by Polly Iyer
“Thanks,” Diana said. “How did I miss coming here? Looks like a fun place.”
“It is. Come on in. A drink for both of you, on the house.”
“I’ll pay,” Lucier said. “I don’t want you to think I’m on the take, especially when I’m here partly on business.”
“Suit yourself.” She waved over another tall, gorgeous woman and said, “Table twenty.” Turning to Lucier, “We’ll have some privacy. Meanwhile, enjoy the music. We’re mourning the loss of Keys, so it isn’t as raucous as usual. I’ll be over as soon as I can.”
The second woman directed them to a quiet table off to the side but with a perfect view of the combo playing jazz on the small stage. Lucier ordered an Abita Amber, Diana scotch and soda.
“Diluting your scotch?”
“I know, and I hate it. This way I won’t drink as much. I told you I was going to cut back, and I have.”
“You can fool yourself, but you’re drinking the same amount of scotch. I’m proud of you anyway.”
“Okay, you got me. The drink lasts longer, so I only have one.”
“I’m not monitoring you, Diana. How much you drink or don’t drink is your decision. Always has been. You’re a big girl.”
“Thank you, darling.” She scoped out the bar. “Interesting crowd. Kitty is some dish. You two ever have anything going?”
“Are you serious?”
“Well, kinda. Why?”
“Kitty ain’t a she. Neither is the woman who seated us.”
Diana turned so fast, her hair flipped onto her shoulder. Kitty was looking straight at her with a shit-eating grin. Diana pivoted around just as fast.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You, who’ve worked Vegas? I thought you’d know immediately.”
Diana had worked clubs around the world, seen it all from an early age. She remembered the first time she’d seen transvestites and transsexuals in Thailand. She couldn’t believe how beautiful and delicate they were. Definitely more female in stature than tall Miss Kitty, who had to be close to six feet. “I usually can. There are always telltale signs, the Adam’s apple for one. I guess she’s gone through some surgery.”
“Don’t know. Won’t ask.”
“And here I thought she was making a pass at you.”
“Oh, she’s hit on me and a lot of guys to get their reaction. A miracle someone hasn’t punched out her lights when they found out she’s not a she. Well, she is, in a way.”
Diana thought Lucier’s confusion about Miss Kitty rather charming.
Their drinks came, brought by the second gorgeous woman, who winked at Lucier. When she left, a small, mixed-race guy dressed like either a pimp or a gangster sat down across the table from Diana. At least she thought he was a guy. Diana decided he was wearing more of a costume depicting the saloon-like theme of the bar rather than what he’d wear after hours.
“Business or pleasure, Lieutenant, or shouldn’t I ask?”
“Both. Emile Gaudet, this is ―”
“Diana Racine,” Gaudet said. “I’m honored to have you in my club, madame.”
“The pleasure’s mine.”
“Emile and Miss Kitty are partners, in business and in life. Isn’t that right, Emile?”
“Correct.” He cast his gaze at Miss Kitty, greeting someone at the door, now with a cosmopolitan in her hand. He turned to Diana. “She’s lovely, isn’t she?”
Diana glanced at Miss Kitty’s backless gown. Backless to the crack in her ass, with skin as smooth and hairless as a newborn’s. “She makes me feel like a boy.”
Emile exploded with a deep belly laugh, shaking the table and the drinks on top. “I heard you could be irreverent to your audience. Now I believe it.”
Lucier’s smirk at Diana faded quickly.
“Tell me about Keys, Emile. Who’d want to kill him?”
“I don’t know,” Emile said, “and that’s the God’s truth. We’re devastated here. Best damn piano player in the Quarter. Anywhere, maybe.”
“Lovers?”
“Keys was a private man, but Kitty and I think he had someone special. A cop.”
Lucier glanced at Diana. “What makes you think that?”
“A gray Crown Vic picked him up after his gig some nights. We get a lot of cops in here. Could’ve been a friend.”
“The night he was murdered?”
Emile scanned the club. “Don’t recall exactly. Might’ve been. I go out for a smoke most nights. Saw Keys get in the car on Royal. Dark night. Dark windows.”
Miss Kitty came over and pulled the empty chair nearer Emile. She waved at the waitress and circled the table with her burgundy-painted fingertip, indicating another round of drinks. “Now don’t say a word, Lieutenant. Nothing wrong with a friend buying you and your lady a drink.”
“As long as you remember it buys you nothing in return.”
“I know that. Word is you’re the straightest cop on the force, and I mean that both ways.”
“Yeah, dammit,” Emile said. “Always thought we’d make a great threesome.” Turning to Diana he said, “Unless you want to join in.”
Diana didn’t know if he was serious or not, so she smiled and said, “Thanks, but one guy is all I can handle. Three is way too many.”
“Who’s the third, honey?” Miss Kitty asked.
Blood rushed to Diana’s face until she burned major heat. “I mean, I ―”
“Probably best not to say anything else, sweetheart,” Lucier said. “You’ve already dug yourself in deep enough.”
Diana put on her best apologetic face. “Sorry, Miss Kitty. No offense.”
“None taken, I don’t think.” Kitty grinned.
“Emile was telling us about the car that picked up Keys the night he was murdered.” Lucier said.
Emile shook his head. “Now don’t go putting words in my mouth. I didn’t say it was that night. I just said it was a cop.”
“Who?” Lucier demanded.
“Emile didn’t see anyone, did you, honey?”
“I did. It was Denny Chenault. I know for a fact.”
Lucier sat up straighter. “Chenault?”
“Yeah, he’s been in here dozens of times. Loved to listen to Keys play.”
“But that’s all,” Miss Kitty said. “I never saw them interact much. Never liked that guy. Cocky SOB. Keys had better taste.”
“Were Chenault and Moran lovers?”
“That stud?” Kitty said.
Emile leaned in. “Like Kitty said, he never showed an interest in Keys, only his music. Chenault only hit on the female waitresses. We have a couple of straight ones working for us. He knew the others weren’t really women; he just joshed with them. A couple of times he came in with a woman, the real thing.”
“Watch it, Emile,” Miss Kitty warned.
“You know what I mean, honey.”
Miss Kitty smoothed her hair. “Appearances don’t mean much around here, Lieutenant. Who knows what people do behind closed doors.”
“I agree,” Lucier said. “Or Chenault and Moran could have been into something other than carnal pleasure.”
“There’s always that,” Miss Kitty said. “Whatever floats your boat.”
The second round of drinks came, along with a large appetizer of Cajun shrimp, plates, and mini forks.
“Oh, yum.” Diana picked up a fork and speared a shrimp. “Delicious. This may become my favorite place.”
“Maybe you could do a reading every now and then, honey,” Miss Kitty said.
Diana almost choked on her shrimp. “Um, I doubt that. I’m retired.”
“So are a lot of the musicians who come here to play.”
“Musicians never retire,” Emile said.
Miss Kitty pinky-fingered the corners of her mouth. “Psychics don’t either, or else you wouldn’t keep helping the police.”
Diana plucked another shrimp. “I never intended to consult with the police. One thing led to another.”
Emile p
ut some more shrimp on Diana’s plate. “Fact is, cops come here for the music and the food. They don’t bother anyone, don’t mind the ambiance, if you get what I mean. Your Detective Beecher comes in with his wife. Now if that straight arrow enjoys our little club, can’t see why anyone would be bothered. Even your Captain Craven and a couple of the commanders drop in occasionally with a few of the brass.”
Miss Kitty leaned close to Lucier. “About every cop in New Orleans has passed through these doors.”
“Did Chenault ever come in with another cop?”
“Not that I remember, but you have to understand, I don’t follow the goings-on of my customers.”
Emile snorted.
Miss Kitty shot Emile a dirty look. “I don’t. The cops all talk when they get together. I overhear sometimes, but that’s all. I didn’t see Chenault super friendly with any of them. Saw him exchange words with Commander Lightner one time.”
“Angry words?” Lucier asked.
“No,” Miss Kitty said. “Secretive words. The commander kept looking around to see who was watching, like he didn’t want anyone to see them together.”
“But nothing buddy-buddy with Moran?” Lucier asked.
“Chenault admired his playing,” Emile said. “I never got the feeling there was anything personal.”
“Me either,” Miss Kitty said. “Maybe they went out for drinks together after Keys got off. No crime there.”
“What about the woman someone said Keys hung around with? Supposedly, she works here.”
“That’d be Maisie,” Kitty said. “She’s one of the straight ones. She and Keys were just friends.”
“Is she here?”
“Not tonight. She’ll be at his funeral. We all will. I’m closing down the club until the party we’re having for him after.”
“I’ll try to catch her there.”
“Can’t miss her,” Emile said. “She’s white and blonde. Tinier than Miss Diana.”
Diana listened while she snarfed down the plate of Cajun shrimp. “Did Keys have a locker here, someplace he stashed his things or changed clothes?”
Lucier smiled, added a wink.
“This is a small place. We have one tiny room in back,” Emile said. “Everyone uses it.”
Lucier sipped his drink. “Mind if we take a look?”
Miss Kitty and Emile exchanged glances.
“Maybe you should get a warrant,” Emile said.
Lucier nodded. “I can do that, and I’ll make sure we come during club hours.”
Emile shook his head. “You wouldn’t.”
“We have other employees,” Miss Kitty said. “I don’t want anyone to get in trouble if you find something you shouldn’t.”
Diana saw Lucier go into thinking mode. She loved his methodical ways.
“I’m only interested in Moran,” Lucier said. “You search. I’ll watch. How’s that?”
Again, the two owners looked at each other.
“What are we looking for?” Emile said.
“We’ll know when we find it.”
“Come on,” Miss Kitty said.
Diana popped one more shrimp into her mouth before she followed Lucier.
“See if you get any vibes,” Lucier whispered to Diana as they entered the small room at the back of the club.
“Oh, like that won’t be obvious.”
They spent fifteen minutes while Miss Kitty and Emile searched every corner of the room. All they found were changes of clothes and one cupboard where the ladies’ purses held nothing but some money and cosmetics. The only thing they found of Moran’s was a hat he sometimes wore during his performances. Nothing tucked into the hatband or inside the lining. The hat held no secrets Diana could detect. She roamed the room, touching the clothes and the pocketbooks, even got close enough to touch Emile, who spun around, frowned, and moved away.
An image flashed across Diana’s eyes. So that’s what he’s hiding. Guilt was a strange emotion. One that allowed her to see a person’s secrets. She avoided looking at him, and when everyone was satisfied there was nothing, they returned to the Kabaret.
“We’d better be going,” Lucier said. “Thanks for being accommodating.”
“Would you have gotten a warrant, Lieutenant?” Miss Kitty asked. “Barged in with a forensic team during business hours?”
Hesitating for a brief moment, Lucier shrugged. “Probably not. From what I know about Moran, he was too smart to stash something in a room that everyone could access. I hoped you’d let us look.”
“That’s what I like about you,” Miss Kitty said. “You tell the truth.”
Laughing, Lucier cocked his head toward Diana. “Can’t lie with her around.”
Emile tried to turn the tic in his cheek into a smile. “No, I guess not.” He escorted Diana to the door. “Nice to meet you, Miss Diana.” He whispered in her ear, “Please don’t tell on me.”
She played dumb, but she knew what he meant. “Same here, Emile. This is a cool place, and the shrimp is to die for. We’ll be back.”
Lucier said his goodbyes and they left.
“Did you expect to find anything?” Diana asked as they walked back to the district through the jostling New Orleans tourist crowd, where street musicians strummed and drummed, tooted and hooted. Mimes performed their immoveable statue acts.
“No, but I had to try. Moran’s computer was smashed. Was the shooter looking for something or trying to throw us off track? Why didn’t he tear up the rest of the place?”
“Because he knew what he was looking for was in the computer?”
“Possible.”
“Knowing Keys, he’d hide anything important behind so many trap doors, or however they do those things, only a master hacker like Keys himself could retrieve it. My guess is whoever trashed the hard drive knew that.”
“The tech department couldn’t extract anything.”
“Then your guess is as good as mine.”
Lucier took her hand. “By the way, what did Emile whisper to you?”
“Not to tell.”
“Tell what?”
“When I touched him, I saw something, and he knew it. Must’ve felt guilty.”
“Are you going to tell me or tease me?”
She debated. What good would telling Lucier do other than ruin the relationship between Emile and Miss Kitty? But she’d held back things from him before, and it always ended up biting her in the ass. “I saw him in an amorous situation with Keys.”
Lucier stopped in his tracks. “Jeez. Isn’t anyone monogamous?”
“Don’t tell, Ernie. I don’t know if their relationship was serious or a fling, but they had something.”
Lucier put both hands on her shoulders. “I won’t unless I have to, and you knew that before you told me. Emile might have killed Moran to keep him quiet. Hell, Miss Kitty could have found out and killed Moran herself.”
“Miss Kitty would probably kill Emile first, but ―”
“No buts, Diana. For once, no buts.”
Chapter Nine
A Man for All Seasons
Diana slid into the booth at the small French restaurant. Soft music, white tablecloth with roses in a crystal vase, and a bottle of estate Bordeaux, opened and ready to pour, confirmed again the special thought Lucier put into the evening.
“Lovely,” she said. “You’re a romantic.”
“Nothing’s too good for my lady,” he said.
“Now I’m blushing.”
A waiter brought a serving of brie en croute; the sommelier poured the wine. Diana cut two pieces of the cheese pastry and put one on each small plate. “Who’s Denny Chenault?”
“A cop with an ego the size of Texas,” Lucier said, once they had privacy. “He’s had affairs with more than a few women, including a couple of cops’ wives. Two divorces resulted from his cheating ways, plus his own.”
“Sounds like his escapades would have preceded him.”
“Being a cop’s wife isn’t easy, Diana. The divorc
e rate is high. Cops have breakdowns, commit suicide, PTSD, to name a few. Someone comes along and pays attention to a neglected wife, and, well, Chenault has a way of zeroing in on them. He’s usually successful, even with his womanizer’s reputation.
“When I was married, I tried not to bring home the bad stuff, but some crept in anyway. In the eight years since my wife and kids died, I answered only to myself. If I’m in a mood, no one suffers but me.”
“I’ve never seen your moods.”
“Because we don’t live together. You can’t do this every day without stress taking a toll. You see horrible things in this line of work ― abusive parents, dead kids, heinous murders.”
Lucier leveled those gold-flecked eyes at her, and her heart fluttered like a schoolgirl’s, especially when he confided his deepest thoughts, which wasn’t often.
“Nothing much bothers Chenault. He likes the streets, and the meaner the better. Violence, the next conquest, whether police business or a woman, is what gets him off. I doubt he ever second-guessed himself, no matter the result. Don’t get me wrong. He’s a good cop because he’s fearless, and he has his partner’s back.”
“How well do you know him?”
“We were at the academy together, so I know him well. Denny regarded everything as a competition, and I almost always beat him out ― on the shooting range, in written tests, and in physical fitness. I’m not saying this to brag but to explain why we could never be friends.
“He rationalizes his relationships to the wives by saying a happy woman wouldn’t cheat on her husband in the first place. He even made a pass at my wife at one of the police functions.” Lucier snorted. “Told her he liked ethnic variety.”
Lucier rarely talked about his dead wife and kids, and Diana never forced the conversation. Eight years passed between the death of his family and his life with her. He even wore his wedding ring those eight years until one night he took it off in front of her. His family memories were important, and she’d told him to keep them in his heart always. She meant it.
“Chenault hit on your wife when you were nearby?”
Lucier nodded. “She’d been to the ladies room, and he caught her in the lobby.”