by Greg Herren
“It’s bigger than the old one,” I said, getting the frames out of the bags.
“Yeah.” He held out the joint to me as I set the frames down on the couch. “I figured we might as well upgrade. If anyone asks—”
“By anyone you mean Taylor?” I popped the glass out of one of the frames and put one of the pictures inside, replacing the glass. “What are we going to tell him?”
“I don’t know. I hate lying to him.” Frank finished with the remote, and the Amazon Prime screen popped up. He punched in our account name and the password, and our watch list came up. “Everything’s all set now.” He placed the remote on the coffee table and sat down on the couch to help me.
“I don’t want to lie to him either,” I replied, working on another frame. “But with this Eric Brewer mess—”
“Murder.” Frank interrupted me. “We have to say it, Scotty. Eric Brewer was murdered, and Taylor was there. We can’t pretend.” The muscle in his jaw that always jumps when he’s angry started twitching. “Brewer’s lucky he’s already dead.”
“Yeah.” I reframed another picture. “Although I imagine once Venus and Blaine are finished watching the security camera footage, Taylor will be in the clear, and we’ll know who killed him. Chloe, on the other hand…”
“Don’t you think it makes the most sense for Remy Valence to be the killer?” Frank took the pictures I’d finished framing and started hanging them on the walls again. “He had a reason to kill Brewer, and I’m sure he had plenty of reasons to kill his wife.”
“Yeah.” I slid the glass back into the last frame and held it out to him. “We also have to consider…” I hesitated. “We have to consider that Taylor may have killed him.”
Once the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could take them back. I couldn’t imagine any world where Taylor—sweet, sweet Taylor—would, or could, actually kill someone. But he’d been drugged, and he’d had a sazerac at the bar and some wine at the Joy Theater before we even got to that stupid party.
That stupid fucking party—I’d never be able to forgive myself for agreeing to go.
“I know.” Frank’s voice was grim as he sat down next to me on the couch. He put his arm around my shoulders, and I leaned into him. “Much as I don’t want to think it, we have to think about it. We don’t know what went on up there after they got back from wherever they were.”
I could hear his heart beating. He was so warm. “Taylor said the last place he remembered being at was the Brass Rail.” I glanced at my watch. “Whoever was working there last night is probably working tonight. Maybe we should head over there and ask some questions before it gets busy.”
He tensed. I knew he hated the Brass Rail, would never go in there in again if he could avoid it. I hadn’t been there in a while myself.
The Brass Rail was a sleazy gay strip club in the upper Quarter, near where the straight strip clubs were on Bourbon. The Brass Rail wasn’t on Bourbon Street but stood on a corner on a side street. It was just two big rooms. The rectangular bar was in the front room, and in the back room there was a pool table and video poker machines. It was like any number of other neighborhood bars in the city except, of course, for the strippers. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t judge anyone for stripping. I used to be a stripper when I was younger and prettier, and I enjoyed every minute of it.
But the Brass Rail was different.
The guys…well, the guys who stripped there were an eclectic mix. Every possible type you could imagine, from muscle boys to twinks. Some of the guys who worked there were straight. Some of them stripped to pay for drug habits. Some of them were for hire, would do a lap dance for you in the back room, would let you stroke their dick or stick a finger in their ass for a twenty. Frank hated the place the first time I ever took him there, thought the dancers were being exploited and felt bad for them. I’d never really thought about it that way before, but he had a point. I always thought it was just kind of a campy, fun place to go and have a few beers, look at some skin, maybe see a naked penis. I’d never thought of the guys’ lives outside of the place, and Frank kind of made me see that…so I never even thought about going in there myself anymore.
“It’s work, Frank, not for fun,” I reminded him. “If someone there remembers Taylor being there, and the condition he was in when he left…”
“I know. I just hate going there.”
“I can go by myself if you’d rather not,” I replied. “That might be better, really. You’re not really good at hiding how you feel, and—”
“You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.” I looked at my watch. “I’ll go around nine. There won’t be many people there then.”
My phone started ringing. It was Storm. “Hey, Storm, I’m putting you on speaker so Frank can hear. What’s up?”
I could tell he was in his car. “I just got off the phone with Venus and Blaine. I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.”
I glanced at Frank. “Bad news first.”
He whistled. “The bad news is there’s no security camera footage from last night. The Aquitaine’s system crashed last night around seven o’clock, and it’s still not back online right now. So…yeah.”
“Fuck fuck fuckety fuck.” We’d all been counting on the footage not only to back up Taylor’s story but to see who else had gone into the penthouse. “What’s the good news?”
“The good news is that there are records of the times key cards were used to open Eric’s penthouse door. Venus is going to send me electronic copies, I’ll send them over to you once I get them. But she did tell me key cards were used three times to open the door between three thirty and four fifteen in the morning. We have to assume Eric only used his card once, so at least one other person used a card to open that door twice more. So that right there is enough reasonable doubt to keep them from filing any charges against Taylor.”
“Thank God,” Frank said.
“Also, the murder weapon was not recovered at the scene.” Storm exhaled. “That also works in our favor. It’s possible Taylor might have left to get rid of the murder weapon and let himself back in, but it doesn’t make much sense…plus it doesn’t account for all of the unlocking. So, yeah. It also looks like Chloe Valence was killed with a similar type weapon. Has Loren McKeithen gotten in touch with you yet?”
“No.”
“He might be over at Mom and Dad’s. He was heading down there to talk to Taylor. You two need to make yourselves available to him and listen to what he has to say. And whatever you do, do not ask Taylor any questions that aren’t cleared by Loren. I cannot emphasize this enough, guys. Listen to Loren, and remember—he works for Taylor, not for us. Taylor is his client no matter who’s paying the bills. Do not do anything he tells you not to do.”
I looked over at Frank. He nodded. “We got it, Storm, and thank you.”
“He’s my nephew, too. Catch ya later.” He disconnected the call.
I leaned back against Frank’s chest, and he stretched out along the sofa, with me curled up alongside him. “The police are going to be looking long and hard at Remy,” Frank said as I felt myself drifting off to sleep. “I wouldn’t want to be Remy Valence right now.”
Chapter Eight
Three of Cups, Reversed
Beware of gossip from an old friend
It was raining again when I left the house at quarter till nine.
I paused at the bottom of the stairs and wrapped my muffler around my neck more tightly. There was about an inch of water in the courtyard, and water was still spilling over the side of the fountain. Loren McKeithen hadn’t called yet, but I was tired of waiting around. I wanted—needed—to do something other than sitting around smoking pot. If asking questions at the Brass Rail could help back up Taylor’s story, well, I’d probably have better luck with their clientele than the cops.
Taylor was still staying at Mom and Dad’s.
Much as I hated him not being home with us, it was the best option we had right now.
He’d have too many questions about the apartment, for one thing—there’s no way he wouldn’t notice the missing rug or the new television or the new frames for the art—and telling him the truth wasn’t an option. I’d napped for a couple of hours and when I’d gotten up, Frank and I both agreed it was best to keep Taylor out of the Colin mess as much as possible.
The longer we had before we had to come up with a cover story for the changes in the apartment, the better.
Sure, eventually we’d have to deal with it, but later was better.
And there was also the little matter of it not being safe. I didn’t want Taylor to be around in case another Russian operative showed up looking to kill Colin.
So, when Mom called around seven to let us know Taylor was doing as well as could be expected but she thought it was a better idea for him to stay there overnight, we didn’t argue with her. Mom and Dad’s TLC and spoiling was exactly what he needed right now—and no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t spoil anyone the way Mom could.
It also broke my heart that his own mother wasn’t there for him.
I hoped I’d get the chance to slap the snot out of Teresa Sobieski Wheeler at some future date—even if it meant driving up to Corinth, Alabama, myself to make it happen.
When I went out the front gate I checked to see if anyone was watching the place. I didn’t spot anyone who looked out of place or suspicious. I locked the gate behind me and walked to the corner. There weren’t many people out on the street. The cold must have everyone bundled up warm inside. All the doors to Café Envie were closed, and most of their tables were empty. I thought about getting a hot chocolate with some brandy to warm me as I walked the ten blocks or so to the Rail but decided not to.
If it got too cold and wet for me, I could always flag a cab or summon a Lyft.
I kept my head down as I walked up Chartres Street. The Rail wasn’t near the other gay bars or the Fruit Loop, as we locals called the stretch from the 700 Club to Café Lafitte in Exile at Dumaine and Bourbon. It was actually right up the street from the Royal Aquitaine—the longest walk from my apartment for any of the Quarter gay bars. I cut over to Dauphine at Dumaine. The lights were on at Mom and Dad’s, and I decided I’d stop by on my way back home to make sure Taylor was fine. Mom and Dad were usually up all night anyway, their apartment was about halfway between the Brass Rail and my place, and I could warm up there. I hated leaving Frank alone at home by himself, but he said it was okay—he wanted to do some online research and was also going to keep trying to reach Angela Blackledge.
I felt better than I had. Spending some time napping and cuddling Frank was just what I’d needed. I still needed more sleep, but I wasn’t tired as I’d been, and my mind was functional.
I couldn’t stop wondering how the Russian could have gotten into our apartment. If he’d been waiting for Colin—how did he get in? Neither the front gate nor the door to the garage had been tampered with. There were no signs of forced entry on my apartment door. The shutters had been latched from the inside and the windows locked.
Could Colin have been lying?
It wouldn’t be the first time Colin had lied to me, to us, but this was the first time I’d wound up as an accessory after the fact.
If I’d come home twenty minutes earlier…
I pushed that thought out of my head.
I was feeling pretty frozen all the way through when I finally got to the Brass Rail. It was too early for anyone to be working the front door charging cover and checking IDs, but a couple of guys were standing around outside shivering and smoking cigarettes. Dancers, most likely. Eric was into younger guys, so of course he’d want to go to the Rail.
But the guys who danced at the Rail? Some of them danced there to pay for their drug habits, others had a wife and a baby at home and this was the best way for them to make some money, and some of them could be had for as little as twenty bucks. Rail dancers rarely made the transition to the other gay clubs where they could make more money…but then, who knows? Maybe they made more money than I had dancing at the Pub.
Stop being such an elitist snob, I told myself as I pulled the front door open, a blast of warm air washing over me.
Oh, yeah, I was definitely taking a cab home.
An old Donna Summer song was playing softly in the background. The televisions were all tuned in to a showing of It’s a Wonderful Life on some cable channel—George and Mary were walking home from the dance where they’d fallen into the swimming pool. The lights above the bar were on, and it was brighter inside than I ever remembered seeing it. There was a Christmas tree in the back room, past the pool table, where a couple of shirtless tattooed young men were playing. Their sweatpants hung down low enough to show their underwear. Dancers, most likely. Christmas lights twinkled along the bar. The guy behind the bar was pouring a vodka tonic for one of the two men sitting near the cash register. They were the only non-employees in the place. Both appeared to be older men, late fifties, maybe early sixties, and were sitting at the bar as far from the door as they could get. I shivered again as I took a seat at the other side of the bar.
“Scotty! Long time no see! How you doing?” the bartender asked as he put a napkin down in front of me. “What can I get you?”
“Something hot,” I replied, casting around in the darkest recesses of my brain to try to conjure up the bartender’s name without luck. He looked familiar, and I’m pretty sure at one time I’d known his name. I was surprised to see him still working there. I met him back when my old workout partner David and I would come down here after a few drinks at the Pub or Good Friends to kill some time and slip some dollars to the dancers…but whoa, that was over fourteen years ago. This same bartender had worked here then. He was short, maybe five feet five on a good day, and I’d always thought he was cute back then. He had a compact little body and had always been in good shape. He looked the same, only now there was some gray in his dark hair and lines on his face I didn’t remember.
It really pissed me off I couldn’t remember his name.
Oh, well, I figured. At least I hadn’t slept with him. That would have been worse.
Or had I?
Stupid aging memory.
“You really don’t want our coffee,” he replied with a grin. “It’s terrible even when it’s fresh. How about a hot buttered rum?”
“That’ll work,” I replied. I wasn’t a fan of rum, but something warm sounded good, and butter is never the wrong choice. “Were you working last night, by chance?”
“Every night except Monday and Tuesday,” he replied, pouring some rum and a dollop of butter into a coffee mug.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the photos till I found a good one of Taylor. “Do you remember seeing this guy last night?”
He finished making my drink and placed the steaming cup on the counter. I wrapped my cold hands around it, the warmth tingling through my hands and making me tingle a little bit. I took a sip. It was perfect. The rum and the hot water warmed me up from the inside as he looked at my phone, and the butter made the rum somehow taste richer and sweeter.
He frowned. “I’ve seen him around, yes. But I—” He gave me a wish-I-could-help-but look. “I work five nights a week, people look familiar. I couldn’t swear to it he was here last night. You care if I ask Leonard and Sam?” He gestured over his shoulder to the two older guys sitting at the other side of the bar.
“By all means.” I took another sip. It was warming me up, and the glow was starting to spread down my arms and legs. I’d have to get some rum for the house and learn how to make these, I thought. Who knew hot buttered rum was the perfect antidote for being cold?
The bartender carried my phone over to the other men, and I could barely hear what he asked them. One of the men looked over the top of his glasses at my phone and then looked around the bartender at me. “Your young man was here last night,” he called over to me. “I saw him. But he wasn’t alone.”
I picked up my mug and walked arou
nd the bar. I took my phone from the bartender and slipped it back into my pocket. “So, you saw him?”
He nodded, nudging the other man with his elbow. “Right, Sam? This is that tall kid you thought was so cute.” He gave me a look. “Better looking than most of the guys dancing last night.”
Sam tilted his head back and looked at my phone, squinting. “Yeah, that’s the kid who was with that television asshole. The Grande Dames guy.” He snorted. “Never liked that guy on television, either. And he drugged that boy, if you ask me.”
That got my attention. “What do you mean? Did you see him do something?”
“And what’s it to you, anyway?” Sam asked me, a suspicious look on his face. “What business is it of yours?”
There were several ways I could play this: I could whip out one of my business cards and present this as a case I was investigating—which was true. Or I could play the concerned uncle card, which was also true.
Or I could do both.
I exhaled. “The tall kid is my nephew.” I pulled out my wallet and slapped one of my business cards down on the bar, along with a ten for my hot buttered rum. “He was out with this Eric Brewer last night, and the last thing he remembers is being here. He swears he wasn’t drinking, but he doesn’t remember anything after getting here.” I shrugged. “It sounds to me like this Eric Brewer dude might have slipped him something.”
Leonard snapped his fingers. “Eric Brewer. That’s his name. Yeah, they were here last night. Remember, Marty?” he said to the bartender, who was putting my change down on the bar along with a receipt. “Brewer was making a big deal out of being a TV star, tipping the dancers with fives and tens, buying people drinks.” He turned back to me. “Your nephew is right, he wasn’t drinking.”
“Only ordered water.” Marty the bartender nodded. “I remember now. He was here last night, with Mr. Big Shot. I didn’t know who the guy was, I don’t watch much television—I’m always here at night. But my barback last night, Felipe, knew him from TV.” Marty shook his head. “I didn’t pay much attention. But he was drinking Bombay Sapphire martinis. Extra olives, and dirty. He bitched because we didn’t have glasses.” He rolled his eyes.