A-List

by D P Lyle

  Of course, our suite didn’t have fingerprint powder splotching the entry door and frame. Nor was our bed stripped to a mattress that sat slightly askew on the frame. A trash can roosted on the cabinet next to the TV, and beneath it, the in-room fridge stood open and empty. More fingerprint powder smudged the bathroom doorjamb.

  “The cops took the sheets, and Kirk’s and the girl’s clothing. They were piled on the sofa.” He pointed back toward the living room area. “They found two empty wine bottles and a couple of condoms in the trash can, and a pair of wine glasses by the bed. Also, three joints, one half smoked. Took all that, too.”

  “The girl was strangled, right?” I asked.

  Ebersole nodded. “When Kirk called and told me what had happened, I came running. The girl was in bed, her bra wound around her neck.”

  Nicole swallowed hard. “What did Kirk say?”

  “That he remembered nothing. They had been in here drinking and smoking and having sex and fell asleep. When he woke up, she was sprawled next to him. Dead. Cold.”

  “They didn’t have an argument or anything like that?” I asked.

  “He said they were having a good time. Maybe too much of a good time.”

  Nicole walked around the bed. “And he doesn’t remember anything?”

  Ebersole shook his head. “Nothing. Said he must have been hammered. Said this morning he had the worst hangover ever.”

  I suspected finding a dead nineteen-year-old in your bed could easily do that. Hell, my head was beginning to throb. What was it Ray had said the rookie cop told him? That Kirk was in a world of shit. From where I stood, it was all that and then some.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AS HE LOCKED up Kirk’s room, Ebersole said he had set up dinner for us at seven thirty. Meant we had an hour or so to kill. Nicole and I moseyed down the hall to our room. She busied herself doing Nicole stuff, and I stretched out on the bed with a book, Sports Center on TV, the volume cranked down to a barely audible whisper.

  “What are you reading?” Nicole asked.

  “Some self-defense book Ray gave me. He said I needed to be tougher. His word.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed and mussed my hair. “Poor baby.”

  “I’m tough.”

  She laughed. “Jake, you’re a lover, not a fighter.”

  I tried to pout, but it didn’t work.

  “But I will say,” she went on, “you sure handled Borkov’s baddies. On the boat that night.”

  That was true. I still had a few fastballs in me and I threw a couple of beauties that night. I could still see the surprise on Joe Zuma’s face as first one and then the other ball approached at eighty miles an hour. Forehead, then throat. Two perfect pitches.

  “So, all I have to remember is to keep a couple of baseballs around.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I think you have enough balls already.”

  “Funny. But I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  She smiled. “As it was intended.” She glanced at the book. “Are you learning anything?”

  “Just where people are vulnerable. How to incapacitate them if need be.”

  “Balls,” Nicole said. “That always works.”

  “Unless it’s a woman.”

  “What, you’re afraid of a woman?”

  “I’m afraid of you.” I was. She was into kickboxing. I’d seen her work out on a bag a couple of times. From what I saw, those long, wonderful legs could be positively lethal.

  “You’d better be.” She laughed. “So, if it’s a woman, what do you do?”

  “The eyes. Says here that a simple flick of your finger at the eye will stop anyone.”

  “So Ray’s big bad self-defense book recommends thumping someone with a finger?”

  “Not thumping. Flicking. And in the eye.”

  “Still sounds wimpy to me.”

  “Unless it’s your eye.”

  “You better read a few more chapters.” She smiled. “Later.” She peeled off her top, jeans, and black thong and stood naked, eyeing me. “Ready for a shower?”

  I looked her up and down. “Since you put it that way.” I rolled out of bed.

  I loved showers. Particularly when they turned into something else altogether.

  Afterwards, we slipped on the robes the hotel provided and stretched out on the bed. Nicole flipped the channel to Fox News, and I picked up my self-defense book. I managed to read all of one page before my cell chimed. It was Ray.

  “Okay,” he said. “That detective, Troy Doucet, called back. Seemed like a nice enough guy. Not too shy about chatting with me.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, I had my guy at the local FBI field office give him a call. Let him know we were legit.”

  “What do they have?”

  “Let’s see. Ford found the girl dead. In his bed. The door was locked. Just the two of them. Told Doucet he remembered little about the entire evening.”

  “Ebersole said Kirk told him he was hammered. Wine and marijuana. Did Doucet say they turned up any other drugs?”

  Nicole muted the TV and rolled to her side, facing me, questions in her eyes.

  “Ford admitted to wine and marijuana but nothing heavy,” Ray said. “The toxicology stuff will take a couple of days.”

  I shifted my phone to the other ear. “Kirk must’ve had a shitload of wine.”

  “Guess the lab guys will tell us that. Anyway, there’s an arraignment and bail hearing in the morning.”

  “Yeah, we know. Ten a.m.”

  “Be there,” Ray said.

  “We will.”

  “Doucet said he’d meet with you afterwards.”

  “Great. And Kirk’s attorney—actually the studio’s attorney—some guy named …” I drew a blank.

  “Ben Kornblatt,” Ray said.

  “Yeah, Kornblatt. He’s flying in on the red-eye and he’ll be there, too. He’s got some local hotshot on the case as cocounsel.”

  “Walton Greene,” Ray said. “He’s with one of the big New Orleans firms.”

  Damn, Ray was good. More likely Pancake. Sounded like something he would dig up.

  “Sounds like Kirk’s well represented,” I said.

  “The best big money can buy.”

  “Do you think they’ll give him bail? On a murder beef? And he’s not local?”

  “Not to mention the judge is known to be a bit of a hard-ass,” Ray added.

  “Who is it?”

  “Let’s see.” I heard Ray push some papers around. “William Booth. Been on the bench for nearly twenty years. Law and order type.”

  “Doesn’t bode well,” I said.

  “Guess we’ll see. You guys hit the court tomorrow. Pancake’s digging around in the girl’s world. I’ll let you know what we find.”

  “One other thing,” I said. “The girl’s two brothers are making waves. Talking with the press about how evil Ford is.”

  “Expected.”

  “And their uncle is supposed to be some tough guy. At least, that’s what Ebersole heard.”

  “I’ll get on it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Be cool.” He disconnected the call.

  CHAPTER SIX

  NICOLE AND I arrived at Mr. B’s Bistro a few minutes late. It was Nicole’s fault. She changed outfits three times. I innocently sat on the edge of the bed in black boxer briefs and watched the show. I mean, really, how could I not? She wriggled in and out of various colored jeans, finally settling on white, and an untucked dark-green silk shirt. She did a 360 before the mirror, and then looked at me, saying, “You going like that?”

  “I might.”

  “Maybe some pants?”

  “Not what you said earlier.”

  That got a shake of the head. But she had a point. Jeans, black golf shirt, sneakers, good to go.

  Getting to Mr. B’s was easy. It was directly across the street. We pushed through the glass entry doors and were met by a hostess, young—I mean she looked about twelve—and attr
active in black pants and a crisp white shirt, smiling from behind the reception stand.

  “Welcome to Mr. B’s,” she said, her smile warm and genuine. “How may I help you?”

  “I think the reservation is under Martin Ebersole,” Nicole said.

  “Yes. The others are here. Please, follow me.”

  She led us to a secluded green leather booth near the back where Ebersole and the James twins, Tara and Tegan, were sipping wine. Nicole hugged the girls and then introduced me.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Nicole said, taking her seat. “Jake had trouble getting dressed.”

  Really? I started to complain that I was distracted but decided on silence. I simply smiled and sat.

  “You look nice,” Tegan said. Or was it Tara?

  I did look nice. Even cool. My humble opinion.

  “And hot,” her sister added. “Just as Nicole said.”

  “She did?” I asked.

  That got a shrug and a smile from Nicole.

  Our waiter materialized and handed Nicole and me menus and took our drink orders.

  “Anything new from Ray?” Ebersole asked.

  I shook my head. “Nothing you don’t already know, but he and Pancake are working on a couple of things.”

  “Pancake?” Tara asked. Or was it Tegan?

  I explained the unexplainable. Tommy Jeffers, aka Pancake. Big, redheaded, and a whole lot smarter than most people gave him credit for on first blush. Looked like a big dumb jock, but his computer skills were legendary. Could dig into areas that for most were inaccessible. Not to mention you wanted him on your side in a brawl. Big chest, big arms, big fists. He could definitely bring the pain if need be.

  “He sounds cute,” Tara/Tegan said.

  Cute is not a word I had ever heard used to describe Pancake. Charming? Sure. Even affable worked. Sometimes scary was a better fit.

  “First dibs,” one twin said.

  “No way,” her sister fired back. “It’s my turn.”

  “Turn?” I asked.

  They laughed in unison.

  The twin on the left elaborated. “We have a deal.”

  “Not really,” the other said.

  “Do, too.”

  “You always say that.”

  The left twin took a sip of wine. “’Cause it’s true.”

  The twins were stunning. Even more so in the flesh than on the posters and in the tabloids. Straight blond hair, similar to Nicole, blue eyes, similar to Nicole, and lean, mean bodies, like Nicole. And they were also disturbingly identical. Even their all-black attire and simple gold necklaces matched. I had known a few identical twins, and in each case, there were subtle differences. Not just in clothing and mannerisms, but in the face. Slight differences that allowed some degree of distinction. But Tara and Tegan looked, moved, talked, laughed, everything I could see as if one was the reflection of the other.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But which of you is which?”

  Another unified laugh.

  “I’m Tara,” the left twin said. “And Tegan is my younger sister.”

  “Younger by about a minute,” Tegan said.

  “More like three minutes.”

  “Whatever.”

  Okay, so Tara left, Tegan right. Now, if they didn’t move, I’d be fine.

  Our waiter returned with Nicole’s wine and my Maker’s. He asked if we were ready to order, but Ebersole said we hadn’t even looked at the menu yet. He nodded, saying he’d check back shortly, and walked away.

  “Don’t worry,” Tara said. “No one can tell us apart.”

  “And make no mistake,” Tegan said. “We use that all the time.”

  Tara: “Drove our teachers crazy.”

  Tegan: “Boys, too.”

  Tara: “Oh, yeah.”

  “So you two date the same guys?” I asked.

  Tegan: “Sometimes and they—”

  Tara: “—never know the difference.”

  Tegan: “Almost never.”

  Tara: “Never.”

  Tegan: “Well there was that Jimmy what’s-his-name dude.”

  Tara: “He didn’t know.”

  Tegan: “Sort of.”

  “Sort of?” I asked.

  Tegan: “Tara went out with this wannabe actor type. Jimmy … uh … somebody.”

  Tara: “Never can remember his last name.”

  Tegan: “Me, either.”

  “Bet he’d be thrilled to know he made such an impression,” I said.

  Tegan: “He didn’t complain. But Tara got tired of him.”

  Tara: “After two dates.”

  Tegan: “But I thought he was cute—”

  Tara: “—so when he next asked me out—”

  Tegan: “—I went.”

  I nodded. “And he never knew?”

  Tara: “Nope.”

  Tegan: “But he did note that the sex was better.”

  Tara: “You always say that.”

  Tegan: “Just telling it like it was.”

  Tara: “That’s because you’re a bigger slut.”

  Tegan: “Yeah, right.”

  I was glad we got that settled before our waiter returned. We ordered. He collected our menus and left.

  “I understand you guys went by the jail to see Kirk,” Nicole said.

  Tegan: “Didn’t get very far.”

  Tara: “They were dicks.”

  Tegan: “Not the cute one.”

  Tara: “In a blond-hair, blue-eyed—”

  Tegan: “—hot body—”

  Tara: “—sort of way.”

  Tegan: “Not to mention the uniform.”

  Tara: “Very cool.”

  My brain felt like it was suffering from a contrecoup injury as my head swiveled back and forth. These girls had the twins-finishing-each-others-sentences thing down to an art form.

  “Bottom line,” Ebersole said, “the twins tried their magic on this young cop, and it nearly worked. I think we might have gotten by him. His sergeant was a different story.”

  Tara: “No sense of humor.”

  Tegan: “None.”

  “Let me ask you girls something,” I said. “You know Kirk well, I take it?”

  Tegan: “Since we were fourteen.”

  Tara: “When the Space Quest series started.”

  “What do you think?” I asked. “Could he have done this?”

  “No way,” they said in unison.

  Tara: “Kirk would never—”

  Tegan: “—do anything like that.”

  “I take it you knew the girl? Kristi Guidry?”

  Their heads bobbed in perfect sync. The Rockettes would’ve been jealous.

  “And?”

  Tara looked at her sister, hesitated, and then said, “We liked her.”

  “Pretty, smart, and funny,” Tegan added.

  “Any tension between the two of them?” I asked.

  Tegan shook her head, while parking a wayward stand of perfect blond hair behind her ear. “She liked Kirk. That’s for sure.”

  “I think she was in love,” Tara said. “Never a good thing as far as Kirk’s concerned.”

  “In what way?” I asked.

  “Broken heart,” Tegan said. “Kirk never gets involved. Mainly seeks out temporary distractions. The women he hooks up with always seem to think it’s more than a fling, but Kirk doesn’t really do love.”

  “More like lust,” Tara added.

  “I understand he has a habit of that? Hooking up while on a location shoot?”

  “It’s what he does,” Tegan said. “But then, all actors do.”

  “But don’t get the wrong idea,” Tara said. “There’s nothing malicious about it. Kirk is charming, if anything.”

  Tegan nodded her agreement. “And handsome. And hot. And totally cool.”

  I smiled. “Sounds like you girls have a crush on him.”

  Tara: “Big-time.”

  Tegan: “In a brotherly sort of way. He’s like the big brother we never had.”

  Tar
a: “Really looks out for us.”

  Tegan: “Sometimes overly protective.” She drained her wine glass. “More than a few times he’s run off guys we tried to hang with. If he thought they were bad actors.”

  Tara: “True story. And he’s usually right.”

  Tegan: “Especially the dudes you try to pick up.”

  Tara: “Yeah. Like you never do?”

  Tegan tossed a mock frown at her sister. “But I will say that usually the girls only last a day or two, so, Kristi being around for a whole week meant he totally liked her.”

  “So, she was different than his usual?” I asked.

  Tegan stared at me. “I think that’s true.” She glanced at Tara. “She’s the first one I can remember who might’ve been able to steal him away?”

  “Steal him away?”

  “From us,” Tara said.

  “We’re very protective of him, too,” Tegan said. She smiled. “Him being our big brother.”

  Tara nodded. “Totally.”

  “Sounds like you guys are very close,” I said.

  Tegan swirled the wine in her glass and took a sip. “We love him madly.”

  Our food arrived and it was magnificent. Of course, I’ve never had a bad meal in New Orleans. Especially at Mr. B’s. While we ate, we discussed the upcoming arraignment. Ebersole said we should get there early. He expected it to be a zoo with the media and Kirk Ford fans out in force, but added that Kornblatt had arranged spots for us just behind the defense table.

  Front-row seats to the big event.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CAFÉ DU MONDE. No place like it. I never visited the Big Easy without at least one trip for their beignets and chicory coffee. The aroma of each hung thick beneath the green awning that covered the patio, as did the din of conversation. It was just after eight and the place was packed, as usual, but Nicole and I managed to snag a table along the railing. Out on the sidewalk a street performer, a guy dressed like a clown, face paint and all, squeaked together balloon animals that he handed to one excited kid after another. Parents dropped bills into the small aluminum bucket near his feet. Free enterprise, baby.

  Our waitress, Patty according to her name tag, walked up, pad and pen in hand, and we ordered. Only took a couple of minutes before she returned and placed a plate of sugary beignets and two steaming cups of coffee on our table. Turnover at Café du Monde was rapid. Smooth, polite, friendly, but rapid. Keep the money train rolling. Patty asked if we needed anything else, and after we assured her we were fine, she waltzed away.