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  Love Power

  A Crescent City

  New Orleans Mystery

  Martha Reed

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Love Power (A Crescent City New Orleans Mystery, #1)

  Dedication | To my dad, Samuel Clarke Reed III | and | My dear friend and editor, Ramona DeFelice Long

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  About the Author

  LOVE POWER

  A Crescent City New Orleans Mystery

  Copyright © 2020 by Martha Reed

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, now known or hereinafter invented without the prior express written consent of the author unless such use is allowed under federal copyright law or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, dialogue, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Trademarked names may appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9985648-5-2

  First Buccaneer edition

  Published October 2020

  Cover art by Karen Phillips – www.phillipscovers.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my dad, Samuel Clarke Reed III

  and

  My dear friend and editor, Ramona DeFelice Long

  Chapter One

  “Girl, you’re in early again.” Calvin Johnson, Jr. swung the channeled vinyl chair sideways using his scuffed heels. “I already told you. They don’t pay no extra for overtime.”

  “Anything up?” Jane scanned the ten grainy security monitors and checked the console clock. Guardian Self Storage, Thursday, December 1, 2016, 9:45 p.m. Home of 480 climate-controlled units, three soundproofed music studios and forty-two seasonally parked RVs on Level Six.

  “Cams seven and eight keep cutting out for no damn reason I can see. Must be something electric.” Shaking his gray shoulder-length dreadlocks, Cal squinted. “And the exit bubble cam went pure dead again.”

  “Add it to the maintenance log.”

  “Already did. And Sonny Rickard stopped by, complaining about the stink on Level Three again. I checked it; man’s right. It do smell like something died in the walls.” Rising stiffly, Cal slipped into his jacket. “Couldn’t ID the unit it come from. You give it a try, young blood, next go round. Your nose is better than mine. Oh, and I almost forgot. You still looking for a new room, new place to stay?” Cal extended a yellow Post It note with a trembling hand. “Spoke to a fella knows of one for rent in The Bywater. Said the landlord’s name is Ken Pascoe. Check it out. Might save you a few bucks.”

  Ken Pascoe? Jane grasped the note. Why does that name sound familiar? She tried pushing her brain to trace the connection. The vague hint toyed with her battle-scarred memory, flicked out of reach and was gone. “He keeps a storage locker?”

  “This Ken fella? Not that I know of.” Cal shrugged. “Every time I seen him he rents one of them music studios. Pays cash, too. Strangest thing. Never seen him carry an instrument. Never heard him play a single note.”

  “What’s he doing renting a music studio?”

  “Hee-hee-hee. Ain’t my job to ask why a man wants to rent one. My job is to make sure he pays for it. Maybe he’s hiding out from a girlfriend or his wife?” Checking his wristwatch, Cal fumbled his money clip, which fell to the floor.

  Stooping, Jane fingered the cash. “Nice wad, Cal. Where d’you get this? Hit the numbers?”

  “Gotta go!” He slipped the money into his pocket. “Can’t miss my bus. Marva is waiting up. It’s date night. See ya tomorrow.”

  Tucking the address away, Jane returned to the console. Straight up ten o’clock. Time for my tour. Every hour, on the hour, she patrolled the darkened corridors of Guardian’s six floors, swiping a security fob at each entry point keypad and double-checking the fire doors to make sure the facility stayed secure. It didn’t spook Jane that she worked alone until Christophe arrived at eleven. She preferred the solitude. And yes, it’s mindless exercise. At least I’m getting my steps in. She poked the fob into her doughy midsection. I need to back off on the beer. I’m getting soft.

  As she strolled past each padlocked and gated door, the overhead florescent tube lighting buzzed into brilliant life, illuminating the dim corridor ahead before fading into darkness as she passed. Only her steady slapping footsteps disturbed the vibrating white noise OM from the industrial air conditioning. Jane caught the squealing protest of rubber tires against a concrete curb. That’s odd. Opening Level Three’s fire door, she spotted the winking brake lights of a panel van heading down the exit ramp. Cal didn’t say anyone was still in the building. She shrugged. A little late for someone to be visiting their unit, but hell that is what they pay for. Secure 24/7 access.

  As soon as the fire door slammed shut, her nostrils started twitching. Cal’s right. It does smell like something died in here. Sniffing repeatedly, Jane rubbed her nose as she tried to run down which unit housed the coppery stink. Fucking over-sensitivity. Dr. Wacky said this might happen. I feel like a goddamn bloodhound nowadays. The best she could do was to winnow it down to three possible units as her eyes watered and itched. Fuck it. Clutching the fob in her fingers, Jane pushed on to Level Four. Let senior management figure it out. It’s their pay grade, not mine.

  There it is again. She owned the bitter negativity that stopped her in her tracks. I hate feeling like this, what
’s the word? Petty? What does this say about my petty life? She forced her shoulders down as her ragged fingernails dug halfmoon craters into her palms. Four years in and it’s not getting better, it’s getting worse. I still feel hollow and fake, like I’m putting one foot in front of the other like a zombie. What is it going to take to finally get over this shit and to feel normal again?

  Her chin hit her chest. That particular worry was so worn out it repeated itself like a skip on a warped vinyl record. She recalled the parting advice from her PTSD therapist Dr. Walkoviak. Of course, permanent change is hard. Start by taking baby steps. Take one baby step every day. Eventually they’ll add up to real results. Poking her puffy gut, Jane scoffed. Baby steps, my ass. Here’s my answer: Suck it up, buttercup and hit the stairs. That’s something I can do now, something active. Let’s make my next baby step fitting back into my jeans!

  Slamming the door’s exit bar, she raced up the next three flights of steps, taking them two at a time until her knees buckled and her pounding heartbeat drilled her ears. At Level Six, Jane bent over, sucking in great whoops of air like a drowning sailor. That’s it! I’m going to do this three times every hour instead of once. Baby steps, my ass. I need to get ready.

  Chapter Two

  Thumbing the Ducati’s kill switch, Jane let the bike roll to a stop beneath the decrepit shed tacked onto her new quarters. 7:18 a.m., and she didn’t want the sound of the powerful motorcycle waking the main house. For once, it had skipped the tropical monsoon overnight squall. The rutted driveway was drying out. She noted that the patchy gravel under her tires sounded remarkably like the scratching sound a vinyl record made for a loop or two after the needle dropped before the music began.

  Raising both arms, Jane stretched. Damn. I feel good for a change. The rising sun’s warming blush colored the horizon through the bare treetops, her shift at Guardian was done, and she had a skin full of cheap dollar draft beer. Life is good. She was becoming such an after hours’ regular at The Double Deuce Lounge that Adele had even started saving her a corner seat at the bar and feeding her a free breakfast before she headed home. Jane contentedly patted her belly. Never thought I’d be eating white beans and rice for breakfast, but hey, you know what? I’m starting to crave the stuff.

  Looping a finger under the pot metal chain around her neck, she pulled out the new house key she wore like a dog tag. The lock on her apartment door was stiff. She had already learned to lean her right shoulder into the door while lifting the knob slightly as she turned the key. The things we do that make a place our home. The deadbolt responded easily once she’d learned the trick of it.

  Yesterday morning she had called the number Cal gave her first thing, stopping by after work to see the apartment. It wasn’t much, but in NOLA’s trendy The Bywater district it was all she could afford. She had feared from the sketchy over the phone description that it might be even worse. On first inspection, half dollar sized plaster flakes had littered the pine floor like fallen dogwood petals, but at least the red brick walls looked dry. Jane was still getting used to the fact that New Orleans was always damp.

  Leslie Pascoe, her new landlady, had flicked the light switch next to the door. Leslie was a wiry, petite, middle-aged woman who looked like she knew what working hard really meant. She had deeply dark brown eyes, almost black, and her wavy ebony hair was shot through with plenty of silvery threads which she wore in a braid down her back.

  Two table lamps had flickered on, throwing sharp triangular shadows against the ceiling. The condenser on an unseen refrigerator had coughed and started to rattle.

  “It’s small, but it’s solid.” Leslie crossed the worn floorboards of the single room. “Used to serve as the kitchen for the Big House.” She turned. “No air conditioning back then. Had to keep the heat away from the bedrooms.” She laughed easily. “And if the stovepipe caught fire, you didn’t burn the whole place up.”

  Jane surreptitiously dried her palms against her uniform. “Is fire a concern?”

  “No, honey.” She laughed again. “We got everything rewired properly when we refinanced. In NOLA, you only need to worry about pestilence and the plumbing. It’s because all of the water has no place else to go.”

  “I heard about Hurricane Katrina from a friend of mine who used to live here.”

  “That bitch Katrina damn near murdered us.” Leslie ran her finger over a windowsill before delicately dusting her fingers. “Luckily, Bywater missed most of it. We’re three feet above sea level.” Moving to the rear wall, she pushed a simple dotted curtain aside. “This here’s the galley kitchen. The appliances are oldies but goodies, just like me. Plenty of counter space plus there’s extra storage in the pantry. You’ll need to visit the coin laundry to do your washing. I wanted to put a washer in but our sewer line won’t take it. The bedroom and the bath’s upstairs.”

  “Leslie? Where y’at?”

  Jane flinched at the gravelly male voice growling from the garden.

  “We’re in the kitchen, Ken, honey. Come on through.”

  A craggy, weather-beaten man blocked the sunlight streaming through the doorway. He was stocky, below average height, about five foot eight, Jane estimated with dark curly hair, thick lips and a pronounced chin. He was wearing an un-tucked Hawaiian shirt loosely over faded jeans. At first glance, she thought he might be packing, but then Jane decided that he was only trying to hide the extra thirty pounds he carried around his waist. Resting his hairy forearms against the brick doorway, he leaned in. “This our new tenant?”

  “We’re still working that out. Jane, meet my husband, Ken.”

  Straightening, Ken extended his right hand. It looked as wide as a cranberry bog rake with an oddly flat splayed thumb that almost looked like a fifth finger.

  “Jane, was it? Nice to meet you. Ken Pascoe.”

  An imaginary yellow flare fired off in Jane’s mind as soon as he said his name. There it is again. Why does his name keep pinging me? Was he involved in a criminal investigation I studied? Yet again, she couldn’t immediately pin it down. Her overstrained brain simply refused to process one more thing. She had met so many strangers lately and she had heard so many new names that she had learned to simply file some things away for a private rehash later. She firmly gripped Ken’s hand. “Jane Byrne.”

  He cocked his strange thumb at the courtyard. “That Ducati Monster parked outside yours? You must be some serious kinda bad ass. Had an ’82 Harley Sportster, gloss blue, back in the day.” He sighed. “Loved that iron-head. Still miss it. How much did that Ducati set you back?”

  “Six grand, cash. Bought it used.”

  Leslie quickly crossed her corded arms. “Don’t get any fresh ideas, Ken. That was way, way back in the day, old man. Those evil days are in the past where they need to stay.”

  “Leave me be, woman.” Ken scowled, scratching his chin. “Jane? You look ex-military to me or like a cop, maybe. What exactly do you do?”

  She steeled herself to meet his eyes. “Private security. Work for Guardian. Night shift, ten p.m. to six a.m.”

  “Guardian Self Storage?” Ken looked surprised. “That outfit on Canal Street?”

  “I’ve checked Jane’s references,” Leslie inserted quickly. “They couldn’t say enough nice things about her.”

  “Good to know,” Jane admitted.

  “You carry a gun?”

  “At Guardian? No. And I don’t have a carry permit for one, either. They issue duty batons and tasers. I won’t be bringing those home. We need to check them in and out every shift. Issued security weapons stay on-site in a secured locker.”

  “And all of that is fine by me,” Leslie stated decidedly. “Guns have no place near my home. You hear of too many accidents and tragedies.”

  Ken cocked his head. “Where you from, originally?”

  “Boston.” Jane caught herself. “East Coast. Up and down the East Coast mostly.”

  “Thought so. Leslie? Remember Brian Exton? Played bass for the Tin Foil Puppets?
He had that same accent she has. Used those same long ‘ah’s.”

  “I do remember Brian. Thought the same thing myself when I first met her.”

  “What brought you to NOLA?”

  “Gravity, mostly.” Jane swallowed the bitter lie that stuck in her throat. “Kept heading downhill.” She joked uneasily. “Went through a nasty divorce. Starting over now from scratch.” She stared out the multi-paned window. “I don’t really like talking about it.”

  “Well then, honey, NOLA is the right place for you.” Leslie pulled a key ring from her pocket. “We’re home for anyone who can’t find a home anyplace else.”

  “Hold up a second.” Raising his hand, Ken studied Jane carefully. “You like throwing wild parties? Having group sex?”

  “Stop it, Ken!” Leslie slapped his bicep. “What kind of a question is that? Ignore him, Jane, when he gets like this. I do.” Pursing her lips, she thoughtfully removed one key from the ring. “We don’t really care what you do as long as you don’t do it here. My Aunt Babette lives with us in the Big House on the third floor. She’s seventy-four -”

  “That woman sees damn near everything from her perch up there -”

  Leslie winced. “And we’re not looking for any hullabaloo.”

  “Don’t speak for me, woman.” Ken roguishly waggled his eyebrows. “I’m still looking for hullabaloo.”

  “Too bad. You don’t get to vote.”

  “No worries,” Jane inserted quickly. “I’m pretty quiet and I work nights, like I said. Sleep during the day. Pretty much keep to myself. Shouldn’t be an issue.”

  “You a vampire?” Ken asked.

  “Sometimes it feels like it,” Jane admitted.

  “One last thing.” Leslie tapped her lips. “We want to keep this easy; we won’t ask you to sign a lease. Eight hundred a month and we’ll do a month-to-month tenancy with 30 days’ notice on both sides. That seems fair, doesn’t it? And you’ll need to pay me the rent in cash. I don’t take personal checks or money orders. I like keeping things simple.”

  Tapping the side of his broad nose, Ken winked. “No need to tell Uncle Sam everything, right? Those bastards in Washington bleed us white enough as it is.”