The Perfect Crime Read online

  Amanda said, “She made a point of it, C.J. Listen to what I’m saying. Her snooty little nose was up in the air and she gave me that look. She knew and I knew and she knew I knew, whowas calling. Your precious wife, Sarah. That goddamn bitch Jane, lording it over me like she was the elder in some church. I hate her, the old bitch, making everybody call her Miss Jane this, Miss Jane that, like we were some field hands back on the plantation. Lawdy, lawdy, Miss Jane,” she said in a falsetto voice. “If I be’s good, kin I come up to the big house?” She giggled.

  “Like I said. So?”

  “C.J., I think we better cool it. I don’t think I’m going to go with you to Europe. I’ll wait for you. You get your divorce, we’ll take it from there. I’m scared, honey. I don’t have any family, nobody to take care of me if I lose my job. I know you say you love me, but I know men, sweetie. We go to Europe, have some fun, come back and your wife starts to holler, you’re gone. You know she controls the purse strings. When it comes right down to it, I wonder which you love more, me or that bank she lets you run.”

  The rage welled up in him and it was all he could do to keep his face and voice calm. She never talked to him that way. Who the hell did she think she was, talking to him that way! He was the president of the bank for chrissake! A position he’d earned. She made it sound as if the bank was some bone and he was some dog his wife kept for amusement. He tried to get his emotions under control. God! After all he’d done for her, she has to try and emasculate him like that.

  Don’t lose it, C.J. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. God. I wonder if the whole bank thinks like that. Do they look at me and think I’m a pet my wife has on a leash? He couldn’t stand it. Is that what Amanda really thought of him? Didn’t she understand he loved her? That he’d never treated anyone as good as he did her? Anybody else, he’d gotten rid of long ago. He put up with a lot with her, he thought, wondering if he was becoming too weak. Hell. He loved her, that was the difference. He drained his drink and went over and poured another, no water this time.

  “Amanda, you have no right to say something like that. I’m president of Derbigny because I earned it. I’d be president whether it was my wife’s bank or not. I’ve worked every job there, paid my dues. I’m a damn good banker. Thirty-two percent growth in total assets since I took over. You think that’s charity? That’s good banking. Goddamned good banking.”

  He was proud of his control. He’d almost blown it. That damned Cajun temper. He must be anglicized now. Completely. If some bitch had said something like that to his father, she’d be spitting out teeth. His mother was proof of that. The only teeth left in her head by the time she was twenty-five were store-bought choppers. From sassing his dad, at least what his father considered sassing. Sometimes he thought the old ways were better. When women knew their place and kept it or suffered the consequences.

  In a second his anger ebbed. Control. That was the one thing he always prided himself on. It was the one thing that had gotten him to where he was. That violent temper he’d had as a kid had been successfully sublimated for years, even though there had been times he’d come close to reverting to the nature of his youth. The beginning of his success had begun long ago when he’d recognized what it took to appear civilized. He’d wanted to hit Amanda, sure, but he held back. He loved her. He must. This proved it. Anybody else--if one of the many tellers he fucked over the years had said something like that to him, she’d be seeing stars. At least be standing in the unemployment line. He’d just proved his love, even if she didn’t know it.

  “Amanda, put those doubts out of your mind. You’re my baby. I’ll take good care of you, you’ll see.” He tried to put his arms around her.

  “C.J., I need to think. I don’t know...I’m scared you’ll dump me when we get back. How do I know you won’t? I’m a paycheck away from the street. I’m not like you, with money in the bank. I’ve tried, but I can’t seem to hold onto it. I need security, C.J. Try and understand, honey.”

  She twisted away. “I’m sorry I made that crack about your wife. I didn’t mean it, baby. I...I mean...I can’t go. Not till I’m sure you love me. I know I’m not the first you’ve had a thing with. I heard the talk in the bank long before we went out. ‘Go out with C.J. on Friday, look for a job on Monday.’ I don’t hear that anymore, but I heard it plenty at first.”

  She went over and sat down on the bed and fished in her purse until she found a cigarette and lighted it. She crossed her legs and looked up at him standing in the middle of the room. She gave him a quick half smile and cupped an arm under her elbow, her index finger at her cheek.

  “Look, C.J., I’ll tell you what. You go to Europe and have a good time. I won’t ask you what you did over there. Have a ball. When you come back and get your divorce, I’ll be here. It’ll give us both time to figure out what we want. You may find I’m not what you’re after. There’s lots of girls. Of course...” she hastened to add, “You’ll come back with a great tan and a million stories and you’ll get your divorce and we’ll get married. We’ll go back to Europe on our honeymoon. How’s that sound? Baby?”

  He looked at her, his mind working.

  “We’re not going to Europe.”

  Her eyes widened. Well, hell, he’d done it. There was no turning back. His foot was in the fire.

  “What do you mean? You’ve got tickets, everything. Turn mine in. You’re marked out; I saw the schedule. You’ve got business there. That thing in Bonn. You can’t--”

  “Amanda, I never meant to go to Europe. That was for everybody else. You too, I guess. We’re going to Belize.”

  “Belize! What’s...where’s...I don’t--”

  “I wasn’t going to tell you this, Amanda.” He dropped down on one knee in front of her, eyes pleading. Listen to me, please, Amanda, he thought.

  “Baby, we’re leaving for good. It’s all taken care of. I was going to surprise you. You won’t believe the surprise I have in store for you.” He thought again of the image he’d harbored for months. Showering her with greenbacks, hundred dollar bills, and afterward fucking her on top of all that money while a tropical breeze wafted through the windows over their nude bodies.

  “I’ve got more than a million dollars. In a bank. In our new names. And that’s nothing. There’s a lot more to come.”

  He went over to the dresser and pulled out the top drawer and dumped the contents on the floor. Underwear and socks and T-shirts spilled to the floor in a heap. He brought the drawer back over to the bed and put it upside-down on the bed. Ripping the tape that was holding a sheaf of papers and documents, he spread them out on the bed. Amanda’s eyes got wider.

  This was good. Everything was going to be fine. She’d go nuts, once she knew everything. Imagine what must be going through her mind. From a glorified teller who never made more than five hundred a week in her life to...millions! He wished he could have waited until they were in Belize to lay all this on her, but this might be better. He felt his cock swell, imagining about how she was going to be screwing him once she saw what he’d done for her.

  “Here!” he said, shoving a passport at her. “This is you. See the name? It was a surprise. Well, here--surprise!”

  She picked up the passport and opened it.

  “Who’s this?” She said the words slowly, not comprehending. “Who’s Katina...Broussard? Why’s my picture--”

  He laughed, throwing his head back, enjoying the moment.

  “That’s you, sweetheart. You’re Katina Broussard. Mrs. Katina Broussard. Your maiden name was Katina Hebert. Take it.” He handed her the birth certificate. “It’s the name you always liked, you said. I wanted to surprise you with it--with everything else, but you couldn’t wait, you little minx. There’s more.”

  Now that the dam was open, the waters burst forth. He could see, or thought he could see the wonderment of all that he was telling her filling her with delight.

  “There’s much, much more. We’re rich, Amanda. Or, I should say--Katina--get used t
o your new name, darling. After Friday, it’s yours forever. And we’ve got more than a mere million. A lot more. Friday, we’ll have four million. Five million, maybe. Maybe more. I’m going to tell you everything, sweetheart. Lie back and listen and be happy. We’re richer than you could ever believe. I’m going to make you so happy!”

  He ran it down, the whole scheme.

  He told her about the laundering operation he was involved in. He told her about Friday nights, when he would sit in his office and do coke lines so pure they were iridescent, about how the muchachos would bring in stacks and stacks of money, a bale of money, all hundreds. He told how he was going to miss making that deposit this week, and would Fidel ever be mad. Fidel would want to kill him, he said, but Fidel would never find him. Them. He’d planned this very carefully. There wasn’t anything he hadn’t thought of. The plane right now was being readied for their trip. All the details were worked out.

  All but one.

  He’d figured the wrong reaction from her.

  “You’ve got to be crazy!” Amanda stood up, her eyes blazing. “You thought I would go along with this insanity? You’re talking about drug people, C.J. Drug people kill you. Dead. Dead, dead, dead! They’ll find us! There’s no place on earth you’re safe from these people. Let me out of here. I’m going, C.J. You go to Belize or wherever it is--leave me the hell out of your schemes. I don’t care if I have to draw unemployment. Christ! I don’t care if I have to become a street hooker. At least I’ll be alive. With you, it’s only a matter of time before my throat gets cut. You thought I would go along with this? You’re a fucking asshole, C.J. A dead, fucking asshole. You’re insane. Your little plan is insane. I’m outta this dump, buster. I want as far away from you as I can get.” Something dawned behind her eyes. “My God! They’ll come looking for me when you go! They’ll think--”

  She was starting to realize the implications of her predicament.

  “Everyone in the whole world knows you’re fucking me! You do this and I’m dead. You bastard. You fucking, fucking bastard!” She began to strike at him with her fists, crying and screaming at the same time. At last, he caught her arms, held her wrists. They both stood with chests heaving, tears running down her face, his own features contorted in disbelief.

  “Let me go,” she said, struggling to regain her composure. “Let me go, fucker. I’m going to the police. That’s the only way I’m saving my young ass. God, why did I ever take up with you! You’re not even a good lay. God, you know how many times I wanted to tell you that? Let me go, you fucker!” She turned into a madwoman, screaming and pulling and yanking, trying to scratch his wrists with her nails, trying to geaway. C.J. was amazed, flat-out stunned by the woman, standing with spittle at the corners of her mouth, pure venom in her blazing eyes, her legs spread apart like some Irish washerwoman.

  He didn’t think about it. He hit her. Punched her as if she were another man. Put all his weight behind it and watched as she slumped down, soundlessly until her head hit the floor and she let out a little sigh. She lay stone still, her eyes open but unseeing.

  His eyes darted around wildly. Did anybody hear? He strained to listen to see if any of the neighbors did anything. He listened for the sound of approaching police sirens. Nothing. Most of the neighbors in the building probably worked, he thought.

  He stood there a full ten minutes not moving. After a while, he sat down on the bed and tried to think. He tried not to look at Amanda lying on the floor. He didn’t have to look to know she was dead. The instant he’d struck her and had seen her head snap back, he’d known that. You can’t fall like that, look like that and still be alive.

  What was he going to do? At first he thought he’d carry her out to the car. Find some bayou and dump her.

  No. That would be stupid. With his luck, some trapper, some poacher like his father would find her, do the right thing for the first time in his life and call the cops. They’d figure out who she was in about a day and then all hell’d break loose. It wasn’t much of a secret who she had been seeing these last months.

  About the time he should be boarding the plane for Belize, he’d be sitting in some squad room with his only travel opportunity a bus ride to Angola, chained to some 7-Eleven midnight bandit with a do-rag on his head.

  In the end he decided to do nothing. A couple of drinks calmed him down and allowed him to think. A line of coke helped more. Leave her where she was. Turn up the air conditioner. It’s only two days till Friday. Once he was out of the country, who cared if they figured out who killed her? There was no way they’d ever find him. He’d hidden his tracks too well.

  Yes. That was the thing to do. Nothing.

  Now that he’d made a decision he visibly relaxed. He fixed himself another drink and drank half before he dragged Amanda’s body into the bedroom closet and shoved her deep into the corner. He threw a pile of clothes over her--old shirts, trousers, whatever he could find.

  Amanda. For a moment remorse swept over him. What had he done? His poor, sweet baby. The feeling began to disappear, replaced by anger. The idiot! He’d offered her everything, the world. Who did she think she was! In a way he was glad he’d killed her, that she was gone. There were things about her that irritated him, the more he thought about it. Lots of little things. The way she talked, for instance. No education unless you call a high-school diploma education. She wouldn’t have fit in where he was going, with the people he was going to be associating with. Money people. Cultured people. He’d have grown tired of her. He could see that with perfect hindsight. She was pathetic, a pretty, empty-headed bimbo. No, this was for the best. All she would have done was increase the risk for him. The only person who would have known where he was or what he’d done. Who knows what might have happened if she’d gotten pissed at him sometime.

  He began to feel good about what he’d done. Probably saved his butt in the long run. Women never could keep a secret. He felt like a drink, like celebrating. He was almost home free. Things that looked like a disaster a minute ago suddenly looked like opportunity.

  He made his drink strong, all Dewar’s with only a splash of water. As it rolled around on his tongue he felt the bitet made him feel strong, alive. God! He’d killed a human being with one punch! He made a fist and flexed his arm.

  Everything was going to be okay. He made another drink, but left out the water this time.

  He waited until it was dark before he left the apartment, trying the door from the outside several times to be sure it was locked. Hurriedly backing the car out of the lot, he looked up at the window to be sure he hadn’t forgotten the lights.

  Heading down St. Charles, he began to think what he would tell Sarah about coming home so late.

  The farther he got from the apartment, the more his confidence in his plan lessened. A reaction to what he’d done set in. He began to weep quiet tears of frustration as he drove. It was getting too complicated. What was he going to do without Amanda? He tried to think of her, tried to think of what he’d felt for her. That was all gone, vanished as if he’d never known her. She’d become a problem. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes. Get it together, C.J., he told himself. You’re good at problems. You’ll solve this one too. This was Wednesday. Wednesday night. Do what you planned. Keep your head. Keep her in the apartment. Corpses didn’t start smelling in two days, did they? Two days was all he needed. Who gives a fuck who finds her body once he was gone? He was going to vanish completely. There could be no trace, not the way he’d planned it. There was only one loose end. The pilot. Even that was taken care of. He was landing in a small private airstrip. Nobody lived on the land it was on. He’d take care of the pilot. The same way he’d taken care of Amanda. It would be easier after killing Amanda. He’d wondered if he could do something like that, kill someone. Well...he could.

  He started feeling differently about things. Pride. He’d done all right by God. There were plenty of other bimbos. Especially when there was four million dollars for the spending. There was one hell
of a lot of bimbos when you could write a check for four million bucks.

  He pushed down harder on the gas pedal. Fuck Sarah too. Fuck dreaming up some cock-and-bull story. Tell her he was out having a drink. Fuck her if she didn’t like it. Two more days and he’d never see her again anyway.

  C.J. was starting to feel better.

  Downright good as a matter of fact.

  CHAPTER 18

  MOSTLY WHAT GRADY FOUND out in the bars he hit along Airline Highway was that the drinks were cheap and the reason was that there wasn’t much actual booze in them. And that if he wanted to get high or have sex with anything at all, living or dead, animal, vegetable or mineral, it would be easy to do. A couple of times an attractive woman or two gave him the eye and he knew it wouldn’t be hard to end up in bed if he gave half an effort, only he didn’t. He wanted to stay focused on finding out what he could about Kincaid.

  He didn’t know what he expected to find out anyway. The whole thing might be a wild goose chase. There was no proof that Kincaid came back to New Orleans. So he was from there

  originally--he might be living in Canada for all he knew. And maybe nothing was going down at all.

  No. He was right about this, he knew. His instincts told him he was on the right course. Kincaid was back in New Orleans and he was planning something big.

  What he did was hit as many spots as possible, showing Kincaid’s picture to the bartender and barmaids and customers. He ordered a real drink in about every third bar. The rest of the time he’d drink ginger ale and pass the photo aroun ask if anybody knew Kincaid. He offered money several times to no avail. Nobody seemed to know the guy or at least they didn’t claim to.

  By midnight, he’d exhausted most of the places that looked promising. On the pretext of finding some “action” he was told by a guy in a titty bar to try the joints closer to New Orleans out on Jefferson Highway. It was while driving past the juke joints and fried chicken and seafood places that lined the highway that then he spotted a large red neon sign on a building that whispered “Beer” seductively. He could use a beer. Every time he got out of the car he figured he lost a pound, from the sweat that poured from his body.