P.I. On A Hot Tin Roof

by Julie Smith

  And two days later, she got a call from Jane Storey. “Talba. Got stuff from my buddy Grissom—this crime scene guy I drink with.”

  “Grissom? Isn’t that the name of the guy on CSI?”

  “That’s this guy’s alter ego. He’d kill me if I told you who he is. Fact, he’d kill me if he knew I was telling you anything. Swear on Miz Clara you’ll keep it to yourself.”

  Talba’s heart speeded up. “Girl Scout honor.”

  “Ready for this? Buddy may have been murdered.”

  “What?” She was almost happy. If the man hadn’t killed himself, she hadn’t pushed him over the edge.

  “It’s true,” the reporter said. “I’ve got the whole technical skinny. You want the long version, or the short?”

  Talba asked for the long.

  “Well, for openers, Grissom says there wasn’t much blood.”

  Talba thought back to the scene, how she’d wondered if rain had washed the blood away. “It could have been washed away, though. By a wave or something.”

  “It’s possible, but Grissom doesn’t think so. Buddy’s clothes weren’t wet and it wasn’t a hot morning—they wouldn’t have had time to dry.”

  “And that means?”

  “Well, if he was alive when he was shot, there should have been a lot of fine spray, what Grissom calls high velocity blood spatter.”

  “You’re saying someone shot a dead man? Like, he had a heart attack or something—then they shot him?”

  “Hear me out. And then there was the absence of a weapon. They thought he might have dropped it, but they dived for it, and they couldn’t find it. Also, Buddy did have a gun, but it was still in the drawer of his bedside table.”

  “With the sex toys.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Jane was vaguely interested. “No secrets from the maid, huh?”

  “What else?”

  “Lots. It wasn’t a contact wound. See, if you put a gun to your head and fire, the skin rips in what they call a stellate, or star pattern. This hole was clean.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Talba said.

  “The bullet was still in his head, by the way. Anyhow, on a contact wound, there’d also be tattooing from gunpowder and stuff Grissom calls ‘other artifacts of oxidation.’ There wasn’t a lot of that, like he was shot from a few inches away. Right away, Grissom gets suspicious. So he tests Buddy’s hands.”

  “That’s standard,” Talba said wearily. “Paraffin tests.”

  “Uh-uh to both. First of all, paraffin’s so five minutes ago—they’ve got much better stuff for GSR now—‘gunshot residue’ to you. Lead, barium, and antimony. Second, did you know it can cost a thousand dollars to run those kinds of tests? NOPD rarely does them. But Buddy’s kind of high profile, and anyhow, Grissom can’t be stopped. There’s whole bunches of tests you can do, like with nitrites, alternate light sources, lots of stuff—sounds like they’ve got their choice, on the rare occasions they pop for them. Anyhow, Grissom does one, gets nothing. But he’s not satisfied, so he sprays the hands with something called Ferrotrace, which’ll turn them purple if the victim’s handled a blue steel weapon. Now, granted, not all weapons are blue steel, but this one comes up negative, too. So Grissom can’t really find anything to substantiate suicide.”

  “But why would you shoot a dead man?”

  “Here’s a better question—how’d the guy get dead? Grissom saw something else on Buddy’s head—I mean, besides the bullet hole. A line on the tissue that the gunshot wound didn’t obscure, like there was a subdural hemorrhage. Where something hit him, maybe.”

  “You’re losing me.”

  “Autopsy’s not in yet, but Grissom thinks he was bludgeoned to death—or somehow hit his head—and someone shot him later.”

  “I repeat—why shoot a dead man?”

  “Okay. That’s the million-dollar question. Maybe it was the coup de grace—whoever killed him didn’t know he was dead. Pushed him off the dock, maybe, then shot him to make sure.”

  “Uh-uh. The way Buddy was sort of half-sitting, half-lying wasn’t haphazard. If he didn’t shoot himself in the boat, somebody very carefully placed him in it.”

  “Okay, then. First they hit him—or he falls—then they shoot him and put him in the boat.”

  “But why?” Talba repeated.

  “Why don’t you ask your buddy Langdon?”

  Langdon wasn’t going to give her a damn thing unless she got something back.

  “Who” was a better question than “why.” And Talba still wasn’t off the hook. If her investigation had brought one of Buddy’s many enemies out of the woodwork, she was still responsible. But at least she felt a little better about writing Lucy the sympathy note she’d been contemplating, but hadn’t had the nerve to compose. She made it a poem:

  Day Cat

  Death is a feral cat that comes in the night.

  And a friend is a daytime beast

  That prowls your dusty corners

  And destroys you

  Unwittingly.

  An enemy is an accident,

  Or circumstance itself.

  And appearances cannot be trusted.

  But magick is real,

  And transformative.

  A daytime cat is only an animal

  Blind to the future

  And it grieves to lose its own friend

  As a child does, to lose her father.

  But magick transforms.

  Blessed be, my daytime cat.

  The last line was a reference to something she’d seen in Lucy’s witch book. She wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, but she took it at face value. If Adele saw the note, she’d flush it down the toilet, and Royce would probably come after her with a machete, but Lucy had a subtle mind. There was an outside chance she’d see it as the expression of grief for her own actions that Talba meant her to. And it was the only way she knew to apologize. As she expected, she never heard back from the girl, and life settled back into a routine for a couple of weeks.

  Then one fine Monday afternoon, just as Talba was getting ready to close down her computer and clean off her desk, Kristin LaGarde waltzed into her office. Eileen Fisher nipped at her heels, trying to intercept her.

  “Kristin!” Talba was alarmed. “What can I do for you?”

  “I just want to talk.”

  Best, Talba thought, to confront her worst fear directly. “You wouldn’t be armed, would you?”

  Kristin looked flustered. “What? Oh. No. Look, I’ll give my purse to the receptionist. She can go through it.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  But Eileen said, “I’m not going in that thing,” and Talba had to do it herself. Her fears allayed, she sent Eileen away.

  “I’m sorry for what happened,” she said.

  “You should be. Do you have any idea what havoc you caused?”

  “Look, I have to live with it too. If you want an apology, you’ve got it. I wish I’d never heard of this case.”

  “I want to know why you did what you did.”

  “It was a case, Kristin. I was asked to do it. By someone close to me, as a matter of fact. I’m really sorry about Buddy—and I’m sorry for you and Lucy and all the rest of you—but someone who matters to me was being threatened. More than that—they were being badly hurt. By Buddy.”

  Kristin’s face changed, contorted itself into something between fear and curiosity.

  But she charged ahead anyway. “I think you did it for money.”

  Talba shook her head. “If it’s any comfort to you, I didn’t get paid for the job. I lost money on it, as a matter of fact. I could say it was a favor to a friend, but it was more than that. That’s really all I can tell you.”

  “I want to trust you. I really do. Or I wouldn’t be here.”

  “I can’t make you trust me, and you have every reason not to. All I can do is tell you that I’m sincerely sorry for your loss—and for all the suffering I’ve caused you and your family.” It occurred to her that Kristin was
taking a long time getting to the point. “What is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  Kristin’s eyes flooded. “I want to know what happened. Who killed Buddy.”

  Talba remembered just in time that she’d sworn on Miz Clara not to mention what Jane Storey had told her. “Buddy killed himself,” she said.

  Kristin shook her head. “Uh-uh. I talked to the cops today. It’s still an open case. One thing, they never found a weapon and anyway—are you ready for this?—he was shot after he was dead. They think he was—” She stopped, trying to get control, lowered her head a little, and spoke on the uptake. “They think he was bludgeoned first.”

  “That makes no sense, Kristin.” Talba was doing her best to feign amazement. “Why would somebody do that?”

  “That’s what I want you to find out.”

  “Bludgeoned,” she said. “In the boat or somewhere else? I mean, did someone move his body there? And then shoot him?”

  “They don’t know,” Kristin said impatiently. “And frankly, I don’t think they’re going to until they find out who killed him. And they’re not about to do that. You know these cops…”

  “Hold on. Hold on—Skip Langdon’s on this. She’s the best there is.”

  “I want to hire you to work on it too.”

  “You want to hire me? Me, of all people?” Talba had so many questions she didn’t know where to start.

  “Well. One thing we know—you’re a pretty good detective.” Her lips pulled back in something resembling a smile.

  “But—” Talba stopped cold. “I can think of a million ‘buts.’ Don’t you feel I betrayed you? You and all the Champagnes?”

  “The Champagnes do feel that way—and I don’t blame them. But you may have saved me from making a horrible mistake. If Buddy was guilty, that is.”

  “Okay, I saved you. So why not leave the whole thing alone—why do you want to go further with it?”

  “I know you’re not going to understand this, but Buddy had a good side to him. I know; I saw it. I loved him for the warm, caring man he was. Do you believe a person can be warm and caring, and still be a criminal?”

  It was on Talba’s lips to say, Sure. Look at Tony Soprano, but she thought better of it. Instead, she simply said, “Everyone has two sides.”

  “Well, somebody killed Buddy. Is there any doubt in your mind about that?”

  “No, I think you’re right.”

  “I want to know who. I want them brought to justice—for killing the man I loved. Or the part of the man that I loved. I might not have loved the Buddy I was about to get to know, and I guess I thank you for that, but the part I did love is dead, too. Does that make sense?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “He deserves justice. Everyone does.”

  “And you think you’re the one to get it for him. What about the cops?”

  “Sandra, try and get this—he was the man I was going to marry. It’s the one thing I can do for him.”

  “Okay.” It occurred to her she might have the same reaction in Kristin’s shoes, but she still couldn’t see why the woman had come to her. “The Yellow Pages are full of detectives.”

  “Look, I know you’re good at your job, and I like you. I’ve always liked you—you’re a lot more intelligent than most people I meet in the course of a day, and who knows what kind of person’s walking around with a P.I. license? I don’t know any of them, and I don’t want to have to audition a bunch of bozos. Besides—”

  She paused. Whether she was gathering her thoughts or creating drama, Talba couldn’t decide. She rode out the silence.

  Finally, Kristin said, “I just have a feeling you’ve got a personal stake in this.”

  Bingo, Talba thought. Whoever had killed Buddy had probably come out of the woodwork as a result of her investigation. She most certainly did have a personal stake in it. “You mean you think I might have some guilt about what happened.”

  Kristin said nothing, but her expression changed subtly—to eagerly inquisitive. Talba had to give her points for shrewdness. “Okay. You guessed right. But I’m not sure I don’t have a conflict. And there’s another problem. I’d want to interview the Champagnes about what happened that night. But I’m the last person they’d talk to.”

  “Conflict? I’d say it’s more likely you have a duty.”

  It was a point that hit home. The fact was, Talba still felt responsible. Knew it was irrational. Couldn’t shake it. “What about the Champagnes?” she sighed.

  This time Kristin’s smile was real—and a bit smug. “I ran this by them before I came here. They’re dying to talk to you. They think you ought to have to do this. As a kind of penance.”

  “Ah. And that’s what you think too. Make the punishment fit the crime.”

  “Besides, they want to tell you what they think of you.”

  “I just can’t wait for that. But why would they trust me? I betrayed them.”

  “They wouldn’t trust you, but so what? I’m the client, remember? Anyway, if I don’t like what you’re doing, I can fire you—I can expect regular reports, can’t I?”

  “Of course. We can set a limit on the number of hours I work before I report and you can see if I’m worth what you’re paying me.”

  “And how much would that be?”

  When Talba explained the agency’s rates, Kristin nodded. “Why don’t you do ten or twelve hours and see if you get anything?”

  Talba shrugged. She was still nonplussed by the whole thing. “If you like. But I can’t promise anything. All I can do is go over the ground the police will have already covered.”

  “Call me crazy,” Kristin said, “but I have a feeling you’re smarter than the average cop.”

  “Are you kidding? Skip Langdon was a department star when I was still at Xavier.”

  “Sandra, you know perfectly well the police often solve cases they can’t prove in court. You don’t have to prove anything. I just want to know.”

  “Why?”

  “Wouldn’t you feel the same?”

  “I guess so.” She was sure she would—in fact, she felt that way now and she’d hardly known Buddy; moreover, she’d disliked him.

  Kristin stuck out her hand. “Deal?”

  Talba considered one more time, decided to go for it. “Deal,” she said, taking the woman’s hand. She was dying to poke around in these particular ashes.

  “Thanks, Sandra.”

  “Call me Talba. One thing, though. The way we work, the client’s identity is usually confidential; but in a case like this, it’ll be a lot easier to get people to talk to me if I can say who I’m working for. Okay with you?”

  Kristin considered. “I don’t see how that could hurt.”

  Talba nodded, satisfied. “First order of business, then—how’s Lucy?”

  “Not great. Adele’s got her in therapy. She appreciated your note, by the way.”

  Talba wondered if Kristin had seen it—and had understood how she felt. “Give me her cell number.”

  “No. She’s just a kid.”

  “I thought you said you trusted me.”

  “What do you want it for?”

  “You know how I said I had a duty? My first duty’s to Lucy. I need to see if I can do anything for her.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  ***

  As usual, Ms. Wallis had her hair on fire. “Eddie, we’ve got a new client. You will never guess—”

  He didn’t let her finish. “Ms. Wallis, just sit down and take a few deep breaths.”

  She sat but she didn’t pause to breathe. “Kristin LaGarde wants us to find out who killed Buddy.”

  He took off his glasses and stared, thinking that if his ears didn’t work, at least his eyes might.

  She said, “Your bags are violet today. Tell me that’s a good sign.”

  “Kristin LaGarde. What’s the matter, she doesn’t think Langdon can handle it?”

  Ms. Wallis shrugged. “Survivor’s guilt? I don’t kn
ow. People are crazy—they just need to think they’ve done everything they should, I guess. I told her we’d do it. What do you think?”

  Turning it over in his head, he could see only one possible conflict. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

  “No. Did you or Angie?”

  “No motive,” he said dryly, “thanks to you and Ms. Storey. What color’s her money?”

  “I thought you’d say that.”

  “So. Ya background the client?” He knew she had, of course—E. V. Anthony and Associates had a hard and fast rule that this was the first thing Talba did after a prospective client left the office. You never knew if they were crazy or a criminal or a chronic liar or could pay the bill.

  “Sure—for Angie’s case.”

  “Well? Anything interesting?”

  “Her dad’s Warren LaGarde, the hotel man.”

  “Hoo boy—she was some catch for Buddy.”

  “Yeah.” She seemed distracted.

  “What’s bothering ya? It’s somethin’. I can tell.”

  “I think there’s a loose end.”

  Chapter 12

  There was a loose end, all right. That thing Kristin had said at the Bacchus party, about meeting Buddy in court. That could mean one of only two things—either she’d been a juror or a witness in a case before him, or she’d been involved in a case herself. To find out if it was the former, Talba would have to ask outright. But if it was the latter, it ought to be easy enough to figure out—because chances were it involved her father’s company.

  Talba went back to her computer, but there was nothing about a lawsuit in any of the local papers that she could find. Great. That meant braving the bureaucracy at the courthouse, every P.I.’s least favorite chore. She went out to buy pralines, and then drove to the courthouse. The city’s cops weren’t nearly as corrupt as people thought—there’d been a cleanup in recent years. But a myth she’d found to be true was that New Orleans had the least helpful bureaucrats of any city in Louisiana, and possibly in the world. The point of the candy was to sweeten their dispositions. Eddie had taught her the trick, and, just as he said, their response soon became Pavlovian. When they saw her come in, their often-surly faces lit up. It wasn’t a tip and it wasn’t a bribe. It was just a nice way to say thanks for a job well done.