by D P Lyle
Here’s the thing. There is no way to eat beignets without decorating your clothes with powdered sugar. Not possible. Nicole did a better job than I did, and still, her dark-green pullover looked like Christmas.
“Want me to brush the sugar off your chest?” I asked.
“Unless you want to lick it off.”
All in all, not a bad idea. But maybe not here. Instead, I rolled my eyes.
“Just thought I’d throw that out there,” she said.
Woman was evil.
We had a little over an hour before we hooked up with Kornblatt and Ebersole to limo over to the courthouse for Kirk’s arraignment. And for Kornblatt to plead for bail. Of course, the fare was reason enough to visit Café du Monde, but my hope was that we could chat with someone with some insight into Kristi Guidry. She had worked here, so she must have friends on the staff. When our waitress spun back by, I asked her if she knew Kristi.
She hesitated, then said, “I heard about what happened. I mean, everyone has. Just awful. She was so nice.” She looked out toward the street. “I still can’t believe it.”
“So you knew her?” Nicole asked.
“Yeah. Not well, but I knew her.”
“Would anyone here know her better?” I asked.
“Why’re you asking?”
“We’re investigating her murder,” I said.
Again, she hesitated. “You don’t look like cops.”
“We aren’t,” Nicole said. “Private investigators.”
Private investigators. It rolled off her tongue so naturally. Like she’d said it a million times. She was really getting into this PI stuff. Ray had created a monster.
“Oh,” Patty said, as if that had answered her question. “You might talk to Gloria. She and Kristi were tight.”
“Is she here today?”
She looked around. “Yeah. Somewhere. I’ll find her and send her by.”
“Thanks.”
By the time we finished the beignets and dusted the stray powder from our clothing, Gloria appeared. She was small, thin, with ebony skin, full cheeks, and dark eyes that were alive and expressive.
“Patty said you wanted to talk.”
I introduced Nicole and me. “Is this a good time and place to chat?”
“Not really, but it’ll do.”
A couple at an adjacent table waved to get her attention. She raised a finger, saying, “Just a sec.”
Patty came by and touched Gloria’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of them.”
“Thanks.” Gloria directed her attention back to us. “You guys are private investigators. Right?”
“We are,” Nicole said.
“And you want to talk about Kristi?” Gloria asked.
“Just a few questions,” Nicole said. “If you don’t mind.”
“Who’re you working for?”
“My uncle. He’s the executive producer for the movie being shot here.”
“So, you’re here to help that asshole that killed Kristi?”
“Not really,” I said. “Simply trying to figure out what happened.”
“Shit. I can tell you that. He killed her.”
“Maybe,” I said. “And if so, we want to know that. And why.”
She looked at me, her eyes narrowing. “Kristi was good people. She didn’t deserve any of this.”
I nodded. “That’s what we hear.”
“Believe it. She was solid. Totally solid.” Moisture gathered in her eyes. “What do you want to know?”
“Did you ever meet Kirk Ford?”
“Sure. He would come in here, flash money around, all smiles and good looks. People fawning all over him. Like a goddamn movie star. ’Course, I guess he is.”
“Up until yesterday, what did you think of him?” I asked.
“Yeah, well, that was then. This is now.”
I waited her out.
She sighed and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand. “Truth is, I was taken by him, too. I mean, he is a good-looking dude. And seemed nice.”
“What about Kristi?” Nicole asked. “How did she feel about him?”
“Girl fell hard. I think she thought it was true love.”
“Maybe it was.”
Gloria let out a little explosive laugh. “He has a funny way of showing it, don’t you think?”
“What about him?” I asked. “How do you think he felt about her?”
“I don’t know for sure. But he seemed to be into her. I mean, they’d sit over there”—she waved a hand—“at that corner table. Get all moony-eyed and kissy-faced. Sort of embarrassing if you ask me.”
“No arguments? Problems?”
“Not that I saw. And Kristi said he treated her like a queen. ’Course, I told her he probably does that to all the girls.” A faint smile parted her lips, and she looked down as if thinking of something. “She wouldn’t buy any of that. Said he wasn’t like that.”
“Drugs?” I asked. “Did Kristi use any?”
Gloria shook her head. “No. Never.”
I gave Nicole a quick glance. “What about her family? I understand her brothers are making noises.”
“Wouldn’t you? Your kid sister gets murdered? Wouldn’t that stir up your hornets?”
I smiled. “Sure would.”
“Well, Robert and Kevin aren’t guys you want to mess with. They ain’t real bright but they’re big and bad dudes.”
Mister squeaky balloon the clown and the entourage of giggling and shrieking kids he had attracted were making it hard to concentrate. Cute for about a minute, their racket was rapidly becoming annoying. Didn’t seem to bother Nicole though.
“And her parents?” Nicole asked.
“Dead. Her mother died when Kristi was young. Maybe five or six. Some kind of cancer, I think. She didn’t talk about it much. Just missed the hell out of her. Then in high school her father was killed when some drunk T-boned his car. On his way to work. Early in the morning.” She shook her head. “Folks around here drink any time. Morning, noon, night, it don’t much matter.” She wiped her hands on the towel she had stuffed in her apron tie. “Her uncle took care of her and her brothers after that.”
“Who’s her uncle?” I asked.
She looked at me as if I were stupid. “For a couple of investigators, you don’t know a whole bunch, do you?”
“That’s why we ask questions.” I smiled again.
That seemed to soften her a notch. “Sorry. This is just all too much.”
“I understand. I lost my mom at an early age, too.”
Again, her eyes glistened. “Well, her uncle is Tony Guidry. And you don’t want to be anywhere near his bad side.”
“You’re the second person who’s told us that,” Nicole said.
“Believe it. It’s true.”
“What do you mean by bad?” I asked.
“He’s the real deal. No make-believe there, from what I hear. Story is he’s connected.”
“Connected?”
“You know. The mob.”
“Mob?” Nicole said. “I thought that was a thing of the past.”
Another short laugh. “Where the hell you think you are? This is New Orleans. Gambling, alcohol, drugs, tittie bars. All that shit mob guys got their fingers into.”
“And Uncle Tony is in all that?” I asked.
“I don’t know what he’s into and even if I did I wouldn’t bump my gums about it. I ain’t stupid.” She paused a beat. “Look, I got to get back to work.”
“Thanks for talking with us,” Nicole said. “It really helped.”
“Don’t know about that, but I was you, I’d steer clear of her brothers and Tony and his guys. They just might find your ass rolling down the Mississippi.”
What a pleasant thought.
She started to walk away, but I stopped her by asking, “Was Kristi seeing anyone else? During or before Kirk showed up?”
She turned back to me. “Yeah. Owen Vaughn. Good guy. I thought he and Kristi might be in it for the l
ong haul. They’ve been an item for years.”
“But?”
“He did what guys do. Cheated on her. So she dumped him.”
“When was that?”
She looked up as if recalling. “A few months ago.”
“How’d he take it?” Nicole asked.
“Not well. Came by and begged her to forgive him. Saying it was a stupid mistake. She agreed with that alright. But she wouldn’t take him back.” She sighed. “Still, he came around and tried to snag her.”
“Was he upset?” I asked. “Angry? Anything like that?
She shook her head. “Not really angry. Owen’s not an angry guy. I’d say more crushed than anything.”
“So, no threats or anything like that?” Nicole asked.
“Not Owen’s style.”
“What is his style?”
“You know—quiet, soft-spoken. Very polite. That’s my take anyway. Of course, I was wrong about Kirk Ford, too.”
“Do you know how we could reach him?” I asked. “Owen?”
“His dad owns a car repair shop. Over off Esplanade. Vaughn’s Motor Works or something like that. Owen works there.”
Nicole reached out and touched Gloria’s arm. “And I’m truly sorry about your loss.”
She scrunched her eyes, holding back tears, followed by a short sniff. “Yeah, life’s a big old bitch sometimes.” She spun and weaved her way through the tables toward the kitchen.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DIRECTOR MARTY EBERSOLE expected a zoo at the courthouse. He got one. Big-time.
The Orleans Parish Criminal District Court covered an entire block of Tulane Avenue just north of the Pontchartrain Expressway in a neighborhood populated by rows of shotgun houses. An array of Corinthian columns gave it a certain majesty as did the series of age-tarnished double doors that led inside. The press, well represented with cameras, shoulder-held video equipment, and slickly dressed, live-remote-ready reporters, jostled for position with what I guessed was well over a thousand other folks.
The throng packed the broad entry staircase and the grassy areas that flanked it. Several uniformed officers maintained a line along the curb in a futile attempt to keep the crowd from drifting into the street. Only marginally successful from what I could see. The traffic along Tulane snarled as cars jerked to a stop to avoid pedestrians who darted across the street and many brushed dangerously close to other oblivious gawkers. Our limo crept along with the flow.
“What a mess,” Nicole said.
“Sure is.”
“How are we going to get through that?”
“Head down, straight ahead, and avoid eye contact.”
She laughed. “Not sure that’ll work.” She looked out the window. “Reminds me of the mob outside Dr. Frankenstein’s castle. All they need are torches and pitchforks.”
There was truth in that. The good citizens did appear to be divided into two camps, some lifting signs that supported Kirk, his smiling face front and center on many of them; others waved placards that called him everything from a child molester to a serial predator and murderer. Nothing like a high-profile killing to divide a city. Especially if even a hint of sex is involved. I hoped the shouted verbal assaults they directed at each other didn’t become physical. Particularly since we had to wade through them.
When the limo stopped, we clamored out and followed Ebersole and the twins through the wake created by a pair of NOPD uniforms through the crowd and up the stairs. Cheers and jeers followed us. Some screamed to Tegan and Tara and extended pieces of paper and flapping pads, begging for autographs; others directed stabbing glares and angry shouts our way as if we were guilty by our connection to Kirk. I grasped Nicole’s arm tightly until we pushed through the entry doors.
Inside was quieter. Security tight. A dozen NOPD officers and four guys who looked like SWAT dudes—tactical gear, automatic weapons, alert eyes, no smiles—funneled us to a table manned by two uniformed officers. They checked our IDs and matched our names to those on a list. I wondered if our names hadn’t made the list whether we’d be escorted out, handcuffed, or shot. Looked like it could go either way. To say everyone was tense didn’t quite do it justice. Each of the officers attempted to appear relaxed, casual, but their sharp, intrusive stares said otherwise. Well, there was one who seemed distracted. His gaze kept sweeping over the twins, and Nicole. I wanted to tell him to stop oogling—where had I heard that word before?—but since he was armed, I beat that idea into submission.
Fortunately, we made it past the security check—metal detectors, pat-downs, purse searches—and were led down a long hallway to the courtroom. Before we made it inside, Nicole’s cell chimed. She answered, walking away from us as she brought the phone to her ear. She chatted for a few minutes, slipped the phone back in her pocket, and returned to where we stood.
“Uncle Charles,” she said. “Wanted an update. Also said he wasn’t going to make it anytime soon.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“Some big dustup at the remote site. Seems the owner of the property is threatening to toss them out. Uncle Charles thinks it’s simply a shakedown for more money.”
“Ah, money.”
“Anyway, the entire production is on hold until he settles it.”
“Ah, the French.”
She smiled. “You got that right.”
“Bet he isn’t too happy about now. I mean, two productions in limbo.”
“While the bills keep rolling in.”
When we entered the courtroom, already packed, a soft, electric hum of voices filling the air, all eyes seemed to turn toward us. Well, Nicole and the twins anyway.
Ben Kornblatt greeted us, shaking hands with Ebersole and me and hugging the girls over the railing that divided the spectators from the business end of the courtroom. He was tall, with thick black hair, and wore a perfectly tailored dark blue suit—an Armani or something equally high-end—a white shirt, and red tie. Power and confidence. Kornblatt was a player. No doubt.
He introduced us to his local cocounsel, Walton Greene. Thin and wiry, brown hair that could use a comb, his tan suit a size too large and a little less crisp.
The prosecutor, an attractive woman, leaned, straight-armed, on the railing behind her table, and chatted with three men. Two younger guys, very large, very stone-faced, probably the brothers; and a shorter, thicker, older guy with dark hair, graying at the temples, and a three-piece, faintly pinstriped navy blue suit. Tony Guidry, the uncle. Had to be.
Though he looked at and talked directly to the prosecutor, I got the impression that much of his attention was on us. No glances our way, but I had the feeling he was sizing us up peripherally. I also suspected he was all Gloria the Café du Monde waitress had said he was. Dangerous. Face relaxed, hands folded calmly in his lap, he looked as if he was in control of all before him. The entire courtroom. I wondered if that extended to the judge, who had yet to make an appearance.
The two brothers were a different story. They looked at us with hooded eyes and tight jaws. No doubt we were the enemy. As if they didn’t need a trial to declare Kirk Ford guilty—just take him out back and hang him—and anyone who even hinted at supporting him was fair game.
Their collective gaze left us and turned toward a door to the left of the bench as it swung open. Kirk walked through, accompanied by the bailiff. He wore a tan suit and blue shirt, no tie. At least he wasn’t in jail garb, and no handcuffs. He caught Nicole’s eye and offered a thin smile.
She leaned into me, whispering, “He looks scared.”
He did. His face was tight, jaw set, eyes wide and almost glassy. “Nice suit though.”
“Kornblatt’s insistence, I’m sure,” she said. “Probably leaned on the judge.”
“Probably. Jail jumpsuits always make you look guilty.”
Nicole was right about one thing. Despite the circumstances, and his obvious fear, Kirk was indeed pretty. No other word seemed to fit. I mean, I’d seen his face in movies and on the covers of magazines,
but none of those did him justice. He had that “thing.” That “It Factor.” That charismatic halo that made him the superstar he was. If it came to it, I wondered if the jury would hold that against him or melt before his charm. From the facts we had assembled so far, Kirk better hope for the latter.
Kirk moved behind the table, shook hands with Kornblatt and Greene, then took his seat, adjusting his collar so that it lay just right. He never looked toward the prosecution table.
“All rise,” the bailiff barked. The black-robed judge, the Honorable William Booth, walked in, climbed behind his podium, sat, and said, “Please be seated.”
The show had begun.
After all the preliminary mumbo jumbo, the judge asked the prosecutor to present her arguments. She introduced herself as Assistant DA Melissa Mooring and jumped directly into vilifying Kirk. Only he and the girl had been in the room, the door locked, no one else with access.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Ebersole had a key card. Though, according to him, he didn’t get it until later in the day, after the fingerprint dust had settled, so to speak. And, of course, the hotel staff had access. Did anyone else? Couldn’t those things be cloned? I made a mental note to ask Ray. He’d probably know. Pancake would for sure.
Mooring continued, pointing out that the victim had been brutally strangled to death. That she was young and naive and just entering womanhood with her entire life before her. That she had been starstruck and manipulated into bed by a “seasoned predator” who had a history of such behavior. That Kirk’s lack of “memory of these sordid events” was “convenient.” She hammered the point that incapacitation and selective amnesia seemed to be his only defense. She closed by saying that Kirk had unlimited funds, was not local, was charged with murder, and definitely posed a flight risk. She asked that the judge hold him without bail.
No doubt Assistant DA Melissa Mooring knew her stuff.
Hell, Kirk sounded guilty to me. Was that merely perception or reality?
