Murder in the Rue St. Ann (33 page)

“So fucking what?” I already knew he wasn’t Zane Rathburn.

“He’s a professional killer.”

Yeah, right. “He’s just a fucking kid.”

Venus turned around. “I’m serious, Chanse. He’s no kid. He’s 36.”

“What?” I stared at her. “That’s bullshit.”

“He just has a baby-face. The feds have been looking for him for a long time. He has about 30 kills to his credit.”

“Then why the fuck are they protecting his ass? He’s the one they should be fucking questioning, not me!” I didn’t have the energy to get as mad as I wanted to.

“He—he has a lot of information they’re really interested in.”

The truth dawned on me. “They’re going to put him in Witness Protection, aren’t they? He’s killed 30 people.”

“The Santini crime family is a lot worse, Chanse—and he can bring them all down.” She sat back down. “Sometimes you have to make a deal with the devil in the name of the greater good.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” I ran my hands through my hair. “Then where is Paul? What did he do to him?”

“He doesn’t know anything about Paul, Chanse. He swears to it—and I believe him.”

“How can you believe someone who’s killed 30 people?”

“Because there’s no reason to lie at this point.” She leaned back in her chair. “Chanse, he’s admitted to the killings. Why would he deny one more?”

I stared at her. I fought down the rising fear, the tears coming to my eyes. Nobody knew where Paul was.

Where was he?

“So, why did he kill Mark? Because of the money he stole?” There had to be something, something we were all missing.

“It’s a long story—it goes back to Dominique and her husband.”

Of course.

Venus explained. When Dominique left Charlie Wyatt, it didn’t sit well with him. He was certain there was another man in her life, and he wasn’t going to sit around and do nothing. When she bought the building on Bourbon Street, Wyatt figured her lover must be from New Orleans. Wyatt hired Castiglione to keep an eye on her;  and find out her lover’s. It was Wyatt who’d bought out Mark Williams’ former backer, using Castiglione as a front. Castiglione knew all about Williams’ past convictions, and also knew he was juggling the books; overcharging his advertiser’s credit cards when they paid for their ads to have ready cash and then refunding the money later by overcharging someone else. With that leverage, he forced Williams into going along with the scheme to force Dominique out of business. The five grand every month they were paid was wired into their business account from a bank in the Caymans.

I interrupted her. “So what was the connection with the Dahlgrens?”

“A sad coincidence, for Ricky Dahlgren.” Venus sighed. “Of course, when all this started, they had no idea that Judge Dahlgren’s son was Dominique’s lover. Once Castiglione pieced it all together, Wyatt wanted him killed immediately--but Castiglione double-crossed Wyatt and went directly to Joey Santini—the head of the family. Santini ordered him to keep Ricky alive, until the time was ripe—when the trial was getting started. They figured if Ricky was killed then, Judge Dahlgren would step down and the trial would be delayed.”

“So they killed Ricky last Friday and dumped him in Barataria Bay?”

She nodded. “Williams figured it out somehow…he called Paul on Monday morning. Castiglione had a bug on Mark’s phone and overheard their conversation. Mark was getting ready to skip—he was going to clean out the bank accounts and run. Paul was going to help by getting him an airline pass out of the country.”

So, the posing for the cover had all been a cover story. I buried my face in my hands. Paul was just trying to help out a friend. “But why didn’t Paul tell you any of this after Mark was killed?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he was scared. I don’t know how much Williams told him—we may never know that—but he just stuck to his story. He went to see Mark about being on the cover and found the body.”

“Zane killed him, didn’t he?”

She nodded. “He went back through the back office door and shot him with the Judge’s gun. Once we knew Dominique had given the gun to Mark, it all became clear. Zane didn’t even know who the gun belonged to—an unlucky chance for him. He just assumed it was Mark’s. He saw it in Mark’s desk drawer that afternoon.”

“And you’re sure Zane knows nothing about Paul?”

“I’m positive.”

I got up and walked over to the one-way glass. “And how long are they going to keep me here?”

“You’re free to go.” Venus said. “You checked out. That’s why they sent me in here.”

“Great.”

“There’s one more thing you might want to know.” She got up and walked over to me. “When we canvassed Paul’s neighbors, asking about seeing anything strange Tuesday night, one of them remembered seeing a car parked in the driveway—one they’d never seen before.”

A burst of adrenaline went through me. “Really?”

“A navy blue older make Oldsmobile with Mississippi plates. They didn’t get the plate number, though.”

Mississippi. I groaned. “Chris Fowler.”

She gave me a puzzled look. “Who’s Chris Fowler?”

I sank back down into my chair. “Oh God.” I started explaining it all to her—the threatening emails, my conversation with Jude, Paul’s history of wrestling video stardom. “That’s how he knew Mark Williams in the first place.” I said.

“Come on.” She walked over to the door and banged on it. One of the Feds who’d been verbally abusing me opened it. “I need access to a computer and the Internet, right now.”

“Sure.” He gave me a look. “Anything we can do to help.”

How about eating your gun, asshole?
I thought as he led us to an office and booted up the computer. “What server is Paul on?” I told her, and she pulled it up, then pushed back to make room for me. “Log in.”

I typed in Paul’s account name and blinked back tears as I typed ‘chanse’ into the password line. “You’ve got mail!” the computer told me. I clicked on the envelope, and scrolled through the emails till I found the one from Chris Fowler. I pulled it up. Venus read it quickly then clicked on the printer icon. A printer on top of the file cabinet next to the desk began printing. She turned to the DMV terminal on the credenza behind the desk. She logged in, then typed in Mississippi + Chris Fowler and clicked ‘search.’

The registration came up within seconds. Christopher Fowler, of Forest Road in Bay St. Louis.

A 1988 Oldsmobile Delta Royale 88, blue.

“Now, that’s probable fucking cause.” Venus snapped her fingers. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed. “I need you to patch me through to the district attorney’s office in Bay St. Louis now.” She walked over to the window, tapping her foot. “Yes, hello, this is Detective Venus Casanova with the Eighth District of New Orleans….” I tuned her out as she explained what she needed, what was going on. “Bingo!” she clicked the phone closed, and then faxed the email printout to a number. “You up for a road trip?” She asked. “The sheriff is going to meet us at the house with the warrant. You can’t go in—“

“Try and stop me from going.” I glared at her. She just nodded and motioned for me to follow her.

Five minutes later we were in Venus’ SUV, her bubble light on top, the siren blasting as she headed for I-10. I stared out the window as we flew down the highway, weaving in and out of cars at a speed I didn’t care to know.

He’d been there. I’d been so fucking close. I’d sat on his fucking sofa while he lied through his goddamned teeth to me—and Paul had been there the whole time. He wasn’t hiding out there. Paul knew I’d be worried, Paige would be worried—and if he heard my voice and was able to, he’d have let me know he was there.

He hadn’t been able to.

The fucking ghost man was keeping him a prisoner.

Or he’s buried in the back yard somewhere
, an insidious voice said in my head.
Or maybe there are pieces of him wrapped up in butcher paper in the freezer.

No, he’s not. I’d know. I would know if he were dead.

I heard Mrs. Dahlgren’s voice in my head, “A mother would know if her child was dead, wouldn’t she?”

She hadn’t known. Ricky had been at the bottom of Barataria Bay for days when she’d said that to me. She’d been in denial, that’s all. I knew Paul was alive. I knew it.

Hang on honey, I’m on my way
, I telepathically told Paul. Paige believed in that kind of stuff, in sending out positive energy and drawing strength from other people’s positive energy. I wasn’t sure if I was doing it right, but I closed my eyes and thought about Paul and about how much I loved him. I knew that he would sense it, and keep himself alive. He was alive.

He had to be. There was too much I had to say to him, too many things we had to do together yet. We were going to grow old together. We’d joked about it, the two of us in a gay retired home in rocking chairs with comforters over our legs. “With cute young male nurses,” Paul would say with a big grin on his face.

“You doing okay?” Venus asked as we flew over the lake bridge.

I nodded.

“It could just be a coincidence, Fowler having the same kind of car, you know.” Her mouth worked. “You got any smokes on you?”

I reached into my pocket and shook one out for her. She rolled down her window, then lit it. “I think I’ve run out of coincidences lately, Venus. I’ve had more than my fair share.”

She patted my leg. “It’s going to be okay.”

I just looked out the window as the neon lights of Slidell flew past. We had to be going over a hundred miles per hour. The siren kept screaming as we passed cars like they were standing still. We crossed the state line and zipped right through Waveland like it wasn’t even there. When we reached the city limits of Bay St. Louis, Venus radioed for the sheriff, switching off the siren. “Have you got the warrant?”

A thick Mississippi voice replied, “The judge just signed it, ma’am. We’ll be at the house in a few minutes.”

“We’ll wait for you.”

I guided Venus through the city, and then we were driving down Forest Road. “That’s the house up ahead.” I said. Venus stopped and parked the SUV on the side of the road. She pulled her gun out of its holster and took the safety off. “Stay behind me.” She said. She gave me a lopsided grin. “I’d tell you to stay here but you wouldn’t do that, would you?”

“No.”

We got out of the SUV, closing the doors carefully so they didn’t make a sound, and walked through the darkness to the foot of the driveway. The house was dark and silent, but that didn’t mean anything. He didn’t like the light.

A police car came up Forest Road from the other direction and stopped in front of us. Both doors opened, and two uniforms got out. One was in his late fifties, but he wasn’t the stereotype of the small Southern town sheriff. He was in good shape, his body all lean hard muscle. The other was younger, about my age. Venus flashed her ID at them. “You guys lead the way.” She said.

“Who’s this?” the younger one said, indicating me, shining a flashlight into my face.

“My partner.” Venus lied without missing a beat.

We followed them up the driveway onto the porch.

Something was wrong. I could sense it once I stepped onto the porch.

The sheriff started pounding on the door. “Mr. Fowler! Mr. Fowler! It’s the sheriff! Open up!” he shouted.

Nothing.

He looked over at Venus. “I got a warrant.”

“Break it down.” She ordered.

He nodded at the younger one, who stepped back and raised his foot. The door exploded open from the force of his kick, the doorframe breaking and splintered wood flying in all directions.

I recoiled. I smelled death.

The sheriff shone his flashlight inside, over piles of garbage. Cats ran back and forth, making plaintive noises. A couple made their way over to us, rubbing on our legs. The younger cop shone his light on the walls, finally finding a lightswitch and flicking it. The room flooded with light. It was even worse with the lights on.

I turned my head to where the poster of Paul had been the other day.

It had been slashed to pieces in its frame, except for the face. “Venus.” I pointed to it.

“Oh, Christ.” She said. She walked over to it.

The local cops walked into the kitchen and turned on the light in there. I could see through the door. It was just as disgusting as the living room. Fowler lived like a pig. The odor of cat urine was overpowering. Cats scattered. “Looks like we’re gonna have to call Animal Control.” The young one said.

The sheriff turned on the hall light and started opening doors. “Oh, Christ!” he half-shouted. “Detective Casanova! Can you get in here quick! Shelby, call the paramedics!”

My heart leapt into my throat as I followed Venus down the hallway. We carefully stepped over trash, dirty clothes,and  piles of cat shit. Venus stopped cold in the doorway. “Oh dear God in heaven.” She turned. “No, Chanse, don’t go in there.”

I pushed her aside and stepped through the door.

“Paul.” I managed to croak out as I moved in what seemed like slow motion to the bed.

He was naked and shackled to the bed, spread eagled over the mattress. The sheets were filthy with human excrement. His skin looked white, too white. The sheriff was trying to find a pulse. His eyes were closed. Dried blood covered the left side of his face. “He’s alive,” the sheriff said, “but barely.”