Dead Redheads: Angel Blondeaux, #3

By E.J. Findorff

When New Orleans FBI Agent Angel Blondeaux is called to investigate the ritualistic murder of six young woman, she is plunged into a world of darkness and mystery. As she delves deeper into the case, she realizes that this isn't just one twisted killer with a sinister motive - the conspiracy goes much deeper.

 

As the body count rises, Angel finds herself falling for the next victim, a beautiful and enigmatic woman named Sonja. But can she protect her from the dangers that lurk in the shadows, or will she be the next victim of the killer's twisted rituals?

 

Can Angel navigate through the treacherous waters of the occult without becoming one of the victims she's trying to save?With twists and turns at every corner, this gripping mystery will keep you on the edge of your seat

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.J. Findorff
• Release date: Jan 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781953602138

Book preview

1

APRIL 15TH, EARLY MORNING

Agent Angel Blondeaux crossed the threshold unaccompanied, taking steps as if evidence might be underfoot. The distant chatter of cops outside seemed to gain flight high up in the warehouse rafters. Only three fluorescent lights illuminated the scene from two stories above, allowing odd shadows to fall. She smelled sulfur, incense, and air pockets of rot. 

Six gutted females lay in a circular pattern on the concrete floor under a star drawn in yellow chalk. However, one unoccupied spot left the circle incomplete. Angel’s flashlight showcased their young faces. She glanced around the vacant area as if the seventh victim might’ve crawled into a corner. 

Within this pattern, their legs stretched toward the center; feet spread apart, creating the inner circle. Each point of the star represented a victim. Their limbs emulated beams of sunlight while touching each other’s pinky toes to the left and right. Arms struck outward, so their hands could almost meet in the same manner, much like a kirigami chain of paper girls. If Angel had to guess by their exposed bodies, these females were barely of legal age.

Directly at the center of the seven-pointed star was a bucket filled with the remnants one might find in a butcher’s garbage can. Each point of this star fell between the ankles of the women, leading right up to their lady parts, all except for the seventh point, which had an empty space.

Had that female escaped?

Each victim had suffered a deep laceration across their stomach like a C-Section gone wrong. In addition, there was a single stab wound over their hearts. Angel took a shallow breath of the repugnant air, letting her mind wrap around the scene.

Angel’s handler Donald Lester had called her in the middle of a deep sleep, asking if she would consult with the NOPD as she often had. But this time the request came specifically from Agent Beasley, the man who only identified himself as a line item on the FBI budget sheet.

A pen and a pad kept notes about the scene. When a shadow appeared at Angel’s feet, it quickly grew to match her own. She was glad to notice it, or she might’ve pissed herself when he spoke. 

What cop I’m about to fire let you in here? Ramsey asked with volume. "I go to my car for a minute, and you appear?"

Angel smiled at him. Gotta clean up your mess again.

They fell into a short but warm embrace. Then, she asked, Mercier didn’t tell you I’d been recruited?

Nope. Glad to see you, though. I assume you looked around?

Just at the arrangement here. Wait, you’re Vice. Are you helping out Homicide again?

I transferred. I’m Homicide, now.

Congrats.

"Yeah, we’re still short on manpower or woman power. He-she-power, I don’t know what to say anymore. Ramsey waved his hand at the entrance. CSU is on their way. So, what do you think?" 

What do I think? she exhaled. Horrible way to die – that’s what I think. She finished writing a thought about the missing woman. So, what we got – six dead females? She circled them. "This has Dateline all over it."

Obviously, some kind of occult ritual was going on.

Angel made several discontented expressions. These girls are all so young. Sacrifices?

Like virgins? Examiner might can tell us.

Nothing like this ever happened before in New Orleans, or I would have heard about it.

Ramsey looked around. You can get the Bureau to inquire about other states. VICAP?

I will. They made no effort to discard the bodies like they don’t care if we learn their identities.

That was nice of the occultists. Ramsey continued on the perimeter. Doesn’t look like the garden variety Voodoo ritual. I don’t see chicken feet. What do you make of the space?

Angel stood just outside of the empty point of the star. The girl that occupied this spot could be the focus of the ritual. Maybe they let her live, or they didn’t have the seventh woman, or this was the spot for a man – I don’t know. We need to put names to these faces and find the common link. Plus, find out what that seven-pointed star represents.

And find out who owns this abandoned building that still has power. Maybe there’ll be a print on the circuit box. Ramsey gazed up like the roof might collapse.

Angel continued to write when her concentration broke. 

Oooh-weee. A booming voice vibrated through the warehouse. Dr. George Irons trudged his way through. Detective Ramsey fresh from Vice, now on Homicide. Finally caught a good one. 

The Scientific Criminal Investigation Division team seemed to walk over in slow motion. The only thing missing was funky background music.

Ramsey made introductions. That’s Dr. George Irons from the Crime Scene Unit. This is Julie Tilton from the Trace Unit and Shane from the Photography Unit.

We’ve crossed paths. You guys ride in the mystery van together? Angel asked.

Don’t you dare call me Thelma, Julie said as she pushed her glasses back up. 

Mystery van? I drive an Escalade. Dr. George had no idea it had been a joke.

This is amazing stuff. Shane instinctively snapped pictures as his tall, lanky body crept around the circle of deceased with the enthusiasm of an artist.

Blondeaux and I are going to search the rest of the building while you guys do your thing.

Dr. George snapped his gloves as he put them on. Watch this guy Agent Blondeaux. He’s a dog. Remember, I have a black light.

Ramsey folded his arms. By the time my swimmers got processed, I’ll be a senior citizen.

Low blow, Ramsey. George motioned for them to leave.

Ramsey and Angel disappeared into the barren hallway with sporadic lighting. She envisioned rats darting around. The space would make a perfect haunted house for Halloween.

That was a good jab, Angel said. But, it’s frustrating for everyone.

It would be nice when our evidence doesn’t have to go to Baton Rouge or Jefferson Parish, and we get our results in enough time to actually convict these assholes.

Angel patted his shoulder. Conviction only leads to an early release.

Always the voice of sarcasm. He smiled. Let’s catch up. What’ve you been up to these past few months?

This and that.

"This and that makes for easy paperwork. He turned serious. I heard they set a date for your father’s execution next year."

She lowered her voice. The whole process is wonky. He shouldn’t be on death row. He won’t appeal. He wants to die.

They stopped and faced each other. You have about a year, right? Maybe something will change. Talk to the governor.

That asshole? Angel started walking again.

And your biological father?

He’s gotten worse. He’s a hermit and doesn’t want to see me… or anyone. So I’ve stopped going back to Moreau Parish.

Sorry.

I know the answer to this, but I’ll ask anyway. You and Ruby still dating? 

He kept pace, searching for anything out of the ordinary. Yep. There’s something about a strong black woman that can handle this strong black man.

Told you so. I should run a dating service.

Four months strong now. What about you? Back with Maggie yet?

That’s so complicated.

The hallway ended. They came to a staircase with a busted door. Ramsey’s torch scanned the graffiti-ridden wall. This place is nothing but hallways, bathrooms, and that warehouse. Let’s do a quick once around upstairs and then get back.

Angel and Ramsey arrived back at the crime scene to witness the CSU busy bees in action. Official photographs of the women’s faces were taken, all young and pretty in a plain way. Their hands and feet were bagged. Julie organized evidence bags, and Dr. George had one of the bodies on its side to let Shane take a picture of a specific spot.

What’s that? Angel asked, trying to focus. A tattoo?

Of the sun. George waited a moment for her to concentrate on it before setting the victim back into her original position. They all have tattoos on the small of their backs. The blonde has curly lines, which is probably the wind. The brunette there has wavy lines, probably water – all occult symbols. I’ll have the shots emailed to Ramsey.

Ever run across those tattoos on a dead body before? Angel asked.

"Nope. I’ve never seen this kind of ritual before. It is a full moon, though."

Ramsey looked at Angel. "It really is a full moon tonight. Interesting, but probably makes sense in the ritual world. I’ve been told that the time of the ritual is crucial."

Who told you that? Cleo? George questioned. Gotta be a freak to date her.

We never dated. We just hung out a while back. Ramsey shook his head. I can have female friends, he protested.

George rolled his eyes. Well, if Cleo said it, then it must be true.

I’ll run this through VICAP to see if anything matches. Anything else? Angel asked.

We’re going to be here a while. George moved purposely. We’ll send them to the coroner’s office, and you guys can start identification during normal hours. Go get a couple of hours of sleep.

Angel moved to the side at Ramsey’s urging. I’m going to organize some of the uniforms outside to circle around local businesses to see if any had cameras. We can come back here to the scene after CSU is done later this morning.

George heard their conversation. "Take your time. I’m going to be knee-deep for the rest of the morning. You know how backed up we always are already. Can you imagine when this hits the fan?"

Angel glanced at the center of the star. George, do you guys know what’s in the bucket there?

Yeah, it’s their uteruses. It was probably meant as an offering.

Angel wrote a quick note. Social media is going to blow up. Can’t suppress it forever.

George smirked. "Don’t worry, these aren’t drug dealing bangers; the autopsies on these girls will happen first thing this morning. I can hear the mayor now."

For the first time, Angel yawned. Ramsey, you should have a quick word with Channel 5 out there. Make sure they film all the gawkers. Remember how we matched up Eddie Fellows?

Do I remember? His head tilted.

Stupid question. See y’all at Headquarters in a few.

Angel briskly walked out of the stink of death and into the night. We have multiple dead females, and no comment was all she gave to Channel 5 after a reporter had sniffed her out.

2

APRIL 15TH, EARLY MORNING

Angel hadn’t returned home from the crime scene. Instead, Maggie Nakano, the widowed wife of the Blindfold Killer, pushed a steaming cup of coffee Angel’s way.

Maggie and Angel were the only ones in the high-end French Quarter strip club that ever drank it. As a bartender, Maggie no longer wore The Alpha Bar tee-shirt of her previous employer. Now, she sported a Chippendales-like tuxedo, complete with a bow tie. 

So, now you have to figure out who the seventh girl is, Maggie concluded. She was half Caucasian and half Japanese with a pink wig that had a ponytail sticking out from the top of her head. It helped with tips.

Angel poured a little milk and sugar into her cup and stirred. The seventh female is one of many things in this case.

I had a guy in here last night. He recognized me from the news even with the glasses and wig.

Caused trouble? Angel sipped her brew. I haven’t shot anyone in a while. Where is he?

No. The bouncer kindly instructed him not to bother me.

Good. The NOPD and the FBI worked very hard at keeping me out of the press.

You have six dead girls to investigate, and you stopped in here? Maggie waited for her reply.

Angel yawned. I need to clear my head. Once again, I’m with Ramsey trying to find a killer. You okay with me talking about it?

You can’t treat me like fine china forever.

She exhaled. Six dead girls. It was just a lot at once. So glad you’re working tonight. Ramsey asked about you.

Beneath his crap, he’s a nice guy. You have a big day today. Maggie opened two dripping beers for a near-naked waitress.

I wanted to see you before I go home to shower. Friends do that. Her eyes rolled. Or our version of that.

I know. Talking’s good. She drank some water.

"Talking is good."

A dark glow shadowed the main room. Men drank and waved money at naked women who could believably seduce a blender. One of the waitresses gravitated close, a perfectly proportioned platinum blonde with silky pale skin. Angel had she’d seen her before but couldn’t place the face.

When did that waitress get hired? Angel asked.

Sometime this week, I think.

Angel watched her solicit the patrons in an obvious wig, moving smooth and rhythmic as if she lived her life to a music soundtrack. Angel froze when she came near again as if the woman mentally commanded it.

Her attention never wavered as the dancer slipped between tables and between knees. A light crossed her face, and she noticed Angel, and then again with a second glance. Her faux hair swept across her exposed back like a mane of feathers when she twirled away.

I know her from somewhere. What’s her name? Angel asked loud, above the music.

Velvet – she was hired as a waitress. No dance experience. And if you try to convince her to give you a lap dance, you better have at least a hundo.

"I’m not going to ask her for a dance. Her real name. Last name."

One of the ladies told me it’s something-Fitzpatrick.

"Something Fitzpatrick." Angel shook her head and drank the coffee in tiny sips with her pinky extended. She cocked her eyebrow. 

Maggie smiled wide. You like her.

I don’t like her, Maggie. It’s my training.

I’m tired of being your excuse. You say you’re bi-curious, right? Find out if you like other women and stop using our relationship as a measuring stick.

"She’s attractive, but it’s not interest in that way. I know her from somewhere, but I can’t place her yet."

You probably saw her in the Quarter in plain clothes. No wig. Ask her for coffee.

I won’t do that. Angel gave back an empty cup. I’ve never asked a woman out before. You and me just happened, like fate.

Maggie leaned on her elbows. Let’s say that you started dating her.

Angel moved forward to match Maggie’s position. Okay, I’m dating her.

Would you be okay with her doing this job if things got serious?

That’s like asking what I’d do if I won the lottery.

Maggie turned serious. I’ll tell you how that would go. First, you’ll date, and this will be okay for a while until she’s promoted from waitress to dancer. Then, you’ll get jealous. Then, you’ll cry on my shoulder, and I’ll be there for you.

Great imagination.

"You know the game. All these girls fuck in the Champagne Room, or they don’t go in that room. For six hundred dollars, these creeps expect a happy ending. Don’t know any of these women who just dance and leave."

I should report that Champaign Room.

Good thing most cops know what’s going on.

Angel rotated on her stool to find the nameless Fitzpatrick again. The waitress asked an older gentleman if he wanted a refill of his drink, and he nodded with a dismissing smile.

At the right of the stage, two middle-aged oddballs stood by the wall dressed alike in white shirts and dark, skinny ties. They looked like door-to-door religious nuts. They weren’t drinking or participating in any way other than staring down Miss Fitzpatrick as she headed for the other bar near the main stage. 

Hey Maggie, what does your radar tell you about those two?

She squinted. Well, if I were a cop, I’d say they were casing the place or stalking a dancer, but in my experience working here, I’d say they are two lonely freaks from the Bible-belt in a strip club for the first time. Give them five minutes before they need some napkins to clean up.

Angel laughed at her joke while watching them engage in a short conversation. Maggie was wrong about the napkins as they headed for the exit but probably right about them being first-timers. 

While Maggie went to the storeroom, something Fitzpatrick appeared from backstage again and headed straight for Angel. The waitress placed a folded note in Angel’s hand, then walked away without uttering a single word. She opened the note to find a Quarter address with the time of 6 p.m.

Maggie wanted Angel to meet this waitress. Did Fitzpatrick flirt with everyone like that? Angel envisioned throwing the unknown woman on her shoulder like a firefighter and carrying her out of this men’s club. In the one minute of knowing her last name, she decided this shouldn’t be something Fitzpatrick’s career.

3

APRIL 15TH, MORNING

Roll call for the uniformed officers had yet to begin at Headquarters. CSU would be busy with processing evidence for a while. In the quietness before the shift change, Angel carefully examined laser copies of the victim’s faces that Shane, the photographer, had emailed. Besides local missing person files, the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, or VICAP, also had a more extensive database.

Angel procured the white murder board in the conference room that she liked to utilize when she helped the department. It usually listed gang hierarchies or bad doodles. The board had a list of lunch places at the moment. She erased everything, then drew a seven-pointed star and jotted down notes, facts, and ideas with different colored erasable markers. Several cups of coffee gave her jittery hands, so she switched to Big Red gum.

Two hours had vanished when Ramsey dragged in with bags under his eyes but still wearing the same clothes. He noticed the big board and smiled. Memories.

I had to check in downstairs. She held up the lanyard.

That’s the rule. Oh, Gail says hi.

Is Ruby jealous I’m working another case with you?

Shit, she’s glad it’s not her.

Angel leaned back in a cushioned chair and perused a printout of information she found on the Internet, waiting for Ramsey to get his bearings. She woke up her laptop, which came to life with a parade scene from Mardi Gras as the wallpaper.

Donuts aren’t here yet? Ramsey looked through the window’s blinds at the coffee station and sighed. All right, I’m ready. He scooted his chair next to Angel. What’s that?

Info on our seven-pointed star. Angel spun the laptop to face him, indicating a line of copy. It can be called a heptagram, septagram, or septegram with a different spelling, and finally septogram with an O.

"Let’s stick with septagram."

I found a lot of stuff saying how it’s occult oriented. It’s also referred to as a fairy star. Remember the tattoos? The seven points represent the sea, magic, the forest, the sun, the wind, spirit, and can you guess the one we don’t have? I tapped a few keys.

The Moon, right? Ramsey got up for a better angle on her monitor, which now had six digital jpegs of the women’s tattoos side by side. "So, I need you to say that I’m lead. Repeat after me. Ramsey, you are the lead on this."

Ramsey, you are the lead on this, but this is how I assist.

He shook his head. I know all too well. So, the moon…?

The moon is the missing link. Angel pointed at the board. The women are pinned up on the parts of the star where we found them with their corresponding tattoos.

So, this might be a cult that worships the moon instead of Satan?

Or both, and it’s probably some fertility ritual with the uterus thing. Angel shivered for effect. "I googled moon worshippers and got a billion entries, so that didn’t help. I’m willing to bet these guys are arrogant enough to have a website, but it’s hidden within hundreds of other moon worshipping cults."

Don’t forget the Dark Web. We should put someone on Internet duty. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and they’ll brag about it, or at the very least, other cults will blog about it.

We need an expert. Angel patted his shoulder. If it was porn, you’d be all over it.

I’m not about other people’s sex – just my own. He brushed imaginary lint off his shoulders. We could always ask my friend Cleo.

Her name seems to fit.

Ramsey sifted through the lasers. Ideas on how these women are linked?

I thought their names would magically appear on the big board. That’s not how it works?

"Maybe on Law and Order. Ramsey attempted the show’s trademark sound before inspecting the board. Jesus, Blondeaux. How long have you been here?" 

Got in just before five. Angel rocked her chair back and rubbed her eyes, creating sparks in her line of sight. She then massaged her scalp. Check the reports from your officers’ canvass. See what they got.

Welcome back, Angel. Captain Mercier peered into the room, glancing at the big board for a second.

Thanks, Captain.

He nodded and then continued into his office with a blazer draped over his shoulder. Captain Mercier was in his late fifties with a decent physic that had gotten soft under a cheap suit. His afro had hints of gray and was kept very short.

Through the glass window of his office, they watched him read a sticky note and make a call, bending at the waist to write as he talked. Mercier finally put down the cell and came back to the conference room, commandeering a seat at the head of the table. This board has to be Angel’s work.

Ramsey chuckled. Like she wants lead again.

This killer isn’t calling you like the other one, right?

Angel checked her phone. Nope.

Mercier admired the collection of information. I have a press conference set for noon today to squash the speculation that’s sure to come. What have we got so far?

You’re going to talk to the press instead of the superintendent? Ramsey asked.

That’s why I brought a jacket. But he’s going to be there to get his face on camera. I’m downplaying your involvement, Angel. The last thing you and Ramsey need while investigating this is a swarm of press following you. I don’t need Entertainment Tonight outside my station asking if any of the girls had a connection with Kim Kardashian.

That’s an angle to look into, Angel said.

A voice projected from the doorway. Give the press their names. I don’t want there to be any confusion about my case, Captain. The Orleans Parish District Attorney Clamencia Garcia appeared, a tall Latina woman with a Vogue wardrobe. She had a politician’s smile but only showed it when being smug.

Mercier turned to her. "And I don’t want the press to interfere with my investigation."

Miss Garcia rested her backside against the doorjamb. The press will find out their names anyway. Just do it.

Why are you even here this early in the investigation? Mercier asked.

I need to make sure everything is done by the book. There’s no going cowboy here. She looked at both Angel and Ramsey. "When this goes to trial, it has to be air-tight. Six dead white girls? Jesus, do I have to tell you what kind of shit-storm