by Martha Reed
Leslie suddenly looked haggard. “Gigi? Please tell me you didn’t loan Fancy any more money!”
“Maybe a little.” Gee shrugged. “She got behind on her mortgage again. You know she loves that house. I helped her out.”
“Gigi!” Leslie sputtered. “You promised you wouldn’t do that! You promised me.”
“Maman,” Gee implored. “The sheriff posted a notice on her door! The bank was ready to toss her into the street.”
“How much did you loan her this time?”
“Not much. A little. A couple of hundred.”
“I heard,” Aunt Babette inserted, “it was more like six thousand.”
“Maman! Aunt Babette, stop! It’s my money. I earned it. I can spend it any way I want.”
“Did you ask Ms. Abellard to pay you back?” Dupree asked. “And she refused?”
“No! It wasn’t like that.” Gee squirmed. “I didn’t have to ask her for it. I knew she’d pay me back when she could.” She squared her shoulders. “Fancy’s always up against it at the end of the year. She makes it up in tips during Mardi Gras.” She sat up. “She always pays me back with interest. It’s no big deal.”
“I see.” Bordelon flicked a piece of lint off of his sleeve. “When you filed the missing person’s report on her, when we talked, you mentioned a fist fight at a party. What was that about?”
“What about it?” Gee shifted sideways. “Fancy got pissy with some cracker working the bar.”
“Nothing new there,” Delilah eagerly agreed. “He was giving her free attitude.” She sniffled into her black lace hankie. “As usual, she gave it right back.”
“Who was this person,” Dupree asked, “working the bar?”
“Some random friend of Ryan’s.” Gee looked blank. “Maman? Do you know?”
“You’d have to ask your father that one.”
“Tyler Shank,” Aunt Babette replied promptly, resting her bony elbows on her knees. “He works with Ryan Embry at Delta Power. Ken asked him to man the bar at the very last minute.”
“Tyler Shank.” Dupree started typing. “Spelled like it sounds? He live near here?”
“I’m not sure where he lives,” Leslie stated uncertainly. “Cheryl would know.”
“Cheryl?”
“Cheryl Embry. My dearest friend.”
Dupree typed another note. “Let’s get back to this party. Who threw the first punch? Fancy Abellard or this Tyler Shank?”
“Neither.” Gee casually crossed her legs at the knee. “It was me.”
“You did?” Dupree started. “Why did you start the fight?”
“Because that peckerwood insulted my dad.” Pulling a thread from a cushion, Gee rolled it into a loose ball before flicking it to the floor. “I don’t take that shit offa no one.”
“Gigi, watch your temper.” Aunt Babette warned, her voice rising.
“Please don’t take that out of context.” Leslie splayed her hands. “Gigi was provoked. That Tyler Shank fellow was drunk on tequila.”
“I see.” Snick. Snick. Snick. Bordelon repeatedly clicked his pen. “This is all very helpful. I have one last question.” Snick. Snick. He pointed the pen at Jane like a baton. “How long have you two been friends?”
“Us two, who? Me and Gee?” Why is Bordelon asking me that? Jane breathed deep as paranoia dug its talons into her guts. What? He thinks we were in on this together? “I don’t know, a couple of weeks, maybe? Why?”
“No reason.”
“I think we have what we need.” Closing his laptop, Dupree stood. “Ms. Pascoe? You’ll need to follow us to the Coroner’s Office.”
“Are you arresting her?” Leslie scrambled up. “She’s my daughter. I have the right to know.”
“No, ma’am. We’re not arresting anyone at this time.” He buttoned his suit coat. “CSI located Ms. Abellard’s purse at the scene. An organ donor card identified Gigi Pascoe as next-of-kin.” Tucking the laptop under one arm, the detective rubbed his hands. “You’ll need to bring a photo ID to make the identification.”
“Wait.” Gee hesitated, her face drawn. “I’m not sure,” she whispered, “I can do this.”
“Why not?”
“I ... I don’t want to see Fancy dead.” Closing her eyes, Gee pinched the bridge of her nose. “I want to remember her like she was. Fabulous. Alive.”
Leslie slipped around the coffee table. “Cher? You need to go with these men.” She gently stroked Gigi’s back. “Fancy needs you, honey. You need to go.”
Gee’s shoulders slumped. “Dee? Will you go with me?”
“Really, Gee?” Delilah fingered the tiny gold and ruby cross at her neck. “You want me to visit the house of the dead?”
“Please, Dee. I can’t do this alone. I can’t. I just can’t. I need your help.”
If they don’t move on this, Fancy’s killer might go free. Jane’s fingertips tingled. She dug deep. Fear is energy, but so is rage. Fancy deserves justice. We all do. “Give me your keys, Gee. I’ll drive.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jane gripped The Boat’s cherry red steering wheel. It took her a few stop-and-start tries to get used to the gas pedal and to the brakes because of her boots, but the Cadillac’s powerful V-8 engine responded quicker and easier than she had feared. Back home, she had slipped out of her running gear into her standard civilian outfit of jeans, T-shirt, and her favorite gray hoodie. Her backpack lay on the floorboards next to Delilah’s feet. She felt focused and ready for anything.
“Take the ramp for I-10W.” Gee pointed, her hand trembling. “We want US Business 90, then South Claiborne Street.” She rested her arm on the passenger side door. “Look at me. I’m still rattled. Thanks for driving.”
“Not a problem,” Jane said.
“Why are we going this way?” Delilah protested from the back seat. “The morgue’s on MLK.”
“No, they moved it.” The ragtop was down. Gee raised her voice over the steadily whistling wind. “Built a new facility on Earhart. Opened in January.”
“They needed one. Jesus! That last morgue they used was a horror show. Remember that, Gee? Rhodes Funeral Home in Central City? They kept Nanna’s body in a refrigerated trailer in their parking lot.”
“This city morgue thing is a complete cluster fuck.” Gee rapped her cellphone against her thigh. “Katrina flooded them out of the courthouse basement, so they had to move to Rhodes. Took them ten years to raise the money for this new building.”
Dropping the phone listlessly onto her lap, she studied the neighborhood passing below. “This feels like some kind of weird dream. Like Fancy’s pranking me, playing a joke. I keep looking for her text.” Picking the phone back up, she squared it on her fingertips. “It’s weird they found Fancy in the same place, Jane, where you work.”
“I keep thinking the same thing.” Delilah agreed, her voice shrill. “Jane? You never saw anything strange going on there?”
Can’t blame them for asking. Jane tightened her grip. It does look suspicious as hell. If I was them, I’d be asking me the same exact thing. Odd things do happen at Guardian, but I ignore them, don’t speak up. Shame warmed her face. Maybe I should’ve paid more attention to things at work, dug a little deeper, cared a little more. If I’d been less focused on myself and my own tale of woe would it have made a difference? Would Fancy still be alive?
“I don’t know if it’s suspicious.” Jane started slowly, poised instantly to clam up. “But Cal always carries a fat stack on him. I’m not sure where he gets it.”
Gee cut her eyes. “Maybe he doesn’t trust the bank with his money. Some folks don’t.”
“Maybe.” Jane moistened her lips. “I’ve been wondering if Cal’s working a con, you know, leasing Guardian units under the table for cash? If that’s true and Numa finds out, he will go fucking ballistic.”
Delilah leaned against the front seat. “Numa’s your boss?”
“Yes. The boss, the big boss, the manager.” Moving The Boat over, Jane illeg
ally passed a slow moving Toyota blocking the passing lane. “He’s friends with the owners.”
“You need to figure out what’s going on with this Cal guy, if he knows anything about Fancy.” Delilah stated flatly, painfully prodding Jane’s shoulder with her velvet-gloved hand. “This whole thing sounds dodgy as hell.” She sat back. “And we need to know if Fancy was killed because of her lifestyle. You must be stone cold blind if you think this only happens to other people.”
Jane checked on Delilah in the rearview mirror. Dee sat huddled in her crimson cutaway coat, black mini-skirt and thigh high patent leather cavalier boots. The breeze kept snatching at the veil on her top hat and snapping it like a pennant. Shrugging, Dee pulled her lapels closer to her throat.
“Uptick!” Gee snorted contemptuously. “Police fucker called it an uptick.”
“And Washington keeps reversing LGBTQ policy.” Dee scoffed. “GLADD called it an all out attack and you know what? I think they’re right. It does feel like we’re going backwards on things instead of moving forward. Jesus, Gee! What if they roll back same sex marriage? Or Roe v. Wade? Think Trump’ll go that far?”
“He can’t. The Supreme Court judges will stop him.”
“You don’t know that.” Dee argued. “They might not.”
“Now you are being paranoid, girlfriend.”
“Wanna bet? Oh, no. Those right-wing Republicans don’t let go. They’re still fighting to kill Planned Parenthood and Obamacare. Such hypocrites! You’ll notice they still cover Viagra prescriptions in their health care plan. Tell me that’s not gender bias.”
The Superdome slid past like a silvery hump-backed whale. Rotating the steering wheel, Jane caught the highway split. Checking her mirrors again, she smoothly slid The Boat into the new traffic pattern.
She jumped as Gee flicked her knee.
“Awfully quiet over there, Jane. Still with us? What d’you think about things?”
“Jane’s not political.” Dee simpered.
“She’s right,” Jane easily agreed. “I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut and my head down. It’s safer that way.”
“Works pretty well for an ostrich.” Gee pointedly folded her arms across her chest. “How’s that working out for you?”
Jane felt stung by the rebuke.
“Give it time.” Dee confidently smoothed her velvet gloves. “You’ll change your mind once this shit hits closer to home and you start losing your friends and your family members.”
Jane winced. You’re wrong. Dead wrong. Both of you. I know exactly how it feels to be an outcast, to lose my family and my friends. Four years in now and my heart still grieves for everyone I’ve lost.
Delilah straightened her hat. “I feel like a Jew, suddenly trapped in Nazi Germany. I’m a bi-sexual, not a criminal. Why am I being treated like one?”
“It’s not just us,” Gee stated. “It’s Muslims, Jews, blacks, immigrants, anyone off the grid. Trump’s normalizing hate. It’s Amerika spelled with a KKK.”
“I love, love, love how he tweeted his support for LGBTQ during the campaign.” Dee’s voice rose. “Said Hillary would threaten our freedoms and beliefs. Jesus! Who fell for that one?”
Jane pulled The Boat onto the exit ramp. “Evidently, 26% of the general population did.”
“Would you look at that?” Gee gaped. “Jane has actually expressed her opinion.”
“Fuck off, smart ass.”
“That’s because only 51% of us voted,” Delilah pursued. “I hope the 49% who didn’t bother getting up off their asses are feeling better about the way things are now.”
“Maybe,” Gee offered sarcastically, “they’re hoping to get new jobs building Trump’s Mexican wall.”
“Good luck with that.” Jane straightened the wheel. Earhart Boulevard looked deserted. “And there’s another government pork belly money pit we get to pay taxes for. So, where’s this morgue?”
“On the right. Keep going.”
Jane spotted it. The new Coroner’s Office and EMS headquarters had been built on a city block of flattened bulldozed wasteland under a snarl of concrete overpasses. The cross-town traffic buzzed overhead like an angry hornet’s nest. With a snap of recognition, she knew where she was. “You should’ve said it was near Street Made Repair. They fixed the yoke on my Ducati when it rusted out.”
“I’ll know that for next time.” Gee pointed. “Pull in there.”
“Next time?” Dee wailed. “Dammit, Gee! Don’t say ‘next time’! You know words have power! You’ll call Death into being!”
“That’s hooey.” Jane slid The Boat into a parking spot. “Pure idleness and superstition.”
“Says you.” Delilah snapped, cupping her jaw with her gloved hands. “Can’t you feel that energy surge? It’s hurting my teeth.”
“I’m with you, Dee.” Swinging the passenger door open, Gee unlatched the front seat and pushed it forward, politely extending her hand. “Just because Jane’s a Yankee doesn’t mean she’s automatically right.”
“Says you,” Jane echoed. “Hand me my backpack, will you, Dee?”
Dee handed it up before reaching up and straightening her hat with resolve. Her black-lined lipstick stood in stark contrast to her extraordinarily matte skin. “Alright, girls. I’m not happy about this, but let’s get it done.”
They marched, side by side across the parking lot for the main entrance. The concrete pavement was still so fresh that the stenciled handicapped space logo looked crisply blue. None of the other parking spaces bore the oily dribs, drabs, blots, or shadowy stains usually deposited by the third hand vehicles from previous visitors. A six-foot tall chain link fence protected the facility from the passing pedestrian traffic on Earhart Boulevard. Out of the range of a pod of security cameras mounted on the roof, some street thug had already scaled the fence and tagged the new building with Baron Samedi is Waiting for You in fat purple spray-painted lettering.
Delilah’s face paled even more. Staring wordlessly at the graffiti, she reached for the door.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“This place is sick.”
The pneumatic security door softly sighed as Delilah crossed the ultramodern reception area. Unfastening the pearl buttons on her frogged velvet gloves, she tucked them into her burgundy patent leather alligator bag. “What a difference! Sure doesn’t look like the nasty ass funeral parlor I had to use.”
I’ve worked with the dead before. Bracing herself, Jane took a hesitant sniff. Cadaverine, putrescine, skatole, and methanethiol, that stunning combination of shit, mothballs, rotten eggs, garlic and fecal cabbage. Whether or not she could handle the daily stench had been Jane’s only concern over working forensic CSI as a profession. The NOLA Coroner’s Office smelled lightly of balsam pine and she relaxed. Not that working CSI or with the FBI is even an option any more. Depression’s familiar leaden mental cloud settled on her shoulders like a sodden blanket, and she felt a remorseful pang at the missed lifetime opportunity. That’s the road I should’ve taken. Too late now. Bearing down hard she squashed the regret. Stop thinking like that! I did what I had to do. The past is dust and ashes. That door is permanently closed.
“There you are.” Detective Dupree looked up. He was leaning against the front desk, standing next to Bordelon, who was holding his hat in his hands. “We thought we lost you.”
“You almost did, near Tulane.” Gee strode over. “You ran that red light.”
“It was orange.” He blinked.
The detectives were talking to a strikingly tall, mature woman with combed out hair held off her face by a bold multi-colored beaded headband. She was wearing washable slacks, rubber clogs, and a powder blue smock. A Crescent City Coroner’s Office badge was clipped to her smock pocket which was stuffed with ballpoint pens.
“Ms. Pascoe?” Bordelon emphasized, sliding his glasses up his nose. “This is Dr. Tamerlane Sabatier. She’s the PDI, the professional death investigator assigned to the case.”
“You’re G.G. Pa
scoe? Next of kin?” The PDI’s voice was slowly measured and melodic. She checked her clipboard. “I’ll need to see your photo ID.”
Gee pulled out her wallet and slid her driver’s license from its plastic sleeve.
“I’m confused. This says your name is Paul?”
“It’s Gigi, G, I, G, I. I don’t use Paul.”
“Oh! I see.” Returning the license, she corrected the authorization form before handing it over. “You’ll need to sign this release. It confirms your identity and allows us to return any personal items to you.”
Gee grimly scribbled her signature.
“Very good.” Sliding the clipboard under her arm, Dr. Sabatier cocked her head. “Please accept my personal condolence during this difficult time. You can be assured that the Coroner’s Office is here to assist the family in any way.”
“Thank you.” Gee returned the pen. “We appreciate that.”
“And these others are family members?”
“Yes.” Delilah sniffled into her black lace hankie. “We’re all the family Fancy had.”
“I’m sorry. Fancy?” The PDI’s forehead wrinkled. “That name was registered as,” she checked the form, “Lester Wayne Abellard.”
“That’s an AKA,” Jane offered. “Fancy was her nickname.”
“That’s not true.” Gee countered. “She had it legally changed to Fancy.”
“And you’re all coming back?” She pressed on, resting the clipboard against her abdomen and studying them carefully. “I need to warn you that this procedure may be disturbing. It isn’t necessary that you all attend. We only need one person to make an identification.”
Gee suddenly looked frantic. “Dee? Jane? You’re coming with me, right?”
“We are, if you need us.” Delilah soothed.
“I do. I do.”
“Yes,” Jane agreed. “We’re all coming back.”
“Very well. I’ve reserved a viewing station. Follow me.”
Dr. Sabatier pushed through a set of swinging double doors. They trooped down a hallway lit spotlessly white by bands of overhead florescent lights. Other than their footsteps and a scratchy intermittent whisper coming from the air conditioning vents, the annex was eerily quiet.