He’s smart… really smart. He’s on our radar. He knows this. Hell, he is at the heart of everything untoward that happens in Baton Rouge… in much of southern Louisiana… yet he doesn’t slip up. He’s careful. Meticulous. No loose ends that we can find and unravel. We can’t prove anything when it comes to him. Every time I think I’m close and he’s within my grasp, somehow, he slips away.
This hit has Gabrial written all over it. My instincts are screaming that Eli turned to him as a way to supplement some income when the economy went to shit and, Gabrial, of course, helped him. But the chatter is that Eli started using more than he was selling and even got his once beloved wife, Mrs. Mascareni, hooked on cocaine. Between the two of them, and their addictions, they are about a quarter million in debt to Gabrial. Because he was in so deep and couldn’t kick his habit, Eli started pimping out his Mrs. to try to make that money back.
Of course, no one is actually “talking” and its all just whispers and he said she said. Except for the fact that Eli is currently lying smack dab in the middle of his street, in front of his home, for everyone to bear witness to the single, fatal gunshot wound to the chest in ninety-degree weather… and Mrs. Mascareni is nowhere to be found. The heat already has the body bloating. It wouldn’t take much longer for the process to quicken and Mr. Mascareni to burst and ooze, omitting even more of a stench in this fetid climate than we’re already experiencing.
I don’t see his wife as the shooter though. The shot was too clean. Too precise. Someone who knew what they were doing did this.
This was Gabrial. Or one of his crew.
My guess is that Eli was taking his rage and fear out on his wife on top of the selling of her body to anyone willing to pay for the pleasure and Gabrial has “swooped in and saved her.”
He’s also left a prominent reminder that crossing him is not advised.
Damnit! It’s so fucking hot out here. Another hour and this damn scene is going to smell like Bourbon Street at midnight on Fat Tuesday… if Mardi Gras was in August and not the beginning of the damn year.
I’m kneeling beside the body of Eli Mascareni trying to breathe lightly through my mouth while I observe the body and listen to the medical examiner. He’s a strange one and is smiling as he pokes and prods. He calls out notes to the intern trying to jot them down without losing his stomach out here in the goddamned Louisiana heat with the stench of death and decay surrounding him.
“Not killed here… Just the drop location. Initial assessment is single gunshot to the chest… Directly into his heart. Appears to have lost control of his bodily functions either just before, or as, the shot struck him… Need to examine him in the lab to be certain and to see if there is any evidence on the body to indicate the possible location of his demise.”
Exactly, Gabrial would never kill, or have someone killed, in broad daylight in the middle of a street. It’s too public. Too blatant. I’m also certain he was killed somewhere else… somewhere he possibly met with him… his restaurant perhaps, and was dropped here as a warning and a reminder.
Gabrial…
Dammit, Gabrial.
And Hope is having dinner with him tonight.
Shit… I need to ask if Gabrial was at the shelter today or if he just called Hope to ask her to dinner.
Goddammit!
I was just there. Did I just miss him?
I need to know exactly where Gabrial was today.
With a disgusted sigh at myself, I stand and stalk back to my Mustang, sitting under the beaming sun. Sliding into the confined heat of the car, I slam the door and crank the air on full blast. As it starts to cool, I take a look around the scene and watch the crowd. The killer could be out there.
He isn’t though. I know he isn’t.
My gut tells me I know exactly who is responsible for the murder of Eli Mascareni.
Sighing as I grip the steering wheel with white knuckles, I press the button near my thumb and use my Bluetooth to call Hope.
As the ringing phone comes through the speakers, I grab my notepad from the change holder and swipe a pen from the cup holder to jot my thoughts down and wait to see if she’s going to pick up.