by Corey Brown
“But he said he knew you, he told me he sees you at the health club.”
David frowns, looks at Suzanne. “I haven’t been to the club in months. And what does that have to do with the fact that there’s no way he was going up?”
“I....I don’t know,” Suzanne says. “He was nice, he knew your name.”
“What’d he look like again?”
“Sort of tall, wild hair, like I said, good-looking, too. He was wearing a black overcoat.”
David narrows his eyes. “Doesn’t sound like anyone I know.”
David takes Suzanne by the arm and guides her into the revolving door.
“And who the hell wears a trench coat in California in this kind of weather?” David says. “If you see this guy again, steer clear. Understand?”
“But David, I---”
David pushes on the door setting it in motion. “Steer clear, got it?”
The gray stretch limousine glides along the highway like a ribbon of silk in the wind. Blue ocean water, crowned with white, breaks over the rocky shoreline and seems to be waving, cheering them on, as if the sea knows what lays in store tonight.
“Is this who I think it is?” The limo driver asks, looking at his address list. “Are we really going to Wendy Ekerson’s house?”
Suzanne barely hears the question. Her brother’s odd behavior a few moments ago still weighs on her mind. David looks back from the tinted window then glances at Suzanne and grins.
Suzanne returns David’s smile then looks away. This is his day and she is going to let him have it.
“That’s right,” David says. “Wendy Ekerson.”
“No kidding, you know her? I’m a big fan. I gotta tell you, I’ve chauffeured some names before—Timothy Jansen, Reeve Brooks, even Sky Phillips but Wendy Ekerson tops ‘em all. How do you folks know her?”
“I’ve worked with her on her last four films,” David says.
“No kidding?” The driver repeats. “You worked with Wendy Ekerson? That’s incredible. She makes the scariest movies. Nobody else even comes close. She is the Queen of Fright.”
Suzanne glances at her brother again. A look that says, ‘Aren’t you going to tell him?’ But she knows better. Suzanne knows David isn’t going to tell the driver that he is the one who wrote those scary movies, that he is the one who had helped Wendy Ekerson claim the monarchy.
“Yeah,” David says, not taking his eyes off of Suzanne. “You are right about that. Mrs. Ekerson is the Queen of Fright.”
Having collected the Ekerson’s, the limo now crawls down Wilshire Boulevard, sharing the street with dozens of other vehicles all ferrying their own celebrities to the award ceremony. For all of the apparent glamour, the wait to be let out at the red carpet can be long and tedious, but for Suzanne the time passes quickly. The three of them, David, Wendy Ekerson and her husband, are chatting excitedly about the night. For the Ekerson’s, this is nothing new. Wendy has been nominated several times for Best Director, having narrowly missed the title last year.
Suzanne looks at Wendy. She was an oddity, if not to Hollywood, at least to Suzanne. The fact that Wendy is sixty-eight and has directed some of the most frightening movies the film industry had ever experienced, seems at odds with the natural universe. More to the point, it was just plain weird. Wendy looked as though she ought to be somebody’s grandmother—she is somebody’s grandmother---and yet she was, indeed, the Queen of Fright.
Of course, thinks Suzanne, Wendy’s best material comes from David. With that thought, her attention shifts to her brother. He simply amazed her. There he sits, talking about his latest project as if he were on the way to Starbucks instead of the Academy Awards.
Wendy has taken this ride before, but this is a first for David. He has been nominated for Best Original Screenplay not only because he single-handedly wrote it, but when Wendy put the story on film, it had broken records on opening weekend. The nomination was, in some way, recognition of David’s previous three screenplays, all written solo, each one wildly successful at the box office.
Suzanne looks closely at her brother, feels a surge of pride well up inside and she smiles. Maybe this will be David’s year.
“You just won’t believe what happened to me,” David is saying to Wendy, his eyes flashing with excitement.
“Four hundred pages?” Wendy says, astonished. “You wrote over four hundred in just a few days? How did you do it?”
David sighs, pushes back his sandy, brown hair. Wendy isn’t getting it, just like Suzanne didn’t get it.
“I don’t know, it’s not the volume, Wendy. That’s what I’m trying to say. It’s the content. It’s what happened to me.” David shakes his head. “It’s like I lived this story, I felt it.”
Wendy smiles, she loves David and not just because he’s helped to make emotionally and financially powerful movies, but because he is a writer’s writer. He brings a sense of excellence, unparalleled in her experience, to his work.
“Of course you did, dear,” Wendy Ekerson says, patting his knee. “I’ve seen that in you. Every story you write is a part of you.”
“But this is different,” David protests, glancing at Suzanne, hoping she somehow understood.
As David looks away from Wendy’s face his vision seems to blur, slow down. He tries to focus on his sister. David knows he is looking at Suzanne, but his mind can’t see her. A rush of blood, or adrenaline, surges from the center of his chest and he feels every muscle growing tense. David’s throat feels thick, as if something is trying to escape his body. His skin suddenly becomes cold and tight, beads of sweat creep down his forehead.
Then Suzanne comes into sharp focus. He finds himself staring at her crossed legs, her skirt wandering up a silky thigh. A paroxysm of burning, erotic desire floods his mind, his groin instantly feels on fire and, at that moment, David wants Suzanne more than he had ever wanted anyone—he could think of nothing else than to take her.
David feels sick. What in the hell is going on? What’s wrong with me?
The very idea of what he is thinking makes him want to vomit, but the sensation is so overwhelming, so intense that David finds himself in what seems like an altered state. One in which he knows right from wrong and, in parallel, one that drives him to desire his own sister.
“David, are you okay?” Suzanne says. “You’re as white as a sheet.”
His eyes meet Suzanne’s and just as suddenly as it had arrived, the erotic feelings vanish, leaving him weak and dizzy. David slouches back against the car seat, his head reeling from the sudden flush of emotion. He feels clammy, sweat trails down his temple.
“David?” Suzanne says. “What’s wrong?”
Wendy touches the back of David’s hand. “Do you need a doctor?”
David shakes his head and wipes the sweat away with his fingertip. “No, I’m okay. I think I’m just excited.” He pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket, mops his forehead then looks at Suzanne and smiles weakly. “I’m fine. Sorry.”
Suzanne leans forward, the top of her dress opening slightly. David looks away.
“Sorry for what?” Suzanne says.
David shakes his head once more. “I don’t know. Sorry for...something. Then he grins, desperately wanting to shift attention from himself. “I won’t let it happen again, all right?”
The limousine gently brakes to a stop in front of a sea of reporters and fans.
“This is it, ladies and gentlemen,” the driver says. “Good luck to all of you.”
Before the driver has finished speaking, an attendant lifts the handle and pulls the door open. Wendy and Suzanne exit first, followed by James Ekerson then David. The Ekerson’s pair off and wait for their companions.
David extends his elbow but Suzanne pauses. She wants to add just the right touch of elegance and a moment’s hesitation before taking David’s arm will tell the onlookers that he has arrived, will tell them to take notice. Her fingers wrap around his bicep, a volley of flashes pop, and David struggl
es not to think about having sex with his sister.
Up ahead, a woman with a handsome young man turns to look at David. She watches him, catches his eye, and just as soon as David recognizes the stunning actress, he wants her.
Chapter 7
The Crown Victoria rolls to a stop and the engine cuts off. Inside, two men sit for a moment watching the maroon, two-story shotgun house. A tin roof covers the wide gallery and faded gray shutters flank the windows. The driveway runs the length of the house to a small garage at the back of the narrow property. Except for the hum of a lawn mower, the street is quiet.
“Ready?”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
In unison, both car doors open and the men climb out. The passenger adjusts his sunglasses and inhales sharply, filling his lungs. The driver turns and glances back across the street. Near the corner, a puff of smoke clouds the face of a young man as he tries to light a cigarette. The two men make their way up the front steps and ring the bell.
An intense New Orleans sun streams through his oak trees and the rising humidity tells Cody Briggs that it will be another miserable day, much too hot for March.
Cody is lean and wiry, in his younger years a little sun would turn his hair blonde but now no amount of sunlight can bleach out the gray. Animated hazel eyes and a square jaw accents his otherwise plain features. Beneath his sweat stained white tee shirt, forty-four year old muscles flex as he trudges behind a lawn mower.
Feeling the heat on his face, Cody is thankful he decided to get this chore out of the way early and, at the same time, he is pissed. His son should be mowing the lawn. Cody grits his teeth. Everything, every last thing with that kid is a battle. It’s just grass, for Christ’s sake. Mow it once in a while. How hard would that be, how hard would it be to just do what you’re told?
Salty beads of perspiration dripping into his eyes only serve to remind Cody of how angry and frustrated he feels. But pissed or not, here he is, pushing the mower.
Out of the corner of his eye Cody catches sight of the two men as they round the corner of his house. Letting go of the safety handle on the mower, killing the engine, Cody watches the pair, waits for them to cross the lawn.
“Cody Briggs?” It is the taller man who speaks first. The other guy, the young-looking one, remains silent.
Cody folds his arms across his chest. “What happened?”
“I’m John Slater,” the tall guy says. He jerks a thumb toward the other man. “This is Eric Hansen.” He pulls a badge. “We’re out of District Five.”
Slater looks to be in his fifties. Thinning hair tops a long, narrow head. Lean, like Cody, Slater is over six feet tall and looks to be in good shape. But the pervasive scent of cigarette smoke and his slow, arduous breathing makes it clear that Slater is not quite the picture of health.
Almost chubby, Hansen is not nearly as tall or as slim as Slater but his youthful face does not show the battle lines that come from years on the job.
“Glad to meet you,” Cody says. “Now, what happened?”
Hansen swallows hard, glances at Slater, looks back at Cody. “It’s your partner, Nicholas Wheaton. He’s dead. Some Louisiana game warden pulled his body out of the swamp late yesterday afternoon. He was down in the Biloxi State Wildlife Area. ‘Gators got most of him before anyone could help.”
Cody’s back stiffens, draws a sharp breath and looks away. Simultaneously, his brain and adrenaline go into overdrive.
“Okay,” Cody says, being the stereotype, keeping his emotions in check. “Want to fill me in?”
“Apparently,” Hansen says. “The warden heard a gunshot and headed toward the sound. Who knows why that guy was even out there? A million to one, you know? Nobody should have heard that shot.”
“So Nick was murdered?”
Slater shakes his head. “Don’t know. What we do know is the warden saw him, up to his chest in the swamp, leaning up against a Cypress tree. The guy tried to reach Wheaton but one of those nasty bastards took him by the head. Besides his face, he lost most of his torso. An arm, too. The warden had a hell of a time keeping the damned things away long enough to haul the body out of the water. But Wheaton was dead long before the warden ever got to him.”
Cody closes his eyes, thinks about his partner’s head in an alligator’s mouth. Over the past two decades he had been paired up with some good men and a couple of real losers but none had been quite like Nick Wheaton. Joining the force at twenty-nine, Nick was older than most rookies. He had been a cop for only four years, but he was aggressive, making detective in just three. Nick was decent and smart and quick on his feet, just the kind of cop New Orleans needed.
“Tell me,” Hansen says. “Do you have any idea why Wheaton was out there in the first place?”
Cody draws a hand across his day-old beard. He doesn’t like being on this end of an investigation.
“I have no clue,” Cody says, wondering how much they know, wondering how much to tell.
“He was your partner, wasn’t he?” Slater says. “You guys didn’t talk?”
“Yeah, but he didn’t call every time he changed his shorts.”
For a moment, the three just stare at each other. Cody refolds his arms across his chest. The sunlight bears down and Hansen swipes at his forehead with his fingertips, dries them on his trousers. The two detectives just look at Cody. All three are comfortable with silence, ready to wait.
“Okay,” Cody says. “Let’s get it on the table. We all know Nick was on loan to some special vice squad operating in several districts, Six, mine, probably yours, too.”
“I see,” Slater says, shifting his weight, an undercurrent of tension in southern drawl. “Well, how about that undercover op, what do you know about it?”
“Nothing. Nick never told me a thing.”
“Nothing? He didn’t say anything? Christ almighty, your partner joins some secret squirrel operation and you expect us to believe the two of you never talked about it?”
“Hey, John,” Hansen says. “Let’s not get too excited. Cody is just---”
“What do you want to hear?” Cody says, cutting off Hansen. “That I know all about Nick, know everything he was doing, is that what you want me to say? Get serious. You know as well as I do this operation is ultra-covert. Most of the department thinks it’s a ghost squad, I hear guys in the locker room say it doesn’t even exist. The only reason I don’t agree with them is because Nick told me he was leaving homicide to join up, someone recruited him.”
Slater inhales, his nostrils flare a little. He looks at Cody for a long moment. “And you don’t know anything else,” he says.
Cody returns the stare, considers telling them the one thing he does know, shakes his head. “No, nothing.”
“The swamp’s an odd place to be working, don’t you think?” Slater says. “That is, for someone in vice.” Slater tilts his head. “Any chance he was involved in something ‘off-duty’?”
“Maybe,” Cody says, “But I’d think it was odd for any cop to be down there. I mean, you can’t even drive within fifteen miles of the Wildlife Area. What if I’d found your body out there, what should I think? Would you be off duty?”
Slater stiffens, folds his arms and takes a moment to appraise Cody. “What’s your purpose, here?” He says. “We can’t figure why Wheaton was out in the swamp, so you got to be a dickhead, is that it?”
“Both of you chill,” Hansen says. “We don’t have time for this bullshit. “Look, Cody, we don’t know how Wheaton got there. We haven’t found his vehicle, haven’t talked with anyone who knows what he was doing last night. Truth is we don’t have squat. We’re not trying to mess with your partner’s rep, this is not a witch hunt but you know how it works, we have to check every angle.” Then, looking hard at Cody, Hansen says, “But if you’ve been out of touch, as you say, how do you know he wasn’t doing something he shouldn’t have been?”
“Because I know Nick,” Cody says. “Besides the fact he wouldn’t, under any circumst
ance, be there for the wrong reasons, Nick hates the swamp, he hates the outdoors. If he was in Biloxi, he was working a case.”
The two detectives seem to accept the answer for the moment, but Cody knows what they are doing. He knows they won’t be working it too hard just yet. The full court press will come later.
“I’m curious,” Slater says, using his drawl, stretching it out. “How did Wheaton get along with the other cops in District Six?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cody says.
A thin smile. “We both know what it means,” Slater says. “Six is not the best place for white folks and I’m just wondering if someone down there might have cause to harm him, that’s all.”
“C’mon,” Cody says. “What’re you doing?”
“Excuse me?” Slater says, his smile fading.
“Don’t jack me around. You’re really asking how Nick did working up District Six?”
“Hey,” Hansen says, his voice sharp and tight, no more Officer Friendly. “We’re trying to figure out what happened to your partner. If you think that means we’re jacking you around then I fail to see your point.”
“It’s either that,” Cody says. “Or you haven’t done your homework. Nick was black.” Cody gave Slater a look and says, “So I guess District Six wouldn’t be a problem, would it?”
Hansen and Slater glance at each other. Cody tries to read their faces. Are they surprised or just pretending?
“You sure about that?” Hansen says. “We were under the impression he was white.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Cody says. His eyes widened. “Holy shit, you’re serious. You really didn’t know he was black.”