by P. J. Tracy
The Tiara was in a crusty fringe neighborhood that clung to the hem of downtown's posh skirt, existing mostly below the radar, unless you were a hipster or a drag queen. For years, the city council had been trying to sanitize this river- adjacent chunk of turf with future revenue in mind, but for some reason the gentrification spitballs never quite stuck.
'Look at this shit-box neighborhood, Leo. When I was a kid we used to walk this street on the way to the Saturday- night horror flicks at the Majestic. Worst thing you ever saw was winos drinking Mad Dog in doorways. Now look at it. You can practically spit to the Mississippi from here, and what do you have? Chop shops, heroin balloons, busted streetlights… If the city council had half a brain between the bunch of them, they'd steamroll this place and put up about fifty Starbucks.'
Magozzi turned onto a dark, sketchy backstreet that terminated at the club. 'Then you'd have fifty Starbucks filled with drug dealers doing business over double mocha lattes.'
'Ain't that the truth.' He squinted out the window against the glare of a flashing neon crown that lit up an old, brick building. A colorful parade of characters dressed in elaborate costumes and gowns were lined up on the street, waiting to get in. 'Are you sure these are all men?'
Magozzi shrugged. 'I don't know. I guess. What difference does it make?'
'Because if that she in the green dress is actually a he, then you could have fooled me and I'm not sure how I feel about that.'
'It's theater, Gino. Try to stay focused.'
'Yeah, right. I'm kinda out of my element here. Let's hit a side door. I don't want to walk that gauntlet. We're already getting weird looks and we haven't even gotten out of the car yet.'
On the north side of the building, they found a bent-up metal fire door manned by a monolith of a security guard whose day job was probably chewing glass at carnival sideshows. 'Out front, like everybody else!' he barked at them.
Gino was quick to pull out his badge and shove it toward the man's face. 'MPD Homicide, pal.'
The bouncer looked skeptical until his eyes landed on Gino's holster. 'Oh.' He pulled open the door for them and a throbbing wall of high-decibel dance music blasted them like a sirocco.
'Hang on,' Magozzi said, gesturing for him to close the door, then pulling out the photo of their river body that Grace had printed out. You ever see this guy here?'
He took the photo, examined it for a second, then his eyes got huge. 'Jesus. He's dead.'
'Hence, the homicide part of our introduction,' Gino grumbled.
'Hell, I'm only here two nights a week, and I see about a thousand faces each time.'
'He was wearing a wedding dress.'
The bouncer shook his head. 'Working a place like this, you just stop noticing the craziness after a while. You should talk to one of the bartenders. Or better yet, talk to Camilla - she runs this place, she's always here, and she knows everybody. Go inside and head up the back staircase. Her office is at the end of the hall. God. I can't believe you showed me a picture of a dead guy.'
The inside of the Tiara was sheer mayhem. Hundreds of people swarmed on an enormous dance floor in a riot of color, feathers, and sequins. Lights strobed in time to the screaming sound system. Magozzi and Gino didn't even try to talk - they just shoved their way through the crowd toward the staircase, badges clearing a path for them.
It was no small blessing that Camilla's office was soundproofed. You could still hear the din of the music, and the throbbing of the bass was turning Magozzi's guts to Cream of Wheat, but conversation was possible without shouting.
Camilla looked like. a she - a really pretty she, in a demure, well-cut skirt suit - but the booming voice told another story. 'Homicide?' His/her hands fluttered at his/her throat like distressed moths. 'Good grief, Detectives, tell me what's happened.' She gestured to two empty chairs that flanked her desk. 'Please, please, do sit.'
Magozzi pulled out the photo again and slid it toward Camilla. 'Do you recognize this man?'
Camilla answered the question with a deluge of tears, and there was no question that the grief was genuine, and not just manufactured melodrama. 'That's Sweet Cheeks,' she finally choked out. 'Oh my God… she was just here last night… oh God, what happened'
Gino had a good heart and a fairly open mind, but a man in a wedding dress carrying around a handle like Sweet Cheeks messed with his head. He squirmed a little in his chair, trying to pick a pronoun. It was hopeless. 'The body was found in the river this morning. We believe it was homicide.' This brought on another round of tears, which made him feel bad for not saying right up front what he was supposed to say, what he always said and always meant. 'We're very sorry for your loss. You two were obviously close.'
Camilla nodded, blotting at her eyes with a tissue. 'Thank you. We were very close,' she sniffed. 'Not in the way you're probably thinking, of course, not as partners. We were just dear friends.'
You mentioned that he… uh, she' - Gino corrected his pronoun - 'was in here last night. Do you remember what time you last saw her?'
'I think probably around ten-thirty. She was extremely… compromised.'
'Compromised?' Gino asked.
'Drunk. Poor Sweet Cheeks. She lost someone very close to her years ago, and never got over it. She was almost always drunk. Oh, good lord, I can't believe she's dead.'
'I take it Sweet Cheeks was not a legal name.'
Camilla shook her head. 'No, just a stage name. Her legal name is… was… Alan Sommers.'
Gino scrawled on his notebook. 'Is that Sommers with an o? 'Yes.'
He pulled out his cell. 'I'll get an address from DMV.'
'No need for that. She has a couple of rooms over the Stop-and-Go Market on Colfax. That was her day job. I have a key if it will help.'
Magozzi said, 'We appreciate that. Were you aware of any plans she might have had after leaving here last night?'
'Her only plan was to go to my condo to sober up before the big drag show last night so she could perform. I often give her my key on nights when she's had too much to drink. Sometimes she just passes out until the next morning, but often she'll sleep a few hours and come back to the club, or go elsewhere - you never know with Sweet Cheeks. I didn't get home until 3:30 a.m. last night, and she wasn't there. I didn't think anything of it, of course. She's always been unpredictable in that regard.'
Was there any indication that she ever made it to your condo last night?'
Camilla frowned and tapped a long cherry-pink fingernail on her cherry-pink lips. 'Come to think of it, not really. The bed she normally uses wasn't mussed, there were no dishes in the sink… but that doesn't mean she didn't straighten the bed, although that would have been out of character.'
A sad portrait of Alan Sommers was filling in fast for Magozzi - an obviously troubled man living a high-risk lifestyle, drunk out of his gourd, stumbling along the river at night. Homicide would normally have been the last conclusion in this case, but for the film Grace had pulled from the Web. A perfect victim. And maybe, a perfect crime. The thought sent chills down his spine. 'Do you have any idea if she left with anyone?'
'None. But we have security cameras at every door. I have the tapes if you think they might help.'
* * *
Chapter Nine
It had taken Camilla less than half an hour to isolate the security footage that showed Alan Sommers in full bridal regalia entering and leaving the Tiara Club the night of his murder - alone both times - which eliminated all hope of an easy conclusion with a slam-dunk suspect.
Why don't we ever pull a case where our perp is so stupid he gets caught in the act on surveillance tape wearing his work uniform with the name tag in plain view?' Gino complained as Magozzi pulled the Cadillac away from the Tiara Club's flashing neon and headed north toward Alan Sommers' apartment. "You read about that stuff all the time, but it never happens to us.'
'That's because the really stupid felons are almost always bank robbers.'
Gino sighed. We should move over to
Robbery, then.'
'I thought you were angling for Water Rescue.'
'A mere pipe dream. I can't swim.'
'Seriously?'
Yeah.'
Why don't I know that about you?'
'Why would you? It's not like you ever asked me to go surfing or anything. Shit. It's late. I better call Angela.'
While Gino checked on his hearth and home, Magozzi watched the neighborhoods deteriorate with each city block.
This part of Minneapolis had never exactly been mink and pearls, but when the gangs moved in during the eighties and nineties, they left a lot of carnage in their wake. The MPD Gang Task Force had worked hard to sanitize things over the years, and they'd done an impressive job, but the lingering hangover of too much violence for too long was still evident. Half the houses were still unoccupied, and the few viable businesses that remained were girded in the graffiti-scarred armor of steel gates and chain-link fencing.
Gino clicked off his cell phone just as Magozzi pulled into the parking lot of the Stop-and-Go. 'How's the homestead rolling without you?'
'It all went to hell in a handbasket. The little guy has a fever and Helen has a sore throat. Angela told me to take vitamin C.'
'What's that do, and where are you going to get it?'
'Are you kidding? She tucks shit like that in my pants pockets every day, and it does absolutely nothing except keep my marriage intact.' Gino craned his neck and looked out the windshield at the darkened Stop-and-Go sign. 'When I was on the beat, the guys used to call this place "the Stop-and-Die." Doesn't look much better than it did back in the day. And it's closed, damnit. Don't tell me we have to come back here tomorrow for interviews.'
Magozzi shrugged. 'My gut tells me Alan Sommers wasn't killed by anybody he knew or worked with. Camilla said everybody loved him - and we didn't see any Norman Bates-type stalkers on the vid.'
'That was a bummer, wasn't it? So Alan Sommers was probably just a great victim of opportunity for some sick asshole who wanted a little exposure on the Web.'
'That's what I'm thinking. Let's see what turns up in his apartment and we can go from there.'
Gino nodded, then unsnapped his holster and drew his gun. 'I'm going in armed and dangerous. This place still gives me the creeps.'
It took them a few minutes to find the battered metal access door behind the Stop-and-Go that led up a flight of stairs to a squalid, dark hallway of doors. The place was a true dump, crawling with cockroaches and rodents that didn't seem the least bit put out by the presence of humans. If there were any other squatters utilizing the space, they were either dead, very quiet, or out for the night, because the place was as silent as an anechoic chamber. It was the kind of silence that was inherently and deeply menacing and, oddly, the same kind of silence that kept you dead quiet. If you didn't make any noise, the bad things might not find you.
They found Alan's place at the end of the hall and let themselves in with the key Camilla had given them. Magozzi flipped on a light, which cast a harsh, bare-bulb glare on a surprisingly tidy, freshly painted room that bore no resemblance to the scary hallway they'd taken to get here. There was a twin mattress on the floor, made up with a clean bedspread that Magozzi had recently seen in one of the IKEA catalogs he mysteriously received every couple months in the mail, even though he'd never shopped there. The tiny kitchen and bathroom were both spotlessly clean not a speck of dirt or a roach or rat in sight - and there was the pervasive smell of patchouli incense that battled with the funk of mold that was probably emanating from the walls in highly toxic quantities. Alan Sommers had lived in a hellhole, but he'd obviously put forth some effort to make it livable.
Gino ventured into the second room, which was little more than a big closet, filled with an astounding array of wigs, makeup cases, shoes, and gowns wrapped in plastic, hanging from a sagging dowel. And in shocking contrast, amidst all the finery, were two brown-and-yellow-polyester Stop-and-Go uniforms, neatly hung and ready for service. 'Christ, look at this,' he said. 'It's like Cinderella's closet. Char girl by day, princess by night. This guy was leading a double life. And he had more wigs than Cher.'
'It gets weirder,' Magozzi said from the living room as he stared up at a framed diploma that hung on the wall. 'Alan Sommers graduated cum laude from Billy Mitchell Law back in 1989. How the hell do you get from there to here?'
Gino joined Magozzi in the living room. 'Huh. That's a damn big fall. But remember what Camilla said? That he lost somebody close? She kind of implied that that was what sent him over the edge.'
He started rummaging in the apartment's few drawers and cabinets but didn't turn up anything except the mundane scraps of day-to-day life. 'Man, this is the sorriest place I've ever tossed. There's nothing here, not even a can of Coke in the fridge. It's like Alan Sommers wasn't even a real person, just a cardboard mock-up.'
'I think the real Alan Sommers is in that closet.'
'Christ, you're going to have to put me on suicide watch if I stay here much longer. I hate poking through dead people's stuff. Reminds me of having to clean out my grandpa's house after he died.'
Magozzi nodded. 'There's nothing here. Let's get to the jail and bribe a boy in blue to let us see Wild Jim before they let him out in the morning.'
'I got nothing to bribe a jailer with.'
'Give him some vitamin C.'
'You get that I have had no sleep, right, Leo? Zero, nada, not even a Salvador Dali nap.'
'I get it. Join the club.'
Magozzi pulled in at an angle in front of the Hennepin County Jail.
'And you also understand that it's three o'clock in the morning'
'I do.'
'So here's the thing. My eyes are fried eggs, my brain cells are crisp around the edges, and at the moment I'm about three levels down from any drunk coming off a high toot, let alone an ex-judge.'
Magozzi put the car in park and rubbed his eyes. 'No choice. The golden time is wearing off on Alan Sommers. We already lost a day thinking he was an accidental, more time finding out he left the club alone, and Wild Jim is the last lead. We've gotta milk it.'
During visiting hours, Hennepin County Jail kept at full ballast with a cross section of society that would never mingle in the real world. There was always the predictable, en masse scum, coming to chitchat with significant-other scums; then there was the regular meat-and-potatoes crowd, always a little shell-shocked by having to visit an errant friend or family member in lockup; and, less frequently, the dressed-to-kill cocktail crowd, sporting major attitude and pissed as hell that their lover or spouse had gotten a DUI after drinking too much champagne at an important charity event. It made for excellent sport if you were into people- watching, but as a cop, you got over that brand of voyeurism your first or second day on the job.
At this hour the lobby was calm, the sign-in deputy was bored, and Magozzi and Gino were relieved. Efficiency was at its peak, and Wild Jim was escorted immediately to the standard, Plexiglas booth that was blurry with scratches and fog from the breath of loved ones declaring their heart's desire through a quarter-inch of plastic.
The judge looked perfectly lucid, eyes as sharp as they always had been on the bench, blood alcohol notwithstanding. He plunked down on the steel chair across from Magozzi and Gino with a gracious thanks to the jailor who'd escorted him, then lasered in on the both of them without prelude.
'I remember you, Magozzi. You were in front of me twice. As I recall, you were trying to lock up a couple craven sociopaths that your wife at the time wanted desperately to put back on the streets, for some incomprehensible reason.'
'She was a public defender.'
That elicited a snort from Wild Jim. 'Bad bedmates, cops and public defenders. But I guess you figured that out.'
The comment really pissed Magozzi off. It was incredibly bad form to bring up his ugly divorce that had been so painfully public in the law enforcement community, but he had no choice but to humor him. Drunks coming off jags could change like the wind i
f you pushed the wrong buttons.
'Come on, where's your sense of humor, Magozzi? I've had five divorces, so that makes you four times smarter than me. Hey, do you know what the difference is between a criminal and a public defender?'
'No, Judge, I don't,' Magozzi said flatly.
'Neither do I!' He busted a gut laughing at his own tired joke, then his eyes honed in on Gino. 'And I remember you, too, Rolseth. Only saw you once, but we made a good team. We exterminated some vermin that day, yes indeed. So, Detectives, assuming this isn't a social call, what can I do for you?'
'A body was found in the river this morning,' Gino said.
'Ah. That's why there were so damn many cops in my front yard. So what happened to the poor schmuck?'
'Drowned.'
'And I'm talking to two homicide detectives. Isn't that interesting.'
Magozzi ignored the comment. We understand you may have seen something last night.'
'You wouldn't believe the depraved shit I see down by the river, every goddamned night. People having sex, shooting up, smoking crack… I don't know what happened to this city.'
'Last night specifically,' Magozzi said, trying to get him back on track. The sergeant running the canvass said you mentioned a commotion.'
The judge smiled. 'Very delicate phrasing, Magozzi. Yes, I told a cop this morning that there was some crazy faggot raising hell down by my river, like usual. Sorry, but I'm not politically correct.'
'Raising hell? What does that mean?'
'He was crashing through the brush, yodeling like a coloratura soprano on helium.'
'Calling for help?' Gino asked.
Wild Jim leaned back in his chair and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. 'You know what the problem with this line of questioning is, Detectives? I'm a bourbon aficionado. And when you like Kentucky horse piss as much as I do, memories and recollections are hard to come by. If I saw something, I don't remember it. All I can tell you is I heard yodeling, then I heard a cop shouting at me to wake up this morning. There's nothing in between.'
Magozzi sighed audibly.