by Greg Herren
When Frank returned, I got him up to speed on both the car accident and Remy.
“The police impounded the car?”
I nodded. “And it worries me that Venus asked about Colin. I mean, I cleaned the back of the car pretty thoroughly, but there’s no telling what they might find if they’re looking for something. What if they connect the car to the body?”
“Before Loren came over I looked around online to see if there was anything more about that body,” he replied. “Nothing. There’s not even enough information out there to know whether or not it’s the same body.”
“What are the odds?” I replied. My headache was getting worse and my muscles were starting to tighten up. “It has to be Bestuzhev that they found. And if the accident wasn’t an accident…” I didn’t finish the sentence. I stood up and stretched, aching muscles screaming in agony. “You’re sure Taylor’s all right?”
“As good as can be expected.” Frank put his arms around me and hugged me. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
I hugged him back. “It’s good that Loren has hired us. What did I miss?”
“We aren’t allowed to discuss anything with Taylor,” Frank shook his head, “or even ask him questions. The news about the witnesses at the bar was good, he thought, and of course Chloe’s murder with a similar weapon is also a plus. God, listen to me. You’d think I’m happy that woman was murdered.”
“I’m going to take a long, hot shower,” I said. “Why don’t you do some digging online, see what you can find out about Brewer and his past?”
Frank nodded, and I walked down the hall. I turned the shower on to get the water nice and hot and walked back into the bedroom, peeling off my clothes. There were still small splinters of glass in my hair and some seriously hideous bruises on my torso that I examined carefully. I brushed my teeth and gargled, hoping to get that chemical taste out of my mouth and the back of my throat, before climbing into the hot water. I stayed until the water turned lukewarm, climbing out into the foggy bathroom. I toweled myself dry, ran a brush through my short hair to make sure there weren’t any more glass splinters in it. I put on my robe and stepped into my house shoes. The bedroom was freezing, as I figured it would be, and I could hear the pelting of rain on the stairs outside. That meant it was going to get even colder. I pulled on a pair of tights, then sweatpants and a T-shirt under a sweatshirt before heading back into the living room.
“Anything?” I asked Frank, who was sitting at the desk and staring at the computer screen.
He shook his head. “I found some rumors on gossip sites, but nothing concrete, and no names.” He sighed. “If the network or the company had to pay hush money—”
“Brandon.” I snapped my fingers. “Brandon would know. He told me the night of the party that Eric liked twinks, was into younger men, had even harassed him at first when he was hired.”
But of course, Brandon’s number was in my cell phone. Which was broken.
“I called the insurance company,” Frank said as I sat down in the living room. “They’re getting in touch with Venus, and I gave them the accident report number.”
“Thanks,” I replied. I reached for my cards and shuffled. I spread the cards out on the table and looked at them.
The way forward is not clear.
A scheming woman who will do what she needs to get her way.
Danger.
Pray for a brave heart.
I sighed and swept them all up, absently shuffling them before wrapping them back in their blue silk and putting them back inside the cigar box.
A scheming woman.
That was no help at all.
I mean, which one?
Chapter Twelve
Knight of Cups, Reversed
Beware of trickery or fraud
I woke up on Monday morning sore in some places and stiff in others. Some careful stretches seemed to do the trick. My neck was the worst. As I showered and got dressed, I noticed some bruises had formed in places while I slept that I didn’t remember hurting. The good news was I hadn’t thrown up and didn’t have any double vision, so no concussion. I didn’t even have a headache.
I could handle being stiff and sore for a few days.
Taylor was eating cereal at the kitchen counter when I walked in. I reached up and ruffled his still-damp hair. “How you doing this morning?”
He shrugged. “As well as can be expected, I guess.” He wasn’t mumbling, so I took that as a good sign.
“I’m driving him to school this morning,” Frank called from the desk in the living room.
“You don’t have to do that.” Taylor’s voice was a monotone. “I can take the streetcar or get an Uber.”
“You can stay home if you want.” I lowered my voice. “You don’t have to go if you’re not ready.”
The exasperated eye roll I got in response made my heart leap a bit—that was a normal response. He must be doing better.
“Finals are next week,” Taylor said, dumping his milk in the sink and letting out the long-suffering sigh I hadn’t realized I’d missed, “and just because something shitty happened to me doesn’t mean the world stopped turning.” He kissed the top of my head. “I’ll be fine, Scotty. I was luckier than most people who wind up in that situation.” He picked his backpack up from the floor. “Come on, if you’re driving me, Frank. I’m going to be late.”
“Take the Jaguar,” I said as Frank reached for the keys. “I have an appointment at the Apple Store to replace my phone.” I hated driving Colin’s specialty Jaguar. I’m not a great driver—I wouldn’t drive at all if I could get away with it—and that Jaguar was souped up, custom made to order, and the dashboard looked like the control panel for a fighter jet. I always fear I am going to press some button by mistake and launch a missile or something.
The only Apple Store in the New Orleans metropolitan area is at Lakeside Mall in Metairie. Going to Lakeside Mall at any time is a nightmare for me—it’s located right where Veterans Boulevard crosses Causeway Boulevard, so the traffic is always terrible at the best of times, and this was Christmas season. I didn’t have high hopes as I set out for the suburbs, but traffic was actually light, and while I waited for the nice young man to set up my new phone, I walked down to Macy’s and bought some presents for Frank and Taylor.
Since I was at the mall already…
My phone was ready when I returned to the Apple Store, and I called Frank as I walked my packages out to the car. “How’s he doing?”
Frank sighed. “He’s dealing with it, I suppose. I think we should get him to see a therapist or a grief counselor or something. He’s really young and this is a lot to handle…I’d hate for us to screw him up for the rest of his life.”
I started to reply, We can’t screw up him up any worse than his parents did, but checked myself. Frank can be weird when it comes to his sister—there was obviously more story there than he’d shared with me. I’d never pressed. I figured he’d tell me when he felt comfortable enough to talk about it. He’d never talked much about his family in all the years we’d been together. I’d known his parents were already dead when we started seeing each other, and there was a sister he wasn’t close to, but I hadn’t known Taylor existed until he wound up practically on our doorstop and joined our family. Taylor was just as close-mouthed as his uncle, but I knew he was the youngest. He’d let slip once he had two older brothers who were both married. I’d been tempted to do some online research more than once, but never did.
What kind of relationship did we have if I didn’t recognize boundaries?
“It’s a lot for him to process,” I agreed. “It’s a lot for us to process.”
“Work has always been the best thing for me,” Frank replied. “So, let’s dive in when we get home, come up with a plan of attack on the case. If we can’t figure out who killed Eric…”
“Terrific. See you soon, love you.”
“Love you, too.” He hung up as I was getting on I-10 to head back into the
city. The great thing about having a partner who was ex-FBI—well, besides the great sex, of course—was that he was a great planner and organizer and was really detail-oriented. Those qualities also served him well in his professional wrestling career; the guy who ran the promotion he worked for told me on more than one occasion that Frank had a flair for keeping things running smoothly and a gift for match choreography.
I suspect that whenever Frank finally decides to retire from the ring once and for all, he’ll probably work behind the scenes for the promotion. He absolutely loves it.
I took the 610 so I could bypass the CBD traffic and drove along the backside of City Park, thinking. There was never much traffic on the bypass, so I could let my mind wander as I drove on autopilot.
This couldn’t have been the first time Eric had drugged someone in order to rape them—oh, how I hated using that word because it reminded me of what a close call poor Taylor had had, but it was the right word—so there had to be records somewhere. One doesn’t suddenly just decide oh I’ll drug this pretty boy so I can fuck him out of the blue without some kind of a history existing. Accusations, hush money payoffs, or both—it was just a matter of digging until something turned up.
Harvey Weinstein had finally been brought down, hadn’t he?
Brandon.
If anyone knew where the Diva Network bodies were buried, it was Brandon.
If you want, I can go along and keep an eye on him.
I was so startled I swerved onto the shoulder for a moment before righting the steering wheel again.
With everything that had happened since, I’d forgotten.
Brandon went with them. The guys at the Brass Rail didn’t mention a third guy—but I also didn’t ask.
Taylor hadn’t mentioned Brandon to me as being there at the Brass Rail.
I took the Elysian Fields exit and pulled over. I pulled out my new phone and touched the contacts app. I scrolled through to Venus Casanova and touched Call. It went to voice mail immediately. “Venus, this is Scotty Bradley. I just remembered—Brandon Bernard was with Eric and Taylor Friday night…if Taylor didn’t mention that, you might want to talk to Brandon…”
Of course she talked to Brandon. Brandon worked with Eric…
His business card was in my trench coat pocket…and my trench coat was hanging in my closet.
I disconnected my call to Venus and texted Taylor: What happened to Brandon Friday night?
He was in class, though, and wouldn’t answer until later.
I pulled away from the curb.
Would Brandon be willing to talk to me? At the party, with a few drinks under his belt and feeling flirty, he’d been a little more open about talking than he might be without a martini in his hand. What all had he said? I hadn’t paid as much attention as I should have…he was young and attractive and seemed good at his job. Someone had to take over for Eric. I’m sure Brandon would love to be the new Eric Brewer at Diva Network.
So he would be more interested in protecting the network than helping clear Taylor.
Maybe he’d wanted Eric out of the way, so he could take his job.
No—no one would kill anyone over a job. Especially since there was no guarantee they’d get the job.
But show business could be cutthroat.
It was a motive to consider.
And Chloe. It was just too big a coincidence that they were both murdered in the same way during the same time period—the murders had to be connected in some way. Based on what I knew, Remy was the only person with a motive to kill them both.
But someone else out there could have wanted them both dead.
Remy said the lawsuit was faked, for the show.
I made a mental note to check with either Brandon or Sloane about that. If Remy was lying…
But Remy had to know that the cops would zero in on him…how convenient that he had an ironclad alibi. It’s almost always the husband.
My mind was still racing as I pulled into my parking space. The Jaguar was already there, so I knew Frank was home. I winced getting out of the car. My neck and my lower back had stiffened up again. Taylor wasn’t the only one who might have PTSD. I’d flinched every time I saw an approaching car…and I was relieved Frank was home because the last time I came home to a supposedly empty apartment there’d been a corpse in the living room.
So many secrets and lies! We were keeping things from Taylor, and now he had to keep things from us.
Climbing the back stairs in the cold wind, I wished for this all to come to an end and our lives to go back to normal.
Or what passed for normal around here, at any rate.
The apartment was blissfully warm when I walked in. I heard voices coming from the living room. My stomach flipped, and my heart jumped into my throat. Frank called, “Scotty? Is that you?”
“Yes.” I slipped my jacket off and tossed it on the bed in our bedroom before walking down the hallway to the living room. “Who’s here? Oh, hello.”
Rebecca Barron was sitting in the living room, a Starbucks cup in her hand. “You must be Scotty?” She stood up and smiled, holding out her right hand.
She was exceptionally tiny. The ridiculous red leather stiletto heels she was wearing gave her at least another four to five inches in height, and her head was still barely chest level with Frank. Her waist was so small I could have put a hand on either side and my fingers would meet at her navel. Her legs were muscular but slender, undoubtedly toned from yoga and aerobics classes. Her silk wrap dress showed off her incongruously large breast implants.
Steve Barron had loved his women to get implants.
I’d never met Rebecca, but it was impossible to live in New Orleans and not know of her late husband, Steve. He loved the spotlight, and his motto was clearly No publicity is bad publicity. People used to joke that the most dangerous place in New Orleans was between Steve Barron and a camera. I’d met him a couple of times. He owned numerous not-good restaurants around town that catered to tourists. He’d originally made his fortune by founding a fast food chain specializing in “New Orleans–style” po-boys. Steve Barron was one of those people you either loved or hated. He spoke his mind and worked hard, although I was pretty sure the story about him dropping out of school and working on fishing boats as a teenager was a fairy tale invented by his corporate publicity department. But it was true that he came from nothing and was a self-made millionaire.
Unfortunately for Steve, he was one of those men whose ego wouldn’t permit him to age gracefully. He wanted to remain young and virile, so kept having work done to his face. By the time I met him it barely moved and was shiny as polished plastic. His hair was the jet black that comes from a bottle, and he grew it long, slicking it back into a ponytail. He worked out every day and jogged, so was in great shape—as evidenced by the tight black shirts he always wore at least one size too small. He favored black pleated slacks, and black patent-leather loafers, and there was always a gold medallion hanging around his neck on a thick gold chain. He was a loud, abrasive, and borderline offensive man, always dancing close to the line of saying something sexist or racist or homophobic but never quite crossing it. He feuded with other people publicly—and loved to pay for full-page ads in the newspaper explaining his side of the story.
He was a character, and New Orleanians love our local characters.
Rebecca was either his fourth or fifth wife—I’d never been sure how many times he’d been married.
Rumors were flying all around town about a looming court battle between the widow and her stepsons. The story was Steve had an enormous fight with his sons over the restaurant empire and cut them out of the will—but had intended to reinstate them when his marriage got into trouble.
Unfortunately, he’d had a massive coronary before he could change his will, and everything had gone to the widow.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, glancing over at Frank with my what the hell is going on look on my face.
“You probably don’t remem
ber me,” Rebecca said. She took my cold hand in both of hers, which were warm and dry. “We met at a fundraiser for Children’s Hospital a few years ago, right after I married Steve.”
“Of course, I remember,” I lied. Her enormous, wide-set eyes were bloodshot and her hands were trembling slightly. Her makeup wasn’t quite perfect—I could see mascara clumps on her lengthy eyelashes, and her pinkish lipstick was slightly smeared at the corners of her mouth. Her thick platinum blond hair was pulled into a side ponytail.
“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here, right?” Rebecca sat back down and sipped her coffee. I couldn’t get over how tiny her waist was. She smiled at Frank. “I was just explaining to your partner—I think we can help each other out.”
What the hell, I thought, sitting down on the couch. “Okay.”
“Yes, you both want to clear your nephew of any involvement in Eric’s murder, and I think I can help you with that.” She crossed her slender legs. “As you might know, my husband left his entire estate to me when he died.” Rebecca took a deep breath. “Steve had two sons from previous marriages, and three ex-wives. None of them were happy about the will. Steve’s sons had worked for him since they got out of college, and he wasn’t happy about the direction they were trying to take the company.” She made a face. “He also wasn’t happy about Billy’s messy divorce. Billy is his older son.” Her face darkened. “Steve was furious about the divorce, he said Billy had made a laughingstock out of the entire family, and Billy wasn’t smart enough to have her sign a pre-nup.”
I frowned. “Why would that matter to Steve? It didn’t affect his money, did it?”
She shook her head. “No, but he thought it showed a lack of business sense. He said if he couldn’t trust Billy to have the sense to protect himself from losing everything in a divorce, how could he trust Billy’s business sense when it came to the future direction of the company?”
“What direction was that?” I was puzzled. Steve Barron, despite his enormous success, wasn’t popular or respected in a city that prized food. His original chain of fast food joints had been sold at a huge profit, and he’d tried to break into the higher-end restaurant market. The problem was Steve wasn’t a chef, he was a businessman, and his success with the fast food chain had convinced him that was the way to run a restaurant. His first Barron’s had opened on St. Charles Avenue, taking over a building that had been empty for decades and turning it into a hideous display of multicolored pastel neons and art deco atrocities that had pretty much appalled the entire city. The place was enormously successful—the food wasn’t bad and the servings were large enough to give great value for the price. But his not being a chef showed. Rather than hiring a great chef and giving him free rein to design the menu, Steve chose to hedge every bet. The menu at Barron’s was as varied and as thick as one at Applebee’s or Chili’s—the kind of place that did everything, but nothing extremely well. The hamburgers were a half-pound and came with enough French fries to feed a small Southeast Asian village. Locals tended to avoid Barron’s, but tourists loved it. After a year he’d opened another one in Metairie, and within five years there was a Barron’s in Houston, Dallas, Jacksonville, Tampa, Salt Lake City, and Birmingham. Soon they were as ubiquitous as the Hard Rock Café.
