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  “I’ll call and get you a room somewhere,” Ray said.

  “Already done. Uncle Charles called Marty Ebersole. He’s the director. We have a suite at the Monteleone. And Uncle Charles is leaving and headed there as soon as he can grab a flight.”

  Ray picked up the phone. “You guys get rolling. I’ll track down Pancake.”

  “You got it,” she said.

  “And be careful,” Ray added. “I saw on the Weather Channel site that there’s a storm in New Orleans and it’s headed this way.” Great. Wet roads, Nicole in hot-rod mode.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT TOOK US the better part of two hours to get out of Gulf Shores.

  First stop was Captain Rocky’s. I checked in with Carla Martinez, my manager, to let her know I’d be away a few days and that she was in charge.

  Her response: “I’m always in charge. You just own the joint.”

  And that was true. She did run the day-to-day business, but if need be, I could do it myself. But that would cut into my playtime. And playtime was important. Of course, Ray didn’t see it that way. To him, playtime was wasted time. He even considered that my owning a bar was foolish. Felt I should throw in with him and work as a PI. Yeah, like that was going to happen.

  But, while Carla was giving me the thumbnail of last week’s receipts, expenses, and pending liquor and food inventory orders, and while I nodded as if I were truly listening, it dawned on me that once again Ray had pulled me into his orbit. Here I was, headed to New Orleans. To work for Ray. How the hell did that happen?

  Then I glanced toward Nicole. Through the windows. She was on the deck, leaning on the rail, gazing out over the Gulf. That crystallized it. I mean, just look at her.

  I had the kitchen whip up a pair of breakfast burritos and a thermos of coffee for us, and we headed to my place and then Nicole’s to pack a few things. Took me twenty minutes; Nicole ten. Never seen a woman pack so quickly and efficiently.

  We spun out of The Point, and twenty minutes later were soaring west on I-10. Warp Factor 4. Nicole had the 429 horses under the hood in full stride. I held on and shut up.

  For a while, anyway.

  “What’s the story on Kirk Ford?” I asked, as we rolled through rural farmland. It had begun to sprinkle, and the horizon ahead looked dark and menacing. Great.

  “Just what I said. He’s a big deal. Pulls in a ton of cash for the studio.”

  “Thus, the franchise moniker.”

  “You got it. His Space Quest series began with Hidden World. It was about some cloaked planet that waged war against a neighbor.”

  “I hate it when that happens.”

  “It grossed over three hundred million.”

  “I guess there’s big money in conquering cloaked planets.”

  “Kirk and crew swooped in and saved the day in that one. All the other episodes, too.” She blew past a convoy of five semis.

  “Somehow, I missed seeing them,” I said.

  “You’re not his demographic anyway. He’s big with the high school and college crowd. Very loyal fan base.”

  “This could put a dent in that. Whether he’s guilty or not.”

  “That, of course, is Uncle Charles’ concern. He has big money riding on this.”

  “What is this one?” I asked. “Little green men attacking Commander’s Palace?”

  She laughed. “No. It’s called Swamp Wars. That’s why they chose New Orleans. Lots of swamps to choose from.”

  “So, exactly how well do you know him? Kirk Ford?”

  “We went out a couple of times.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” She glanced at me.

  “Were you two an item?”

  She laughed. “No way. Of course, the tabloids tried to make it so. Even People magazine had a red-carpet pic of us together.”

  “The Oscars?”

  “No, some minor award thing. I forget which one.” She raised an eyebrow. “You jealous?”

  “He is a hunky superstar.”

  “So are you.” She laughed.

  “I still hate him.”

  “You don’t even know him.”

  “So? I can still hate him. It’s a free country.”

  She rolled her eyes. I wished she wouldn’t do that at eighty-five miles an hour on a slick highway.

  “Truth is we had no chemistry,” she said. “He’s a nice guy but too pretty.”

  “Pretty? Not sure that’s a term for a guy.”

  “It is for him. He’s more pretty than handsome.” She swerved around another eighteen-wheeler. “And no girl wants to be around a guy who’s prettier than she is.”

  “Not possible in your case.”

  “You trying to garner points for the suite later?”

  “Never hurts to plan ahead.”

  “You’re such a good Boy Scout.”

  “That’s what I was going for.”

  She shook her head. “In case you forgot, I’m easy.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  “Of course you are.” In rapid succession, she dropped a Corvette, a Lexus, and a jacked-up SUV in her wake.

  “You said Ford is a nice guy?”

  “Yes. He is.”

  “Nice enough not to kill a lover?”

  “Not the Kirk I know.” She sighed. “I can’t imagine he did this.”

  “Love and sex make folks do some awful stuff.”

  She nodded. “True.”

  I somehow missed Mississippi. The entire state. Seemed like it only took a couple of heartbeats, or in my case a couple of million, to cross the state and power into Louisiana. As we blew past the Slidell exit and charged headlong into the storm, Nicole kept her horses running. Soon we were out over Lake Pontchartrain, where the wind whipped the water into foam and some of the waves looked as if they might wash over the road. Sheets of rain battered the windshield at a low angle, the wipers barely able to keep up.

  Didn’t bother Nicole. She drove with one hand, the other twisting a strand of hair near her left ear. I would’ve preferred she used both hands, at the ten-and-two positions of course, but was smart enough to stay silent on that point.

  The storm was powerful but short-lived. By the time we exited into the French Quarter, the rain had settled into a drizzle. I could even see patches of blue sky to the west.

  A few twists and turns, and angry drivers, and Nicole slid to a stop in front of the Monteleone. White with gold trim and little curly things all over the front. Very French. Very wedding-cakey. Is that a word? Regardless, it’s a good description.

  A valet and two crisply attired bellmen appeared. The valet climbed in the Mercedes and whipped it around the corner toward the parking garage while our luggage rode a rolling cart through the front door. We followed.

  Inside, the wedding cake was pretty cool, too. The Monteleone’s lobby looked more like a palace on the Cote d’Azur. Vaulted ceilings, chandeliers, and a parquet floor. Behind the reception desk stood an attractive young lady whose name tag indicated she was Katrina. Nothing like the hurricane, nothing wind-blown or out of place, she was also crisply dressed, and offered a welcoming smile.

  Took her all of a minute to tell us our suite was ready and another five minutes before a bellman opened the door to our room. It, too, belonged in a French palace. Uncle Charles did good. Very good.

  While we unpacked, Nicole called Marty Ebersole. He said he’d meet us in the bar in thirty minutes. Not long enough for a nap, a shower, or “something else all together,” so we decided a trip downstairs to the bar was in order. A drink or two could only help. Right?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE MONTELEONE’S CAROUSEL Bar, a New Orleans icon, drew tourists like spilled sugar on a countertop attracts ants. Today was no exception, every seat occupied, drinkers loitering and laughing three deep around its perimeter, bartenders working in a chaotic but efficient rhythm to fill the stream of drink orders. New Orleans and alcohol were more or less synonymous. Especially the French Qua
rter where folks drank themselves into stupors, anger, or silliness on a nightly basis. Kept the NOPD busy, I suspected.

  A canopy of carnival lights, mirrors, and painted Mardi Gras figures topped the circular bar and stools, each with hand-carved wooden backs inlaid with mosaics of big-game animals, perched around the perimeter. Lions and tigers and elephants. Like a real carousel, the entire arrangement rotated, making a complete circle every fifteen minutes. I wasn’t sure alcohol and orbiting a bar were a good combination. I checked the stools for seat belts but didn’t see any. No airbags either.

  We bypassed the carousel and moved into a more normal area of the bar where we settled into comfortable leather chairs around a pair of thick glass coffee tables that didn’t rotate but did wobble slightly on the old floor.

  In a heartbeat, a pleasant waitress named Tracey arrived. Nicole ordered the house Cab; I a Maker’s Mark, on the rocks. In no time, the bubbly Tracey returned with our drinks. No bar in the Quarter allowed fists to stay empty very long.

  A family of tourists grabbed a nearby table. A couple and three kids, early teens I guessed. Each carried a stuffed plastic shopping bag. The kids were jabbering about one of the street performers they had seen. Apparently one of those statue dudes. This one painted silver from head to toe and standing motionless on an inverted metal can, from what I could gather. The patriarch of the group looked like he hadn’t missed a meal while in New Orleans. Probably not in his entire life, for that matter. His gaze kept devouring Nicole. Pervert. But then again, I’m guilty of the same thing.

  I called Ray, told him we had arrived and were waiting for Marty Ebersole. Ray and Pancake were on his deck, no shock there. He said he’d turned up a couple of things.

  “The victim is Kristi Guidry,” Ray said, “nineteen.”

  “You’re kidding. Nineteen?”

  Nicole started to say something, but I held up a finger. She frowned.

  “Afraid so,” Ray said. “She was nearing the completion of her freshman year at Tulane. Don’t know much else about her yet, but Pancake’s digging around. I’m sure he’ll come up with something. The detective in charge is a guy named Troy Doucet. I have a call into him. Waiting to hear back. I did talk with one of the uniforms who was at the scene. Sounded like a rookie, or at least someone without a ton of experience. Did know enough to keep his mouth shut and not draw the ire of his bosses, though. All I got was that he felt Ford was in a world of shit.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “Pancake and I’ll keep at it and let you know what we dig up.”

  “Hopefully Ebersole can fill in some of the blanks.”

  “Later,” Ray said, and ended the call.

  “What did the boss say?” Nicole asked.

  “The boss?”

  “Okay, Ray.”

  “Not much. The girl was nineteen. A college freshman.”

  Nicole sighed and shook her head. “Kirk’s dick is going to be the end of him.”

  “If it isn’t already.”

  I saw a man round the carousel, scan the room, locate Nicole, and head our way. Ebersole, I assumed.

  It was. Nicole made the introductions and he sat. Short, thin, and wiry, he had rust-colored hair in tight curls that looked like a shower cap of sorts, and intense blue eyes. And speaking of intense—he seemed in perpetual motion. One knee bouncing, gaze flitting here and there, never really locking on anything, as if his eyes remained stationary for more than a second his retinas might burn out. He wore jeans, an open-collared blue shirt, and a black leather jacket. Seemed a bit warm for the weather, but it did look cool. And being a Hollywood type, I suspected cool trumped all else. He appeared very director-y. Is that a word?

  “So, anything new?” Nicole asked.

  He shook his head. “The twins and I went by the PD to see Kirk.”

  Nicole must have sensed the question that came to my mind because she jumped in. “The twins are Tara and Tegan James. Kirk’s sidekicks in Space Quest.”

  I should have known who he meant. I mean, their blond hair and lean bodies appeared on every Space Quest poster I’d ever seen. Not to mention every checkout counter tabloid in the country. I think I remembered an article about one of them being impregnated by a space alien. And that was one of the more believable tales about the two.

  I nodded. “Ah, yes.”

  “Anyway,” Ebersole continued, “they wouldn’t let us talk to him. Said he was still being booked.” He rolled his eyes. “Really? He’s been there eight hours. Either they’re the slowest people on Earth or they’re just screwing with me.”

  “When can we see him?” Nicole asked.

  “Tomorrow morning. He’s going to be arraigned and have a bail hearing at ten.”

  “That’s fast,” I said.

  “Ben Kornblatt. The studio’s legal council. He made a few calls, got some local legal eagle on the case.” His leg stopped vibrating, and the finger tapping his knee fell silent for a few seconds. He glanced toward the ceiling as if recalling something. “Can’t remember his name.” All parts went back into motion. “Kornblatt’s flying in tonight.”

  Tracey the waitress appeared. Ebersole ordered a Manhattan and Nicole and I refills.

  “What about the girl?” Nicole asked. “What do you know about her?”

  “Nineteen.” He shook his head. “Kirk’s usual dalliance.”

  “And?”

  “What do you mean and? She’s dead.”

  Nicole tossed him a slight frown. “What I meant is what’s her story?”

  “Name’s Kristi Guidry. Worked mornings over at Café du Monde. That’s where Kirk met her.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “Maybe a week ago. She’s been around essentially daily since then.”

  I assumed around meant in Kirk’s room.

  Our drinks arrived.

  “Anything else?” Tracey asked.

  Ebersole raised his glass. “I’ll need another one of these in a minute.”

  She smiled and walked away.

  Ebersole took a sip of his drink. “Girl’s two older brothers are making a stink. Talking to every TV news reporter they can find. Saying Kirk is a predator. That sort of thing.”

  Well, in a way he was, I thought. I didn’t express that opinion. Truth was I knew how this worked. Hollywood and Major League Baseball have that in common. Young women following the team, appearing in considerable numbers in whatever bars and restaurants the players frequented while traveling from stadium to stadium. I know I’d had my share. But that was another story, another life almost. Part of me missed that, most of me didn’t.

  “Can’t say I blame them,” Nicole said. “Big brothers are usually protective of little sisters.”

  Ebersole shrugged. “True.” He took another slug of martini. “Rumor is their uncle, Kristi’s too, of course, is some local badass.” He shook his head. “With my luck he’s probably a gangster or drug dealer or methed-up motorcycle dude.”

  His luck? Wasn’t it Kirk who was locked up for murder?

  Ebersole drained his glass just as the next one appeared. He smiled and nodded a thanks to Tracey the waitress. She gathered the empty and headed back toward the bar.

  “We didn’t shoot today,” Ebersole said. “A storm blew through.”

  “We know,” I said. “Nicole flew through it.”

  “Flew? I thought you drove.”

  “Semantics,” I said.

  She slugged me. Hard. On the arm.

  “I see.” Ebersole smiled. “I forgot. I rode through LA with her. Once.”

  I gave her a smug look. “See? I’m not the only one.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Wimps.”

  “The main thing is that he has to make bail tomorrow.” Ebersole massaged one temple as he spoke. “We can’t afford to hang around while the wheels of justice grind along.” He sighed. “Kornblatt will need to work his magic and get Kirk back on the set, pronto.”

  “I’d bet the bail tab will be high,”
I said. “If he gets it at all.”

  “Doesn’t matter as long as there’s bail. The amount is irrelevant. We can cover it.”

  I suspected a two-billion-dollar franchise would allow that. I also wondered how much pull some slick LA attorney would have down here in the Big Easy. I flashed on an image of a shiny three-piece suit facing a stern judge, jeans, tee shirt, and a .45 beneath his black robe. Could be a hell of a show.

  “It happened here?” I asked. “In this hotel? Right?”

  Again, Ebersole’s movements abruptly ceased and he nodded. “Kirk’s room is just down the hall from yours.” His knee kicked back into gear. “Want to see it?”

  That didn’t compute. It’d been less than a dozen hours since the crime was reported. I couldn’t imagine the police and the forensic dudes had released the scene yet. I said so to Ebersole.

  “No problem,” he said. “I have a key.”

  “You do?” Nicole asked.

  “Of course. I’m paying for the room.” He smiled. “Actually, the hotel gave me one today.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “They gave you a key to a crime scene?”

  He shrugged. “The cops took Kirk’s, and I didn’t want to be locked out, so to speak. The room’s in my name, and I guess the girl at registration didn’t get the memo on Kristi Guidry’s murder. Regardless, she gave me a copy.”

  “Still, I’m not sure contaminating a crime scene is a good move,” I said.

  “Then don’t touch anything.” He drained his drink and waved Tracey the waitress over.

  Ten minutes later, we faced the door to Kirk’s suite. None of that yellow crime scene tape slashed across the entry, rather a simple sign that said, “Out of Service.” You think? Guess the Monteleone had some pull. Didn’t want to upset the clientele and a crime scene banner would do exactly that.

  Ebersole opened the door and we entered.

  I hesitated just inside. The term breaking and entering seemed appropriate. If we got caught, we would end up in a cage with some of New Orleans’ finest miscreants. Didn’t seem to bother Nicole and Ebersole, though.

  Kirk’s suite was an exact copy of ours. Two rooms: a spacious living area and, through a pair of open, glass-paned French doors, the sleeping quarters. Even had the same green curtains, and cream-colored sofa and floral chairs around a wrought-iron, glass-topped coffee table.