by Greg Herren
And then I started to cry.
Chapter Twelve
Fortunately for patrol cop Sean Mallory, it’s against the law to strike a police officer. Within a few minutes of meeting him, I was tempted to knock out a few of his teeth.
I was sitting on the bottom step of Paul’s staircase, on my third cigarette when the patrol car came swooping up, sirens blaring and lights flashing. You’d think this would bring the neighbors to their windows to see what was happening, but twenty years of an ever increasing crime rate has deadened New Orleanians to the sound of police sirens. Two cops got out and approached me. One was an older black man with gray at his temples and in his mustache, and a bit of a belly. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked.
I gave it to them as briefly as possible, and the black cop, whose name was Stallings, went up to poke around in Paul’s apartment, leaving me down with Sean Mallory, his partner.
“You know we can’t file a missing persons report for twenty four hours.” He said in a thick yat accent. He was a little under six feet tall, and couldn’t weigh more than a hundred and fifty pounds, and even that had to be mostly bone. He had short red hair, very pale skin covered with greenish-tan freckles, and crooked teeth. Acne scars pitted his left cheek, and a couple of large pimples were scattered across his forehead. His thin lips were chapped. His uniform hung on him like a tent. He didn’t look any older than fifteen.
“Yes, I know.” I decided against telling him I was an ex-cop.
“Maybe your friend”—extra emphasis on ‘friend’—“just went away for a while. Did you check to see if he took any clothes or a suitcase?” He was smirking at me, which was when I started wondering how my fist would feel against his mouth.
“And he just happened to leave a puddle of blood in his kitchen before he left.” I lit another cigarette. “And blacked out his face in a picture. And jacked off on his bed, for good measure.”
“Queers do funny things sometimes.” He smirked. “Who knows why they do what they do?” His tone was condescending. He obviously had been picked on a lot in high school and had got even with the world by becoming a cop—the kind who wishes it was still okay to beat confessions out of suspects. He got off on the power the uniform conveyed. By the time he was thirty his file would be filled with allegations of excessive force and civilian complaints. No doubt he’d be bounced from the force after shooting a suspect in ‘self-defense.’
“Yeah, right.” I muttered.
I heard the heavy footsteps of Officer Stallings coming down the stairs behind me, so I stood up. Immediately, Mallory’s attitude shifted and his facial expression changed. “What’s up, Ted?”
“It’s definitely blood.” He scratched his head. “I think we’d better call in THE LAB.”
Mallory didn’t like the idea, and was about to say something when Venus Casanova’s white SUV pulled up. She got out and walked up the driveway with an air of authority Mallory lacked. “Thanks, guys,” she said, dismissing them with a wave of her hand. “What did you find?”
“There’s blood on the kitchen floor, all right.” Stallings replied. “And there is a print in the living room with the face blacked out. And what appears to be sperm on the bed.”
She nodded, and motioned to me. “Come with me.”
I followed her up the stairs. Venus is tall, an inch or two over six feet, and always wears heels to add a few more inches. She carries herself with an air of regal authority which demands respect, which she accepts as a matter of course. She played scholarship basketball at LSU, and has kept her long frame in excellent shape since. She is not a woman to fuck with. She looked like she could kick your ass with one hand while talking on the phone. The calves beneath her long skirt were muscular. She motioned for me to stay outside on the porch while she walked in and headed for the drying blood. She knelt down and stared at it for a few minutes, then looked around the rest of the kitchen. I stood there, finishing my cigarette, while she went into the living room. A few minutes later, she came back out. “Okay, it looks odd, but there could be any explanation. He could have cut himself and called an ambulance.”
“And only bled on the floor.” I flicked the butt into the driveway. “And cleaned up the rest of the kitchen while he waited. And for good measure, blacked out his own face in a print, and took the other one to the hospital with him just in case. Maybe he fell off the bed when he was beating off?”
“Don’t be a smartass, MacLeod. I’ve had a long day, okay? The lab will be here in a minute—I just called in for them.” She folded her arms. “Did you check to see if his suitcases were here? If any of his clothes were missing or anything?”
“No—once I found the blood I got out of there.” I shrugged. “Besides, his car is still here.”
“Couldn’t he have taken a cab? To the airport?”
“Venus, you’ve seen the place.” I leaned back against the railing. “The fucking place is spotless—no dust anywhere. He wouldn’t have gone anywhere without cleaning up the blood, if he had cut himself. And there is a print missing.”
“He could have gotten rid of it since you were here last, couldn’t he?”
“What about the other one? With the blacked out face?”
“He could have done that himself. There’s really not a lot to go on here.”
“But you went ahead and called in the lab—“ I cut myself off in mid-sentence. She wasn’t looking at me, avoiding my eyes. That was not like her. Venus was a great cop, one of the best on the force. She didn’t bullshit, she didn’t play politics, she spoke her mind, regardless of how much shit it might bring down on her from above. “Venus, why were the charges against Paul dropped?”
“The powder residue—” She still wouldn’t look at me.
“Yeah, Loren told me about that.” Something was starting to stink. “Just because it was on the wrong hand, the DA decided to drop charges? It was a slam-dunk and you know it—he easily could be ambidextrous. It’s flimsy, Venus, very flimsy. What the hell is going on?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“You do think something’s happened to him, don’t you?”
She bit her lower lip before saying, “It wouldn’t surprise me—and that’s all I can say.” She reached out and touched my arm. “Look, Chanse, go check his closet and see if any clothes are missing, and give a statement to Stallings, okay? And then forget about this.”
“I can’t, Venus, you know that.” I replied. My heart was starting to pound. “He’s my lover, for Christ’s sake.”
“Stay out of it, Chanse, let us do our jobs.”
“Yeah, whatever.” I could feel my temper starting to rise, and I swallowed to fight it down. I walked back into the bedroom, and using a paper towel, opened the closet door. His clothes were organized by color and style. Sweaters, dress shirts, T-shirts, jeans, dress slacks. I swallowed, I couldn’t tell is anything was missing, but his suitcases were still in the closet. Unless he’d put clothes in garbage bags, he hadn’t taken anything with him.
I finished giving Venus my statement right after the lab arrived, promised to come down and sign it in the morning, and got into my car. I lit another cigarette, sat there for a moment, then began pounding on the steering wheel until my hands hurt.
Something was very wrong.
I started up the car and drove the few blocks over to Paige’s. She lived in a carriage house behind a big yellow mansion on State Street. Her car was parked on the street. I parked behind her and got out. As I approached, I could hear a Cher CD blaring from inside. I pounded on the door. A few moments later the door swung open. She was wearing a sweatshirt with Tennessee Williams’ face on it and a pajama bottoms. Her hair was messy, her eyes bloodshot. I could smell the delightful odor of marijuana. “What?”
I pushed in past her and turned down the volume on the stereo. “Paul’s missing.”
“What?” She slammed the door behind her. Her computer was on, and I could see she was working on her romance novel. An op
en bottle of wine sat on the desk beside a full glass, and her pipe, which was still smoking a little. Paige always like to get a mild wine-pot buzz going when she worked on the book she hoped would get her out of the reporter business forever. “What do you mean?”
“After dinner I went to see him.” I picked up the pipe and took a hit. “When I got there, all the lights were on, but he wasn’t there. His car was out in front. I pounded on the door, and then let myself in with my key.”
After I finished catching her up, she picked up her glass and downed the wine in one swallow. “Jesus fucking Christ, Chanse.” She sat down on the couch and motioned for me to hand her the pipe. She took a hit and refilled it from a Ziploc bag. “Well, it might not be anything.”
“Come on, Paige.” I started pacing. “Do you really think Paul would leave blood on the floor? You know how anal he is about that apartment.”
She shrugged. “Chanse, look at what’s happened to him in the last twenty four hours, OK? He’s arrested for murdering a friend. He gets out on bail, you two have a fight and you end up hurting him. He might have felt the need to get away for a while. It’s understandable.” She sighed.
“And the prints?”
“Yeah, well, that’s a stretch, I admit. He was pretty damned proud of those prints.”
“And what about Venus asking me to stay out of it? She wasn’t telling me everything.”
“That’s hardly fair.” Paige took another hit and offered me the pipe. “Here, have another hit and mellow, dude. Sit down, you’re working my nerves.”
I obliged.
“Venus isn’t going to tell you jackshit about her investigation, Chanse. You aren’t a cop anymore. She isn’t going to risk it.”
“Well, don’t you think it’s fucking weird they dropped the charges so fast?”
“Yeah, I do.” Paige ran a hand through her unruly hair, messing it up even more. “Now that they have, I can say it: I was scared. I didn’t think he did it, but it looked pretty airtight to me. They must have found something pretty definitive, you know? That, and the powder residue being on the wrong hand.” She lit a cigarette and coughed. “We really should quit smoking, you know.”
“Yeah.” I lit one.
“Okay, let’s go over this whole thing and see what we’re missing.” She got a Steno pad off her coffee table and plucked a pencil from behind her ear. “First of all, Mark Williams was murdered between six and eight o’clock last night. Paul finds the body, picks up the gun and it goes off. The police come and arrest him.”
“Make a time line.” I pulled my tattered little notebook out of my pants pocket. “Okay, at six, Williams leaves his office and goes back to his apartment. A little while later, Ghenty sees Ricky Dahlgren go back there and doesn’t see him come back out. Also, at 5:30, I faxed Dominique my report nailing Williams for harassing her.”
“Do we know where she was?”
“She called for Williams at six, in a rage, and stormed out of her club about seven—the bartender was pretty definite about that, but he also didn’t see her come back. Paul said he got to Mark’s around seven, and he was already dead.”
“Looks like Ricky Dahlgren is the man of the hour—that and the gun was his father’s.” Paige stared down at her pad. “You know, it makes sense, Chanse. They dropped the charges against Paul because they think Ricky Dahlgren is the killer.” She whistled. “Man, this comes at a really shitty time for Judge Dahlgren.”
“Why?”
She glared at me. “You know, you could at least fucking pretend that you read the paper for my articles, you know.” She got up and threw the day’s paper at me. On the front page was a headline “JURY SELECTION BEGINS FOR SANTINI TRIAL.” “He’s hearing the Santini case.”
I read the article. Marco Santini was up on several charges, including racketeering and murder-for-hire. He was described as a local business entrepreneur.
“Local business entrepreneur?”
“Newspaper euphemism for mob ties.”
My head started to hurt. “Ruth Solomon told me Dominique’s ex-husband was a mob lawyer in Atlanta.”
“This Charlie Wyatt guy you wanted me to check out?” The color drained out of her face. “Oh God.” She grabbed the pipe and took another long, slow hit. “Chanse, what if Paul saw something he shouldn’t have?”
“That doesn’t make sense, Paige.” I shook my head. “Ricky Dahlgren went back there, he had his father’s gun. He killed Mark for whatever reason—maybe they had a fight, I don’t know. The mob couldn’t be involved in this.”
“It might not make sense to us now, but we don’t know everything.” Paige rubbed her chin. “Dominique’s ex-husband is a mob lawyer. Dominique hires Mark Williams. Mark Williams is killed by Ricky Dahlgren, whose father just happens to be presiding over the biggest mob trial in decades here….how did Dominique just happen to hire Mark?”
“She says he dropped by one day and offered his services—he knew she was having trouble with VCC complaints and her licenses.” I shrugged. “It sounded weird to me when she told me, but now that we know Williams was behind her trouble…”
“Yeah, but there wasn’t a guarantee she was going to hire him—so why bother? It doesn’t make any sense. I mean, the five hundred she was paying him seems hardly worth the risk.”
“He claimed it was five thousand—and that was the operating fund for the company, really, so the money was coming in.” I wracked my brain. A ghost of an idea was floating on the outer rims of my awareness and I tried to grab on to it. “So, if Dominique is telling the truth and she wasn’t paying him that much, where was the money coming from? Maybe someone was paying him to sabotage her.”
“Who?”
“The ex-husband—Charlie Wyatt.” That made some sort of sense. “And maybe Wyatt was paying him to spy on her too.” I shook my head. “No—that doesn’t explain Ricky Dahlgren.”
None of it made any sense. I got up. “I’m going to head home.” The pot had made tired. I hadn’t slept well, and the day had been an emotional rollercoaster.
“You okay to drive?” Paige stood up. ‘You can crash here if you want.”
“No—I want to go home.” I didn’t want to tell her I was hoping Paul might call.
If he could.
I kissed her cheek and gave her a big hug. She walked me to the door and stroked my arm. “I’m sure he’s okay, Chanse.” She said quietly.
I just nodded and walked back to my car. I sat for a minute before wiping the tears out of my eyes and drove off. Paul would be okay, I figured. I was just emotionally raw and exhausted and needed to get home and into bed.
The traffic on St. Charles was pretty sparse, which was why I spotted the car following me.
I’d noticed it vaguely when I pulled out from the curb—about half a block down the street, a big dark Oldsmobile-sized car. The headlights came on when I pulled out and headed up State Street. I didn’t think anything about it when it also turned onto St. Charles, but when I reached the light at Jefferson and it stopped several car lengths behind me, my mind came wide awake. I stared at it in my rear view mirror, but it was far enough back I couldn’t get any idea of its color or shape. I also couldn’t tell if the driver was alone. But a chill went down my spine. When the light changed, I floored it. It kept pace behind me.
As I passed Valmont, another car turned after I went past, getting between us and going slow. The other car swung around it, just missing a parked car.
Think, Chanse, think.
The light coming up at Napoleon was red, and I slammed on my breaks and managed to come to a stop before rear-ending a battered pick up truck.
The big car slowed and stopped at the same distance behind me. I grabbed my cell phone and dialed Paige. “WHAT?”
“I’m being followed.” I said, staring in the rear view mirror at the headlights behind me.
“”Oh, God, what do you want me to do?”
“When I hang up, call Venus. Tell her I’m heading home…and
I’d greatly appreciate it if a squad car was waiting at my house—or if they can pick up the tail on the way.”
Just at that moment, I heard the shriek of a siren behind me. I looked into the rear view mirror and saw the approaching flashing lights coming. The big car suddenly turned right and disappeared down a side street. It was a dark blue or black Pontiac. The squad car made a U-turn through the neutral ground and sped off back the other way. I let out my breathe. The light changed. “They’re gone for now.”
“Be fucking careful!” She hung up.
I made it home without spotting the other car, but the adrenaline spike had my eyes wide open. As I turned into my driveway, I noticed a package resting against my front door. I parked the car and walked around to the front, just getting past the automatic gate as it slid shut. I looked around Camp Street, but didn’t see any cars. I scanned Coliseum Square, but none of the cars parked around the park looked out of place.
I walked through the front gate and up the cracked and tilted sidewalk to the steps.
What if it’s a bomb?
I stopped.
“Get a grip.” I said out loud. I climbed the steps and picked it up. It was addressed to me, and the return address said TOP ROPE PRODUCTIONS.
Paul’s videos.
“Fucking idiot.” I said as I unlocked the front door. I closed it behind me, locking the deadbolt and putting the chain on. This just made me feel better. Like most front doors in New Orleans, half of it was glass. Some security, right?
I turned on the light and picked up the remote as I sat on the couch. A rerun of Roseanne was on. I tore up the package and shook out four videos: Musclestud Challenge 12; Gods of the Ring 8; Musclestud Erotic Challenge; Jocks 15. I took Musclestud Erotic Challenge out of its sleeve.
The label on front said the match was between Cody Dallas and Joe Bob Jones.
I put the tape into the VCR.
The video started with the title, then the word “FEATURING” before it showed a still photo of Paul. He was smiling at the camera, his arms folded and muscles bulging. CODY DALLAS appeared at the bottom of the screen, then it morphed into another picture, of a smiling young boy in an open sleeveless red and black flannel shirt and a cowboy hat. His chest looked huge, as were the arms hanging at his side. JOE BOB JONES scrolled across the bottom before the screen faded to black.
