There were other things I missed, too. Things I didn’t dare dwell on. I increased my pace and walked behind the old Jax Brewery, now a tony shopping mall with cool stores and eateries. In the distance were the high-rise hotels and businesses of Canal Street. I turned and retraced my steps, fighting off the gluttonous desire for another beignet and more coffee.
Instead, I crossed Decatur and wandered around the Square. Darkness had sent the artists and tarot readers home, but the Square was a long way from empty. The teens had come out, complete with tattoos, nose and eyebrow rings, studs in their tongues, and hair long and multicolored. Instead of seeing them as the rebels they envisioned themselves to be, I felt a pang of deep sadness for them. They were lost children. But I reminded myself that every generation had lost children, and many of them found themselves a good life.
I began to slow my walking as I looked up at the numbers on the doors on St. Peter Street. A large cluster of street kids were standing at the door I wanted to enter.
“Hey, let her pass,” one young man with a three-toned Mohawk said, elbowing some of his cohorts out of my way. “She’s tryin’ to get through, so push over!”
I was glad for his help, but didn’t totally approve of his method, which was to clout anyone who didn’t immediately move.
“Where’s Doreen?” a teenager asked as she grabbed my arm. “Is she okay?”
I debated telling a fib, but didn’t. “She’s in jail. She’s been charged with murder, and I’m a private investigator hired to help her.”
“What’d she do?” the girl asked, stunned.
“She’s accused of killing her baby.”
An eerie silence fell on the kids. “Naw, not Doreen,” one boy said, shaking lime-green dreadlocks. “Not her. She wouldn’t hurt her kid. She wouldn’t hurt anyone.” He turned to a muscular teenager. “It’s the cops. They do this shit all the time. They don’t like Doreen ’cause she helps people like us, so now they’re fuckin’ with her.”
Murder in the first degree was a very serious form of harassment, but I held my tongue.
“I shoulda known when that detective fella kept hangin’ around, that he was up to hurtin’ Doreen. He kept askin’ questions, wantin’ to know who saw this or that.”
“LeMont questioned you?” I hadn’t seen that report. I obviously needed to see the entire case file.
“He talked to some of us.”
“What kind of questions was he asking?”
“Wanted to know if we’d seen anyone hangin’ around Doreen’s apartment.”
“And have you?” I asked.
Dreadlocks shook his head. “Naw. You gonna get Doreen out of this?”
“I’m working on it.”
“We need to get some money together. If we get enough, they’ll drop the charges. They just want a payoff. That’s how it works around here.”
“Is there anyone else who might want to harm Doreen?” I asked, focusing on the young girl who’d touched my arm.
“Doreen shocked people. She didn’t believe what they believed. That upset some people, and they called her names.” She blinked rapidly. “But no one would have hurt Rebekah. She was already so sick.”
Michael’s voice came from behind me. “Melissa.”
At the sound of her name, the young girl turned. In a moment she was in Michael’s arms, crying. “This is so terrible.” The last word was a wail.
The kids around us had grown quiet. Michael handed me a key to open the gate, and we all filed inside. In a moment he had the kids organized into delivery teams. They headed to the soup kitchen that Alec Hathoway ran, to take hot plates of food around the neighborhood to the elderly and sick. Even Melissa had dried her tears and joined in the work.
Michael and I were left in the shell of a building that was in the process of a total renovation. Doreen was spending a lot of money on the Center.
“This is our meditation room, and here is where we’re putting Doreen’s offices and her consultation rooms.”
I walked through the building, very aware of him. But strangely enough, he didn’t seem to be aware of himself. At least not in a physical way. Not a hint of sexuality colored his posture or his speech. The intensity I’d first reacted to was still there, but it seemed genderless.
“Michael,” I said once I’d seen the entire building. “I need to ask you some questions. Is there a place we can sit down?”
He led me to his private offices. During the day, the Center would be a busy place, employing at least twenty-five full-time people. He didn’t bother closing the door. We were alone.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Tell me about how you came to work for Doreen.”
He nodded, his gaze on the top of his desk. “I was working for a C.P.A. firm on Canal. I got in the habit of buying a sandwich and eating it in the Square during lunchtime. That’s when I saw Doreen reading cards and talking with people. I guess I was curious at first, in that nasty sort of way. You know, here was this woman suckering in a whole crowd of people. I wandered over to hear what line she was handing them.”
His grin was charming. It could have graced the pages of any upscale men’s magazine.
“But there was something about Doreen. I made it a point of listening to her every day. She’d read for a person and then talk a little about the power of their own bodies and what it meant to be truly alive and involved in living.”
“You began to believe she was a healer?”
He held up a hand to slow my questions. “Doreen has never claimed to be a healer.”
“But she does heal people. I heard about Trina Zebrowski.” I’d hoped to trip him up with Trina’s name, but he only smiled.
“Trina will tell you that Doreen healed her, but Trina healed herself.”
“Are you Rebekah’s father?” I asked. Once again, my surprise change of topic netted no results.
“No. Doreen and I were lovers, but Rebekah wasn’t my baby. She assured me of that.”
“Whose baby was she?”
He stared at me. “That’s a question you should ask Doreen.”
“I did. She said you were a possible father.”
“I never understood why Doreen wanted to have a baby,” he said. “When we were together, I assumed she was using some sort of protection. I should have asked, but in this day and age . . .” he shrugged, meaning that most experienced women took care of the problem of birth control without discussion.
“Are you still intimate with Doreen?”
“She hasn’t been intimate with anyone since Rebekah was born. Actually, since a few months before that. She told me that she was changing her life. She was caught up in the miracle of motherhood.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
His smile was charming. “The bedroom really isn’t the place to practice therapy.”
“You knew?” I was surprised.
“I never let on to Doreen. She’s so sincere with everything she does. And she did help me a lot. Before Doreen, I had a terrible time with intimacy. I had . . . scars from my early childhood.”
As curious as I was about his early childhood scars, I wanted to stay closer to the murder. “When did you become involved with Trina?”
He gave me an appreciative glance before he spoke. “I’m glad to see you’re good at what you do, though it is a little disconcerting to have it focused at me. I’ve been involved with Trina since last May.”
“Where were you on the night of October first?” I asked.
“The night Rebekah was killed? I was with Trina.” He paused only a few beats. “At my apartment.”
“You’re certain you were at your apartment?”
“Absolutely certain. Trina doesn’t know that Doreen and I were lovers. It would have been mean-spirited to stay at Trina’s. Why put that dynamic into action? Doreen and I were through, but Trina would never have understood what passed between us.”
“I’m not sure that I understand it,” I said.
/>
“You’ll have to ask her to explain it to you.” He shrugged. “She wanted me to believe that I could be loved. That’s what she said she wanted to give me.”
“And what did you give her?” I pressed.
“Not a baby,” he said, shaking his head. “What does it matter who the father is?”
Michael might be brilliant with money and investments, but he didn’t have a clue when it came to motive. “There could be several reasons for someone to want to kill Rebekah. The father might want to hide his paternity. Or there could be financial gain,” I said, watching the heat jump into his eyes.
“So that’s why your partner is so interested in the books,” he said.
“Partly. Money is always a good motive for murder.”
“You won’t find anything in those books. I’m good at my job and they are immaculate. Every penny is accounted for.”
I nodded. “I’m only here to do a job, and part of that job is running down all leads that may give us the real killer.”
“Good,” he said. “Follow every lead to the end. That’s exactly what we want. No matter where it leads.” He stood up. “Is that all?”
“One more thing. Pearline isn’t answering her phone. When was the last time you saw her?”
He thought a minute. “Last week, I believe.”
“What kind of person would you say she is?”
“Reliable. Honest. Competent. She was devastated by Rebekah’s medical problems at first, but when she got over the shock, she was totally devoted to that baby and to Doreen.”
“So totally devoted that she might have viewed Rebekah’s death as a form of euthanasia?” My first reaction to seeing the photos of Rebekah had bordered along this line.
Michael stared into my eyes as he thought. “No, I don’t think so. Pearline would never have harmed Rebekah.”
“What happens to the ministry if Doreen is convicted?”
“There is no ministry without Doreen.”
“But there is a lot of money already accrued.”
Michael kept his face impressively blank. “I can tell you that no action would be taken without consultation with Doreen, in jail or out.”
“Thank you, Michael,” I said as I started toward the door. “I’m sure we’ll be talking a lot in the coming days. Do you know who Doreen has hired for her attorney?”
“Jake O’Banyon.”
I turned to stare at him. Jake O’Banyon was the most high-profile criminal lawyer in the Southeast. “He’s not a big gun, he’s a cannon.”
“Doreen has friends in high places.”
I started to ask him exactly how much he knew about Doreen’s relationship with Senator Thaddeus Clay, but I knew he would never tell me.
“O’Banyon’s gotten the bail hearing set for the morning. He assures me Doreen will be out in time for coffee and beignets.”
I nodded. “Michael, who do you think killed Rebekah?”
“I won’t hazard a guess.”
I gathered my purse. “I’m going to ask for a paternity test.”
“Rebekah’s already been cremated.”
“The coroner will have enough material to run a DNA test.”
“Tell Mrs. Richmond I had several boxes of records delivered to her hotel room as she requested.”
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”
“I’ve never known anyone like Doreen,” he said, walking out with me. He touched my arm, and I was wrong to have thought him genderless. His fingers traced heat through my blouse. “She’s a very powerful woman.”
12
DAWN WAS JUST BREAKING ON TUESDAY MORNING AS I DROVE down the narrow street and stopped in front of the pink shotgun cottage where Pearline Brewer lived. It was a low-income neighborhood, but a neat one. The pink house was offset by blue shutters, and in the summer sun, it would be a bright and pleasant place. In the soft light, the house looked tired. The porch sagged a little as I walked to the door and knocked. An old Chevy in the driveway led me to believe that Pearline was home.
After two minutes, I knocked again, and louder.
The morning was brisk and I shifted from foot to foot as I waited. When there was still no answer, I resorted to pounding on the door.
A front porch light came on at the house next door, and a slender black woman in a purple robe stepped out.
“Whoever you are and whatever you want, you’d best be moving on before I call the police. Pearline’s gone,” she said. “Won’t be back for a week at least. Her mama’s ailin’ over in Lafayette.”
“Do you have a number where I can call her?” My voice showed my disappointment.
“No, she didn’t leave a number,” the woman said. “If she calls me, I’ll tell her someone was looking for her.”
I hurried down Pearline’s steps and trotted over to the neighbor’s house. Pulling one of my new cards from my pocket, I handed it to her.
“I’m working for Doreen Mallory,” I said. “I need to talk with Pearline.”
“I’ll be sure and tell her,” the neighbor said. She held the robe at her throat with one hand while she slipped my card into her pocket. Her gaze never left mine.
“Thanks.” There was nothing left to do but meet Tinkie for the prearranged breakfast.
I drove slowly out of the neighborhood and cruised down the streets. Pearline’s neighborhood was neat, but only four blocks west, the houses got bigger and were better kept. Gentrification would soon encroach on Pearline’s street. The flip side of renovation was that an entire class of people got shoved out.
At six-fifty-nine, I parked the roadster and sprinted to the front door of the restaurant. Tinkie was already seated. I watched for a moment as every man who passed her slowed and looked. With her hair swept up in a soft cluster of curls, she looked like a movie star. The coral cashmere sweater she wore accentuated her assets. Her perfectly healthy-looking assets. Tinkie could not be sick. I examined her face as she studied the menu. I’d lost everyone I’d ever loved, and I realized that in the past year I’d come to love Tinkie with the most precious of bonds—friendship.
I took a deep breath, forced a smile on my face, and slid into the seat opposite her. “Find anything interesting in the books?”
She raised her gaze from the menu and studied me. “Where did you go? I rang your room at six.”
“I went to Pearline’s but she’s gone to Lafayette to tend her sick mother.”
“Right,” Tinkie said, mirroring my own cynicism.
“I left a card. Maybe she’ll call.”
“Of course she will.” Tinkie rolled her eyes. “In answer to your question, I did find one tiny little tidbit.”
I leaned forward, unable to suppress my eagerness.
“Doreen wasn’t paying Pearline’s salary.”
“Who was?”
“Now that’s an excellent question,” Tinkie said, her coral lips puckering. “I think it’s a clue.”
“I wonder if Michael knows?”
“I wonder if he’ll tell,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “But first I need sustenance. I’m having the Cajun sausage and green pepper omelet, biscuits, and coffee. What about you?”
“Tinkie, you have excellent taste. In partners, clothes, and breakfast. I’ll have the same.”
Ten pounds heavier and nearly in a coma of satisfaction, I stumbled out into the street with Tinkie. We’d decided that I would go to the bail hearing for Doreen and then stop by to talk with LeMont and, hopefully, Trina Zebrowski. Tinkie was going to the Square to talk to some of the other tarot card readers in an effort to track down Starla.
I dropped Tinkie off across the street from the Café Du Monde and headed down to the municipal court building for Doreen’s bond hearing. It was set for nine. I’d be there right on the dot.
The hearing was a formality. I sat in the back of the courtroom and took note of Doreen. She sat perfectly still, her beautiful dark hair covering her like a cloak. The judge dispatched the case in less than five minutes, set
ting bond at two hundred thousand.
Jake O’Banyon didn’t raise an objection. He nodded at a young boy who sat behind him. The boy shot out of his seat and ran out of the courtroom like his pants were on fire. I figured him for the runner to the bondsman.
LeMont was on the prosecutor’s side, and I watched him carefully as he started toward Doreen.
“My client has nothing to say to you,” O’Banyon said, stepping in LeMont’s path.
“I have some questions and she’s going to answer them,” LeMont said.
“I have a question for you, Detective. Why wasn’t a juvenile detective assigned to this case? That’s normal procedure. Why are you clinging to the case like dandruff to a black coat?” O’Banyon smiled like a shark.
“What are you implying?” LeMont said, his mouth so tight and thin I was surprised words could escape.
“I’m way too smart to imply anything,” O’Banyon said, “but just let me point out that if anything funny’s going on in this case, the stink’s going to rub off on you.”
O’Banyon took Doreen’s arm and hustled her toward the front of the courtroom. They disappeared through a heavy oak door.
LeMont turned and when he saw me, he reddened. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Watching the wheels of justice turn,” I said, grinning. “Why are you handling the case, Detective?”
“There wasn’t a juvenile officer available.” He brushed past me.
“I talked to some kids at the Center last night. They said you questioned them. I’d like to see those reports. And any others you might have.”
“People in hell want ice water,” he said over his shoulder. He sped out of the courtroom without a backwards glance.
I ran after him, catching him at the front door of the building. “LeMont!” I grabbed his sleeve.
He started to shake free but stopped and faced me. “What?”
“The baby bottle with the barbiturate in it, did you have it processed for fingerprints?”
“At the time we thought we didn’t have to. Ms. Mallory said she’d held the bottle. The only prints on it would have been hers. Remember, when we first investigated, we thought it was a death by natural causes.”
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