by Greg Herren
“No, he just seemed sad. He really wanted to do the cover.” He glanced at his watch. “I really should get back—the phones have been crazy all day.”
The sun had gone down a bit and the afternoon shadows were getting long and cold. I shivered and wished I’d brought a jacket. “Do you know how I can get in touch with Ricky Dahlgren?”
He shrugged as he punched in a code at the gate. “I really don’t know much about him—I’ve only seen him in passing, and never really talked to him much. Zane would probably know.”
We heard the loud voices as we climbed up the steps to the porch. One voice was louder than the other; deeper and more insistent. Ghentry made a face. “Great.”
“What’s going on?”
“Enrique Sanchez.” He made a sound of disgust. “He’s the concert promoter for the company. He books the acts and so on. He’s an arrogant asshole.” He opened the door and the argument abruptly broke off. Julian was sitting at her desk, her mouth open and her arms crossed over her Lilith Fair sweatshirt. Zane was sitting at his desk, his face red. He looked like he was about to start crying at any minute. In the center of the room was a dark man about five ten and carrying about two hundred pounds. He was wearing jeans about a size too small and a plaid flannel shirt. His hair was blue black and slicked down. There were a couple of pinkish red pimples spread over his face. Sadly, he looked like he was 25, tops.
“Can I help you?” His smile was about as slick as his hair.
“I’d like to talk to Zane for a moment.” I put my hands in my pockets., fixing him with an inexpressive stare.
He blinked, and turned his head back to Zane. “Zane?”
Zane rose, wiping his hands on his jeans and taking a deep breath. “Let’s go into Mark’s office.”
I followed him into the room and let out a low whistle. It was a shambles. Papers were scattered everywhere, the trash can and its contents spilled, drawers open. The computer was gone, a clean space in the center of the once-meticulous desk where it had once sat.
Zane sat down in Mark’s chair and threw his arms out. “I’m surprised they didn’t tear up the carpet.”
I took a pile of disheveled papers out of a chair, placing them on a table and sitting down. “The police?”
He nodded. “They tore the place apart.” He put his elbows down on the desk and put his face in his hands. “They fucking took Mark’s computer! How the hell am I supposed to—“ his voice died off in a strangled groan.
“You’ll get it all back.” I looked around the room. What had the search warrant been for? The case against Paul must not be very strong if they felt the need to search the office. With a twinge of hope, I put myself into cop mentality. You’ve got a shooter, fingerprints on the gun, gunpowder residue on the suspect’s hands. Sure, there’s no motive, but it literally was a smoking gun. But maybe the district attorney didn’t think it was open and shut.
“All our financial records were in his computer.” Zane looked at me. “How am I supposed to run the business without that?”
I stared at him. At best, he was maybe 22. “I imagine it would be hard.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He stared off into space, his eyes wet. “I can’t run this company without Mark. “
“How did you happen to go into business with him?”
“I met him last spring. At Oz. I was working as a bar-back.”
I looked at his thin arms. Oz’s bar-backs were known for being muscular. They had to be—they lugged tubs of ice and cases of liquor around. I couldn’t imagine Zane carrying two cases of vodka on his shoulder. “Really?”
He nodded. “Yeah, but I never worked behind the bar. They always had me work the door.” He shrugged.
That made sense. “So how did you meet?”
“He came in one night and started talking to me while I was working.” He shrugged. “He was drinking water, I remember thinking he must be rolling or something, but he wasn’t. He told me he wasn’t much of a drinker. I don’t know, I think at some point he told me he was the editor of attitude. I told him I’d always wanted to design a magazine, and he told me he wasn’t very good at it, and why didn’t I stop by his office?”
“You’ve done a good job.” I didn’t know if he had, but it never hurts to give compliments.
He smiled. “Thanks. I’d worked here for maybe a week or two when Mark’s partner decided he wanted to close the business down.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, really. The last thing I wanted to do was go back to Oz to work, you know?” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not into that whole bar thing, you know? So, when Mark suggested we buy the business, I was all for it.”
“How did you swing it?”
“My parents took out a loan for me.” Zane stared out the window.
“How much did Mark put up?”
“Nothing.” Zane twisted his class ring. “He has a trust fund he was going to come into on his next birthday, and then he was going to pay my parents back, but I was going to get fifty percent of the business for allowing us to keep it going.”
“A trust fund.” It sounded like a scam to me. Mark gets Zane and his parents to put up the money to buy the business, which he then gets to run like it’s his. And somehow, I rather doubted Mark had told the Rathburns about his criminal conviction for fraud. “And where was the money coming from to run the business?”
“Well, we do pretty good with the ads from the magazine.” Zane smiled. “And then there was the p.r. business. That was Mark’s idea—to do p.r. and promote concerts.”
“And how did all that work?”
“Dominique was paying us five grand a month for the pr, and we got to keep the door money from the shows we did there.” He shrugged. “We were losing money on the shows, but they were getting our name out there. We were getting ready to branch out into other venues where we’d make more money.” He sighed. “We were negotiating to do a show with Divas Three out at UNO.” Divas Three was the latest rage in pop music—three black girls with exquisite harmonies who sang dance music and were being heralded as the ‘new Supremes.’ “We’d have made a killing on that show.”
“Can’t you go ahead with it?”
“Not without Mark’s computer.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “I don’t even know how much money we have in the bank.”
“So, you’ve only known Mark for a few months?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know anything about some phone calls Mark got that seemed to upset him yesterday?”
“No.” He shrugged. “Mark got calls like that all the time. He always said it was the nature of the business so I never thought much about it, to be honest.” He sighed. “I don’t deal with conflict well, so I was more than happy to let Mark handle that side of the business.”
“And what can you tell me about his boyfriend—this Ricky Dalhgren?”
“Ricky.” Zane made a face. “What a jerk. Good looking, if you like that type.” Obviously from the look on his face he didn’t.
“You didn’t care for him?”
“No. I didn’t understand what Mark saw in him.” Zane shrugged. “To each his own, I guess. Mark told me once that Ricky told him all he was to him was a big dick and a good massage. I don’t know why anyone would put up with that.”
“Do you have a number for him?”
He shuddered. “God, no. Why would I want his number?”
“And you were here last night?”
“Actually, no.” He smiled. “I had a dinner date last night, so I left around seven to get ready for my date.”
“Who was your date with?”
He tossed a copy of the magazine at me. The cover said JUNE. The guy on the cover was shirtless and pretty. “Danny DeMarco—that’s him on the cover.”
I whistled. “Nice.”
“Well, we’re just friends—for now.” He winked at me. “We went to dinner at Pere Antoine’s, and then I stopped by here around nine thirty….and th
at’s when I found out—“ he closed his eyes and shuddered.
I closed my notebook. ‘Thanks. If I have any other questions—“
“Call me anytime.”
I walked out of the office and stood on St. Ann. I flipped open my phone and called both Paul’s home and cell phones. No answer on either.
I walked down to a flower shop on Decatur and ordered him a dozen roses. On the card I wrote, “I’m sorry, so very sorry. Love, Chanse.”
Everyone likes getting flowers, right?
My phone rang as I headed back up to Bourbon Street. “MacLeod.”
“Hey Chanse, Loren here.” I could hear voices in the background. “Can’t talk for long—about to go into a conference—but I’ve got great news—they’ve dropped charges against Paul.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “That’s great—why?”
“Because Paul has a brilliant attorney.” I could hear the grin on his face. “The powder residue was on Paul’s right hand.”
I felt like the sun was coming up. “But Paul’s left handed!”
“Exactly—and they’ve traced the gun. You aren’t going to believe this.”
“Try me.”
“It’s registered to Judge Jerry Dahlgren.”
Dahlgren.
“Isn’t that the best news?” Loren chortled. “Judge Jerry fucking Dahlgren!”
“Thanks. I might be on to something here.” I filled him in on what I’d found out about Ricky Dahlgren.
“Oh man.” Loren sighed. “Ricky Dahlgren is the judge’s son, Chanse. This is getting really crazy.”
“But this is all good news, right?”
“Maybe. I mean, they’ve dropped the charges—for now. But how hard do you think the police are going to investigate a judge’s son? Especially Judge Dahlgren’s son.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“Judge Dahlgren—don’t you ever read the newspapers?”
“No, not really.” Paige always gave me shit about my lack of interest in current events.
“Judge Dahlgren is a racist, misogynist homophobe.” Loren groaned. “He’s going to be very embarrassed to find out his son is wanted for murdering his gay lover. He’s going to look likie a fool—and he’s going to use every bit of influence he has to call off the dogs….and that’s not good for Paul. Look, I’ve got to get into this meeting. I’ll call you later, okay? We’ve got to handle the Dahlgrens with kid gloves, Chanse.” He hung up.
I called Paige. “You busy?”
“Just getting ready to call it quits for the day.” Her voice was cold. “I was going to call you.”
“You were?”
“I talked to Paul a couple of hours ago.” She exhaled. “Christ, Chanse, what the hell were you thinking?”
“I sent him flowers.” It sounded lame to me now. “I’ve blown it, haven’t I?”
“I think you’re pretty close to it, yeah.” She sighed. “The flowers are a nice touch. Paul loves you, and he wants this all to work out—but you scared him to death, Chanse.”
“Oh.” I swallowed. “Wanna meet me for dinner at Snug Harbor?”
“Yeah, what the hell. What time?”
“Give me an hour.” That should be plenty of time to check in with Dominique and ask her some questions.
“Okay.” She hung up.
I dialed Paul again. Once again, his voicemail picked up. I tried his cell phone, but he didn’t answer that either.
I walked back up to Domino’s.
Chapter Ten
I wasn’t sure what to think as I walked down to the corner at Bourbon.
Dominique had known Mark Williams was partially involved in a conspiracy against her club. The harassment was costing her thousands of dollars a day as long as the club wasn’t open. After she got my fax, had she gotten frustrated when she couldn’t get Williams on the phone then come around the corner with murder on her mind? It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility—people killed every day for a lot less. I didn’t know her well enough to make a decision on her guilt myself.
But the gun belonged to Judge Dahlgren—how could she have gotten it?
It was a relief knowing Paul wasn’t the main suspect anymore. It was almost like I was floating rather than walking. Everything would work out for the best, I was sure of it now. Paul would forgive me—he’d have to understand it was the stress and pressure of his arrest that made me snap. We’d sit down and have a nice little chat about our pasts. It was high time we knew each other better, anyway. I loved him, and no matter what secrets his past held, they didn’t matter. We could work everything out. I would ask him pointblank about his money troubles, and if he needed help, I’d give it to him. The money I’d put up for his bail, well, I’d already written that off anyway, so I would loan it to him to get out of debt.
I smiled. No, fuck that. I would give it to him.
I walked into Domino’s feeling much better than I had since yesterday morning, and I guess I walked into the middle of a celebration. Sly was opening a bottle of champagne, and several empties were sitting on the bar. The workmen and assorted other people were drinking, laughing, and chatting. The mood was happy and festive. Dominique herself was leaning against the bar, a glass of Wild Turkey in her hand, a big grin on her face.
“Chanse!” She motioned at Sly. “Pour him some champagne, Sly!’
I took the plastic cup. “What’s going on?”
“The liquor license finally came through this afternoon.” She clinked her glass against my cup. “We can officially open this Friday.”
“That’s great.” I sipped the champagne. It was cheap. “We need to talk; can you give me a few minutes?”
She looked around the room at her happy employees, then nodded. “Come up to my office.”
Her office was on the second floor, with a window that looked out over the dance floor. It was utilitarian, with a few file cabinets shoved up against a wall, a large desk, and not much else other than a couple of chairs. Her desk was clear of clutter. A half-full coffee pot sat on top of one of the file cabinets. She took a seat behind the desk. “What’s going on?”
“You don’t seem to be mourning Mark Williams.”
She made a sound of disgust. “Why would I mourn someone who tried to ruin me?” She sipped her whiskey. “That would be hypocritical, wouldn’t it? I’m not sorry he’s dead—couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
“You were pretty angry when you got my fax.”
She raised a pencilled eyebrow. “Who wouldn’t have been? Someone I trusted implicitly, listened to…” her voice trailed off. She shook her head. “I talked to my lawyer this morning. I’m thinking of suing Attitude for malicious activity.” She gave me the shark-like smile again. “But I think there’s a hell of a lot more to this than you found out…it’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Oh?”
“It doesn’t make sense, Chanse.” She drummed her long nails on her desk. “I believe he was involved, but I don’t think he was the mastermind….” She stood up and walked over to the window, looking down on the darkened dance floor. “In your report, the only reason you could come up with for him doing it was to ‘get me as a client.’ Sorry, that just doesn’t wash—he went to a lot of trouble for five hundred dollars a month.”
I sat up. “Five hundred?”
She nodded.
I got out my notebook and flipped back through the pages. “According to Zane Rathburn, you were paying Attitude five thousand dollars a month.”
She looked at me for a moment, her mouth open, and then she started laughing. “Five thousand dollars? Oh please! I’ve been losing more than that every day this club stayed closed! There’s no way my investors would ever okay that!” She sat back down, crossing her legs and lighting a cigarette. She exhaled. “No, I was paying him five hundred—out of my own pocket. I also let them keep the door from whenever we did a concert here, but I kept the liquor sales.”
“How well do you know Ricky Dahlgren?”
“The gun that killed Mark was registered to his father.”
She rubbed her eyes tiredly. After a few moments, she said, “Not well. I know he worked for Mark, and he was around from time to time, but that’s about it.” Her face hardened. “Why? What does this have to do with my club?”
“Well, nothing.” I shrugged. “I’m checking into Mark’s death, you know, just poking around. I’m a little curious.” No sense in telling her my boyfriend was a prime suspect.
“That’s not what I’m paying you for.”
That came out of left field. “What?’
She looked at me like I was stupid. “Like I said, Mark’s just the tip of the iceberg. Someone else was behind all of this—I doubt he came up with all of this for five hundred bucks a month. I still want you to find out who’s trying to ruin me.” She smoothed her hair. “I know, I sound like some conspiracy theory nut, but—“ she hesitated. “Does it make sense to you?”
“No.” She was right. However starved for cash Attitude may have been, unless Mark was completely insane, going to all the trouble he had in order to keep a client paying him five hundred bucks a month still didn’t make sense. There had to be more. “You didn’t know Mark before?”
“No. I told you, he just came by one day and offered his services. I liked him. He seemed to know what he was doing, and hell, for five hundred bucks, like I said, I could pay him that out of my own pocket and not miss it, you know?”
“Let’s talk about enemies, then.”
“Enemies?” She looked at me like I was insane. “What enemies?”
I sighed. “Look, Dominique, if there’s someone out there who is trying to ruin you, they have to have a reason.”
“Mark thought it was the bars.”
“But you told me you didn’t think so.” I sat back. “Maybe your ex-husband?”
“That’s absurd.”
“Amicable divorce?”
“I don’t want to talk about Charlie.”
“Can you at least tell me his name?”
She glared at me. “Charles Wyatt.” She began tapping her nails on her desk again. “Are we finished here?”
