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BJ returned to her hotel room in New Orleans after having dinner in a little known café in Chalmette. She wanted to put her feet up and relax before the TV, but her mind was in turmoil. She threw the clicker on the bed, paced to and fro in the narrow walkway at the foot of the two standard-size beds.
The idea popped into her head the way most ideas do. Suddenly and unexpectedly. The idea to try her hand at a nonfiction story began to take root.
“Let’s see. What kind of story?”
True crime stories sell. But whose crime? Wait. Any unsolved murder mystery will do.
“Great. So how do I go about finding this true crime murder mystery?” She looked at the room for a clue. Zoomed in on the telephone on the nightstand between the beds. “Got it.”
BJ packed her bags. Turned in her room key.
She drove home at almost breakneck speed. Or it seemed that way.
Setting her purse on the armchair and her suitcase on the floor beside it, the flashing light on her new digital answering machine caught her eye. She stabbed the button with her index finger.
Frank’s voice boomed loud and clear. “My flight’s been cancelled. Some sort of mechanical problem. I’ll be home tomorrow.”
She moved her purse out of the way, sat down and pulled the phone closer to her. Dialed the number for the homicide division of the police department.
“Cantin here.”
“Hello, Detective Cantin. This is BJ Donovan.”
“Hello, Mrs. Donovan. If you want to speak with Northcutt, you can’t. He isn’t here.”
Why would he presume to know why I’m calling? “No, I’m calling for another reason. You can help me just as easily, if you don’t mind.”
“What’s the problem?”
“There is no problem to speak of.” The guy’s attitude was a bit off-putting. She found it hard to believe this was the same guy she spoke with that day when she left a message with him for Northcutt concerning the cancellation of the writers meeting. She fidgeted with a button on her shirt. “It’s like this. I am a novelist.”
“Yes ma’am, I know. I can see your book on Northcutt’s desk. I’m sorry, but I’m kind of in a hurry. What is it that you want?”
BJ kept a lid on her anger. “I’m starting another story. Nonfiction.” Cantin stayed silent. “Well, this is going to sound silly, I’m sure. I’m interested in knowing if there are any unsolved murders in this area you’re allowed to talk about? To someone other than a cop, that is.”
She grew even more uncomfortable. His continued silence wasn’t helping. She wished she was there to see the expression on his face. Perhaps he objects to a fiction writer profiting off the real-life loss of somebody’s life. She was still new at being a writer. She hadn’t acquired the kind of confidence the more seasoned authors have in seeking a professional’s help with their story.
“Detective Cantin? Hello?”
“Hi, Miz Donovan. This is Detective Raynor Schein,” said Jacob Wentzel. “Detective Cantin had to leave. He asked me to help you.” A plan of sorts began to creep around inside his head, but it was hard to pin down. Thinking up a fake name on the spur of the moment was hard enough. He eased into Lucas Cantin’s chair hoping not to draw attention to himself.
“I see,” she said, angrily. Cantin had made her feel small and unimportant. Pretty much the same way Frank treated her. No. Frank treated her as if she were invisible. “I called to find out if there are any unsolved murders in New Orleans, or the surrounding areas, that I could write about. Any unsolved case that’s really old?”
Jacob moved closer to the desk so as not to be overheard. “Really old? I don’t understand.”
“If the case is old enough then the family members might not be around anymore. I don’t want to get permission from anyone in order to write whatever I want to write. I also don’t want relatives or their friends giving me grief over messing with their grief. Understand? Now, is there anything, any case—”
“Matter of fact, there is. I’d be more than happy to tell you about it.” He forced a smile in his voice. “I’m your number one fan, by the way. Who knows, maybe you’ll consider dedicating your new book to me.”
BJ’s head twitched for a second. Was she being played for a fool?
“We can talk about it some other time, I guess,” said Jacob. “The murder mystery I’m referring to happened around twenty-one or twenty-two years ago. But at the time, the cops didn’t view it as a murder.”
“I don’t understand.” He had her full attention.
“I know you don’t, ma’am, but if you’ll just bear with me, it’ll all make sense shortly.”
“Sorry.”
“No problem.” Jacob scrutinized the room. Spotted Detective Dirck watching him. “But first, I need to get off this phone. I’m sitting at someone else’s desk, and they want it. If you’ll give me your number, I’ll call you back in just a couple of minutes.”
Someone else’s desk? Did Cantin return? Does he know I’m still on the phone?
BJ hesitated.
Gave him the number.
“Talk to you soon.”
Jacob approached Dylan Dirck. Thanked him for answering his questions earlier, and for taking the time to talk with him about the detective squad.