by Martha Reed
“You and me both, sister.” Taking the lead, Gigi grimly marched across the open vestibule, muttering over her shoulder. “At least you’re honest about it.”
Four years since I’ve stepped inside a police station. Jane swallowed thickly, crooking her neck from side to side to ease the tension. It never changes though, does it? They all have the same look, the same smell. Like male locker room and that nasty ass pink industrial cleaner.
Spotting a black-framed photo displayed on an easel, Jane eased closer. Officer Roberto Garza. We Remember. A milk glass vase held a handful of red carnations. Reaching out, she fingered a leaf. Real flowers and they’re fresh. She smiled. Law enforcement stays the same, no matter where I go. It’s about duty and honor and that crazy deep fucking brotherhood that burrows into your bone marrow. She straightened. The thin blue line stands strong.
She heard a roar of laughter and looked up. Four fit men with regulation haircuts stood in a circle down the hallway. Two of them, the younger two, wore the NOPD patrolman’s uniform: powder blue shirt, black tie, black slacks. The other two looked like detectives with brass star and crescent badges clipped to their leather belts. The uniformed Latino guy stepped back. Raising his hands in surrender, he delivered the punch line and they all roared again. Jane tasted an aspirin-like pang of homesickness so bitter it curled her tongue. This used to be my world. She stared at the grouted tiled floor. But I don’t belong here anymore.
“Jane?”
Gigi was talking to a woman officer seated behind a plexiglass desk that looked like it belonged in a modern hotel lobby. Even the public reception room walls were painted a creamy and inviting yellow.
“You still with me?”
“I’m here.” Jane’s palms slicked with a sudden nasty sweat as silvery stars flared around the edges of her vision. Willing her protesting legs forward, she moved deeper into the station, each forced step taking her further away from the safety of the exit sign and her freedom.
“Yes, sir. Let me get you some help.” The desk sergeant wore her hair in stubby plaits. She had one gold front tooth. She pressed an intercom button. “Detective Bordelon heads up our Missing and Exploited Persons Unit. I believe he’s here.”
She called Gigi ‘sir.’ The gender game rattled Jane’s distracted brain like dice in a cup. Just when I’m getting the hang of it this new world gives me another toss.
“You were right.” Gigi flattened both hands on the Formica counter. “They do like getting these reports right away. It’s a good thing we came in when we did.”
Jane caught the unmistakable slap of shoe leather on tile and she turned. One of the two detectives she had noticed earlier was approaching. ‘Detective Bordelon’ was a squat, balding, bullet-headed man with black-framed glasses and a non-existent neck. He was wearing a crisp dress shirt that nicely matched his good tan suit with a patterned blue silk tie. He gripped a slim laptop in his right hand. A gold Katrina survivor badge was pinned on his lapel over his heart. His eyes shone bright with curiosity behind his glasses and he had an active and obvious intelligence.
“I’m Detective Felix Bordelon. You needed to see me?”
“Gigi Pascoe.” Gigi extended her hand. “One of our friends is missing. We wanted to file a report.” Looking at Jane, she nodded. “We’re worried about her. This is another friend, Jane Byrne.”
Detective Bordelon settled into a wide stance. “Is this missing friend an adult?”
“Yes. Fancy’s around my age, thirty, thirty-one?”
He cocked an eye. “It’s not a crime for an adult to go missing. Sometimes people don’t want to be found. They’re hiding from creditors or from an abusive relationship. How long has your friend been missing?”
Gee checked her phone. “About ten hours. But I’m telling you something is bad wrong. If Fancy was okay, she’d be texting me, and she didn’t ask me to take care of her dog. She’d never leave Piddles locked in his crate all day, never. She would never do that. She loves that dog.”
“I’ll buy that.” Detective Bordelon worked his lips before turning on his heel. “Follow me.”
He stepped into a conference room and pointed at two chairs before shutting the door. “Take a seat. We’ll get started.” He sat and opened his laptop. “I’ll need some preliminary information for the NCIC database.”
Fluttering panic tightened Jane’s chest. NCIC? She swallowed past the hard lump in her throat. NCIC was the National Crime Information Center. I’m only one step away from pinging the fucking FBI. Balling her fists in her lap, Jane fought the compelling desire to reach up and swipe her mouth, a giveaway nervous tell.
“Missing person’s name?” Detective Bordelon looked up expectantly.
“Abellard, Fancy Abellard.” Gigi smoothed her khakis over her knees. “Her Christian name is Lester Wayne.”
“So ‘Fancy’ is an AKA?”
“Not anymore. She had it legally changed when she came out.”
Bordelon started typing. “Address?”
“5602 South Dauphine, Faubourg Marigny, between Piety Street and Desire.”
“A foot in both camps.” Bordelon smiled to himself. “Social security number?”
“I have no idea,” Gigi looked confused, “if she even has one.”
The detective squinted. “How good of a friend is she?”
“She’s one of my besties.” Gee sputtered. “I just don’t know that information.”
“Have you tried contacting Ms. Abellard’s workplace?”
“Sir? They’re not going to answer their phones.” Smoothing her shirt, Gigi explained. “They only just went to bed. Fancy works at Club Oz on Bourbon Street.” She combed her fingers through her curls. “Listen, detective. If anything bad has happened, it could happen to any one of us. We run in the same circles, hang at the same clubs. Things have been getting crazy lately. I’m thinking it might be bigger than just this one thing.”
“Let’s work with what we know.” His hands hovered over the keyboard. “Distinguishing features? Height? Weight? Race?”
“Fancy’s about six two, black,” Jane offered. “Approximately two hundred and twenty pounds.”
“She is not two hundred and twenty pounds!” Gee gasped. “She’s an easy buck seventy-five. I am so going to tell her you said that!”
“Hair color is blonde, but that could be dye, an extension or a wig.”
Bordelon settled his chin to his chest. “Last seen wearing?”
Here we go. “White shorts with a silver mohair sweater and pink stilettos.”
“Tough to miss.” He kept typing smoothly. Jane was impressed. “Any tattoos or distinguishing scars?”
“No scars or tattoos that I know of.” Gigi tapped her chin. “But Fancy’s really good with makeup.”
“She’s got the longest legs I’ve ever seen on a human being,” Jane added.
“Noted. History of substance abuse?”
Gigi squirmed. “I’m not going to answer that. Like what, specifically? Fancy likes to party; we all do. Honestly, detective.” She waved a hand to indicate the general area. “It’s NOLA. Who doesn’t?”
“Fair enough. Any mental health issues we should know about?”
“Not really,” Gigi stated slowly. “Unless you consider working as a drag queen to be a mental health issue.”
“Personally, I don’t.” Bordelon’s eyes warmed with humor. “Is Ms. Abellard subject to debt? A recent victim of a crime or a workplace incident?”
A recent incident? Jane considered the fracas at Leslie’s party. “There was a fist fight at a family party that got heated.”
“A fist fight?” He perked up. “When was this party?”
“Last night.” Gigi picked up her phone. “Ten hours ago.”
“Did Ms. Abellard participate in this fight?”
“Yes, but so did almost everyone else,” Jane stated. “I don’t think you could single Fancy out for anything special.”
“I’ll make a note of it.” Bordelon st
udied his laptop over his glasses. “Anything else you can recall? No detail is too trivial.”
“No.” Gigi tapped her lips. “I think that pretty much covers it.”
“Alright, then. This looks solid so far. I’ll need your contact information next, Ms. Pascoe as the reporting person.”
“Not a problem.” Gee eagerly pulled her chair forward. “Gigi Pascoe, 504-581-6476. Address, 3726 Chartres Street, Apt. 2B, Bywater. My email is [email protected]. Text works best.”
“Thank you.” He started typing again. “And I’ll need to see your ID as the reporting person.”
“Got it right here.” Reaching into her back pocket, Gigi pulled out her wallet. Flipping it open, she handed over her Louisiana driver’s license.
Detective Bordelon propped the plastic card next to his keyboard and adjusted his glasses, entering the data into the NCIC system before he paused. “This license doesn’t match the address you just told me.”
“Correct. That’s my parent’s address on St. Claude Avenue.” Gigi flicked her fingers dismissively. “I’ve moved to my own place. I was going to update it when it came time to renew.”
Bordelon frowned severely. “It’s best to keep your documents current.”
“I’m quite sure you’re right,” Gigi easily agreed.
What will I do? Jane felt a frosty warning shiver brush her skin. If Bordelon asks to see my license? Will he try to stop me if I bolt for the door?
“Detective Bordelon?” Gigi asked. “How many missing persons do you see in a day?”
“More than you’d think.” He handed the license back. “About a dozen. Half are adults like your friend. The others are late teens, runaways. To ease your mind, about half are found, just fine, in about three days.” He folded his hands across his stomach. “We’ve established a solid search process. I’ll start by checking the hospitals and the jails. I’ll check the transport hubs next.”
He paused. “There’s one more thing. We need to respect Ms. Abellard’s right to privacy. If she’s fine, we’ll need to get her permission to contact you as the reporting person to let you know that. As the reporting person, you have the right to be concerned, but her right to privacy supersedes your right to know where she is.”
“Just ask her to text me. That’s all I want, to know that she’s safe.”
“How many of these cases turn into homicide investigations?” Jane asked.
“Really, Jane?” Turning, Gigi stared. “You had to go there?”
“In a year?” Detective Bordelon shut his laptop. “About a dozen, in which case I’d partner with our homicide unit, but my goal,” he repeatedly tapped his chest, “is to reunite people, the missing and the reporting person who is concerned about them. I like that part of my job. It’s a good feeling when that happens.”
Gigi leaned in. “Is there anything more we can do now? For Fancy?”
Bordelon considered her question. “You could post flyers in areas she’s known to frequent. Some families do that to make people aware, to get the community looking. Or, if you’re IT savvy, you could create a social media dragnet using a Facebook case page. That’s proven effective. You could also hire a private investigator to assist with the search effort.” Pushing away from the table, he stood, smoothing his tie. “In any case, you’ll be getting daily updates from me. I can promise you that.”
“Thank you, detective.” Gigi stood, firmly shaking his hand. “I’m feeling much better about this now.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” Bordelon smiled warmly. “I’ll be in touch.”
Get me outta here. Jane almost tapped Gigi’s heels as she followed her outside. Pausing on the top concrete step, she sucked in a breath so deep her lungs ached. Hold it; hold it for three seconds, then release. She practiced her instant calming technique. NOLA’s climate was infamous for its overripe, sub-tropical tang and she inhaled deeply again. If this is what liberty tastes like, it is sweet.
Reaching into her breast pocket, Gigi unwrapped another cigar. “That wasn’t so bad.”
The rising sun warmed Jane’s uplifted face like a mother’s blessing. “What were you expecting?”
“Honestly?” Cupping her hands around her lighter, Gee hissed a smoke plume through her teeth. “Hostility. I’ve heard reports. LGBTQ isn’t accepted as it was six months ago before Trump got elected.” She gazed across the parking lot with unfocused eyes. “I’m worried about the direction we’re heading in the good Ole US of A.” She smiled sardonically. “Our circle tends to live beyond the pale.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Beyond the pale?” Gee dug for her keys. “It means that we live outside the normal reach of the law and that the law has not always been on our side.” Juggling her glittering skull key ring in one hand, Gee stared unblinking with her strange, elfin eyes. “And don’t mind me saying so, Jane, but from what I’ve noticed lately, I think that maybe you do, too.”
Chapter Thirteen
Piddles waggled his ridiculous pom-pom tail as Gigi slid behind the wheel.
“Jane? You hungry? I’m starving. Want breakfast?”
Jane’s stomach rumbled at the suggestion of hot food. Anything beats that dry protein bar I stashed in my backpack. She checked her iPhone. Cruising past 9:30 a.m. “The Deuce will be open. They serve white beans and rice.”
“Girl? Where you from?” Gee sputtered. Sticking her cigar in the ashtray, she shifted the Cadillac into gear. “I said breakfast. Meaning beignets and café au lait.” Squinting, she pointed her finger down the road. “I know a good place, nearby. Café Irene. It’s on the way. I want to stop by Fancy’s. Maybe she’s home, just not answering her phone.”
“You said she lived in Marigny?” Jane yawned.
“She has for as long as I’ve known her.” Glancing both ways, Gee pulled onto North Claiborne. “Got herself a sweet little crib some sugar daddy paid for.” Gripping the wheel with both hands, she changed lanes. “Fancy’s smarter than she looks. She only plays bubble-headed for TV.”
Jane’s inquisitive nature urged her to investigate, but the sun was up and her naptime clock was ticking. “I will need to get some sleep before my shift.”
“When exactly is that?”
“Ten p.m. to six a.m.”
“Shut your eyes now.” Gee suggested reasonably, reaching for the cigar again. “Catch a nap. I’ll give you a nudge when we get there.”
“No, I’m good.” Jane looked away, lying through her teeth as her gut flared with anxiety. Goddamn trust issue. Can’t sleep unless I’m behind a bolted door, which needs to be checked not twice but three times to make sure it’s secure before I can finally let go. Reaching up, she knuckled her temples hard, grinning ruefully. Be honest, girlfriend. Half the time that doesn’t work either, because I don’t trust anyone, not even the lock. Chilly fingers of doubt and self-pity sidled in, deflating her battered confidence. Her shoulders slumped, and she dropped her hands into her lap. It sucks that I’m not getting better. I’m doing everything they told me to do. She tightened her hands into fists. Enough of this whiny ass shit! On your feet, soldier! When did I let it get this bad? How do I fucking turn it off?
Taking her eyes off the road, Gigi checked her phone. “It’s quarter to ten. If I get you home by noon, does that give you enough time for sleep?”
“Yeah, sure.” Jane settled back sourly.
“Good. Then we do have time for a treat.”
She swung The Boat left onto Louisa Street and slowed, hunting for a parking space. Café Irene was on the corner, a ramshackle single-story clapboard building painted lime green with a florescent fuchsia door. Typical NOLA. Jane folded her arms. Hide the best eateries from the tourists. The only way you’d know this cafe was here was if you spotted the bicycles parked out front or if you were local.
A Crescent City Seafood delivery van pulled away from the curb. Clicking the turn signal on, Gee grabbed the spot.
“Parking karma. We’re in luck.” Chec
king her mirrors, she backed in, resting her arm on the seat while looking over her shoulder. “It’s a sign. We’re doing God’s work.”
Jane unlatched her seatbelt. “God is in the doughnut business?”
Gee bounced The Boat off the curb. “A beignet is not a doughnut, you savage!”
“Relax. I’m fucking with you.” Stepping out, Jane shut the heavy door. “Out of curiosity, what kind of gas mileage does this thing get?”
“And will you please show some respect? The Boat is not a thing. She’s a ton and half of fine American-made steel.” Gee smoothed the wrinkles from her shirt. “About eight miles to the gallon. Stay put, Mr. P. We’ll bring you something back.”
A tinny bell rang as they entered. Café Irene was narrow with an open kitchen in the back beneath a chalkboard offering daily menu options. The ceiling and the rafters were painted vibrant cobalt blue. Wooden booths lined both walls and a sprinkling of two-person tables cramped the single center aisle. Every booth and table was occupied. Bright cartoonish canvas paintings covered the walls. A few were wet looking NOLA Bourbon streetscapes, but most depicted voodoo devils and skeletons drinking steaming cups of coffee or raising brimming red cocktails in a grinning, toothy toast.
“Hey, girl, hey.” A woman called from the kitchen. “How you doin’ this fine new day? What can I get you? The usual?”
“Yes, please, for me. Jane? How ‘bout you?”
“Ditto.”
“Double it up for us, Celestine, if you please.”
“You got it.” Flicking her wrist, she popped a waxed paper bag open and reached for some tongs.
Gigi drummed the countertop. “Have you seen Fancy around?”
“Haven’t seen Miss Fancy in the past couple of days.” Creasing and folding the bag, she carried it to the register and then turned and filled two takeout cups. “Thought she might be slimming. You know she’s always trying some damn new fool diet thing.”
“If you do see her,” Gee reached for her wallet, “will you ask her to text me?”
Celestine cut her eyes. “You two been fighting?”