Bedroom. Strip off the clothes, into ratty shorts and a T-shirt. No bra, needless to say.
Only then did I check the phone for messages. Nada. Do I still exist if no one calls me?
Ah, email. One from Torbin seeing if I’m free next weekend. And a group email from Danny and Joanne, asking about lunch tomorrow, Tuesday. A not pleasant reminder that today was still only Monday, the week barely newborn and already way past its welcome.
I managed a quick yes to both before I contemplated dinner.
A few months ago, Danny, Joanne, and a few other women in the legal/law enforcement profession started meeting for monthly lunches. I got invited along as the “illegal” one, since I’m a private detective. It was mostly a fun time, occasional professional news and info. And work-related enough to be a tax deduction for my small business.
I hadn’t seen Torbin, save for passing in the street—we lived on the same block—for close to a month. My ex, Cordelia James, was back in town. We had been together long enough for Torbin and her to be friends—and she had been close to Alex and Joanne before we got together. It was an unspoken rule that we traded off, to avoid any awkward meetings. She—and her new girlfriend—had been here for six months and I hadn’t run into her yet. At least not officially.
Oh, I knew where she lived—uptown in the Touro area, worked—a new community health clinic, the girlfriend’s name—Nancy Something Forgettable. I am a private detective, after all. What kind of car she drove—a blue Subaru Forester. Forgettable Nancy didn’t have a job yet. Or was she going to be a lesbian housewife of New Orleans?
I didn’t ask, my friends didn’t tell.
Had I driven by her house? Yes, but late enough at night and I was in the area anyway. I was curious, that was all. The lights were all off, save for the obligatory porch light. A quick glance; I’d kept on driving.
I’d seen a car like hers, with a driver that could have been her, but it was the usual crazy New Orleans traffic, so I kept driving and didn’t look back.
Sometimes I thought I should just show up or find some public event they would be at and go. Get it over with. New Orleans can be a small town, and when half my friends were her friends, too, it made for an awkward social dance.
At other times, I thought I should make this a game; could I avoid her for the rest of my life? Dash around corners just in time, jump out bedroom windows, or peel off in my car.
And then I’d have a couple fingers of Scotch and decide to let it go. It would happen or it wouldn’t. We would be perfect fake Southern polite. My life would go on exactly as it was now.
It was an okay life. Business was doing reasonably well. Summer is always slower, I reminded myself. I was carrying the mortgages both on the house and on my office, the latter covered in good part by the hipster coffee shop that rented the downstairs. Bills got paid on time, a little put away here and there. I could afford the decent Scotch if not the really good stuff. But why pay a hundred dollars a bottle for stuff you’re only going to convert to piss anyway?
I was still single and beginning to decide I liked it that way. I’d been dating a nurse for a couple of months; we’d hit it off, but our schedules kept getting in the way. She mostly worked nights. My hours were scattered depending on the job. She’d emailed me last week saying she’s met someone at work; they had similar schedules and could do things together. If I wasn’t hunky-dory fine, I would be soon enough. It had only been a few months; we had gone out maybe six or seven times. Spent the night together twice, still awkward and unsure. She’d been fun, but I wasn’t sure she was the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. If that was the case, maybe it was better she found someone else and dumped me before I dumped her.
Right.
I took a slug of the Scotch.
In a nod to adulthood, I sliced up an apple and grabbed a wedge of cheddar. Supper.
And it was only Monday and every time I had to pee in the middle of the night, I’d have to check the toilet to make sure no snake had slithered into my sewer system. I took another big gulp of Scotch. Maybe grain whisky pee could keep the snakes away.
Chapter Two
I slept late-ish. For a weekday, that is. Didn’t get to the office until around ten a.m. The first order of business was to make a pot of coffee.
Once I had a cup in front of me, I looked at the case for Aimee Smyth. She had hired me, paid after all. I checked my bank to see if the money had cleared. Of course not; it goes out very quickly, in very slowly.
Maybe Aimee Smyth wasn’t her real name. That could explain why she was so hard to find. Or maybe she hadn’t led the kind of life that leaves much of a track.
Summer is too slow, you’re spending too much time on this case, Micky, I told myself. Do what you’re paid to do until you have a good reason to not do it.
I did call the bank again. They weren’t very helpful. Could not give out client information. Even to verify the check the client had written me was good. Annoying, but I had to give them points for security. Anyone could call up and make the same claim that I had to get info about someone’s bank account.
I started the usual internet search for Aimee’s sister Sally. I also slowly sipped my coffee. Aimee had claimed she was pressed for time, but until the check cleared, I wasn’t going to bust my ass on this case. Most people are honest, but a few aren’t, and there have been checks that have not cleared.
As elusive as Aimee had been, her sister was even more elusive. Why is it that no one searching for a lost person can ever be helpful enough to have their Social Security number? No, it’s always “I think she might be in the New Orleans, maybe Slidell, area and her last name might have changed.” (C’mon, really, you’re still taking his name like you’re his property? Feminism can’t be over; it’s barely started.)
In the hour and a half I had before my lunch meeting, I found nada on Sally, not even that she existed.
I glanced at the phone number for Aimee. After lunch, I told myself, I’d call her and see if she could scrape up any more info on her sister.
Then it was time to head uptown. They vary their locations, and this one was up on Freret Street, a strip with lots of new restaurants on it. And most of the major road construction in the city between me and there.
I was about ten minutes late. Respectable given I had to come all the way from downtown. They were ordering as I slid into the last remaining chair. A bottle of sparkling water was already in front of me. Either Joanne or Danny had ordered it. Both of them were capable of the betrayal. I had been contemplating a Bloody Mary, but my choice had been usurped.
“We can’t stay long,” Danny was saying, even as she ordered the fried catfish plate. The large one. Maybe she was taking the leftovers home to her partner Elly. Danny and I had been friends since college. She was now an assistant district attorney, well on the legal side of the group. She was sunny and stoic, attributes that got her through working in a criminal justice system she knew was far from perfect, especially for people of her skin color. And she could be more patient than I could ever hope to be explaining why she worked in the system to change it rather than fighting it from the outside.
Joanne was even more legal, a cop, actually a detective, now overseeing a homicide unit. Like Danny, she had her conflicts with the system, one that didn’t welcome women, let alone lesbians. She could be as stoic as Danny and not let others see what it cost her, but not as sunny. Oh, no, Joanne was not a sunny person. Fair, honest, blunt. If you were sick, Danny would make chicken soup and bring balloons. Joanne would tell you you’re probably not going to die and if you do, your troubles will be over. I preferred Danny’s chicken soup (she could cook), but Joanne had pushed me to get over my whiny self on multiple occasions.
I did a quick glance at the menu, saw an oyster po-boy, and ordered that as the waitress was looking expectantly at me.
Joanne got a salad. But wavered enough to add fried oysters as a topping. Two more catfish lunches—what this place is known for—and one bur
ger for the Midwestern transplant who did not do seafood. She was a new lawyer who worked with Danny. She also ordered a beer. I took a sip of my sparkling water.
“Why can’t you stay long?” I asked.
A sigh from Burger Girl—so passive-aggressively nice—told me they had already covered this topic before I came.
“A nice juicy murder,” Danny said. “No name, no ID, but well dressed enough that someone is going to miss her.”
“It wasn’t a robbery,” Joanne added. “She had jewelry on just about every place you can have it, and nothing was disturbed.”
“No sign of sexual assault, either,” Danny added.
That explained why this was an interesting murder. The common motives seemed to be missing. I also enjoyed that both Danny and Joanne seemed interested in discussing it with me.
“But she was older,” Burger Girl said. She had a name, but I couldn’t remember it. That was more effort than she was worth.
“Maybe in her forties,” Joanne said. She and Danny, both well into their forties, glared at her. “Not bad looking, but as you know, sexual assault has nothing to do with what a woman looks like. It’s about power.”
I took another sip of water. What were the odds? Forty-year-old woman with a lot of jewelry. I took another sip. “You don’t happen to have a picture of her, do you?” I asked.
Danny was passing the bread, but Joanne looked at me, catching the suspicion in my tone. “Why?” she asked.
“Not here with us,” Danny added, catching the current in the air.
What were the odds, I thought again.
Let’s close this door. “I had a client who claimed she’s here from Atlanta, wanted me to look for her sister. Forties, lots of jewelry, well dressed, raw silk turquoise suit when I saw her.”
“Hair color?” Joanne asked.
“Black, probably dyed, but a decent enough job.”
She and Danny exchanged a look. The door didn’t seem to be closing.
Our food arrived.
Joanne said quietly to me, “Can you come with us after lunch?”
I nodded yes.
Then we got to hear all about Burger Girl’s upcoming wedding, including how much every flower arrangement cost.
I was not unhappy to follow Joanne and Danny out, even carrying Danny’s doggy bag of leftover catfish on the way to her car while she struggled with her briefcase and large handbag. We waved good-bye to Burger Girl, still rambling on about flower arrangements to the others who were caught behind her.
Danny did remember to take the doggy bag from me before we went to our separate cars. I’d have to figure out something else for dinner.
I followed them, thinking we’d be going to either Joanne’s station or Danny’s office.
But no, we were going to the morgue.
The Orleans Parish Coroner’s office, aka the morgue, is not in my favorite area of the city, not even close. It’s in Central City, a location that hasn’t had a whiff of gentrification for blocks. Guess they figured people this poor wouldn’t object to the dead bodies. Or else that it would save on travel time. It’s an area with a high murder rate. Murder and desperation often go together.
Coming here in the steam bath part of the summer? Call this another “not enough aspirin and vodka in the world” day.
I scrabbled in my briefcase—no, I will not carry a purse—for what I hoped was a scented lip balm. Oh, great, rum cola, a giveaway from the last Pride festival, not a flavor I would have picked myself. But that was all I had. It was that or the windshield cleaning fluid.
I even contemplated just driving on, not following Danny as she turned into the parking lot. But like a good citizen, always willing to help the forces of law, I parked beside her, pausing only to rub some rum cola lip balm under my nose.
One whiff told me that was probably not a good idea.
I tried breathing through my mouth. Less of a good idea. The heat and humidity and trash can we were walking past smelled like rotting, rancid bananas. Or what I imagined they would smell like.
Joanne, who drives like a cop, was already waiting for us at the door.
Trotting behind Danny, I asked, “You’re not going to make me look at a dead body, are you?”
“No, we’re here for the fish tank in the lobby,” she said.
It was too hot for sarcasm.
“If I barf, it’s on you,” I said as we mounted the steps to join Joanne.
She was already opening the door into air-conditioning.
But even the cold air couldn’t hide the odors of…cleaning fluids? Bleach? Yeah, that was it, I told myself. It was just bleach I was smelling.
Both Joanne and Danny seemed blissfully unaware. Or were used to it.
Do not let your imagination get away with you, I admonished myself. Bleach. That musty, chemical smell is just bleach.
They led me through the security with practiced ease, and I got little more scrutiny than a bare nod. I had been hoping for blaring alarms and being denied admittance.
But no, we were striding down a too brightly lit hallway, scrubbed to gleaming white perfection. Just a hint of…bleach—I had to convince myself all I was smelling was something antiseptic and cleansing—nothing else.
The power of the mind is so annoying. Just because I’m in a place where all the dead bodies in Orleans Parish end up doesn’t mean it smells like them. But that thought was lodged in my brain, and it wasn’t leaving until I did.
I swallowed and surreptitiously rubbed some more rum cola under my nose. Now I was smelling rum cola bleach.
We turned a corner and Joanne opened a door, Danny following, with me having little choice but to tag along behind.
Smell was the first thing I noticed. More than bleach. Another hard swallow. Rapid, shallow breathing. So not what I wanted to be doing right after lunch.
Another thing I shouldn’t be thinking about: What was roiling in my stomach. Oyster po-boys are only good going down.
Be clinical, be detached, view this as just another New Orleans experience.
Joanne and Danny greeted the people in the room—the live ones—like old friends.
There were several gurneys. Joanne led us over to one and, without asking if I was ready, pulled back the sheet.
It was her…but not her. Same age, hair, like a bad drawing of the woman who had been in my office.
“Is it her?” Joanne asked.
“I…think so,” I answered. “But something seems different.”
“She is dead,” Danny pointed out.
Maybe that was it. I had seen a woman—briefly—in the animation of life, eyes roving the room, mouth and lips moving in speech and expression. This woman was still and silent, not even the whisper of breath left.
I tried to impose the two faces together, the one I’d seen and the one in front of me. One was a person and one a clay statue. But if it wasn’t the woman from my office, it was someone who bore a striking resemblance to her.
“I think so. That’s the best I can do,” I said, turning away. “It might help if I could see her clothing and jewelry.”
Joanne nodded and, mercifully, led me out of the room with the gurneys.
It was just bleach, that was all you smelled, I told myself as I followed them through another too bright hallway. But I knew that wasn’t true. There had also been the distinct taint of mortality—we go this way but once.
Another door. This time I could smell the odor of stale clothing, last garments of homeless men found on the street, no one to claim their final belongings, the bloodstained shirts and pants, all the odors of life oozing away.
I looked down at the floor, another application of rum cola, on my lips this time but a wide smear. Maybe it helped; maybe it just gave me something to do. It felt like an hour but was probably only a few minutes when Joanne called me over to a table. She opened the box that was on it.
The clothes were the same, but even they seemed to have less color, or the bright fluorescent lights dulled
the vibrant hues. I looked at the jewelry, the profusion of turquoise. One ring, a big rock, with small bands of lapis blue around it. I remembered looking it as she had talked.
“That looks like what she was wearing,” I said, adding, “The ring is distinctive.”
Joanne nodded and put the clothing back in its container.
Danny added, “That’s helpful. It gives us something to go on.”
Joanne threw her latex gloves in the trash, then led us out.
“What can you tell us about her?” she asked as we headed back down the hallway that seemed even brighter than before.
What could I tell them about her? She was a client—had been. What did I owe her in death?
I was silent long enough for Danny to prompt, “Your client’s confidentiality ends at her death. Anything you know might help us.”
“Yes, I know,” I answered. “Can we go outside? I could use some fresh air.”
“Sure,” Danny answered. She seemed to finally notice that I wasn’t as seasoned as she and Joanne were about dead bodies. She led the way as Joanne checked us out.
I crossed quickly to my car, gulping rum cola–infused air. And dust and the heat of asphalt and car engines. Just not…bleach.
“Are you okay?” Danny asked.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I lied. I took another deep breath. I looked up at the clouds in the sky.
Joanne joined us.
I kept looking at the clouds as I talked. “She gave her name as Aimee Smyth.” I spelled it out. Joanne took notes. “Said she wanted to find her sister. They had lost touch and she wanted to reconnect. She was in my office for maybe half an hour. She didn’t have a lot of information, and what she did have was…vague. Sister was probably somewhere around here, maybe the Northshore. She claimed to be only in town for a few days. Said someone had recommended me, but couldn’t remember who.”
“And you took her at her word?” Joanne asked.
“I’m not the police,” I said. “She wanted me to find someone. As long as it seemed reasonably legit and I have the resources, it’s a case.” Another breath, finally looking at them. “But yeah, something didn’t feel right. I usually do a quick check of any new clients. Mostly everything checks out enough for me—they are who they say they are. And their credit report is good enough to make it likely they’ll pay the bill.”
Not Dead Enough Page 2