A-List Page 6

  He disconnected the call and stared at Robert. “Any questions about what I said?” Tony asked.

  Robert shook his head.

  “You sure? I don’t want you two fucking this up.”

  “She was our sister,” Kevin said.

  Tony’s eyes narrowed. “And my niece.”

  Robert almost jumped on that, but let it ride. There was no doubt that Uncle Tony merely tolerated Kevin and him, maybe out of some sense of obligation to his brother, their father, but he loved Kristi. And he made no bones about it. She could do no wrong, Robert and Kevin no right. In truth, Kristi did no wrong, never a misstep. Until now, anyway. But he and Kevin always seemed to piss Uncle Tony off.

  “I’ll say it again,” Tony said. “I don’t want you two to open your mouths. Not to the media, not to anyone. Don’t approach anyone associated with Kirk Ford or anyone even tangentially connected to Kristi’s murder. Am I clear?”

  Robert looked at him, knowing not to respond, but somehow, he couldn’t hold back. “We have every right to find out what happened to her. To lean on her killer and his friends.”

  “And then what? You piss them off. Maybe attract the attention of the police. For what purpose?”

  Robert had no response for that.

  “I’ll handle this.” Tony leaned forward, his eyes seeming to settle deeper beneath his brow. “Like I do everything else. The courts will take care of Mister Ford. He’ll never see the light of day again. And if by some miracle, he slips out of this, I’ll fix that, too.”

  And there it was. Tony’s go-to fix for everything. Manipulate the legal system, and if that failed, go all street on whoever had dared to twist his tit. That’s where Johnny and Reuben came in, street justice being their speciality.

  He almost felt sorry for Kirk Ford. Not much, but a little, Robert thinking maybe Kirk would be better in max lockup than on the street. Even if it meant the life of a pretty boy in a cage with serial predators. Who knows, maybe the judge would toss him into the hellhole of Angola. Even that might be better than dealing with Tony’s wolves.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  NICOLE AND I said our good-byes to Detective Troy Doucet, again thanking him for not only his time but for talking so candidly with us. He shrugged, saying it was a two-way street and that if we uncovered anything useful to keep him in the loop. Will do.

  “I like him,” Nicole said.

  “Me, too,” I added. “Seems like a straight shooter.”

  We stood in the hallway, watching as he headed toward the rear entrance and the gated and guarded parking area beyond. He had his cell to his ear and walked with purpose.

  The relationship between cops and PIs was always complicated. And delicate. Ray had offered his opinion on the subject often enough. His take? Badges made some people an agent for truth, justice, and the American way, but others simply became arrogant, aggressive assholes. Gave them a certain swagger, deserved or not. Sure, both cops and PIs worked toward the same goal—to find the true facts of what had happened—but each had their own rules, methods, and restrictions. PIs seemed to resent the access to info and evidence that law enforcement enjoyed; while cops often resented, envied, disdained, pick your word, a PI’s ability to bend and ignore the rules. It could lead to epic clashes. But I hadn’t read Doucet that way. He seemed to keep his eye on the prize—the truth—and didn’t concern himself with who dug up the evidence. I hoped my assessment was correct.

  “What now?” Nicole asked.

  “Let’s get out of here. I need to call Ray and then we can track down a cab and go grab your car. Maybe swing by and have a chat with the boyfriend. Owen what’s-his-name.”

  “Vaughn. Owen Vaughn.”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “What about the uncle? Tony Guidry?”

  “That’s one of the things I want to talk to Ray about.”

  We exited the courthouse. No evidence of Kornblatt or the twins. Probably on the way to the airport so Kornblatt could head west and deal with his other fires. Now, Assistant DA Melissa Mooring faced the media, giving them her side of the story. I wondered how much of her script had been penned by Tony Guidry. She gave us a quick, expressionless glance as we weaved through the crowd, descended the steps, and turned up Tulane.

  Nicole hooked her arm in mine. “This is really going to be a media circus, isn’t it?”

  “All that and a barrel of squirrel monkeys.”

  “Not that bad, I hope.” She banged her hip against mine.

  We crossed South Broad, away from the crowd, and stopped before a row of shotgun houses—narrow, deep, interior rooms stacked one behind the other, the doors between often lined up as straight as a gun barrel. Made life interesting. I mean going from the kitchen to a bathroom might require passing through a bedroom or two. Privacy a pipe dream.

  I called Ray.

  “Tell me,” Ray said when he answered. Obviously, I had popped up on his caller ID.

  “He got bail. Three million.”

  That raised a soft whistle from Ray. “I expected it would be high. I assume Ford can cover it?”

  “The studio. They want him back on the set ASAP.”

  “Yeah. God forbid the production schedule gets wonky.”

  “Time is money.”

  “True,” Ray said. “And here I imagine it’s big money.”

  “Kornblatt’s getting the cash together and arranging to get Kirk’s passport over to the LAPD. That’s another condition of the parole. The judge said that as soon as the LAPD has possession of it and the funds are secured, Kirk will be out.”

  “Standard procedure. What’s the turnaround here?”

  “Kornblatt said a few hours.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Another thing,” I said. “Kristi’s uncle was there. Guy named Tony Guidry. Seemed to have some sway with the DA. Maybe the judge. A friend of Kristi’s said he might be mobbed up. Probably an exaggeration, but that’s what she said.”

  “She ain’t wrong,” Ray said.

  “What?”

  “Pancake and I are way ahead of you. We started digging into Kristi’s life and Tony popped up. And it does appear he’s connected to some faction of the old Dixie Mafia.”

  “I thought all those clowns were dead.”

  “Mostly. Or in prison. But there’re remnants laying around. Anyway, Tony’s a bad dude. Doesn’t seem to take prisoners. Implicated in everything from bribery and extortion to drugs, girls, influence pedaling. Obviously, none of it was ever proven.”

  “You’re just full of good news.”

  He laughed. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “What about her brothers? They were there. Tried to give Nicole and me some shit, but Tony’s sidekicks intervened.”

  “Yeah. Robert and Kevin. A couple of goofballs. Definitely not part of Tony’s operation. In fact, I’m not sure Tony cares much for them.”

  How the hell did Ray and Pancake find all this stuff? I should be used to it—they always find stuff—but this quickly was pretty damn good, even for them. So, I asked.

  “Pancake cracked into their Facebook pages, Twitter accounts, that sort of thing. They were at least smart enough not to say anything overt, but the sense we got is that they aren’t big fans of Tony.”

  “Looked that way to me,” I said. “Tony was giving them a ration of shit before they left the courthouse.”

  “Tony must be up to something—as far as Ford is concerned—and doesn’t want those two clowns screwing it up—or attracting any unwanted attention.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “They’ve yapped to the media. Saying all kinds of crap about Ford. Making threats. That’s not Tony Guidry. He likes to stay off the radar and work his magic behind the scenes.”

  “You mean like controlling a DA, maybe bribing a judge?”

  “Exactly. And if any of that comes to light, he would want to be insulated. Probable deniability. If his nephews are out there making waves and threats, Tony mi
ght not look so innocent.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “And Tony’s guys—Johnny Hebert and Reuben Prejean—are different animals altogether. If Tony has had anyone whacked—as most believe he has—these would be the guys that did it.”

  “They seemed … what’s the word? … professional.”

  “Bank on it,” Ray said. “That’s why Pancake and I are headed that way.”

  “Really?”

  “Can’t let you have all the fun. We’re halfway across Mississippi already. See you in a couple of hours.”

  “Cool.” I disconnected the call and slipped the phone in my pocket. Then to Nicole I said, “The cavalry is coming.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  NICOLE FLAGGED DOWN a cab—she’s much better at that than me—for obvious reasons—and then minutes later we were at the Monteleone. Ten minutes after that we were in her car zigzagging through the far reaches of the Quarter. The parts visitors rarely venture into, most sticking to Bourbon and Royal and a few other streets where bars, restaurants, shops, and music venues were plentiful. Which is too bad. There are some cool homes, small hotels, and cozy B&Bs in these less-trafficked areas.

  Our meandering ultimately led us to Vaughn’s Motor Works. It looked just as I expected. Messy, run-down, weatherworn. A place that worked for a living. It was a long, low, wooden, and corrugated metal structure with six bays, four filled with cars, two jacked up on lifts, workers doing their thing beneath each. The parking area was gravel, the office sitting at the left corner. Nicole crunched to a stop near the entrance and we walked inside.

  A middle-aged man, phone clamped to his ear, stood behind a counter littered with papers and file folders. A computer to his left, mug of coffee near his right hand. His stained blue shirt had “Carl Vaughn” embroidered on one pocket. The boss man.

  He looked up and nodded, while continuing his conversation. “Yeah. We got those in stock. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to get the work done.” He listened for a minute and then said, “Sounds good. See you around three.” He hung up and looked at me. “What can I do you for?”

  “You’re the owner, I take it?”

  “Sure am.”

  “We’d like to talk with Owen if he’s around.”

  “About what?”

  “Kristi Guidry.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I see.”

  “It’ll only take a couple of minutes.”

  He flattened his palms on the countertop, fingers spread, revealing grease-stained cuticles, a dirty and frayed Band-Aid wrapped around one knuckle. A workingman’s hands. His thick shoulders bulged as he leaned forward. “Owen’s already talked to the police. And you still haven’t told me who you are and why you’re here.”

  I introduced Nicole and me, then said, “We’re private investigators. Trying to find out what happened.”

  “That’s an easy one. That Hollywood pretty boy killed Kristi. A wonderful young lady. That’s the truth of it.”

  “And if that’s the case, that’s what we’ll find out.”

  “Nothing to find out. It’s a fact. So, I’d say we are about done here.”

  “Mr. Vaughn,” Nicole said. “We don’t have an agenda here.”

  He straightened and folded his arms across his chest. “You don’t? He the one paying you? Ford?”

  She shook her head. “Not really.”

  He released a quick laugh that was more like a derisive snort. “Like I said, we’re done here.”

  “We’re not trying to cause Owen any grief,” I said. “Just trying to get a handle on Kristi. Find out more about her and why this happened to her.”

  “Didn’t I say she was a fine young lady? Not much else to know.”

  “That’s what we hear. But I suspect Owen might know her better than just about anyone. He might have some insights that could help us.”

  He hesitated, shook his head. “Owen’s had a rough time with this. He and Kristi had been together for years. Basically, since they were kids. So, I think you can see this ain’t a good time to talk to him.”

  “It’s okay,” a young man said as he came through a curtained doorway behind Carl. “I’ll talk to them.”

  Carl turned. “You don’t have to.”

  “I know. But maybe it’ll help.”

  Carl gave a quick shrug. “Your call.”

  A man, wiping greasy hands on a blue towel, shouldered through the door that led from the work bays to the office. “Boss, got a question on that old Plymouth.”

  “Be right there.” Carl looked at his son.

  “It’ll be okay,” Owen said. “I got this.”

  Another nod, and Carl followed the worker through the door.

  “What do you want to know?” Owen asked.

  I looked around. “Maybe someplace private?”

  He hesitated, then said, “This way.”

  We followed him through the curtained doorway, down a short hallway, two bathrooms on the left, an open storage area stacked with boxes of auto parts on the right, and into the rear parking lot. It, too, was gravel and held a dozen cars in no discernible order. Some the employees’ rides; others waiting to enter the work bays, I imagined.

  Owen lifted a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket, shook one up, and clenched it between his teeth. He clacked open a Zippo, lit it, and took a long drag. He settled against the fender of a red Mustang.

  “We’re sorry about Kristi,” Nicole said.

  “Everyone is. She was special.”

  “That’s what we hear,” I said.

  “Believe it.” He took another drag, smoke escaping between his lips as he spoke. “I still can’t believe it really happened.”

  His face, his entire being, seemed sad, slumped, as if he could barely stand under the weight of it all.

  He sighed. “I told the police everything I know, which is close to nothing.”

  “How long had you and Kristi been a couple?” Nicole asked.

  “Known each other since we started school. But we’ve been dating regular for about five years.”

  “But she ended it recently?” I asked.

  “Couple of months ago.” His eyes glistened. “I did something stupid.” He looked at me. “Some chick I met in a bar. Onetime thing. Didn’t mean nothing.”

  “And Kristi found out.”

  He looked down, kicked at the gravel, and then looked back up. “I told her.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Stupid. At least it sure seems that way now. Shoulda kept my mouth shut. Then maybe none of this would’ve happened.” Another kick at the gravel. Another drag from the cigarette. “Truth is, I was eaten up with guilt. Figured if we were in it for the long run, honesty would be best.”

  “I take it she wasn’t happy,” Nicole said.

  “You could say that. But furious might be more like it. Hurt, probably humiliated. Can’t say I blame her.”

  “So, she broke it off,” Nicole said.

  “Yep.”

  “How did you feel about that?”

  “Shocked. I thought she’d appreciate the honesty.”

  Nicole reached out and laid a hand on his arm. “Women don’t usually take such things as lightly as guys do. At least, most don’t.”

  “Kristi sure didn’t.” He looked up toward the cloudless sky. “I was so stupid.” He looked at Nicole. “I knew it was wrong at the time. I knew that girl—funny—I don’t even remember her name—I knew that girl didn’t mean nothing. And could screw up everything. But I did it anyway.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, puffing out his cheeks. “So stupid.”

  “Were you angry when Kristi broke up with you?” I asked.

  “Not really. Mostly sad. Definitely shocked.” He finished the cigarette with a final pull, dropped it to the ground, and crushed it with his boot. “I never thought she’d take it so hard.”

  “I assume you told the police about the breakup?” I asked.

  “Sure did. I also told them that I know as t
he ex, so to speak, I’d be a suspect. But, that ain’t true. That could never be true.”

  I believed him. I’m no psychiatrist or interrogator or anything even close, but I know people. Owning a bar allows for that. Alcohol makes some folks happy, funny, gregarious and others dark, moody, angry, and dangerous. Reading body language and moods can head off most problems before they blossom. Any bar owner or bartender could tell you that.

  Looking at Owen, I saw a man crushed and destroyed. Not angry, or defensive, or evasive. Nothing that would even suggest guilt. I also knew his life had forever changed. From this point on, he would divide his earthly existence into the time before Kristi’s death and the time after. I suspected the ones before would be brighter, happier memories. Some people never recover from such tragedies but rather get dragged into a deep sinkhole, like quicksand, that smothers them. No matter where life led after those moments, the darkness would always be there. I hoped Owen wasn’t one of those. I hoped time would soften the edges of his pain. But I didn’t think so.

  “You knew she was seeing Kirk Ford, didn’t you?” Nicole asked.

  He nodded.

  “How’d you feel about that?”

  “Confused. As I said, I never dreamed she’d dump me for a single slip. Guess I misjudged that one.” He shook his head. “As for Kirk Ford, Kristi was grounded. Never had stars in her eyes. I wasn’t sure what to make of her taking up with him.”

  “Did you talk to her about it?”

  “Once. She said it was nothing. I wasn’t so sure. There was an excitement in her. Not right out there for all to see, but I did.” He looked at Nicole. “I knew her better than anyone.” He pulled out another cigarette and lit it. “It was like she was trying to hide her true feelings. Like she didn’t want to hurt me.”

  “That’s probably true,” Nicole said.

  “But deep down inside, I knew this was more than just a fling. To her, anyway.”