The Influencer

The Influencer

D. A. Ratliff

A Detective Elijah Boone Mystery

The Mini-Cooper scooted to a halt in front of the two-story Victorian house in the heart of the Garden District. Vivian McCrea gripped the steering wheel and repeated her daily mantra upon arriving. “You got this. You got this. You got this.”

She grabbed her laptop bag and stepped out into the cool air. Holiday decorations adorned the neighborhood, but kitsch described the home of her employer, Desiree Longia. Vivian imagined that her neighbors must despise her. The purple-pink house, the lime green shutters, the ornate multicolored painted wrought iron railings, and the silly statues constituted an affront against good taste, but that described Desiree exactly.

Longia, at age twenty-four, had amassed a fortune as a social media influencer. Vivian didn’t understand how a woman of questionable taste could influence anyone. Still, she’d made enough money to hire a publicist, a personal stylist, and an administrative assistant, a job that Vivian coveted for only one reason. It paid well, and she was paying her way through grad school. But working for a spoiled diva who expected everything done for her and for all to be at her beck and call proved difficult. As she slipped her key into the front door, Vivian promised herself six more months. By then, she would have enough money to finish her dissertation, and she could make her escape.

Closing the door behind her, Vivian called out. “Desi, I’m here. I’ll make coffee.” She started down the hallway when she caught a flash of pink on the deep green carpet in the front parlor. She entered the room, spotting a pink box with cookies spilling out onto the floor. She took a step forward to pick it up, then screamed.

Desiree Longia, her skin pale gray in contrast to her bright yellow silk pajamas, lay dead on the floor.

~~~

Paperwork. I hate paperwork, and the case we just wrapped up generated more evidence and notes than most. The killing of a DEA agent and a drug lord tended to bring in the Feds, and they loved paperwork.

I signed off on my last file and got up to get coffee when a grunt and “I’m done” came from my partner, Hank Guidry. I chuckled. “I take it you finished the paper too.”

“Bloody heck, Eli. I wouldn’t work for the Feds if they paid me double.”

“I hear you. Want a cup of coffee?”

Before he could respond, the captain stuck his head out his door. “Got a death, not sure if a homicide, but the vic is some well-known influencer, and the national press is already calling. Dispatch is texting you the address in the Garden District. Keep me informed.”

The captain disappeared behind his door, and Hank said. “Can we get coffee on the way?”

Traveling the streets of the Garden District felt comfortable as Hank and I had spent years assigned to this district. Since the NOPD, in their infinite wisdom, decided to transfer us to Major Crimes, we spent little time in the area other than dinners at Mama Leone’s over on Magazine. I can’t live without Mama Leone’s pasta.

As we approached the victim’s house, Hank whistled. “How do the neighbors put up with that?”

“The Garden District’s always been a bit eccentric and put up with a more bohemian attitude, but as property values go up, so does intolerance. Might check for citations.”

As I pulled in behind the ME’s van, Hank laughed. “If this is murder, maybe her décor is the motive.”

Yellow tape strung around the patrol cars kept the onlookers across the street. Local district six detective John Hayes waited for us on the step. I could tell from his arms crossed over his chest that he was unhappy to see us.

“Detective Boone. Guidry. Slumming it, I see.”

“Good to see you too, Hayes. If this is not murder, the case is all yours. Tell me what you know.”

Hayes recounted Vivian McCrea’s description of finding the body. “ME just got here, in there now.”

I grabbed a pair of booties from a forensic tech and gloves from my pocket and walked inside. The interior of the house matched the exterior. Eclectic, I think, is the word. Behind me, I heard Hank murmur, “Gaudy as the outside.” He wasn’t kidding.

Longia lay on her side on the floor next to an overstuffed velvet couch. I noted a pale green ribbon with writing on it lying on the coffee table. A vase of deep red roses now lay on the floor—the flower stems scattered across the carpet. A pink box lay on the floor closer to the door, and several cookies had spilled out. A half-eaten cookie rested on Longia’s stiff curved fingers.

The ME had knelt beside the body but stood up when we entered. “Detective Boone, I’m Dr. Owen Dawson with the Medical Examiner’s office. And yes, I know who you are because Detective Hayes has been talking about you nonstop.”

I responded with a chuckle. “All good, I am sure.”

Dawson grinned slightly. “But of course. Let me tell you what I know. Deceased is Desiree Marie Longia, twenty-four years old. I estimated the time of death between nine and eleven last night. And cause of death….” He paused and bent down, pulling up the edge of the pajama top, revealing parts of her skin were dark pink instead of bluish-purple. “From the color of the lividity and the faint smell of almonds, I noted when I arrived, looks like cyanide poisoning.”

“Source?”

He pointed to the box of cookies. “I am going to surmise the cookies. She’s holding one, and I suspect I’ll find remnants of cookies in her digestive system.” He held up a phone, now in an evidence bag. “She was holding this in her other hand.”

“Thanks, Dr. Dawson. I know it’s foolish to ask, but this is a high-profile case….” I noticed Dawson’s eyebrow raise. “She was a social media influencer with thirty million followers.” He shook his head. “I know, don’t have a clue either. What I do know is that national media is already on this, and we need to act fast.”

“I’ll probably get the memo, Detective, but I’ll get this done for you as soon as possible.”

Hank, who had left to round up witnesses, came to the parlor door. “The ghouls have arrived.”

That only meant one thing, the press had descended on the scene. I walked onto the porch and felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. Every major television station had camped out on the narrow street, and behind police lines, a crowd was gathering. Great, Longia had a following, and they were showing up.

“Hank, where’s the woman who found….” A scream of Desiree’s name caused me to turn. Officers were restraining a young man and woman outside the tape. Hayes bounded up the steps.

“These two say they work for Longia.”

“Let them in.”

The woman ran to me, grabbing my coat lapels. “Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me she’s alive.”

“Ma’am, who are you?”

The woman broke into sobs, and her companion pulled her away. “I’m Lawrence Marshall, and this is Betsy Trenton. We work for Desi. I got a call from a sponsor who said Desi was dead. Said he saw it on the news.”

“I am Detective Boone. This is Detective Guidry. He’s going to take you into the house, and we’ll talk to you there.” I motioned for a uniformed officer and told him to close the door to the parlor. Then to Hank, “Get all the usual from them and where they have been in the last forty-eight hours. I’m going to talk to the woman who found her.”

Hank took Marshall and Trenton to the kitchen while another officer directed me to the dining room, where Vivian McCrea waited.

McCrea looked nervous. “Did I hear Betsy?”

“You work with Betsy Trenton and Lawrence Marshall?”

“Yes, I’m… was… Desi’s personal assistant.”

“You arrived at nine a.m., correct?”

“Yes, I live near Tulane. I’m in grad school there. Always get here around nine unless there’s something else going on. I have a key, so I let myself in …” Vivian choked up. “I noticed something pink on the floor of the parlor. Went to pick it up, and I saw her. Then called 9-1-1.”

“The box appears to have contained cookies. Was she in the habit of getting those cookies?”

“She usually got cookies from that chain in the long pale pink boxes. I’ve never seen this box before.”

“What did you do for her?”

“I did her correspondence, paid her bills, managed her bank accounts, ran personal errands, although Betsy does as well. She threw lots of parties, and I handled the invitations and the caterers. Betsy did the decorations. Oh… uh… I need to cancel the florist. They were coming today to put up a tree and decorate the house inside and out. Desi wanted a big party for Christmas and New Year’s.”

“Do you know if Desiree….”

“Desi. She preferred Desi.”

“Was there anyone she didn’t get along with or may have wanted her harmed?”

Her reaction shocked me. McCrea threw her head back in raucous laughter.

“I’m sorry, Detective. If you’re looking for people who hated her and wanted her, I won’t say dead, but off the internet, it’s a pretty long line.” She paused. “I’m pretty sure I’m at the front of that line.”

“Why?”

“Desiree Longia was a tyrant—a twenty-four-year-old narcissist who didn’t care for anyone but herself. She was a mean, rude, selfish, petty, immature, insolent, demanding little diva who ordered us around like servants. She paid me to do a job, not soothe her ego.”

“Why didn’t you quit.”

“Because she was immature and uninformed and paid me, Betsy, and Lawrence, far too much for what we did because she didn’t know better. I called it hazardous duty pay. We earned it.”

“Other than yourself, Ms. McCrea, who is most angry with her?”

“There is one person, Victoria Marquis, of Marquis NOLA Cosmetics. A local. Runs her company from here and has quite a large following on social media herself. Desi toyed with her. Promised to promote her cosmetics which was how Desi became famous, to begin with, but alas… Desi was lying. Strung Victoria along while she negotiated with another company here in New Orleans, Beautré Orleans, to compete with Marquis. Victoria invested in producing more products because of what Desi promised. I heard she’s in financial trouble.”

“Did you ever witness any arguments between them?”

“They fought a lot online, but Victoria did come to the house one day. She was livid and screamed obscenities at Desi from the porch. Lawrence tried to calm her down, but the neighbors called the police. She left when they showed up.”

I thanked McCrea and headed to the kitchen, where Hank was talking to Longia’s other two employees. He intercepted me outside the kitchen door.

“This gal is upset, but I’ve got all their info and where they were. Funny thing. Neither of them seemed to like their boss very much.”

“Vivian McCrea didn’t either.”

I walked in. Trenton continued to cry, and Marshall appeared stunned. “I won’t keep you, but I’ll want to talk to you later. Two questions. How did you get along with Longia?”

Trenton sputtered. “She could be difficult, but I loved her like a big sister. She gave me a chance.”

Marshall nodded. “I was struggling to make a living as a social media consultant. Then I ran into her when I came to Mardi Gras three years ago, and she hired me. Desi was not easy to deal with. She could be quite demanding. “

“What do you know about Victoria Marquis and her relationship with Longia?”

Betsy Trenton’s eyes narrowed and darkened. “That bitch, she hated Desi. It wouldn’t surprise me if she killed her.”

Lawrence shook his head. “No, no, Bets, we don’t know that. Desi did Victoria wrong, but I don’t think she would kill her.”

I informed them to come to the main NOPD headquarters at two p.m. for full statements and told Frank to tell McCrea the same and then release all three. We stayed on the scene until the ME removed the body and forensics finished. Hayes and his detectives would oversee canvassing the area. It was a bit after noon, and I called Mama Leone’s to see if they had a table for us and ordered the lunch special. We had to eat.

We sat near the window, and Tom, Mama Leone’s nephew, brought our Tortellini soup and crusty bread lunch. I invited Tom to sit down to chat.

“When are Mama and Matteo due back?”

“Tomorrow, the wedding was Saturday, and they were going to Rome for a couple of days to visit friends.”

Conversation between two young women at the table beside them drifted toward us, and when I heard Desiree’s name, I glanced at the women. They were discussing the influencer’s death.

Tom sighed. “All anyone’s been talking about today. Two of our servers were huge fans and have been in tears all morning. She used to come in here, you know.”

“Desiree ate here often?”

“For a while. Mama didn’t like her. Too loud and demanding. Always came in with an entourage and spent a lot of money. She started bragging that she could put us on the map—make us famous. She was pushing Aunt Leone to pay her to talk about the restaurant on her social media vids. You know Mama Leone. She told Desiree she was already on the map and didn’t have to pay anyone to promote her food. Desiree stopped coming as much after that but ordered delivery a lot.”

“Did you know the people who worked for her?”

“Not sure… a couple of people always came with her, but the others varied.”

Hank showed Tom DMV photos of Desiree’s employees. Tom pointed to Lawrence and Betsy’s photos. “Yeah, those two were always with her. The other one a few times.”

“They seem to get along?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Time will tell if they did.

~~~

At the station, we gave Captain Lourdes an update, and I had the team investigate the backgrounds and financial records of Longia and her employees. Mika Wu, a rookie detective assigned to the squad, ran the criminal checks and found Hank and me as we headed into the interrogation room to talk to Lawrence Marshall.

“Detective, Marshall, and Trenton have a rap sheet. Marshall has two misdemeanor drugs charges and a felony misdemeanor assault charge two years ago. Fined five-hundred dollars and a six-month suspended sentence.”

“And Trenton?”

Mika handed me the printouts on both. “Busy gal. Shoplifting, petty theft, and a misdemeanor assault got her three months in jail.”

Hank whistled. “Tough little cookie.”

I gave him a side glance and asked Mika, “Anything on Longia?”

“No record other than a few speeding tickets and a failure to yield.”

I thanked her, and we entered the interrogation room to talk to Lawrence Marshall. The first thing I noticed was that he seemed relaxed. Either he had nothing to hide, or he was good at hiding his demeanor. My job was to find out which it was.

He’d told Hank that he flew to New York City for a conference on social media influencers and arrived back around six p.m. We checked. He arrived on a six-twenty flight last night, and we showed him entering his apartment building at seven-thirty p.m. and leaving when he rushed out this morning.

“Mr. Marshall, do you know anyone who would want to kill Longia?”

“Look, man, she was a diva bitch. Demanded we catered to her twenty-five hours a day. I admit to having words with her at first, but I learned to keep my mouth shut and do my thing. She paid good, and I wasn’t going to blow the gig.”

“How about your coworkers?”

He scoffed. “Vivian hated her. But Viv was here for the money. Girl’s got ambitions to be a business mogul, but she wouldn’t kill her. None of us would… she was our gravy train.”

“Betsey Trenton?”

“Man, don’t know what to tell you. Bets is a moody chick, but Desi got her out of a tough situation and gave her a job. She owed Desi big time.”

“What kind of bad situation?”

“Bets was a hairstylist, and the owner caught her taking products. She was doing hair on the side with the stuff she took. Desi found out, paid off the salon, and hired Bets as her image stylist.”

We dismissed Marshall and headed to the next interrogation room to talk to Betsy Trenton. She had curled up in a chair, legs tucked underneath her. I motioned for her to sit up and saw a flash of anger in her eyes.

“Tell us where you were last night?”

“I told you this morning. I was out with friends. Gave him,” she pointed to Hank, ”their names. We went to Harrigan’s for drinks and dinner and then to the Steel Club to dance. I didn’t get home until three this morning.”

“Do you know anyone who would want to kill your boss?”

“No.” She spat out the word like it burned her mouth.

“She had no enemies?”

“Didn’t say that. Viv sure hated her, and the feeling was mutual.”

“Why did Desi keep her on?”

“Because she was good at what she did. Kept Desi on track business-wise.”

“What about you? How was your relationship with Desi?”

Betsy glanced down. “I didn’t always like her. She was mean, but I owed her for bailing me out of a jam.”

I asked a few more questions, then ended the conversation. Hank informed me that Vivan McCrea had an exam that afternoon and was coming in tomorrow morning. As we headed back to the squad room, my phone beeped. The IT forensics tech had something for us.

Carlos grinned as we walked into IT. “Got her death on video.”

“Let’s see.”

“Let me show you what she posted first, and then I’ll show you a vid that wasn’t posted.”

The posted video began with her peering through the door at a delivery person holding the flowers and the pink box tied with a green ribbon. She accepted the delivery and then spoke to the camera. “Well, who could be sending me flowers and cookies? Ya’ll are so good to me. Now, I’m going to take a hot bubble bath with that wonderful new Serene Bubbles bath foam from Beautré Orleans, and then we’ll have cookies. Back shortly.”

No one spoke as the tech clicked on the vid she had recorded. Instead of the perky smile, her mouth was squinched, and her eyes narrow slits. “Lawrence, freaking site won’t let me do a live. Call them tomorrow and tell them I’m ticked. Going to record a spot and then post.”

The tech clicked on the screen. “We found this on her phone.”

Desi appeared, wearing yellow pajamas and smiling, with a full box of cookies and a vase of red roses on the coffee table. She spoke.

“Hey, cheres, someone loves your Cajun girl here. Red roses and chocolate chip cookies just arrived. Now, unless it’s from a handsome gentleman, I suspect the bakery wants a little something, something I can give them. The roses are gorgeous, but let’s see about these cookies.” She took a bite, wiped a chunk of chocolate off her mouth, and finished the cookie. “These are icky sweet, and there’s a funny taste. Let me try another one and see if I can figure out the flavor.” She made a grand gesture of licking her fingers and took a bite from the second cookie. Her face contorted, and her breathing became labored. She vomited violently and then fell to the floor.

“The vid ends there. The phone appears to have fallen face down on the floor and shut off.”

Hank spoke for all of us. “Man, that’s tough watching a young gal die.”

I could only manage a nod as my stomach roiled, and I fought the bile rising in my throat. “Let’s go find the bastard that killed her.”

Mika buzzed me to tell me that forensics posted the report on the cookies. I clicked on the case file. As suspected, cyanide and a liquid sugar substitute were present. The tech concluded that the killer injected a liquid sugar substitute into the cookies to cover the bitter taste of the cyanide. The report also stated fingerprints on the box, but so far, no hits other than the victim’s.

I checked. The Garden Bakery and Café name was on the box, and it was three doors down from Mama Leone’s on Magazine Street and closed at ten p.m. I headed out the door, with Frank tagging behind.

I parked in a loading zone, a half-block from the bakery, and flipped down the Police ID visor. As we entered the store, I swear Hank swooned at the aroma of freshly baked bread and sweets that wafted toward us. A cheerful young lady behind the counter took my card and scurried off to find the owner. We waited at a table in the corner.

“Detective, I’m Bea Murdoch, the owner. How can I help you?”

I showed her the image of the box and the remaining cookies. “Does this look like your product?”

“That’s certainly the box and ribbon we use, and those appear to be our cookies.” She pointed to a large display cabinet full of cookies, including several trays of chocolate chips. “It’s our bestseller—Cajun chocolate chip. We use spicy chocolate chunks and three types of chocolate chips.”

“Do you deliver?”

“No, not any longer. We did until the food delivery services started up. Now we use them exclusively for our bakery goods, sandwiches, and salads.”

I showed her a still from the video of the man who delivered the cookies and flowers. “Do you recognize him?”

“No.” She paused. “But those flowers, that’s how Claussen’s Florist wraps their eight-rose bouquet. We offer them here in the shop on Valentine’s and Mother’s Day. Maybe he’s their delivery person?”

“Thank you. We’ll check with them. We need to see your sales receipts from the last two days.”

“No problem, I’ll text you the report.”

“Great. Use the phone number on my card.”

We walked to Claussen’s Florist. The owner didn’t recognize the delivery guy. He told us the bouquet was his best seller and gave us his receipts from a cash register printout.

Back in the squad room, I gave the sales receipts to Mika to sort through. Detective Andy Ford had news about the canvass of the neighborhood.

“District Six detectives sent this over.” He handed me a series of photos. “These are from doorbell and security cameras in the neighborhood. The man who delivered the flowers traveled by bicycle. He parked it in front of a neighbor’s house. They followed him for about four blocks but lost his trail when he passed behind a parked moving van. They are checking the neighborhood to see if they can find him again.”

“Ford, put out a BOLO on the bike and this man. We might get lucky.”

I ordered pizza for the squad, and we spent the next couple of hours going through Desi's inner circle's background checks and financials. A forensics tech specializing in social media searches was looking through Desi’s accounts for any threats against her. It was close to nine p.m. when Owen Dawson, the ME, called me and said he was about to start the autopsy.

As we walked into the morgue, Hank stopped in the doorway. “Eli, I hate this place.”

“I know, Hank. You tell me every time we walk in here.”

Dawson was in room four, and we threaded our way through the backed-up gurneys of the dead, waiting to tell their tales. He had begun the autopsy, and we stood out of the way. At one point, he called us over. I went to the table.

“You can see the organs are also showing dark pink lividity. While we will need confirmation from chemical analysis that cyanide is present, I can say without question that the cause of death is cyanide poisoning.”

I took a second before I walked away. Sometimes I fear that as police officers, we allow the quest to find the perp to overshadow the victim. I vowed never to let that happen. The young face, repose in death, was serene. Her death was meaningless and tragic, no matter how difficult she could be. I’ll remember her face.

I sent the team home. The night shift would notify me if they found the delivery guy. Tomorrow morning, we would talk to Vivian McCrea, and I wanted to interview the two beauty company owners. On the drive home, I listened to the news on the radio, and the lead story was the death of the globally known influencer Desiree Longia. I punched the off button. We needed a break.

~~~

Vivian McCrea arrived on time but added little to the information she had given us before. She didn’t recognize the delivery guy and claimed she never shopped at that bakery or florist. We released her and headed to Victoria Marquis’s home near Audubon Park.

Hank grunted as we pulled into the driveway of a shotgun house in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. “Well, would you look at that, a purple house. What is it with these artsy types.”

“I think that color is called periwinkle, Hank.” I chuckled as he snorted and exited the car.

Victoria Marquis opened the door, and as soon as I flashed my badge, she took a defiant stance. “I hated that bitch, but I didn’t kill her. But don’t think I didn’t consider it.”

“We’d like to ask you some questions.” She motioned us inside.

The house was as neat and well-maintained inside as outside. The front room spoke of elegance, as did Marquis. She motioned for us to sit. I did, but Hank stood by the door.

“Look, I suspect I have more motive than anyone to want to kill Desi. She was a controlling, lying user who relished making other people miserable. Her promises to help my business were a joke to her. Lead the silly woman on. But the fact is, I decided to invest in more supplies, so I have no one to blame but myself. The funny thing is that two days ago, I would have been your prime suspect, but the day she died, I signed a contract with a leading national department store to carry my line. We are starting in only three of their stores, but if successful, I won’t need the likes of Desiree Longia.”

“Where were you the evening she died?”

She chuckled. “I was here, by myself, with a bottle of champagne and up to my nose in making product. I converted the garage into a lab. I have no alibi, but I did not kill her.”

The next stop was a commercial building on Broad Street that served as the headquarters for Beautré Orleans, owned by Gwendolyn Landry. We buzzed, and a young man let us in. He yelled to a woman standing inside a glassed-in production area without asking who we were. “Gwennie, the Po is here.”

Gwennie entered the lobby, pulling off silicon gloves. “I figured you’d be here when I heard about Desi. Damn shame.”

“I’m Detective Boone. This is Detective Guidry. A shame because you were about to use Longia’s services as an influencer.”

“Desi made a good offer. We have a good market share but hard to turn down a deal with someone with thirty million followers, but I was about to do just that.”

“Why?”

“Desi was a bitch to deal with, and for someone so young, she knew her way around shady deals. I found out the day before she died that she’d been after my stylist, Josie Norman, who worked for her before, to jump ship. I confronted Josie, and she told me it was true. Desi offered her a job, but she’d turned it down.”

“Where were you the night Desi died?”

“Right here, and the cameras will prove it. I’m not about to kill someone, Detective. I’m too busy with holiday orders.”

“I’d like to speak to Josie.”

“Sure, I’ll get her.”

Josie Norman’s gaze shifted from Landry to me as she entered the lobby, and I got the sense that she was uneasy. Landry returned to the manufacturing area, and Josie asked if we could talk outside.

She lit a cigarette, then waved it in the air. “Sorry, I quit, but my nerves are a mess right now.”

“Why is that?”

She pursed her lips, then took a drag on the cigarette. “Look, Desi and I go way back, all the way to elementary school. I went to college, got a marketing degree, and went to work with Desi when she first decided to become an influencer. But it was slow going, and Gwennie offered me a job with her start-up. So, I took it. To say Desi was mad was an understatement, but we ran into each other a couple of years ago and made up.”

“When did she offer you a job?”

“A month ago.” She took another puff and tossed the cigarette onto the sidewalk, toeing it out. “She planned on firing Betsy. Said she had forgotten to do things, and trust me, if you worked for Desi, you had to be serving her twenty-four-seven. I knew that, but the money she offered was too tempting, and I decided to take it.”

“Landry told us you turned it down.”

“I lied to her because I was getting cold feet. I was about to talk myself out of it when… well… she died.”

“Did Betsy know she was being replaced?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, but she might have. I saw Lawrence a few nights ago at a club in the Quarter. He might have overheard me talking about it to my friends.”

As we pulled into traffic, Hank sneezed. “Bloody cigarettes. Always hated them. So, we find Lawrence?”

“You read my mind, and I want to find the guy who delivered the cookies and flowers.”

“I checked with Mika before we left. They’ve been watching all security cam footage they could get in the neighborhood with no luck.”

I texted Lawrence that we wanted to talk to him. While we waited, we decided to grab lunch at our favorite crab shack. We were halfway through devouring crabcake po-boys when Mika called with news. I hung up. “Grab what’s left of your sandwich. Hayes found our delivery guy.”

Hayes met us outside the interrogation room. “Per your instructions, we only confirmed his name, address, and age. Eddie Youngman. Lives on Laural Street. He’s nineteen, so we don’t have to find his mommy.”

“Thanks.” I turned the doorknob, and Hayes added, “You’re welcome.”

I know a snarky comment when I hear it. “Coming in?” He followed us.

I got the preliminaries out of the way and slid a photo toward him. “Eddie, is this you delivering cookies and flowers to Desi Longia two nights ago?”

Eddie’s body shook. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Do you know what happened to Ms. Longia when she ate the cookies?”

“Yeah, man, I heard. My girlfriend’s a fan. She saw me on the vid… just a glimpse of me. She was excited and then told me Desi died the next day.”

“Did you know the cookies were poisoned?”

“No… I didn’t. Just paid to deliver them.”

I showed him five photographs and asked him who paid him.

His answer sent us running out the door.

~~~

Squad cars surrounded the apartment complex on St. Charles. Hayes and I stood beside the SWAT truck that just pulled up. Things escalated quickly after we arrived to take the suspect into custody, and Hayes called in the tough guys.

“Can’t get a negotiator here for another hour, Boone, and we have a hostage situation. So, wait it out?”

“No, I’m going.”

I took off my jacket and instinctively felt for the thin body armor I wore underneath my shirt. I was checking my gun when Hank handed me another vest.

He shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt.”

With SWAT in the lead, we climbed the two levels to Lawrence Marshall’s apartment. Four uniformed officers were already flanking the door, but SWAT waved them off and replaced them.

I eased up beside the door, standing to the side, and called out. “Lawrence, it’s Detective Boone. It’s over. We know you paid Eddie to deliver the flowers and the cookies. This is not helping. Who’s in there with you?”

“I’m not coming out.” Lawrence’s strained voice called from behind the door. “I’ll kill her.”

A woman’s voice cried out. “It’s me, Betsy. Listen to him. He’s crazy.”

A single shot rang out, and SWAT battered down the door. At the all-clear, Hank and I entered to find Lawrence dead of a gunshot to the head. Betsy ran to me, sobbing. “He killed her. He killed her.”

~~~

A total media frenzy was the only way to describe the following two days as the story went global. Hank and I hid in the station and let the mayor and the police commissioner bask in the limelight. Thankfully, the fickle media went on to another social media crisis, and we could go about our normal lives. Normal for New Orleans, whatever that is.

Hank and I invited Hayes to dinner at Mama Leone’s. He dug into his meal with gusto.

“You know, Boone, I came here a few times, but all they wanted to talk about was you and how you saved them all when those goons shot up the place. Stopped coming, but man, this food is worth hearing them brag on you.”

“Right place, wrong time, Hayes.”

Hayes chuckled. "I guess so. By the way, we got confirmation from the bakery and the florist that Marshall bought the items. Still trying to find where he got the cyanide. We found CCV of him handing the flowers and cookies to Eddie about three blocks away before he arrived home.”

“Had a long chat with Betsy while you were clearing the scene. She knew that Desi was going to replace her and told Marshall. Then he learned from a friend in the business that Desi was looking for his replacement too. He figured he’d get Desi out of the way, and he and Betsey would find another influencer. Keep the revenue flowing in. He didn’t count on Betsy not wanting to go along. She confronted him about the time we showed up.”

“Sad state of affairs and over a social media account.”

Hank waved a piece of bread. “Over a social media that made much money.”

I nodded. “Got a call from Victoria Marquis a bit ago. She, Betsy, and Vivian talked about keeping Desi’s business going. They are working to get Josie to join them. Gotta give them kudos for trying.”

Hank laughed. “Well, I am giving kudos to Mama Leone for the best lasagna in the world. Who wants dessert?”

While we enjoyed dessert, I stared out the window at the busy holiday traffic and wondered how long before the next call came. After all, this is New Orleans.

~~~

Author's Note:

Detective Elijah Boone of the New Orleans Police Department appears in a recurring series of stories. Currently, the following Det. Boone stories are available on Vocal Media:

"The Neighborhood"

"Tied With Twine"

"Home Again"

"The Influencer"

If you enjoyed this Det. Boone story, I hope you will check out the others. Thank you!