Dragons Luck

Forty-four

If one wants information about a crime, instead of reading about it in the newspapers, it’s better to go directly to a cop. Lucky for Griffen, Harrison’s suspension had ended, and he was back on duty. He’d be the ideal source.

Griffen considered calling Harrison on his cell phone but decided against it. Doing that would call too much attention to himself and his interest in the case. This would be particularly bad if he was, indeed, a suspect. Instead, Griffen did what all good predators do. He staked out a water hole.

He knew Padre, the bartender at Yo Mama’s Bar and Grill, where Harrison often went to indulge in their hamburgers or have a few beers. That let him drop in casually and, if Harrison was not there, to hang out for a bit chatting with Padre without it being obvious that he was looking for the detective.

As might be expected, much of the conversation in the bar centered around Slim’s death. Everyone knew everyone else in the Quarter, if only on sight or to nod to in passing. While New Orleans had a bad reputation for murders, that was mostly in the outlying areas and usually involved the drug gangs fighting it out over territory and supply lines. A murder in the Quarter itself, particularly one involving a local, was rare, and therefore prime conversation material.

No one seemed to have much detailed information other than that Slim had been found on the Moonwalk, the stretch of pedestrian sidewalk that ran along the Mississippi from the French Quarter to the Aquarium of the Americas. There were a few tasteless jokes about someone really not liking street entertainers, but no real facts. Everyone seemed to like Slim, at least in hindsight, and no one had any ideas about who would have wanted to kill him.

Griffen was about to give up on his mission, at least for the night, when Harrison walked in.

The burly plainclothes detective always had the vague look of a biker to him, but tonight he was looking exceptionally haggard and unshaven.

Griffen waved him over, mentally rehearsing various ways to bring up the subject of Slim’s death. He needn’t have bothered.

“What a night,” the detective growled, sliding into the booth and waving for a beer. “As if the Halloween craziness wasn’t enough, we’ve got to deal with a dead street entertainer… without scaring the tourists, of course.”

“Yeah. I heard about Slim,” Griffen said, waving to add a drink for himself to the beer Padre was bringing over. “What happened there, anyway?”

“Still trying to figure it out,” the detective said. “As far as we know, Slim was clean. No dealing or hustling, didn’t drink all that much, no history of brawling. A couple of women he was dating casually, but no live-in girlfriend to get jealous or mad at him. He just worked hard at earning a living as a street entertainer, and that seemed to take up most of his time. Hell, McCandles, you knew him. He was about as harmless and inoffensive as they come.”

Griffen thought briefly about Slim’s temper when it came to animal control, but kept it to himself.

“How was he killed?” he asked instead.

“Stabbed through the heart,” Harrison said. “No signs of a struggle or fight. Like someone he knew and trusted walked up and nailed him.”

“Or someone he wouldn’t suspect,” Griffen said, thoughtfully. “Street entertainers work up close. It might have been someone who he thought was going to give him a tip.”

“Maybe.” The detective frowned. “Even there, the problem is still motive. Tourists and college kids come down here to get drunk and sometimes get into a fight in the process. They don’t usually walk around killing street entertainers.”

“Even if they did, a knife is kind of up close and personal,” Griffen said. “You’d think they’d use a gun or something… except, maybe, for the noise.”

“That’s the real kicker,” Harrison said, leaning in close. “It wasn’t a knife.”

“It wasn’t?” Griffen said. “Then what was he stabbed with?”

“According to the coroner, something wooden,” the detective said. “Maybe I’m letting the whole Halloween thing get to me, but it’s like someone put a wooden stake into his heart.”

Griffen gaped at him.

“A wooden stake? But that doesn’t make any sense,” he managed. “Slim did an Uncle Sam mime routine. Nothing to do with vampires. If someone went wacko and decided to hunt vampires, you’d think they’d go after a goth or something.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harrison said. “What’s more, whoever did it took the weapon with them… or threw it in the river. The way I understand the stake in the heart thing is that you’re supposed to leave the stake in. If you take it out, the vampire comes back to life.”

Griffen shook his head.

“Beats the hell out of me,” he said. “I’m glad it’s your problem and not mine.”

“Actually, I was hoping you might give me a hand,” Harrison said with a wolfish smile. “You live here in the Quarter and know a lot of these weird groups. I’d appreciate it if you kept your ears open and let me know if you hear anything they aren’t telling the cops… which is almost anything.”

“I can do that.” Griffen shrugged. “But outside of the wooden-stake thing, you don’t have any leads at all?”

“Just one,” Harrison said. “I’ve heard there’s some kind of weird occult meeting in town and that Slim was somehow involved with it. Even heard he got into it with someone there. I’m going to try to run that down and see if there’s any connection.”

Griffen’s stomach tightened. He definitely hadn’t needed to hear that.

“I suppose it’s a place to start,” he said, just to say something.

“It makes as much sense as any other theory I’ve got,” the detective said, standing up and tossing some money on the table for his beer. “I’ll have to move fast, though. They’ll probably be leaving town at the end of the weekend.”

Griffen’s mind was racing as he waved good-bye. Harrison would be moving fast, so he would have to move faster. Somehow, he had to get to the bottom of this mess before the detective discovered his own involvement with the conclave and started asking some uncomfortable questions about why he had withheld that particular tidbit of information.