Murder in the Rue St. Ann

by Greg Herren

  I’d first met Loren at a gay and lesbian business social held at Cobalt on St. Charles Avenue. The invitation to attend had been unexpected, and I wasn’t that interested in going, but when the night rolled around, I had nothing else to do. Paul was visiting his parents in Albuquerque and I was bored, so I decided to get dressed and go. I’d met Loren at the bar—both of us were getting glasses of wine—and then had run into him again outside smoking. We started chatting, exchanged business cards. After we’d met, he threw some business my way every once in a while.

  Loren was one of those gay men who made you feel guilty. He was politically active—he often wrote briefs and legislation about queer rights to go before the state legislature. He never tired of trying to get me more involved in things like that. I always said no—hell, I rarely voted—but he always kept after me. It was people like Loren who made life better for the rest of us.

  I handed him an ashtray and went into the kitchen to make us both a drink. I made them about half liquor and half mixer.

  “Now that’s a drink.” Loren said, making a face as he swallowed. “But this rotgut vodka is going to give me a headache in the morning.

  I lit up another cigarette. It tasted incredible, a little piece of heaven just for me. Fuck you, Paul, I thought as I inhaled another lungful of relaxing smoke. “So what’s the story?”

  Loren took another swig of his drink. “It looks bad. He talked before I could get there to shut him up.” He shook his head. “Why don’t people know better?”

  “Fuck.” That was bad news. Never, ever talk to the cops without a lawyer.

  “Well, this is what the police know.” Loren sat back in the sofa, holding his cigarette. “At 6:15 one of the neighbors heard a shot and called 9-1-1. The cops who arrived on the scene a few minutes later found Paul standing over Mark Williams’s body, holding a gun.” He looked at me over his glasses. “I’m vastly oversimplifying to get the point across, all right?” I nodded. “They take him down to the station. They test him for powder residue. He comes up positive. But even before the test came back he told a story to explain it away. He claims he walked in, saw the gun and picked it up. It went off, and then he saw Williams’s body lying there. Then he called 911 on his cell phone.”

  Oh God. I took a big swig of my drink, which burned. Loren was right, the vodka was shit. “How fucking stupid is he?” I growled. I clenched my fists. The cops would never believe a story like that—hell, I didn’t believe it. Nobody could be that stupid.

  “That’s the key, Chanse.” He toasted me with his glass. “Is he stupid enough to do something like that?”

  “I don’t know.” And I didn’t. I didn’t know anything about him at all.

  “Come on, Chanse.” Loren stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. “You’re his partner, for Christ’s sake. If you don’t know, who does?”

  “Turns out I don’t know a lot of things.” I took another drink. This one went down smoother. “What do they say the motive is?”

  “They don’t need a motive yet. There’s more than enough physical evidence to arraign him.”

  “Why was he there?”

  “He told the police—and me—that Williams wanted him to pose for his magazine. He’d decided against it, went over to tell Williams so, and found the door open and Williams dead.” Loren raised his eyebrows. “He saw the gun lying there, picked it up, and it went off. Williams was shot once, right through the heart, and the gun had only been fired twice, and the cops did find the bullet in the floor, like he said, so that part holds up.” He sighed. “But I don’t like it. It doesn’t look good for him, not good at all. The cops are convinced they’ve got their killer, and you know what that means.”

  Yes, I did. Once the cops are convinced of a suspect’s guilt, they are only interested in one thing—convicting him. Overworked and under a lot of pressure, they don’t try very hard to find other suspects or evidence that points to someone else. I took a deep breath. “Did he say anything else about Williams? Other than the magazine stuff?”

  Loren shook his head. “No.” He cocked his head toward me. “Why? Is there more?”

  I finished my drink. “He isn’t telling you everything.”

  Loren placed his drink on top of a TV Guide on my coffee table. “What are you saying? Do you know the motive, Chanse? Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  I walked over to the computer, logged on the Internet, and clicked on the page selling Cody Dallas’s latest tape. The shots of Paul and Mark Williams filled the screen.

  Loren, standing behind me, whistled. “Well, I don’t see why that matters. So he made some porn?”

  I touched the screen on Mark’s face. “That’s Mark Williams, Loren.”

  “Well, fuck. That complicates things.”

  “A little.”

  I turned and watched as he started pacing, chewing on his cigarette butt. “So they had a prior relationship. That doesn’t mean anything. “ He was obviously just thinking out loud, so I remained silent. The vodka was starting to give me a buzz, and my stomach was empty. I was definitely ordering the greasiest, most fattening pizza Café Roma had to offer. Fuck the diet. Fuck the smoking. Fuck the gym tomorrow.

  He stopped pacing and emptied his glass. “Another?” He held it out to me. He followed me into the kitchen and watched me mix his drink. He clapped me on the shoulder. “Consider yourself retained. Find out everything you can about this Mark Williams guy, and I’ll talk to Paul tomorrow morning about it before the arraignment.” He took the drink from me and walked back into the living room.

  “About fees, Loren—“I asked from the doorway. I leaned against the frame, hesitating.

  He gave me a look. “I can cut my normal fees because he’s gay— that’s not a problem. But I can’t do this pro bono.” He sat down. “I also know approximately how much he makes working at the airport. We can work out a payment schedule, that’s no big deal.”

  I made a decision. “Well, I’ll do it for free.” Paul couldn’t be a killer. He just couldn’t. I rushed on, “I mean, he doesn’t have the money, would probably have to borrow some from me, and it seems kind of stupid to have to borrow money to pay me.”

  “Honey, “ Loren said, “the only way I can get you involved in client-attorney privilege is to have you working for me on the case, and even then, a judge could easily decide it doesn’t apply, if the DA really wants to press it.” He sighed. “Print out a contract; I’ll retain your services for a dollar. I doubt a judge would want to know how much I’m actually paying you.”

  “That presents another problem.” I said. Think of it as work. Paul isn’t your boyfriend, he’s the client. It was going to be hard to be objective.

  “Which is?”

  “I already have a client, one who has had business dealings with Mark Williams.” It was getting easier. Just another client, just another client. “There may be a conflict of interest.”

  “Your client might have a motive?” A sly smile spread across Loren’s features. His eyes gleamed. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

  “I can’t say, one way or another.” I held up my hands. “But there might wind up being a conflict of interest.”

  “You don’t have privilege in court, you know,” Loren said as he lit another cigarette. I joined him.

  “I know that. If called to testify, I will. But right now, I don’t know whether my client has motive or not. “

  “So there may not be a conflict of interest.” Loren’s eyes glinted.

  “But one may came up.” I pulled up my standard contract on the computer, typed in a little addendum about the possibility of my needing to dissolve the contract instantly and without explanation. “You realize any information I dig up that you might use in court might be considered ‘tainted’ by the district attorney since I also have this other client. And if it turns out, by whatever chance, my client is guilty, it will be even more tainted by my personal relationship with Paul.” Christ, what a fucking mess.

&nbs
p; “I don’t have to prove he’s innocent, Chanse.” Loren signed the contract after I finished printing it, topened his wallet and handed me a dollar with a lopsided grin. “There—consider yourself retained. And don’t worry too much, okay? All I need is a shadow of a doubt, remember? The state has to prove he’s guilty. My job is a lot easier than theirs. And if I can’t get one single person on that jury to think Paul just might be innocent, then I’m not much of a lawyer, am I? And if you can’t find me some evidence to help create that doubt, you’re not much of a detective.” When I didn’t say anything, he sighed. “Look, Chanse, we’re both very good at what we do. Take comfort in that.” He picked up his briefcase and headed to the door. “Reasonable doubt, Chanse.” He looked at me carefully. “What do you think, Chanse? Do you think he’s guilty?”

  “I don’t know what I think, Loren.” I opened the door for him. “Thanks, man, I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem, Chanse. I’ll be in touch.”

  I watched him get into his Mercedes, waving as he drove off. I shivered. Yeah, he’s probably right, I thought as I walked back into the apartment and got out the joint. I put one of Paul’s Destiny’s Child CDs in the stereo, sat down on the couch, and lit the J. He was a good lawyer, and I’m good at my job. But I knew the only way I could ever be satisfied was to prove him one hundred percent not guilty.

  Christ.

  Hell of a day, I thought, as I let the smoke out slowly. I took another hit, and started to mellow out as the vodka and the pot began to work in tandem. I leaned back in the couch and closed my eyes. He had to be innocent. He had to be.

  Chapter Six

  I didn’t sleep well, which wasn’t much of a surprise.

  I thought getting stoned and having a few more drinks would take the edge off my anxiety and sufficiently anaesthetize me, but I was wrong. All it did was put me into an obnoxious kind of unrestful half-sleep. My body was asleep but my mind was racing. When the alarm went off at seven, I groaned and hit the snooze button, I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to lie there all day. With my eyes closed, I argued with myself about getting up. I could stay in bed until Loren called me with the bail amount. I wouldn’t have to shower to go see a bail bondsman or to go down to Central Lock-up—they’d seen much worse down there than an unshaved and unshowered gay man. In one of life’s hateful little ironies, my mind was finally tired and begging for sleep. I let myself lie there for another half hour before I dragged my ass out of bed and put on coffee to brew while I showered.

  I was just getting out of the shower when someone rang my doorbell. As this was computing in my foggy brain, whoever it was gave up on the bell and started pounding on the door frame hard enough to rattle my windows.

  The hot shower hadn’t worked. I still had a bit of a pot hangover. I shook my head to clear the fog but it didn’t work. I stumbled as I put my robe on, still dripping wet. Not cool. Maybe the coffee will help, I thought as I opened the front door.

  “And just when were you planning on telling me Paul was arrested?” Paige demanded, puffing on a cigarette. She was tapping her foot, one hand on her hip, her huge black purse slung over one shoulder. She pushed past me into my apartment.

  Paige Tourneur was my best friend. We met in college at my fraternity, Beta Kappa, where she was my little sister. She now worked as a reporter for the Times-Picayune, a job she truly hates. She really wants to write romance novels, and has been working on one for about three years.

  Her reddish hair was disheveled, and her eyes were bleary from lack of sleep. She wore a tight short black skirt under a cream-colored silk blouse. She wore heels that put her a little over five feet. The most striking thing about Paige was her eyes. The left was blue and the right was green. She always joked that if she got fired, she could always tell fortunes in Jackson Square.

  “What are you doing up so early?” I asked. Paige hated mornings almost as much as she hated her job.

  She held up a box of Dunkin Donuts. “I brought breakfast, so you’d better fucking have coffee ready.” She looked me up and down. “Oh, for God’s sake, go dry off and put some clothes on.” She plopped down on the couch, opened the box, and revealed a dozen donuts, all glazed. It’s the only kind she’d eat. She grabbed one and looked at me. “Get me some coffee first, honey.”

  I walked into the kitchen and poured us both a cup. I brought it in to her and grabbed a donut. Donuts weren’t on my diet either, but what the hell. I’d already blown the diet completely to hell already anyway. I walked back into my bedroom and pulled on underwear and sweatpants. I joined her in the living room.and lit a cigarette.

  Both of her expertly plucked eyebrows went up. “Smoking again? And donuts? What’s going on?”

  I blew the smoke into the ceiling fan. “Yeah, well.” I shrugged. “I had a hell of a day yesterday.”

  “So I gathered.” She picked up her third donut. “So what the hell is going on? At about five this morning I got a call from the city editor telling me Paul’s been arrested and charged with murder. What the fuck, Chanse?” The city editor was a friend of hers. Paul and I had met him at a party in the summer. Nice guy—intelligent and a little on the sloppy side because he was always thinking and not paying attention to little details like tucking in his shirt and making sure he got every errant hair when he was shaving.

  “I don’t know, Paige.” I grabbed another donut and took a bite. Glazed donuts are heavenly. Why is it that everything really bad for you tastes so good?

  `She sighed. “Come on, Chanse—this is Paige here. Remember me? And this is not for publication, okay? Just tell me. Paul’s my friend, too, remember?”

  “Look, I’d never even heard of Mark Williams until yesterday.” I said. It hadn’t been 24 hours yet. Jesus H. Christ. “Yesterday morning Paul and I got up, went to the gym, and had breakfast at the Bluebird. Then he said he had some errands to run, and I had an appointment with a client in the Quarter.” I sighed. “The day really went to shit from there.”

  “Yeah, well.” She tossed her head. “I think Paul’s day ended up a lot worse than yours. Go on.”

  “Back off. “ I said evenly. “That’s not what I meant.” I lit another cigarette. It was like I’d never quit in the first place. I’d completely forgotten about the delightful little buzz. “So, I was hired yesterday by Dominique DuPre—you know her?”

  “She’s that singer opening a club on Bourbon Street.” She sat back, crossed her legs and pulled her skirt down. “So what for?”

  “Well, she hired me to find out who’s causing trouble for her.” I went on to explain, without a lot of details, what was going on at Domino’s. “And who’s coming out the front door of Attitude? Paul.”

  “So, you didn’t know Paul knew Mark Williams till then?”

  “I’d never fucking heard of him.” The righteous indignation from yesterday began to burn back through the fog. “So, Paul tells me this Williams guy wants him to pose for the magazine cover, and we had a bit of an argument.”

  She stared at me. “About what?”

  It was my turn to stare at her. “I didn’t want him to pose for the cover.”

  She waved her hands. “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” She leaned forward. “You’re telling me you two argued about him posing for the cover?” When I nodded, she rolled her eyes, using her whole head and started laughing. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Chanse, that’s priceless.”

  I don’t like being laughed at. “I don’t think it’s crazy not to want my boyfriend half naked on a magazine cover.” I said in a cold voice.

  “I’m sorry.” She reached over and patted my hand. “I shouldn’t have laughed, but honey, it doesn’t matter. I mean, really.” She clicked her tongue. “Did you stop to wonder why Paul would want to do it?”

  “He likes the attention.” I said. I realized my lower lip was jutting out.

  “Oh, honey.” She shook her head. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe he needs the money?”

  “He doesn’
t need the money!” I said. If Paul needed money, I’d know. She was really in outer space this time.

  “You—“ she paused, took a few deep breaths, then went on. “Chanse, do you remember what it was to be poor?”

  “I’m not rich.” I wasn’t, by a long shot. What the hell was she talking about?

  “When was the last time you had to worry about making your rent? How you were gonna buy groceries? Where your next pack of cigarettes was coming from?” She lit one and exhaled through her nose.

  “Paul’s not broke, Paige. I’d know.”

  “Do you know how much he makes?” She scratched her head.

  “No, I don’t.” We never talked about money.

  “Some detective you are.” She shook her head. “Look, honey, I’m sorry if this seems harsh, but you need to know some things. Paul only makes about ten dollars an hour. That works out to about $400 a week before taxes. So, every two weeks he brings home maybe about $600 or so. He took a huge pay cut to transfer to ground crew. He has to pay his rent, his utilities, his car payment, his insurance and buy food out of that. He’s broke, Chanse.”

  “I—“ I stopped myself and thought back. Come to think of it, I’d never seen Paul with cash. If we went out to dinner, he always paid with a credit card. When we went to bars, I always paid for our drinks and cover charges. That kind of thing never really bothered me; I just assumed that because Paul was so good-looking he was used to having someone buy his drinks, so I just always did. But come to think of it, every time we went to the clubs, Paul always hung back and let me go first when paying cover. Once we were inside, he would say, “Can you get me a drink, honey?”

  It never occurred to me he might need money. Or that he’d taken a pay cut so he could be in my bed every night.