Maxwell Street Blues (23 page)

“Knight? What the hell are you doing?”

Knight locked his hands together behind his head and looked back and forth from me to the smashed window. He had an expression of wide-eyed panic. Then he let his hands drop and said, “You’re a terrible detective. I followed you all the way from Chicago, and you didn’t even notice!” He started giggling, and it occurred to me he might be nuts.

“You’re
following
me?”

“For the story! Don’t you get it? I got ten thousand words, dude. We’ve got meth, murder, incest, dark-tattoo-world shit, twisted-daddy-complex sex. And then there’s you, the detective from a family of crooks going back to the bad old days. The possibilities, dude. They’re endless.”

For a moment I felt vulnerable, as if the success of my investigation was at the mercy of this little prick’s recklessness. “Who’ve you been talking to?”

“Sources.”

“Did your sources tell you to drive like a goddamn maniac?”

“I thought I’d sprinkle a little drama into the mix.” Knight looked at the destroyed window as if for the first time. “C’mon, man, why did you do that?”

“Some lunatic in a big red car follows me around driving like a psycho, and I need a reason to smash his window? You’re lucky I didn’t smash your face. You think you can act like an asshole and not suffer the consequences?”

Knight looked puzzled. “You’re not getting it, are you? You’re not seeing the opportunity here. Dude, this is your chance to really make a name for yourself. You’ll be the guy who busts it wide open, and I’ll be there to get it all down—
as it happens
!”

“You’re a joke, Knight. Stay away from me.”

I walked toward Adinkra Arts expecting him to follow, but he stayed put. Once inside, I saw several African American men of varying ages in cargo pants and T-shirts. Two of them were working on clients while the others were either drawing or performing mundane cleaning tasks. The space was long and narrow with recently constructed drywall in the back, creating an area hidden from view. A teenager behind the counter paged through a magazine. “Hello, sir,” he said, drawing the attention of three others, one of whom was built like an offensive lineman and would be their spokesman. “How can we help you today?” the big man said in a gentle voice that defied his appearance.

“Hi, guys, I’m looking for a girl named L.A. I was told she works here.”

They all looked as if they misunderstood. The big man said, “L.A. like
Los Angeles
? I never heard of no chick named L.A.”

“Yep. Long black hair, blue eyes, red eyebrows.”

A few quick, sideward glances from the others and then he said, “We never heard of anyone named L.A.”

“I just want to talk to her. She knows me from Chicago.” I handed a card to the big guy. Movement in the back distracted me, and I caught a glimpse of what I thought was a short black-haired woman disappearing around the corner.

He looked at the card, mumbled “Private investigator,” and then with one hand started dragging the edge of the card along the tips of the other hand’s fingers. “What brings you to L.A., private investigator?”

“Murder.”

They all laughed. “You think this L.A. chick killed someone?”

“You mean the chick you never heard of? She didn’t kill anyone. But this chick you never heard of has a friend who might know something about killing.” I took out a hundred-dollar bill. “The dead man was a close friend.”

The big guy looked at the money and then back to me. “Put the cash away, bro. We know someone with those red eyebrows. But her name ain’t L.A.” Still strumming his fingertips, he walked to the back and disappeared behind the wall. The kid behind the counter returned to his magazine, and the other two drifted around in the immediate area talking quietly to each other. After ten minutes the big guy reemerged from the back. He handed the card to me and said, “She never heard of you.”

“What do you mean she never heard of me? I just spoke with her a couple of days ago. Let me just see her—”

“Sir, she said she never heard of you.” My ribs ached just looking at the big man’s glare.

“It took the two of you ten minutes to decide she never heard of me?”

“Sir, Audrey said she never heard of you. That’s really all we got, so unless you’d like a tattoo—”

“
Audrey
never heard of me?”

“Goodbye, sir.”

I stood on the sidewalk outside the door. Then I walked onto the asphalt parking lot and looked around. There was no sign of Knight or the red car.

49

The next morning I lay in bed staring at the popcorn ceiling, wondering why I had chosen this path in life. Scumbags, morons, and dopers messing with your head, laughing their asses off while you run around like a crazed hamster searching for crumbs. That giggling schmuck Ellis Knight, using me to achieve some tabloid-journalism fame fantasy. Two little girls pretending to be grown-ups, telling stories while my friend’s body lies on a pile of debris. And then the professionals—politicians, lawyers, hoods—smacking you around like the neighborhood idiot.
He’s not a cop, after all, who cares?

I called Kalijero. “You got any connections at
The Partisan
?” I asked.

“Landau? Where the hell are you?”

“Los Angeles. You know anyone at
The Partisan
?”

“That alternative rag? What the hell are you doing in L.A.?”

“There’s a punk named Ellis Knight who’s trying to write a story on Snooky’s murder. He’ll include all possible angles while enthusiastically blurring truth and fiction. He’s hinted at knowing everything we’ve talked about. And I mean
everything
—get it?”

In the ensuing silence, I imagined Kalijero swallowing a few times then taking a deep breath. “Yeah. What do you want?”

“Anything. We’ve got to figure out who or what his connection is to all of this.”

Kalijero agreed in that grudging way of someone who knows they have no choice.

* * *

I dialed Tate’s number. “Where does your ex-wife work?”

“Why? What did you find out?”

“Nothing. But there’re a couple of dozen Prenevosts in the phone book.”

“It’s a closed chapter. I don’t see how opening—”

“Who’s opening anything? Maybe someone has been in touch with her. I swear, Tate, for a man who knows he’s being framed for murder and drug dealing, you always seem to be holding back, like there’s something you’re not telling me. Does she have something on you, Tate? And by the way, how did you know she and your daughter were living in L.A.?”

“We still have a few friends in common.”

“Chancellor, can you tell me where she works, if only as a nice gesture—just in case you need a character witness down the road?”

“She’s a public defender,” he said then hung up.

I called the main number for the Los Angeles public defender, asked for Jane
Prenevost, and was connected to the Compton branch where the receptionist asked, “And what is this regarding?” I gave Tate’s name. “If Mr. Tate needs representation, he must first complete a financial statement to verify he cannot afford a private attorney.”

“Jane is expecting Mr. Tate’s call—just ask her!”

“Hold, please.”

“What do you want, Jerry?”

“Do you know Chancellor Tate is being investigated for murder, extortion, bribery, and conspiracy?”

“Who is this?”

“I’m a private investigator from Chicago. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“We’ve been divorced ten years. I don’t know what he’s into, and I don’t care. There’s nothing I can help you with.”

“Your ex-husband’s being framed for murder.” I waited for my words to sink in and said, “I’m sure you work with investigators, Ms. Prenevost. You never know what kind of information could help solve a case.”

I could hear her breathing and tapping something on the desk. “Someplace public. Bring ID. I’ve never known a private eye who wasn’t a jerk. And don’t tell me to call Jerry to verify anything. That’s not going to happen. And don’t give me a lot of details. I don’t want to know anything. Whatever he did or didn’t do is his problem.”

An hour later, I sat waiting in the Thai restaurant near my motel with a pot of tea and a couple of egg rolls. It was the post-lunch period when the remaining guests sat around talking, and the waiters didn’t give a damn. But even if it had been high noon on Michigan Avenue, I would’ve immediately recognized the woman who walked in holding a briefcase as Jane Prenevost. Tall with brown hair braided to the middle of her back and younger than I expected, she would’ve been perfect for television’s next beautiful district attorney avenging the unfortunate victim of sociopathic behavior, or the law school professor dedicated to proving the innocence of a death row inmate. She walked directly to my table and, without saying a word, sat then opened her briefcase.

“Can I help you?” I said.

“Cut the crap. You’re the only one sitting alone and the only man under fifty.” I nodded and waited for her to finish whatever she was doing and close her briefcase.

“Okay,” she said. “Prove to me who you are.” I handed over my driver’s license, my FCC card, and my PI card. One at a time she examined them with a penlight. “Where’s your FOID?” she said.

“I didn’t bring my gun.”

“Really? I thought you guys all liked carrying your guns around.”

“It gets complicated bringing a handgun into California. You must’ve been very young when you met Tate.” I poured her a cup of tea.

“I was twenty; he was forty. That shouldn’t be a surprise. Are you new at this? You’re pretty young. I’m from Chicago, and I recognize that affluent North Side accent. Why would an educated person
choose
to be a private investigator?”

“You’re an educated woman, Jane, you went to law school. Why would you choose to defend killers, rapists, and child molesters?”

We locked eyeballs a few seconds, and then she looked away before sipping her tea. “I assume Jerry hired you?”

“No. The man your ex is accused of killing was a good friend.” I explained my relationship to Snooky and where I was in my investigation. “I’m working purely on assumptions right now. I don’t think Tate’s a killer. But there seems to be a conspiracy against him by individuals who have no logical connection to each other.”

“What exactly do you want from me?”

“Just give me a character reference with a little context.” I thought of Audrey. “Tell me a story, like how you met, et cetera.”

Jane picked up a fork, cut off a chunk of egg roll, and chewed while staring at a tall glass of water. “I met him at a park in Chicago with my two-year-old daughter, Lisa. I had gotten pregnant my senior year of high school. My boyfriend decided he wanted to live in California and open a bicycle shop. So he moved out here while Lisa and I stayed with my mother and waited for him to get settled. You can probably guess the rest. Then one day I was pushing Lisa on the swing when a handsome older man approached us and started talking.”

“A prince to the rescue.”

Jane smiled faintly. “Even though he was wearing a nice suit, he got down on his knees and let Lisa pull his hair in all directions. She laughed and laughed, and then we were all laughing.”

“I can guess the rest.”

“Okay, here’s some character context. I was surprised he wanted a child with me. Lisa was about five when her sister was born. She had a hard time adjusting to not being the only kid and started acting out. First she would just say mean things, like she hated us and hated her sister. Then she became destructive, broke lamps, vases, glasses. We ended up shipping Lisa off to live with her biological father.”

Jane’s expression defined the word “guilt.”

“Do you blame Tate for that?”

“Yeah. But I blame myself, too. Jerry’s a sick guy, but he’s not a killer.”

“Elaborate on the sick part.”

“He already had a lifetime of younger women under his belt by the time I came along. At age forty, he tried to change. I was his experiment. I give him credit for lasting twelve years with a woman who had the audacity to continue getting older.”

I said, “Let me guess. He started using his money and good looks to go after the late-teens-early-twenties demographic. So you moved your family from Chicago to Los Angeles and Tate didn’t give a damn.”

“I got Lisa back and he got his freedom—although he’ll always be a prisoner.”

“What kind of a relationship does Tate have with his daughter?”

“No relationship. Not even his name. She’s Audrey Prenevost.”

“And what’s Audrey Prenevost doing now?”

Jane repositioned herself in her chair. The question made her uncomfortable. “She’s here in L.A., working as a tattoo artist.”

While the tattoo-themed coincidence sparked my imagination, Jane waited for the negative reaction she plainly anticipated. “A talented tattoo artist can make great money,” I said. “How did she get interested in body ink?”

Jane shifted in her seat again. Now she looked downright ashamed. “Apparently it runs in the family. Lisa is a tattoo artist in Chicago.”

The front door to Taudrey Tats flashed through my brain. I tamed my smile, fearing the satisfaction of being on the verge of solving a puzzle would be misinterpreted. “Just curious,” I said. “Did Lisa take your last name or her stepfather’s last name?”

“Neither,” Jane said. “She uses her biological father’s name, Moreau.”

“That’s an interesting name,” I said, still thinking about the front door, how it introduced “The Sole Proprietor and Mistress of Poor Taste, L. Audrey Moreau.”

* * *

Now that I wanted to find the little bastard Knight, I didn’t know where to start. I walked around the neighborhood advertising my presence but failed to attract a red sedan with a smashed rear window. I decided to drive my rental back to Adinkra Arts and park on the side street where shattered window glass still covered the ground. Across the street, I saw a bench set back from the sidewalk in the shade of a locust tree. From there I watched a slow but steady stream of people enter the shop for varying lengths of time. The clientele reflected the neighborhood both racially and economically. A yellow cab pulled into the parking lot and honked twice. The neighborhood didn’t strike me as the type where people took cabs, but what did I know?