Murder in the Rue St. Ann (22 page)

I pushed in past her and turned down the volume on the stereo. “Paul’s missing.”

“What?” She slammed the door behind her. Her computer was on, and I could see she was working on her romance novel. An open bottle of wine sat on the desk beside a full glass, and her pipe, which was still smoking a little. Paige always like to get a mild wine-pot buzz going when she worked on the book she hoped would get her out of the reporter business forever. “What do you mean?”

“After dinner I went to see him.” I picked up the pipe and took a hit. “When I got there, all the lights were on, but he wasn’t there. His car was out in front. I pounded on the door, and then let myself in with my key.”

After I finished catching her up, she picked up her glass and downed the wine in one swallow. “Jesus fucking Christ, Chanse.” She sat down on the couch and motioned for me to hand her the pipe. She took a hit and refilled it from a Ziploc bag. “Well, it might not be anything.”

“Come on, Paige.” I started pacing. “Do you really think Paul would leave blood on the floor? You know how anal he is about that apartment.”

She shrugged. “Chanse, look at what’s happened to him in the last twenty four hours, OK? He’s arrested for murdering a friend. He gets out on bail, you two have a fight and you end up hurting him. He might have felt the need to get away for a while. It’s understandable.” She sighed.

“And the prints?”

“Yeah, well, that’s a stretch, I admit. He was pretty damned proud of those prints.”

“And what about Venus asking me to stay out of it? She wasn’t telling me everything.”

“That’s hardly fair.” Paige took another hit and offered me the pipe. “Here, have another hit and mellow, dude. Sit down, you’re working my nerves.”

I obliged.

“Venus isn’t going to tell you jackshit about her investigation, Chanse. You aren’t a cop anymore. She isn’t going to risk it.”

“Well, don’t you think it’s fucking weird they dropped the charges so fast?”

“Yeah, I do.” Paige ran a hand through her unruly hair, messing it up even more. “Now that they have, I can say it: I was scared. I didn’t think he did it, but it looked pretty airtight to me. They must have found something pretty definitive, you know? That, and the powder residue being on the wrong hand.” She lit a cigarette and coughed. “We really should quit smoking, you know.”

“Yeah.” I lit one.

“Okay, let’s go over this whole thing and see what we’re missing.” She got a Steno pad off her coffee table and plucked a pencil from behind her ear. “First of all, Mark Williams was murdered between six and eight o’clock last night. Paul finds the body, picks up the gun and it goes off. The police come and arrest him.”

“Make a time line.” I pulled my tattered little notebook out of my pants pocket. “Okay, at six, Williams leaves his office and goes back to his apartment. A little while later, Ghenty sees Ricky Dahlgren go back there and doesn’t see him come back out. Also, at 5:30, I faxed Dominique my report nailing Williams for harassing her.”

“Do we know where she was?”

“She called for Williams at six, in a rage, and stormed out of her club about seven—the bartender was pretty definite about that, but he also didn’t see her come back. Paul said he got to Mark’s around seven, and he was already dead.”

“Looks like Ricky Dahlgren is the man of the hour—that and the gun was his father’s.” Paige stared down at her pad. “You know, it makes sense, Chanse. They dropped the charges against Paul because they think Ricky Dahlgren is the killer.” She whistled. “Man, this comes at a really shitty time for Judge Dahlgren.”

“Why?”

She glared at me. “You know, you could at least fucking pretend that you read the paper for my articles, you know.” She got up and threw the day’s paper at me. On the front page was a headline “JURY SELECTION BEGINS FOR SANTINI TRIAL.” “He’s hearing the Santini case.”

I read the article. Marco Santini was up on several charges, including racketeering and murder-for-hire. He was described as a local business entrepreneur.

“Local business entrepreneur?”

“Newspaper euphemism for mob ties.”

My head started to hurt. “Ruth Solomon told me Dominique’s ex-husband was a mob lawyer in Atlanta.”

“This Charlie Wyatt guy you wanted me to check out?” The color drained out of her face. “Oh God.” She grabbed the pipe and took another long, slow hit. “Chanse, what if Paul saw something he shouldn’t have?”

“That doesn’t make sense, Paige.” I shook my head. “Ricky Dahlgren went back there, he had his father’s gun. He killed Mark for whatever reason—maybe they had a fight, I don’t know. The mob couldn’t be involved in this.”

“It might not make sense to us now, but we don’t know everything.” Paige rubbed her chin. “Dominique’s ex-husband is a mob lawyer. Dominique hires Mark Williams. Mark Williams is killed by Ricky Dahlgren, whose father just happens to be presiding over the biggest mob trial in decades here….how did Dominique just happen to hire Mark?”

“She says he dropped by one day and offered his services—he knew she was having trouble with VCC complaints and her licenses.” I shrugged. “It sounded weird to me when she told me, but now that we know Williams was behind her trouble…”

“Yeah, but there wasn’t a guarantee she was going to hire him—so why bother? It doesn’t make any sense. I mean, the five hundred she was paying him seems hardly worth the risk.”

“He claimed it was five thousand—and that was the operating fund for the company, really, so the money was coming in.” I wracked my brain. A ghost of an idea was floating on the outer rims of my awareness and I tried to grab on to it. “So, if Dominique is telling the truth and she wasn’t paying him that much, where was the money coming from? Maybe someone was paying him to sabotage her.”

“Who?”

“The ex-husband—Charlie Wyatt.” That made some sort of sense. “And maybe Wyatt was paying him to spy on her too.” I shook my head. “No—that doesn’t explain Ricky Dahlgren.”

None of it made any sense. I got up. “I’m going to head home.”  The pot had made tired. I hadn’t slept well, and the day had been an emotional rollercoaster.

“You okay to drive?” Paige stood up.  ‘You can crash here if you want.”

“No—I want to go home.” I didn’t want to tell her I was hoping Paul might call.

If he could.

I kissed her cheek and gave her a big hug. She walked me to the door and stroked my arm. “I’m sure he’s okay, Chanse.” She said quietly.

I just nodded and walked back to my car. I sat for a minute before wiping the tears out of my eyes and drove off. Paul would be okay, I figured. I was just emotionally raw and exhausted and needed to get home and into bed.

The traffic on St. Charles was pretty sparse, which was why I spotted the car following me.

I’d noticed it vaguely when I pulled out from the curb—about half a block down the street, a big dark Oldsmobile-sized car. The headlights came on when I pulled out and headed up State Street. I didn’t think anything about it when it also turned onto St. Charles, but when I reached the light at Jefferson and it stopped several car lengths behind me, my mind came wide awake. I stared at it in my rear view mirror, but it was far enough back I couldn’t get any idea of its color or shape. I also couldn’t tell if the driver was alone. But a chill went down my spine. When the light changed, I floored it. It kept pace behind me.

As I passed Valmont, another car turned after I went past, getting between us and going slow. The other car swung around it, just missing a parked car.

Think, Chanse, think.

The light coming up at Napoleon was red, and I slammed on my breaks and managed to come to a stop before rear-ending a battered pick up truck.

The big car slowed and stopped at the same distance behind me. I grabbed my cell phone and dialed Paige. “WHAT?”

“I’m being followed.” I said, staring in the rear view mirror at the headlights behind me.

“”Oh, God, what do you want me to do?”

“When I hang up, call Venus. Tell her I’m heading home…and I’d greatly appreciate it if a squad car was waiting at my house—or if they can pick up the tail on the way.”

Just at that moment, I heard the shriek of a siren behind me. I looked into the rear view mirror and saw the approaching flashing lights coming. The big car suddenly turned right and disappeared down a side street. It was a dark blue or black Pontiac. The squad car made a U-turn through the neutral ground and sped off back the other way. I let out my breathe. The light changed. “They’re gone for now.”

“Be fucking careful!” She hung up.

I made it home without spotting the other car, but the adrenaline spike had my eyes wide open. As I turned into my driveway, I noticed a package resting against my front door. I parked the car and walked around to the front, just getting past the automatic gate as it slid shut. I looked around Camp Street, but didn’t see any cars. I scanned Coliseum Square, but none of the cars parked around the park looked out of place.

I walked through the front gate and up the cracked and tilted sidewalk to the steps.

What if it’s a bomb?

I stopped.

“Get a grip.” I said out loud. I climbed the steps and picked it up. It was addressed to me, and the return address said TOP ROPE PRODUCTIONS.

Paul’s videos.

“Fucking idiot.” I said as I unlocked the front door. I closed it behind me, locking the deadbolt and putting the chain on. This just made me feel better. Like most front doors in New Orleans, half of it was glass. Some security, right?

I turned on the light and picked up the remote as I sat on the couch. A rerun of Roseanne was on. I tore up the package and shook out four videos:
Musclestud Challenge 12; Gods of the Ring 8; Musclestud Erotic Challenge;  Jocks 15.
I took
Musclestud Erotic Challenge
out of its sleeve.

The label on front said the match was between Cody Dallas and Joe Bob Jones.

I put the tape into the VCR.

The video started with the title, then the word “FEATURING” before it showed a still photo of Paul. He was smiling at the camera, his arms folded and muscles bulging. CODY DALLAS appeared at the bottom of the screen, then it morphed into another picture, of a smiling young boy in an open sleeveless red and black flannel shirt and a cowboy hat. His chest looked huge, as were the arms hanging at his side. JOE BOB JONES scrolled across the bottom before the screen faded to black.

The next shot showed a room with a wall-to-wall mat on the floor. The camera focused in on two bottles of baby oil, then switched over to a shot of Paul, who was sitting on the floor wearing nothing more than a black jock. He was stretching, and the camera zoomed in on his crotch. He continued stretching and showing off his muscles, while pretending the camera wasn’t there. The camera panned to a door swinging open as Joe Bob sauntered in wearing a cowboy hat, the same flannel shirt from the picture, and baggy jeans that didn’t disguise hour big his legs were. He stood watching Paul stretching for a minute, then took off his shirt.

I gasped.

Joe Bob was huge. He was built like someone you’d see on the cover of
Muscle & Fitness
. His muscles were huge and perfectly defined, striations popping out in each one of them with even the slightest movement he made. He undid his pants, and the baggy denim dropped away to show that his legs were perfectly in proportion to the rest of his body. He was darkly tanned, and as he stood there in his red jock, loosening up, I thought
, Paul honey, you are going to get your ass kicked.

Joe Bob took his hat off and I got a good look at his face. He looked like he was maybe nineteen, and had a kind of aw-shucks look to him—like a simple, sweet muscleboy from some rural area who had no clue how good he looked. Of course his name would be Joe Bob.

They shook hands and started wrestling—and I could see immediately I had been  wrong about the outcome. Paul was a good wrestler and Joe Bob didn’t know anything—it was obvious after just a few seconds. He was just big and strong, whereas Paul was quick and skilled. Joe Bob might get a momentary advantage but Paul would swiftly reverse out of it and get Joe Bob down.

I found myself getting aroused.

Wrestling was a lot more sexual then I’d thought. I’d never really paid much attention to it—we didn’t have a wrestling team at Cottonwood Wells High, so I’d only gotten brief glimpses of it while watching the Olympics. Or the pro stuff, which was always so silly I’d never bothered with it. The Beta Kappas who’d been into the pro stuff were jerks. I’d watched some of the TV shows with Paul, but really hadn’t paid a lot of attention. It just seemed stupid to me.

But seeing two guys with great bodies in nothing but jocks wrestling— trying to establish dominance over the other—was very sexually arousing. Their bodies came into calmost constant close contact—especially their crotches when they would get locked in some hold where one was lying on top of the other.

Paul finally pinned Joe Bob, and they lay on the mat side by side, laughing and joking and trying to catch their breaths. Both bodies were bathed in sweat. Then Joe Bob picked up a bottle of oil and squirted Paul. Paul got the other bottle and squirted Joe Bob back. Soon they facing each other on their knees and rubbing the oil in with steady, measured stroked. The camera focused on their soaked jocks, lingering as each of them began to stiffen.