Murder in the Irish Channel (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries) (12 page)

He removed the cap and looked at me, raising his eyebrows. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I got up and walked into the kitchen, filled a glass with ice, and placed it down in front of him on the coffee table.

“You’re not going to join me?” he asked, his voice sounding small and more than a little hurt.

“I’m on a case, Loren,” I replied. “Unlike you, I can’t function properly after having a drink or two—and I have to drive Uptown and interview a witness when we’re finished here—a witness I should be interviewing right now, actually. So, tell me—what’s so damned important it couldn’t wait another day?”

He shook his head sadly as he opened the bottle and poured a couple of fingers of vodka over the ice. “You’re sure this isn’t sour grapes over—”

I cut him off. “The past is the past. Get to the point, Loren.”

He looked at me again, his eyes narrowing to slits. He clutched both of his pudgy hands to his heart. “You wound me to my very soul, Chanse.” He picked up his glass, toasted me, and took a sip, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. “There’s absolutely nothing like a good Russian vodka over ice, is there?” He set the glass back down and reached into his briefcase again. He pulled out a file folder and opened it. He handed me a check, drawn on the firm’s account.

It was for twenty thousand dollars. On the memo line was printed:
Marino Case.

I kept my face impassive and set it back down on the coffee table. “That’s a big check, Loren. What exactly do you want that you’re willing to pay so much money for? What’s the Marino case?”

“Now, now, we actually are both after the same thing this time, Chanse.” He leaned back on the sofa, watching me carefully. He was still smiling, his tone was light and pleasant, but his eyes were hard, glittering like dark marbles. “And you can’t tell me Jonny O’Neill can afford your day rate—and if he can, he should be saving the money for when the baby comes—which can be any day now, am I right?” The corners of his mouth twitched a little.

My heart started racing, but I denied him the pleasure of a startled reaction. “Are you telling me that you’re looking for Mona O’Neill, too?” Now I allowed myself to smile. “Isn’t that interesting? Hmmm. Now, why on earth would a lawyer in a three-thousand-dollar suit be interested in Mona O’Neill?” I tapped my index finger against my forehead. “And be willing to pay me a whole lot of money to find her?”

His smile broadened. “Chanse, I know you’re one of the best damned private eyes in New Orleans, or I wouldn’t be here wasting my time or my money.” He shrugged. “You know me—I’ve always believed that the best are worth any price.”

“I’m flattered,” I deadpanned, crossing my arms over my chest again. “I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

This time, he threw his head back and laughed. “Damn.” He wiped at his eyes and reached for his vodka. He finished it and refilled the glass. “I really have missed working with you.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

“I don’t blame you for not trusting me—you shouldn’t.” He took another sip of the vodka. “Never trust a lawyer who isn’t working for
you
.”

“
I’ll keep that in mind.”

“There’s a lot going on you don’t know.” He spread his arms in a magnanimous gesture. “I’m here to save you some time—no sense in letting you go barking up the wrong tree, is there? And it’s in my client’s best interest that you find Mona O’Neill, and fast.” His eyes glinted.

“What is your interest—rather, your client’s interest—in a retired Irish Channel widow? Are you working for the archdiocese?”

He erupted in laughter. I waited until he got hold of himself, and repeated the question.

“No, Chanse, I’m not working for the archbishop. I could give a shit about St. Anselm’s. No one’s paying me to give a shit.” He took another swig of the vodka. “But you’ve only been on this case for a day at most. I know you’re the one who found Robby O’Neill’s body last night, and I know you were just out in old Metairie talking to Mona’s daughter, Lorelle.”

“Got someone watching their houses, Loren?” I kept my face impassive and my tone jocular. “Did your guy see who killed Robby O’Neill, by any chance? That would make Venus and Blaine’s lives a lot easier, you know.”

“No, I don’t know anything about who killed Robby O’Neill.” Loren sighed and finished the vodka. He picked up the bottle to refill the glass again, but thought better of it and put the bottle back down again, putting the cap back on. “Mona O’Neill, on the other hand, is a damned important witness to a case my firm is pursuing. Maybe even the most important witness, and so whatever goes on with anyone in her immediate family is of interest to us.” Loren leaned forward. “Since I’ve worked with you before, the lead attorney on the case—my partner, Jim Drake, I think you may have met him—thought it was best if I met with you to discuss you coming on board and working for us.”

“Seriously?” I laughed—it really was funny. “Your partners actually think that you and I have a great working relationship? What kind of bullshit do you tell your partners, Loren?” I shook my head. “All due respect, Loren, but I’d be a hell of lot more likely to trust a complete stranger than you.”

“You are still holding a grudge. After all these years?” Loren shook his head, running a hand over his shining bald head. “You really wound me, Chanse. You know that wasn’t personal, don’t you? It was business. I had to do what was best—”

“I know, I know.” I rolled my eyes. “You always have to do what’s best for your client, even if it means fucking over a friend.”

“That’s my job! If you will recall, Chanse, I warned you to get your own lawyer, didn’t I? I could have not said a damned word, you know. I did what I could for you. It wouldn’t have been ethical for me to do anything more than that.”

“It was ethical for you to take the heat off your client by pinning a murder rap on me?” I felt myself starting to get angry all over again, and forced myself to stay calm. “Is that what they teach you at Tulane Law, Loren?”

“I always do what is best for my client, Chanse. If that makes me a bad person, so be it. I can live with it.” He leaned back on the couch. “But for what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I appreciate that.” I narrowed my own eyes. “But what makes you think I’d be willing to go to work for you again?”

“The devil you know.”

In spite of myself, I laughed.

Loren smiled. “Look, that’s a twenty-thousand-dollar check on the coffee table. Don’t you want to know why I’m here? At least hear me out.” He held up his hands. “If you listen to what I have to say and you’re still not interested, then I will grab my check and walk out of here—and leave this fine, expensive bottle of vodka behind, for your time and trouble. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough.”

“You know anything about the Cypress Garden complex?”

“Lorelle told me that’s where her mother worked before Katrina.” I shrugged. “Before that, I never heard of the place, and all I know is the place was damaged in the storm and Mona didn’t go back to work afterward.”

“Ah, there’s so much more to it than that.” He steepled his fingers together in front of his chest and gave me a satisfied smile. “Then sit back, relax, and I will tell you a sordid tale of corporate greed.” He peered at me over the top of his glasses. “You played football at LSU, didn’t you?”

“Yup, full scholarship, lettered three years, started as a senior.” I nodded. It had been my ticket out of Cottonwood Wells, Texas—and the trailer park where I’d grown up. I’d never looked back once I drove east on I-10.

“So you know the name Luke Marino?”

“Luke Marino?” I started laughing. “Seriously, Loren, I’m not deaf, dumb, and blind. Who in Louisiana hasn’t heard of Luke Marino?”

Luke Marino was a senior when I was a freshman and had been elected one of the team captains. A graduate of Jesuit High School in New Orleans, he’d been starting since he was a sophomore. His senior year we won the Southeastern Conference, primarily behind his running, and had gone to the Sugar Bowl where we kicked the crap out of Penn State. When we needed short yardage, he was our go-to guy. Luke Marino had been King of LSU that year. His picture was all over the state newspapers, he was always being interviewed on the news, and replicas of his jersey had been the biggest selling LSU jersey that year.

Hell, even I’d bought one of them.

I didn’t really know him all that well—freshman tight ends and senior running backs didn’t really mix all that much. But he always seemed like a good guy, always had a smile on his face, and always had something nice to say to anyone. We’d probably never exchanged more than three sentences together the entire time we’d both been on the team together. But he’d been good-looking, had an amazing body, and I’d always had a bit of crush on him. His girlfriend had been one of the Golden Girls—the girls who performed with the band in little more than a gold-sequined bodysuit and long white gloves. I couldn’t remember her name, but she’d been blond and one of the most beautiful girls I’d ever seen. Luke and his girlfriend really were the epitome of the stereotype of the Big Man on Campus and his Homecoming Queen.

He’d been drafted by San Diego after his senior year, but had only lasted two years in the pros before an injury ended his career. He’d come back to New Orleans. His family lived Uptown and owned a couple of restaurants around the city. Marino’s on Magazine Street was probably the best known of them. I’d eaten there once—they had killer lasagna.

“Luke invested most of the money he made as a pro player in an apartment complex on the West Bank called Cypress Gardens when he came back to New Orleans in the late nineties.” Loren went on. “It wasn’t
all
his money, of course—he took out some bank loans he was able to get based on his last name, and I think his parents loaned him some as well, but he paid them back fairly quickly once the place was open. It was a pretty nice place, Chanse—nice big apartments for middle- to low-income families. Cypress Garden wasn’t his only investment, of course, but it was his primary, where most of his income came from. He was a pretty good businessman, turned out. Within a few years of opening the place, he’d paid off his loans and owned the place free and clear. There was some Section 8 housing, so he had some city and state contracts, but for the most part it was nice, clean affordable housing for working-class people. About ten years ago, he hired Mona O’Neill to run the place for him as property manager. Mona worked hard, and Luke trusted her. She was like a member of the family to Luke and his wife—she even watched their kids sometimes.”

“So?” I shrugged. “Does this heartwarming story have a point?”

“So, a few years back a one-eyed bitch named Katrina came to town.” Loren’s eyes glittered. “And Cypress Gardens sustained some pretty heavy damage—to the point where the majority of the apartments weren’t livable.”

“The West Bank didn’t flood—so it was wind damage?”

“Wind damage, yes—but just because there was no flooding didn’t mean there wasn’t any water damage, either.” Loren took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “Several roofs came off the complex—a lot of windows were blown out and there was a lot of rainwater damage. You remember what it was like, right? No power over there, windows blown out, water got in, with all the heat and humidity of late summer. The mold got everywhere—in the a / c and heating vents and ducts, the walls, ceilings, and floors were all covered with it in almost every unit. The place wasn’t truly habitable after Katrina. Luke, of course, immediately put in a claim with his insurance company—Global Insurance—and he was insured to the teeth for everything—wind damage, water damage, loss of revenue—Luke was really smart when it came to buying coverage. And so the insurance company sent some inspectors out.”

I had a feeling I knew where this was going.

“The claims investigators didn’t check out anything. They didn’t go up on any roofs of any of the buildings—there were ten buildings total—and they only checked out a few apartments, all on the first floor, you know, where they could get access because they didn’t try to get a hold of anyone to meet them and show them around, anyone with keys. The Marinos—Luke and his family, his parents, siblings, the entire family—they all evacuated to Houston, so they weren’t here. Mona, however, didn’t evacuate. She stayed in New Orleans and rode out the storm and the aftermath here.”

“But she couldn’t get over to the West Bank, could she? Didn’t the cops have the bridge blocked off to keep people from leaving New Orleans?” I closed my eyes. I’d heard lots of horror stories about people trying to evacuate over the bridge, only to be turned back by armed cops on the other side.

“Oh, she was over there, all right. She was over there before the insurance inspectors were.” Loren refilled his glass with vodka. The ice was melted, but when I started to get up he waved me to sit back down. “Needless to say, when the inspectors turned in their report, they claimed only thirty-five thousand dollars’ worth of hurricane related damage had occurred.” Loren slipped his glasses back on. “Now, with over twelve hundred units, and at least five roofs coming off completely—you tell me how the hell a property of that size only sustained thirty-five thou worth of hurricane damage? Luke was furious. He’d been paying a small fortune in insurance premiums for years, only to have the insurance company try to screw him.”

“Yeah,” I replied with a shrug. “That sucks.” But it was a story told so often in post-Katrina New Orleans it had almost become a cliché. Everyone had been fucked over by their insurance companies—to the point where the word
insurance
had become an epithet almost on the same level as FEMA. “So, I guess it’s safe to assume Marino is suing? And has hired your firm.”