by Lee Killough
Without missing a beat on the piano, Reed said, “Here he is, boys. Detective, that’s Malcolm Neery at the table and Dick Schoen on bass.”
Zane led the two men to the far side of the fireplace.
Neery gave him a puzzled frown. “Tonya’s lawyer got killed last night...and you want to talk to us about it, Jack says?”
Zane took off his sunglasses. “I’m trying to establish when Demry left the club.”
Neery shrugged. “Sorry...I don’t know. He was there when we started the set, but the next time I noticed, he’d gone.”
“He followed one of those chicks at the next table back to the bar,” Schoen said.
Neery grinned. “That figures. He’d been trying all evening to cut one of those three out of the herd. When Tonya wasn’t up here, that is. He didn’t hit on them while she was playing.”
Give him credit for class. “Did he score?”
“Not with the trio,” Neery said. “All three were still there at the end of our set.”
But Demry had not come back to the table. “Did you notice him talking to anyone at the bar?” Zane asked the bass player.
After a moment of thought, Schoen shook his head. “Nope.”
Presently another of the group strolled in...the drummer. He had not seen Demry leave, either. “When I’m in my zone, this world don’t exist.” He looked suspiciously off-world at the moment, too.
The sax player finally appeared to complete the group. In response to Zane’s questions he nodded. “Yeah, I saw him. He was hitting on a chick I would’ve, too, if I’d spotted her while Tonya was on.”
If she took Demry up on his offer, that could explain him leaving. But what happened to her after that? Allison said no woman had been seen in the area when Demry was killed. But...she had wanted Tonya’s description. “What did the woman look like?”
The sax player sighed. “A wet dream. Showgirl tall, legs that wouldn’t quit, a mane of hair like moonlight, neckline so low the melons were ready to fall out into my hands.” He held them up, ready to catch her.
“Did they leave together?”
The sax player shrugged. “She didn’t go back to her table.”
The aproned man from the storeroom had appeared behind the bar. Zane headed for him. The bartender would have had a closer look at this woman than the sax player did.
Sliding onto a stool, Zane gave the bartender a smile. “Hi. Do you have more coffee back there? I can really use a cup.”
The bartender stopped slicing limes long enough to slap a mug of dark liquid in front of him.
Zane sipped...and fought not to choke. It hit his taste buds with the same jolt as his first shot of scotch. Seeing the bartender watching him sardonically, he lifted the mug in salute. “It has character.” In Irish coffee it must pack more kick than the whiskey.
The bartender chuckled.
Zane laid Demry’s photograph on the bar and fought down another swallow. “Do you remember seeing this man last night?”
The bartender glanced at it. “Sure...the guy the flute player was fluttering around. What kind of trouble is he in?”
“Someone killed him. Did you see him talking to a tall blonde woman?”
The bartender grunted. “The drag queen? Yeah.”
Zane set aside the mug. No one saw a woman, Allison said. But maybe they saw someone they recognized as a man in women’s clothing. “You know her?”
“Never seen her before...but she had half a head on the lawyer. How many women are that tall?” He scraped lime sections into a tall beer mug. “But that’s about all that gave her away. Terrific legs. Believable cleavage. She sure fooled the lawyer.” The bartender brought lemons out of a refrigerator under the bar. “After she stuck her tongue in his ear and played with his crotch, he couldn’t wait to hustle her out.”
So much for class. A wild notion hit him. Could Blondie be Manning? “Who made the first move...her or him?”
The bartender began slicing lemons. “She definitely came on to him.”
If Manning could pull it off, it was the perfect setup. In Manning’s place Zane thought he would take his revenge by publically humiliating Demry. Get him into bed with a hidden camera recording the whole episode right to the revelation of Blondie as male, and post the tape on the internet. For that, of course, the venue had to be Manning’s...which could account for leaving Demry’s car–Blondie would want control of the wheel–and not going to Demry’s place.
Then...had something gone wrong that turned the situation into murder? Or was murder always the intent...Manning perhaps being a borderline psychotic that rage sent over the edge.
If Blondie were not Manning she might still be involved, luring Demry to Manning, or at least she should know where Demry went after leaving the jazz club. If she were not also dead somewhere.
The piano stopped, then resumed with its sound changed. Zane looked around to see that the quartet had replaced Reed and Tonya on the bandstand. After taking down the bartender’s name for his report, he circled the fireplace to the table where Tonya sat.
“How are you doing?”
She looked up with a faint smile. “All right. It’s not like Alex was a boyfriend. Did the band help you?”
“Maybe. And maybe you can help some more.” He sat down in another chair. “On your way out to smoke, did you see a tall blonde woman near the restrooms?”
“She came out as I passed the door.” Tonya sighed. “I’d kill for a figure and legs like that. And that little black number she was wearing had to cost megabucks.”
“Have you ever seen her before?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get much of a look at her, mostly her back out of the corner of my eye.”
“Could you tell whether she was female or a male cross-dressing?”
Tonya’s brows shot up. “Female, definitely. No guy has hips like that, and in a dress that short, any padding would show...not to mention his equipment.”
Not necessarily. He had met female impersonators in Kansas City who pulled off the look in clothes where it would seem impossible. Allison needed to know about this.
After obtaining promises from everyone to drop by Crimes Against Persons tomorrow to give formal statements, he reached for his phone. She asked him to meet her at Mercado Square.
Pulling into the mall’s parking lot twenty minutes later, he spotted her near the Pontchartrain entrance, leaning against her car, arms folded, gazing down toward a barge making its way along the intracoastal waterway channel through the outer bay. “Sorry I took so long,” he said as he backed into the slot beside her. “I had to run back to Demry’s place.”
He spread what he had on the hood of her car. A photocopy of Demry’s credit card receipt from the club bore the time 11:43...which settled the question of when he left. Next to it he laid one of the copies he made on Demry’s photocopier of the business card for Aaronson Investigative Services in the Rolodex...and then he told her about Blondie and his theory about Manning.
Above her sunglasses one brow rose in a gesture that looked as much Vulcan as Elvish. “That’s an interesting idea.”
Was she complimenting him or dismissing his idea? He could not tell, especially with her eyes hidden. “Does Blondie fit what your witness described?”
She sighed. “I told you, I don’t have any witness. We need to determine if Blondie is Manning.” She frowned thoughtfully. “So first let’s rule out the local he/shes. I’ll talk to Vice. Why don’t you see if anyone at The Station knows him.”
The former railroad depot down near the deep water piers was not exactly a gay bar. But the artists moving into warehouses around it hung out there, and they included gays...which in turn attracted other gays in town.
Allison turned to glance down North Bayside and over toward Avenue A. “If Blondie isn’t Manning, he may have visited other bars earlier, where someone may know him. If he didn’t have anything to do with Demry’s death, say Demry groped him on the way to the car, discovered the trut
h, and dumped him, then Demry went somewhere else and met his killer. We need to see if we can learn where.”
“If Blondie is Manning, though, he might target Tonya Mixon next,” Zane said. “We ought to arrange protection for her.”
“I’ll take care of it.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “I need to go. I have a few more interviews lined up.”
Finally he had a chance to see her work. “Great. Where are we headed?”
She stared at him and Zane realized with embarrassment that she had not intended to take him along. Perhaps it just never occurred to her.
“I think it would be very helpful for a detective trainee to see how a master like you handles an interview.”
“Another time.” She reached into her car and brought out a wide three ring black plastic binder. The casebook. She handed it to him. “After you check out The Station, take this back to the office and add your reports. Then meet me at the Sailfish and B parking lot at seventeen hundred and we’ll canvass the A.”
Swallowing his disappointment, he nodded. “And in case it might come in handy before then, have one of these.” He dug into his suit coat pocket for one of Demry’s photos.
She stared at it. “Where did you get this?”
He grinned. “Don’t ask.”
And felt the grin freeze as she looked up from the photo. Her eyes were invisible but electricity around her lifted the hair on his body as it did in the police gym. Except this time the current felt deadly.
“All right, I won’t.” Her conversational tone did nothing to relieve the sick realization that he just planted both feet in shit. “I won’t ask how or when you really read that e-mail message, either. Nor why you told Carillo I wanted him to obtain the warrant for you. However, I won’t tolerate anything more like it in this investigation, is that understood?” She tucked the photo in her pocket. “I want no “irregularities” in procedure handing weapons to the media or defense attorneys. No poisoned fruit. And I will rip the nads off anyone causes embarrassment for Lieutenant Garroway. From now on, I’m the only one who decides if and when we bend rules. You stick to doing what you’re told.”
Watching her pull out of the parking lot and around the corner onto Pontchartrain, Zane felt as if he had been hosed with ice water...or learned the truth about the tooth fairy, Easter bunny and Santa Claus all at the same time.
And whose fault was that, he reflected, slamming into his own car and cranking the key. He had no reason, other than expectations born of this--admit it--stupid adolescent obsession with her, for thinking that becoming partners would turn her attitude toward him from coolly polite to warm and fuzzy.
Grow up, Zane. Forget this Elvish nonsense and just do your damn job.
Slapping the car into gear, he headed for the West Bay.
10.
Allison trusted Kerr to be on his way to The Station. In case he came back to the LEC, however, she parked out in the visitors’ lot and used the front entrance to avoid him, and quickly took the stairs up to the Training Center above the Morgue and Criminal Identification Unit. No sense letting him know she lied about having more interviews.
Learning about the Mixon woman, Manning, and where the hunter picked up Demry had been nice detective work. Information she badly needed, since the names Honora and other clan members gave her led nowhere. Too bad she had to slap Kerr down instead of giving him a pat on the back. Encourage his corner cutting, though, and he could run into the hunter lurking around one of them.
In the gym a female officer worked her triceps on a weight machine but the conference rooms were empty. Allison stepped into one and used its wall phone to call Juvenile and ask for Del Kindly. With Del agreeable to looking after the flutist, she called Garroway’s office for authorization. That taken care of, it was time for Drew Makepeace, Patrol’s Watch Three shift sergeant.
A window in the conference room looked out on the rear parking lot, on a row of police and sheriff’s cruisers...black numbers on top of the white trunks...and beyond them across the green swathe of Cotton River Park and down the North Bayside toward the outer bay and Gulf. From here the warehouse district appeared a jumble of roofs. Memories of patrolling there brought a pang like homesickness. Honora had felt the clan needed officers in Investigations, so Allison dutifully transferred, but she still missed being in uniform. Every tour had been something to anticipate with relish...opportunities for dangerous situations, for foot chases and building searches. Best, of course, had been the times a radio mike button clicked dit dit dit dah...V for volke...the code summoning clan officers to hunt in a pack. At night, racing down a dark alley or spreading out through a burglarized building, often all of them could Shift. No perp ran fast enough to escape them or dug in deep enough to avoid being sniffed out.
Drew came on the Patrol squadroom’s line. She turned away from the window. “I need you to meet me up here.”
“Give me ten minutes.”
While Kerr was wrong about Manning being the killer, the grudge against Demry might be material if Manning and Blondie were lovers. Such liaisons happened often enough. Honora enjoyed her share of them. Maybe the two conspired to kill Demry, or if Blondie were young, his hatred provoked her to act on her own. Juveniles had more hormones than sense.
They needed proof of Manning’s involvement, of course, but she liked that solution to the murder. It gave her a limited number of specific victims to worry about rather than a rogue and random slaughter.
What was the name of the Austin Homicide dick she and Garroway worked with a couple of years ago? Hal DiChristafero. After obtaining Austin Homicide’s phone number from Communications, she called him.
DiChristafero remembered her. “I’m still impressed as hell how you knew where our perp went in that warehouse. This suspect you need information on is named Lionel Manning, you say? Let’s see what’s in the computer.” The click of keys came over the wire. “Well, well. We’ve dealt with the gentleman a number of times. Nothing major. A string of citations for disorderly conduct. Seems he approaches singers, musicians, and dancers about working with them on albums or productions, and can become verbally abusive when rejected. You think now he’s gone beyond verbal?”
“I’m trying to find out. What do you have for known associates? Is there a girlfriend?” The information she really wanted.
“Ummm...no one named. He lives alone.”
Allison sighed. She had to go dig personally, then. Perhaps the PI knew of someone.
“I’ll fax you his photo and particulars?” DiChristafero said.
“Yes, thanks.” She gave him the Investigations fax number. “I’m coming up tomorrow to interview him. Can you be available to back me up?”
“Sure thing. Just give me a shout when you’re near town?”
Next she updated Honora. “Will you please see if the Austin clan chief knows whether one of their females has a human lover named Lionel Manning.”
“Of course. Is there anything else I can do to help right now?”
“I need as many other members of the household as are willing to help stake out the warehouse area this evening.”
Until proven otherwise, Blondie must still be considered a rogue. They had no guarantee, of course, that she would set her hunt in the West Bay again, or necessarily troll the A bars for prey. The larger hotels at the lower end of hotel row and on Laguna Drive had their own lounges. The West Bay had a few bars, too. But modus operandi worked as a law enforcement tool because people–human or volke–were creatures of habit, so they had to hope and do their best to be where Blondie turned up. And if they missed her choosing her prey, the warehouses must be covered thoroughly enough to prevent his death.
As she finished the call, Allison caught a familiar scent and turned to find Drew Makepeace in the doorway. He sighed heavily. “This rendezvous is just about the rogue? And here I thought you asked for it because you’re wearing my favorite pheromones.” His brows wiggled. “I suppose I can’t take advantage of them until the Gathe
ring?”
She bit back a grin and grunted in mock disgust. “You’re always so full of it! I’m not broadcasting invitations right now. And no one’s going to enjoy the Gathering if we don’t catch this hunter.”
“True.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “So...what can I do to help?”
The arm felt good. Distracting. Allison ducked loose and sat on the edge of the table. “I want you to oversee the warehouse stakeout. Honora plans to stay home where she can monitor the phone and computer and I can’t do it because Kerr and I will be canvassing the A until closing time.”
“No problem.” Drew sat down beside her. “I’ll get directions out so the others can take positions any time and I’ll join when I’m off duty. We’re assuming she’ll wait for the streets to clear? At home they woke me when Honora’s warning came through. I visited the scene after you and Ident left and dug out part of a footprint. It’s in a box in my desk. I’ve memorized the scent and had clan officers on this watch come in to do so, and will also run it under the noses of Watch One.”
The last sentence jogged her memory about something else she needed to ask. “Does Blondie’s scent suggest to you where she might come from? Does it remind you of anywhere the Army sent you?”
His brows rose. “Blondie? What’s with this name?”
She shrugged. “It’s what Kerr’s calling her. Is her scent at all familiar?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t trigger any memories. I’ll ask the others if it does for them. Gina Lovejoy ran all over the country with that thrill show.”
In Austin tomorrow she would pay special attention to the regional component of people’s scents to see if they matched Blondie’s.
11.
So far Manning looked good to Zane for being Blondie. The consensus at The Station, where regulars husbanded their coffee and beers beneath the ceiling fans while arguing about art versus commercialism and the deterioration of American culture, matched the opinion expressed by Kevin Brucker, the bartender: “I know chicks who look like that, most of them your fellow cops, but no drag queens.” Zane waited, however, to check with the regular calling himself Arturo Dent...because: “We need to acknowledge that we’re all just hitchhikers in the Galaxy.” Arturo had an alter ego named Amanda and ran with a group who regarded the line between male and female as broad territory open for exploration. If Blondie were a he/she and came from around the area, Arturo would know her.
