Stepping from the brisk air-conditioning of St. John-Smythe Antiques, two doors down from le Petit Antiques, Jodie Kintyre felt a blast of super-heated air brush across her face. Funny how summer breezes flowing off the river only made people sweat faster. The lively sound of a paddle-wheeler's calliope echoed through the Quarter, an old tune, ragtime.
Thankfully Jodie rarely perspired, especially in a lightweight poplin skirt-suit. She stepped out of the way of three wandering tourists: a man in a yellow tropical shirt and matching shorts, a woman in a matching get-up, and a bored-looking daughter in a low-cut top and cutoff jeans.
Moving to the next shop along Royal, Jodie glanced across the narrow street at Drummond as he leaned against the wall of a Greek cafe. She nodded almost imperceptibly and he responded with a slight nod. As she opened the door of the next antique shop, she saw Drummond crossing the street in a straight line for St. John-Smythe Antiques.
* * * *
Because of Burleigh Drummond's knowledge of the antique business, Detective Jodie offered him the opportunity to help her. Because he had been videotaped lurking around a murder scene, he accepted. His job was to chat up the Royal Street shopkeepers about the murder and the cemetery thefts while she canvassed the area. Jodie believed the shopkeepers might reveal something to a “charming rogue” (her words, not his) that an investigating officer would never hear. They planned to compare notes later.
A silver bell chimed when Drummond opened the door of St. John-Smythe Antiques, the fourth shop he had entered that morning. A Beethoven sonata flowed around the crown molding of the fourteen-foot ceiling. An overworked air conditioner and patchouli incense couldn't prevent the musk of crammed, ancient furniture from creeping into his nose.
Maria St. John-Smythe pressed a telephone receiver against her ear. Her voice descended into a whisper; she extended her index finger upward. He took this as request for privacy and stood by the front door, but focused his hearing in her direction. Sudden drops in voice volume always piqued his interest.
While eavesdropping, he picked up a Tiffany fork from an open silverware case. Drummond rubbed his fingers across the Chrysanthemum pattern. Judging from the weight and the workmanship the set was crafted in the early 1880s.
He overheard Maria mumble something about resubmitting a check. Maria finished her call and said, “That silverware would look stunning with that Louis XVI dining room set I sold you. I can let you have service for sixteen at a real steal."
"That table only seats eight.” He smiled. “Besides, I don't have sixteen friends."
She laughed and mentioned a price—a price considerably lower than the price tag attached to the box. Generally a dealer wouldn't make a low offer unless they needed money. Maybe that was why she was resubmitting a check.
"Silverware is not what I'm looking for today.” He draped his words with an enigmatic twist and paused to let her ask the next question, one of his favorite ruses.
Her thin lips stiffened then fell into what looked like a forced smile. “What are you looking for?"
"I want to know about Hal Dean Wilson's business."
Maria's olive eyes flinched and her cheeks twitched. “Everyone on Royal Street has been talking about his murder. It was a shock to us all in the antique community. His presence will be missed.” Her voice droned like she was reading a worn-out speech from a teleprompter.
Subtlety wasn't appropriate in this situation, so he didn't attempt it. “Wilson was a third-rate junk dealer. His murder is going to cost me some money. One of my clients is looking for a particular statue, which Wilson claimed he possessed and was enthusiastic about selling. I was hired to broker the deal."
"Seems like an unusual transaction.” Maria's inflection indicated a eu-phemism for illegal.
"Well, the statue is valuable and well known. My client is a private person and doesn't want the world to know."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"You might be able to earn some money if we can put the statue in the hands of my client."
"What makes you think I know how to find it?"
"Because I know the antique business. It's a small, competitive world with an incestuous nature. If one dealer is trolling cemeteries for urns and vases, so are others. If you're not involved, you have a good idea who is."
She looked past him at a Hepplewhite sideboard. “A well-known, valuable cemetery statue and a private transaction. Could we be talking about a heart made of Grecian marble?"
Drummond pursed his lips and bulged his eyes in his most coy manner.
"What would helping you be worth to me?"
"That depends on what you tell me."
"I know who has it and that he doesn't have the finesse to sell it. But he is smart enough to know that."
Now, that was something worth knowing. “Twenty-five hundred when the statue gets to my client."
"I've sold antiques for twenty-five years, and I haven't survived by being the last person to get paid. Whether your client gets the statue has nothing to do with me. You pay me three thousand now, and I tell you who has the statue."
Drummond knew she needed money so negotiation was an option.
"When the statue is in my hands that's twenty-five hundred to you.” He hoped his client would consider this little overage a necessary expense.
Maria shook her head. “I give you a name and I get a thousand now and another fifteen hundred when you get the statue.” Her voice told him that was her final offer. He accepted. He always thought he paid too much for that dining room set, now he knew it.
"Danny Dominici. Be careful, Burr. This guy is dangerous."
* * * *
Finding lowlifes in New Orleans was no challenge: You just walked out your front door. But when you wanted to find whale dung in the Mariana Trench your destination was Cigar's Tavern on Exchange Alley, a dismal block of darkness on the edge of the French Quarter. Lee Harvey Oswald once lived in the upstairs apartment. Hookers, male hustlers, employment-seeking hitmen, and cemetery thieves like Danny Dominici wallowed in Cigar's mire from dusk to dawn. People who've never had an honest job in their lives lurked there. Burleigh Drummond realized he fell into that category. Oh, well, he'd get over the shame.
When Drummond walked into the bar his nostrils filled with thick smoke from tobacco, grass, and crack, odors that would make Old Scratch step outside for fresh air. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he surveyed the barroom for someone who matched the description of Dominici. His eyes stopped at the blue and red neon-drenched bar. Posed with a Dixie longneck in one hand and a pool cue in the other stood Dominici. His black hair was tied into a ponytail streaming from the crown of his head; a Fu Manchu mustache attempted to conceal thin lips. The size of his biceps and his reputed violent temper made Drummond reconsider what no longer seemed like a viable plan. But he had no better plan so he moved close, but not too close, to Dominici and ordered two Dixies. He called Dominici's name and pushed a beer toward him.
"You look like an undertaker in that suit, chump,” Dominici said without looking at him. “I don't talk to ghouls."
Drummond started to mention that morticians don't wear Hugo Boss wool crepe suits, but wasn't sure the statement would be accurate.
"Hal Dean Wilson said you and I could finish what he started.” Drummond tipped his Dixie.
"Wilson tell you that when you were switching his blood with formaldehyde?"
Obviously engaging Dominici in pleasant conversation wasn't going to work, so Drummond changed tactics. “I want the marble heart you lifted from Lafayette Cemetery."
The bartender picked up a bar rag and strolled to the far end of the bar; this conversation wasn't his concern.
Dominici slapped the thick end of the pool cue in his palm and turned toward Drummond. “What's going to stop me from taking your wallet and your virginity?"
Drummond took a pull from his beer and gave what he hoped was the right answer. “Wouldn't be worth the effort. I got less than a hundred on me
; you'd blow it all on strippers before dawn. And street talk says I'm a bad lay.” He tipped his beer toward Dominici. “But the main reason is there's real money to be made."
"Tell me something I'll believe."
"I'm being paid to retrieve the statue and my sources tell me you can get the elusive marble heart."
"What's my cut?"
"Two-thousand. But you pay your own expenses."
"Why you so generous?"
"I'm not generous; I'm realistic. Without you I got nothing to sell. Without me you got a statue you can't sell. Both of us come up with empty pockets. I try to shortchange you, you stick a knife in my chest. But more importantly for you, no money.” Drummond paused to let the words sink in. “I give you a big enough piece of the pie then maybe you won't do something stupid. Both of us make money."
A vein pulsed in Dominici's forehead, as if he were thinking, Besides a quick buck, what's in it for me? A girl's got to think about her future.
Drummond liked Dominici's question. Simply asking for a larger cut would have meant he was greedy and stupid, a combination too unpredictable for Drummond's preference. Since he wanted more than a one-time boost, Drummond could tantalize and manipulate the thug. But it would involve a lie or two. “Thinking of the future, huh? You seem to know how to get in and out of places without making the papers. We can do a more sophisticated version of what you and Wilson were doing. With you as partner, not a lackey."
"You make this deal sound too good to be true. How do I know you not a cop?"
"'Cause you've seen enough cops to know they don't wear two-thousand dollar suits. Even the crooked ones."
His head bobbed. He looked like he wanted to believe Drummond but didn't have enough reason. He was sharper than the average thug.
"People around town know my reputation. Ask about me.” Drummond pushed a card with his name and cell phone number along the bar. “You'll find I'm as honest as you, just at a different level."
He said he would check Drummond out and gave a parting shot: “If I kill you, I won't use a knife. I'm a bullet-to-the-brain kinda guy."
Burleigh Drummond's two story Greek Revival home stood at the corner of Valence and Prytania Streets, one block off St. Charles Avenue, a ritzy uptown neighborhood dotted with the occasional mansion and the occasional estate. It was exactly ten blocks from the skinny shotgun double Jodie shared with her parents on Milan Street, her on one side, them on the other, no yard to speak of, barely enough room to park a car between the houses.
Jodie parked her unmarked LTD in front of the Greek Revival, went through the wrought-iron gate and up twelve steps to the front gallery, smelling gardenias from the garden surrounding the house. She rang the doorbell next to the solid wood door, carved in an intricate mosaic.
Drummond, in gauzy khaki pants, a white linen shirt, and brown loafers, let her in with a friendly smile. He led her across a marble foyer into a room off to her right, an office with a huge antique wooden desk, dark green captain's chair behind it, two empire chairs facing the desk. A thick Persian carpet covered the oak floor. They moved through pocket doors into a living room beyond the office.
"What can I get for you?” Drummond asked as he moved to a wet bar.
"I brought coffee,” Jodie said, lifting the brown paper bag in her left hand. “Cafe DuMonde."
"Great,” he said, waving to the sofa for her to sit.
Jodie put the bag on a highly polished dark wood coffee table that stood between matching sofas facing one another. She glanced at the cozy chair on the outer rim of the sofa, which formed a conversation pit. She opted for the far side of the sofa away from the chair.
She dug out the coffees as Drummond sat across from her, passing a cafe-au-lait to him, along with packs of sugar and Equal. Jody used Equal; Drummond used neither.
"So,” she said. “Tell me."
As soon as Drummond started telling her about Dominici, Jodie felt her face flush in anger.
"Maria kept that tidbit from me!"
Drummond shrugged. “You weren't offering her ill-gotten gains.” He went on to describe his meeting with Dominici.
"I want to come with you when you pick up the statue,” she told him. “I'll dress accordingly,” she added before he could complain. “A distraction."
She saw his eyebrows rise and she knew exactly what she would wear.
"May I use your phone?"
He gestured toward his Louis XIV desk near the center of the room. Jodie called headquarters and learned Daniel Jay Dominici had a three page rap sheet, including two extortion arrests and two armed robbery arrests. All were nol-prossed by the ever-efficient D.A.'s office. Dominici had one conviction ten years ago, aggravated battery on a police officer. Served six years at Angola.
As she hung up, she changed her mind on what to wear. Why give a scumbag like Dominici a thrill? But as she finished her coffee, watching Drummond's eyes playing with hers, she decided she'd go for it. Give ‘em all a thrill.
She made it home in time to shower and shave her legs, fluff her hair. Standing in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, Jodie checked herself out. Her white blouse was low cut enough to gap nicely when she leaned over, but looked proper when she stood. Her long, fitted black skirt looked just as proper until she sat. It was a wraparound, which opened all the way to her waist if she didn't close it with her hands. Sitting on her bed, facing the mirror, she could see her the entire front of her white panties when she sat, as well as the tops of her sheer, thigh-high stockings.
Satisfied, she stood and slipped her 9mm Beretta into her purse, climbed into a pair of spike heels, and headed for the meeting place.
* * * *
"This is a gay bar.” Detective Jodie Kintyre's blue eyes surveyed the landscape of the Back Door Lounge. Burleigh Drummond sipped his Bombay Sapphire and tonic and winked.
Under the neon glow of rainbow colors three Muscle-Marys racked balls on the pool table. At the bar sat a delicate looking man sipping a champagne cocktail while exchanging furtive glances with the leather-clad bartender. At a corner table a man dressed as Liza Minnelli cried into a cell phone and dabbed her eyes with a linen handkerchief. On the jukebox Cher lamented about the everyday problems of gypsies, tramps, and thieves.
"I suspect Dominici thought the location would intimidate me, but he didn't know I was bringing a bodyguard.” Drummond grinned. “Dominici is gay. At our initial meeting he offered to take my virginity and referred to himself as a girl. Little details like those pique my interest, so I made a few discreet inquiries. Danny began his criminal career rolling gays in the French Quarter. Somewhere along the line he switched teams."
A firm thigh slid out of the slit in Jodie's black wraparound skirt, which aroused Drummond's prurient interest.
The front door of the barroom swung open and a shaft of orange light pierced the sinister dark of the room. Dominici swaggered through the doorway with a machismo-draped gait that appeared much too choreographed. His long strides were affected and his shoulders swung in an exaggerated arc set on an unnaturally upright spine. A mesh black T-shirt and tight black jeans hugged his rangy frame.
Without looking, Dominici strutted toward Drummond and Jodie. A probable confederate inside the bar must have supplied him with the lay-of-the-land. Liza's eyes were now dry and she sipped a martini straight up.
Dominici narrowed his stride as he approached the table where Drummond and Jodie sat. After stopping he checked her out. The assessment didn't seem sexual, but the sizing up of a situation or an adversary, standard criminal modus operandi. He sniffed twice in obvious exaggeration and turned to Drummond. “Where did you hook the tuna?"
Drummond directed his eyes toward the detective. “And you thought Mr. Dominici would not be refined."
"We didn't agree on no threesome,” Dominici said.
Whipping out his most sardonic smile, Drummond leaned back and pointed to Jodie with his thumb. “Allow me to introduce Detective Jodie Kintyre of the NOPD."
> "So why's she here?"
Drummond knew cops didn't scare this desperado. “She's my bodyguard."
"Why you need a cop to protect you?"
"Why do you need a drag queen to scope out the situation for you?” Drummond saluted Liza with his drink; she reciprocated by tipping her glass.
Dominici hooked a chair with a suede cowboy boot and sat down. “I checked you out. Like you said, you're a crook. Just on a different level."
"I would not have referred to myself as a crook."
"All meat smells the same when it's rotten. You don't have a record, but the cops and the D.A.'s don't like you,” snarled Dominici.
"The crooked ones do. I tip well."
"Yeah, some strippers told me about your tipping. You and Ben Franklin are called the biggest suckers on Bourbon Street."
Jodie shot Drummond a wait-till-we-get-home look.
Drummond feigned a stammer and said, “It's all business."
"Jackass business.” Jodie's disdain sounded almost genuine.
Dominici snorted a laugh at what he perceived was Drummond's woman problem. “In bed with Jane Law. You might be as low down as I heard. Now why you need a cop?"
"Until we develop some mutual trust, Detective Jodie and her Beretta make sure you don't stick a knife in my ribs, take the money, keep the heart, and repeat the routine on someone else."
"We already had this discussion. Knives are too much work.” He rocked the chair on its back legs, a sign of comfort with the situation.
Dominici looked at Jodie long and hard, starting with her face, stopping briefly at her breasts. She'd positioned her legs just enough to reveal her white panties. Dominici took advantage of the opportunity and presumably reminisced about the old, straight days.
Dominici ordered a Red Ass ale; Drummond raised his index finger and started to make one of his self-styled witticisms, but considered the thug's demeanor and just smiled. Dominici flirted with Jodie while he drank his beer and made a few jokes at Drummond's expense; he was strangely charming. When the bottle was empty, he stood up and said, “Tea time, girls."
As they walked out, Liza wiggled her fingers good-bye. Only Drummond had the manners to return the gesture as they followed Dominici outside to a parking lot across the street. He pointed to a late-model metallic blue BMW 530i.
AHMM, April 2009 Page 5
