Agent of S.T.A.L.K. in New Orleans

"Andy Delaflote?" the hot chick asked, too hot to be a cop.

"Yeah," he replied in a weak voice.

"Detective Novarro. This is my associate, Mr. Mercer. We have a few questions. May we come in?"

"I thought the French Quarter police were done with me?"

"Policemen never run out of questions," she said sweetly.

And she edged him aside walking into the house, the big cop only an inch or two behind. He didn't utter a word or offer to shake hands. Not good. Delaflote felt afraid in his own home, well, his aunt's house. He stammered, "What kind of questions?"

To his relief, the chick said, "About Enrique and the girl with him the night of the murder. Especially the girl. What's her name?"

"Alisa Dwyer."

"You claimed Alisa morphed into a totally different person right in front of you."

"Yeah, but the cops, uh, police weren't interested."

"Mr. Mercer and I are interested. Tell us about her and don't spare any of the details."

He rambled on and she prodded him back on track several times with probing questions, the big man with her silent but menacing, as if waiting to pounce on any lie. When Delaflote got to the part about riding up on his bike and seeing Alisa getting into a white Firebird with two men he repeated the same yarn he'd told the French Quarter cops. "I saw them from half a block away, it was about 11:30 at night, dark and they didn't see me. You're not going to believe what happened next, the other officers didn't."

She smiled, shrugged and said gently, "Try me and see, Andy."

"Well, uh, all of a sudden Alisa started shaking and flinging her hair around and shit, uh, stuff. I thought she might be O.D.ing or having a heart attack or something. Then, before my own two eyes, she just transformed from one person into another."

"How so, Andy?" the woman asked.

"Changed like in a horror movie, transformed. The transformation made her taller, her tits, I mean her bust, got bigger and her hair grew longer and switched color even. Alisa became a totally different girl, not a brunette anymore. It scared the hell out of me."

The hot female cop just nodded like she understood, nothing out of the ordinary, but Delaflote detected a distinct new attitude in the big man behind her, one of intense interest. He spoke for the first time in a voice so suspicious he didn't recognize his British accent right away.

He asked, "What color did her hair change to, Andy?"

Delaflote swallowed, his eyes darted back to the girl, who motioned for him to answer. "Red, sir, Alisa turned into some red-haired gal."

He noted the two cops exchange a glance among themselves. The lady cop appeared doubtful, but the man seemed certain, without any doubt. Did the woman think he lied? Did the man know about the camera? Was it all leading up to that?

The male cop asked him pointedly, "Did Alisa talk or say anything during this so-called transformation, anything you heard?"

He shook his head and the big man's voice got harsh.

"That's not what you told the parish police. You said Alisa referred to herself by a different name."

"Yeah, right, I forgot," he stuttered.

The Latina cop noticed his unease and placed a friendly hand on his forearm. "It's okay to forget," she said like a mother comforting a child. "We understand how traumatic the murder of a friend can be. Take some time to refresh your memory."

"But don't take too much time," growled the man. "Who did Alisa identify herself as after she'd changed?"

Delaflote swallowed again, terrified, positive that guilt showed on his face, positive they wouldn't buy his lies. The man crossed his arms with a show of impatience and regarded him like a bug on the sidewalk he planned to squash under the sole of his shoe. Fuck 'em, Delaflote told himself in a stubborn upsurge of courage, he'd stick to his story, jail or no jail.

"Like I reported to the other policemen a few days ago, she called herself Stephanie."

"Stephanie what, any last name?"

"If I remember correctly Stephanie Mercer."

The olive skin tone of the lady cop's face went white; she shot her partner a dirty look.

He ignored it and asked, "You say all of this happened outside, the girl changing and then calling herself by another name?"

"Yeah!"

"You'd best keep a civil tongue in your head, young man," warned the big cop. He stepped toward Delaflote, his arms uncrossed now and his hands bunched into fists.

The Latin girl tugged at his sleeve to prevent him taking another forward step. They glared at each other and, to Delaflote's surprise, the man stopped. She asked, "Can you tell us more about this Alisa girl, and her relationship with the victim?"

He kept an eye on the frowning man as he answered her. "What can I say? They hooked up and she moved into Enrique's studio with him. They started living together."

"When did they meet, and where?" she asked calmly, but not as calm as she'd been before, her face still a bit pale.

"They met about two weeks ago. At a nightclub."

The man interjected, "Which one?"

Glancing at her partner the Latina chick said sternly, "I'll ask the questions, okay?" She turned to Delaflote, but asked the same thing the male cop had.

"A rave club called the Skin & Blister."

"And it's located where?"

Under the man's watchful hawk-like eyes, Delaflote answered, "Just outside the Quarter on Tchoupitoulas." He informed them he knew how to get there, but not the exact street number.

The lady cop started to ask another question, but the big man cut her off. "I know where it is, lieutenant. It's one of the places I told you about earlier. Don't you recall? We were driving by the airport when I mentioned it."

"Oh, that's right," she said brightly, "I remember now."

Their last bit of conversation sounded odd to Delaflote, the woman acted like she didn't know where to find Tchoupitoulas Street. Every New Orleans cop knew its whereabouts, even the cop with the British accent. He thought that odd too, as well as the fact the woman didn't talk like a Louisiana native, but was too petrified to quiz them about it. He didn't want to piss them off asking questions.

The female lieutenant said to Delaflote, "How long did Alisa stay with Enrique before the night of the murder?"

"I'd guess less than a week."

The man spoke again. "Were you well acquainted with her?"

"Not too well, I only met her once before my friend was murdered."

The Latina cop said, "Do you think she killed him?"

Now the hard questions had begun, thought Delaflote, be super careful how you respond to them. "If she did, I didn't see it go down. For all I know the two guys may have offed him. She and they left Enrique's apartment before I got there." He needed to repeat the same tale he spun for the other cops. "I knocked after seeing them leave and Enrique didn't answer so I went home and tried him the next morning. I've told the other cops all this."

"Tell us again," the male detective muttered. "What happened the next day?"

"I got worried, something didn't feel right, so I went back over there. When I tried the door, it was open and I went inside. I found him dead."

"Why didn't you try the door the previous night, didn't something feel wrong then?"

"Give me a break, officer. I'd been drinking the night before, by morning I was sober, thinking more clearly."

The lady asked, "Describe the crime scene. What did you see when you went inside the victim's apartment?"

No need to lie about anything except what time he discovered the corpse, Delaflote told the whole truth, with additional exceptions like boosting Enrique's video camera and where Alisa transformed into Stephanie.

Again the man badgered him. "Why would the girl shack up with the victim and then all of a sudden kill him days later?"

"How would I know? Like I said, maybe one of the men put those two holes in Enrique's neck."

"That doesn't make sense. According to you, the girl was the one who morphed into another person, not one of the men." He said to the Latina, "He's lying, at best he's omitting details."

She replied, "Andy didn't witness the murder."

"He's not telling us everything about Alisa."

"Man, I told you that bitch lived with him for about a week before he died. Who can say why she picked that night to off him? Maybe it was because of the two other dudes. I just don't know! I'm innocent!"

"No one said you weren't, Andy," responded the woman. "But why would she wait, why not kill him the first night if she intended to kill him all along?"

"I'm not a fucking mindreader," he groaned in exasperation, "and I didn't see what happened. I only met her once!"

The man moved forward and shoved Delaflote against the living room wall. "Enrique was a photographer, so are you. Which one of you shot the videotape?"

Delaflote freaked, nearly swallowed his tongue. "What videotape?"

To his surprise the Latina cop echoed his exact same words. The dirty look she'd given her partner before was nothing compared to the one she gave him now. If looks could kill the big cop would be on his aunt's living room rug as dead as Enrique. But Delaflote didn't have more than a second to dwell on that before the man grabbed him by the front of his Pantera T-shirt, his fist poised to punch him in the face.

"Don't make me ask a second time, you scussbucket!"

Delaflote knew the jig was up. With tears in his eyes and trembling voice he confessed, "I didn't shoot it, Enrique did. The murder was recorded on the video, by accident I think. I admit I stole the video camera from his apartment, but that's all. I didn't do anything else."

The two cops shouted at the same time: "Where's the tape, Andy?"

"It's gone. It got stolen, the night of the murder."

Both cops roared again, talking over each other, but the Latina made herself heard and assumed control of the conversation. She unclenched the big cop's fist from Delaflote's T-shirt finger by finger while asking, "You removed videotaped evidence linking a killer to a murder from a crime scene? What fucking possessed you to do that, you idiot?"

"I got scared, I was drunk, I wasn't thinking clearly," he blubbered.

"Evidence tampering is a felony punishable by years in prison, you fool."

"I'm such a loser," Delaflote wept openly. "I got to Enrique's apartment a few minutes after he was murdered that night and went inside, not the next day like I said originally. I stole his videocam because I accidentally stepped into the frame when I discovered his body, I didn't know it was still filming."

The big man growled, "Have you watched the video?"

Delaflote nodded in misery. "Yes," he croaked.

"Quit feeling sorry for yourself and tell me what's on it."

"It starts out with Enrique's girlfriend Alisa having sex on a couch with two men."

"Is Enrique one of them?" inquired the Latina.

"No, the dudes I saw her get into the Firebird with."

"Did Enrique walk in and catch them in the act?" she asked.

"No. He was in the same room just not in the frame."

"Was he angry, was there a confrontation?"

He shook his head at the memory. "You can actually hear him on the tape urging the three of them on. Like a movie director."

"So the sex wasn't the motive for killing him?" the lady cop said.

"Not at all. He was videoing the scene and adjusting the video camera angle, zooming in for close-ups, panning back. He also took still photos, I could hear his Nikon clicking away, he changed rolls of film at least twice. The New Orleans Police Department had to take those rolls away from the crime scene as evidence. Surely you two know that?"

This time the man did the talking. "Never mind what we know," he barked at him. "How long does the sex scene continue before Alisa bites Enrique?"

"Quite a while, for most of the tape."

"Then what?"

"After they had sex the two men leave the frame to get dressed. Alisa talks to them in the background while the video camera keeps shooting a static shot of the empty couch. I could hear Enrique messing with his Nikon. He starts talking to Alisa and they got into a loud argument before she chases him into the frame. That's when she kills him. Afterwards is when she transforms into the other girl. Then there's another long static shot of his body on the couch before I came into the apartment."

"How long does the whole tape run?" the big dude asked him.

"Almost an hour."

The man's eyes darkened at that bit of news.

The woman asked, "Why'd you steal video camera in the first place? Why not leave it and immediately call 911 for the police?"

"I've been in trouble with the local cops before, I thought they'd lock me up. I stole the camera not knowing a murder was on the tape. I was going to turn it over to the police department the next day."

"Going to? Where's the videotape now?" The Latina said, "I want it."

"I don't have it anymore."

"Bullshit," she yelled. "What did you do with it?"

"The night Enrique got killed someone broke into my apartment and stole the tape out of the videocam."

"Who?"

"I don't know, some old guy. He woke me up jimmying the door of my apartment. At first I was afraid it was the police, I watched him from behind my bedroom door, he shined a flashlight on the videocam in the living room. I thought he was going to steal the whole camera setup but he didn't, just fiddled around with it, ejected the tape and left."

When Delaflote said that, the Latina went nuts. This time the big cop had to chill her out or she would've kicked his ass into the New Year. They started arguing among themselves again. Delaflote felt a tangible tension between the two cops, but didn't know what was up between them, something sexual for sure. They obviously knew each other off the job. Who could fault the dude? The little Latin bitch rocked.

"He's lying," she shouted at the other cop. Then she whirled to face Delaflote and grabbed his shirtfront, "I want that goddamn tape. Now!"

Delaflote sniveled in terror. Surely he'd get the fuck pounded out of him before they dragged him off to the cop shop. He wished his aunt would come in from work and stop all this, but she wasn't due home for another hour. To his astonishment the big cop stopped the enraged Latina.

"He may be lying," said her partner, "but not about the videotape."

Delaflote protested, "I am not lying!"

"The tape exists," the man told her. "I've seen it, or a portion of it anyway."

"What?" she yelled.

"Relax, we'll discuss it in private later. Right now I want to find out more about the thief."

He turned an evil eye on Delaflote, who volunteered, "I took three pictures of him as he walked through the parking lot of my apartment, but I don't know who he is. That's why I moved over here to my aunt's, I was scared shitless."

The Latina snarled in disbelief, "You've got fucking pictures of everything, fat boy: murderers, thieves." She still looked hot even when on the verge of tearing his throat out. "I suppose those pictures got stolen, misplaced or disappeared into thin air too?"

"No, I still have them. I developed the film and they're in the bedroom, the photos."

Now the male cop got excited again, "Let's take a look at them then."

They went into his aunt's guest room and he showed the prints to the cops. The female cop asked sarcastically, "And how did you manage to take these pictures, just happen to have a camera lying around?"

"As a matter of fact I did. I'd hired a model to shoot a layout at my place the same evening Enrique died. The camera was still in the living room when the thief broke in, I'm surprised he didn't steal it. It's valuable."

The woman picked his story apart. "You claimed you got drunk on the night of the murder. Doesn't sound like something a professional photographer would do while shooting a layout."

Delaflote attempted to sidestep her accusation, but had no ready comment. Her partner saved him when he glanced up from examining the pictures.

"He wasn't too drunk to shoot these photos, lieutenant. In this one you can see a good profile of the thief's face."

Delaflote said, "When the old guy left with the videotape I saw my camera on the coffee table where I'd left it. It still had film in it, so I snatched it up and snapped those pics before he vanished from sight."

"How convenient," the Latin chick sniffed, still sarcastic.

"How fortuitous rather," the other cop said to her, again studying the trio of photographs. "I know who this bastard is."

~~~~~~~~~~

They left a nervous and worried Delaflote at his aunt's house with orders not to leave town, but Mercer confiscated the photographs of the thief and demanded the negatives of the entire roll of film. When Mercer asked if he'd taken any photos of Alisa Dwyer, Delaflote said he'd taken a shot of her the night he met her. Mercer didn't even have to ask for it, the young man handed it over to him without a word. Once Nova and he got into the rent car she launched into a tirade against him.

"You lied to me, Clive, you knew about that video before you set foot on a plane in London. You knew Stephanie killed my brother all along." That comprised her opening statement but there was more, much more.

When she wound down, Mercer explained, "I did what I did to spare your feelings in case things didn't pan out, they still haven't. I wasn't sure Stephanie was involved, I'm still not."

"Sure you're not! You've got videotaped proof. I was bound to find that out sooner or later, what the fuck were you planning to say then?"

"What I'm going to say now, I'm sorry."

"That does a fat fucking lot of good," Nova said, tears streaming down her face. She jerked the car savagely around a corner.

"Take it easy, Nova. I'm here and I'm here to help you."

"Help me, my ass! You're here to help yourself. I thought you flew back to America to comfort me in my time of need." She sobbed so heavily she couldn't speak and pulled the car over onto the shoulder of the highway.

After a while Mercer ventured gently: "We've had this conversation already at the airport."

Nova dug through the pockets of her frockcoat and found a tissue. She took off her glasses and dried her eyes, blew her nose. Then she sneered at him. "How can I forget? You tried to bullshit me with the moneyed tentacles of S.T.A.L.K. and 'other evidence' the New Orleans cops didn't have. But you didn't want to get my hopes up because it might be unsubstantiated. How much more substantial can a videotape get?"

"In this day and age those things can be faked with technology."

"Riiight! Then you took the next flight for New Orleans to check out a fake lead about your daughter." She eased the car back into traffic, adding: "You could care less about the death of my brother. And me."

"That's not true, Nova, you know better."

"Do I? As soon as you accomplished your mission in Los Angeles back in October you hauled ass straight to Prague," she spat, "To do what, paperwork? I gave you every opportunity to stay with me. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see how high I am on your list of priorities."

"You have no idea how high on my list you are."

She blew a raspberry and stared at the highway, refusing to look at him. They rode in silence for two or three minutes.

Mercer said sadly, "I guess my niece never told you then."

"Told me what? Molly's gotten one lousy email from you since you left. All you did was thank her for the presents she bought you in L.A."

"I asked her to say hello to you for me," he said, eyes downcast. He should have told her about the tape as soon as he landed. Why hadn't he; was he afraid of his feelings toward Nova; hoping she still felt the same way as when he'd left? Not a day had gone by without her cropping up in his thoughts. Now he'd buggered things up but good!

"I read the email, Clive. It said: P.S. Give my regards to Nova," she snorted, still not meeting his eyes. "Regards, not give my best, give my love, but give my regards. Like I was a child, or the family dog."