by H Hiller
I feared her head might actually explode. Her eyes bulged and her entire body shook until her hair was flying about and a sound probably heard only by animals came out of her open mouth. Then she found her voice and shrieked. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
I was no less dumbstruck than she was. This was the first I had ever heard of there being a Little Charles Lynley running around somewhere.
“I’ll give you a moment,” the lawyer said and stood up. He saw my hopelessly confused look and motioned for me to follow him into the empty office area, where he was kind enough to explain the situation while Tyshika prepared herself for her next attack. I kept her in my sight in case she had a handgun within reach.
“You can imagine the difficulty for someone such as Charles to have found legitimate work upon his release from prison. Tyshika took him in and supported him. They had a son that they both realized stood almost no chance of a life that did not involve eventually following in his father's footsteps. I arranged an adoption for the boy and, to the best of my knowledge, there has been no contact between the biological and adoptive parents since. The boy should be seven years old now, and surely has no idea who, or what, his father was. I am absolutely surprised that this is something Biggie decided to do.”
I was dizzied by the thousands of possible follow-up questions to this increasingly bizarre situation. “Why would Biggie give his son up for adoption and then leave him the family business anyway?”
“I admit it does seem strange.” I could see the dollar signs in Logan’s eyes as he estimated the legal cost of straightening this mess out. Best of all, at least for him, was that this was a mess he had already been paid to help create.
“How do I contest the will? I deserve something for putting up with that bastard for this long. He is not going to use me, make me give up my child, and then just leave me out in the street like a piece of trash. He's the trash!” Tyshika finally screeched as she thrust her head out of the office into the empty work space where the lawyer and I had taken refuge. She did not physically leave the office, perhaps thinking that her continued presence there might give her some sort of squatter’s rights.
“Well, you could hire a lawyer of your own and drag the whole thing out for as long as I allow. But you would need money for a large retainer, which is money you do not have to the best of my knowledge. My suggestion is to let me meet with the boy's mother and look at some sort of mediation. I cannot imagine that she will want her son involved here and, as he is a minor, she may want to appoint an administrator. Why don't you go home and work on your resume for that position and I’ll be in touch?”
Tyshika knew Logan well enough to know when she was cornered and getting close to the end of what little patience the attorney had for scorned widows and mistresses. The women who get involved with the Biggie Charles Lynleys of the world must surely know the kind of men they are investing their lives in, and yet so few ever think to protect themselves against the near certainty of a bad ending. Tyshika gathered her things and left the office quietly, her hair still a mess but with her chin held high as she marched past the openly smirking receptionists. You had to be blind not to notice that the two girls on the desk had been waiting for this very day for a long time.
“So, what is your interest here, Cadillac?” Logan asked once we were alone.
“I'm investigating Biggie’s death on NOPD’s dime. There's a theory that the dog didn't work alone.”
“No canine Oswald, then?”
“It doesn't seem likely. Someone had to train that dog to attack him the way it did,” I explained my working theory without giving up any secrets. I had none to hide anyway.
“Well, I guess I owe you for being here to protect me from the grieving fiancée if things got really ugly.”
“We've known one another long enough that it would have been a tough call on who to shoot.”
“You may as well follow me to see the boy’s mother. You're going to have to know all about this eventually and, besides that, one of these women may yet decide to kill the messenger.” He started to lead the way out of the now deserted office area but stopped and turned to face me. “Do you know what really surprised me? I am surprised that someone like Biggie Charles even had a will. I handled all of his legal work but he never expressed an interest in making one. The one I have was something he apparently had drawn up by the attorney that defended him in his murder trial. For all I know it dates that far back.”
“Why are you so surprised about Biggie having a will?”
“For someone in Biggie's line of work, having a will meant accepting that he might not outlive his enemies. It would, though, mean being sure of what happened after he died.”
“Like screwing with Tyshika?”
“Absolutely. Tyshika did support him when he was released from Angola. She also was the one to encourage him to try to take back his turf, to get back into exactly the same things that had landed him in prison, the very things he knew every cop in New Orleans was just waiting for him to do. She has lived off of him every minute of their lives together, and as he built this record label as well. In his mind she had already been repaid a hundred times over.”
“I doubt she's going to like that explanation. What are you going to do for her?”
“Not a goddamn thing.” The lawyer looked at me as though I was questioning his dedication to his client's wishes. “I guess I could help her sue the dog kennel.”
I let that comment pass. “Have you been knowing Biggie Charles very long?”
“I knew his father first, so I guess for most of his adult life. Biggie was one of those kids from a bad neighborhood who had the brains and determination to have done anything he wanted. He could have been one of the handful of success stories, but he was lazy and drugs are the only career path for ambitious young men who lack the character to stay on the higher path.”
“But you didn’t represent Biggie at his murder trial?”
“Noooo!” Logan held up both hands. “I had someone else in my office put that one on their resume. The prosecutor was caught trying to suppress an audio tape of the agents actually saying they should just find a way to shoot him. Personally, I think they were daydreaming but I can't say one way or the other how the jury would have voted. It didn’t matter because catching the prosecutor was enough to force them to give Biggie a very good plea deal. It was enough prison time to give Biggie a taste of what was to come if he went back to his old life when he got out.”
“Rumor is that he did go back to the life.”
“Rumor has it that the Saints will go all the way this year, too. I am sure Biggie knew a lot of the dealers and shooters out there, and that they frequented his club. This place was raided every few months but they never found drugs or guns on Biggie or any of his people. He insisted on running a clean operation. He really was dedicated to building something with the record label, and he was making a positive impact in the community.”
“So, where did he get his start-up money? As I vaguely remember it, he did not start out small. It was like he sprang to the top of the heap overnight.”
“I don't have an answer for that,” Logan said much more cautiously than he had been so far in this discussion.
“I don't think he is still covered by any confidentiality clauses.”
Logan said nothing and started out of the office. He had made whatever points he felt were necessary about his dead client. He made a polite goodbye to the secretaries and led the way into the bright mid-day sun.
“I will follow you. Where are we headed?”
“Oh, we aren't going very far.” He had a good laugh at my expense when he caught sight of the station wagon I was driving. “I know they call you Cadillac but I didn’t know you were a soccer mom in your spare time.”
I didn’t take the bait and waited as Logan put his briefcase in the trunk of his Mercedes convertible. He had parked well away from the entryway. He had probably anticipated Tyshika taking her keys to the paint
job on her way by.
I followed him as he turned onto Broad, then turned right on Orleans and led me back into the Quarter. I kept an eye on my rear view mirror but saw no sign of the Lincoln Navigator, or any other vehicle, following us. Logan had been right about not traveling very far. I could just as easily have parked in my own garage a few blocks away had I known our destination.
The attorney pulled into a parking lot behind the Jackson Brewery building across from Jackson Square, and waved for me to park next to him. The spaces were marked as reserved, but with my police placard on the dash board I was unlikely to be towed. I parked next to a newly purchased Volvo XC-90 with a temporary plate sticker still on the rear windshield. The new owner, according to the sticker, was named Amanda Rhodes.
ELEVEN
I recognized the name. Amanda Rhodes was one of the Hollywood and New York celebrities and artists who have bought property in New Orleans in lieu of staying in hotels while they are in town either working or on vacation. Logan had led me to the actress’ spacious penthouse condominium occupying the top floors of the former brewery. Access was by way of a private elevator, with its own unmarked lobby at ground level.
The wood-lined elevator doors opened onto a sun-washed living space with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Mississippi River and French Quarter. I could see St Louis Cathedral, Crescent City Connection Bridge, the office towers of the CBD, and had a nice view across the Mississippi River to Algiers from where we were standing. I could even hear the calliope on the excursion boat Natchez, which was docked very close by.
The rooms were decorated with a mixture of Modern-style furniture and expensive antique end tables and lamps. Massive hand-knotted Persian rugs covered the polished dark bamboo floors. A wrought iron staircase to the top two stories served as a decorative room divider between the living room and formal dining area. A galley kitchen opened to both rooms. I tried to remember what I could of Amanda Rhodes. Amanda was the rare former child star who could still find work as an adult in a difficult industry. She was approaching her forties now and had won a number of awards over the years. My favorite movies were the ones she had done just for the money, at the middle of her career. The ones when she still did nude scenes. She had married a prominent entertainment lawyer named John but he had died in a carjacking in Los Angeles nearly a year ago.
We were met at the elevator by a petite black haired young woman with dark features and a caramel tan in a string bikini top and floral print wraparound. Logan greeted her as Miss Georgia, leaving me to decide whether she was Amanda’s personal assistant or a beauty pageant contestant. Her smile was friendly but she was not being especially helpful. Her stance and position very effectively blocked our path beyond the elevator.
“You didn’t mention bringing anyone with you.” Georgia glared at the two of us. Her opinion of the attorney was obvious. It almost made me wish I had come alone.
“This was a last minute opportunity, Miss Georgia. This is Detective Cadillac Holland, the one who is investigating Charles Lynley’s death. It would only be a matter of time before he came knocking, so I think we can all agree this is the best way of his meeting your boss.”
“He doesn’t look like any cop I ever saw.”
“Summer uniforms.” Granted, an untucked polo shirt and denim jeans is not what one expects a police detective to be wearing when he shows up at your door on business. Georgia slowly turned from appraising me to focus her facial expression of displeasure about our unannounced intrusion upon the attorney.
“Wait here and I will see if she will speak with you.” It wasn’t until she had turned away that I remembered I could legally storm past her with my badge held high.
Logan waited until she was out of earshot before saying another word.
“I’ve always thought that she and Amanda have a thing going. I warn you, though. Georgia’s a bit of an attack dog herself. She has been working for Amanda for years, even before she moved here. Georgia hated Amanda’s late husband so much I am surprised she wasn’t the one who killed him. She is even more protective of her boss than she is of the kid Amanda and John adopted.”
Georgia returned a few moments later and led us through the home to meet the lady of the house. I was impressed with the way the decorating blended antique and modern pieces so well. The furnishings were chosen to create unobstructed and stunning views in all directions through the walls of laminated plate glass panels. I couldn’t help but notice that there were framed photographs of the actress and a young Black child in every room. The assistant marched us across the dark bamboo floor, past the narrow kitchen, and onto a good sized wooden deck surrounding a crystal clear lap pool and deck overlooking Jackson Square. Despite being in full sunlight, the deck was much cooler than the sidewalks below.
A tray of sandwich meats, sliced cheeses, and large croissants was laid out on a table shaded by a massive umbrella. The actress greeted us as her assistant poured sweet tea for each of us before excusing herself. Georgia reminded Amanda that this was the day she was taking Parker to the zoo after school and was leaving now to run an errand before picking the young boy up from school. They ignored us while they decided on which place Georgia should pick up their take-out dinner from on the way home.
Amanda Rhodes, in her own home and off the big screen, was a trim woman not much taller than her assistant, and a head shorter than myself. The arms and freckled upper chest she exposed in her choice of white bikini were well tanned and toned without being overly muscular. The slits in the thin fabric of her long skirt showed flashes of tanned legs as well. The ostrich-skin cowboy boots were an unexpected touch. Her lustrous sun-streaked blonde hair was cut just short of her trim shoulders. I realized I was distracted because she had to repeat her question.
“I asked how you came up with a name like Cadillac.”
“Oh, umm, it’s a nick-name. It was all we had to drive right after Katrina,” I said without really answering her question. I took a seat on the wide padded bench across from where she sat in a high backed deck chair. Logan was busy making himself a roast beef sandwich.
“I think I have read all of your father’s books. I remember reading that he had disappeared or something.” She seemed interested and wasn’t just making conversation.
“Or something,” I deflected the question all the same. I needed to be the one asking questions.
“You don’t have the accent of someone raised here. Are you sure you’re who you say you are?”
“It was better to have a neutral accent in my last line of work. Besides that, I didn’t really live here from when I was about sixteen until I moved back after the storm. I have been trying to get my old mojo back, though.”
“I had to lose mine for work as well. I grew up in a small town over in Alabama.” She said the last words in a sultry Southern drawl that would have done Miss Scarlett proud.
“There, the introductions are done,” Logan interrupted, and then spoke his next sentence with a mouth full of sandwich. “I brought the detective along so we could get this over with in one sitting. I didn’t think you would mind, Amanda. This way he has no reason to come back and bother you further.”
“Ignore the man. You're welcome any time.”
“Tell him about the adoption.” Logan instructed her and went back to eating.
Amanda took a sip of her tea and then leaned towards me just a bit before speaking. “John and I were, of course, aware of the history of our son’s parents. It was a large part of why we chose this particular child to adopt. Parker was more certain than most to wind up wasting his life and to be mixed up with drugs and guns. I mean, what other future did he have with a man like his father raising him? It would have been worse than being raised by wolves. And that woman, Tyshika isn't it, let herself be bullied into the adoption.”
“There aren't wolves in Hollywood?” I could see that she was actually more uncomfortable discussing this than she wanted to let on.
“Mostly that’s among
the paparazzi. Well, we do have lawyers there as well. My husband was one, but I married him anyway. That has made it so much easier to get over losing the bastard.”
“And it’s why you decided to raise your son in New Orleans, I take it?” I tried to refocus the conversation, but noted for myself that she was not a grieving widow. The idea that she had sought a place to raise her adopted child in a place that is largely free of photographers lurking in the shrubbery had come to me a little slowly. She had done a good job of hiding the adoption so far, but the secret wouldn't have lasted a week on either coast.
“I see no reason to expose Parker to that world just yet. Mr. Logan was able to get the adoption handled quietly by a friendly judge in a parish somewhere up north. I’m glad we adopted Parker but he’s still too young to be put in that terrible spotlight the tabloids do with our children. When Parker is old enough to understand things a bit better we can make a big announcement or something.”
“I would think that your son being the beneficiary of Biggie Charles's will is going to be difficult to explain. Especially if the boy's biological mother contests the will in court, which she is likely to do.”
“I know. Mr. Logan has tried to explain this all to me but I just keep bursting into tears. I don't deserve this. First I lose my husband, and now I have to fight Parker’s mother over something I do not even want him near. I will not let my son get sucked back into that world at any age.”
“You are not alone in this.” Logan sounded like his meter was running.
“And now you're going to drag us into the murder investigation.”
“Do you know who killed Biggie Charles?”
“No.” She groaned more than denied. I realized just then that one of the condo’s balconies overlooked the Hard Rock parking lot where Biggie had died.
