by Brenda Novak
Micki took the final step and plucked the lighter from Vanderlund’s grasp. As she handed it off to Angelo, the woman dropped the can and brought her hands to her face. “What am I going to do now? What’s going to happen to me?”
Angelo stepped forward with cuffs; Micki waved him off and put an arm around her. “You need to come with me, Bitty. Then we’ll call your husband.”
The woman nodded and allowed Micki to help her out. Whatever had taken over Bitty Vanderlund, had passed. The woman leaning on her now was the person her family had described. The one who wouldn’t hurt a flea.
Chapter Seven
8:10 P.M.
The Banks Street two-story had been built at the turn of the twentieth century and had solidly stood against every hurricane until Katrina. The storm’s floodwaters had inundated the first floor. Rain pummeled the second floor when wind had torn the roof away.
Hank had purchased the moldering home as is and rebuilt it from the inside out. Truth was, the house reminded Micki of the man himself—sturdy and old fashioned, with a crusty kind of charm.
Her best friend. Mentor. And although she’d only known him a handful of years, the most important person in her life.
Micki let herself inside the gate and went around the side of the house. Light glowed from the garage in back. The Nova, she thought, smiling. His latest project. He’d hauled it home a couple months ago, grinning from ear-to-ear.
Didn’t matter if it was cars, buildings, or people, Hank liked to fix things.
He’d fixed her. Something her crazy mother and the small army of pediatric counselors she’d hired had been unable to do.
Micki stepped into the garage. Hank was bent over the car’s raised hood. “Hello, old man,” she said. “I see you’re wasting time on that heap again.”
“Heap?” He looked back at her. “This baby is a classic American muscle machine. 1971 with a 396 V in it.”
“That baby doesn’t run.”
“Have some faith, girl.”
She cocked an eyebrow and held up two brown paper bags. “How about some dinner instead?”
He grabbed a rag and began cleaning the grease off his hands. “Don’t have to ask me twice. What’s on the menu?”
“Your Spidey-senses not working tonight?”
Hank had the best sense of smell of anyone she had ever known. Same for his hearing and vision. It was practically supernatural.
“Burgers,” he said mildly. “From Port of Call.”
“On the money again.” She checked each bag, making certain neither was marked. “How do you do that? It’s just plain freaky.”
He laughed. “The smell of grilled beef and onions clings to you like a perfume.”
“Great. No wonder I’m single.”
“You’re single because you choose to be.”
She changed the subject; her relationship status was a regular point of contention between them. “Okay, Sherlock, besides my eau-de-diner cologne, what tipped you?”
He snapped off the work light. “You drive past Port of Call on your way home and their burgers are one of your favorites. I was a detective, you know.”
“Like a million years ago.”
“Ungrateful girl.” He lowered the garage door, and they started for the house. “I want to hear about your day.”
“Pulled a homicide. Partnered with Carmine Angelo.”
“Carmine’s a good guy. Straight arrow.”
“He could use a sense of urgency.”
Hank chuckled and let them inside. “He’s low key. But smart. Trust me, he doesn’t miss anything.” He cut her an amused glance. “Besides, someone to temper your intensity isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”
She laughed, not at all offended. This man knew her better than anyone else on the planet. He had saved her from certain self-destruction, taking an angry, rebellious, borderline criminal under his wing and nurturing her back to health.
He’d done it by being an example of a truly good human being.
He had made her want to be like him.
The burgers were big, juicy, and flavorful. Stacked high with grilled onion and mushrooms, oozing with more cheese than either of them should eat. A heart attack in a bag. He washed his down with a glass of milk; she chose an Abita beer.
“Tell me about the homicide,” he said around a mouthful of burger.
“Cut-and-dried. Uptown matron snaps and kills her queenly rival.”
“Nothing’s ever cut-and-dried, girl. Not when it comes to one man taking another’s life.”
She shook her head, fondness for him washing over her. “How long have you been retired from the force, old man? The way you talk, it’s been a long, friggin’ time.”
He laughed, deep and rumbly. “Snapped you say?”
“Mmm.” Micki took a swallow of the beer. “Everyone we talked to claimed our perp couldn’t hurt a flea. Said perp, however, beat the victim to death. Big mess. She walked out covered in her rival’s blood and wearing her crown. Got it all on surveillance tape. Then she tried to torch the Rex Den.”
She finished her beer. “Apparently, she was promised a crown for her daughter. When it didn’t happened, she…snapped.”
Hank stood, collected the remains of their meal, and carried it all to the trash. “Ugly thing, the green-eyed monster. The trick is to not put your hopes in things money and influence can buy.”
“Umm, isn’t that everything?”
He met her eyes. “Actually, it’s not anything.”
He held her gaze, his eyes the baby blue of a summer sky and somehow as endless. What was it about him? A cross between Santa, Yoda, and an aging Marlboro Man. “You’re such a weirdo,” she said.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Love you, too, girl.”
Chapter Eight
7:35 A.M.
The next morning, Carmine called her on her way to the Second District. Change of plans. His superior officer wanted to meet with her about the Vanderlund case. Angelo worked the Eighth District—the French Quarter—also known as Whack Central because every sort of whacked-out shit went down there.
She arrived at shift change and made her way through the unfamiliar faces and up to the Detective Bureau. Major Nichols waved her into his office; she saw Angelo was already there.
“Good to meet you, Dare. Take a seat.”
She took the seat next to Carmine. “Feeling’s mutual, Major.”
“Read the report. Talked to Detective Angelo. You did good, Detective. ”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“I like your initiative. So does Detective Angelo.”
“Appreciate that.”
“I’m going to get right to it,” Nichols went on. “I need help here at the Eighth. Your permanent assignment’s to the Ninth, correct?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Different animal here. We see it all, and lots of it. Thinking you might have the touch.”
“The touch, Sir?”
“Ability to stay focused in the midst of insanity.”
“With your own dose of crazy,” Carmine added, grinning at her.
Major Nichols ignored him and went on. “The Eighth isn’t for everyone. If you need some time to—”
“I’m in.”
Major Nichols smiled. “That’s what I’d hoped you’d say. Your reassignment won’t be official until after Mardi Gras. Unofficially, you’re on the team.”
“Who will I be working with?”
“Detective Angelo. I assume that meets your approval?”
“Absolutely.”
“Angelo, for now, make room at your desk. It’s carnival; you won’t be here much.” He indicated the door. “Go. I need you on the street.”
They exited the major’s office. Micki cleared her throat. “That was a surprise.”
“Cool, huh?”
It was. Very. She glanced at him. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Welcome.” He motioned toward the right. “But it wasn’t just me.�
�
“Who?”
“Don’t know for sure. But it came from up high.”
Up high? She frowned. Could Hank have made a call?
“What?” Angelo asked.
“I was just wondering if—”
But why would he have done it without talking to her first? That didn’t seem like Hank.
“Nevermind.” She shook her head. “I’ve got no clue, dude.”
Carmine dragged a chair over to an already over-crowded desk. “Got the pathologist’s report on Stanley. We called it at the scene.”
He slid the report across the desk. She flipped it open. Photos of Stanley bruised and bloodied.
“What’s this?” She tapped a photo depicting Stanley’s bruised left back and side.
“Vanderlund kicked her. Repeatedly.”
“Seriously?” She shook her head. “Hard to reconcile that pleasant faced little woman with this…overkill.”
“Freaky, right? She’ll plead temporary insanity. She might even get a jury to buy it.”
“You don’t?”
“Dead’s dead. Now it’s up to the court.”
She returned her gaze to the photo. “You’ve moved on.”
“Don’t have a choice, partner. That one’s done, another’s right around the corner.”
Chapter Nine
11:30 A.M.
Not exactly around the corner. More like up and over a half dozen blocks. Club Me-Oh-My, home to New Orleans’ most famous drag show.
Micki gazed at the vic, tuning out the sound of sobbing coming from the hallway behind them. Desiree Strong had been shot in the back three times, then a fourth at close range, to the back of the head. The wound and blood spatter suggested the headshot had been last, delivered after Strong went down.
It was a good thing she had a cast iron stomach, Micki thought. Otherwise her shoes would be decorated with the big-ass shrimp po’boy she’d scarfed down on the way to the scene.
“Another dead queen,” Angelo said, “in less than twenty-four hours. That’s one mind-bending coincidence.”
It was. So much so, her right eye began to twitch. “Maybe it’s not?”
“Seriously, Dare? C’mon, what could Ms. Desiree here and Vivianne Stanley actually have in common?”
“Besides that they both sported title of queen and are now dead?”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “Besides those.”
“How about overkill? Stanley, beaten to a pulp and then kicked? And here, four shots? The last with the gun’s muzzle pressed against Strong’s cranium? Both crimes of passion.”
“You’re overlooking one thing, partner. Vanderlund’s in jail. Desi here was still alive when that happened.”
She pursed her lips. “It’s just so bizarre.”
“Yeah, it is. But it’s Carnival and the city’s run amok with queens.”
He had a point. But as they turned their attention to interview the club’s owner, Micki’s eye continued to twitch. And her mind wandered back to the fact two “queens” had been murdered in twenty-four hours.
Carmine was asking the man about the club’s surveillance system. They sat at a corner table in the empty bar. The bartenders and waitresses stood clustered behind the bar, looking shaken and uncertain what to do.
Micki studied them a moment, then turned her attention to Carmine and the club owner. Unfortunately, lightning wouldn’t strike twice—the club’s only cameras pointed at the cash registers and front door.
“Mr. Alexander,” she asked, “were you here last night?”
“Call me Mustang. Everyone does.”
“All right, Mustang. Were you here?”
“I’m here every night. Open to close.”
Micki noted he was incredibly fit for a man his age. Built like a dancer, but with a face deeply lined from what she suspected was a lifetime of late nights in smoky clubs. “Anything different about last night?”
“We had a group of haters in.”
“Haters?”
“Definitely not transfriendly. Shouted ugly things. Slurs. We called the cops.”
“Does that happen often?”
He shook his head. “Not so much. People come to New Orleans for the show. You know, for the thrill of the naughty.”
That they did. And a lot of them parked their inhibitions at the airport and went crazy. She glanced down at her notes. “You think one of them might have come back, shot Desi?”
Mustang blinked against tears. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Easy enough to find out if they were booked or let off with a warning,” Angelo said.
Micki nodded, although she didn’t think some drunken jackass had done this. It felt way too personal. “Any other ideas who might have killed Desiree?”
He brought the heels of his hands to his eyes. “This can’t be happening. She can’t be gone.”
Angelo pressed the man. “Think, Mustang. About the people in Desi’s circle. Family, friends, club regulars even. Someone who might have had a beef with her. Does anyone come to mind?”
“No, everyone loved Desi.” His voice broke. “I don’t know what we’re going to do. This is a complete disaster. She was the star of the show! Just brilliant. And it’s Carnival. There’s the ball, the fashion show, and all the tourists.” He dropped his head into his hands. “What do I do now?”
Micki made a note. “Was Desi married?”
“Would have been if same sex marriages were legal in Louisiana. It’s so unfair.”
“So, he had a partner?”
“Had. They broke up recently.”
Angelo took over. “Was the break up acrimonious? Were there specific pressures that came between them?”
“Late nights. The groupies and constant temptations.”
“Desi was unfaithful, is that what you’re saying?”
“Just a little.”
Micki cocked an eyebrow. “A ‘little’ unfaithful? What does that mean?”
He looked momentarily nonplused, then said, “As little as possible.”
Angelo cleared his throat to cover a snort. Micki ignored him and went on. “So, it was an acrimonious split?”
“Rog couldn’t have done it.”
“Why not?”
“He’s gone.”
“Where?”
“Took a job in Memphis. That played a part in the break-up. Desi refused to leave the show. It was her life.”
“You have Rog’s contact information?”
“I do.” He wiped a tear from his cheek. “He’ll be devastated.”
Micki wasn’t so sure about that, but then she wasn’t much of a cheerleader for human nature, although Hank had been helping her with that. How the man had done thirty years on the force and maintained his positive attitude toward humanity, she didn’t know. But it gave her something to aspire to.
“Was his partner, Rog, a transvestite, too?”
“Desi was a drag queen,” Mustang corrected. “Most folks don’t realize that the majority of transvestites and cross-dressers are actually straight, not gay.”
“You’re right, I didn’t know that. And Rog?”
“Just an accountant.”
She fought a smile at the way he said it, sort of disappointed for the other man. “We’ll need to question everyone who was working last night.”
He nodded. “The same crew is in tonight, with some slight changes in bar staff. The cast of course, is the same. No, that’s not right, is it?” He stopped, brought a trembling hand to his lips. “Desi won’t be here.”
“Did Desiree have an understudy?”
“Yes. Cherry.” His eyes welled with tears. “And you’re right, the show must go on.”
That wasn’t why she had asked the question, but she didn’t correct him. “Is there anything else you can tell us about Desiree that might help us find her killer?”
“I don’t know what. She was happy. Well-liked within the community. Financially secure.”
“Mind if we start questioning the
bar staff?”
“Please, do whatever you need to.”
“Mustang! Oh my God. I just heard! It’s so awful.”
They turned. A slight man in skinny jeans, a tight angora sweater, and high heels rushed into the club.
“Cherry!” Mustang stood to meet the other man.
The understudy, Micki realized, watching the two embrace.
“I’m devastated,” Cherry said. “I can’t believe this has happened!”
“I was the one who found her.” The club owner’s voice broke on a sob. “I came in…there was blood in the back hallway… I followed the trail and—”
He bit the last back, visibly pulled himself together, then waved Micki and Carmine over. “This is Detective Angelo and Detective Dare. They promised they’re going to find the one who did this.”
Micki stood and held out her hand. “I’m Dare. I didn’t catch your name.”
He took it, his palm damp, hand trembling. “Cherry.” He looked at her, then quickly away. “Cherry Chablis.”
“Is that your legal name?”
“Stage name. My legal name’s Chuck.”
“Chuck what?”
“Chandler.”
“And you prefer we call you Cherry?”
He nodded but once again, his gaze darted sideways. Her eye twitched.
“Mustang said you’re the victim’s understudy.”
At the description, Cherry looked sick. Mustang swayed slightly and grabbed Cherry’s arm for support. Micki was surprised they both didn’t topple. Neither spoke.
Carmine stepped in. “That is correct, Ms. Chablis? You were understudy for the deceased.”
He nodded.
“I understand Desiree was brilliant in her roles.”
“I will be, too.” He looked at Mustang. “I won’t let you down, ’Stang. I promise.”
He squeezed Cherry’s hand. “I know, sweetie, but at this point, I’m not certain when we’ll start back up.”
Micki watched as several emotions moved across the understudy’s face. Regret. Longing. Fear? Desiree had been the star that Cherry had longed to be. Envy had turned Vanderlund into a murderer, had it turned Chablis into one as well?
