Murder in the Rue Ursulines

by Greg Herren

  I nodded. She clicked the television on, and switched to a twenty-four hour news network. I groaned. It was Veronica Vance’s show.

  “Can you believe it?” she shrilled in her overdone drawl. “The witness—who claims to have seen FREDDY BLISS coming out of Glynis Parrish’s house the night of the murder, is a MURDERER himself!” She shook her head dramatically. A picture of me flashed onto a split screen. It was so ridiculous I almost laughed. It was my picture from the LSU football program my senior year. Across the bottom of the picture ran a graphic: CHANSE MACLEOD, WITNESS IN PARRISH MURDER, HAS KILLED TWICE.

  I was vaguely aware that Veronica was droning on in an outraged voice. The entire thing didn’t seem real. She was talking about me, and she was making me sound like a dangerous maniac. She wasn’t really lying—that was the thing. I had killed two men. But she didn’t mention the first one I killed was trying to kill me. She didn’t say the second one was holding a gun on a room full of people. My picture disappeared, and on the split screen another woman’s face appeared. She was standing just off the curb on Ursulines, and in the background I could see Glynis’s house. The crime scene tape hung across the front door. Flowers were piled on the sidewalk, along with candles and what looked like pictures of Glynis propped up against the railing. The sidewalks were full of people. The woman on Ursulines—her name appeared as a caption below her face: KATE JUDSON, NEW ORLEANS—was talking to Veronica.

  “MacLeod is a former New Orleans police officer, Veronica, and left the force to go into business for himself as a private eye. According to a source very close to the investigation, MacLeod has a very close relationship with the two detectives assigned to the Parrish murder, Venus Casanova and Blaine Tujague.”

  Oh, shit, I thought.

  “Is this another example of that old time Louisiana justice, Kate?” Veronica went on. “A good ole boy network closing ranks to protect one of their own—even if he’s not on the force anymore?”

  “Is she out of her mind?” Paige’s face was turning red.

  “No one is saying that, Veronica.”

  “Well, you have to admit it’s an awfully big coincidence. And one thing I learned as a prosecutor—coincidences in a murder case are few and far between. I can’t tell you how many times in one of my cases what looked like a coincidence turned out to be nothing of the sort. And now we’re going to take a break. When we come back, we’ll have more breaking news from New Orleans on the Glynis Parrish murder. I’m Veronica Vance.”

  A tooth-paste commercial started hawking the plaque fighting power of a new, improved version of an old brand.

  Paige muted the television. “Are you okay?” Her face was still red, and she was shaking.

  “Yeah.” I replied. I was fine. It was probably the Xanax.

  “I’m not.” Her voice shook with controlled rage. “I knew it would be bad—but I didn’t think it would be that bad. It never occurred to me that she’d drag Venus and Blaine into the mud, too.” She lit a cigarette. “That lousy bitch! And those so-called sources aren’t in the police department.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I replied. “It doesn’t matter where it’s coming from.”

  “It’s coming from Frillian, is where it’s coming from.” Paige puffed on the cigarette so hard I thought she might snap it in two. “You saw Freddy—so they’re trying to discredit you, divert attention away from them by making it look like you’re guilty—and Venus and Blaine are covering up for you.” She got up and started pacing. “The police don’t think you’re a suspect because there was no reason for you to kill her, not because you’re friends with the investigating officers.” She walked into the little alcove and fired up her computer. “I know exactly what my next article is going to be about.” She gave me a wicked smile.

  “Paige—don’t do something crazy. Think about it and calm down before you write anything you might regret later.”

  “Don’t worry.” She waved her hand unconcernedly. “I know what I’m doing.”

  I felt warm. I took another swallow of the wine. My palms were damp. I felt a bit nauseous. I stood up. “I’m going to go pick up the food.” I stretched. “I think I need some air.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” Paige slid into her desk chair. The cigarette dangled from her mouth. When I nodded, she said “The spare keys are on the nail by the door.”

  I took the keys and locked the door behind as I stepped out. It had gotten dark while I was there. The temperature had dropped about twenty degrees, and the air felt damp and cold. I shivered, and wished I’d brought a jacket with me. I walked alongside the house and unlocked the front gate. I stepped out onto the sidewalk and pulled the gate shut behind me. Once I was out in the open, I caught the full blast of the cold wind. I shivered. You can make it to the corner, it’s not that cold, I told myself.

  What I really wanted was a cigarette.

  I can buy a pack at the bar, I thought, and started walking towards St. Charles. I walked fast, my shoes making scrunchy noises on the wet pavement. The bar was just on the corner—just a short walk. I shivered again as a blast of cold wind pierced through my shirt and my jeans. Ahead of me, a practically empty streetcar went by. There was very little traffic on St. Charles. Behind me, I heard a car door shut. I stuck my hands in my pockets to keep them warm. The mist had come back. The windows of the cars on Polymnia Street were covered in condensation. The lights on St. Charles were haloed with yellow and blue light. I walked past the house next door to Paige’s and was almost past the vacant lot when I heard running footsteps behind me.

  I turned around to look just in time to take a blow right across my face.

  My head jerked back hard and I was suddenly looking at the cloudy sky. My weight was driven backwards and my feet rolled back. And then I was falling. It seemed to be happening in slow motion. My thoughts slowed down and I could hear, over the spreading pain from the blow to my face, someone breathing really heavy. My shoulders hit the hard sidewalk first, and all of my weight jolted onto my upper spine. My head fell back. It hit the sidewalk with a loud cracking sound that echoed through my mind. Then all I felt was a sudden dull pain in the back of my head. My eyes crossed and I couldn’t see anything else. All I was aware of was pain and darkness.

  Then all the breath was knocked out of me as a foot drove into my side with enough force to roll me over. I tumbled over and over again until coming to a stop on my back.

  I wasn’t on the sidewalk any longer. My back was on soft, wet mud. My legs were in a shallow puddle.

  My clothes started to soak through.

  I tried to get to my hands and knees. I started coughing, deep racking coughs that felt like a lung was going to come up. My entire body was tingling from shock. My breath was ragged, harsh, not doing me any good. My head was clouding, my scalp tingling. My eyes couldn’t focus. I have—to get—away, I thought somehow through the grayness engulfing my consciousness.

  Then I was being kicked again. I didn’t know if there was more than one of them, and I didn’t want to see. There was nothing I could do except curl up into a fetal position for safety. It was pure instinct, training from a long-ago self-defense class at the police academy. The blows kept coming, one after the other. I didn’t have time to register pain before the next one came. I started shivering. I wanted to scream, to beg them to stop, but I couldn’t catch my breath. And still the blows came.

  One after another without a break, without any kind of respite.

  I was conscious of nothing other than hurting.

  This can’t be happening. I can’t be kicked to death only fifty yards from the door to a bar.

  It went on.

  I don’t know if I just laid there or if I rolled to try to get away.

  More kicks. In the back. On my head, my arms, my stomach, my legs.

  Pain screamed from every part of my body.

  I raised my hands to protect my face and head.

  I thought, my God, they’re going to kill me. Somebody please
stop them.

  And finally, mercifully, my mind went into overload and I blacked out.

  Chapter Ten

  I don’t know how long I was unconscious.

  I came back to reality cold, wet, and aching. My ears were ringing.

  Even my hair hurt.

  I rolled over onto my back and winced. I moved my arms and legs. They hurt, but they still moved. I used my hands to push myself into a seated position. I felt dizzy for a moment, but willed myself to get to my knees and stand up. My head spun again when I got to my feet, and I staggered over to a chain link fence in time to keep from falling down again. I leaned against it while I ran my hands carefully over my ribs. They ached, but I was able to breathe without a lot of pain. The knuckles of my left hand were swollen, and I winced again as I pulled up my shirt to wipe the mud out of my eyes.

  Whoever had attacked me was long gone.

  I staggered around to the sidewalk. My head was throbbing, and I felt along the back of my head until I found a nice-sized lump where my skull had connected with the sidewalk. I ran my tongue along the inside of my teeth—they were all still there. I licked my lips, tasting dirt and blood. They were swollen and cut, but overall, I seemed to be relatively okay.

  I gritted my teeth and staggered along the sidewalk until I got to Paige’s gate. I slid the key into the gate and slammed it shut behind me. Despite the throbbing pain coming from various points of my body, as I walked, my mind became clearer and the staggering seemed to be under control. My legs were sore and aching. I climbed the short staircase to her door and went in.

  Paige looked up from her computer and gave a slight scream. She sprang to her feet, knocking her chair over. “Oh my God! Are you all right?”

  “I didn’t get the food,” I said. The ringing was getting quieter. Now it was more like a dull buzzing sound.

  Paige’s face was pale, her eyes wide. “What happened?”

  “I got jumped.” I walked through her kitchen to the laundry room and turned on the hot water spigot in the sink. I looked at myself in the mirror and could understand why she screamed. I looked like something that had been dredged up from a swamp. I had a black eye and an ugly swollen bruise across my right cheek. My lips were cut and swollen. I reached for a washcloth, splashed hot water on my face, and started patting the mud and dried blood off my skin.

  “You need to go to the hospital,” Paige said from the doorway. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “I’m fine,” I growled back at her and looked again in the mirror. “Does Ryan have any clothes here that would fit me?” I stood back to my full height.

  “You need to get checked out.”

  “I’m not going to any fucking hospital,” I snapped. “Clothes! Now!”

  Without a word she walked away. I heard her going up the stairs to the second floor. I pulled my shirt up over my head. “Ow, ow, ow.” The shirt was ruined, so I tossed it in the garbage pail. I started soaping up my arms and got a good look at my chest in the mirror. There were ugly bruises all over my chest and abdomen. I washed the mud off my arms. I undid my pants and eased them down. My legs were bruised as well.

  “Here.” Paige placed a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt on the washing machine behind me. “Chanse, are you sure about going to the emergency room? You look horrible, really.”

  “I’m just bruised up is all.” I knelt down with a moan and put my head under the rushing hot water. I massaged soap into my hair, carefully rubbing around the lump. I rinsed the soap out and wrapped a towel around my head. I took off my filthy muddy underwear and pulled the sweatpants on. She handed me two Tylenols after I gingerly pulled the sweatshirt over my head. I felt somewhat better. And with the mud and blood washed away, I just looked like I’d been in a fight. A bad one, granted, that I hadn’t won, but at least I wouldn’t scare small children any more. I walked into her living room and popped the Tylenol. I sat down on the couch.

  “Maybe we should call Venus and Blaine—“

  “I didn’t see who it was, Paige.” I eased back against the back cushions. “I heard someone running up behind me, and when I turned around I took a nasty punch to the face. I got knocked down, and the son of a bitch kept kicking me until I passed out.”

  Now that the shock had passed, I was starting to get mad.

  “This wasn’t a mugging,,” I went on. “This was a warning. From Frillian.”

  “You don’t know that—“

  “Jay Robinette did this.” I shushed her. “I’m not that easy to take down. Whoever hit me was strong enough to knock me off my feet—and he was at least as tall as I am, if not taller.” I pointed to the bruise on my right cheek. “Look at this! No one shorter than me could have hit me so hard here. Or bruised me like this.” I placed my own fist up against the bruise. “See the angle? It was a straight-on punch, not from below.” I was getting angrier. “It was Jay Robinette, all right.” I clenched my teeth. “I may not be able to prove it, but Frillian sent me a message tonight. Obviously, they don’t want me to find out what Freddy did.”

  “Movie stars don’t—“

  I interrupted her, pointing at my face. “Whatever Freddy did in his past, it was bad. Bad enough that they don’t want anyone to ever find out about it. Well, this time, they fucked with the wrong private eye.” I gave her a grim smile. “I’m bringing those Hollywood assholes down.”

  “Chanse—“ But then, she closed her mouth and suppressed a giggle. “You sound kind of Hollywood yourself, John Wayne.” After a moment, she went on, “Okay, count me in. But promise me you’re going to be more careful.”

  “Trust me, I don’t want to go through this again.” I smiled at her. I stood up, wincing. “All right, I’m going to walk home.”

  “Walk? Are you insane?” She walked into the kitchen and grabbed her purse. “After what just happened? I’ll drive you.”

  “No, I want to walk.” I grimaced. “It’ll be okay, Paige. Robinette isn’t out there anymore. His job is done. If he’d wanted to kill me, he could have. That wasn’t part of the plan.”

  “If you aren’t going to the hospital to get checked, you should stay here,” she insisted. “What if something’s wrong—like you have a concussion and you don’t know it?”

  I gave a half-laugh. “Paige, I’m fine. Really. Besides—“ I waved at her couch. It wasn’t a full-sized couch—more of a longer love-seat, really. There was no way I could stretch out on it.” As sore and battered as I am, sleeping on your couch isn’t going to help. I need my own bed tonight.”

  She surrendered and put her purse down on the coffee table. “Okay, fine, you stubborn asshole.”

  She walked me out to the gate, her lips pursed in disapproval as I hobbled along. The more I walked, though, the easier it got. But she kept her mouth shut until she’d shut the gate behind me. “Call me and let me know you’re home safe, okay?”

  “I will.”

  The street was deserted, and there was no traffic on Prytania Street as I crossed it. I wasn’t sure if the media circus had been disbanded, but I didn’t care, either. Frillian wanted war, did they? Well, I’d be more than happy to fire some shots back.

  When I reached Coliseum Square, I looked across to my house. The vans were gone. The sidewalk was clear. But a car I didn’t recognize was parked in front of my house—it didn’t belong to any of my neighbors. My heart started beating a little faster—you idiot, Paige was right, what if whoever beat you is waiting to finish the job?—but I took some deep breaths and started walking across the park.

  As I drew closer to Camp Street, I could see two people sitting in the car. A cigarette lighter flared, and with no small relief I realized that the passenger was a woman.

  I crossed the street and headed for the gate. I had just started to open it when I heard car doors shut.

  Get inside the house! My mind screamed at me.

  “Chanse MacLeod?” a woman’s voice said from behind me.

  I turned, and a bright light blinded me. When my eyes adju
sted, I realized it was the light from a video camera.

  The woman approached me. The man with her was holding the camera and was aiming it at me. She smiled. She was in her late forties, with graying dark hair. She was holding a digital recorder in her hand. “I’m Debra Norris, with The Veronica Vance Show. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the Glynis Parrish murder?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t comment on the case,,” I replied.

  “What happened to your face?”

  I shrugged. “This is what happens when you tell the truth about movie stars.” I turned my back and walked up my steps. I laughed grimly to myself. Chew on THAT when it airs, Frillian! Once I was inside my apartment, I called Paige to let her know I’d gotten home okay. She sounded relieved, and I promised to call her again when I got up. I walked over to my desk. I got out my cell phone and dialed Jephtha.

  “Hello?”

  I took a deep breath. “Jephtha, I need you to do something for me.” I closed my eyes. I bit my lower lip. I’d never specifically asked him to do anything illegal before—and it didn’t sit well with me. He’d probably done some illegal things over the years, but we operated on a don’t ask, don’t tell policy. This was the first time I’d asked him to break the law and risk his freedom.

  But it was the only way I could think of to get the information.

  “Sure.”

  “How hard would it be for you to break into a university’s database?”

  He didn’t answer at first. I was about to tell him to forget it when he replied, “Not hard, really. It depends on their security system. Their main concern is student hackers trying to change grades.” I heard him inhale. “Sure, it’s not exactly legal to break in. But I think I can do it without leaving a record.”

  “I just want you to retrieve records on a student from about twelve years ago.” I swallowed. “But I don’t want you to do anything risky.”

  He laughed. “Well, it shouldn’t be difficult at all. No one ever wants to access old records—they usually don’t protect that stuff much. It just depends on if they converted the old paper files to digital, or when they started keeping records on the computer. But twelve years ago—I’d imagine most colleges had started using computers by then.”