Murder in the Garden District (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries) (7 page)

It’s probably nothing, I told myself, probably just someone waiting for someone to get home over on that side. You’re overreacting. Whoever they are, it’s got nothing to do with you.

Nevertheless, I went inside and closed and locked the door, then retrieved my pistol from my bottom desk drawer. I checked to see that it was loaded. I parted the blinds on the door and looked across the park. I was just about to open the door when the car’s engine started, the headlights came on, and it headed down Coliseum.

I turned the deadbolt closed and put the gun back in the drawer.

You’re being paranoid, I told myself. Relax. There’s no reason for anyone to be spying on you.

But my instincts were telling me the exact opposite.

I shook it off and sat down at my desk. I retrieved Loren’s business card from my Rolodex, called his cell phone and got his voice mail, which was irritating. I was tired of leaving messages for people. “Loren, Chanse MacLeod here,” I said. “I’ve interviewed both Mrs. Sheehans and there’s a serious discrepancy in their stories. We need to talk. Call me.”

I spent the rest of the evening reading Abby’s report on the Sheehans. Abby was my research assistant. She loved doing research, and was good at ferreting out information it would take me days to find. I found myself relying on her more and more.

By the time I went to bed a few hours later, I was an expert on the Sheehan family history. Most of it was incredibly dull and probably had nothing to do with the case at hand, but it was good to have all the background. Before I undressed, I checked through the blinds in the front window to be sure the car wasn’t there. It wasn’t. I felt oddly relieved, and cursed myself for a fool. But I went ahead anyway and double-checked all my doors before I climbed into bed. Better safe than sorry.

*

The next morning I drank a pot of coffee and showered before walking the three blocks from my apartment to St. Charles Avenue. Even though it was only ten in the morning, the sun was blasting the city and it was already over ninety degrees. I was soaked with sweat by the time I made it to the Avenue. A streetcar clacked past on its way downtown. I mopped my forehead with the front of my Polo shirt.

Wendell Sheehan’s campaign office was located in a small enclave of businesses. There were campaign posters in the window, with an interesting slogan:
Sheehan for a new Louisiana
. Well, I reflected as I pushed the door open, the old Louisiana did leave a lot to be desired.

The interior was lit with fluorescent tubes, and there were desks going all the way back to the rear wall, with boxes piled everywhere. Apart from a young man standing at a desk about halfway to the rear of the office, packing files into a large box, the place was completely deserted.

“May I help you?” he asked, with a smile that lit up his face and a mouth full of straight white teeth with a slight underbite that made his lower lip stick out a bit. He was good-looking, probably in his mid-twenties, maybe five-foot-seven or -eight, with a compact yet strong build. A red Polo shirt hugged his chest and shoulders. His low-rise jeans were almost worn through at the knees. He had dark skin and curly light brown hair.

“I’m looking for Stephen Robideaux,” I said, shivering slightly in the air-conditioning as I walked back to where he was standing. Up close, he looked even better.

“Stephen’s at a meeting. He should be back in about an hour or so.”

He resumed placing files in the box.

“I gather you’re closing down the office.”

“Not much point in having a campaign office for a dead candidate, is there?” he said. “It’s a shame, too. Wendell was the only candidate who gave a shit about gay rights. What are we going to do now? We’ll wind up with some moderate Democrat who anywhere else would be considered a Republican.” He slammed the lid down on the box. “Or even worse, that prick from Metairie will get re-elected. That would be a disaster for the state, an absolute disaster.” He stopped and smiled ruefully. “Sorry, I’ve gotten kind of passionate about politics. My name’s Rory.”

He stuck his hand out. His grip was strong.

“Chanse MacLeod. And don’t worry about the politics thing. Since Katrina, I’ve taken a bigger interest myself. So, what are you going to do now that the campaign is over?”

“I have another job.” He gave me his million-dollar smile. “I was just a volunteer. I came in on Monday nights and all day on Wednesdays. I’m here today to help close up the office and clean my stuff out of the desk I was using. Apparently, I’m the only one. Probably I’ll just volunteer for the presidential race this year, and if the party finds someone as good as Wendell, I’ll work for him or her.”

“Did you know Wendell well?”

“His cousin is married to my sister. A lot of people here thought I was volunteering because of the family connection, but I really believed in Wendell. I believed in the changes he wanted to make for the country and for the state. I wouldn’t have been here if he was one of those wing-nut politicians. I thought he could go all the way to the White House.”

“Your sister would be Rachel Sheehan?”

“How did you know?”

“What exactly did Wendell stand for, anyway?” I asked, deflecting the question.

“Equal rights for all Americans. Rebuilding the wetlands to reduce storm surges from future hurricanes. Category 5 levee protection for New Orleans. Health care reform and access to affordable health care for everyone. More money for public education. Ending the wars.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Rory grabbed an empty box off the floor and began placing files from another drawer into it.

“It sounded good to a lot of people. Wendell would have won the election, you know. A lot of people thought we couldn’t have both senators be from New Orleans, but we were going to make history.”

“Did he have a lot of political enemies?”

“Of course he did.” He gave me a wary look. “You don’t think—? Who are you, anyway?”

“I work for the family,” I said. I opened my wallet and passed him one of my business cards. “I’ve been hired by Cordelia Sheehan to look into the murder.”

“Wow.” He sat down in a worn rolling chair and leaned back. “I don’t think I’ve ever met an honest-to-goodness private detective before. I talked to the police detectives yesterday. They didn’t say anything about his political enemies, though. Wendell got death threats all the time, mostly from right-wing nut jobs—you know, the ones who think life begins at conception, that anyone who isn’t white can’t be an American—and sadly, there are plenty of those in Louisiana. Stephen turned those all over to the police yesterday. We kept copies. We gave the originals to the FBI every time one came in. But I’d have to say that, as ugly as politics can be, I don’t think anyone would stoop to murder to get rid of a candidate—at least not the way this was done.”

“You only came in twice a week?”

“It depended on when I was needed. I have a full-time job and I’m in the master’s program at Tulane, studying political science. I got credit for working on the campaign.”

“Anything unusual you noticed going on lately?”

He thought about it for a moment. He really was attractive. I wondered if he was gay or just progressive—it was hard to tell, these days.

“The only thing that struck me as weird was this other volunteer, Dave Zeringue, a nice guy who came in a few times to stuff envelopes. A closet case, if ever there was one.”

“Was that what was weird about him?”

“Well, no. He—” Rory hesitated. “He didn’t seem to fit in. There was nothing concrete about it, it was just a feeling I had. I mean, whenever we would talk about issues—and that was practically all the time—he seemed uncomfortable with our positions. It wasn’t anything he said. He never really contributed an opinion to discussions, if you know what I mean. I just got the sense that he wasn’t one of us, and I couldn’t quite figure out why he was volunteering for Wendell Sheehan. Last week he didn’t show, and Stephen asked me to call him. His cell phone was disconnected, and the landline information he gave us was a wrong number. Like I said, nothing major. You asked about weird stuff.”

He gave me that big smile again. I made a note of the name.

“Were you here on Monday night, by any chance?”

“Me and a couple of other volunteers. We were making cold calls for donations. Wendell and Stephen were in the back office the whole time.” He gestured over his shoulder at the door in the back wall. “Wendell came out and thanked us all for helping. He shook everyone’s hand, told us how we were going to make a difference, and then he left.”

“What time was that?”

“I didn’t really notice. I left at nine, and it was well before that. Maybe a little before eight? I wasn’t paying attention. I was trying to focus on what I was doing.”

“Do you know where Wendell was going when he left?” According to the two Mrs. Sheehans, he hadn’t got home until eleven-thirty. That left about three-and-a-half hours unaccounted for.

“He didn’t say. I assumed he went to the Delacroix. He always ate there on Mondays. He raved about the food there.”

The Delacroix was a small bar and restaurant on St. Charles Avenue. I made a note to stop by and talk to the staff.

“Had he been drinking?”

“Of course not!” He seemed shocked. “I never saw him take a drink.”

I was about to ask him another question when my cell phone rang. I excused myself and stepped outside to take the call.

“What’s up, Abby?”

“I’ve been out in Kenner following a lead.” I could hear traffic in the background. “I’m heading back into the city. You need to buy me lunch.”

Whenever Abby turned up something good, she demanded I buy her a meal.

“What kind of lead?”

She sighed in exasperation. “Did you or did you not ask me to look into Barbara’s past? I found some really juicy stuff. You going to buy me lunch, or would you rather wait for me to write up the report?”

I checked my watch. It was almost eleven.

“How long before you get to the St. Charles exit?”

“Ten minutes, tops.” She had the decency to move the phone away from her mouth before she screamed,
“Stupid motherfucker! That’s why you have a turn signal, asshole!”
She brought the phone back to her mouth. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.” I said. “Why don’t you meet me at Slice?”

Slice was an Italian joint across the street from the campaign office.

“Will do.”

She hung up. I walked back into the office, where Rory had resumed packing files. He really was cute.

“I have an appointment, so I can’t wait for Stephen any longer,” I told him. “Can you give him my card and have him call me?”

“Sure.” He smiled.

“And if you think of anything else out of the ordinary, no matter how small or inconsequential it might seem to you, will you let me know?”

He nodded.

When I got to the door, I remembered the question I’d been about to ask when Abby called.

“Rory?”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t look up from what he was doing.

“You said you never saw Wendell take a drink?”

“No. When his first wife died, he began drinking a lot, and it became a problem, so he joined AA. He was very open about it, actually.”

Janna had insisted he was drunk on Monday night. She’d said he came home drunk all the time. If he had gone to the Delacroix, maybe he had a few drinks there.

“Thank you, Rory. One more thing.”

He looked up.

“Did he seem different that night? Worried? Preoccupied about something?”

He thought for a minute.

“Not that I noticed. He seemed the way he always did. Sorry. I should have paid more attention.”

“Thanks again,” I said, and walked out into the heat.

I didn’t have to wait long for Abby.

I’d taken a table right inside the front door, and had just enough time to order a Coke when I saw the wreck of an Oldsmobile she shared with her boyfriend, Jephtha, shoot past on St. Charles. I couldn’t help but grin. The car was a disaster. It was almost twenty years old, with a cracked windshield and dents all over it. The driver’s side rearview mirror was missing, and at some point had been painted with defective paint. It looked like it had the mange. Jephtha had inherited the car from his grandmother, along with her house in the Irish Channel. Despite looking like it would fall apart if you breathed on it, the car ran extremely well. Less than five minutes later Abby walked through the front door.

Abby was a pretty girl. Originally from Plaquemines Parish, she’d moved to New Orleans after the flood and started dancing at the Catbox Club on Bourbon Street. That was where she’d met Jephtha, who had a weakness for erotic dancers. They were both in their early twenties. Jephtha was a computer whiz with a criminal record whom I kept on retainer; he could literally hack his way into any system. If I needed information and didn’t really care if it was obtained legally, I put Jephtha on it. Abby danced to pay her way through the University of New Orleans pre-law program, where she was one semester away from graduating. She was hoping to get into the Tulane Law School once she finished. When I’d asked her to help me with some research, she was so fast and efficient at it that I’d encouraged her to get certified as a private eye. She was a godsend. She loved doing all the tedious things that bored me, and I was more than happy to farm them out to her. She enjoyed tinkering with disguises. She’d done theater in high school, and had taken a course at UNO in stage makeup. Several times she’d shown up on my doorstep in a disguise and I hadn’t recognized her. She was dressed to impress today, wearing a nice pair of navy blue slacks beneath a red silk shirt exposing a tantalizing glimpse of her impressive cleavage. Her hair was all one color for a change, dark brown.