Murder in the Irish Channel (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries) (14 page)

“Well, she’s going to have to check with the cops before she goes in the house—it’s a crime scene now.” I took a deep breath. “Something’s come up, Jonny, something that I need to talk to you about.” I watched his face. “Did you know about the Cypress Gardens lawsuit?”

“Oh, that.” He rolled his eyes. “I guess maybe I should have mentioned that to you? But it didn’t seem like that big of a deal, you know? I mean, no big, right? Ma just worked there and she was going to have to testify. She didn’t talk about it too much, though—when she did she just made it all seem like a big pain in the ass. She was just glad she could help out Mr. Marino.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe Ma rode out the hurricane over there. Lorelle thought she was nuts, but she said she had to—it was her job. But Mr. Marino was always real good to her—to us.”

“So, she liked him, then?”

“Oh, yeah.” He grinned at me. “She thought the sun rose and shined out that man’s ass, she did. He always treated us like we were family, you know? He kept telling me I needed to get good grades so I could go to LSU. He’d let us have his football tickets whenever he wasn’t going to use them.” He rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t ever much of a student.”

“Can you think of any reason she’d change her mind?” I watched his face.

He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Change her mind? What do you mean?”

“About two weeks ago, she apparently met with Mr. Marino’s lawyers and told them she was changing her testimony, was disavowing her deposition about the hurricane damage to the complex, and that the pictures she took of the damage were faked.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His jaw dropped. “That don’t make no sense. Ma was real pissed off about what that insurance company was pulling on Mr. Marino. She talked about it all the time, said they was nothing more than con artists or criminals, the way they were trying to screw him.” He scratched his head. “And you’re saying Ma was changing her story?” He shook his head. “I don’t believe that for a minute. Not for one minute. Ma would never do that. Ever.”

“I know this is hard to hear, Jonny, but do you think your mother would have taken a bribe to change her story?”

He just stared at me, his eyes wide and his mouth open, for a good minute before he shook his head. “Ma would
never
lie—especially if it was going to hurt Mr. Marino.” He swallowed. “Ma always said the worst thing anyone could ever do was lie—you always get found out and then your word’s worthless, and then what are you gonna do? Nothing pissed her off more than being lied to. She wouldn’t lie, ever—and especially not to hurt Mr. Marino.”

“Jonny—she wouldn’t lie, even if your brother was in trouble?”

“What do you mean, in trouble?” He looked confused. “What kind of trouble could Robby be in? I mean, he’s kind of an asshole, but what kind of trouble could he be in?”

I took a deep breath. “Your brother’s house—it looked pretty expensive, and so did the furniture.”
Nothing in that house came from Wal-Mart, that’s for sure.
“He was an investment counselor?”

“Don’t they make lots of money?” Jonny nodded. “Yeah, and Celia had money. Her dad was society or something. He always bragged about how he’d married a Queen of Rex.” He rolled his eyes. “That kind of shit meant a lot to him.”

“So, you don’t know if your brother was having money problems?”

“He wouldn’t talk about that with me if he was.” Jonny’s tone made it clear it was a ludicrous idea. “And he sure wouldn’t talk to Lorelle about it either—they don’t hardly talk to each other anymore, I don’t know why and Lorelle won’t say. But he’s always been kind of a dick to me, so.” He shrugged. “I just figured she got tired of him being a dick to her. You think he was having money troubles?”

“Just looking at possibilities.” I thought for a moment. “Can you think of anyone who’d want your brother dead?”

“Like I told the cops, Chanse, no.” He hung his head. “Robby and me, we weren’t close—we never were, we were too far apart in age.” His voice broke. “He was my brother and I loved him, but you know, he never wanted to have a whole lot to do with me, you know? I always thought it was because he was so much older than me—his oldest isn’t that much younger than I am, you know, but I always thought…” His voice trailed off. He added in a heartbroken whisper, “we’d have time. I mean, he
was
my brother.”

I patted his shoulder. I’m generally not very good in these kinds of situations. There’s nothing you can say that’s going to make the person’s pain go away, so I generally just don’t say anything until the silence gets awkward and I wind up saying something lame. I genuinely felt bad for the kid—with a baby of his own on the way, his brother murdered, and his mother missing and most likely dead. I waited for him to get hold of his emotions again, and said, “Marino’s lawyer wants me to find your mother, too, and wants to pay me a hell of a lot of money…but I won’t take their money if you aren’t comfortable with it—you hired me first.”

“Why would I mind?” he asked, seeming honestly confused. “We both want the same thing, so I don’t see what the problem is. The most important thing is finding Ma. As long as you find her, I don’t care how many people are paying you to do it.” He shook his head again. “I can’t believe Ma was going to change her testimony. Chanse, it doesn’t make any sense. You really need to find her, man.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him she was probably dead. I didn’t get into any of the issues, the possible conflicts of interest in having two clients with the same goal. There wasn’t any point, really.

“I know you’ll do the right thing.” He smiled at me as I stood up to go. “So I don’t have anything to worry about, right?”

He was still sitting on the steps when I drove away. I called Abby to get her take on the situation, but she didn’t pick up. I left a voicemail and tossed my phone into the passenger seat.

The Riverside Bar and Grill wasn’t very far from Jonny’s and Mona’s houses, actually. It was on a stretch of Tchoupitoulas Street where one side was a long brick warehouse that extended almost from the stoplight at Louisiana to the one at Napoleon. Tipitina’s sat on the corner at Napoleon, and the Rouse’s was kitty-corner from there. I could see the Tipitina’s sign about a half block farther uptown from the big neon sign for the Riverside. I pulled into the gravel parking lot and sat there for a moment. There were only two other cars in the lot besides mine—one a battered-looking navy blue Chevrolet Malibu, and the other a gray Nissan SUV.

The Riverside itself was only one story, made of brick, and wasn’t raised, sitting flat on the ground. It wasn’t that big, maybe could hold a hundred or so people at most from the looks of it. There was another sign on the slanted roof that matched the one mounted on the pole alongside the street. The slanted roof was slate and was missing a few tiles. The windows were all blacked out, and there was a big commercial-sized Dumpster on the far side of the building. I could smell its contents when I opened the car door. The front door was glass and had the traditional warning sign about gaming machines and minors taped on the inside, facing out. I got out of my car and pushed the door open, entering the dark inside.

When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could see the place was set up in a very simple fashion, nothing fancy. To the right were three tired-looking pool tables, with lights directly over them hanging from the ceiling on chains. An old-fashioned bubble jukebox sat in the corner next to a cigarette machine and row of video poker machines. The jukebox was blaring an old Patsy Cline song, “Walking After Midnight.” Some scarred tables were set up throughout the main area of the bar, with 1970s-style orange plastic chairs placed around them. Cracked black plastic ashtrays sat in the center of every table. The bar ran about two-thirds the length of the room, directly opposite the front door. The cement floor slanted toward the occasional drain. The overwhelming smell of Pine-Sol barely masked the reek of stale beer, urine, and old cigarette smoke.

A man with an enormous beer gut in a black T-shirt reading
Riverside
in white letters was wiping down the bar counter with a white rag, and I could see another man of indeterminate age through the window to the kitchen. The man in the kitchen was wearing a hairnet and a white T-shirt, and sweat glistened on his forehead. I walked over to the bar and sat down on a stool, which wobbled a bit before settling.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, still wiping the bar down.

“Abita Amber,” I replied, putting a five down on the bar. He opened a cooler and popped the cap off the bottle, setting it down in front of me on top of a napkin that said
Riverside Bar and Grill
on it. He took the five and gave me a one and two quarters in change. I let it sit there. “Is Barney around?”

He crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes, and leaned back against the beer cooler. “Who’s looking?”

I pulled out one of my business cards and put it on top of my change. “The name’s Chanse MacLeod, and I’m a private eye. I’m looking for Mona O’Neill—her son Jonny’s worried about her.”

He stared at the card for a while, working the toothpick in his mouth. He put my card into his shirt pocket. “I’m Barney,” he said, not offering me his hand. Instead, he filled a glass with the soda gun and took a drink. “I haven’t seen Mona since Thursday night.”

“What time did you see her?” I took out my notepad and pen.

“She came by here on her way to St. Anselm’s.” Barney thought for a moment or two. “Was around nine, I guess—yeah, that lesbian on MSNBC was on.” He gestured to the silent big-screen TV mounted on the wall above the top-shelf liquor bottles. He grabbed a remote from under the bar and turned it on. Judge Judy was lecturing some penitent-looking man who was badly in need of a shower and some dental work. He muted the sound and put the remote back under the bar.

“How did she seem?”

“She was aggravated.” Barney sipped his soda. “Donna Calhoun was supposed to sit up all night with her at the church, but she wasn’t going to make it again, and Mona was fired up about it. Donna’s not the most dependable person.” He used his index finger to make a circle in front of his right temple. “I always told her not to get so worked up—Donna’s not been right in the head in years, but Mona didn’t like being there all night by herself. She came by here to see if I could sit with her.” He shook his head. “She knew I was short-staffed—one of my regular bartenders wrecked her motorcycle and wasn’t able to come in that night, so I had to fill in—like I’d been filling in ever since Serena wrecked the stupid bike.” He made a face. “How many times did I warn that girl to not drive like a maniac?” He scratched his arm. “Donna was just a substitute in the first place, someone else had canceled out already. Mona was the only one who was dependable enough to sit vigil all night.”

“Who was supposed to sit with her originally?”

He pondered this for a moment. “Don Sinclair, I think it was. Hold on for a minute.” He knelt down and dug around underneath the bar, then stood up again with a stained manila folder. He flipped it open and looked at a computer printout of a June calendar. His finger traced along the page and tapped the previous Thursday. “Yeah, Don Sinclair.” He made a face. “He’s not dependable, either—he drinks a bit. I think she really came by here looking to see if he was here, so she could put a bug in his ear. Mona did like to read people the riot act once she worked herself up to it.” He snorted. “Besides, she knew I knew damned well Don was supposed to sit up all night in the church and had canceled on her. I wouldn’t have served him if he’d come in here.” He put both of his elbows on the bar and leaned forward. I could smell stale smoke on him. “I haven’t heard from her since she left for the church. Jonny thinks something happened to her?”

“Is that unusual?”

He looked me square in the eye. “Mona and I have been seeing each other for about a year, mister. But we don’t have no ties, we don’t check up on each other—it’s nice and casual, you know what I’m saying? Sometimes I don’t talk to her for days, even weeks sometimes. I don’t put no demands on her, and she don’t put none on me. We like it like that.”

“Apparently, no one’s heard from her since Thursday night,” I replied. “Her cell phone goes straight to voicemail, and no one’s seen her car, either.”

“Well, that ain’t like her. She talks to her kids every day—especially Jonny. He’s her baby, you know, and with that wife of his about to pop out a grandkid…no, that ain’t like her at all.” He rubbed his eyes and lit a Pall Mall with a book of Riverside matches. “We usually get together on Saturday afternoons, when we do, but I leave that to her. She didn’t call me this weekend. I just assumed she was pissed I didn’t go to the church with her, you know, or maybe something had come up, who knows? I figured she’d call when she was ready to see me, and that was just fine with me.”

“How long have you and Mona been involved?”

“I’ve known Mona most of my life—as long as I can remember.” He smiled faintly. “I went to de la Salle with Danny O’Neill, when she was at Sacred Heart. Her and Danny were always together, ever since they were kids, you know? We all grew up on the same block of St. Thomas Street in the Channel.” His eyes got a faraway look in them. “If it weren’t for Danny, I might have married her myself.” His face twisted. “’Stead of some of them bitches I married—I’d been better off not getting married at all.” He refilled his soda. “I started seeing Mona about a year ago, right around the time my last wife Debbie ran off. It just kind of happened, you know? I never thought Mona and me would have ever happened, but then Debbie took off and…” He shrugged. “It’s nothing serious, you know, just companionship—we made that clear right from the start. Neither one of us are wanting to get married again, you know? I’ve been married four times and ain’t about to put myself through that hell ever again—and Mona, you know, she never wanted to get married again after Danny died. What we have is real nice, you know? It’s comfortable, and at our age that’s about all you can hope for.”