Murder in the Garden District (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries)

by Herren, Greg

  She rocked slowly in the chair.

  After Katrina, the whole focus had been on the levees around the lake and the canals that fed the lake. No one really talked about the whether the river levees would hold. The truth was, if the Katrina surge had come up the river instead of through the lake, the Mississippi would have overtopped its levees and destroyed the city in a completely different way—down in the lower ninth ward. That’s what had happened in 1965, during Hurricane Betsy.

  “A storm surge up the river wouldn’t make it this far,” I said.

  “So, there’s no reason for me to leave, other than creature comforts like air-conditioning. Now then, Mr. Chanse MacLeod, what did you want to talk to me about? I’ve never had a private eye want to grill me before. Please, tell me before I die of suspense.”

  “I’ve been hired by Cordelia Sheehan to look into her son’s death.”

  She held the glass to the side of her face and closed her eyes.

  “Ironically, that was the one possibility that never crossed my mind. I suppose it was inevitable, since I was one of the last people to see him alive that night. I’m surprised the police haven’t come sniffing around.”

  “You had dinner with Wendell at the Delacroix.”

  She opened her eyes.

  “You’re quite good. Yes, I had dinner with him that night. It was a mistake. I pride myself on my intelligence, and that was a stupid thing to do. But sometimes you can’t help picking at scabs.”

  “Whose idea was it?”

  “Wendell’s. He called me Monday afternoon. I was so shocked, I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t talked to him in almost five—no, seven years now. We didn’t part on the best of terms. He wanted to talk to me about something, but he wouldn’t say what on the phone. I figured he wanted help on his Senate campaign. I’d worked on both of his City Council campaigns, and his run for attorney general. The only one I didn’t work on was the campaign for mayor—and look how that turned out. I was curious, so I went. If I didn’t like his pitch, I’d say no and walk out.”

  “But it wasn’t about the campaign?”

  “Yes and no. That’s one thing about Wendell—he was unpredictable. Maybe that’s what attracted me to him in the first place. Don’t look surprised. You knew we had dinner together. Obviously you’ve done your homework. But that was ancient history. He wanted to talk about Alais.”

  This genuinely surprised me.

  “Alais? Were you close to her?”

  “Not really. She was always around during the campaigns. I thought she was a sweet little girl. I liked Grace too. We got along well.”

  “Did she know about you and Wendell?”

  “She knew Wendell was unfaithful, but did she know I was one of his women? We never talked about it. She didn’t strike me as a woman who would be friendly to a woman sleeping with her husband, but who knows?”

  “Why did Wendell want to talk to you about Alais?”

  “You know, I asked him that very question. Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Do you mind if I grub one?”

  She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, handed me one, lit her own, then passed the lighter to me.

  “It’s shocking how many people are outraged when I smoke in my own home and pollute their air.”

  She blew the smoke out.

  “Actually, I quit a couple of years ago,” I said. “But the last few days I’ve felt the need.”

  “It never goes away. That’s why ex-smokers are so self-righteous. Anyway, Wendell was worried about Alais. Apparently some boy she’d been seeing up at school was murdered. He wanted my opinion. I told him, ‘Talk to your wife.’ He said she was useless, all she wanted was to coddle the girl, let her mope around her room. He thought she needed to get on with her life. I told him, ‘Jesus Christ, Wendell, she’s a teenager and it’s only been a few months. She thinks her life is over. Give her time and she’ll snap out of it.’ He was an asshole. What did I ever see in him?”

  “That was all you two talked about?”

  “That was his opening gambit. He thought talking about his daughter’s problems would make me more sympathetic, make me feel sorry for him. That kind of thing used to work on me. But when he asked me to run his campaign, I told him, ‘No way in hell,’ and that was that. He wasn’t happy about it—he’s used to getting his way. All through dinner, he kept trying to convince me. In the seven years since we ended things, he hadn’t changed. He was still the same jackass.”

  “Was he going home when he left the Delacroix?”

  “That’s what he said. I don’t know if he did or not.”

  “Did he drink with dinner?”

  “Wendell always drank. I’d heard that he stopped after Grace died, but I didn’t believe it.”

  “Do you think he had a drinking problem?”

  “Kind of hard to tell in New Orleans, isn’t it?” She held up her glass. “I drink every day. Does that make me an alcoholic? Or am I just in denial?”

  “So why did your relationship with Wendell end?”

  “I got tired of being the other woman. I’m a feminist, Mr. MacLeod. I never wanted to get married. I never wanted children. I enjoy my life very much, and I didn’t want to become Mrs. Wendell Sheehan. I don’t need a man for anything other than—I almost said something unladylike. Maybe I’ve had enough to drink.”

  She put the glass down, and looked away from me.

  “So, you broke it off,” I said.

  “Wendell didn’t take rejection well. He got angry. He had a terrible temper. He kept it under control in public but not in private. I told him to get out, that if necessary, I’d get a restraining order.”

  “Did he ever hurt you physically?”

  “Wendell preferred emotional cruelty for his women. I don’t think he much liked the female sex. Not surprising, given that soulless bitch of a mother. I need another drink. Are you sure I can’t get you something?”

  “I could go for an Abita Light,” I said. The cigarette had dried my mouth.

  While Monica mixed her drink in the kitchen, my eyes wandered the room.

  There were books everywhere—two overflowing bookcases, covering the dining table behind the couch (with papers and a closed laptop), on every other possible surface in the room. Mozart now played on the excellent sound system.

  Monica handed me an ice-cold bottle of Abita Light, and returned to the rocker with her refresher. A cool sip eased my throat.

  “You mentioned that Wendell didn’t handle rejection well,” I said carefully. “How would he have reacted, in your opinion, if Grace had wanted a divorce?”

  “He would have gone crazy, absolutely bat-shit. But Grace didn’t want a divorce.”

  “I was told that the afternoon she died she saw a divorce lawyer.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Her brother.”

  “Kenny? You had me going there, for a moment. That miserable little toad wouldn’t know the truth if it punched him in the face.”

  “You know him?”

  “Oh, yes. He was always around the campaigns. If a dirty trick needed to be done, Kenny was your go-to guy. When Wendell was running for attorney general, one of his strongest opponents in the primary was a law-and-order D.A. from Shreveport. He had all the machines in north Louisiana backing him, and it was going to be a tough fight. Somehow Kenny found out that this district attorney liked to have private sessions with girls whenever he was in New Orleans. Kenny got to one of them, gave her some cocaine, and then had a buddy of his on the police force raid the room. In exchange for the whole thing going away, the D.A. agreed to drop out of the race and support Wendell.”

  “Do you think it’s possible Wendell killed Grace?”

  “I know for a fact it wasn’t. He was with me the night she died. I was here when he got the call that they’d found her body.”

  “Did you know Wendell paid Kenny five thousand dollars every month after Grace died? Kenny also claims Wendell released the t
rust Grace created for him.”

  “Oh, hell. Kenny was the one who called Wendell about Grace. Maybe Kenny killed her. Maybe Wendell paid him to do it. Anything was possible with those two. All I know for sure is that Kenny Musgrave is a liar. He would do anything for money.”

  “Thank you for your time, Ms. Davis.”

  “Monica, please. Is that all you wanted to know?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She looked disappointed.

  “What am I going to do to entertain myself the rest of the night?”

  Chapter Ten

  “Why the hell haven’t you two arrested Cordelia Sheehan?” I asked Venus and Blaine as Paige got back from the bar with our drinks.

  I was only half serious.

  The Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil” blared on the jukebox. Venus and Blaine exchanged glances.

  “There’s a lot of bullshit going on in the department with this investigation,” Venus replied. “I shouldn’t say anything about this, but I don’t fucking care anymore.”

  “Some of the evidence has been”—Blaine made air quotes with his fingers—“‘misplaced.’ We’re under investigation by Internal Affairs, because of course, it’s our fault.”

  “In other words, someone higher up decided to make sure Cordelia Sheehan never spends a day in jail—and we’re taking the fall for it.” Venus spat out the words.

  Both their faces were grim.

  “Twenty goddamn years I’ve been a cop here,” Venus fumed. “I did my job during Katrina when half the cops got out of town or looted or did god knows what. They needed me, so like a damned fool I stayed. I’ve never taken a bribe or a shortcut. And now this rich white bitch kills someone, and my career is destroyed because of it? I don’t need this shit. I put in for retirement this morning.”

  I stared at her in shock.

  The four of us were sitting at a scarred table in the Avenue Pub. The windows were open. The traffic on St. Charles had lessened. Two guys whose sleeveless shirts displayed meaty biceps covered in multicolor tattoos were playing pool. A couple of people sat at the bar, where the big screen TV hanging in a corner was tuned to the Weather Channel. Every so often I-10 West appeared on the screen, packed bumper-to-bumper with crawling cars.

  Paige leapt into the breach. “I’ll do a story—”

  “And publish it where?” Blaine challenged. “In Crescent City? Yeah, and the Sheehans will give it the cover.”

  “I can pitch it to the Times-Picayune,” she said.

  “They won’t run the story either, Paige. Cordelia Sheehan is too powerful,” Venus said. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m done.”

  I finally managed to say something.

  “What about you, Blaine? What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I’m pissed, but what am I going to do if I quit? I don’t want to live off David. He doesn’t like me being a cop any more than my parents do, and I know he’d be thrilled if I left the force. But I can’t not work. I’m not interested in being kept.”

  “I told you, go back to school and get your master’s,” Venus admonished him, toying with the ice in her empty cup. “You’re young enough to start a new career. It’s too late for me, but if I sell my house, with my pension I can get a condo in Memphis. It might be nice to watch my grandkids grow up, live closer to my girls. I thought about it after the flood. Now I kind of wish I’d done it then.”

  “You’re sure Cordelia did it?” I asked.

  I was having trouble wrapping my mind around the idea of a Venus-free police department. I didn’t like it one bit.

  “She fired the goddamn gun. We have a witness who saw her standing over the body with it moments after the victim was shot. If she were anyone else, she’d be sitting in a cell at Central Lockup right now. And her story? Holes, holes, holes. Of course by the time Blaine and I got there on Monday night, her lawyer was at her side.”

  Paige started making notes.

  “What evidence is missing? How crucial is it to the case?”

  “The crime scene photos are gone. Even the negatives,” Blaine said. “Lifted right off Venus’s desk. When we requested new copies, we found out that all copies—and the negatives—have vanished into the ether.”

  “But the district attorney’s office doesn’t need them to move forward,” Paige persisted. “Do they?”

  Venus’s eyes glinted. “Guess who got the case? Evan Cochrane.”

  Evan Cochrane had the worst track record of any prosecutor in the district attorney’s office. Rumor had it he kept his job solely due to the influence of someone at City Hall who was in the pocket of organized crime. Every defense attorney in New Orleans hoped they’d draw Cochrane, because he settled every case. I felt sorry for him when I read disparaging stories about him in the Times-Picayune or Gambit Weekly, but if I was ever charged with anything, I hoped he’d be my prosecutor.

  “I’d have thought the D.A. himself would take this one on,” I said.

  “The district attorney has to be elected,” Blaine sneered. “And no one in an elected office in Orleans Parish wants to take on the Sheehans.”

  “From day one, everything about this goddamn case has been off-kilter,” Venus snapped. “If you ask me, someone’s pulling strings and favors are being traded.” She looked at me. “The murder weapon’s also gone. At least whoever swiped our evidence left the fucking ballistics report. We may not have the gun anymore, but we know that it was the gun that shot Wendell Sheehan and also put a bullet into the floor. What have you turned up? Do you think she’s innocent?”

  I hesitated before answering her. Venus was, without question, the best detective on the force. Unlike the majority of her colleagues, she always kept an open mind. Once evidence against someone began to accumulate, most of them tended to stop looking at other suspects. As long as I had known Venus, she had never succumbed to that kind of laziness—but apparently her anger at all the hindrances to this investigation had closed her mind. I understood it. In her position, it would be hard not to be convinced of Cordelia’s guilt. And frankly, Cordelia was paying me to keep my mind open.

  “I’m not sure it was Cordelia who shot him,” I said carefully. “At the same time, her story stinks to high heaven, and I can’t believe a lawyer as savvy as Loren McKeithen allowed her to tell it to the cops. I don’t doubt there’s behind-the-scenes shenanigans going on, but I don’t think this case is as simple as it appears to be.”

  “So if she didn’t do it, who did?” Venus demanded. “Why would she pull all this shit—and ruin the careers of two good cops—if she wasn’t trying to cover her tracks?”

  “Did you interview Alais Sheehan?”

  “Not really,” Blaine answered. “She was pretty doped up that night. She said she never left her room, that she had her headphones on and didn’t hear anything. We’ve wanted to talk to her again when she isn’t zonked out on something, but she’s not available.”

  I knew I should tell them she was missing, but I was confident that Abby would track her down.

  “And Carey? The boy?”

  “Same thing. See no evil, hear no evil,” Venus said in disgust. “There was no one else in that house Monday night, Chanse. Open and shut.”

  She pushed back from the table and stood up. “Anyone need another drink?”

  Having no takers, she strode to the bar.

  “She’s not doing well,” Paige said.

  “I’m not doing so good myself,” Blaine said. He leaned forward. “The thing is…the crime scene photos going missing isn’t that big a deal—except for one thing. Both Cordelia and Janna Sheehan claim that Wendell came home only a few minutes before he was shot. That night the rain started around ten-thirty. He was shot at eleven-thirty. If he’d just gotten home, why was the pavement under his car dry? We got photos of it. Of course, now the photos are gone, and according to Cochrane, without them it’s just our word against theirs in court, and he doesn’t think our word is enough. He’s probably right.
No one in town trusts cops anyway, and she’s Cordelia Sheehan, patron saint of abused women.”

  Paige scribbled away in her pad.

  “Did you question Janna and Cordelia about it?”

  “We’d already questioned them when it was brought to our attention, and McKeithen wouldn’t let us near them again. But we didn’t ask you here to bitch about the Sheehan case. This afternoon, we—”

  My cell phone rang. Caller ID read JEPHTHA. I excused myself and walked outside to take the call.

  “What’s up, Jeph?”

  “Hey, Chanse, I got into Alais’s computer and broke the passwords. Abby’s out checking the charges on her credit cards. She’s been using a MasterCard pretty heavily—always in the Quarter. I haven’t found anything from hotels yet, but I haven’t finished looking. I wanted to let you know about her Myspace page.” He sounded excited.

  “What about it?”

  “Myspace has blog software as part of its service—you know, a web diary.”

  “I know what a blog is, Jeph,” I said, annoyed. “I read one of the entries. Someone deleted the rest of them. I told Abby to have you see if you could find them.”

  “That entry was posted after the purge,” he said smugly. “She backdated it. My guess is she wrote it off-line, and then posted it later. Around eleven o’clock that morning, someone purged all her blog entries. From what I can tell, she’d been keeping it for over a year. I’m about to start reconstructing them. I was just curious to know if you wanted me to do the whole thing, or to start someplace specific.”

  What had she written that someone felt the need to get rid of the morning after the murder? I flipped through my notepad.

  “Start with anything in the last two weeks, and then go back and see what you can find in the two-week period around June fourth, when Jerrell was killed. E-mail it all to me, then reconstruct the rest and give those entries to Abby to read. Tell her to let me know if she finds anything of interest.”