Murder in the Rue Ursulines

by Greg Herren

  I stared at him for a moment, confused. Threatening e-mails? Why on earth did that need to be kept a secret? They had web-sites, surely, Myspace pages, you name it—there were any number of ways to send e-mails to them. And then I got it. “You mean on your private account? You think it’s someone you know, don’t you? Someone close to you. And that would be a scandal.”

  Loren broke in. “Regardless of who it is, it would be tabloid fodder.” He started drumming his pen on the table.

  “There are—“ Jillian bit her lip, closed her eyes, and squeezed Freddy’s hand. “There are things about both of us we would like to keep private, if at all possible.” She swallowed again. “In order to help you figure out—and stop—whoever it is, we’re going to have to tell you things.” She opened her eyes and looked at me. “Things that you cannot, under any circumstances, tell anyone else. That’s why you need to sign that confidentiality agreement, Chanse. We’re willing to pay you well.” Her voice became plaintive, pleading. With a jolt, I realized I’d heard her use that tone of voice before. In a movie, whose name I couldn’t remember.

  She was, after all, a very good actress.

  “Are these threatening e-mails…” I hesitated. “Is there a hint of blackmail involved in this?” I’d dealt with blackmailers before. One was even homicidal. “Because you need to understand that it never stops with payment. If this person truly knows something that could be damaging to you…”

  Freddy said, “They’re just making threats, whoever it is.”. He gave me a reassuring smile—the same one he’d given Cameron Diaz in Love Unbound, when he was trying to get into her pants, despite his wife. “There’s nothing criminal in either of our pasts. Sure, there are things we’d prefer the general public not know about us—” He stopped himself. “I probably shouldn’t say anything more.”

  “Let me see that.” I gestured to Loren, who passed the folder over to me. I opened it and looked at the paper. I read it carefully. I didn’t really need to have a lawyer look it over. It simply stated that as a requirement for doing work for them, I was signing this and promising never to reveal to an outsider the nature of the work, or anything I might discover about them or anyone involved with their lives, without their permission. If I violated the agreement, I would have to repay any moneys paid to me by them, and possible damages, to be determined by private, confidential, and most importantly, independent, outside arbitration. “You realize, of course, that if I am ever subpoenaed, this is just a piece of paper?”

  “I’m not worried about any subpoenas.” Loren replied. “I can have a clause added that this agreement is invalid if you are called to testify in court, which is a moot point, as it will never happen.” He looked over at them. “Do you have any objection to that?”

  Jillian opened her mouth, but Freddy spoke. “No. Do whatever’s necessary.”

  Loren took the document from me and excused himself.

  “You were going to say something,” I said, looking at Jillian.

  “No.” She shook her head, drumming her fingertips on the table.

  An uncomfortable silence descended.

  The smart thing to do, I figured, was to refuse to sign the thing and not take the job. They were actors, and good ones. They’d convinced millions of viewers they were any number of different people. They played roles for a living. How would I ever be able to ascertain the truth of anything they told me? But I was also curious; I wanted to know what the hell was going on with them. I watched their faces, but got no clues. What was in those e-mails that had them so rattled? There was more here than met the eye, but I wasn’t going to find out until I signed that agreement.

  My curiosity was getting the best of me.

  On the other hand, they weren’t exactly normal people either. Most people don’t have every aspect of their life offered up to the general public for discussion and conversation.

  Loren walked back in, and handed the revised agreement to me. A check for twenty thousand dollars, drawn on the firm’s account was paper clipped to it. I read it over quickly. It was straightforward. I hesitated for just a moment, then took a pen from my jacket pocket and signed it.

  Jillian let out a huge sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you.” She got up and walked over to the sideboard, pouring herself a glass of ice water.

  Loren rose. “I’ll go make a copy of this for you, Chanse, and give you three some privacy.”

  Once the door shut behind him, Jillian took her seat again. “As we said, over the last couple of weeks, Freddy has been getting some bizarre e-mails.” She reached into a bag and pulled out a file folder, which she slid across the table to me. “Vaguely threatening.”

  “One of them does include a death threat,” Freddy said as I opened the file folder. “Not I’m going to kill you but I could just kill you. A technicality, sure, but it’s enough to worry us.” They exchanged another look.

  I read the first one.

  Freddy Freddy Freddy:

  You just think you’re hot shit, don’t you? A professional do-gooder, right? What would everyone think if they knew the truth about you? You don’t deserve to live.

  It was unsigned.

  “That’s my private e-mail account.” Freddy went on. “No one has it, except family, friends and you know, our staff. It’s not even registered through the server as being mine, you know? Our assistant, Doreen, set us both up with a private account under her name.” He waved a hand. “I’m sure somehow someone could have found out—I’m not the best with this computer stuff—but…”

  “Who do you think would do this?”

  “Where to start?” Jillian gave a tired laugh. “There’s my latest crazy ex-husband, Freddy’s ex-wife, my own mother…” She waved her hand again. “Everyone either one of us has ever been involved with has their own axe to grind, their grubby hands out for more money. We’re targets, Chanse, always targets. Remember that. Even when we are doing good work for charities—you’d be amazed at the things people say. I’ve been called every name in the book…but I am getting off the subject.” She wiped her eyes and smiled at me. “I do that, sorry. But I’m convinced it’s one of those three…I’m just not sure what their game is yet. But they don’t want to kill Freddy, I don’t believe that for a minute. Why would anyone want to stop our work here?”

  “Let’s start with your ex-husband.” I said, mentally adding the words at least, your most recent ex-husband. I thought for a moment. “You were married to Dale Monteith, right?” Dale Monteith was a character actor who somehow had managed, through hard work and talent, to become a star of sorts. “I’m assuming the break-up wasn’t a happy one?”

  “Well, forget everything you’ve seen in the tabloids.” Freddy replied. “The public story is that when we were making The Odyssey, we fell madly in love and left our spouses to be with each other.”

  “Dale and I had not been husband and wife for two years before Freddy and I met,” Jillian continued. “I was going through a very rocky period when Dale and I met, is the only defense I can offer—we were fine for a year, and then I realized—“ she rubbed her eyes. “I realized that Dale just wasn’t serious enough for me. He wasn’t interested in anything other than all that Hollywood bullshit, you know? I moved out of his house a year after we were married. Yes, we never bothered to file for divorce until I met Freddy, but we also had barely spoken in those two years. When I moved out, he knew it was for good. So, no, Dale has no reason to be resentful of Freddy—no matter what the tabloids say.” She gave me a horrible smile. “And the publicity was good for Dale’s career. He wasn’t getting work until he got to play cuckolded husband for the entertainment of the masses.”

  “Likewise,” Freddy said, “my ex-wife, Glynis and I were having problems for a while before I met Jillian.” Glynis Parrish had been a television star when she’d married the sexiest man alive. After the break up, she’d been everywhere: every talk show, every magazine cover, weeping quietly over her great heartbreak and humiliation. “Glynis played the jilt
ed wife to perfection, as you must be aware. Hey, the marriage was over, and she was milking the publicity to make herself sympathetic to the audience, you know? So, I let her play it out—she got some movie roles out of it—and what did we care if people hated us?” He smiled at Jillian. “It all blows over after a little while—and people still came to see our movies.”

  “But these e-mails started coming two weeks ago.” Jillian went on. “And just two weeks ago, Glynis blew into town to make a movie.”

  I hadn’t heard about that. “She’s making a movie here?”

  Freddy laughed. “She plays a woman who comes to New Orleans to rebuild her life after her husband leaves her for another woman..” He rolled his eyes. “Original concept, huh?”

  “Okay.” I shook my head. “Kind of interesting that she came into town around the same time the e-mails started.”

  “My mother is here too.” Jillian spat the words out, placing particular loathing on the word mother. “And I wouldn’t put anything past that bitch.”

  Interesting. “Have some problems with your mother?” Jillian’s mother, Shirley Harris, had been a musical comedy star for years, moving between Broadway and film effortlessly. Until a bout of ill health had recently sidelined her, she’d been a huge draw in Las Vegas.

  “How much time do you have?” Jillian laughed bitterly. “Look, my mother and I don’t have a relationship. I tried for years to have one with her. She doesn’t understand boundaries, she doesn’t understand anything other than what she needs. I don’t want anything to do with her. She knows this, but keeps pushing.” She sighed. “Wherever I go, there she is. Maybe if someone would give her a job, she’d forget all about me.” A pained look crossed her face. “My mother was always desperate for the limelight…and now that her star has faded, the only way she can get any attention is by talking about me.” Her lips narrowed. “It’s really pathetic, if you think about it.”

  “Where is your mother staying?” Somehow, I doubted that Shirley Harris would stoop to this level of harassment, but one of her employees might.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, but she’s here. I can sense her evil.”

  Okay, probably best not to push that one. “And your staff?”

  “Doreen Benson is our assistant.” Freddy said, passing me another folder. “Inside this folder are cell phone numbers for Dale and Glynis, as well as the resumes for Doreen, our nanny Cindy, and Jay Robinette, who’s the head of our security detail—along with our cell phone numbers. Our private numbers.” He glanced at his watch. “Those numbers, needless to say, aren’t for public knowledge. Cindy, Doreen and Jay have been instructed to cooperate with you fully—anything you might need. If you need to meet with us at the house, just call us, and we’ll let Jay know to let you in. You know where the house is?” When I nodded, he laughed. “Everyone knows where our house is, right? But as for the rest—“ he shrugged. “If any of them are doing this, I doubt they’d want to talk to you.”

  “All right.” I picked up both folders to put into my shoulder bag. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I know anything concrete, or if I need something.”

  “Thank you,” Jillian said. “Please—get to the bottom of this quickly.” She reached over and touched my hand. “And please—be discreet.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  I watched them exit the conference room, and sat there for a moment. I opened the folder with the e-mails, and leafed through them. They were all insulting, some making derogatory remarks about Freddy’s genitalia—which naturally made me think of Glynis Parrish…until I remembered that a photographer had snapped pictures of Freddy sunbathing nude in the south of France a year or two earlier. Everyone in the world had seen him naked. Even I had—I hadn’t been able to resist clicking through the gallery of images when they’d been posted on a gossip website. There was no question that Freddy was a beautiful man—my best friend Paige had said when they’d moved here, “You know, I’ll see every movie he makes, because he always shows his ass. And he has such a nice one…” We had both laughed.

  With a sigh, I shoved the e-mails back in the folder.

  Loren came back into the conference room. He shook my hand. “Thanks for doing this, Chanse.”

  “No problem,” I replied, and walked back out to the elevators. Frillian were long gone, and as I waited for the elevator, I wondered again if I’d made a huge mistake.

  They were movie stars. They were paid lots of money to play roles, to become different people, to be convincing. It was their job. So, I would have to take everything they told me with a grain of salt, and be careful not to simply trust them. The feud between Jillian and her mother was well-documented in the tabloids—but then again, she’d also told me not to believe everything I read about them. So, what was true and what wasn’t true? They both claimed their former spouses held no grudges against them, that everything between them was fine. They’d been very careful, though, to point out that someone starting sending the e-mails right around the time Dale and Glynis came to New Orleans to make their movie.

  The hardest part of this case would be to curb my natural curiosity. I didn’t need to know why the e-mails were being sent. I was being paid to find out who was sending them—and that’s what I was going to do. I’d file a report, destroy all copies of the files to maintain confidentiality, and then I could just walk away from all of this.

  I climbed into the elevator, and hit the lobby button.

  No, I wasn’t going to be able to take them at face value. And though I was trying not to let my curiosity run wild, I couldn’t help myself from thinking about it on the way down to the lobby.

  There was something more going on here than either of them wanted to admit.

  I was going to have to be very, very careful.

  Chapter Two

  A nine-year-old probably knows more about computers than I do.

  Don’t get me wrong, I can use mine. I know how to turn it on, I know how to open a program—I can even load software. I know how to hook my digital camera into it to download pictures. I can download music for my iPod. I can log onto the Internet to do research I used to have to do on the telephone, by mail or in person—which is an incredible time-saver. But beyond that, it’s like trying to read Vietnamese. I don’t understand why it crashes, nor do I know what to do to make it stop crashing. I don’t know how to wipe a hard drive (although discovering by accident is one of my biggest fears) or how to retrieve a file that’s been erased. I don’t know how to hack into someone else’s computer, or into a website—and have no desire to know. I barely know how to work with the spam filter on my e-mail account.

  Tracing an e-mail back to the computer it came from is completely beyond my limited computer skills. From time to time, I think I should learn how to be more effective with the computer—and it’s not like I don’t have the time when I’m not working. Yet somehow I can never bring myself to take a course, or even spend the extra time to go through the tutorials that come with the software.

  Fortunately, I have a great computer nerd to turn to.

  It was my best friend, Paige Tourneur, who found him for me. I had just spent a small fortune getting some repair work done on my computer, and it still didn’t work right—even though they’d kept it for three weeks. Every time it froze up on me, I had to resist the urge to put my fist through the screen, or pack it up and shove it up the ass of the guy at the computer hospital. That night, Paige had come by in a fine foul mood with a bottle of wine. After relaxing over a couple of joints and when the bottle was half empty, she was finally ready to let me know what had gotten her goat that day. It was one of her favorites: the incompetence and total failure of the Louisiana public school system. After listening to her rage about how we as a society were failing our youth for quite a while, giving my obligatory nods and agreeing noises (which is all she requires while on a tirade), I asked what triggered this latest and well deserved disgust with the school system.

  “I talked to this k
id today, and he was the sweetest guy, Chanse, and we failed him.” She took another hit off the joint. “Take this kid,” she said flourishing the joint, “a poor kid from the Irish Channel. His mother was a manager at a McDonalds and trying to raise a family of three kids on those wages, if you can imagine that. Not a goddamned pot to piss in. His father was a total deadbeat, a drug-addled loser who killed someone in an argument over drugs and was sent up to Angola before any of the kids were even in school. Like those kids are going to have any kind of chance, right? And we wonder why they turn to crime. And one of the kids is this incredibly bright kid, with an aptitude for computers, but no one notices or sees or cares at his school because they’re too busy trying to keep all the rest of the kids from killing each other—rather than teaching them anything. So, he teaches himself all about computers, how to use them, how to build them, how the software and hardware works, all of that, you know? It’s almost like he’s a genius with computers, right? So, he starts using his self-taught skills to hack into computers, change grades for money…and no one catches him, and then he moves on to other things…stealing credit card numbers, people’s personal information…and when he’s seventeen, he gets caught. His mother can’t afford a lawyer, so he gets a public defender—and you know what those are worth in Orleans Parish. He cops a plea, goes away for three years, gets out after eighteen months, and who’s going to hire him? He got his GED while in jail, and learned even more about computers there. Bright, sharp, and the sweetest guy you can imagine, and he’s barely eking out an existence because no one cared, or noticed, his abilities and nurtured him from an early age.” She sighed. “It’s just awful…the way we waste the youth in this town.”

  “He’s really good with computers?” I asked, glaring at mine from across the room.