Death by the Riverside

by J. M. Redmann; Jean M. Redmann

  That was how Cordelia found me when she came back in. Laughing hysterically and staring at my bloody arms.

  “Come on, stand up,” she said, taking hold of one of my arms and helping lift me. She unzipped my dress, then pulled it over my head.

  “I’m sorry, your dress is ruined,” she said, tossing it into the bathtub.

  “That’s okay. It’s Torbin’s and he doesn’t want it anyway.” I realized how strange that sounded. “Good thing I didn’t wear the red one. He wanted that one back.” I started laughing again. I was out of control. I couldn’t cry, so I was laughing.

  Cordelia tossed the rest of my clothes into the bathtub with the ruined dress. Then she got a washcloth, wet it, and began washing the blood off me. I noticed that she had changed clothes and was now wearing a sweatshirt and old jeans.

  “Here, I can do that,” I said, taking the washcloth from her, attempting to regain some of my control. I used the cold washcloth to wipe the blood off my arms, my face, and my chest and stomach where it had soaked through the dress. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened to me,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Cordelia said. “Shotgun wounds are gruesome. You’re doing okay for having seen one that close.”

  I stopped. Nausea took over. I started throwing up. Cordelia put a wet washrag on my neck as I hunched over the toilet.

  This wasn’t the first time I had seen what a shotgun does to a man’s chest. When I was ten years old, I had seen a man shot in the chest with a shotgun.

  “Take it easy,” Cordelia was saying.

  My stomach was empty. There was nothing more to retch up. I still hunched over the toilet, not knowing how to face her. She handed me some water and I washed out my mouth.

  “Can you stand?” she asked, gently brushing the damp hair off my forehead.

  I nodded and slowly stood up.

  “I’m sorry, Micky.”

  “It’s okay. I’m all right,” I said, wanting it to be so.

  She put her arms around me, holding me tight.

  I didn’t move. The man twenty years ago with the shotgun hole in his chest was her father. And if she knew that, she wouldn’t be standing here holding me.

  Someone opened the door.

  “Cordelia, I’ve been looking all over for you. I…oh,” Thoreau said. He was seeing his fiancee embracing a naked woman behind a closed door.

  “Shut the door,” Cordelia said.

  “But I need to…” he sputtered.

  “Shut the door,” she repeated. She didn’t let go of me, but turned slightly so that she was completely blocking my nakedness from his view.

  He shut the door.

  I put my arms around her. She would know someday and regret this. But for the moment I needed to be held. I buried my face in her shoulder. I felt her grasp tighten about me and I stole what comfort I could from the warmth of her touch.

  “I need to find out what’s being done,” I said finally, breaking away, remembering Frankie. I wanted to find out if they had caught the motorcyclist. I wanted to know what the hell Ranson and her big shot FBI agent were doing.

  “I brought you some clothes,” Cordelia said, handing me a bundle.

  “Make sure you don’t want any of these,” I said as I was dressing. “I seem to be very hard on other people’s clothes.” She had gotten me a sweatshirt and some running pants.

  “Don’t worry. Ready to face the world?” she said sardonically. She must have been thinking how she would explain to Thoreau what he had seen.

  I nodded. She opened the door. The hallway was empty.

  “Let’s find reality,” I said

  “Or what passes for it out here,” she added. She led the way to the grand staircase into the ball room, the one I had first seen her on. We looked incongruous among the formality of the other guests. But the party was over.

  We were descending the stairs when I saw Ranson. She ran up to us and we met halfway.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she demanded of me.

  “Joanne,” Cordelia started.

  “What’s the police motto these days, Sarge? Too little, too late?” I remarked acidly.

  “Fuck you,” Ranson yelled.

  “I kept him alive. How long did you manage it? An hour, if you include the time he was still breathing after the shotgun blast,” I screamed back at her.

  “Don’t you think, if I could wave my badge and bring him back, I would? You’re not helping.”

  Ranson had made a fist. I got into stance. We were about to come to blows. To hit anybody, even the wrong person.

  “I’m not helping? You let a scared kid be murdered and I’m not helping? You fucking bitch.” I regretted it even as I said it, but it was too late to stop. I could see the throbbing vein in Ranson’s temple. She was clearly furious.

  “Stop it, both of you,” Cordelia said, stepping between us and putting her hands on our shoulders to physically restrain us.

  “Arrest her,” Ranson responded.

  “Who?” Cordelia asked.

  “Her.” She pointed at me.

  “What for?” I yelled.

  “Anything,” she replied. And she meant it. “Perversion will do.”

  “Fuck you,” I shot back.

  “Joanne…Micky. Stop it,” Cordelia said. “You’re not fighting the right people.”

  “Hutch,” Ranson said to one of the people in the crowd now on the stairs. “You’re going to take Ms. Knight with you. Lock her up and keep her there. I don’t care how.”

  “Joanne,” Cordelia started, but Ranson cut her off.

  “You’re next, Micky,” she said to me. She stepped around Cordelia, so that she was next to me. “If I have to put you in jail and keep you there so you don’t get hurt, I will. You weren’t very safe before. You’re definitely not safe now. Understand?”

  I nodded. I did. I had been too worried and then too angry about Frankie to think about myself.

  “Did he tell you anything, say anything, that we might use?” she asked.

  I suddenly had a cold feeling down my spine. What kind of music do you like, Joanne? I wanted to say.

  “No,” I replied. “Nothing at all.”

  She nodded, disappointed.

  “Cordelia,” a voice broke in from the crowd. “Cordelia. I’m very sorry.” It was Alphonse Korby, and he had a very concerned look on his face. “It’s your grandfather. You had better come with me.”

  Cordelia gave us a quick glance, then turned to go. She touched my hand as she passed. Korby took her arm at the foot of the stairs and led her hurriedly away.

  “What about the motorcycle? Did you catch him?” I asked.

  “He got away,” Ranson replied tersely.

  “Shit. Can’t you—”

  “Hutch, take her away,” Ranson overrode me.

  Hutch separated from the crowd. It didn’t take much, since he alone was about a third of it. He made Milo’s goons look puny.

  “Michele Knight, this is Hutch MacKenzie,” Ranson said in a toneless, going-through-the-motions voice. “Get her out of here and keep her safe. I don’t care how. You can take her to jail or to the zoo. Just keep her out of a body bag.”

  “You got it, Sergeant Ranson,” Hutch answered.

  She turned to go, leaving me with this gorilla.

  “Wait a second, Ranson, if you think you can just—”

  “The hardest part will be shutting her up,” Ranson interrupted. To me, she said, “Micky, for once, be a good girl.” The anger was gone, replaced by a weariness that wasn’t physical.

  “Ah, you’ve found Ms. Knight,” said our hero from Washington as he came bounding up the stairs to us. “Of course, we’ll want a full statement from you,” he continued.

  “You want a full statement from me?” I said as I walked by him. “You guys fucked up. That’s my full statement.”

  I caught the barest twitch of a smile on Ranson’s face, but she suppressed it. Then I went down the stairs and out the doo
r, Hutch following and soundproofing me from any comments from the law officers.

  When we got to the parking lot, Hutch motioned me one way, but I went another. I had to make a stop by a pink limo.

  “It was Frankie, wasn’t it?” Buddy asked as I approached. He had probably heard rumors; the look on my face must have confirmed them.

  “Yeah. Tell Torbin,” I said, “tell Torbin to buy another black dress. He’ll need one for the funeral.”

  Buddy gave me a big bear hug. Torbin probably already had several black dresses. Gay men go to too many funerals these days. Maybe that’s why Buddy knew to hold me. Finally letting go, I just nodded to him, because there was nothing really to say. Then I followed Hutch to his car.

  He tried to make small talk on the way back to the city, but I was silent and morose.

  “Where are we going?” it finally occurred to me to ask, as we started driving on unfamiliar side streets.

  “Home,” he answered.

  “Yours or mine?”

  “Mine. I don’t know where you live.”

  “I could tell you.”

  “But don’t the bad guys know?” He settled it.

  We pulled into a parking lot next to his building. Oh, great, I was going to go home with this gorilla who I’d just met and I wasn’t even wearing underwear.

  He led the way in.

  “This is going to be kind of hard to explain,” he said from the foyer as I followed behind him. Now what, I wondered. But he wasn’t talking to me.

  “What is going to be hard to explain?” a female voice answered from the living room. “Ah, I see. Bringing home a strange woman,” she said as I entered.

  “Following orders. Both of us,” I told her as I sat down on a couch. I was suddenly tired. She arched an eyebrow at him.

  “Ranson’s orders. This is Micky Knight and she’s in protective custody,” Hutch explained.

  “And I was all prepared to be insanely jealous,” she commented.

  “Aww, Millie,” Hutch said, enjoying the attention.

  “No need to worry,” I added. “I’m a lesbian.” So much for oiling the wheels of social discourse. I figured that would make them leave me alone. If one is going to be an outcast, one might as well be blatant about it.

  “Huh?” Hutch asked, a perplexed look on his face.

  “It means you should be jealous of me, not me jealous of you,” Millie explained. Then she plopped down next to me and put her arm around my shoulder for purposes of illustration.

  Hutch laughed.

  “Oh, you’re gay. My brother’s gay,” he said. “I wasn’t listening very well. I thought you said thespian, which didn’t make much sense.”

  “Coffee, tea, bourbon, or all three?” Millie asked, still sitting next to me.

  “Coffee and bourbon, hold the tea,” I answered.

  Somewhere in the last few minutes, the tension had disappeared. I was no longer feeling like such a social outcast.

  Millie got up to make the coffee. I followed her to change my order, remembering my still unsettled stomach.

  “How about tea and toast?”

  “A better idea. You folks have had a rough night,” she said, putting on water.

  “God, it’s good to be out of that monkey suit,” Hutch said, joining us. “I had to go to five different places before I could find one my size.”

  “I wish I could have gone, to see how the other half lives. How was Dr. James?” Millie said.

  “Busy,” Hutch answered, explaining about Frankie and Cordelia’s grandfather.

  “Poor lady. She’s a very good doctor. I’m a nurse. That’s how I know her,” Millie explained for my sake.

  “Yeah, I’m afraid Joanne was right. Sergeant Ranson,” Hutch added, catching himself.

  “Don’t worry. You can call Ranson whatever you want. I certainly have,” I said. “What was she right about?”

  “The kind of idiots those Federal guys were. They were more interested in having their first Mardi Gras ball than doing their job. They marched us out and told us not to worry, that they had everything under control. They didn’t,” he added bitterly. “That’s why I was there tonight, because Joanne wanted me there.”

  Millie put some tea and toast in front of me and a mug of hot chocolate before Hutch. She joined me in tea.

  “Do you think it was deliberate?” I asked.

  “Somebody knew and took advantage of our sloppiness,” Hutch answered.

  “Frankie said there was an informer on the force,” I volunteered, to see what reaction it got. “Do you think he or she was there?”

  “Had to be. It happened too quickly.”

  “Supposedly only Ranson knew I was bringing Frankie tonight.”

  “And Lafitte. It was his idea in the first place. Boy, does he feel bad about that. And Captain Renaud, of course. And the people from Washington,” Hutch rolled his eyes as he recited the list.

  “Damn,” I said softly. He nodded.

  “It’s bedtime, boys and girls,” Millie broke in. “I have to work tomorrow.”

  I explained about my lack of suitable attire. Millie was several sizes too small for me, so I ended up in a T-shirt of Hutch’s. I didn’t need underwear with it because it ended below my knees.

  I lay awake for a long time, feeling patches of blood I knew I had washed off.

  Chapter 19

  Ranson arrived the next morning for baby-sitting duty. She commandeered Hutch for a reconnaissance mission to my apartment so I could get some clothes and my own toothbrush.

  We were attacked by an enraged cat made vicious by starvation. Other than that, my abode was as it always was. A mess. But my mess.

  Hutch was sent out for cat food while I packed a suitcase. Ranson stayed near the door and kept a nervous watch on the stairs. I wondered if she had gotten any sleep the night before. I put in a bottle of Scotch while she wasn’t looking.

  After I was packed and food had soothed Hepplewhite, the savage beast, we left. Hutch followed behind us to make sure no one else did.

  Ranson took me to her apartment and, after Hutch had checked out the neighborhood, she waved him off for half a Sunday of rest.

  “You had breakfast yet?” she asked, the perfect host.

  “You know me, I never have breakfast until after lunch.”

  “Smartass. I’m in the mood for French toast. I’ll make enough for both of us, in case you change your mind.”

  “I always eat French toast for lunch.”

  Halfway through our brunch, Danny showed up. She was carrying a briefcase, so I knew this visit wasn’t purely social. She gave each of us a long hug, declining Ranson’s offer of food.

  “Micky, you’re tromping around where sane people fear to tread,” she told me. She and Ranson discussed the possibility of having me committed to keep me out of trouble. I was not amused.

  Then Danny got down to business. She placed a tape recorder in front of me, then questioned me in painstaking detail about Frankie. How I had met him, kept him undercover, the whole bit.

  “Anything else?” she asked, her final question.

  There was. What Frankie had told me before he died.

  It couldn’t be Ranson, I told myself. I was thinking of sleeping with this woman; she couldn’t be a killer. Then again, I had slept with Karen Holloway, I remembered. And a lot of other women I didn’t want to remember. No, I fucked Karen, I wanted to make love to Ranson. There was a difference. There had to be.

  “Frankie recognized a voice. The real leader of the drug ring. He was there.”

  “Three hundred invited guests. A number of those with dates and the like not on any list. Plus close to two hundred workers,” Ranson informed us. “Pick a voice out of that,” she finished tersely. She looked at me, I looked down.

  My silence hung in the air.

  “What?” Ranson asked, knowing I was holding back.

  “Before he died, Frankie couldn’t tell me the name of the informer, but he gave me a few identif
ying clues,” I said. No one said anything. I continued, “He likes jazz, Billie Holiday. Was wounded in action and…his (I put too much emphasis on his) name has an R in it.”

  “Or hers?” Ranson said. She had caught it. She took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She didn’t look at me.

  “Did he say anything else?” Danny asked. She was sitting opposite me and next to Ranson, so she didn’t see what had passed.

  “No, he died,” I answered tersely.

  “Why didn’t you tell me last night?” Ranson questioned, as she put her glasses back on, barricading her eyes.

  “There were too many people around. Anyone could have overheard.” That may have been true, but it wasn’t why I hadn’t told her and she knew it.

  “We found the motorcycle half a mile down the road,” Danny explained. “It had been stolen the night before. No sign of the murder weapon yet.” Then she glanced at her watch. “My, time flies when you’re working on your day off. I’ve got to get going.”

  She hugged each of us again on her way out. Ranson watched her drive away, but didn’t say anything. Danny had been gone for a long time, before she turned to me. She looked at me, then over my head behind me. She gave a bare nod.

  I jumped up and looked over my shoulder. There was no one there.

  “Shit, that wasn’t funny,” I exclaimed.

  “I had to know,” she said. “Sorry if I frightened you.” She turned away and went back into her kitchen. I heard her starting to wash the breakfast dishes. I followed her.

  “Joanne, I’m sorry. If I really thought it was you, I wouldn’t have told you today, and I certainly wouldn’t be here alone with you,” I apologized.

  “It’s okay, Micky. Don’t worry about it.” Then she was silent, her back to me as she continued with the dishes.

  I stood watching that back, trying to think of something to say, something that would make my panic and mistrust go away.

  Ranson glanced over her shoulder as if sensing me there. She stopped washing dishes, got a towel and dried her hands.

  “Who watches the watchers?” she asked. “There’s a crooked cop somewhere. No wonder you don’t trust any of us. I don’t.” She walked past me, out to the living room and stared out the window at the gray and cold afternoon.