Vieux Carrè Pillow Strangler

Sequel to Private Dick Hackney McTrite

INTRO

They were beautiful prostitutes. The murderer killed them softly. A pillow doesn't leave bruises. It did suffocate them. Strangely, though totally nude except for a hibiscus bloom placed on their pubic when discovered, none of the victims had been sexually molested. What mental sickness drove this killer to snuff the life out of these lovely midnight cowgirls? This provocative and delectable mystery begins in Paris where McTrite has escaped to avoid retribution from the New Orleans' Mob. His bank account has been stuffed with over one million dollars as a result of two lucky investigations. He's thinner, debonair and mindless. He doesn't know that Mob Boss Alphonse Infantino has been freed from prison and has offered Family members $300,000 for Hackney's head on a silver tray. He doesn't know that half the hoodlums in Europe are searching for him. The intrigue, will Hackney live to enjoy his newly acquired wealth, is woven throughout the narrative. The mystery will Hackney narrow the suspect list and stop the pillow strangler is mindful.

~ Prologue ~

Security at the visitor’s complex of the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary was rigorous. Irvin Bloomberg, Mob Boss Alphonse Infantino's defense attorney thought the complex reeked of degradation and oppression. Six prisoners were guarded one on one by guards transplanted from Alcatraz. A thick bulletproof glass partition separated the inmates from visitors. If a prisoner got contraband smuggled to him, it had to be via a guard.

Big Al looked healthy, but he’d served only months of a thirty-year sentence for conspiracy related to the death of Mrs. Sarah McTrite, wife of Private Investigator Hackney McTrite. His facial coloring was rosier, but a sourer expression you'd never find this side of hell. Working in the laundry had improved his health, not his demeanor. His face confronted a microphone connected to a headset wrapped around the immaculate black toupee donning Bloomberg’s egg shaped head. Without the wig it was as bald as a cue ball.

And certainly, the communication system connected to a prison monitor although this violated the rule of confidentiality between client and attorney. Surely, they were being careful about what they discussed knowing no one played fair these days. Bloomberg’s face wore one mammoth smile, which should have offered Big Al encouragement. "How goes it my friend?" Bloomberg said, feeling somewhat sympathetic.

"Just beautiful, baby. I'm having a wild party next Saturday with dames, champagne, hats, horns, and rattlers. You're invited if you can—come." Al’s sour expression turned to a rueful smile. Bloomberg’s plebeian smile was what you’d expect from a dirty older man.

"I've got some fabulous news—"

"Mrs. Estelle McHenry is pregnant with triplets?" Bloomberg’s smile blossomed like a sunflower.

Estelle was the name and disguise Hackney McTrite assumed to stalk Big Al. Actually, Estelle was the one who snapped the infidelity photographs in room 217 at the Clarion Hotel, which resulted in one stupendous divorce settlement for Al’s wife, Mrs. Lititia Infantino. To Big Al, the settlement was a pill the size of an ostrich egg.

"It's much better than that, Alphonse. Mrs. McTrite's alive. I'm getting you out of this depressing place. I've already presented a petition to the DA's Office requesting a retrial and your release for bail. I should spring you in a few days."

Al's face lit up like a Las Vegas neon sign. "I love it, love it, love it! I think I just wet my uniform. Who was the broad they cremated?"

"An old maid school teacher named Miss Irene Skelly. She bummed a ride with Mrs. McTrite, who motored to Biloxi Mississippi to visit her sister. Seems as though, amidst all the confusion, Mrs. McTrite’s handbag got switched with Miss Skelly's. At any rate, it gives us grounds for a retrial, and it's one horrendous embarrassment for the DA."

"That's fantastic, maaan. The perverts in here are driving me crazy. And the chow taste like buzzard puke. I’ve never eaten so many beans and sweet potatoes. The cell block at night sounds like the fourth of July and smells like a chicken coop." He grimaced. "I hate him! I hate him! I hate, Hackney Asshole!"

Bloomberg raised and exposed the palm of his right hand. "Cool it."

"Maaan! I’d give one thousand dollars for a slice of pizza. For a serving of spaghetti and meatballs, I'd kill. For a woman, I’d give a signed blank check. And I'm sick and tired of washing and ironing prison garb. Makes me feel like an old washwoman. Has McTrite been heard from?" As far as Al was concerned, PI Hackney McTrite was responsible for his incarceration.

"Not a chirp. He keeps a low profile. He's a smart cookie, Al."

"Yeah. You've got that right, Irv. Do you think he's Mrs. Estelle McHenry?"

"Let's not talk about that, Al."

"Sure."

~ The Big Easy, 1979 ~

Mrs. Sarah McTrite and Hackney’s pussycat, Madame Pompadour, returned to The Big Easy a few weeks after Big Al's imprisonment. She figured her profile was too high for any further harassment from the mob; it would serve no useful purpose, but she carried a .38-caliber pistol just in case...

Read Molly Martin's, author and prolific reviewer, review of this Mystery. Click

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