Murder in the Rue Ursulines

Chapter Ten

I don’t know how long I was unconscious.

I came back to reality cold, wet, and aching. My ears were ringing.

Even my hair hurt.

I rolled over onto my back and winced. I moved my arms and legs. They hurt, but they still moved. I used my hands to push myself into a seated position. I felt dizzy for a moment, but willed myself to get to my knees and stand up. My head spun again when I got to my feet, and I staggered over to a chain link fence in time to keep from falling down again. I leaned against it while I ran my hands carefully over my ribs. They ached, but I was able to breathe without a lot of pain. The knuckles of my left hand were swollen, and I winced again as I pulled up my shirt to wipe the mud out of my eyes.

Whoever had attacked me was long gone.

I staggered around to the sidewalk. My head was throbbing, and I felt along the back of my head until I found a nice-sized lump where my skull had connected with the sidewalk. I ran my tongue along the inside of my teeth-they were all still there. I licked my lips, tasting dirt and blood. They were swollen and cut, but overall, I seemed to be relatively okay.

I gritted my teeth and staggered along the sidewalk until I got to Paige’s gate. I slid the key into the gate and slammed it shut behind me. Despite the throbbing pain coming from various points of my body, as I walked, my mind became clearer and the staggering seemed to be under control. My legs were sore and aching. I climbed the short staircase to her door and went in.

Paige looked up from her computer and gave a slight scream. She sprang to her feet, knocking her chair over. “Oh my God! Are you all right?”

“I didn’t get the food,” I said. The ringing was getting quieter. Now it was more like a dull buzzing sound.

Paige’s face was pale, her eyes wide. “What happened?”

“I got jumped.” I walked through her kitchen to the laundry room and turned on the hot water spigot in the sink. I looked at myself in the mirror and could understand why she screamed. I looked like something that had been dredged up from a swamp. I had a black eye and an ugly swollen bruise across my right cheek. My lips were cut and swollen. I reached for a washcloth, splashed hot water on my face, and started patting the mud and dried blood off my skin.

“You need to go to the hospital,” Paige said from the doorway. “Come on, let’s go.”

“I’m fine,” I growled back at her and looked again in the mirror. “Does Ryan have any clothes here that would fit me?” I stood back to my full height.

“You need to get checked out.”

“I’m not going to any fucking hospital,” I snapped. “Clothes! Now!”

Without a word she walked away. I heard her going up the stairs to the second floor. I pulled my shirt up over my head. “Ow, ow, ow.” The shirt was ruined, so I tossed it in the garbage pail. I started soaping up my arms and got a good look at my chest in the mirror. There were ugly bruises all over my chest and abdomen. I washed the mud off my arms. I undid my pants and eased them down. My legs were bruised as well.

“Here.” Paige placed a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt on the washing machine behind me. “Chanse, are you sure about going to the emergency room? You look horrible, really.”

“I’m just bruised up is all.” I knelt down with a moan and put my head under the rushing hot water. I massaged soap into my hair, carefully rubbing around the lump. I rinsed the soap out and wrapped a towel around my head. I took off my filthy muddy underwear and pulled the sweatpants on. She handed me two Tylenols after I gingerly pulled the sweatshirt over my head. I felt somewhat better. And with the mud and blood washed away, I just looked like I’d been in a fight. A bad one, granted, that I hadn’t won, but at least I wouldn’t scare small children any more. I walked into her living room and popped the Tylenol. I sat down on the couch.

“Maybe we should call Venus and Blaine-“

“I didn’t see who it was, Paige.” I eased back against the back cushions. “I heard someone running up behind me, and when I turned around I took a nasty punch to the face. I got knocked down, and the son of a bitch kept kicking me until I passed out.”

Now that the shock had passed, I was starting to get mad.

“This wasn’t a mugging,,” I went on. “This was a warning. From Frillian.”

“You don’t know that-“

“Jay Robinette did this.” I shushed her. “I’m not that easy to take down. Whoever hit me was strong enough to knock me off my feet-and he was at least as tall as I am, if not taller.” I pointed to the bruise on my right cheek. “Look at this! No one shorter than me could have hit me so hard here. Or bruised me like this.” I placed my own fist up against the bruise. “See the angle? It was a straight-on punch, not from below.” I was getting angrier. “It was Jay Robinette, all right.” I clenched my teeth. “I may not be able to prove it, but Frillian sent me a message tonight. Obviously, they don’t want me to find out what Freddy did.”

“Movie stars don’t-“

I interrupted her, pointing at my face. “Whatever Freddy did in his past, it was bad. Bad enough that they don’t want anyone to ever find out about it. Well, this time, they fucked with the wrong private eye.” I gave her a grim smile. “I’m bringing those Hollywood assholes down.”

“Chanse-“ But then, she closed her mouth and suppressed a giggle. “You sound kind of Hollywood yourself, John Wayne.” After a moment, she went on, “Okay, count me in. But promise me you’re going to be more careful.”

“Trust me, I don’t want to go through this again.” I smiled at her. I stood up, wincing. “All right, I’m going to walk home.”

“Walk? Are you insane?” She walked into the kitchen and grabbed her purse. “After what just happened? I’ll drive you.”

“No, I want to walk.” I grimaced. “It’ll be okay, Paige. Robinette isn’t out there anymore. His job is done. If he’d wanted to kill me, he could have. That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“If you aren’t going to the hospital to get checked, you should stay here,” she insisted. “What if something’s wrong-like you have a concussion and you don’t know it?”

I gave a half-laugh. “Paige, I’m fine. Really. Besides-“ I waved at her couch. It wasn’t a full-sized couch-more of a longer love-seat, really. There was no way I could stretch out on it.” As sore and battered as I am, sleeping on your couch isn’t going to help. I need my own bed tonight.”

She surrendered and put her purse down on the coffee table. “Okay, fine, you stubborn asshole.”

She walked me out to the gate, her lips pursed in disapproval as I hobbled along. The more I walked, though, the easier it got. But she kept her mouth shut until she’d shut the gate behind me. “Call me and let me know you’re home safe, okay?”

“I will.”

The street was deserted, and there was no traffic on Prytania Street as I crossed it. I wasn’t sure if the media circus had been disbanded, but I didn’t care, either. Frillian wanted war, did they? Well, I’d be more than happy to fire some shots back.

When I reached Coliseum Square, I looked across to my house. The vans were gone. The sidewalk was clear. But a car I didn’t recognize was parked in front of my house-it didn’t belong to any of my neighbors. My heart started beating a little faster-you idiot, Paige was right, what if whoever beat you is waiting to finish the job?-but I took some deep breaths and started walking across the park.

As I drew closer to Camp Street, I could see two people sitting in the car. A cigarette lighter flared, and with no small relief I realized that the passenger was a woman.

I crossed the street and headed for the gate. I had just started to open it when I heard car doors shut.

Get inside the house! My mind screamed at me.

“Chanse MacLeod?” a woman’s voice said from behind me.

I turned, and a bright light blinded me. When my eyes adjusted, I realized it was the light from a video camera.

The woman approached me. The man with her was holding the camera and was aiming it at me. She smiled. She was in her late forties, with graying dark hair. She was holding a digital recorder in her hand. “I’m Debra Norris, with The Veronica Vance Show. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the Glynis Parrish murder?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t comment on the case,,” I replied.

“What happened to your face?”

I shrugged. “This is what happens when you tell the truth about movie stars.” I turned my back and walked up my steps. I laughed grimly to myself. Chew on THAT when it airs, Frillian! Once I was inside my apartment, I called Paige to let her know I’d gotten home okay. She sounded relieved, and I promised to call her again when I got up. I walked over to my desk. I got out my cell phone and dialed Jephtha.

“Hello?”

I took a deep breath. “Jephtha, I need you to do something for me.” I closed my eyes. I bit my lower lip. I’d never specifically asked him to do anything illegal before-and it didn’t sit well with me. He’d probably done some illegal things over the years, but we operated on a don’t ask, don’t tell policy. This was the first time I’d asked him to break the law and risk his freedom.

But it was the only way I could think of to get the information.

“Sure.”

“How hard would it be for you to break into a university’s database?”

He didn’t answer at first. I was about to tell him to forget it when he replied, “Not hard, really. It depends on their security system. Their main concern is student hackers trying to change grades.” I heard him inhale. “Sure, it’s not exactly legal to break in. But I think I can do it without leaving a record.”

“I just want you to retrieve records on a student from about twelve years ago.” I swallowed. “But I don’t want you to do anything risky.”

He laughed. “Well, it shouldn’t be difficult at all. No one ever wants to access old records-they usually don’t protect that stuff much. It just depends on if they converted the old paper files to digital, or when they started keeping records on the computer. But twelve years ago-I’d imagine most colleges had started using computers by then.”

I grabbed the case file I’d started. I gave him the name of the university and the dates attended. “The student’s name was Frederick Bliss.”

“Freddy Bliss?” He whistled. “Okay, boss, I’ll get right on it.”

“Thanks, Jephtha-but be careful, okay?” I hung up the phone.

I sat down at my computer and checked my e-mail.

The in-box was full; all of the messages from addresses I didn’t recognize. Some of the subject lines were insulting, to put it mildly. I marked them all as spam, and went to bed. I set the alarm for eight. That would give me plenty of time to shower and wake up before meeting Brett. My body still ached a bit, but the Tylenol was working. I closed my eyes. I was exhausted.

I didn’t dream, and slept like a stone.

I woke up in the morning feeling sore and tired. I took a long hot bath while the coffee brewed, letting the hot water work its magic on my muscles and joints. I got out of the tub feeling much better. I was still stiff in places, but for the most part, I was functional. I took some more Tylenol. I still looked awful, but that couldn’t be helped. The lump on the back of my head seemed to have gone down a bit as well. With a full cup of coffee, I sat down at my computer and logged on.

The first headline on the welcome page screamed at me: Witness In Parrish Murder Beaten. There was also a photo of my battered face. I clicked on the link, and it brought up one of those video links. I clicked on the play button-and there I was, on the sidewalk in front of my house. I closed my eyes as I heard myself saying, This is what happens when you tell the truth about movie stars.

I glanced at the Web site header line. It was a gossip site. My heart sinking, I started reading the accompanying article.

“Chanse MacLeod, a New Orleans private investigator who claims to have seen Freddy Bliss leaving Glynis Parrish’s home the night she was murdered, apparently was attacked and beaten-and from his comments to a reporter from ‘The Veronica Vance Show’, caught on tape, seems to think Frillian was behind it!

MacLeod, an openly gay man, has been involved in several homicides over the years in New Orleans. Sources tell us here at tarnishedtinsel.com that he has actually killed twice-his first victim a gay prostitute named Glenn Austin. He also was involved with soft-core gay wrestling video star Cody Dallas, whose real name was Paul Maxwell. Several years ago, Maxwell was kidnapped and murdered by a deranged fan.”

I swallowed. There was a picture of Paul wearing a skimpy bright yellow bikini, with a come-hither look on his face. The caption read, Murdered soft-core porn star Cody Dallas.

Christ, I thought. I knew I should stop reading, close the page, and forget about it. But somehow I couldn’t. I had to pick at the scab.

“MacLeod, who was a New Orleans police officer and still has strong ties to the department, is himself a suspect in the murder of television star Glynis Parrish-but one the New Orleans police don’t seem to be taking very seriously. Their investigation seems to be targeting on super-sexy star Freddy Bliss-primarily based on what MacLeod claims to have seen the night of the murder! But the gay private dick was in Glynis Parrish’s home the day she was murdered, and sources tell us that his fingerprints were found on the murder weapon-the Emmy Glynis won for her long-running television series, ‘Sportsdesk’. Another source tells us that MacLeod was actually on Frillian’s payroll, and was fired the day after the murder. MacLeod was questioned by the New Orleans police department, but let go after an interrogation that didn’t last longer than an hour. It doesn’t hurt to have connections, apparently-looks like corruption is alive and well in the Big Easy!

“MacLeod, who runs his own private investigation business, has thus far refused to talk to the press. No police report was filed on the altercation that bruised-up face. What does the gay private dick have to hide?

“Two murders in New Orleans can already be chalked up to Chanse MacLeod. Is it really that much of a stretch to think he might have something to do with Glynis Parrish’s murder? Not according to the NOPD! The NOPD refused to answer questions about the investigation, or why they weren’t taking MacLeod, a two-time killer, seriously as a suspect. All we know is once a killer, always a killer-unless you live in New Orleans and have friends at the cop shop.”

I set my coffee cup back down on the desk… Deep breaths, I told myself. It’s just a gossip Web site, and no one could possibly take it seriously. It’s not like it’s a reputable news agency. And it’s going to get a hell of a lot worse. So ignore it, forget about it. There’s nothing you can do about it, anyway. I stared at the picture of Paul, and started to get angry all over again.

There was absolutely no need to drag Paul into this. I hoped Fee and the rest of his family didn’t see this garbage.

At the bottom of the article was a place to post comments. My jaw dropped. There were over 36,000 comments already.

I clicked on the link to the comments page.

The first post started, That faggot got what he deserved-whoever beat him up shouldn’t have stopped there, they should have killed him for the lies he’s spreading about Freddy Bliss…

No need to read this crap, I thought, switching over to my e-mail in-box.

It was full again. I started marking the messages as spam and getting rid of them. The header lines included such charming statements as Fucking faggot; Leave Frillian alone you fag; Someone should kill your gay ass; and so forth.

I shook my head. Would it have killed me to say, “No comment”?

I got up from the desk and walked over to my front window, pulling the curtains aside. There were news vans out front, and a crowd milling about on the sidewalk. I walked back to my desk and sat down, reading the original article again. This time I remained calm. Now that the initial shock was over, all I felt was a dull spreading rage-and that wasn’t a good thing. I needed to remain calm, let it roll off me, and stay focused. Sure, everything in the article was true-but it was the way it was written that made me sound like some kind of crazed monster. Undoubtedly, the reporter was also getting some payback for my not returning his or her calls.

I heard Jillian saying, “They’ll print anything, with no regard for whether it’s true or not…or they’ll take what’s true and make it sound as awful as they can.”

“So this is what it’s like to be a celebrity,” I said out loud, finishing my coffee. “I think it sucks.”

No sense getting angry about it. I just hated the feeling of powerlessness. These people could write just about anything they wanted to, make any kind of innuendo, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it.

But it did make me wonder where they got their information from.

The only people who could benefit from my being discredited were Freddy and Jillian.

And why discredit me-unless Freddy had killed Glynis?

I was becoming more and more convinced. They certainly weren’t acting like Freddy was innocent.

I scrolled down to the bottom of the page. I forced myself to read the comments. They were horrible; people sitting behind the anonymity of their computer screens passing judgments…

“Chance McCloud-why didn’t you mention that he’s a faggot pervert? He’s killed before, how do the police know that he didn’t kill Glynis? He lives outside God’s law, so the commandment against killing means nothing to him. He and all the other perverts in New Orleans should be rounded up and killed, it’s what God commands…he and others like him are an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. Why else did God send the hurricane to destroy the modern Sodom? These are indeed sorry times for this country when perverts like that can subvert God’s law and get away with it.”

I wanted to put my fist through the computer screen. Fury filled my brain, and I clicked on the respond button on the page. Then I thought better of it and closed the window. Don’t get angry, just shrug it off. There’s nothing you can do about it. And anything you could say would just inflame them more. Don’t give them any attention; that’s what they want. Just ignore them and don’t descend to their level.

In the five minutes since I’d emptied my in-box, it had filled up again. Most of the messages were interview requests, but the subject line of one was abusive: You Should Burn in Hell. . The return address was a series of number and letters that made no sense;

Against my better judgment I opened it, and read:

You fucking faggot,

You can get away with your perversions in a disgusting city like New Orleans, but in the rest of the country we all live by God’s law, and you are an abomination in His eyes. You obviously have some kind of agenda, some reason to try to destroy Freddy and Jillian, but it’s not too late to recant not only your lies, or to make yourself right in the eyes of the Lord. You like taking it up the butt? Well, when you finish outraging good Christians, we have something to shove up your butt-a shotgun ready to blow you to Kingdom Come, and then when you face your maker, we’ll see how defiant you are in your sin. You are an abomination, who has turned his back on the Lord. His judgment will way heavy on your soul. We’ll be praying for you.

My hands shaking with anger, I forwarded it to Jephtha, asking him to trace the sender for me. I then saved it, moving on to continue emptying out my in-box. Sadly, that wasn’t the only one of its type, and after reading for the fifth time how I was damned to eternal hell, I stopped.

I got another cup of coffee and sat down on the couch for a moment. I was breathing fine, and my heart rate seemed normal, which was great. I took a couple of cleansing breaths, and sighed. I called Paige, and she answered screaming. “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU SAY THAT ON CAMERA FOR YOU BIG IDIOT!”

“Good morning to you too, did you sleep well?” I replied. “And yes, I’m fine, just a bit on the sore side.”

“I’m counting to ten, give me a second.”

“Okay, granted, it wasn’t the smartest thing to do.” I said. I could hear her counting. “But damn it, I couldn’t just let it go. And I was hoping to stir up Frillian.”

“Nine, ten.” She blew out a long breath. “Good idea. If they sent someone to beat you up-which by the way we don’t know for a fact-you’re right. By all means, antagonize them some more. I could wring your neck.”

“Jephtha’s tracing some information for me from Freddy’s college days.” I said. With Paige, I’ve learned that it’s sometimes best to ignore her and change the subject. “I’m going to stop by his place after I meet with Brett, the trainer, and see what he’s found.”

“Oh, and Shirley Harris is in rehab, by the way,” Paige replied with a sad laugh. “It was on the news last night. Frillian hired a private plane and sent her to one of those celebrity places like Betty Ford-near Palm Springs. No one’s going to be able to get anything out of her now. If you ask me, they sure are acting like they’re guilty. We can write Shirley off as a source now.” She sighed. “I’m having lunch with Venus later. I’m going to tell her about my interview with Shirley. Maybe she can get to Shirley, but who knows? I wish I’d been able to get the name of her private eye out of her.”

“If her private eye was able to dig it up, we should be able to,” I said confidently.

“What I don’t understand,” Paige said slowly, “is why it hasn’t come up before. Someone out there has to know-and has to know it’s worth a lot of money to either Freddy or the tabloids.”

“Maybe they’ve been paying people off for years, Paige. We don’t know.” I closed my eyes. “And someone besides Shirley knows. Whoever sent the original e-mails. That’s really what got this whole mess started. It couldn’t have been Glynis. If she’d known, why would she wait until now to bring it all up?”

“Maybe she just now found out.” Paige sighed. “Okay, I’m heading out now. Give me a call later, all right?”

“Yeah.” I closed the phone and it rang almost immediately. “MacLeod.”

“Hey, Chanse, Storm Bradley here. Just got off the phone with Casanova. Yeah, they found your prints on the murder weapon, all right-the Emmy. But the way your prints are on it, you couldn’t have used it to strike the blow that killed Glynis Parrish. The forensics are all wrong.”

“So I’m no longer a suspect?”

“Well…you could have used gloves for the murder, then planted the prints to throw the cops off, right?” He laughed; I didn’t. “Maybe you’re not quite off the hook, but it’s a good sign.”

“ Oh. Well, thanks, Storm.”

“No problem. If you need me, call me.” He paused. “By the way, nice footage on CNN this morning. Did you intend to imply that Frillian had you beaten up?”

I didn’t answer. ”Yeah, well, it had just happened, and I was mad. I know I should have just said no comment, but I was pissed.”

“Are you okay? Did you go to the hospital? Fill out a police report?”

“No, I didn’t do either. I’m fine. Just a little sore and bruised.”

“Well, if they have a problem with it I’ll undoubtedly be hearing from Loren McKeithen. I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.” I hung up the phone. It was getting close to ten. I grabbed my wallet and keys and walked out the back door to the parking lot. From the sidewalk, people started shouting my name. I started the car and backed out of my spot, clicking the gate open with my remote. The reporters swarmed all over the driveway in front of my car, but I didn’t roll the window down and kept moving forward slowly. I had to resist the urge to stomp down on the gas and take a few of them out. Cameras were clicking, questions were being screamed at me, but then the car was out onto Camp Street. In the rearview mirror I saw them running for the vans.

Christ.

The light at Melpomene was red. It was a one-way street going the other way, but I floored it and turned right. I swerved to avoid a white SUV that honked its horn at me. The woman behind the wheel flipped me the bird. I turned right on Magazine, and then took the next left at high speed. I took the next right, the next left, and finally wound up on Race heading towards Tchoupitoulas.

There was no one behind me when I checked my rearview mirror.

I smiled and headed uptown.