Murder in the Rue St. Ann (30 page)

When I walked out of the locker room he was standing by a machine, drinking out of a bottle of water. He was a little shorter than me and was wearing New Orleans Hornets basketball shorts that hung loosely to just past his knees. A white tank top fit snugly over a muscular tanned torso. His hair was short and dark. He nodded at me when he saw me looking. I nodded back and walked over to the curl bars.

I was halfway through my first set of preacher curls when I remembered where’d I’d seen him.

Danny DeMarco. Zane’s dinner date the night Mark was killed.

I finished my set and walked over to him. He let out a loud gasp as he finished his set, and stood there, panting for a moment. “Hey.” He finally said, reaching for his water bottle.

“You’re Danny DeMarco, right?”

He nodded, holding the bottle. “Yeah, so?”

“I’m Chanse MacLeod, Have you got a minute?” I held out my hand, which he shook for a second. His hands were warm and sweaty.

“Yeah, I’m done for today. What?” He looked at me warily. His eyes were large and brown. “I’m not gay, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“No.” He was in his early twenties. Why do guys that age always think people are hitting on them?

“You had dinner with Zane Rathburn the other night.”

“Yeah. So? You a cop?” He looked me up and down.

“No, I’m a private eye.”

He shrugged. “Look, I told the cops already—he met me at the Moon Wok around seven. We had dinner and he left around 9:30.  I walked to my car and went home. I haven’t seen or talked to him since.”

“Why did you have dinner with him?”

“We’re friends.” He shrugged. “”I met him when I posed for the magazine cover. He was nice, so we had dinner a couple of times.”

“Did you know Mark Williams?”

“That’s who asked me to pose for the cover.” He wiped his forehead with a towel. “I said sure, went over to their office and posed. It took maybe an hour. I talked to Zane a little bit, and I was going to get something to eat, and he was hungry, so we went together. He called me and invited me to dinner another time—this was the third time we’d had dinner. No big.”

“What did you think of Mark?”

“Nice guy.” He made a face. “Not like some of the guys around here, you know what I mean? He was gay, but he knew I was straight and respected that. Nice. You wouldn’t believe some of the guys around here.” He shuddered. “I don’t mind if they look, you know, but it pisses me off when they follow me into the locker room, or watch me shower—stuff like that.” He took another swig of water.

Nice. “What about Zane?”

“Ah, Zane knew better than to try anything.” Danny grinned. “He was pretty cool. He just wanted some advice about working out, asked me about my girlfriend, how school was going—nice guy, like I said.”

“You didn’t sense he had a crush or anything?”

He looked at me like I was crazy. “If Zane had a crush on anyone, it was Mark.”

“Why would you say that?”

“He was always watching him when he didn’t think anyone was watching.” Danny grinned. “Anything else? I need to get going or I’ll be late to class.”

“Nah, Thanks.”

I went back over to the preacher curl bench and launched into a second set and tried to put everything out of my mind but it kept wandering back to Paul. I finished and  showered there. As I soaped up my body, the hot water coursing over me, I thought about what Danny’d said. It didn’t really make much of a difference if Zane had a crush on Mark—although it would explain why he didn’t like Ricky. I doubted it was enough to drive Zane to kill Mark. I’d already planned to stop by Zane’s after seeing Mrs. Dahlgren. Ricky, though, seemed to be the key to everything. Mark had taken $20,000 out of the bank and within a few hours was dead.

Where was the money?

Venus surely would have said something to me about it if the police had found it,

The Dahlgrens lived in old Metairie. Old Metairie was one of the original suburbs of the city, until New Orleans had kept growing out in that direction, eventually surrounding it and absorbing it. There was a distinct difference between old Metairie and Metairie proper. Old Metairie had money; old houses and beautiful streets lined with swamp oaks. I got off the highway at the City Park exit and turned back under I-10, heading onto Old Metairie Road.

The Dahlgren house was a replica of an old plantation house. The red brick house had a wide veranda supported by marble columns and a large expanse of perfectly coiffed emerald green grass in front.  The only thing missing was a cotton field stretching into the distance behind it. I pulled into the driveway, noting that the three cars in front of mine were all Mercedes. I walked up the brick walk, climbed the steps and rang the bell next to the oak front door. I heard footsteps, then the door opened.

“Mr. MacLeod?” It was a young black woman wearing a maid’s uniform, complete with white apron.

“Yes.”

She held the door open for me, then quickly shut it without a sound. “Mrs. Dahlgren is waiting for you in the breakfast room.” She indicated a door right off the hallway.

I walked under a massive chandelier and past a wide hanging stair. A huge portrait of a woman dressed in eighteenth century costume hung on the yellow wall just above the curved stairway. I walked through the doorway and stepped back into time about a century.

The small room was completely furnished with well polished antiques. A huge grandfather clock was pushed up against one wall. There was a small mahogany table with a lace tablecloth in the center of the room. Huge mirrors set in gilt frames hung opposite each other on the walls. The one window was deep inset with a blue velvet pillow covering the windowseat. It matched the curtains that hung on either side.

The woman seated there set down her copy of
Architectural Digest
and stood, walking toward me with her arm outstretched. Lois Dahlgren was not tall, but her slender straight body gave the illusion of more height.  She was wearing a white silk blouse with black slacks over matching pumps. The pearl necklace hanging around her neck matched the pearls at both ears. Her silvery hair was swept back into a French braid hanging down her back. Her make-up was perfectly applied, although the skin around her eyes looked a little too tight. The deep sockets of her bluish-gray eyes were a dead give away that she’d had her eyes done more than once. Still, she walked with the air of confidence only money and privilege can give someone. She extended her right hand to me and I could see a huge ruby inset with diamonds that dwarfed her ring finger. “Mr. MacLeod, thank you for joining me. Can I offer you tea? Coffee?” I shook her limp hand for a moment, just a quick pump. The skin felt delicate, hot and papery. Her nails were long, with French tips

“Coffee.”

She smiled, and walked over to the table. She poured me a cup of dark black coffee from a silver coffee pot. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Both, please.”

“Ah.” She nodded, adding cream from a silver creamer and a couple of lumps of sugar into the delicate cup of bone china. She set it down, then poured a cup for herself. “Please, Mr. MacLeod, have a seat.” Her voice still retained its Mobile accent, and I noted little lines around the bright red lips.

I pulled out a chair and sat down. She sat directly across the table from me. I smiled and took a sip of the coffee. I set it back down in its matching saucer. She was watching me, her eyes slightly narrowed. I cleared my throat. “Frankly, Mrs. Dahlgren, I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Don’t you, Mr. MacLeod?” Ice dangled from each word.

“No.”

“You don’t know where my son is, do you?”

“No.” I stared at her. What the hell?

She stared back into my eyes for a minute, then sat back with a sigh, her face relaxing. She exhaled. “I didn’t think so.” She picked up her cup. I noticed her hand was shaking a bit. “It was a long shot, but—“ she trailed off. She reached for a silver cigarette case. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No.”

She lit one and inhaled deeply. She flicked ash into a crystal ashtray.

“Mrs. Dahlgren, why am I here?”

She took a deep breath. “My son is missing, Mr. MacLeod. We last heard from him on Friday morning.” Her free hand started toying with her pearls. “He was going to Houston to visit a friend from college—and he never arrived.”

“Why would you think I’d know where he was?” I took another drink of the jet-fuel strength coffee.  “Besides, he was seen in the Quarter on Monday night.”

“That’s a lie.” She said softly. She tugged on the pearls, twisting them around her hand. “If he were still in town, he would have called; or come home one night.”

She sounded just like Mrs. Maxwell, talking about Paul. “No offense, Mrs. Dahlgren, but maybe—“

“Oh, he thought he was keeping secrets from me, but I knew what he was up to.” She went on. “I knew all about his lover in the Quarter. New Orleans is a very small town, you know. Maybe I should have said something to him about it, but I thought he’d tell me when he was ready. And whenever he was staying down there, he always called and checked in. He knew how important it was to me.”

“Why would you think I’d know anything?”

“You’re a private eye, aren’t you? You’ve been nosing into things down there. I thought maybe you’d have heard something you hadn’t shared with the police.” She poured herself another cup of coffee. Some splashed out into the saucer. “You have to understand, Mr. MacLeod, what things have been like around here since this stupid trial fell onto my husband’s case load.” She sipped the coffee. “The threats, the phone calls—Ricky knew how important it was to me for him to check in. But not a word since he walked out of the house Friday morning.”

“Have you called the police?”

“Of course.” She looked at me like I was stupid. “And the marshals. And—nothing.”  She rubbed her eyes. “I was hoping you might have—might have found something.”

“Why are you so certain Ricky wasn’t in the Quarter on Monday night?”

She paused for a moment, her throat working, no words coming out. “He wasn’t staying where he usually stayed when he didn’t come home.”

“How do you know that?”

“My husband might not have wanted marshals to protect us, but I did.” Her eyes flashed. “I called that U. S. Attorney myself. I told him since the Judge had said no, he couldn’t know about it. It’s all well and good for him to not want to ‘live in fear’ but I wasn’t about to risk
my
children’s lives of for
his
principles.”

“So, marshals have been following him around?” This put a whole new face on everything. If Ricky had indeed shot Mark, the marshals could easily have been witnesses.

“They lost him on Friday morning.” She swallowed. “I don’t know how it could have happened, but they did. They put out a bulletin on his SUV, but it wasn’t spotted anywhere between here and Houston…and then he never showed up.” She got up and walked over to the window. “I know they all think he’s dead—that those awful mobsters got him somehow. But I’d know, wouldn’t I? If my child were dead, wouldn’t I…would I sense it?”

I had a strong sense of déjà vu.

My own words to Paige, just last night.

There was a huge lump in my throat. I gripped the side of the table to steady myself. “But the Judge’s gun was found at the murder site.”

“Ricky never had that gun.” Mrs. Dahlgren turned back to me from the window. “That particular gun was kept in a case to which only the Judge and I had keys.”

“Then how—“ My mind was spinning. Was this Metairie matron confessing to me?

“I loaned that gun to my son’s lover.” She shrugged. “Yes, the marshals were keeping an eye on him and all, but I felt more comfortable with everyone carrying a gun, just to be on the safe side. I’ve got one in my purse, a nice little pearl handled revolver.”

“So you gave the gun to Mark?” I shook my head a little. If Mark had the gun, that cleared Ricky for sure. But what could Paul have known that would put his life in danger?

“Mark?” Mrs. Dahlgren eyes opened wide and her forehead creased.“Mark who? And why would I give a gun to him?”

“Mark Williams. You said you gave the gun to Ricky’s lover—“

“And you think—“ She stared at me as though I’d lost my mind. “My son wasn’t gay, Mr. MacLeod.”

“I don’t care if you’re in denial. Who’d you give the gun to?”

“I would have known if he were gay.” She kept blinking. “He would have told me.”

“Some people don’t feel comfortable coming out to their parents.” Christ, bitch, focus! “Who’d you give the gun to?”

“It’s because the Judge is a conservative, isn’t it?” Her lips narrowed. “That makes me so angry! Just because you’re a conservative people just assume you’re racist, homophobic—all of that! Ricky could have told us if he were gay!”

“We’re getting a little off point here—“

But Mrs. Dahlgren was off and running. “We are not homophobic!” She walked over to a photograph on the mantle and picked it up. “Our daughter is a lesbian, and we love her and her partner just as much as our other children!” She shoved the picture at me as if to prove her point.

Score one for Paige
, I thought as I took the picture from Mrs. Dahlgren. I held it and looked down at it as she continued on her rant. I figured she was probably doing that to take her mind off her son. I looked down at the picture. It was a professionally done portrait, with the family all dressed to the teeth. Sitting in the center of the picture were two women in their early thirties holding hands. One had short, close cropped blonde hair and was wearing a black tux with a white shirt underneath. She had Mrs. Dahlgren’s eyes. The other woman was wearing a nice beige pantsuit, her dark hair cut in a mullet. Behind them, each with a hand on the shoulder seated in front of them, were the proud parents. The Judge was also in a tux and was a handsome older man. Mrs. Dahlgren was wearing a peach silk gown, and the same pearls she currently had on and was smiling at the camera. To her left was a tall man, also in his early thirties with blonde hair. He also looked like Mrs. Dahlgren. In front of him was a slender woman. His hand was on her shoulder. Obviously, his wife.