Not normal, p.2
Not Normal, page 2
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
But Camille chose not to answer. Instead, she walked back to her car and wasted no time getting in. She started the engine but before she pulled off, she took out her phone again. It went against most everything she stood for as an FBI agent, but she opened up her camera and switched it over to the video function. She was conflicted as she did it, but figured in the end, it might come in handy—especially if Lucia was lying. She took a quick video of him, still standing on his porch and looking at her. When he realized what she was doing, he took a single step toward the porch stairs, as if he intended to confront her.
But at the last second, he changed his mind. And as far as Camille was concerned, that was more telling than anything else. She was pretty certain that he was lying to her. The question, of course, was why.
At the very same moment she stopped recording, her phone buzzed in her hand as an incoming call came through. The caller display told her that it was Palmer. She almost ignored the call in light of what she was currently doing but then thought better of it. For Palmer to call her on a Saturday when they weren’t actively on a case together might mean there was something work-related that needed to be addressed.
Or maybe he was calling to see if she wanted to go out for dinner or drinks. She wasn’t sure exactly how she felt about Agent Scott Palmer. There were feelings of what she’d call lust, she supposed, and she was definitely interested in getting to know him better. But she wouldn’t refer to what was taking place between them as romantic by any stretch of the imagination. Besides, she was pretty sure he was aware of the growing physical tension between them, but he’d also chosen to ignore it just as she had. It would complicate things between them and make working all that much more difficult.
She let the phone continue to ring as she pulled away, finally answering it on speaker mode as she put the sight of Will Lucia’s house behind her.
“Hey, Palmer,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Well, I just happened to be in the office and—”
“On a Saturday?”
“Yes. I had some paperwork I needed to finish up—stuff I really didn’t want to be staring me in the face on a Monday morning. Anyway, as the fates would just so have it, I ran into Anderson in one of the hallways. He was just getting off of a call with the State PD. Looks like you and I have a case, Agent Grace. When can you get to the office?”
The prospect of a new case instantly intrigued her. It also relieved her; she could temporarily put this slight obsession with finding Nanette on the back burner.
“Give me fifteen minutes,” she said.
“Sounds good. This one looks to be local, but the way,” Palmer said. “Maybe it’s something we can knock out in a day or two. A nice way to spend the weekend.”
“If you say so,” she said. “See you in a bit.”
She came to the end of the street and, though she knew it might come off as a bit obsessive, she turned around and headed back down the street. She did not slow down as she passed Will Lucia’s house, but she did stare it down. The porch was empty. Lucia had gone back inside, taking any secrets he might have about Nanette with him.
CHAPTER THREE
Camille had been in New Orleans for roughly five months now, but she still hadn’t managed to get a proper read on her new Director. Assistant Director Marie McCutcheon could shift the gears between professional and friendly at the drop of a hat—a strict boss at one moment and a confidant the next. When Camille arrived in her office, she seemed to be somewhere between. Apparently, she’d had the day off until this call had come in. She was dressed far more casually than Camille had ever seen her. McCutcheon’s hair was down, and she was wearing a loose-fitting, button-down shirt and a pair of jeans that showed off her physique.
She was sitting behind her desk, scrolling through updates on her phone as they came in. There seemed to be a lot of them, coming from multiple sources.
“There’s no official report on this just yet,” she said. “It’s sort of being cobbled together as we speak. Three different murders that, as of very early this morning, seem to be linked. The reports are currently coming over from two different precincts, and I’ll have them forwarded to you as soon as we get them all, but here’s what we know right now: we’ve got three dead women, the most recent coming last night. All three are tourists. We know for certain that two are in town for Mardi Gras. We’re still waiting for confirmation about that on the third. If these are indeed linked, we have a killer that has struck every night for the last three nights. Two were in hotels, the other in a public restroom. And with this pace—”
“With this pace,” Camille interrupted, “it’s safe to assume he’ll continue to take one a night until he’s stopped.”
“Exactly.”
“Any word on whether or not this news has started to make its way around the streets?” Palmer asked. “Any chance this is on its way to becoming a chaotic Mardi Gras uproar?”
“That’s exactly why I’m putting you two on this,” McCutcheon said. “We need it stopped before there’s a public outcry. Because all three of us know that even with a killer out on the streets, public knowledge of such a thing is not going to do much to sway the crowds.”
“At the risk of sounding argumentative,” Camille said, “how do you know they’re all linked? Is the killer leaving clues or taunts of some kind behind?”
“No. But the victims are all women between the ages of nineteen and twenty-four. Very attractive women. Friends and loved ones that have been with them here in New Orleans during Mardi Gras refer to them as happy and lively—life of the party types. The rapid pace of this whole thing is just making it very hard to make solid connections. Which is, again, why I want you two on it. There may not be a link. All three murders may be completely random. There are a lot of pretty, life-of-the party types of young women around the city at this time of year, after all. Still . . . if there’s a link, find it.”
“So, with pieces of everything still coming in, where do we start?” Palmer asked.
“With the location of the most recent one. She was murdered in her hotel room sometime between ten and two last night. Her friend came into the room shortly after two o’clock and found her dead. Stabbed. And this,” she said, scrawling something on a sheet of paper on her desk, “is the address. Hopefully by the time you get there, I’ll have everything else you need for the other two victims.”
As McCutcheon slid the paper across the desk, Camille quickly processed what had just fallen in their lap. On the surface, it seemed simple enough: there was a very good chance that there was a serial killer stalking around Mardi Gras, taking out attractive young women. But the core reality of it was that they’d need to find links between the three victims and locate the killer in the throngs of a very busy and congested Mardi Gras season. It was not going to be easy. In fact, she thought it might be the toughest case she and Palmer had ever worked together.
Taking the sheet of paper, Camille got to her feet. She figured they should get out onto the streets as soon as possible. Palmer also stood, but his bewildered-looking eyes made Camille think he was still trying to adjust to everything that had just been handed to them.
“I was told fifteen minutes ago,” McCutcheon said, “that there are still detectives at the most recent scene. I’d imagine the roommate would still be there, too, provided that you hurry.”
It was the last thing Camille needed to hear. With a quick nod of acknowledgement, she hurried out of the office with Palmer right behind her. When they were back out in the corridor and headed for the elevators, Palmer said, “You seem pretty eager to get started.”
“Eager isn’t quite the word I’d use.”
“This one has the potential to get pretty messy, huh?”
“Yeah. I’ve . . . well, I’ve never really had to work a case in an environment like this. Mardi Gras, constant partying . . .”
“Yeah, I won’t lie; it’s not fun.”
They’d come to the elevators, the doors sliding open for them. “Have you ever had to deal with crowds like these?” Camille asked.
“Twice,” he answered as the elevator carried them down. “Once during Mardi Gras, in fact—but that was over a drug bust and it was pretty easy, as it’s very simple to find people tripping on mushrooms. But for something like this? No.”
They made their way out to the parking lot and opted for a bureau sedan rather than one of their own cars—a choice they could actually make, given that the case looked to be contained within about eight miles of the field office. As they got into the car, Palmer’s phone dinged twice in rapid succession. She watched him dig the phone out of his pocket because she thought it might be McCutcheon, already sending over the information on the victims. Instead, Palmer looked to the messages and made a grim, almost nasty face before shoving it back into his pocket.
“Something wrong?” she asked as she buckled up.
“No.” He cranked the car, clearly not wanting to talk about it, which was exactly why Camille pushed a bit more.
“The look I saw on your face just now makes me think someone called you a very bad name. You good?”
“I am. I just—” He stopped and looked at her with playful curiosity, as if wondering if he wanted to share what was on his mind with her. “I made the mistake of returning a text from an old girlfriend. And now that we met and sort of tested the waters, I found that I’m not particularly interested. And she did not like hearing that.”
“Ah,” she said. She was a bit surprised at the sting of jealousy she felt when she thought of Palmer meeting up with an ex. Then, to sidestep that feeling, she said, “Just so you know, women handle rejection about as well as men. Especially if this is an ex that is an ex because of a decision you made.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“You know, we’ve never really had that discussion, have we?”
“What discussion.”
“Relationships. As in, do you ever see yourself settling down and getting married?”
He gave her that odd look again as he pulled out on the street. “We haven’t had that discussion because there’s no need to have it.” He snickered and said, “What about you, huh?”
She shrugged. “Eventually. Before I came down to Louisiana, I was with a guy that I thought might be the one. But the move . . . well, it proved just how wrong I was. He was sort of a dick, and I don’t know how I missed it for so long.”
“Yeah, you may have mentioned that off-handedly right at the beginning. Well, what about this zoologist guy you’ve been talking to? Is he a worthy replacement?”
The question took Camille by surprise because she couldn’t remember ever expressing any real interest in Zack to Palmer—especially not as of late, when she’d been struggling with how she felt about Palmer. Of course, he was a great agent, and she figured he may have just picked up on a few things here and there that had painted the picture for him. And as she slowly understood this, she came to another realization: somehow, he’d managed to shrug the spotlight off of his shoulders and onto her. And he’d done it so effortlessly.
“Well played, Agent Palmer,” she said.
“I know, right?” He smiled at her, a smile that reminded her of why she was having such a hard time figuring out how she felt about him—why she currently found herself trying to decide between a more sensible relationship with Zack or exploring what might exist between her and Palmer. She wasn’t sure what it would be like to be romantically involved with someone she worked so closely with, but she thought it might be worth the time to find out.
She hated how quickly her mind went there, so she flashed the sheet of paper with the address McCutcheon had written down. “You know where this is?”
“I do. And we’ll be there in about ten minutes.”
He was still smiling at her, perhaps because he knew she’d caught on to just how expertly he’d shifted the direction of the conversation. Camille made herself look away because she was starting to be far too affected by that smile. And it was not the sort of distraction she needed in her life, given the sort of case they were about to step into.
CHAPTER FOUR
The moment Camille stepped out of her car, she was temporarily overwhelmed with a multitude of experiences: the smell of cooking meat, of frying dough, of something sweet like cotton candy. And then there was the noise—the rumble of thousands of different conversations, of applause and cheering, of live music coming from two different directions. Fortunately, the weather was comfortable, a cool breeze passing over everything to blanket the seventy-three-degree day.
Camille lived far enough away from the French Quarter to have avoided the bulk of the noise and the crowds. But she’d known what to expect going in, and she was not disappointed. Even at 3:30 in the afternoon, the streets had been so crammed with partygoers and tourists that Palmer had been forced to slow to a crawl in order to reach the hotel in question—a middle-of-the road sort of place called Evergreen. Even then, the only way he was able to get into the lot was by flashing his badge several times and yelling at people standing in his way. He also had to take up a handicap parking spot in the lot because it was the only one available.
They caught a slight break in that they didn’t have to walk back around to the street to enter into the hotel. There was a small side door open, and Camille caught sight of a uniformed policeman standing just inside the frame. They walked over to him, and when he spotted them, he stepped aside quickly and gestured them in as they flashed their badges.
“Agents Palmer and Grace,” Camille said.
“Damn, that was quick,” the officer said. He was a bit on the older side, his grey hair clicked back and his eyes deep-set. “There’s a detective in the back. Room 130. He’ll be glad you’re here, I’m sure.”
Camille and Palmer made their way down the first-floor hallway. Judging from a quick glance at the interior, the Evergreen wasn’t too bad of a place, really. It looked and smelled clean, but it also had a sort of basic quality to it. Anyone looking for luxury and a modern atmosphere may want to look elsewhere. But for a room a few steps above a roach motel on the other rims of the French Quarter with direct access to the parties, it was a perfect place. Prints of bayou-themed paintings hung on the walls, and the carpet was plush and light blue, like something out of a living room from a new home in the 1980s.
Room 130 was almost at the very end of the hallway. The door to the room was opened, with another uniformed cop sanding by it, almost as a guard more than anything else. They once again flashed their badges and then stepped inside where a plainclothes detective was standing by the window on the far wall, looking at the room with a scowl as if he was furious with it. The detective looked to be in his mid-thirties. he was cleanshaven, with dark eyes and hair. If he would have slicked it back tightly, Camille thought he might resemble one of the detectives from those old black and white mysteries. He looked up to them, skeptical and alarmed at first, but then relieved when he saw Palmer’s badge and ID.
“Hey, the bureau really doesn’t mess around when it comes to time, do they?” the detective asked.
“Oh, I assure you this is a rarity,” Palmer said. “Agents Palmer and Grace.”
“Detective Farmer. And I’m glad as hell to see you. As you can imagine, the local PD resources are stretched a little thin. I’m happy to help however I can from this point on, but the moment you two stepped into this room, this case is yours now as far as I’m concerned. I’ve got about half a dozen other assignments I’ve been tasked with this week.” He sighed and said, “Christ, I hate Mardi Gras.”
“You know there two others, right?” Camille asked.
“Yes, and I also know we’re working to get a link between them all.”
“Were you involved with any of the others?”
“No. I was given the case notes to the second body, and I literally just got them two hours ago. And from what I can see, there’s nothing to link them other than the fact that they’re both being described as good-looking, white women, young in age.”
“Anything worth noting here in the room?” Palmer asked, already looking around.
“Well, the window was opened, but I’m willing to bet the guy was already in here when the victim arrived—coming in through the window.”
“How so?” Camille asked.
“Based on what I saw when the body was still here, she was stabbed in the chest, and she was facing the bathroom,” he said, pointing. “If he’d come in through the window and attacked her, she would have likely run, right? Meaning he would have stabbed her in the back. That, or fought with her and maybe then that resulted in her getting turned around and catching it in the chest. But there was no sign of a struggle. Just a dead body and a lot of blood.”
Camille nodded. It was a very good theory, and well put-together, but she wasn’t ready to make any assumptions yet. Not until she could see some crime scene photos and the body.
“What about the friend that was staying with her?” Camille asked. “Is she still around?”
“She is. She’s been coming in and out of a small conference room just off the main lobby. She’s got a brother coming down from Massachusetts to be with her as all of this gets wrapped. I’ve told her there would be FBI agents on the way, so she’s expecting you.”
“Thanks,” Palmer said. “Would you mind hanging tight until we get back form talking with her?”
“Sure thing,” he said, setting that hateful-looking cowl back into the room.
As they walked back down the hallway, bypassing the older policeman and coming to the lobby, it occurred to Camille just how many cops were on the scene. Two stationed at door, a detective supposedly in charge of everything, and whoever else might be with the friend of the victim. She could absolutely see how a murder (or three) could serve to deplete local police forces in the wake of something like Mardi Gras.
