Mostly Murder by Linda Ladd Page A

like him could kill a woman in a rage, but taking the time to sew her eyes shut? Good God, that took a sick person, a special kind of monster, one who no doubt hid in the dark and crept around like some kind of poisonous spider. A famous local sports legend did not fit the profile. Then again, desperate people did reckless things. And some celebs thought they were above the law and above getting caught, much less convicted of wrongdoing. Unfortunately, lots of times they were right.
    Claire’s cell phone vibrated alive, then started to sing. She grabbed it, thinking it was Black checking in for the night. A little disappointed, she saw Rene Bourdain’s name. Claire punched on quickly, hoping he had some good news. “Detective Morgan.”
    Moving into Nancy’s office again, she was glad for the interruption, since Nancy had just started the Y-cut incision that would open Madonna Christien’s torso.
    â€œJack Holliday agreed to talk to you tomorrow, but he wants to do it at his house out in the Garden District. He’s throwin’ some kinda shindig for his Special Olympics kids out at the Dome first and wants to talk to you after that. It’s for some kind of organization he’s a part of out at Tulane.”
    Claire sat down in Nancy’s swivel chair and watched Nancy through the window. “So he really is into charity work? Doesn’t sound much like the pastime of a cold-blooded, voodoo killer.”
    â€œYou might be surprised. Ted Bundy worked a suicide line, if I recall. I just hope the media doesn’t show up. If they do, stay under the radar and don’t mention my name, even if you’ve got to end the interview. If he’s got somethin’ to do with this, all hell’s gonna break loose around here, and your murder’s gonna go viral in about three seconds.”
    â€œChill, Bourdain, we don’t have anything on him yet. Except the restraining order and the victim’s apparent obsession with him.”
    â€œI hope to God you’re right. Some people around here still worship the ground he walks on. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and he can point you to somebody who had it out for her.”
    â€œWe’ll see, I guess.”
    â€œFrom what I’ve learned so far, your victim isn’t any angel. Prostitution charges and weed possession. Also got intel that she did some stripping at a biker bar off Magazine. Lowlife dive called Voodoo River.”
    â€œWell, that just fits right in with all the other weirdness, doesn’t it? Want us to check it out? Say the word and we’re on it.”
    â€œBe my guest. But ya’ll be careful. The biker gang that hangs out there? They call themselves the Skulls, and they won’t like you comin’ around snoopin’ on their turf. Madonna Christien was into drugs, too, and there’s probably gonna be more charges that’ll come up on her rap sheet. I’ll get back to you when I get the full report.”
    â€œWhat about her apartment? Forensics find anything we can use?”
    â€œYeah, they picked up a lot of latents. Two unknown, another off one of the hurricane glasses that came up as Madonna Christien, alias Jilly Johnston, alias Shannon Martin. But the Madonna one is her real name. She was incarcerated under that name for soliciting tourists on Bourbon Street about a year ago. Record’s clean since then.”
    â€œShe works the Quarter?”
    â€œDid the stroll back then. Looks like she turned that gig into some kind of call girl business, not exactly the high-priced kind, but still better than working the streets.”
    â€œRene, you said you knew Holliday personally, right? Is he really hard up enough to pay for a hooker?”
    Rene snorted and smothered his laugh. “Hell no. He can have any woman he wants. Haven’t you seen the guy? Women chase him. But any man would pay for a hooker, given the right circumstances. Men are men. You gotta know