Murder in the Irish Channel (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries) (18 page)

“Impressive,” I replied. “Just don’t become Wife Number Five or whatever number he’s on.”

Her face twisted. “Oh, as if.” She shuddered. “I would never marry a pig like that, I don’t care how much money he has. Blech.”

“Okay, I was just kidding.”

“I eventually made it around to his table. He came in with a group—a couple of them were obviously bodyguards. I didn’t know who the other guys were—Merrily told me one of them is on the city council, some important muckety-muck who has a lot to do with zoning and stuff, I don’t know. I wrote his name down.” She started reaching into her purse.

“It can wait—just put it in the report when you write it up,” I instructed her.

“Cool.” She smiled at me. “So, of course he wanted me to sit with him, tell him all about myself, so I asked him to buy me a glass of that shitty champagne they make us hustle. He thought we should get to know each other better.” She rolled her eyes. “The current Mrs. Barras is in Europe, shopping and doing some charity thing—I verified it online, so it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see Mr. Billion Dollar Barras was looking for a little company, and he certainly was.” She opened her eyes wide. “He definitely wanted more than just talk, but I told him I might work as a dancer but I wasn’t a whore. He told me I misunderstood—he was looking for companionship, not sex.”

“You didn’t go back to his place?” I stared at her. “Abby, that wasn’t—”

“I can take care of myself,” she replied, but she gave me a smile and touched my hand to show she was grateful for my concern. “I’m pretty good with the self-defense, you know. And you know the club’s too loud—the music and people talking and all that crap. He wasn’t going to tell me anything useful there in the club, not with his bodyguards and that city council dude sitting there.”

“Still, don’t take chances like that. I don’t want to have to explain to Jephtha—”

“It’s so cute that you worry.” She touched my hand again. “But I was working at the Catbox Club before we met, Chanse, and I know how to take care of myself. I’m not crazy, all evidence to the contrary. I don’t ever let myself get into situations I can’t get myself out of.”

I started to lecture her, but bit my tongue and said nothing. Like everyone else her age, she believed she was invulnerable and nothing bad would ever happen to her.

I just hoped that when something bad did happen to her, I’d be around to help.

Which is all anyone can do for someone else, anyway.

“So, he waited for me until I was done working—and given how little his tips were, no one really cared that I took him out of there at midnight.” She smeared more cream cheese on the other half of her bagel. “It’s so weird—Merrily told me the city council guy is usually a big tipper, but whenever he comes in with Barras, it’s like little tips is catching, you know? And yeah, he can’t give anyone more than a five, right, but he swept me out of the Quarter in a limousine.” She rolled her eyes. “Like that’s supposed to impress me after I’ve watched him giving the other girls fives for two hours? All it did was show me what a cheap-ass he is. And of course, it’s not like I don’t know how much it costs to rent a limo—and it was definitely rented.” One of her brothers worked as a limo driver, for one of the largest limo agencies in the city. She and Jephtha could rent a limo for next to nothing anytime they wanted. “But, of course, I acted like I’d never been in one before, and oohed and aahed appropriately, when it was called for, you know, and you should have seen him preen!” She made a gagging noise. “He’s awful damned proud of himself. But, I have to say, the penthouse at Poydras Tower is pretty fucking impressive.”

I made a face at her. “I’m still not happy about you going over there.”

She patted my hand. “Don’t go all knight-in-shining-armor on me, Chanse. I can take care of myself—and I had my gun in my purse.”

“Yeah, but what if he and his bodyguards decided to pull a gang-rape on you? What if
that’s
the kind of kinky shit he was into?”

Her smile faded. “Oh.”

“Just don’t do that again, okay?”

She nodded, obviously rattled. “Well, his living room is one entire end of the apartment, with the most amazing view of the city—when the curtains are open there’s this panoramic view, Chanse. It took my breath away. The city is so beautiful at night with the lights and all.” Her eyes took on a dreamy look for moment before she continued, “But he was a perfect gentleman—even after I told him the real reason I was there.”

“He took it well?”

“He really did only want companionship—‘a pretty young woman to talk to,’ were his exact words. We drank champagne—I just sipped, he drank a lot—and talked. And once I showed him my badge, he was really amused—and was open to talking.” She shrugged. “Whether he was telling the truth or not, I don’t know. But he says the check was a finder’s fee, for getting Jonny to sign with his MMA promotion. Jonny’s got a pretty good deal there. Barras Fight Corporation is going to pay his gym fees and his trainers, and he gets to keep all the money he earns from fights or any endorsement deals he might get. Some supplement company is already interested in signing him as spokesman, and so is a workout apparel company.”

“But Jonny’s just a nobody. And what does Barras get out of it?”

“Ah, there’s the rub, you see.” Her eyes glinted. “The purse—that’s what they call the money you win in a fight—isn’t very much in MMA, but that can change at any time. The fighter makes most of his money by being sponsored by someone like Barras, and by getting endorsement deals. Barras makes
his
money from ticket sales and selling the TV rights. Barras thinks Jonny has the ability to be a champion, and not just in the cage. He’s apparently really photogenic, and has a very real, likable charisma that comes across on film.”

I shook my head. “Barras is a billionaire. I don’t see how this could possibly make enough money to make it worth his while to be involved.”

“Oh, Chanse.” She started laughing, to the point where she finally got hiccups. She took a drink of water, and wiped at her eyes. “Barras isn’t
just
all about money—you said so yourself. Barras is also about his ego—he likes seeing his face in the papers and getting on TV.” She leaned forward. “He wants to make this MMA stuff as big as boxing—and go down in sports history as the man who made MMA a big-time sport. Part of his legacy, like Poydras Tower, the casinos, and all the buildings and deals he’s done—he wants to be remembered. Besides, all the MMA fights are held in casinos—which brings people in to gamble—and that’s where the real money is.”

“So, the check had nothing to do with the church? Or the Cypress Gardens lawsuit?”

“He claims he’s not interested in buying St. Anselm’s—that’s just an Internet rumor. And he said the lawsuit doesn’t involve him—he did buy Cypress Gardens, but the suit is between Marino and the insurance company.” She shook her head. “I’m with you, though, Chanse. I don’t like the coincidences. Everywhere we turn with Mona, it seems, there’s Morgan Barras. But he says he only knows her through Jonny.”

“Did you believe him?”

“I’m not a human lie detector, but he did seem genuinely surprised when I brought up St. Anselm’s and Cypress Gardens.” She reached into her purse and handed me a business card. “He said that if either of us had any further questions, he’d be more than happy to talk to either one of us. I gave him one of yours—he asked. Said he liked to be prepared, in case he ever need a private eye.”

I turned his card over in my fingers. It was thick, a rich cream vellum, with embossed gold lettering. It simply read
Morgan Barras
with a phone number underneath.

“That’s his personal cell number.”

I slid it into my wallet. “Nice work.”

“All right, then. I’m going to go see if I can connect him with Global Insurance, and see what I can dig up on Robby. Is there anything else you want me to do?” She closed her purse and slid it over her shoulder.

I thought for a minute. “No, not right now. I’ll talk to Celia O’Neill, see what she knows about what was going on with Robby.”

“So any thoughts on what Robby’s money problems were?”

“Hard to say.” I shook my head. “But it’ll be interesting to see what we can dig up.”

She stood up. “Jephtha is still watching Mona’s credit cards. He’s still running the financials on Robby O’Neill—but if he borrowed money from the wrong people, it’s not going to show on his credit report.”

“I’m aware.”

She smiled and walked out of the coffee shop. I watched her get into the battered Oldsmobile and drive away.

I glanced at my watch. My next appointment wasn’t going to show up for another ten minutes or so. I took a sip of my coffee and started flipping through my notebook, going over everything in my head yet again.

Something definitely stank here—there were way too many coincidences for my liking.

I looked up as the front door opened, and I smiled.

Father Dan Marshall
waved at me with a grin and walked over to the counter, where he ordered something from the hipster at the counter.

No one looking at him would ever assume he was a priest. A few inches over six foot, he had thick white blond hair that he was letting grow long, so that it brushed his shoulders. He was fair-skinned, but was one of the Nordic types whose skin turned golden when tanned—and Father Dan was always tanned. He was striking, rather than handsome. He had a long, narrow face and even, perfectly white teeth. His deep blue eyes were a little too small for his face and placed a little too close together for him to be considered handsome, but he definitely stood out in a crowd. There was something about him, something indefinable that just caught people’s attention. He didn’t seem to be aware of the affect he had on people.

He carried his coffee over to the condiment stand, and I watched as he shook out a pack of Sweet’n Low and dumped it in his coffee. He was definitely not dressed particularly priestly today. His red tank top stretched tightly across his muscular chest, and the straps exposed his defined, thickly muscled arms. He was wearing khaki clamdigger shorts that hung loosely from his hips but clung tightly to his round, hard ass—he had one of the best asses in New Orleans. His flip-flops slapped against the floor as he walked over to my table. He flashed me a dazzling smile as he sat down in the chair Abby had abandoned. “Good to see you, Chanse. What’s going on? What can I help you with?” He raised his blond eyebrows. “I feel so cloak-and-dagger, helping out with an investigation.”

Father Dan and I had originally met at a fund-raiser for the NO / AIDS Task Force. He hadn’t been in his collar that night, either, and I’d actually tried to pick him up. I was horrified to find out he was a priest—I’d seen him around in gay bars before, and walking around shirtless during Southern Decadence, showing off his magnificent chest and ripped abdominal muscles—but once that initial awkwardness passed, I’d enjoyed his company. He had a great personality, a wicked sense of humor, and I appreciated the fact that he ministered to the LGBT community. The archdiocese knew what he was doing, of course, but as long as he flew under the radar and didn’t bring any unwanted—or embarrassing—attention to the archdiocese, they were okay with it. As he always said, “In a city with this many Catholics, there are bound to be a large number of gays and lesbians who are falling away from the church because of the Vatican’s stance on sexuality. But just because you’re gay doesn’t mean God doesn’t love you, and I like to think that in my little way I am keeping people’s faith alive. And what more can a priest ask for in his life?” His little ministry of Catholic queers was called St. Sebastian’s, and they held Mass in an abandoned Catholic church in the Bywater.

“I need to ask you a few things.” I sighed. “I’m sorry, but the case I’m working on might involve the archdiocese, even if only peripherally, Dan. Abby has a contact inside the archdiocese, and she’s already talked to him, but I’m hoping you might be able to help me.”

“That doesn’t sound very promising.” Dan frowned. “What exactly are you investigating? What kind of help are you looking for?”

I took a deep breath. “I don’t want to get you into trouble. So—”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that, Chanse. I won’t do anything that would get me in trouble, no offense.” He laughed and took another sip of coffee. “St. Sebastian’s is too important to me, and I’m not doing anything that could potentially jeopardize my ministry. I can’t do that to my parishioners. If it was just me—” His tanned shoulders raised a bit. “It would be one thing. But it’s not just me.”

“Understood.” I smiled at him and filled him in on Mona O’Neill’s disappearance.

When I finished, his eyebrows knit together. “That’s terrible. I don’t know Mona well, but I’ve met her a few times.” He shook his head. “She’s a good woman—maybe a little misguided when it comes to the situation with St. Anselm’s, but her faith is strong.” He frowned. “I don’t see how I can help you. I’m not involved in those decisions—I am rarely at the archdiocese offices, and I don’t know anything about it.”

“Who was the parish priest at St. Anselm’s? They don’t have services there anymore, do they?”

“Well, Tom Shannon was, but since the archbishop shut it down, he’s been moved.” He scratched his head. “I think he was moved over to either Gulfport, or was it Mobile? I can find out—that’s easy enough to do. He was really close to Alex Perrilloux at Good Shepherd. Alex was pretty upset about Tom moving away.” His right eye closed in a wink. “Really close, if you catch my drift.”