[Bayou Gavotte 03.0] Heart of Constantine (36 page)

“Somebody stabbed that reporter, Nathan Bone, and threw him in the river last night.”

“Oh my god. Poor Nathan.” Pause. “Is Constantine all right?” Her heart battered her chest. “They’re not going to pin this on him, are they?”

“The media will do their best, but he was with Lep all night,” Ophelia said. “Unless there’s some real evidence against him, he’ll be okay.”

Marguerite poured a coffee and dropped into a seat at the table. “Nathan was pretty horrible, but he didn’t deserve this. Does Gideon have any idea who did it?”

“Not as far as I know, but there’s a kid called Zeb who’s mixed up in all this, and he’s gone missing.”

“No.” Marguerite shook her head. “Zeb didn’t do this. He’s a good kid.”

“Gideon said the police and the underworld were taking turns keeping him under surveillance, but he slipped his leash last night and never came home. This morning his father called every one of Zeb’s friends he could think of, got nowhere, and reported him missing.” She rubbed out a cypress tree and drew it again. “Seems like an overreaction to me. Maybe the kid was partying someplace all night and fell asleep there. On the other hand, my niece is one of his friends, and she’s worried he’s suicidal.”

“Al—that’s his dad—usually has a cool head, but he’s been worried about Zeb lately, too. So have I, but regardless, he’s not capable of killing somebody.”

Ophelia’s aura fluttered strangely. Without looking up from drawing a semicircle of shrubs on the garden plan, she said, “Everyone’s capable of it.”

Marguerite watched the flutter resolve itself and fade from the vampire’s aura. Interesting, but none of her business. “In self-defense, maybe, or to save someone else, but this sounds like cold-blooded murder. Anyway, what motive would he have? I’m a more likely candidate than he is.”

“Luckily, you were here all night,” Ophelia said. “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“None,” Marguerite said. “He could be holed up almost anyplace. His friends wouldn’t rat on him, and I think he
has some keys that he shouldn’t.” He probably had a key to her place, come to think of it, because he’d taken care of Lawless once when she and Pauline had both been out of town. But he hadn’t been the one to do the break-ins. He had no reason, and he wouldn’t hurt Lawless. “I have to go to the office for a while. Can I leave my dog here? I’m not allowed to bring him into university buildings on weekdays.”

“No problem. Gideon said don’t be surprised if someone seems to be shadowing you. The media are back in hordes, and the underworld people have their hands full, but they’ll keep an eye on you if they can.”

“How am I supposed to know whether the person shadowing me is friend or foe?” Marguerite said.

Ophelia snorted. “Beats me.” Painstakingly, she filled in a pathway with flagstones.

“Or whether they suspect me of collusion with the murderer?”

Compassion suffused the vampire’s aura, and she glanced up briefly. “It sucks, doesn’t it? Believe me, I can relate. Gideon suspected me of murder once.” Her eyes were back on the drawing. “I don’t think he seriously suspects you, but there’s obviously some connection between you and the murderer. Maybe they think by keeping an eye on you, they’ll find him. Anyway, Gideon says stick to public places and don’t trust anyone.”

Feeling more alone than ever, Marguerite finished her coffee and left.

“That’s his T-shirt,” said a female voice. “He must be here someplace.” It was Zelda. “Please be okay. Please don’t be dead.”

Fuck. Not again.

“Here he is,” said Juma. “Zeb, what the hell are you doing here?”

“As long as he’s alive, it doesn’t matter,” Zelda said. “Jeez! He’s butt naked!”

“Guys with butts like that,” Juma said, “
should
be naked.”

“For all the female world to gaze upon,” Zelda agreed, and then her tone shifted. “Zeb, are you all right? We’ve been so worried!”

Zeb groaned, groped for the bedspread, and wrapped it around himself. He tried to open his eyes, and the events of last night crashed into him. He sat up, clutching the bedspread, and forced his eyelids unstuck. “Yeah. Sure.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I’m fine. What time is it?”

“It’s almost seven
P.M.
,” Zelda said.

Christ. He’d slept the whole day away. He should have been up and heading into town hours ago.

“You don’t look fine,” Juma said. “That’s blood on the bedspread. You’re bleeding!”

One of the rips on his palm had opened again. “Yeah, I cut myself last night.”

“Everybody’s searching for you,” Zelda said. “Your dad’s been calling everywhere. He even went to the cops. We tried all the usual places, and then I thought of here as a last resort, although I couldn’t imagine why you’d—”

Panic roiled up. “My dad’s not here, is he?”

“No, but I’m going to call him right now.” Zelda whipped out her phone.

Zeb leapt off the bed and grabbed it. “No!”

Both girls gaped at him, although it was hard to say whether they were more focused on his privates or his behavior. He glared at Juma. “Don’t you dare call him either. Or text him.”

“No problem, dude.” She put up her hands as if he’d pointed a gun at her, and he felt himself flush. “You know me better than that.”

“Let me get dressed.” He stalked off down the hall, still gripping Zelda’s phone. If he hadn’t been so freaked, he would feel ridiculous.

Zelda was close behind, doubtless butt-watching to her vampire heart’s content. “If my mother thought I was missing, I’d call her first thing. She drives me crazy, but I couldn’t
stand
having her worried about me.”

“My mother is dead, and my father’s just pretending to care.” He had to pee. “Do you mind?” He glared at her and went ahead, and she had the grace to roll her eyes and leave the bathroom. He splashed his face and rinsed his mouth, then pulled on his still-damp underwear and stuck his head into the hall. At least he was thinking straight now. “I need to talk to Constantine.”

Zelda and Juma exchanged glances.

“What’s wrong?” Zeb took his shorts off the shower rail. “Yesterday, you were ecstatic when I said I’d talk to him.”

“Yesterday, you ran away,” Zelda retorted.

“It’s life or death now.” It had been life or death yesterday, too, if only he’d known. He pulled on his shorts. “Did you come here by car? Is Constantine at the Impractical Cat?”

“Yes, but it’s surrounded by news people and fans,” Juma said. “This reporter dude was stabbed to death and dumped in the river last night, and some people are trying to blame it on Constantine.”

“A
reporter
?” Zeb zipped his fly. Now he knew why the dude had looked familiar; he was the one who’d taken pictures of Marguerite at the Merkin. “That makes no sense.”

“Unfortunately, it does,” Juma said. “The reporter’s been printing awful stuff about him, and about his new girlfriend, too.”

“He didn’t do it,” Zeb said flatly.

“We know that!” Zelda said. “Constantine would never do such a clumsy job. If he had killed the guy, the body would never have been found. Not that I approve of murder, mind you.”

“Sometimes it’s necessary,” Zeb said, flat and sure.

Zelda stilled. “You’re reminding me of Constantine again.” Even Juma’s cynical eyes widened a little.

“I wish,” Zeb said. But he didn’t have Constantine’s savvy or guts, and meanwhile the old man might be dreaming up new ways to wreak havoc. He reached for his T-shirt.

“What’s this?” Juma picked up the drawing Zeb had laid on the towel hours and hours earlier. How could he have slept so long? “Whoa. This is a drawing of Constantine and some girl.”

Zeb pulled on his T-shirt. Planting the sketch on the reporter seemed like an attempt to implicate Constantine, but why? The bastard’s twisted mind might be bursting with reasons to harm Lutsky, or even Eaton Wilson or Pauline. But why would he care one way or another about Constantine?

“That’s one bizarro penis.” Zelda made a face. “She seems to be enjoying it, but it looks like some weird sort of bondage to me.”

“It’s clearly symbolic,” Juma said loftily. “Where’d it come from, Zeb?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He put his sneakers on without bothering with his still-soggy socks and reached for the paper.

Juma backed away, holding it over her head. “Tell us.”

“Give it to me. This isn’t a game.”

“Then don’t keep us in the dark,” Zelda said. “We’re only trying to help.”

“If you really mean that, do what I ask. Take me to the Cat and get me in to see Constantine.” But Juma danced away, so he grabbed her wrist and squeezed.

She yelped and dropped the paper. “You jerk!” she said. “That hurt! Forget the ride. Forget the sex thing, too. You’re not my kind of guy.”

He folded the paper carefully and returned it to his pocket. “Juma, this is a life-or-death situation. Whether or not you want to have sex with me doesn’t matter.”

“I think we should do what Zeb says,” Zelda said. “I think if we don’t, we’ll regret it. Anyway, he’s stronger than both of us. He could overpower you, get the car keys, and just leave. If he did, would you call the cops on him? Because I wouldn’t.”

“No,” Juma said in a pissy voice, “but shouldn’t we know what we’re getting into?”

“I’ll tell you on the way into town,” Zeb said, moving down the narrow hallway to the kitchen. He peered out the front window of the trailer: no one in sight. He’d have to
risk being seen by the neighbors. “But you have to promise to believe me.”

They exchanged glances again. “Sure,” they said in unison. That didn’t give him a lot of confidence, but at least he now had a ride.

He got into the backseat. “Is that iced coffee? Great.” He took Juma’s cup and drank the contents in one ecstatic swallow. “Jeez, I’m hungry. Take me to the first fast-food place you see.”

Juma started the car, turned onto the road, and said, “About the paper. Tell us.”

“The murderer planted it in the pocket of the dead reporter,” Zeb said. He slouched low in the backseat, ready to sink out of sight if necessary. “He’s trying to frame Constantine.”

Zelda frowned. “How do you know?”

“I witnessed the murder,” he said.

They both turned. Zelda went white behind her freckles, Juma stark against her raven hair.

“Wow,” Juma said, facing the road again. “I apologize, dude.”

“Who did it?” Zelda demanded. “My Aunt Ophelia is married to a cop, and he’s a really great guy, and he and Constantine are friends. We could—”

“No. My dad’s already been to the cops, so they’ll be on his side,” Zeb said. “I have to speak to Constantine. I should have gone to him ages ago. I would have, if I’d known…” Maybe he had known, deep down, what the old man was capable of. Maybe he’d just refused to see it. To see what the old man had done before and would do again.

Finally, Zeb let the knowledge he’d been holding at bay for months take root in his mind. He let himself
think
it.
Accept
it.

My father is insane. He will never get better.

And the truth he’d been dreading for the last few days:

My father is a murderer
.

Astonishingly, allowing these thoughts into his mind, letting himself admit them, gave him a huge rush of relief.

“Once I’ve talked to Constantine,” Zeb said, “he can decide what to do about the cops.”

“Okay,” Zelda said stoutly. “Constantine it is.”

“Who did it, Zeb?” Juma asked.

“You have to promise to believe me,” he said again. “You have to promise you’ll still help me even if you don’t. And you have to promise to buy me a burger, because I don’t have a penny on me.”

“We will,” Zelda said. “You’re our friend forever. You know that.”

Zeb took a deep breath and told them.

Constantine propped himself on a stool and strummed a few chords. “Let me tell you a tale.”

“Jesus,” Lep said, slouching on the couch and closing his eyes.

Gideon stood by the window, looking down at the crowds outside the Impractical Cat. The sun was going down. “This is a fucking murder case,” he growled. “I need to get back out there and
do
something.”

“Such as what?” Lep said. “Kowtow to the chief?”