by Janet Dawson
I handed the phone back to Brenda. “What else can you tell me about Slade? Where is he from?”
“How would I know?” she shot back, irritated. “Why do you ask?”
“I just want to find out more about him.”
“So you can find Laurette and force her to come home to Mother?”
“I’m not going to force Laurette to do anything. I just want to know that she’s all right. That’s all her parents want.”
Brenda took a sip of her coffee. From the look on her face, I guessed she was deciding whether to throw me a crumb. “I don’t have any idea where Slade is from. Passing through, like a lot of musicians in this town. Some of them stay, some of them move on.”
It was time to call Brenda on her bullshit. “Do you know a guitar player named Troy?”
She shrugged. “I know a few guitar players.”
“He knows you, or says he does. In fact, he says the two of you used to date. Last night he told me you cooked up the meeting between Slade and Laurette. That makes me think you knew Slade before. Which version is true?”
Brenda set the coffee cup on the table and narrowed her eyes at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I may have met this guy Troy at some club or another, but the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Funny, I don’t believe you. I think you knew Slade before you introduced him to Laurette. And I think you know where they are.”
She pushed back her chair and stood up. “I don’t have to listen to this. Besides, I’m going to be late for my appointment. Thanks for the coffee,” she added, with a mild tone that didn’t match the poisonous look in her eyes.
I watched her go. She knew more than she was saying, I was sure of it. Again, I wondered if she was the woman who’d argued with Slade outside the apartment building.
I got up from the table and put the two coffee cups into a bin near the counter. Leaving the Bean Gallery, I walked half a block to the street where I’d left my rental car. As I slid into the driver’s seat, my phone rang. It was Antoine.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Near a coffeehouse called the Bean Gallery. I just had a meeting with Brenda Kohl and it left me with a lot of questions. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”
“Can you come over to my office right now?” Antoine’s voice sounded subdued. “I had a conversation this morning with my fire department buddy. That apartment fire is more complicated than we thought. Somebody died.”
Chapter Nine
The shotgun house supposedly got its name because one could fire a shotgun through the front door of such a house and bird shot would fly out the back door without hitting any walls. I don’t know the veracity of that story, but the long narrow houses were common all over New Orleans.
Antoine’s house was one of them. It was located on North Villere Street, just a couple of blocks off Esplanade Avenue. The exterior had been painted a sunny yellow with white trim. Like many of the shotguns I’d seen in the city, the house and its small front stoop jutted all the way to the edge of the sidewalk. Antoine sat on the stoop next to a pot of red geraniums, a mug of coffee in his hand.
He stood up to greet me. “Come on in. I just made a fresh pot.”
The classic shotgun single, like the one Antoine owned, was one room wide. What had been the living room was now Antoine’s office. The bedroom in the middle of the house now served as living and sleeping space, with a bed tucked into one corner and opposite this, a comfortable-looking recliner angled in front of a wide-screen TV on a stand. Through an open door I glimpsed the bathroom. Another door, closed, presumably led to a closet. Antoine led the way through the middle room to the kitchen at the back of the house, near a door that led out to a small backyard. Antoine took a mug from a hook on the wall and filled it with coffee. He handed it to me and I took a sip. Good and strong. He motioned to the kitchen table. With its retro yellow Formica top, I wondered if he’d found it in a vintage store, or more likely in a relative’s storage shed. We sat down on the yellow vinyl-covered chairs that went with the table.
“Tell me about the fire in Slade’s apartment—and the fatality.”
Antoine nodded. “My friend at the fire department says when the firefighters put out the fire, they found a body. A man, later identified as Ray Brixton. The autopsy says smoke inhalation probably got him first.”
I gave an involuntary shudder. Death by fire is an awful way to go. “Was the fire an accident? Or deliberately set?”
“They haven’t made that call yet,” Antoine said. “Or they’re not saying. The building was old, a double shotgun house that had been carved up into four units. Could be some problem with the electrical wiring, just like Troy said last night. Although Pat Doucette, the woman who owns the building, told the investigators that everything was up to code. I’ve known her for years, so I’m inclined to believe her. The place was empty and she was doing some touch-ups and repairs before renting it again. There were cans of paint and paint thinner in the place.”
“Those things are highly flammable.” I took another sip of coffee. “Say it was something with the wiring. A spark from the wiring ignites the paint? Or say it’s arson. The paint could have been used as an accelerant. Who was the victim? Do we have any more information other than the name?”
“Ray Brixton was another musician,” Antoine said. “We do have a lot of those in this town. At first the investigators thought he might be squatting in the apartment, since it was empty at the time of the fire. But when they identified the body, they found out Brixton had a place of his own in the Marigny. I tracked down the obit in the Times-Pic. And a picture.”
He handed me a couple of printouts. Ray Brixton was twenty-five years old and a guitarist, according to the obit. The photo Antoine had found showed that he had blond hair to go with a wispy mustache and a goatee. In the picture, he was playing at a club on Bourbon Street, the establishment’s name on the wall above the bandstand.
“What was Brixton doing in Slade’s old apartment? How did he get in? Did he force the lock, come through a window?”
“Good questions. Nobody knows.” Antoine got up and poured himself another mugful of coffee. He rejoined me at the table. “He could have broken in. They couldn’t tell if the door had been forced or a window broken, because the fire took care of that. But why would this guy be there?”
“Unless he’s the one who set the fire,” I said. “And got caught before he could get out.”
“It’s possible. But why would he do that? And here’s a completely different theory. Brixton’s got a sister named Cindy. She’s been telling anyone who will listen that her brother was murdered. By Slade.”
I stared at him. “That puts a different spin on things. We know Laurette’s parents don’t like Slade. Neither does Bert, the apartment manager. But Laurette’s neighbor Norma and her friend Brenda both seem to think Slade is a nice guy. Last night Troy said he was self-centered and hard to live with. But murder? If Cindy Brixton is accusing Slade of killing her brother, that could be the reason Slade and Laurette suddenly decided to leave town.”
“I’m with you there. It’s suspicious.”
“We need to talk with Cindy. I wonder what she looks like. Remember, Norma Santini said Slade had been confronted by a tall skinny woman with blond hair. It looks like Ray was blond. Maybe the mystery woman is his sister. However, Brenda Kohl is tall and has blond hair.”
“Skinny?” Antoine asked.
“I wouldn’t call her that.”
“Could be either of them. I got a phone number for Cindy Brixton from my fire department pal, but she’s not answering calls or responding to my message. I located an address for her. We’ll just have go over to where she lives, to see if we can catch her at home. I can’t do that till later today. Tell me what you found out from Brenda Kohl.”
I gave him an overview of my conversation with Laurette’s coworker. “I’d like to find out where Slade is from originally or even just before he came
to New Orleans. It’s possible he’s gone back to wherever that is, and taken Laurette with him.”
“Agreed.” Antoine nodded. “Most musicians in this town have other gigs. Daisy works in an admin job over at Tulane and sings at night. So in order to rent that apartment from Pat Doucette—”
“He had to fill out an application,” I finished. “I’ll go over and talk with her when we’re done here.”
“Which is right about now.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got some things I need to do on a case. I’ll text you later.”
Chapter Ten
Marais Street was narrow and potholed, with cars parked at the curbs on both sides. Shotgun singles and doubles crowded the lots, sitting close together, along with a scattering of two-story houses, some of them looking as though they’d been converted to apartment buildings.
I located Doucette Properties in a storefront office near an intersection. The plate glass window was decorated with pasteboard signs and photographs showing apartments and houses available for rent. A woman was seated behind a desk, gesturing as she talked on the phone. When she saw me, she waved, as though to let me know she would be with me soon. A moment later, she ended the call and stood up, stepping from the desk through the doorway. She was tall and shapely, her hair in long cornrows decorated with colorful beads. Her fingernails were a vibrant purple, and a lavender scarf set off her beige knit top. She smiled, assuming I was a prospective renter.
“Are you Patrice Doucette?” I asked.
“Yes, I am. Are you looking for a place to live? We have a number of apartments available.”
“It’s about the fire in one of your units here on Marais Street, back in March.”
Now her brown eyes flashed. “Are you from the insurance company? Because if you are, I have been going round and round with you people. And I’m tired of it.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m not from the insurance company.” I handed her one of my business cards.
She examined the card and looked up. “Oakland, California? Girl, you are way off your home turf.”
“I’m doing a favor for a friend.”
She still looked skeptical. “Even so, why should I talk to you?”
“Because Antoine Lasalle is helping me with my investigation.”
Her face relaxed. “Oh, Antoine. We grew up together, right here in the Treme. We may even be cousins, somewhere down the line.”
“I get the impression New Orleans is a small town, no matter what the population figures say.”
“You got that right. How do you know Antoine?”
“We met a few years ago at a convention.”
“Now, who knew private investigators had conventions.” She laughed. “Call me Pat. My mother’s the only one calls me Patrice. How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for information on a guy who calls himself Slade. I understand he rented the apartment from you and moved out some time before the fire.”
Pat’s cheerful expression turned into a thundercloud of fury. “That son of a bitch. Moved out indeed. I evicted his sorry ass. He wasn’t paying the rent. Owed me two months before I had him served with the five-day notice, which he ignored. So I took him to court. It took weeks and cost me a bunch of money. By then he was four months in arrears. And I never got any money from him, that’s for damn sure.”
That put the lie to what Slade had told Laurette. His story was that he’d been forced to move because the property owner wanted the unit for a relative. All the better to persuade her to let him move into her apartment. “He stiffs you for the rent. And then the fire.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he torched the place to get back at me,” Pat said.
The possibility of arson had been hovering in my mind ever since I’d heard about the fire. “You’re sure it was Slade?”
She gave me a look. “Who else would it be? The place went up in smoke less than two weeks after he left. What do you think?”
“You’ve got a point,” I conceded. “I can see his torching the apartment as retaliation for you evicting him. But where does Ray Brixton, the dead guy, fit in?”
“Beats the hell out of me. I understand he was a musician. Maybe he came along to help torch the apartment.”
It was a plausible theory, I thought. If it weren’t for the claims made by the dead man’s sister. “I understand that the victim’s sister says her brother was murdered. By Slade.”
Pat frowned and fingered a strand of her beaded hair. “Good Lord, I didn’t know that. I just know they found that man’s body in that apartment after they put out the fire. The investigators haven’t told me anything other than that. Murder? I wouldn’t put it past Slade.”
The phone rang in her office. Pat beckoned to me to follow as she moved through the doorway to her desk. She answered the phone and sat down in her desk chair. I took a seat in a chair in front of the desk, listening as Pat fielded questions about a two-bedroom rental she was offering on North Rocheblave Street. She set up an afternoon appointment to show the unit to the prospective renters, then she hung up the phone and pointed to a coffee mug on the desk. “I have a pot of coffee in the back room. You want some?”
“No, thanks. I’m coffee’d out for now. Tell me about Slade.”
Pat sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Where do I start?”
“The beginning. When you rented him the apartment. How long ago was that?”
“Last fall, October. I had a bad feeling about him, from the start. I should have gone with my gut. My gut steers me right every time. But the apartment had been empty for a while, and he was interested in renting it, so I went ahead. Then I wound up with this mess on my hands.”
“Why did you have a bad feeling?”
She thought about it for a moment. “His attitude. He’s one of those people who acts like the world owes him something. Oh, he hit all the check marks on his application. He had a job, a work history, a bank account. On paper, he looked like a good bet.”
“May I see the application?”
“Oh, sure.” She swiveled in her chair and pulled out a drawer in one of the filing cabinets. She leafed through the tabs on the manila folders. Then she pulled out one, turning back toward me. She handed over the file folder and I opened it, examining the rental application. Here, finally, was Slade’s full name—Eric Charles Slade. Calling himself Slade wasn’t far off the mark. For identification, he’d provided a Texas driver’s license, with a date of birth that told me he was twenty-seven years old, and an address in Austin.
At the time he’d filled out the form, Slade had been employed as a stocker at a warehouse here in New Orleans. Pat assured me she’d verified his employment status and his salary, which wasn’t much. Evidently he’d been supplementing his income by playing gigs. Or, as was more likely for a musician, the day job was something he took so he could supplement what he really wanted to do, which was playing guitar. His previous job, in Austin, was similar, working in another warehouse. According to the form, he’d held that position for five months. Before that, he’d spent two years working as a carpet installer for a flooring warehouse in Concord, California. Was he from California?
Austin. The Texas capital was a music hub, just like New Orleans. There was nothing unusual about a guitarist leaving the Lone Star State to try his luck in the Big Easy. But Brenda Kohl, Laurette’s coworker, and Troy, the fellow guitarist who’d lived briefly with Slade, had both said that Slade didn’t have an accent that readily identified his origins. Troy theorized that Slade was from somewhere out west. Austin was certainly west of New Orleans, but if Slade was from Texas, I would have expected a hint of a Texas twang in the way he talked. Was Austin just another way station on Slade’s journey? And had he decided to go back, taking Laurette with him?
“He told me he was new in town,” Pat said. “And I didn’t think anything about that. At least not at the time. His income wasn’t that great, but he told me he was making money playing gigs. I try to be fair with musicians. T
hey’re all over New Orleans, and they’re in and out. I rent to a lot of them in this part of town, because it’s close to the Quarter and Frenchmen Street. We lost plenty of housing during and after Katrina, and rents went up. I keep my rents reasonable, and I try to give people the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes that backfires on me, like it did with Slade.”
She paused, then went on. “About that job, when he stopped paying rent and I called that place, they told me he’d quit his job. I wonder if he got fired.”
“I’ll check it out. The bank, too.” Slade had listed an account at a local bank. If he’d left town for good, he’d probably cleaned it out.
At the bottom of the application form was an entry asking for an emergency contact. The name Slade had given was Millicent Patchett, with a phone number in the 925 area code. That was in California, the East Bay, and it encompassed most of Contra Costa County as well as the eastern part of Alameda County. Concord, where Slade had worked before moving to Austin, was in Contra Costa County. It appeared Slade was from California, or at least he’d lived there for a while. Did that mean he was on his way back to the Golden State, with Laurette in tow?
The other papers in the folder were related to the eviction proceedings. There was a copy of the five-day notice and the court filings. I glanced at them, but it was the information on the application that was most useful to me. I could follow up with the employer, and the former address and employer in Austin would be helpful as well. “May I have a copy of this form?”
“Sure.” Pat took the form from me and stood up, crossing the office to a small copier on a table in the corner. She made the copy and handed it to me, then put the original application back in the folder. “I hope that helps. I hadn’t really thought much about that man who died. I honestly thought he could have been the one who set the fire. I have been focused on my battles with the insurance company and dealing with all that property damage.”
