The Girl on the Edge of Summer

by J. M. Redmann

  I went up to the bar, ordered a couple of sodas and a big order of cheese fries to let her cry herself out.

  When I returned with the sodas, Sophia said firmly, “We can’t talk about this anymore. It’s too upsetting.” Aided by Alan, who seemed lost amidst the teen girl angst, she resolutely kept to her word. I tried a few questions, but she always said, “We’re not talking about that,” and then launched into a discussion of TV shows I’d never heard of or boy bands I knew nothing about.

  I had to settle for interjecting when she took a breath, “If you know anything, anything at all that might relate to Eddie’s murder, you need to tell the police.”

  I got an eye roll and a bare nod that made me suspect adults were the last people they would go to with their problems.

  I gave up, headed to the quiet end of the bar to get my burger and fries and talk with Mary about adult things like movies we’d both seen.

  Later, as I walked back to my car, I contemplated what I’d learned. It boiled down to teenagers keeping secrets. But secrets about what? As Janice had blurted out, Tiffany had told her—them?—about what Eddie was doing, and they didn’t see how troubled she was. Was that where the shame and guilt came from? It was, I had to admit, certainly enough. Had it ended there? There were other undercurrents I couldn’t tease out. Sophia had a crush on Janice, Janice had one on Alan, and Alan was looking at the boys. Both Sophia and Janice had been vehement enough that I believed them when they claimed they had been nowhere near the garage. But it felt like shades of truth. If Eddie was true to form, he would have hit on all of Tiffany’s friends. Sophia wouldn’t have been interested, except to be with her friends. Janice might have, at least initially, been flattered by the attention of an older male, even if he was supposedly dating her friend. What girl / woman isn’t at least intrigued by “I don’t really love her, you’re so much more beautiful, alluring, etc.”

  I’d had a second beer with my burger, and that was not nearly enough to wade through all this teenage Sturm and Drang.

  I needed to keep to my promise to Joanne. Stay out of it.

  When I got home, I considered another beer but found I was too tired. Time for bed and to deal with things in the morning light.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I started to get dressed to go to the office, but then realized it was a Saturday. Where had the days gone?

  Oh, yes, a last-minute security job for a longtime client. They had a special event Thursday night and needed me for several days early in the mornings for setup and late at night to follow through, so my hours had been jerked around more than usual. The night of the event had gone well into the early hours of the morning—I was being paid well and couldn’t complain. And the days had gone.

  Brandon had texted at the last minute—just as I was parking in the pizza place lot—to let me know he couldn’t make it. His excuse was his mother; she needed him to help with cleaning the hall closet. The details and the tone—disappointment—made me inclined to believe him. I’d tried to fit him in with my crazy days, but he had canceled once and vaguely replied once. I still needed to take care of that.

  I suggested today, but he hadn’t responded yet.

  The huffiness of his last text made me wonder about the others. There had been no excuse like mothers or teacher, just that he couldn’t make it. Was it because he was doing something he wanted to do? Like hang with the big boys at the garage and imagine he was a cool kid, too?

  Or was he just in a hurry and didn’t have time for a longer answer?

  If the police were going to raid the garage, it would be soon. Evidently kids these days (get off my lawn!) don’t actually talk on phones, only text. Or send pictures they shouldn’t. I’d called twice, had to settle both times for leaving a vague voice mail. He promised via text that we would meet up this weekend. I had to hope it was soon enough.

  Even though it was the weekend, I headed for my office. Home felt too empty, too easy to sink into doing nothing of use just to pass the time. I did not need to explore new games to play on my phone. The battery life was short enough as it was.

  The coffee shop downstairs was busy. Raspberry crème lattes were the special today.

  I’d make my own coffee in my office. Black, freshly ground beans.

  While waiting for it to brew, I sat at my desk. Glanced at my calendar.

  Shit. I’d agreed to do the coffee / drinks date this morning with the woman I’d met online.

  In an hour.

  A drink sounded like a nice idea. Bloody Mary, so it would be appropriate for the time of day.

  I had checked her profile after her message She was about ten years older than I, in her mid-fifties, and the face in the photo matched her age, a little on the skinny side for my taste, but that was just crass looks. She lived in the Baton Rouge area, wrote in complete sentences, and didn’t claim she liked moonlit walks on the beach or any other such meaningless clichés.

  She suggested meeting at the Carousel Bar at the Monteleone. I had considered suggesting Riley & Finnegan—that was more my style. But I didn’t want to start being seen there before noon, and a woman from Baton Rouge might not be up for a dive queer bar.

  So back home it was. I changed from my too-big (but so comfortable) jeans to my decent black jeans, nice gray sweater, and a deep-purple suit jacket. I rarely had occasion to wear it, and this one seemed like it might fit. I glanced over myself in the mirror. Respectable, but still looking enough like me to be honest.

  “In any case, it’ll have to do,” I told my image.

  I really needed to get a cat. At least then I’d have an excuse to talk to myself.

  The Monteleone is a hefty walk from my house. Imagine a rectangle. I live at the upper corner of one side and it’s on the lower corner of the other side, with the French Quarter being the quadrangle. Given the parking zoo at that end of the Quarter, it was a toss-up whether driving or walking was faster. Walking, however, was cheaper, and I wouldn’t get stuck in traffic.

  Walk I did, dodging around tourists like the pro New Orleanian I am.

  I got there just as the hour was ending. The bar was the usual tourist busy, no seats available at the carousel that gave the bar its name. I scanned for a woman looking like the picture I’d seen of her.

  I finally found her in the far corner near the back bar.

  She saw me, nodded a welcome, and indicated a saved chair.

  I sat down. “Hi, I’m Michele.”

  “I’m Jacqueline,” she replied, holding out her hand.

  I shook it; it was a feminine handshake, almost limp. I wondered how many drinks before we would become Jackie and Micky. She already had one in front of her.

  “Are you here on business?” I asked. “Or is this pleasure?”

  “A bit of both,” she answered, snapping her fingers for the barmaid.

  At my look, she said, “I come here a lot. As a regular customer, I expect better service than some tourist who’ll never be back.”

  Once she got the waiter’s attention, she turned back to me. “And you? You live here? What do you do?”

  I ordered a Bloody Mary—my preferred drink, a Sazerac, was a little too much alcohol for this time in the morning—then answered her questions, I lived here, I was a private detective. Those begot more questions, how long, how did I end up in that career.

  I was halfway through my drink before realizing she was controlling the conversation, learning about me while revealing little about herself.

  Instead of answering her next question, I said, “How about you? Where do you live? And what do you do?”

  She answered the first question at length. Outside of Baton Rouge, in a “safe” location. A gated community. A nice big house, her dream home, with a pool and several fireplaces. It was filled with the finer things in life.

  I almost asked what the finer things were, but I knew what the answer would be—the things money can buy.

  No, I didn’t expect her to be the love of my l
ife—the new love of my life. But it would have been nice to have someone to do things with, dinner, movies, all the activities I hadn’t done because they’re not much fun when you do them alone.

  I ordered a second drink.

  She looked at her watch.

  “Oh, the time has escaped me,” she said, her tone telling me escape wasn’t possible, the time was tightly corralled. She had allotted about an hour for me, and that hour was over. “I have another appointment I have to be going to.”

  I wondered if this was true, or if she was just a higher-class version of my first date. If I made the grade, she would have suggested lunch; if not, then another appointment appeared.

  “Time has a way of escaping in New Orleans, doesn’t it?” I agreed politely. In truth, the hour had been enough for me as well.

  But my voice wasn’t as hidden as I intended.

  “I really do have an appointment, and I am sorry. I have enjoyed your company,” she said. A smile. A genuine smile. “Perhaps we can get together again?” Politeness cracked, yearning slipped through.

  I had been insulted when I thought she was blowing me off. Now I wished that was the case. I considered the polite no, saying yes but never setting a time. Like she wasn’t even worth being honest with.

  “Thank you, but it doesn’t seem like we have enough in common in what we want out of life. I wish you well,” I said.

  She looked at me. Finally said, “Am I really worse than being lonely? It’s not a kind world out there, not for women alone.”

  “No, you’re not worse than being lonely. But I’m not lonely. I’m just being honest. I thought you deserved that.”

  “Thank you,” she said, without looking at me, then got up and left.

  I slowly sipped the last of my drink, watched the people around me. Maybe I was lonely, but her finer things weren’t my finer things. Don’t get me wrong, I truly love my washer and dryer; there is nothing so freeing as being able to do laundry at midnight in a stained T-shirt, being able to afford at least the middle-of-the-shelf Scotch, a reliable car. But they’re nice, I appreciate them, I don’t bend my life to chase them.

  I finished my drink, paid the bill—she had left it for me—and walked home. Alone.

  Halfway there my phone rang.

  Joanne.

  “Hey,” I answered, hastening my steps to get to a quieter street. Good news or bad news, I didn’t want to listen while walking by people on the street.

  “I shouldn’t be calling you, but I am,” she opened.

  “Thank you.”

  “There may not be much thanks when I’m done.” Without giving me a chance to reply, she continued, “Yeah, you were right about the garage being a drug den. Meth, heroin with enough fentanyl to cut it with to cause more overdoses than we want to think about. They were stupid, like most crooks. Bought shiny new trucks in their own names. A bunch of cash deposits to bank accounts. We’ve found porn on the computers, but it looks more like it was for personal use, no signs of distribution.”

  “But if they were doing it electronically, would that show?”

  “The computer guys are still digging. I’m guessing so, but we’ll have to see.” She continued, “We did find a gun, the one thrown in the canal. Again, stupid. They didn’t throw it very far and it was close to the water line, visible if anyone was looking for it.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “Yes and no. It’s not the murder weapon. Wrong type of gun. It looks to be a hot gun, serial number scratched off, probably used in crimes and they needed to get rid of it.”

  I crossed Rampart before answering. “That’s not good news.”

  “It is for them. Not so much for you.”

  “But if Eddie was involved with them, drugs and money are big motives for offing someone. Eddie let his girlfriend see the drugs. That alone could be enough for them to think he was a too-loose end.”

  “Great theory. We’ve interviewed the girlfriend, and she’s playing dumb. Has no idea what we’re talking about.”

  “You don’t believe her, do you?”

  “She’s not fooling even the JP cops. You did not hear me say that,” Joanne added. “But knowing she’s lying isn’t getting us the truth. The one piece of good news for you is that we canvassed Mrs. Stevens’ block and one neighbor thinks she heard a gunshot. But she can’t remember which day or the time, and unfortunately ‘doddering’ is a word that could be easily used to describe her.”

  “Great,” I said, pausing on my front steps. Today might be the day to go home and spend the rest of it watching mindless TV.

  “It might be useful in leaning on Mrs. Stevens. If he tells her another neighbor remembers hearing a shot, it might jog her memory. She can’t very well claim she didn’t hear it from in front of her house when someone at the other end of the block heard it. Her ‘I want to be left alone’ ploy is wearing thin.”

  “You think she did it?”

  “Honestly, no. But I think she’s covering up something. She could pick up the phone to call his workplace, but she’s not the type to confront him alone late at night in a dark parking lot.”

  I had to agree with that. Given that she called me to come help her when he was at her house in daylight. “My guess is she thinks—or knows—either her husband or son did it and is protecting them. If I’m the suspect, then they’re not.”

  “Maybe. But the husband has a good alibi. Or a watertight alibi. They were out at a club, his new girlfriend was upset with the drink service and made a stink about it. They were arguing with the manager and the bartender when Eddie was being killed.” She sighed, then added, “Obviously, if I thought you had anything to do with this, I wouldn’t be telling you this.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “The problem is I don’t see Alan, her son, as that kind of killer, either.”

  “You know him?”

  I told Joanne about meeting him at Mary’s bar. “I don’t see that kind of anger in him.”

  “Interesting,” she said. “The JP cops interviewed him, and all I got from that was he claimed to know nothing and was a student at LSU. Nothing about him being gay or knowing his sister’s friends.”

  “It’s not something he’d likely bring up to a burly suburban cop. I think he’s worried either his mother or father might have done it. So either he’s a great actor or he didn’t do it.”

  “I trust your instincts on this, but it makes it puzzling. It wasn’t a quick execution to shut someone up. It was personal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She was quiet, then said, “I can’t give details, but think about it. Drug gang wants to shut up a loose end. How do they do it?”

  “Quick bullet to the head. Dump the body someplace it’s not likely to be found.”

  “Exactly. Now, how do you kill someone you hate, who took a picture of a young girl and used it to coerce her into sex?”

  “Are you asking to see if I know the details of the murder?”

  “No. I’m using you to bounce ideas off of. I need an intelligent conversation about this case. This is, by the way, totally off the record.”

  I smiled, a small one. Joanne had moved from neutral to believing I wasn’t the murderer. It would be nicer to have actual evidence that cleared me, but this was a civilized step.

  “If the murder was about how he used the young girls, then it probably had a sexual element to it. Cut off the genitals and stuff them in his mouth?”

  “Not that gruesome, but there were more bullets fired at his groin than his chest.”

  “What if the drug dealers wanted to make it look like it was sexual? Or they were jealous of how much action he was getting?”

  “Now you’re complicating things. Do the kinds of morons who can’t throw a gun at least into the middle of the canal strike you as the kind who would think of that?”

  “No,” I had to admit, thinking of the men chasing me. Even the smarter one was dumb.

  “So, that takes us back to someone who hated Edd
ie for his scumbag ways.”

  “But Tiffany wasn’t the only girl he used that way. He was too practiced at it to have started with her.”

  “We’re looking, but so far not much has turned up. We’ve only found one computer. If we can find a laptop or his phone or tablet, that might help. We’re still looking through the garage. Maybe it’s there.”

  “Maybe his killer took it.”

  “Possible—shit, I have another call. Have to take it. Stay out of trouble.”

  I clicked my phone off. No wonder the cops were focused on someone who would go after Eddie for the things he’d done to women—girls really, not women enough to realize what a slimly manipulator he was. I flicked back over the list of people. Mrs. Stevens, Alan, her husband might have hired someone, but again that wouldn’t have had this level of rage. But as I had told Joanne, Fast Eddie had to have left more victims than just Tiffany. There could be any number of people with reasons to want Fast Eddie gone from this earth.

  Except for the timing. His murder was close to her suicide. Coincidence? Or cause?

  I needed to go back and look at the dates of her death and his murder.

  I entered my house.

  Or maybe I needed to leave this alone. Let the police with their resources do the investigation. Obey Joanne’s request to stay out. Except for her to toss around ideas with.

  But it nagged at me.

  Instead of staying home, I headed back to my office.

  As I was going up the stairs, Lady Jane was entering the door for the computer grannies.

  “Ah, Micky,” she said on seeing me. “I have something for you. The deep data dive. Come grab it and save me walking up a flight to put it under your door.”

  “What are you doing here on the weekend?”

  “It’s quiet. And claiming important work to do gets me out of babysitting the terrible-twos grandbaby.” She gave me a conspiratorial wink.

  I followed her in and she picked up a folder from her desk, handing it to me.