A-List

by D P Lyle

  “In what way?” I asked.

  “Like I was floating. Or flying. Or something. Like the world had shifted off axis.” He looked at me. “Crazy, isn’t it? I don’t use it often but I have had some pretty good stuff. I mean, Hollywood? High-end everything rolls around out there. But this was different.”

  “The new stuff,” Pancake said. “The product out there now ain’t your daddy’s Mary Jane.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Kirk said.

  “And toss in a bunch of fermented grapes and things can get wonky in a hurry,” Ray said.

  “Maybe. It’s not like I haven’t mixed those two before.”

  “You sure Kristi didn’t say where she got it?” I asked.

  “Not that I remember. But then, I don’t remember much.”

  When Kirk had entered the room, he had shed his sports coat and now wore a black tee shirt. I had noticed several scratches on his arms and flashed on what Doucet had said.

  “Those scratches.” I pointed to his exposed arms. “How’d you get those?”

  “From all the crap we have to wade through in the swamp and the underbrush out there.”

  The twins snapped to a sitting position. In unison. Like a Rockette’s routine.

  “We can attest to that,” one of them said. Not sure which.

  Her sister stretched her pullover off one shoulder. A nice shoulder. Covered with fine scratch lines. “We have them everywhere. I’m amazed we haven’t been infected by some deadly swamp bug.”

  “True,” the first twin added. She lifted her shirt, exposing her abdomen and a pair of long, thin welts. “Our Space Quest uniforms don’t cover much so we’ve got these marks everywhere. And I mean everywhere.”

  “The cops made me strip and they photographed them,” Kirk said. “Front and back.”

  “Standard procedure,” Ray said. “And the ME will look for your DNA under Kristi’s fingernails.”

  Kirk stared at him. “What if they find it?”

  “Will they?” Ray asked.

  Kirk shook his head. “I don’t know. Kristi wasn’t a scratcher if that’s what your asking. She enjoyed sex but wasn’t that wild.”

  “Doesn’t matter anyway,” Ray said. “You two had consensual sex, so that wouldn’t mean too much in court.” He opened his hands. “If you two had been strangers, then that’s a different story. But as it is, your attorney can easily explain it away.”

  Kirk took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “This is a nightmare. It’s like everything is spinning so fast and I can’t get off the ride.”

  Another silence fell.

  “Anything else you guys need right now?” Ebersole asked.

  “Lots of things,” Ray said. “But I don’t think Kirk can help us with that. Not right now anyway.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kirk said. “I wish I could remember more.”

  “That’s okay. This gives us a little to work with.”

  “Like what?”

  “We’ll get to that another time,” Ray said. “Right now, Pancake and I have to do some digging.” He looked at me. “Jake and Nicole, too.”

  Did he really say that? He actually needed our help? Was Ray mellowing in his old age? Not likely, but still, it was nice to be on the team.

  Ebersole stood. “It’s been a long couple of days. And we shoot tomorrow. Early. We have some lost time to make up. Let’s all get some rest.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I HADN’T GOTTEN much sleep last night. At least not in hours. Four or five. But those hours must have been deep and coma-like because by morning I felt refreshed. So much so that I woke ready to go—so to speak. I crept a hand toward Nicole but found an empty bed. Then I heard the hiss of the shower.

  Last night, after our chat with Kirk, we swung by the Monteleone bar for a quick drink. Turned into four. I think. Could’ve been more. Probably was. We ran into a family from Chicago. Mom and dad and their twentysomething son. He gave Nicole the once-over—the son that is. Come to think if it, so did dad. But the son was more interested in me. Not that way, but in a Major League Baseball way. Turned out he was some sort of baseball savant. Knew everything about everything. He remembered things about my career I couldn’t have pulled from my memory banks even if someone held a .357 to my head. Stats galore. And yes, I signed a napkin for him before Nicole and I said our good-byes and headed upstairs. It was after midnight.

  I wanted to play, but Nicole stripped, crawled beneath the covers, and went facedown into a deep sleep. I cracked open my self-defense book. Before I flicked off the bedside lamp, I learned to control someone with their pinky, snapping it if need be, to rip the ligaments in a knee with a well-placed kick, and to collapse an instep with a stomp.

  I was getting more dangerous every day.

  Just as I decided to roll out of bed and join Nicole, the shower fell silent. Then she came out, wrapped in a towel, a swirl of steam following.

  I patted the bed next to me. She glanced down at the now tented sheet.

  “Put that away before you hurt someone.”

  See, I told you I was getting dangerous.

  “Maybe I could hide it somewhere?” I smiled.

  She shook her head while stepping into a pair of jeans. “As appealing as that sounds, crude but appealing, I don’t have time. Got to meet the limo in about fifteen minutes.”

  “The limo?”

  “Ebsersole’s ride. I’m going out to the shoot with Kirk and the twins.”

  “Oh. When did you decide that?”

  She shook her head. “We discussed it last night.”

  “We did?”

  “We did. Before we left Ebersole’s suite. Then I told you again. In the bar. Twice.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Of course you don’t. You were playing baseball hero with that kid.”

  “Me? He started it.”

  She laughed. “I was amazed at all the stats and stuff he knew.” She tugged on a black tee shirt. “Sorry to abandon you and your friend.” She nodded toward my friend, who had apparently given up all hope. “But I have to run. Will you be okay on your own?” Another smile.

  “Funny. I have important stuff to do anyway.”

  “Like what?”

  “Ray, Pancake, and I are getting together with Detective Doucet later this morning. Then we’ll come out your way.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, tying her sneakers. “I’ll call you later.” She kissed my cheek, grabbed her purse, and was gone.

  So much for fooling around.

  Now what to do? I had a couple of hours to kill. Maybe a walk. Shirt, shorts, and my New Balance shoes, and I was out the door.

  The Riverwalk, a major French Quarter tourist attraction, was a great place for an early morning stroll. As I headed downstream along the banks of the Mississippi, I passed a few other walkers, a couple of hard-core joggers, and a small group doing Tai Chi—an odd form of pretzel-like contortions that I suspected were the origins of yoga, Pilates, and probably Mummenschanz. They seemed happy so I guess it was working.

  A barge piled with what looked more like junk than anything else motored north and another maneuvered toward the opposite shore—Algiers—with the aid of a tug, its props churning up the water. I always thought tugs were cool. They worked for a living. I stopped and watched for a few minutes, then turned and headed back upstream.

  They don’t call the Mississippi “The Big Muddy” for nothing. Even in the flat early morning light, the water looked like coffee.

  Speaking of which.

  I made my way back to Café du Monde and grabbed a cup from the take-out window. I saw Gloria, Kristi’s friend, balancing a tray of beignets as she weaved through the tables. She saw me and nodded. After she delivered the powdered sugar bombs to a table of six, she walked my way, her elbow clamping the now empty tray to her side.

  “What’s new?”

  “Kirk Ford got out of jail last night,” I said.

  “Already?”

 
“Bail.”

  “I’m sure he can afford it.”

  “He’s not clear of the charges, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I would hope not. But you just never know. Money talks. Loudly.”

  A busboy came by, and she handed him the empty tray, nodding a thanks.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  “Sure.”

  “The cops found a half-smoked joint in the room. Where Kristi was …”

  “Murdered.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, Kirk said it wasn’t his. Said Kristi brought it.”

  “No way. Not a chance.”

  “It’s what he said.”

  Her eyes flashed. “He’s trying to blame this on Kristi?” She looked across the patio, unfocused, a slow shake of her head. “Just great.”

  “I didn’t read it that way,” I said. Her gaze returned to me. “And I didn’t say I necessarily believed him.”

  “Don’t. I told you, Kristi never touched that or anything else. And she damn sure wouldn’t carry it around with her.”

  I nodded. “For the sake of argument, if she did have some, where would she have gotten it?”

  “She didn’t.”

  “But if she did?”

  “She wouldn’t.” She sighed. “But it’s not exactly a rare commodity around here. And just about anything else that stirs your gumbo.”

  I smiled. “Voice of experience?”

  Now she smiled. “Maybe.”

  “So, if she, or anyone else, wanted to purchase some, who would be a likely source?”

  “You’re dense, aren’t you?”

  Was that an insult? She softened it with another smile.

  “It’s been said.”

  “I’m sure.” She laughed. “This is New Orleans. There ain’t nothing you can’t purchase on just about any corner.” She waved a hand toward the sidewalk where a couple of performers were already setting up for the day, while across the street, an artist was hanging his wares on the wrought-iron fence that hugged Jackson Square. Free enterprise started early around here. Gloria went on. “But, if Kristi did pick some up, and I’m not saying she did, it wouldn’t have been from a stranger.”

  “Then who?”

  “A couple of the cooks here always have some. And so do her brothers.”

  “Oh?”

  “They were born stupid and I know they smoke, which doesn’t make them any smarter. And I know they deal a bit. Small-time, but they do.”

  “Wonder what their uncle thinks of that.”

  “Shit. That’s probably where they learned to deal. Drugs are part of Tony’s domain.” She looked around. “I didn’t say that.”

  “I didn’t hear it either.”

  “But if he found out those two clowns were feeding Kristi drugs, he’d kill them. Maybe literally.”

  “You did say he was protective of Kristi.”

  “No doubt.” A couple seated near the sidewalk waved to her. She raised a “just a sec” finger. “I got to get to work.”

  “Thanks for chatting.”

  “Anytime.” Then she was off.

  I had forty-five minutes before I hooked up with Ray and Pancake, and needed to shower, shave, and look somewhat presentable, so I pointed myself toward the Monteleone. I passed the fortuneteller’s shop. It was dark. Closed up tight. I guessed fortunes weren’t available until after morning coffee. Maybe breakfast at Brennan’s. She could afford it. I mean, forty bucks for fifteen minutes of mumbo jumbo.

  As I turned up Royal, my cell chimed. Caller ID said Tammy. That’s Tammy the Insane. My ex. My never-ending headache. Even though she tossed me out years ago—not without reason, mind you—and married dear old Walter Horton, her divorce attorney and the extractor of half my net worth, she still seemed to regard me as some sort of advisor, confessor, or something. Never could figure out my role in her little dramas. And they were dramas. Always. Tammy lived for drama. I could expect anywhere from two to twenty-seven calls from her on a weekly basis. I hadn’t heard from her for a few days, so it was time.

  I considered punching it over to voice mail but that was a fool’s errand. It would only lead to a rapid series of calls and rants. With Tammy, everything was a war of attrition. Voice of experience here. I answered.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “New Orleans.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Nicole.” I did love pushing her buttons. It was a small reward for the crap I took from her.

  “Asshole. What are you really doing?”

  “Negotiating the Louisiana Purchase.”

  “Don’t be an ass.”

  “I try not to, I really do.”

  “No, you don’t.” I waited her out. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving.”

  “News flash—you’re not my secretary.”

  “You know Walter and I are going through a tough time.”

  “Any time with you is tough.”

  “You can be so exasperating.” Again, I waited her out, knowing Tammy didn’t expect or need a response. “Jake, I need your help.”

  “About what this time?”

  “Walter. He’s really depressed. So much so it’s scaring me.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a normal response given recent events?”

  “But …”

  “But nothing. His girlfriend was murdered, he was a suspect, his life was threatened by a Ukrainian mobster, and he’s still stuck with you. Depression seems reasonable to me.”

  “Barbara wasn’t his girlfriend.” Was that her takeaway from all that? Apparently so. She continued. “She was a mistake. A distraction.”

  “Semantics.”

  “She was my friend, too. And I’m not depressed.”

  See? Everything in Tammy’s world is about her.

  “Walter’s the sensitive type,” I said.

  “And I’m not?”

  I almost laughed but mustered the good sense to reign it in. “Tammy, I’m not Walter’s therapist. In fact, he doesn’t like me very much. Maybe he should see a pro.”

  “But you have a knack for making everything seem unimportant. Light. Meaningless. Walter could use that.”

  “You have a charming way of asking for help.”

  I had reached the Monteleone, but rather than drag this conversation into the lobby, I loitered on the sidewalk. Kirk’s protesters and supporters hadn’t yet arrived, so the street was quiet. “Look, I have nothing to offer Walter. And I’m a bit busy right now.”

  “What’s more important than Walter’s mental health?”

  “You want a complete list or just a thumbnail?”

  “You’re an ass.” She disconnected the call.

  Welcome to my world.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  RAY, PANCAKE, AND I hooked up with Doucet outside the courthouse. The original plan was to meet at his office, but he had called Ray, saying he had to drop off some evidence materials at the court. An unrelated case. Rather than hassle with the parking area security, we met him out front near the steps where yesterday Kornblatt had done his song and dance for the media.

  Ray and Doucet hit it off immediately. I knew they would. Both seemingly cut from similar cloth. After sharing a couple of who-do-you-know-that-I-know anecdotes, they dove into the Kirk Ford situation and the murder of Kristi Guidry. Doucet apparently considered Ray a comrade in arms and showed no reluctance to share what meager evidence he had in the case.

  “Doesn’t look good for Ford,” Ray said.

  Doucet shrugged.

  “Any other suspects?”

  “Not really.” Doucet shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up the street. “I mean, locked room, two people, one ends up dead. Not sure where to go from there.” He looked at Ray. “Don’t see how anyone else could have.”

  “That’s my take,” Ray said.

  “Unless it’s one of those Agatha Christie stories,” I said.

  “I don’t think old Agatha is in play here,” Ray said. “I
suspect Ford’s best bet is a diminished-capacity defense.”

  “That’ll be a tough sell,” Pancake said. “Alcohol and marijuana might make you goofy and stupid, but it usually doesn’t make folks violent.”

  “Nor completely erase memory as Ford has said,” Ray added.

  “Not even the new stuff?” I asked. “There’s some pretty potent weed out there. I’ve seen it at my bar. Folks disoriented and confused.”

  “That’s true of most of the riffraff that frequent your place,” Ray said.

  He can be so pleasant. But I had learned long ago to let Ray’s jabs slide. Mostly. He hated Captain Rocky’s. Hated that I owned it. That I chose that over “legitimate work.” Legitimate in his eyes, anyway.

  “We call them customers,” I said.

  Ray shrugged. “Regardless of the effects of marijuana, new or old, Ford will use that. And it seems he’s already started down that road.”

  “Oh?” Doucet said.

  “He’s saying he doesn’t remember anything—as in nothing.”

  “You saying he’s faking that?” Doucet asked.

  “I don’t know what’s in Ford’s head. Or his attorney’s noggin. Who I hear is pretty slick.”

  “Sure seems to be,” Doucet said. “And, of course, we see the I-don’t-know or I-don’t-remember or it-wasn’t-me-I-swear defense all the time.”

  “Kirk said Kristi brought the joint they smoked,” I said.

  Doucet nodded. “So he says.”

  “Nicole and I talked with Kristi’s old boyfriend and a friend of hers over at Café du Monde. They both said she didn’t move in those circles. That she never used anything.”

  “That’s what I heard, too,” Doucet said. “From everyone we talked to. Including her uncle Tony.”

  “Until she met Ford anyway,” Ray said.

  “What about the DNA?” I asked.

  Doucet scratched one ear. “The ME did find some tissue beneath one of Kristi’s fingernails. And Ford had scratches all over him. Some old, some new. He said they were from the swamp where they’re shooting the movie. The ME told me his injuries were indeed consistent with that. Particularly given they’re varying ages.”