Murder in the Rue St. Ann (18 page)

“Who was your date with?”

He tossed a copy of the magazine at me. The cover said JUNE. The guy on the cover was shirtless and pretty. “Danny DeMarco—that’s him on the cover.”

I whistled. “Nice.”

“Well, we’re just friends—for now.” He winked at me. “We went to dinner at Pere Antoine’s, and then I stopped by here around nine thirty….and that’s when I found out—“ he closed his eyes and shuddered.

I closed my notebook.  ‘Thanks. If I have any other questions—“

“Call me anytime.”

I walked out of the office and stood on St. Ann. I flipped open my phone and called both Paul’s home and cell phones. No answer on either.

I walked down to a flower shop on Decatur and ordered him a dozen roses. On the card I wrote, “I’m sorry, so very sorry. Love, Chanse.”

Everyone likes getting flowers, right?

My phone rang as I headed back up to Bourbon Street. “MacLeod.”

“Hey Chanse, Loren here.” I could hear voices in the background. “Can’t talk for long—about to go into a conference—but I’ve got great news—they’ve dropped charges against Paul.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “That’s great—why?”

“Because Paul has a brilliant attorney.” I could hear the grin on his face. “The powder residue was on Paul’s right hand.”

I felt like the sun was coming up. “But Paul’s left handed!”

“Exactly—and they’ve traced the gun. You aren’t going to believe this.”

“Try me.”

“It’s registered to Judge Jerry Dahlgren.”

Dahlgren.

“Isn’t that the best news?” Loren chortled. “Judge Jerry fucking Dahlgren!”

“Thanks. I might be on to something here.” I filled him in on what I’d found out about Ricky Dahlgren.

“Oh man.” Loren sighed. “Ricky Dahlgren is the judge’s son, Chanse. This is getting really crazy.”

“But this is all good news, right?”

“Maybe. I mean, they’ve dropped the charges—for now. But how hard do you think the police are going to investigate a judge’s son? Especially Judge Dahlgren’s son.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“Judge Dahlgren—don’t you ever read the newspapers?”

“No, not really.” Paige always gave me shit about my lack of interest in current events.

“Judge Dahlgren is a racist, misogynist homophobe.” Loren groaned. “He’s going to be very embarrassed to find out his son is wanted for murdering his gay lover. He’s going to look likie a fool—and he’s going to use every bit of influence he has to call off the dogs….and that’s not good for Paul. Look, I’ve got to get into this meeting. I’ll call you later, okay? We’ve got to handle the Dahlgrens with kid gloves, Chanse.” He hung up.

I called Paige. “You busy?”

“Just getting ready to call it quits for the day.” Her voice was cold. “I was going to call you.”

“You were?”

“I talked to Paul a couple of hours ago.” She exhaled. “Christ, Chanse, what the hell were you thinking?”

“I sent him flowers.” It sounded lame to me now. “I’ve blown it, haven’t I?”

“I think you’re pretty close to it, yeah.” She sighed. “The flowers are a nice touch. Paul loves you, and he wants this all to work out—but you scared him to death, Chanse.”

“Oh.” I swallowed. “Wanna meet me for dinner at Snug Harbor?”

“Yeah, what the hell. What time?”

“Give me an hour.” That should be plenty of time to check in with Dominique and ask her some questions.

“Okay.” She hung up.

I dialed Paul again. Once again, his voicemail picked up. I tried his cell phone, but he didn’t answer that either.

I walked back up to Domino’s.

I wasn’t sure what to think as I walked down to the corner at Bourbon.

Dominique had known Mark Williams was partially involved in a conspiracy against her club. The harassment was costing her thousands of dollars a day as long as the club wasn’t open. After she got my fax, had she gotten frustrated when she couldn’t get Williams on the phone then come around the corner with murder on her mind? It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility—people killed every day for a lot less. I didn’t know her well enough to make a decision on her guilt myself.

But the gun belonged to Judge Dahlgren—how could she have gotten it?

It was a relief knowing Paul wasn’t the main suspect anymore. It was almost like I was floating rather than walking. Everything would work out for the best, I was sure of it now.  Paul would forgive me—he’d have to understand it was the stress and pressure of his arrest that made me snap. We’d sit down and have a nice little chat about our pasts. It was high time we knew each other better, anyway. I loved him, and no matter what secrets his past held, they didn’t matter. We could work everything out. I would ask him pointblank about his money troubles, and if he needed help, I’d give it to him. The money I’d put up for his bail, well, I’d already written that off anyway, so I would loan it to him to get out of debt.

I smiled. No, fuck that. I would
give
it to him.

I walked into Domino’s feeling much better than I had since yesterday morning, and I guess I walked into the middle of a celebration. Sly was opening a bottle of champagne,  and several empties were sitting on the bar. The workmen and assorted other people were drinking, laughing, and chatting. The mood was happy and festive. Dominique herself was leaning against the bar, a glass of Wild Turkey in her hand, a big grin on her face.

“Chanse!” She motioned at Sly. “Pour him some champagne, Sly!’

I took the plastic cup. “What’s going on?”

“The liquor license finally came through this afternoon.” She clinked her glass against my cup. “We can officially open this Friday.”

“That’s great.” I sipped the champagne. It was cheap. “We need to talk; can you give me a few minutes?”

She looked around the room at her happy employees, then nodded. “Come up to my office.”

Her office was on the second floor, with a window that looked out over the dance floor.  It was utilitarian, with a few file cabinets shoved up against a wall, a large desk, and not much else other than a couple of chairs. Her desk was clear of clutter. A half-f coffee pot sat on top of one of the file cabinets. She took a seat behind the desk. “What’s going on?”

“You don’t seem to be mourning Mark Williams.”

She made a sound of disgust. “Why would I mourn someone who tried to ruin me?” She sipped her whiskey. “That would be hypocritical, wouldn’t it? I’m not sorry he’s dead—couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”

“You were pretty angry when you got my fax.”

She raised a pencilled eyebrow. “Who wouldn’t have been? Someone I trusted implicitly, listened to…” her voice trailed off. She shook her head. “I talked to my lawyer this morning. I’m thinking of suing
Attitude
for malicious activity.” She gave me the shark-like smile again. “But I think there’s a hell of a lot more to this than you found out…it’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Oh?”

“It doesn’t make sense, Chanse.” She drummed her long nails on her desk. “I believe he was involved, but I don’t think he was the mastermind….” She stood up and walked over to the window, looking down on the darkened dance floor. “In your report,  the only reason you could come up with for him doing it was to ‘get me as a client.’ Sorry, that just doesn’t wash—he went to a lot of trouble for five hundred dollars a month.”

I sat up. “Five hundred?”

She nodded.

I got out my notebook and flipped back through the pages. “According to Zane Rathburn, you were paying
Attitude
five
thousand
dollars a month.”

She looked at me for a moment, her mouth open, and then she started laughing. “Five thousand dollars? Oh please! I’ve been losing more than that every day this club stayed closed! There’s no way my investors would ever okay that!” She sat back down, crossing her legs and lighting a cigarette. She exhaled. “No, I was paying him five hundred—out of my own pocket. I also let them keep the door from whenever we did a concert here, but I kept the liquor sales.”

“How well do you know Ricky Dahlgren?”

She sat up straighter. “Ricky? Why?”

“The gun that killed Mark was registered to his father.”

She rubbed her eyes tiredly. After a few moments, she said, “Not well. I know he worked for Mark, and he was around from time to time, but that’s about it.” Her face hardened. “Why? What does this have to do with my club?”

“Well, nothing.” I shrugged. “I’m checking into Mark’s death, you know, just poking around. I’m a little curious.” No sense in telling her my boyfriend was a prime suspect.

“That’s not what I’m paying you for.”

That came out of left field. “What?’

She looked at me like I was stupid. “Like I said, Mark’s just the tip of the iceberg. Someone else was behind all of this—I doubt he came up with all of this for five hundred bucks a month. I still want you to find out who’s trying to ruin me.” She smoothed her hair. “I know, I sound like some conspiracy theory nut, but—“ she hesitated. “Does it make sense to you?”

“No.” She was right. However starved for cash
Attitude
may have been, unless Mark was completely insane, going to all the trouble he had in order to keep a client paying him five hundred bucks a month still didn’t make sense. There had to be more. “You didn’t know Mark before?”

“No. I told you, he just came by one day and offered his services. I liked him. He seemed to know what he was doing, and hell, for five hundred bucks, like I said, I could pay him that out of my own pocket and not miss it, you know?”

“Let’s talk about enemies, then.”

“Enemies?” She looked at me like I was insane. “What enemies?”

I sighed. “Look, Dominique, if there’s someone out there who is trying to ruin you, they have to have a reason.”

“Mark thought it was the bars.”

“But you told me you didn’t think so.” I sat back. “Maybe your ex-husband?”

“That’s absurd.”

“Amicable divorce?”

“I don’t want to talk about Charlie.”

“Can you at least tell me his name?”

She glared at me. “Charles Wyatt.” She began tapping her nails on her desk again. “Are we finished here?”

“Just a few more questions.” There’s nothing like a client who doesn’t tell you everything. “What did you do when you got the fax?”

She glowered. “I got mad. I tried calling Mark’s cell phone, but he didn’t answer, so I called the office number and talked to one of his flunkies.” She smiled. “I gave him a piece of my mind. I was mad, so I decided to get the hell out of here and go get some dinner. It was about eight o’clock when I walked out.” She folded her arms. “Are we done here? I have work to do.”

I got up. “Sure.” I walked out of her office, glancing at my watch as I went down the stairs. I had about twenty minutes before meeting Paige at Snug Harbor. The party was still going on in the front room. I stopped at the bar. “Hey, Sly.”

Sly grinned at me. “More champagne, man?”

I shook my head. “Were you here last night?”

“I came in around four.”

“Was Dominique here the whole time?”

He put his elbows down on the bar, looking off into space. “She was here when I got here—in her office. She was in there the whole time, then later on she went on.”

“What time was that?”

“I’m not sure.” He frowned. “Around seven, I think. She seemed in a rush.”

“When did she come back?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t see her come back.” He shrugged.

“Thanks, man.” I smiled at him, and walked back out onto Bourbon Street.

Snug Harbor is on Frenchmen Street in the Marigny, about nine blocks from Domino’s. Parking down there is just as much a nightmare as it is in the Quarter, so it didn’t make sense for me to move the car. I’d probably have a ticket when I came back, but it wouldn’t be the first time. I tried calling Paul again as I walked, but still just got his voicemail. I wondered if the flowers had been delivered.

Paige was waiting for me in the bar at Snug Harbor, which was a shock. Paige is always late, but she was puffing on a cigarette and had a lipstick smeared glass of red wine on the table in front of her. She got up to hug me, then waved at the bartender. “Go ahead and put our order in.” She grinned at me. “I ordered, since you always get the same thing.”

Snug Harbor serves one of the best burgers in town, along with huge baked potatoes. I always got the same thing whenever I came in—a mushroom bacon cheeseburger with a baked potato buried in butter and cheese. “Thanks.” I sat down. We were at one of the few restaurants in New Orleans where you can’t smoke in the dining room, so we always ate in the bar. “Have you talked to Paul?”

She nodded. “He’s really upset, poor thing.” She took a drag on her cigarette. “Chanse, what were you thinking? He said you bruised him.”

I looked down at the table. “I wasn’t thinking.” I toyed with a napkin. “Do you think he’ll ever forgive me?”