Sucker Punch
Page 46
“I’ll just bet I’m not, big boy. I’ll just bet I’m not.”
“Do not call me big boy.”
“Sorry. Totally understand. I don’t let people call me little girl either.”
“Now that you two have worked out the name-calling, let’s go find Newman before he drives off without us, because the little woman here spooked his ass.”
There wasn’t a trace of Ted’s happy accent as he said that last part. I realized he was angry with me, and he was right. If I’d kept my mouth shut, Newman would probably have signed the warrant over to me. Then I could have run the investigation the way I wanted to run it. Now our hands were still tied by Newman’s scruples. He was a good cop, but maybe that wasn’t what this case needed. Maybe it needed a bad cop, or maybe even a little bit worse.
59
I MANAGED TO convince Newman that I was just angry about all of it, and that I wouldn’t really use the warrant to kill straight humans unless they were trying to kill me first. It was the truth, but if I had to be the one who put a bullet between Bobby Marchand’s eyes when I was about ninety-eight percent certain he was innocent—that might change. I wasn’t sure I could kill Jocelyn in cold blood, and I sure as hell couldn’t give her over to Olaf, so what the hell was I going to do with her if she was guilty of murder? Damn it, I hated this case. What I hated almost as much was the fact that Leduc had put his foot down and wouldn’t allow any Coalition members to go out and question anyone else.
“Our deal is that I let your people babysit Bobby in my station, on the condition that you don’t involve them in any other police business.”
“Nicky went with Otto and me to question a witness. Nothing bad happened.”
Leduc had shaken his head. “You gave your word, Blake, so the deal’s done.”
I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, but he was right.
“Besides, Blake, ya got three Horsemen of the Apocalypse plus Win here. Don’t you think that’s enough firepower?” Again, Leduc was right.
The four of us divided and conquered but ended up meeting at the edge of a parking lot to discuss Jocelyn’s girlfriends and the supposedly perfect alibi. Why a parking lot? Because though we weren’t allowed to let any of my St. Louis people be actively involved in the case anymore, Leduc felt perfectly okay interfering with any discussion of the case we had at the office. The four of us wanted some privacy from Duke and his deputies.
We found a tree to the side of the parking lot away from the whir of passing cars; just the open space gave us privacy to talk. Newman and Edward shared their intel, what little they’d gained, from Marcy Myers, Jocelyn’s other friend who had gone out with her the night of the murder. Marcy had agreed with everything Brianna had said, though Marcy had had to get very drunk to let a stripper do a lap dance for her, so her details were fuzzy at best.
“Jocelyn could have left the club and come back multiple times, and Marcy probably wouldn’t have noticed,” Newman said.
“So she doesn’t help either way,” Edward said.
“Brianna Gibson was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for her night out. She remembers more details than I wanted her to share,” I said.
“So she vouches for Jocelyn?” Newman said.
“For a night out at the strip club, yes.”
“Did she mention Jocelyn confiding in her about Bobby wanting to be her boyfriend instead of her brother?” Newman asked.
In my head I thought, Technically he would have been both, but I didn’t say it out loud. The situation was creepy enough without belaboring it. “No, Jocelyn never told her anything like that because if she had, Brianna would have mentioned it. She’s not shy about sharing details. I think she would have mentioned it.”
“Jocelyn told Marcy about a week before the club,” Newman said.
“Why not tell both of them?” I asked.
“Marcy said that the twins were keeping Brianna too busy for much socializing. Her two kids are older, boy in kindergarten and the girl in preschool,” Newman said.
“Twins under one would keep anyone busy, I guess.”
Three of us nodded. Olaf just watched the surroundings the way a cat looks for movement at a window, as if he were seeing everything all at once. If he wasn’t making an occasional comment, I’d have thought he wasn’t listening at all.
“If Jocelyn had confided in her other friend that night, it might have put a damper on going to the strip club,” Newman said.
We all agreed, even Olaf.
“We have to talk to the dancer that was with Brianna and Jocelyn that night. Friends will lie for you, but strippers that see you as just money in their G-strings, not so much, especially not about murder.”
“But even if we can break Jocelyn’s alibi for the night of the murder, we still haven’t figured out how she made it look like a wereleopard killed Ray. Without that, the judge won’t take Bobby’s name off the warrant or vacate it,” Newman said.
Edward said, “Then we need to break or prove Jocelyn’s alibi, because until we do that, we’re wasting precious time chasing her story.”
“She lied about the affair,” I said.
“Anita, she’s sleeping with her own brother. Anyone is going to be conflicted about that.”
“I think it’s more than that,” Newman said.
We all looked at him.
“I think she’s afraid that Bobby did kill Ray. Remember that it was Jocelyn who insisted he change on the one night when almost every Therianthrope is safe.”
“The dark of the moon,” I said.
“Yes, so if she thinks Bobby killed Ray, she could blame herself.”
“If she saw him change form and go out the window as a leopard, she has to know that when he shifted back to human, he’d be passed out solid for hours. He still passes out like a newbie shapeshifter. It’s how the sheriff and the deputies got him to the cell without a fuss,” I said.
“Maybe he just comes back into his bedroom and passes out without Jocelyn knowing,” Newman said.
“She’s lived with Bobby shapeshifting for ten years. Trust me, when you live with a shapeshifter, you learn their patterns.”
“Lying about the affair could be embarrassing, but lying about Bobby being in human form when she left the house has only one explanation,” Edward said.
“To set him up for the murder,” I said.
“Many people would believe he came back into the house and simply killed the victim because he was a wild animal,” Olaf said.
“Everyone says that Bobby had really good control over his beast,” I said.
“Humans always believe that shapeshifters are but an impulse away from murder.”
“Besides, Anita, you saw Bobby react to the details about Ray’s death,” Newman said. “He almost shifted form in his cell with us there.”
“I can debate the whole humans-think-all-shapeshifters-are-dangerous thing, but I can’t argue that. So, do we believe that Jocelyn is hiding the affair because if Bobby killed their father, she’s not in love with him anymore?” I asked.
“It could be simpler than that, Anita,” Edward said.
I looked at him. “I’m listening. Simple would be nice on this case.”
“She believes he’s a murderer. She knows that means he’s a dead man walking. She thinks he’ll be executed within hours of the crime. She can either be the only survivor of a family tragedy or the girl who fucked her brother and drove him to kill their father. Which would you rather be when the dust settles?”
I thought about that for a few seconds and then finally nodded. “Point made, and if she had changed her story only after the murder, I’d agree completely, but she was telling the cook and her friend at least a week before the murder that Bobby was harassing her.”
“Point to you, and there’s the money. With Bobby dead, her share goes up.”
We looked at him and waited for him to share. When he didn’t, I broke first and said, “Well?”
“Bobby got most of the money, the art and family antiques. Jocelyn got the house, the grounds, and contents that didn’t fall under art or family pieces. The art and family heirlooms are another fortune if Bobby sold them for the appraised value. With him dead, she inherits most of the family fortune and still gets the grounds and a lot more of the contents. The family portraits and some of the other art goes to a museum along with an endowment for a new wing or building. Apparently, Ray didn’t trust anyone but Bobby with the family history and the more important pieces of art.”
“Muriel and Todd were trying to steal and sell the art before the body was cold, so he was right on that,” I said.
“Ray never adopted Jocelyn formally because she inherits money from her father, but only if she retained his name. She also inherits a trust fund that holds her mother’s money from modeling, acting, song copyrights, et cetera . . . She gets access to it when she turns thirty-five. But she’s not legally a Marchand, and there are some trusts and older wills going back a couple of generations that make it impossible for her to get some of the family heirlooms, so the endowment was to protect it all from Muriel and her husband.”
“Wait. Everyone calls her Jocelyn Marchand here,” I said.
“But on her driver’s license and all legal documents she’s still Jocelyn Warren, or that’s what the lawyers told Duke.”
“How much more does everyone inherit with Bobby and Ray Marchand dead?” Edward asked.
“Ray’s sister and brother-in-law go from nothing to about two million.”
“And Jocelyn?” I asked.
“If she sold all the real estate and liquidated the investments, it’s at least two billion.”
“Did you say billion?” I asked.
Newman nodded.
“And what did she get if Bobby lived?” Edward asked.
“Just what she could sell the real estate for.”
“Wow,” I said.
“How much money does she inherit from her own father?” Edward asked.
“Under three million,” Newman said, “and that’s tied up in investments mostly.”
“Which means it’s not real money,” Edward said, “and if the investments tank, she could lose most or all of it.”
“Her mother’s estate-trust-fund thingie?” I asked.
“Two million.”
“Real money?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Two million versus two billion,” Edward said.
“That’s a motive,” I said.
“The two million that Ray’s sister and her husband get sounds small in comparison, but it’s still two million more than they’ll get if Bobby lives,” Newman said.
“So we have our motives.”
“Muriel and Todd don’t even have good alibis,” Newman said.
“We need to know if the girl has a solid alibi or if she could have done it,” Edward said.
“We need a murder weapon, besides Bobby’s leopard,” I said.
“We need to see the body and examine the wounds,” Olaf said.
I knew instantly that I wasn’t going to be the only other marshal in the room when Olaf looked at the body. I’d played that game with him before, and he always managed to make it creepy as fuck.
“You and Ted go to the morgue,” I said. “Newman and I will go to the strip club and see if we can get a handle on the alibi.”
“What if I prefer to go with you to the strip club?” Olaf asked.
I was glad I was still wearing my sunglasses so he couldn’t see my eyes, because I could feel the twitch beside one eye that would have given me away. I could control the rest of my face just fine. “Your expertise on cutting up bodies may be our only hope to be able to figure out what was used to kill the victim.” That was actually true.
“What if the dancer lies to protect the alibi?”
“If Newman and I don’t think the dancer is telling us everything she knows, then you and Edward can have a crack at her.”
“If there is a need to speak with the dancer later, I would prefer that you and I do it,” Olaf said.
In my head I thought, Hell no, but Edward saved me from saying it.
“Come on, Otto. You know what weapons can do to a human body, but Anita knows strippers.”
“I am engaged to two of them,” I said. I might have protested the teasing, but Edward was giving me an out with the big guy, and I was going to take it.
Olaf nodded. “Then each of us to our expertise.”
“Yeah, that,” I said, and then I started walking toward Newman’s Jeep like I had a purpose. We were trying to save a life after all. The fact that it also got me farther away from Olaf and all his strangeness was just a bonus.
60
NEWMAN OPENED THE door to the strip club like we were just customers. No one stopped us, or yelled, Cheese it, the cops, or really seemed to notice us at all. The interior of the club was so dark that even after we took off our sunglasses, it still took time for our eyes to adjust. At least there was no entry platform like in some bars where you were silhouetted against the light while you were blind to the room. That moment in some bars seemed like an invitation to get shot, but that was just my cop paranoia working overtime, sure. I’d never actually been attacked while standing and waiting for my eyes to adjust in a club, and today was no different. I still felt better when we could see well enough to move farther into the dim interior.
There was a dancer on the stage wearing a shiny G-string and those clear plastic heels that so many strippers seem fond of. Jean-Claude had banned them from Guilty Pleasures. He thought they looked cheap. I just thought they looked uncomfortable, but then so did most of the heels that dancers wore. The dancer was barely moving to the music, as if just showing up onstage topless was enough to get customers to throw money at her. It wouldn’t have been enough at Guilty Pleasures, but then, Jean-Claude helped his dancers put together acts for their routines. Some of them even had special choreography. If you were going to just gyrate to the music, your moves had to be athletic, well-done, and at least on time to the beat. The woman holding on to the pole in the middle of the stage was managing none of the three. Guilty Pleasures had really spoiled me for strip clubs.
The dark, faded interior of the club also made me miss the brighter, more upbeat atmosphere of Guilty Pleasures. Maybe if more owner-managers had started out as dancers, they’d pay more attention to the details, too. The bar was to the right as you entered the club, and the man behind it was inches taller than Newman, so at least six feet five or six. He was also twice as broad as Newman, and most of that was shoulder spread. He smiled at us like he meant it and said, “Bar’s open, and we have some daily specials. What’ll it be?”
I saw scar tissue on his knuckles as he handed us the menus. He’d either started as a bouncer and worked his way over to bartender and waitstaff, or he was a man of many talents. Since his fist was the size of my face, I’d try to make sure his talents didn’t get aimed in our direction.
Newman flashed his badge discreetly. “We just need to speak with one of your dancers briefly.” He smiled as he said it.
I just stood there, doing my best to look harmless. I’m usually pretty good at that, though admittedly the guns, blades, and body armor made it harder. Most people wouldn’t see all the gear on me, but the bartender flicked a gaze in my direction that let me know he’d noticed.
He kept smiling, but his eyes went cooler and considering. “You got a badge, too?” he asked.
I got mine out and showed it to him. He tried to touch it or maybe my hand, but I moved just out of reach.
“I’m just trying to get a better look at your badges, that’s all.”
I kept my badge out where he could stare at it.
He made a face like he’d tasted something bitter. “Preternatural marshals. You must be at the wrong place. We don’t let monsters dance here.” He said monsters like it was a dirty word.
I felt myself stiffen and knew that my face wasn’t friendly anymore.
The bartender noticed, because he said, “We have a right to hire who we want.”
“Of course you do,” Newman said, his voice lilting and cheerful. He’d turned and seen the look on my face, so he was playing good cop to my grumpy cop.
I’d try not to go from grumpy to bad, but I couldn’t promise. It would depend on how much the bartender pissed me off and how cooperative he was. I’d worn a badge long enough. I’d handle the prejudice in exchange for enough information.
“She doesn’t think so. Do you, girlie?” the bartender said.
“First, don’t call me girlie. Second, we just need to talk to one of your dancers, that’s all.”
“I could call you a ball-busting bitch if you’d prefer.”
I looked at Newman. “I’m being nice here, right?”
“For you, very nice,” he said, and smiled.
I frowned at him but turned to aim it at the bartender. “Let’s try this again. First, I have not even begun to bust your balls yet. When I do, you’ll know it. Second, we’re just here to ask a few questions of one of your dancers about an ongoing hunt. You haven’t even asked which dancer we want. Makes me think you already know. Are you just pretending to be prejudiced against the monsters because you’re really on their side? Are you a closet groupie of the supernaturals there . . . What’s your name again? I mean, I could call you racist douchebag, but that seems rude.”
“Fuck you. I’m not coffin bait.” It was a very rude term for people who dated vampires. I’d been called that and worse over the years.
“Oh, you’re a fur banger. Do you have a preferred type of wereanimal, or do you like them all?”