Murder in the Rue St. Ann

by Greg Herren

  “So, marshals have been following him around?” This put a whole new face on everything. If Ricky had indeed shot Mark, the marshals could easily have been witnesses.

  “They lost him on Friday morning.” She swallowed. “I don’t know how it could have happened, but they did. They put out a bulletin on his SUV, but it wasn’t spotted anywhere between here and Houston…and then he never showed up.” She got up and walked over to the window. “I know they all think he’s dead—that those awful mobsters got him somehow. But I’d know, wouldn’t I? If my child were dead, wouldn’t I…would I sense it?”

  I had a strong sense of déjà vu.

  My own words to Paige, just last night.

  There was a huge lump in my throat. I gripped the side of the table to steady myself. “But the Judge’s gun was found at the murder site.”

  “Ricky never had that gun.” Mrs. Dahlgren turned back to me from the window. “That particular gun was kept in a case to which only the Judge and I had keys.”

  “Then how—“ My mind was spinning. Was this Metairie matron confessing to me?

  “I loaned that gun to my son’s lover.” She shrugged. “Yes, the marshals were keeping an eye on him and all, but I felt more comfortable with everyone carrying a gun, just to be on the safe side. I’ve got one in my purse, a nice little pearl handled revolver.”

  “So you gave the gun to Mark?” I shook my head a little. If Mark had the gun, that cleared Ricky for sure. But what could Paul have known that would put his life in danger?

  “Mark?” Mrs. Dahlgren eyes opened wide and her forehead creased.“Mark who? And why would I give a gun to him?”

  “Mark Williams. You said you gave the gun to Ricky’s lover—“

  “And you think—“ She stared at me as though I’d lost my mind. “My son wasn’t gay, Mr. MacLeod.”

  “I don’t care if you’re in denial. Who’d you give the gun to?”

  “I would have known if he were gay.” She kept blinking. “He would have told me.”

  “Some people don’t feel comfortable coming out to their parents.” Christ, bitch, focus! “Who’d you give the gun to?”

  “It’s because the Judge is a conservative, isn’t it?” Her lips narrowed. “That makes me so angry! Just because you’re a conservative people just assume you’re racist, homophobic—all of that! Ricky could have told us if he were gay!”

  “We’re getting a little off point here—“

  But Mrs. Dahlgren was off and running. “We are not homophobic!” She walked over to a photograph on the mantle and picked it up. “Our daughter is a lesbian, and we love her and her partner just as much as our other children!” She shoved the picture at me as if to prove her point.

  Score one for Paige, I thought as I took the picture from Mrs. Dahlgren. I held it and looked down at it as she continued on her rant. I figured she was probably doing that to take her mind off her son. I looked down at the picture. It was a professionally done portrait, with the family all dressed to the teeth. Sitting in the center of the picture were two women in their early thirties holding hands. One had short, close cropped blonde hair and was wearing a black tux with a white shirt underneath. She had Mrs. Dahlgren’s eyes. The other woman was wearing a nice beige pantsuit, her dark hair cut in a mullet. Behind them, each with a hand on the shoulder seated in front of them, were the proud parents. The Judge was also in a tux and was a handsome older man. Mrs. Dahlgren was wearing a peach silk gown, and the same pearls she currently had on and was smiling at the camera. To her left was a tall man, also in his early thirties with blonde hair. He also looked like Mrs. Dahlgren. In front of him was a slender woman. His hand was on her shoulder. Obviously, his wife.

  Next to the Judge was a handsome young man with short dark hair and deep dimples. He looks familiar, I thought, staring at him. It had to be Ricky, but where had I seen him before? I kept staring at him and searching my brain. Ricky, who’d applied for a private eye license, who’d applied several times for a job with the Feds. Ricky, who his mother swore wasn’t gay.

  I looked at her. She’d stopped talking. “All right, Mrs. Dahlgren. I understand.”

  “Besides,” she sat back down, her entire body seeming to collapse on itself. “if he was seeing Mark Williams, the Feds would have known. They reported everything he was doing to me. How do you think I found out about his lover?”

  “Who was his lover, Mrs. Dahlgren?” I asked.

  And as my mind wrapped itself around that, I heard their voices.

  I never saw them touch or anything….Ricky was a gay geek …he said the grossest things, like he liked to watch hockey for the fights…Ricky was the straightest gay guy I ever met…I saw Ricky and Mark at Oz and he couldn’t dance…he danced like a straight boy…he must have just come out…he wasn’t comfortable in his gay skin yet….Mark never talked about Ricky….Zane always talked about them…Zane always said he never understood what Mark saw in Ricky…Zane hated Ricky…

  Zane said he saw Ricky going past the window…

  Zane.

  I stared at the picture. Where had I seen him before? It was important to remember, and I strained as I struggled with my memory. I stared at his smiling face; the dimples; the white teeth; the dark hair; the strong broad shoulders; down into his eyes.

  His eyes.

  The eyes were wrong.

  That was why I couldn’t remember, I realized as it all fell into place in my head. I closed my own eyes, and concentrated. Change his eyes, but how? The color? No.

  Suddenly, I knew.

  And even as Mrs. Dahlgren told me the name of Ricky’s lover, I knew.

  The picture, leaning against a stack of other prints.

  “The eyelashes are false,” I head again. “Everyone falls in love with his eyes, but the eyelashes are false. I applied and curled them myself.”

  Dominique.

  Ricky was her model. She knew Ricky better than she let on, to me or to anyone.

  She was the ex-wife of a mob lawyer.

  Ricky was the white son of a judge presiding over a mob trial.

  “Maybe he thought he couldn’t tell us because she was black.” Mrs. Dahlgren went on, her voice broken. “He thought we were racists. But we weren’t…you have to believe me, Mr. MacLeod, we would have been fine with it, as long as she loved him and he loved her.” She was sobbing. “Maybe I should have told him…but then he would have known about the marshals…”

  I swallowed. “Mrs. Dahlgren, I—I have to go.”

  “Please.” She looked up at me. Mascara stained tears furrowed down her cheeks. “If you find him, please call me…if you find anything…”

  I walked out of the house and out to the car. I noticed a dark car, similar to the one that had followed me home from Paige’s, parked down the street. Two men in suits and sunglasses were sitting in it. The marshals, I thought as I got into my car. That’s who’d followed me.

  My heart sank. They’d followed me because I’d been at Paul’s.

  He was involved in this somehow.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dominique had been the connection all along.

  I couldn’t figure out where I fit into everything. I thought about it as I drove down to the Quarter. The Feds had stepped in before Venus could question the Dahlgrens about the gun, which would have led us to Dominique. But she hadn’t killed Mark—her alibi had checked out. So it had to have been Zane. She gave the gun to Zane and he’d killed Mark for her.

  But why?

  And what had they done with Paul, and why?

  I tried not to think about Paul. I hadn’t liked listening to Mrs, Dahlgren justify her belief that her son was still alive by saying the same things I had about Paul. It made me think he must be—

  No, I wouldn’t think about that.

  I stopped by my house first and strapped on my shoulder harness, checking my gun to make sure it was loaded. I put on a leather jacket to cover it up and drove to the Quarter.

  My cell phone rang.
“MacLeod.”

  “Chanse, it’s Paige.” Her voice was hushed.

  “Speak up.” I said, stopping as the light at Canal turned red. “I can barely hear you.”

  “Hang on a second.” I sat there, holding the phone, hearing Paige saying things in the background, other voices replying to her. The light changed and I started through the intersection.

  “Okay.” She said in her normal tone, but her voice still sounded funny. “I just got a tip from the coroner’s office, Chanse.”

  My stomach dropped into my shoes. Paul, I thought. “Uh huh?”

  “They—they’ve found Ricky Dahlgren. Shrimpers dragged his body out of Barataria Bay just off Grand Isle yesterday morning.” She cleared her throat. “The coroner says he’d been in the water since at least Sunday.”

  “Thanks.” I turned the phone off.

  Zane couldn’t have seen Ricky Monday night. He was already dead. I’d been pretty sure it was a lie, but now I knew for sure.

  I parked just off St. Ann on Dauphine, and hurried down the street to the corner. The Attitude gate had a ‘for rent’ sign on it. I walked around the corner and into Domino’s.

  Sly was stocking liquor behind the bar when I walked in. “Hey Chanse.” He grinned at me. “Dominique expecting you? She’s up in her apartment.”

  “Yes.” I lied. “I’ll just go on back.”

  “Cool.”

  There were no workers anywhere. My shoes echoed against the wooden dance floor. I reached the door to the back steps, yanked it open and climbed the steps two at a time. Adrenaline is an amazing thing. I pounded on her door and could hear it booming inside.

  The door swung open. Dominique stood there barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt and no make-up. “Chanse? What the hell—“

  I pushed past her and walked across the room to the stack of prints. I knelt down in front of them, staring at the outer one. It was the one I remembered, and it was definitely Ricky Dahlgren.

  “You can’t just come barging in here like this!” Dominique grabbed my arm from behind. I shook her off and stood up.

  “You’ve been lying to me since the very beginning, haven’t you?”

  Her eyes widened, and she took a step back. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please leave.” She gestured to the door, then folded her arms across herself. She wouldn’t look at me.

  “This is Ricky Dahlgren.” I pointed at the print. “So, you lied when you said you’d only met him a couple of times.” I glanced back down at the print. “His mother seemed to think you knew him pretty well.”

  “His mother.” She barked out a short laugh, sliding down into a chair. She still wouldn’t look at me. “Yes, the wonderful Lois Dahlgren, coming down to the Quarter to play the gracious Queen to her son’s nigger.” She spat the last word out. “Of course we’d welcome you to the family,’ “ she mimicked Mrs. Dahlgren’s tone and Alabama accent perfectly. “’I don’t know why Ricky hasn’t told us yet, but when he does, you’ll always be welcomed in my home.’ Rich bitch.”

  “She gave you a gun for protection, didn’t she?” I walked over to where she sat. “That was a nice thing to do.”

  “I could see it in her eyes.” Dominique lit a cigarette with shaking hands. “You know, I wanted to be wrong about her, about both of them. Ricky was so sure they’d be happy, he was always begging me to let him tell them. But I knew how they’d really feel. They’d pretend everything was okay, aren’t we liberal? But you wouldn’t have to scratch too far beneath the surface to find it mattered.”

  “What did you do with the gun? Did you give it to Zane?”

  “Zane?” She looked at me, and laughed. “Why the hell would I give that gun to Zane? I gave it to Mark.”

  I goggled at her. “Mark? You gave the gun to Mark?”

  “I didn’t want it around me.” She shivered. “I mean, yes, it was a nice gesture and all, but can you believe she was giving me a gun as a favor?”

  “Why give the gun to Mark?”

  “Because of his prison record, he couldn’t get one on his own, and the Feds weren’t about to give him one.”

  I couldn’t do anything but stare. I couldn’t be hearing this right. “The—the Feds?”

  She stood up and walked over to a window. “There’s so much you—can’t even begin to understand.”

  “Where’s my boyfriend?” I shook my head. I didn’t give a flying fuck what was going on with her.

  She looked at me over her shoulder. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t lie to me anymore!” I reached into my holster and pulled my gun out. I cocked the trigger and aimed it at her. “Tell me the truth.”

  She paled, and groped her way back to her chair. “All right, man, all right, chill, okay?” She took some deep breaths. “I swear to you, man, I don’t know what happened to your boyfriend, all right?.”

  “Then where the hell is he?” My hands were steady, even though my heart was beating loud enough to almost drown her voice out.

  “I swear, man, I don’t know.” Her voice was sulky. “Christ, put the gun down already, Jesus! It all started three years ago, when this guy came backstage after one of my shows.”

  He was a Fed, she explained, who’d informed her about her husband’s connections with organized crime. “I’d had a little trouble with the law after my cocaine problem— I was going to have to go to court for it. He told me he could make that go away if I started feeding him some information about my husband’s business associates.” She ground out the cigarette. “The cops had me dead to rights. I was going to jail. What choice did I have? I didn’t think—“ she swallowed. “I figured Charlie was just a lawyer, right? I might hear some stuff now and then, but nothing major.”

  “Go on.”

  Dominique said she’d usually just ignore Charlie when he talked about his work, figuring he was just bragging, trying to make himself seem more important in her eyes. But once she started paying attention, she began to piece things together. Charlie wasn’t just a mob lawyer, “he was in it up to the neck.”

  “That’s when I started to get scared,” she lit another cigarette, her hands shaking so much she could barely get the flame started. “Charlie started acting different around me, like he suspected something. I told the fed I couldn’t do it anymore—that it wasn’t worth risking my life.”

  She’d gone on tour for her most recent record; and had breathed easier. She was going to be away from Atlanta long enough to feel safe, and she decided she wasn’t going back— except to ask for a divorce. “I played this straight club out in Metairie, and I saw this guy there dancing. He kept flirting with me while I sang; and after the show I sent my manager out to get him. It was Ricky.”

  She said Ricky was such a sweet kid, such a good-looking young man, that she went out for a drink after the show. They’d come down to the Quarter, and they’d held hands as they walked down Bourbon Street. “I told him about how much I wanted to get off the road, just open a club somewhere, and he led me to this dark building—“ she gestured around the room, “and told me I should do it, this would be the perfect place to have one. I spent the whole weekend with him.”

  He was a nice guy, and she was lonely.

  “I don’t care about the romance.” I snapped. “Get to the point.”

  She closed her eyes. “Look, you want to know everything?”

  “I don’t care about you and Ricky, okay?”

  She took a breath. “When I started having trouble with the club, and Mark Williams came sniffing around, I knew he was being paid by Charlie. When I left, Charlie’d made threats, you know? Ricky was pretty sure, too—so he tried to play up to Mark, befriend him.”

  I never saw them touch each other.

  “He was so dumb—and with that trial coming up.” She shook her head. “I kept telling Ricky to stay out of it, it was dangerous. But he wanted to be a Fed so bad—“

  He’d applied several times to be a Fed, but they didn’t want him.

 
“—and he thought this was his big chance, if he could link up Charlie to the problems I was having, they’d have some leverage to use on him.” She stopped talking. “Can I get a drink? I’m thirsty.”

  I kept the gun trained on her as she got a bottled water out of the refrigerator and sat back down. She took a drink, then looked at me with contempt. “I’m not talking anymore. Go ahead and shoot me.”

  “Oh, you’ll keep talking.” I crossed over to the table, and sat down across from her, the gun still pointed at her heart. “You know what I heard on the radio on the way over here?”

  “No.” her eyes were on the gun.

  “They found Ricky. In Barataria Bay. He’d been there since Saturday.”

  “Barataria Bay?” She looked confused.

  “He’s dead. They found his body.”

  Either she was a great, undiscovered acting talent, or her feelings for Ricky had been real. She screamed from the bottom of her diaphragm; with an ear splitting power and commitment that made the windows rattle and my eardrums stretch. The scream was primal, with an emotion that came from the depths of her soul. It was anguish, it was pain, it was deep and raw and horrific to hear. She slid off her chair and curled in a ball on the floor. The scream continued, unabated, uninterrupted as she began to pound the floor with her fists, harder and harder.

  I put the gun on the table and knelt down beside her, putting my hands on her shoulders and pulling her dead weight up to her knees. I put my arms around her, as she drew in breath finally, the scream’s volume still echoing in my aching ears and in the furthest corner of the room. Instead of screaming again, her entire body sagged lifeless in my arms and began to shudder and convulse with sobs. I reached over for her water and handed it to her. She drank from it, trying to pull herself together, losing control into the agony again for a moment, and I held her. When it passed, I handed her the water again.

  She let out a deep breath. “You’re sure?” She pulled away from me.