective had once said his department often ran short of funds, which meant they couldn’t afford to upgrade the system.
“I’ll see if I can find someone who knows how to repair the cameras,” Richard offered. “Maybe I can get some of our engineers to help.”
“Good luck,” the detective replied. “I’ve been telling them to learn to do this kind of stuff themselves, but nobody listens to me.”
A security guard approached Richard. “Are you Mr. Farley?” he asked.
“Yeah, I am,” answered Richard.
“Mr. Raynor says to tell you the elevator is down again.”
“Tell him thanks,” said Richard.
“Have you seen the elevators lately? What do you expect?” snapped the guard. “This place isn’t safe anymore. Did you hear about the shooting last week?”
“Yes,” answered Richard. “That was terrible.”
After exchanging brief pleasantries, Richard and the guard headed downstairs. The detective waited until they’d gone through the lobby and out the front door before returning to the counter.
“You want to try the parking garage instead?” asked the receptionist. “It’s only two floors down and the elevators work just fine.”
Richard nodded. The detective led him back to the front doors and out onto the street. A few feet away from the entrance, Richard spotted three men loitering around the corner. One wore a white tank top; another was wearing a hoodie; the third man’s head was covered by a black baseball cap with a red logo. All three were staring intently at the building.
Richard glanced at the security guard. “What’s going on here?” he asked.
“Nothing,” answered the guard. “Just three guys standing near the building. I haven’t seen them before.”
“How long have they been there?”
“Not sure. Not more than five minutes.”
Two of the men turned to face the entrance, their eyes trained on the double doors. They didn’t look like tourists or visitors. In fact, one of the men seemed to be trying to conceal something under his shirt.
“Who are these guys?” Richard whispered.
“I think they’re in town for the convention. I heard the mayor is hosting an event today.”
“Which means they might know Missy.”
Richard took the keys out of his pocket and handed them to the guard.
“If anything happens, call 911,” said Richard. Then he headed back inside.
The End