by Greg Herren
“It’s okay, Jude. It’s been years.” I can think about him now without it hurting.
“Well, I’m glad to hear you’ve finally gotten past that.” I also appreciated him not pointing out that Paul’s shadow was part of what ruined things for us, or that I’d used him. Part of Jude’s appeal to me back then, when I was drinking too much and blaming myself for Paul’s death, was that he’d known Paul and we could talk about him and remember him together.
I was not a good person back then—not that I was much better now.
I need to call Rory and apologize.
“Thank you for saying that, and for not—you know. You deserved to be treated better than that. I am sorry, Jude.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me for anything, Chanse. Seriously. I wasn’t in a good place when we were together, I was insecure and you had your martyr complex. It’s not like we had a chance…it was a wonder we managed to stay together as long as we did.”
Martyr complex. I still have one, didn’t I? If I didn’t, I would have the fucking cortisone shot and stop suffering.
He was saying, “After we broke up I met someone, and we’ve been together ever since. We get over to New Orleans every once in a while…maybe next time we could have dinner or something.”
“I’d like that.” I meant it, too. “And I’m glad you found someone. You deserve to be happy.”
“So do you, Chanse. Do you still have the martyr complex?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I muttered.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you?”
“I said I’m glad you found someone. You deserve to be happy.”
“Yeah, well, I won’t argue that point,” he said with a laugh. “I think you’ll like Clay…Okay, next time we come over to New Orleans we’ll get together for dinner. So, where were we before we got sidetracked into the personal drama? Oh, yes, that crazy fuck Jamie West.” He sighed. “The last time I saw him was maybe twelve years ago?”
“Did you say twelve years ago?” Something niggled in my mind—something about the time frame seemed off, didn’t fit. But I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Yeah, Paul stopped working for Top Rope around the same time, it was the last time we all worked for Top Rope—well, you know—and that was the last time I saw Rand Barragry. It was after that Steve told me he let him go.”
“Rand Barragry?”
“As I said, that was Jamie’s real name.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. His name was Rand Barragry.” He spelled the last name for me. “I’m looking at my Dropbox account on my laptop—I have pictures stored from my days at Top Rope, and I have one of him, and that’s the name it’s labeled with.” He laughed. “You know how anal I am about things.”
I pulled up the report Abby had sent about Tom on my computer. “Thanks, Jude—you’ve been a big help. I hate to do this, but I kind of have to go now.”
“No worries, I do, too—I have to get back to work. I’m glad you called.”
“Me, too. Call me the next time you’re in town.”
“I’d like that. Bye.” He hung up.
I stared at the report, reading through it quickly.
It had been in front of my face the whole time.
Paul had stopped working for Top Rope two years before he died. He’d been dead ten years. So that meant “Tom” had been working for Top Rope twelve years ago. But according to the report, he would have only been seventeen twelve years ago—and that was the last time he’d worked for them. Paul and Jude had both told me they’d taped all of their matches for Top Rope over a period of about three years.
If Tom had started around the same time, he would have only been fourteen when he started.
I would have caught that if my brain hadn’t been addled with fucking pain pills.
I pulled up the Internet and typed in “topropevideos.com.” And sure enough, there it was on the front page: in order to enter the website you had to verify that you were over twenty-one. There was also a disclaimer that all of the models used in Top Rope Productions were over eighteen, and proof was on file at Top Rope headquarters.
I clicked the box and went inside the site, and there it was—the link to “contact us.” I clicked on it, and the mailing address for the company came up, along with an 800 customer service number.
I dialed it.
“Top Rope Productions.”
“My name is Chanse MacLeod, and I’m a private investigator in New Orleans, Louisiana. I’m looking for information on someone who used to work as talent for your company—his stage name was Jamie West.”
“Let me connect you to someone else.” There was a silence, and then another click as someone picked up the line.
“This is Steve, I am the owner here. What are you asking for?”
I reintroduced myself, adding, “I’m looking for information on Jamie West. I’m hoping you can help me.”
There was silence, and then a low whistle. “There’s a name I’d hoped I’d never hear again. How do I know you are who you say you are? My employment files are confidential.”
“I can take a picture of myself with my private eye license and email it to you. I can also scan the license.”
“Do that, and I’ll call you back.”
I did, and five minutes later my phone rang. “MacLeod.”
“I got your information, but I don’t know this is real.”
“Listen, I used to date Paul Maxwell—he wrestled for you under the name Cody Dallas. And I just spoke to Jude Mueller, and he used to wrestle for you as Matt Miller…If you want to give Jude a call to verify I am who I say I am, I’ll wait.”
Five minutes or so later my phone rang again. “Jude vouched for you, but I have to say, I’m really not comfortable sharing my employment files with you—there are privacy laws, and I don’t want to open myself up to litigation.”
“We can talk in hypotheticals—although the police may be in touch with you, just a heads up.”
“Okay, hypotheticals.”
“The man who used to wrestle for you under the name Jamie West now lives in Louisiana and calls himself Tom Ziebell. Was that the name you knew him under?”
“No. And we do have his driver’s license and social security card on file. That was not the name he was calling himself then.”
“And he was over eighteen?”
“We don’t use models who are underage. That’s why we have the photocopies of his documents on file, just in case someone came back and accused of child porn or whatever it is they call it now.”
“Thank you.”
There was a pause. “May I ask what this is about?”
“Hypothetically, I can tell you my case is about murder, robbery, and possible fraud.”
“Then Jamie West is probably your man.” He hung up the phone.
Tom wasn’t Tom.
Bill had a connection to Myrna that went back years.
And they were both connected to Benjamin Anschler.
This whole thing stunk to high heaven.
I called Abby, but it went to voicemail.
I stood up. Much as I hated the thought, I was going to have to drive out to Redemption Parish.
Chapter Thirteen
I found an empty pill bottle for the other half of the Vicodin I’d taken, to bring with me on the drive out there. The half I’d taken had dulled the pain down to a throb, kind of like a minor toothache that was bearable.
I needed to keep my mind clear but I also needed to dull the pain. If it got worse I’d take the other half—but taking a whole one was out of the question until I got back to New Orleans.
Now that I knew Tom wasn’t really Tom, I was worried about Abby. I’d tried calling her but it went straight to voicemail—which never happened. I’d also sent her an urgent text, but she hadn’t yet responded as I went out the back door and got into the car. I turned the Bluetooth on and tossed the phone into the passenger seat.
I was
trying not to panic. There wasn’t any reason to think Abby was in any danger. She’d planned on nosing around the sheriff’s department in Avignon. She hadn’t said anything about going out to Belle Riviere.
But Abby never turned off her phone. She never allowed the battery to run down, either. She could never understand how anyone could ever let a cell phone die, and she even paid extra so it hooked up to a satellite when she was out of her provider’s service area so she was never out of touch. She was amazing with it—it was like another limb to her. Her entire life was in that phone.
No, something was definitely off.
I got on the highway, biting my lower lip as I merged into the heavy westbound traffic. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Abby was in some kind of danger. She had no idea who she was dealing with.
I could kick myself.
How could I have missed the age thing, how? If anything happens to Abby because I was too fucked up on pills to think clearly…My thinking is impaired. You’re always in pain or on some kind of pain pill that fucks with your memory. You should have listened to everyone and gotten the fucking cortisone shot. If anything happens to her because of my stupid martyr complex…
Jude was right. Everyone was right. I did have a martyr complex. I never believed I deserved to be happy. It had been so drilled into my head growing up that homosexuality was wrong and a sin—even after coming out, coming to terms with who and what I was, I’d never gotten over that. It was why I’d never had anything lasting with anyone.
And when I’d finally found it with Paul, I’d allowed my own pettiness and stupidity to sabotage the whole thing. And when he was murdered, when he died, I blamed myself and believed I didn’t deserve to be happy. I’d fucked things up with Jude. I’d fucked things up with every guy I’d dated since Paul died. I’d kept Rory at arm’s length, unable and unwilling to take it any further.
Martyr complex. Yeah, that’s definitely what my problem was.
My phone rang, and I answered through the Bluetooth. “MacLeod.”
“Chanse, it’s Jephtha again.” His voice was higher than normal, which wasn’t good. His voice always tended to go up a register or two (or three) when he was agitated. “Abby’s not responding to anything—every time I call it goes right to voicemail. That’s not like her. Have you talked to her?”
Fuck, I said to myself. The last thing I needed was for him to go off the rails. I was also glad I hadn’t told him anything I’d found out about Tom. “Jephtha, you need to stay calm,” I replied, hoping I could follow my own advice. “I’m on my way out there now. You don’t know anything’s wrong. Her battery could have died, or she turned it off because…I don’t know why, but she might have a good reason.”
“Except she never turns her phone off, and she never lets the battery die. You know that.” His voice was rising in pitch again. “She has a charger she could plug into the cigarette lighter of her car. She has another that’s solar powered. She always has a charger in her purse.”
“Seriously, buddy, you need to stay calm.” I pressed down on the accelerator so I could pass an eighteen-wheeler in the center lane. “I promise you, as soon as I get off the phone with you, I’ll call the sheriff out there and let him know we’re worried about her. I’ll let him know everything we have on Myrna and the robbery, okay?”
“Yeah, okay. You call me if you hear anything.”
“You do the same.” I disconnected the call. I didn’t tell him I’d already called the sheriff before I left the apartment. Parlange had listened to me—because Venus and Blaine had already contacted him about me, and he was “always willing to cooperate with the New Orleans Police Department.” He’d been surprised that I didn’t want to discuss the robbery with him, but he’d listened and then told me he’d let his patrol guys know to keep an eye out for her car—which was hard to miss. I’d hoped he’d send someone out to Belle Riviere, but he didn’t offer. There was no reason for anyone to go out there and look. There was no reason for me to even be worried she’d gone out there.
I could also hope that the Barney Fife she’d been flirting with would be concerned once he heard she’d dropped off the radar. Maybe he would take a drive out to Belle Riviere just to be on the safe side.
I still hadn’t figured out what was going on with the paintings.
All I was sure about was the man I knew as Tom Ziebell was really named Rand Barragry. The quick web search I’d done on Rand Barragry turned up a newspaper report about his death ten years ago—right around the time “Tom” had entered Bill Marren’s life.
Well, at least a body had been found in Providence. The corpse was missing his arms and his face had been bashed in. He’d been carrying Rand Barragry’s wallet, so the Rhode Island police had simply assumed that was whose body it was. Why run dental records or fingerprint matches when there was ID on the body? I was a former cop, so I knew how easy it was to just close the file and be done with it. All of those cost money, budgets were tight, and there was a lot pressure to close cases quickly.
No one was looking for Tom Ziebell, because Rand Barragry had taken his identity.
It was frightening how smart he was.
He’d undoubtedly murdered Bill Marren, using me as his alibi. I would have been willing to swear he’d come home with me. He’d been there at four in the morning, hadn’t he? He’d probably brought me home, put me to bed, gone back out to his car and out to Belle Riviere to kill Bill. Once that was done, he headed back to New Orleans, let himself back into my apartment, and got back into bed with me.
It was a big risk to take—how could he have been sure I wouldn’t wake up and realize he was gone?
The whole night was foggy to me.
I’d swear I’d not had more than one glass of wine, maybe two at the most. The whole night was shrouded in fog. Maybe he’d slipped something into my wine? Something that on top of the wine and the Vicodin would put me out long enough for him to commit the murder?
It was an hour and half, give or take, from New Orleans to Belle Riviere. Give him half an hour to commit the crime, and then another ninety minutes back to New Orleans. We’d had dinner at seven. He could have had me back home by nine—I’d have to have Venus and Blaine check the dinner receipt—be out there and back in bed by one in the morning.
It was a risk, but then sociopaths got off on risk, didn’t they?
And he was getting bolder. Collier’s murder hadn’t been as big a risk as Bill’s.
There’s no reason to be worried about Abby, she’s probably nowhere near Belle Riviere.
Hell, if I hadn’t figured out the age was wrong I wouldn’t have suspected anything amiss with him. So why would Abby? Everyone knew him as Tom Ziebell. I remembered reading that the best way to change your identity was to take over someone else’s, apply for a social security number with the name of a dead child…It would have been easy. All he had to do was kill Tom, take his IDs and credit cards, and move away, avoid people who actually knew him.
But the paintings—what was the fucking deal with the paintings? And why did Collier have to be killed as well?
Where was Myrna?
Or was he just killing all of his partners? To keep all the money for himself?
You can never trust a criminal partner because they’ve already proven they don’t care about the law.
And I’d never suspected a thing. Not even when I recognized him from Top Rope. How he must have laughed at me! Although it must have scared the pants off him at first—what were the odds that the detective Bill hired would have known him as Jamie West?
Am I so shallow that I won’t suspect a good-looking man?
I didn’t like to think so. There was always the excuse that the pain and the meds were fucking with my brain.
Why are you being such a goddamned martyr? Why won’t you have the cortisone shot that will make the pain go away? It isn’t risky.
Bill had hired me to look into the disappearance of the paintings. Did he suspect his protégé? Did Tom
/ Rand / whatever the fuck his name was start to wonder if Bill was on to him?
It all came back to the paintings.
Bill’s father tried to help the Anschler family during the war. The three missing paintings…
“Call New Orleans Museum of Art,” I instructed the Bluetooth. I asked the woman who answered for Haley Flax, and this time I was put right through.
“Haley Flax, Development.”
“Ms. Flax, this is Chanse MacLeod, and I’m a private investigator—”
“Yes, I got your messages, I’m sorry to have not called you back.” She interrupted me. “It’s been crazy around here lately. You were on my list of callbacks for tomorrow, I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. The reason I was calling was because I was wondering about an estate settlement? It goes back a number of years. A woman named Rachel Anschler left her estate to the museum?”
“That’s very odd.” She clicked her tongue. “You know, someone called asking about that bequest recently. I went on vacation and hadn’t had time to put the file back…it’s here on my desk somewhere.”
“Someone called you about the Anschler bequest?” I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck starting to stand up. “Do you remember who?”
“Of course. A woman named Myrna Lovejoy who has a gallery down on Magazine in the Arts District. She called asking about the Anschler bequest.” I could hear papers rustling on her desk.
“What did you tell her?”
