Belle chasse, p.2
Belle Chasse, page 2
“Debra Kenney.”
That agreed with the driver's license. “How old was she? “
“Was. Jesus! I can't think in past tense.”
“Did she say how old she was?”
“Thirty-five.”
The birth date on the license said she was forty-one. A lot of women lied about their ages. Forty-one. Connie could be dead in three years. Every case brought out her own private conjecture about her future. “What do you know about her?”
“Know about her?”
“How did she make her living?”
“She sold real estate. For Noble River Realty. And I don’t know, but I think there was some alimony.”
Ah. Two former husbands and Mellor did not receive nor pay alimony. Where had she gone wrong?
“She was divorced? Do you know for how long?”
“Two or three months, I think.”
“You didn’t see her last night?”
“No.”
“Where were you?”
“At home.”
“Alone?”
“Alone? Yes, of course,” he said.
“What do you know about the husband? The ex-husband?”
“You think he did it?”
“Do you know him, Mr. Travers?”
“Met him. Yeah, he could do it. Big bastard.”
“What's the name?”
“Glenn. Glenn Kenney. He's a boat dealer.”
“She ever discuss the divorce?”
“Talk about it? No.”
Mellor pressed. “I mean, she ever say anything about bad feelings? Arguments?”
“Well, no. I thought they were friendly enough. But Kenney. . . he's got this look about him.”
This could go faster than she had expected. Ex-spouses, especially those who did not want to be ex, were always good suspects. Most murders were accomplished by persons who knew the victim, and quite often, were related to the victim. And a beating of the sort that Debra Kenney had undergone most often took place at the height of emotional conflicts.
Except for the ties. That bothered her. The ties meant some period of premeditation and not on the spur of an emotional moment. Did Debra Kenney consent to being tied up for some amorous purpose? She’d know more after she searched the place to make sure Debra Kenney didn’t keep a stock of men’s ties around in some place other than the closet.
Also except for the manner of attack. All of those wounds seemed to have been delivered in a methodical way, not a frenzy. Curious.
Wiggins came back, “Forensics is on its way. Coroner’s Office is on its way. The loo is going after a search warrant.”
The superintendent looked ashen. He was probably thinking that the St. Phillip did not need a thousand police cars parked in front of its posh, high security entrance. He looked like he wanted to say something.
“How about you, Mr. . . . Lawrence, is it?”
“Calvin Lawrence. Yes.”
“Do you know if she had visitors earlier? This morning or yesterday afternoon?”
“You’ll have to check with the doorman.”
“How well did you know Ms. Kenney?”
His color did not improve. “She owns. . . owned the building.”
That seemed to surprise Nick Travers as much as it surprised Connie Mellor.
***
Kenney had left his Chevy pickup parked on Royal in a no-parking zone, and when he got back to it at 7:30 on Saturday morning, there was a ticket under the wiper. He pulled it free and checked the time scrawled on it--10:20 last night. He tossed it on the passenger seat as he got in.
He rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the stubble of whiskers. His search for Jacki du Bonnet had turned into an all-nighter. For another five hundred bucks. And well spent he thought. Jacki was inventive. She made the memories go away for minutes at a time, and he needed to have the memories go away.
Starting the truck, he turned out and drove around the block to get back on Canal. The harsh morning light gave the dead neon signs and the weaving winos an appropriately seedy quality. Mornings like this always made him think of the salesmen and business people rising to the jangle of hotel wake-up calls, groaning and regretting their nights out, ruefully sitting on the edge of their king-sized beds, wondering if they should skip the prospecting session in the King Louis XIV Room.
Hypocritical thoughts; he was a salesman, too. He drove directly down to Woldenberg Park, south of the French Quarter, across the railroad tracks, and found a parking place in the row of automobiles parked along the street. Got out of the truck and felt the heaviness of the air. A high dark gray cloud bank to the south promised, or threatened, afternoon rain. The smell of the river was an undertone for the standard cacophony of straining marine craft engines, a siren or two in the distance, the muted thunder of automobile and truck traffic.
Half a dozen seagulls patrolled the water’s edge looking for tidbits the tourists might have left behind.
Belle Chasse Marine Craft, Inc. held a lease near the pier for the Natchez Steamboat, a paddlewheel riverboat used for tours of the Mississippi River. Kenney’s version of the riverboat was a half-scale paddle wheeler that was 35 years old and had once served as yet another New Orleans tourist attraction, serving dinner afloat while cruising the river. Now, after considerable renovation, she was his office and living quarters.
In Kenney’s eyes, the Belle Chasse was a thing of beauty. White hulled with a white and gold trimmed superstructure, she sported teak decks and railings. Her brass fittings gleamed under regular, frequent polishing. Her diesel engine, replacing the original steam engine, could still motivate her paddle wheel and send her most places on the river. Departures from her mooring were infrequent however.
She was named for the town of Belle Chasse, Louisiana, a collection of about 10,000 people on the west bank of the Mississippi River in Plaquemines Parish. In French, Belle Chasse literally meant “beautiful hunting, “ and that might have been the reason for the name. When French colonists settled in the area, the wildlife was rich and plentiful. Another version of the story suggested the town was named for Colonel Joseph D. Bellechasse, a resident in the late eighteenth century.
Belle Chasse was also a Joint Forces Reserve Air Station, home to an Air Force Reserve fighter squadron and a Marine Corps Reserve helicopter unit. A U.S. Navy Reserve early warning squadron was also based in Belle Chasse for deployment in counter-narcotic operations in the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico. During Hurricane Katrina, the base was the primary helicopter staging area for rescue operations.
The signboard for the Belle Chasse was mounted below the windows of the wheelhouse, and the two smoke stacks stood proudly defiant aft. She was nosed into the wide, planked dock and Kenney crossed the pier and walked up the gangplank, crossed the short foredeck, and unlocked the glass-paned door into what had once been the salon and dining room, but was now the sales office. It was furnished with two oak desks–one for him and one for his administrative assistant Natalie Goodwin. Natalie was off for the weekend. The air-conditioned interior was a relief from a morning weeping humidity like an inconsolable child.
There was an assortment of leather sofas and chairs in two conversational groupings. Large folios rested on the coffee tables. The folios contained pictures and specifications for all of the boats and yachts held in the inventory. A companionway led up to the pilot house above which he mostly used as a lounge. Aft on the main deck was his living quarters, including a small galley, a salon, and a master stateroom with an attached head. There was a separate bathroom serving the office.
The Belle Chasse office and its portfolios of marine craft pictures were easily accessible to those people visiting New Orleans or the French Quarter or the Garden District. What was not so readily accessible was his inventory.
The banks of the Mississippi River through New Orleans and its environs were principally littered with commerce. Oil refineries, container transfer facilities, grain transfer operations, warehouses servicing unending numbers of barges and tugboats were the eyesores visitors saw. Want to see a nice marina full of pleasure craft? Keep looking.
The inventory of Belle Chasse Marine Craft was down river where Kenney owned sixteen acres of waterfront property, the principle inheritance from his father. It was located on the east side of the river and was neatly tended and enclosed on three sides by an eight-foot high chain link fence. On the highway side, behind the fence, was a twenty-foot wide strip of grass supporting leafy magnolia trees and spruce shrubs that pretty well hid the lot from the highway. It was not a terrific idea to hide the goodies from potential customers, but Kenney liked it, anyway. Gave the place a tone of class. Besides, most of the delta region was overgrown, anyway.
Inside the fence, except for several grassy islands also covered with foliage, there was about an acre of asphalt. The rest of the property was all nature’s fault, with cypress and moss prevalent. Almost dead center on the water frontage was a modular building housing marina operations and the sales force. One 40,000 square-foot steel building on the south side, abutting the river, contained the maintenance facilities. Two thirty-foot tall cranes and five floating finger piers lined a concrete pier along the riverfront. They were currently adding two more finger piers.
At the back quarter, around the maintenance building, cradled and trailered customer boats awaited attention. A section of the lot was laid out for customer and employee parking and long rows of new and used boats, mostly the smaller craft. The current range was from twenty-two to eighty-three feet. Trojan, Chris Craft, a couple superb Bertrams, Baja, Glastron, Reinell--a good selection ranging from 19,000 to 2.9 million dollars at retail.
Moored to the piers were the big girls. A 60-foot Hatteras motor yacht, an 83-foot Moonen motor yacht on consignment, two 70-foot Bertrams, a 44-foot Meridian sedan, and an Azimut 45-footer were among the thirty-one yachts. Kenney wasn’t much into sail boats, but there were half-a-dozen available.
Kenney felt fortunate to have them. When Katrina became imminent, Kenney and eight of his employees managed to move the Belle Chasse and fourteen of the larger craft, some in tow, north as far as Vicksburg. He might have moved more, but he sent his employees home to be with their families or to evacuate them. Kenney took one more yacht, though definitely not the last one, north before Katrina’s wrath was unleashed.
Katrina took the steel building, the modular building, most of the trees and the fencing, and sixty-seven boats. His insurance didn’t cover all of the losses, and today, his inventory was about 70% of what it had been.
The marina opened every day at seven, so he was late checking in. He fingered the stubble on his cheeks as he moved to his desk and sat down. Picked up the phone and hit the speed dial. Ignored the blinking red LED for the answering machine. Bert Chickman, marina manager and one of the six salesmen answered the phone.
“Me, Bert. All good?”
“All good, boss. Dickie’s pulling a Baja cuddy cabin out of the line with the tractor. He has a customer test run scheduled. We’ve got a flatbed semi loaded with four new Bayliners that came in last night. We’ll get ‘em off-loaded.”
“Okay, Bert. That’s great. I may be out of touch for awhile.” Kenney replaced the handset.
Again, he ignored the answering machine. It was hard to do. One never knew when a potential customer might have called. There were six messages on the machine, and he had listened to the sixth at the time it recorded. Letting the machine screen his messages.
“Mr. Kenney? This is Detective Pete Wiggins of the New Orleans Police Department. I know it’s seven-thirty and I’m calling your office, but I’m not sure where you live. I regret having to report to you that your former wife was killed last night. It’s important that we speak with you as soon as possible, so please call.”
Detective Pete left a phone number.
Kenney still felt sick to his stomach, as he had last night when he first heard the voicemail. He got up and walked aft, into the next cabin. In the galley, the coffee pot, which was on a timer, had completed percolating about six-thirty. Filling a big mug with steaming coffee, he carried it back to the office, then up the companionway to the second deck. The stairway rose into the wheelhouse which now also served as a lounge. Aft of the wheelhouse, cabins had been converted and now housed the bookkeeper and the accountant. They worked five-day weeks.
Kenney had lived aboard for two years before he and Debra married and moved into the apartment. He had moved back to the boat nine months before.
He shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it on the helmsman’s seat, and then settled onto the high captain’s seat. Sipped his coffee and watched traffic on the river. Freighter moving south. Tug with a string of barges headed in the opposite direction. Small tanker, probably processed gasoline, also headed north. Two idiots on a jet ski.
He didn’t have to wait too long, maybe twenty minutes. As he watched the shore side, the tourists were beginning to congregate in the park. Then he saw the unmarked, but unmistakable, Crown Victoria police car arrive and take a while to find a parking place. Two people got out. Small, fit-looking guy in a well-used gray flannel sport coat and a nice-looking blonde in a wrinkled linen suit. They both appeared tired, like maybe they’d been up all night, like maybe their tempers were getting short. They walked casually across the pier, hesitated at the gangway, probably wondering what the proper protocol for going aboard was, and then came on aboard uninvited.
Kenney sighed, and still holding his mug, slid off the chair and took the companionway down. They were standing at the glass door. He went over and opened it.
The two of them displayed credentials and gold badges in leather folders.
Kenney didn’t bother checking closely, but looked at the man. “What can I do for you, officer? “
Surprisingly, the woman led off. “Mr. Kenney, I'm Sergeant Mellor, and this is Detective Wiggins. We'd like to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure, why not? “ He already knew the questions. Husbands, and maybe especially ex-husbands, were always the first suspects. Or persons of interest in the latest lingo.
“Have a seat. Would you like coffee?”
The policewoman started to say no, but Wiggins beat her to the response. “That'd be all right. It's been a long night.”
“Cream or sugar?”
Black, they both said.
He went back to the gallery, refilled his mug and filled two more. Brought them back to the office and found the cops sitting in one of the conversational groupings. Both in chairs, leaving the sofa for him. The man—Wiggins?--was leafing through one of the folios. Kenney passed out the coffee mugs and sat down. The woman seemed to be examining his bedraggled appearance as well as the interior of the boat.
The sergeant said, “First, Mr. Kenney, I have to tell you that your wife--ex-wife, I guess--was discovered dead yesterday.”
Get the surprise in there. “Dead? What do you mean, dead? How? She's only forty-one for Christ's sake! “ Present tense. Hang on to it.
Both of the cops were watching him closely. “She was killed, Mr. Kenney. “
“Ah, shit. How? Who? Do you have somebody. . . . “ He let the question drag off. “Where? Where did it happen, I mean?”
“Sir, “ Wiggins said, “I left a message on your office machine last night. Didn’t you get it?”
“Message? No. I’ve been out all night, and just got in. Where was she? “
“In her apartment.” Wiggins said.
Their apartment, once. “When?”
“The coroner has not yet fixed the time of death,” Mellor said.
“Do you mind if I look at your answering machine?” Wiggins asked.
“What? Uh, no. It’s on the desk over there.”
Wiggins put his coffee mug on the table, got up, and went over to the desk. Pressed the play button and heard every message described as new by the machine. What he learned was that none of the voice mails had been played back. He looked at some of the documents and memorabilia hanging on the bulkhead behind the desk. When he returned to his seat, his face didn’t reveal what he thought about the voicemail. He picked up his mug and sipped.
No time of death by the Coroner’s Office. But on the voicemail Wiggins had said “last night “ meaning Thursday night. It had better be that way, or the very expensive Jacki was a total loss.
Wiggins asked, “How long had you been divorced?”
He studied his knee for a moment. “Nine weeks, I believe. But we separated nine months ago. “
“Reasons? “
A few. “Irreconcilable differences.”
“Amicable? “
“More or less. Maybe a little less.”
“Uh huh, “ Wiggins said. “So, you hadn't seen her in quite awhile?”
“We see each other every four or five weeks. I think, ah, August second was the last meeting.”
“What did you talk about?” Mellor asked.
“She still owns half of this business.”
Mellor's eyebrow went up. “She worked here?”
“No. Just collected dividend checks. She worked at Noble River Realty.”
“You own the other half of this business?”
“Yes.”
“And how much was her interest worth, you suppose?”
“I guess my accountant would say about a half million.”
Therein would be motive for the policewoman. Greed was always a motive, and few would understand Kenney's modest appetites. Or Debra’s drive for success for that matter. She wanted those dividend checks pretty badly in the last couple of months.
“I notice in the book there, “ Wiggins said, “that you have quite a few really large boats for sale. I’m not an expert, but some of those go for over a million dollars. “
“That’s right. “
“So wouldn’t the business be worth more? “
“It would be if we owned the boats outright. Almost all of them are floor planned, have loans against them. “
“Okay, understood. You paying alimony? “ Wiggins asked.
“No. She was getting about six thousand a month out of the business and out of her half of the apartment building. “
