by Greg Herren
I grabbed the case file I’d started. I gave him the name of the university and the dates attended. “The student’s name was Frederick Bliss.”
“Freddy Bliss?” He whistled. “Okay, boss, I’ll get right on it.”
“Thanks, Jephtha—but be careful, okay?” I hung up the phone.
I sat down at my computer and checked my e-mail.
The in-box was full; all of the messages from addresses I didn’t recognize. Some of the subject lines were insulting, to put it mildly. I marked them all as spam, and went to bed. I set the alarm for eight. That would give me plenty of time to shower and wake up before meeting Brett. My body still ached a bit, but the Tylenol was working. I closed my eyes. I was exhausted.
I didn’t dream, and slept like a stone.
I woke up in the morning feeling sore and tired. I took a long hot bath while the coffee brewed, letting the hot water work its magic on my muscles and joints. I got out of the tub feeling much better. I was still stiff in places, but for the most part, I was functional. I took some more Tylenol. I still looked awful, but that couldn’t be helped. The lump on the back of my head seemed to have gone down a bit as well. With a full cup of coffee, I sat down at my computer and logged on.
The first headline on the welcome page screamed at me: Witness In Parrish Murder Beaten. There was also a photo of my battered face. I clicked on the link, and it brought up one of those video links. I clicked on the play button—and there I was, on the sidewalk in front of my house. I closed my eyes as I heard myself saying, This is what happens when you tell the truth about movie stars.
I glanced at the Web site header line. It was a gossip site. My heart sinking, I started reading the accompanying article.
“Chanse MacLeod, a New Orleans private investigator who claims to have seen Freddy Bliss leaving Glynis Parrish’s home the night she was murdered, apparently was attacked and beaten—and from his comments to a reporter from ‘The Veronica Vance Show’, caught on tape, seems to think Frillian was behind it!
MacLeod, an openly gay man, has been involved in several homicides over the years in New Orleans. Sources tell us here at tarnishedtinsel.com that he has actually killed twice—his first victim a gay prostitute named Glenn Austin. He also was involved with soft-core gay wrestling video star Cody Dallas, whose real name was Paul Maxwell. Several years ago, Maxwell was kidnapped and murdered by a deranged fan.”
I swallowed. There was a picture of Paul wearing a skimpy bright yellow bikini, with a come-hither look on his face. The caption read, Murdered soft-core porn star Cody Dallas.
Christ, I thought. I knew I should stop reading, close the page, and forget about it. But somehow I couldn’t. I had to pick at the scab.
“MacLeod, who was a New Orleans police officer and still has strong ties to the department, is himself a suspect in the murder of television star Glynis Parrish—but one the New Orleans police don’t seem to be taking very seriously. Their investigation seems to be targeting on super-sexy star Freddy Bliss—primarily based on what MacLeod claims to have seen the night of the murder! But the gay private dick was in Glynis Parrish’s home the day she was murdered, and sources tell us that his fingerprints were found on the murder weapon—the Emmy Glynis won for her long-running television series, ‘Sportsdesk’. Another source tells us that MacLeod was actually on Frillian’s payroll, and was fired the day after the murder. MacLeod was questioned by the New Orleans police department, but let go after an interrogation that didn’t last longer than an hour. It doesn’t hurt to have connections, apparently—looks like corruption is alive and well in the Big Easy!
“MacLeod, who runs his own private investigation business, has thus far refused to talk to the press. No police report was filed on the altercation that bruised-up face. What does the gay private dick have to hide?
“Two murders in New Orleans can already be chalked up to Chanse MacLeod. Is it really that much of a stretch to think he might have something to do with Glynis Parrish’s murder? Not according to the NOPD! The NOPD refused to answer questions about the investigation, or why they weren’t taking MacLeod, a two-time killer, seriously as a suspect. All we know is once a killer, always a killer—unless you live in New Orleans and have friends at the cop shop.”
I set my coffee cup back down on the desk.. Deep breaths, I told myself. It’s just a gossip Web site, and no one could possibly take it seriously. It’s not like it’s a reputable news agency. And it’s going to get a hell of a lot worse. So ignore it, forget about it. There’s nothing you can do about it, anyway. I stared at the picture of Paul, and started to get angry all over again.
There was absolutely no need to drag Paul into this. I hoped Fee and the rest of his family didn’t see this garbage.
At the bottom of the article was a place to post comments. My jaw dropped. There were over 36,000 comments already.
I clicked on the link to the comments page.
The first post started, That faggot got what he deserved—whoever beat him up shouldn’t have stopped there, they should have killed him for the lies he’s spreading about Freddy Bliss…
No need to read this crap, I thought, switching over to my e-mail in-box.
It was full again. I started marking the messages as spam and getting rid of them. The header lines included such charming statements as Fucking faggot; Leave Frillian alone you fag; Someone should kill your gay ass; and so forth.
I shook my head. Would it have killed me to say, “No comment”?
I got up from the desk and walked over to my front window, pulling the curtains aside. There were news vans out front, and a crowd milling about on the sidewalk. I walked back to my desk and sat down, reading the original article again. This time I remained calm. Now that the initial shock was over, all I felt was a dull spreading rage—and that wasn’t a good thing. I needed to remain calm, let it roll off me, and stay focused. Sure, everything in the article was true—but it was the way it was written that made me sound like some kind of crazed monster. Undoubtedly, the reporter was also getting some payback for my not returning his or her calls.
I heard Jillian saying, “They’ll print anything, with no regard for whether it’s true or not…or they’ll take what’s true and make it sound as awful as they can.”
“So this is what it’s like to be a celebrity,” I said out loud, finishing my coffee. “I think it sucks.”
No sense getting angry about it. I just hated the feeling of powerlessness. These people could write just about anything they wanted to, make any kind of innuendo, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it.
But it did make me wonder where they got their information from.
The only people who could benefit from my being discredited were Freddy and Jillian.
And why discredit me—unless Freddy had killed Glynis?
I was becoming more and more convinced. They certainly weren’t acting like Freddy was innocent.
I scrolled down to the bottom of the page. I forced myself to read the comments. They were horrible; people sitting behind the anonymity of their computer screens passing judgments..
“Chance McCloud—why didn’t you mention that he’s a faggot pervert? He’s killed before, how do the police know that he didn’t kill Glynis? He lives outside God’s law, so the commandment against killing means nothing to him. He and all the other perverts in New Orleans should be rounded up and killed, it’s what God commands…he and others like him are an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. Why else did God send the hurricane to destroy the modern Sodom? These are indeed sorry times for this country when perverts like that can subvert God’s law and get away with it.”
I wanted to put my fist through the computer screen. Fury filled my brain, and I clicked on the respond button on the page. Then I thought better of it and closed the window. Don’t get angry, just shrug it off. There’s nothing you can do about it. And anything you could say would just inflame them more. Don’t give them any attention; that’s what they
want. Just ignore them and don’t descend to their level.
In the five minutes since I’d emptied my in-box, it had filled up again. Most of the messages were interview requests, but the subject line of one was abusive: You Should Burn in Hell. . The return address was a series of number and letters that made no sense;
Against my better judgment I opened it, and read:
You fucking faggot,
You can get away with your perversions in a disgusting city like New Orleans, but in the rest of the country we all live by God’s law, and you are an abomination in His eyes. You obviously have some kind of agenda, some reason to try to destroy Freddy and Jillian, but it’s not too late to recant not only your lies, or to make yourself right in the eyes of the Lord. You like taking it up the butt? Well, when you finish outraging good Christians, we have something to shove up your butt—a shotgun ready to blow you to Kingdom Come, and then when you face your maker, we’ll see how defiant you are in your sin. You are an abomination, who has turned his back on the Lord. His judgment will way heavy on your soul. We’ll be praying for you.
My hands shaking with anger, I forwarded it to Jephtha, asking him to trace the sender for me. I then saved it, moving on to continue emptying out my in-box. Sadly, that wasn’t the only one of its type, and after reading for the fifth time how I was damned to eternal hell, I stopped.
I got another cup of coffee and sat down on the couch for a moment. I was breathing fine, and my heart rate seemed normal, which was great. I took a couple of cleansing breaths, and sighed. I called Paige, and she answered screaming. “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU SAY THAT ON CAMERA FOR YOU BIG IDIOT!”
“Good morning to you too, did you sleep well?” I replied. “And yes, I’m fine, just a bit on the sore side.”
“I’m counting to ten, give me a second.”
“Okay, granted, it wasn’t the smartest thing to do.” I said. I could hear her counting. “But damn it, I couldn’t just let it go. And I was hoping to stir up Frillian.”
“Nine, ten.” She blew out a long breath. “Good idea. If they sent someone to beat you up—which by the way we don’t know for a fact—you’re right. By all means, antagonize them some more. I could wring your neck.”
“Jephtha’s tracing some information for me from Freddy’s college days.” I said. With Paige, I’ve learned that it’s sometimes best to ignore her and change the subject. “I’m going to stop by his place after I meet with Brett, the trainer, and see what he’s found.”
“Oh, and Shirley Harris is in rehab, by the way,” Paige replied with a sad laugh. “It was on the news last night. Frillian hired a private plane and sent her to one of those celebrity places like Betty Ford—near Palm Springs. No one’s going to be able to get anything out of her now. If you ask me, they sure are acting like they’re guilty. We can write Shirley off as a source now.” She sighed. “I’m having lunch with Venus later. I’m going to tell her about my interview with Shirley. Maybe she can get to Shirley, but who knows? I wish I’d been able to get the name of her private eye out of her.”
“If her private eye was able to dig it up, we should be able to,” I said confidently.
“What I don’t understand,” Paige said slowly, “is why it hasn’t come up before. Someone out there has to know—and has to know it’s worth a lot of money to either Freddy or the tabloids.”
“Maybe they’ve been paying people off for years, Paige. We don’t know.” I closed my eyes. “And someone besides Shirley knows. Whoever sent the original e-mails. That’s really what got this whole mess started. It couldn’t have been Glynis. If she’d known, why would she wait until now to bring it all up?”
“Maybe she just now found out.” Paige sighed. “Okay, I’m heading out now. Give me a call later, all right?”
“Yeah.” I closed the phone and it rang almost immediately. “MacLeod.”
“Hey, Chanse, Storm Bradley here. Just got off the phone with Casanova. Yeah, they found your prints on the murder weapon, all right—the Emmy. But the way your prints are on it, you couldn’t have used it to strike the blow that killed Glynis Parrish. The forensics are all wrong.”
“So I’m no longer a suspect?”
“Well…you could have used gloves for the murder, then planted the prints to throw the cops off, right?” He laughed; I didn’t. “Maybe you’re not quite off the hook, but it’s a good sign.”
“ Oh. Well, thanks, Storm.”
“No problem. If you need me, call me.” He paused. “By the way, nice footage on CNN this morning. Did you intend to imply that Frillian had you beaten up?”
I didn’t answer. ”Yeah, well, it had just happened, and I was mad. I know I should have just said no comment, but I was pissed.”
“Are you okay? Did you go to the hospital? Fill out a police report?”
“No, I didn’t do either. I’m fine. Just a little sore and bruised.”
“Well, if they have a problem with it I’ll undoubtedly be hearing from Loren McKeithen. I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.” I hung up the phone. It was getting close to ten. I grabbed my wallet and keys and walked out the back door to the parking lot. From the sidewalk, people started shouting my name. I started the car and backed out of my spot, clicking the gate open with my remote. The reporters swarmed all over the driveway in front of my car, but I didn’t roll the window down and kept moving forward slowly. I had to resist the urge to stomp down on the gas and take a few of them out. Cameras were clicking, questions were being screamed at me, but then the car was out onto Camp Street. In the rearview mirror I saw them running for the vans.
Christ.
The light at Melpomene was red. It was a one-way street going the other way, but I floored it and turned right. I swerved to avoid a white SUV that honked its horn at me. The woman behind the wheel flipped me the bird. I turned right on Magazine, and then took the next left at high speed. I took the next right, the next left, and finally wound up on Race heading towards Tchoupitoulas.
There was no one behind me when I checked my rearview mirror.
I smiled and headed uptown.
Chapter Eleven
Bodytech was located on Magazine Street, just beyond Louisiana Avenue.
I pulled into the parking lot. Several other cars were there, but Allen’s white Lexus wasn’t one of them. I breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk with my ex. I pulled into a spot and got out of the car. I checked for reporters, laughing grimly to myself. But I’d lost the ones who’d tried to follow me. Hopefully, none of them would figure out where I’d gone. The cars in the lot were empty, and no other cars pulled into the lot. I locked the car and walked into the gym.
A pumping dance remix of Fergie’s “Big Girls Don’t Cry” was blaring over the stereo system. Davina, a gorgeous young woman of Middle Eastern descent, was working at the front desk. She had her back to me, her long thick bluish-black hair hanging down her back in a braid. She was folding towels. I liked her—she’d been working at Bodytech since the flood. The gym she’d worked at in Mid-City had closed. I swiped my membership card, and said, “Good morning, Davina. I have an appointment with Brett.” I glanced at the little tree with the trainer’s business cards right next to the card-reader. His card was at the top: Brett Colby, Personal Training. On the right side was a small black and white photograph of him in a white posing trunk. He looked vaguely familiar, but I’d probably just seen him around the gym. I took a card and slipped it into my pocket.
“Okay,” she said. She turned around and gave a start when she got a good look at my face. Her eyes widened. She swallowed. “Um, good morning, Chanse. My God, what happened to you? Are you all right?”
“Haven’t you been watching the news?” I gestured at my face and shrugged. “I got jumped last night.” I gave a half-hearted laugh. “I know I look awful—but it looks better today than it did last night.”
“Wow, they sure did a number on you.” She shook her head and regained her professional c
omposure. “It just took me by surprise.” She stepped closer to the counter. “Are you okay?” She reached over and touched one of the bruises on my cheek. I flinched, and she pulled her hand back. “Sorry!”
“Ah, no problem.” I smiled at her. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’ve been better. Is Brett here?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, he’s in the trainer’s office.” She tilted her head to one side. “What are you doing making an appointment with a trainer after all these years?” She looked me up and down critically. She leaned on the counter with her elbows.
“I want to trim down some.” I lied. “I’ve put on a lot of size these last few years, and I want to drop about twenty pounds.” I winked. “That’s my fighting weight. Besides, I’ve heard really good things about Brett.”
“He’s not the one I would choose, frankly.” She rolled her eyes. “Not that he’s not a good trainer. He’s just…oh, never mind.”
“What?” I leaned on the counter and lowered my voice. “Come on, Davina, spill.”
“He’s really arrogant.” She pursed her lips. “Thinks he’s God’s gift, you know what I mean? He’s never met a mirror he didn’t like.” She waved a hand. “But he’s a good trainer. Just be prepared to know more about him than you want to.” She picked up the phone. “Go on back. I’ll let him know you’re on your way.” She pressed a button as I walked away.
The trainer’s office was in the far back corner of the gym. The building housing Bodytech had once been a small sugar warehouse, so the workout area was one big room. The wall facing the parking lot was all windows, tinted to reduce the sun’s glare. The front desk was on the right side, with the management office door to the left. The locker rooms were also on that side of the building. The opposite wall was all mirrors. The front area by the desk was where the cardio machines were, with a small aerobics room fitting into the front corner. I walked past the cardio machines, and glanced up at the huge TV screens hanging on the opposite wall. One was tuned into CNN, and I saw another view of myself standing on the front steps to my apartment, pointing at my face. Apparently, my little moment of fame was still in heavy rotation. Several people on treadmills with headphones on were staring at that television. I winced and started walking faster.
