Devil take me down, p.14
Devil Take Me Down, page 14
part #2 of Clementine Toledano Mystery Series
“What if they find it?” Q asked.
Her grandmother shrugged. “What? I’m an old lady. How should I possibly remember that the combination to my father-in-law’s safe is my late husband’s birth date.”
Her blue eyes twinkled and she walked around to open the safe and placed the planted evidence safely inside. Closing the safe and the panel, she put her hands on her hips and nodded, clearly satisfied with the result.
She looked at her watch. “Now, Q sweetheart, what are your plans for this evening?”
“I’m supposed to go to rehearsal, but I can’t now,” Q told her.
Constance shook her head. “No, you go. Leave Ben’s car locked up safe in my garage. You go to rehearsal. When you get there, you should do Medea on that stage. You let everyone you know about Ben and the gross miscarriage of justice that’s happening.”
“Why?” Q asked. “What’s the point?”
Her grandmother sat down on the leather sofa and smiled at her. “The longer we can make Gabrielli think he’s defeated you, the safer Ben and Aaron are.”
Q nodded and did as her grandmother said.
Serial Killers and Cocktails
Q’s knee bounced nervously as she waited on the bench beside the front door of the precinct. When Ben and Lucy emerged at the top of the stairs, Q ran to greet him. She threw herself at him and he picked her up, wrapping his arms around her.
She pulled back in disgust and said, “You smell like Lysol and urine.”
He sighed in defeat. “That pretty much sums it up.”
Lucy moved them towards the door. “Go home, you two. Ben, I’ll see you in my office Monday morning.”
Q hugged her. “Thank you.”
Lucy shook her head. “Don’t thank me yet. We still need to talk about your little scavenger hunt.”
After Lucy dropped them off at home, Ben immediately went upstairs to take a shower. Q went to the kitchen to make them both a sandwich from the leftovers in the refrigerator. She sat at the table, staring at their untouched lunches, waiting for Ben to come down to the kitchen. After waiting a reasonable amount of time for a six foot five-inch man to take four showers, she left the kitchen and slowly climbed the stairs. Walking into their bedroom, she heard an unfamiliar sound coming from the bathroom.
“Ben? Baby?” she called.
Q walked into the bathroom and immediately realized what she had heard. She opened the shower door to find Ben curled on the ground in the back corner, sobbing.
“I’ll be down in a minute, darlin’” he said, shielding his face from her to hide his tears.
She walked in and sat down beside him, pulling his head to her chest and curling herself protectively around him, oblivious to the water soaking into her clothes and shoes.
“Why are you crying?” she asked.
He breathed in the warm steam. “I caused this. All these women are dead because of me.”
She held him tighter, recognizing the impotent guilt that had control over him. He sobbed, shaking in her arms. Q tried to think of the one thing that had helped her during those months after Niko’s death and the only thing that had was Charlie calling her out on her own self-loathing. She wanted to comfort Ben, to tell him that it would all be alright. But she knew from experience that she couldn't reach him that way.
She took a deep breath and nodded her head three times in exaggerated movements before saying, “Yep. Totally your fault. Just like it’s my fault that Niko killed Ronnie and Louis Falgoust and probably at least one or two others.”
Ben wiped his eyes. “That’s different and you know it.”
“Did you kill those women?” she asked.
He pushed her away in disgust. “No, of course not.”
Q knelt before him holding both of his hands in hers. “Then stop punishing yourself for what someone else did. You didn’t cause this,” she said, cupping his face in her hands.
“Didn't I?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Do you think I’d be here if that were true?”
He pulled her to him. “I don’t know what to do. There’s no way through this.”
“There is a way.” Q thought for several moments. “You’re not going to like it, but I did something that might help.”
~~~
Ben angrily paced their bedroom floor, his towel still wrapped around his waist. His long hair dripped water down his body.
“Are you fucking crazy?” he yelled, again.
Q had peeled off her wet clothes and was calmly drying herself off. “I’m just shaking the bushes, trying to see what comes out.”
“Did you stop and think what kind of monster is gonna come crawling out?” He sat down on the bed, shaking in frustration.
“Look, we’re just adding a few interesting songs to the Burlesque tonight. Derek Sharp might not even show. It might not amount to anything. But if there’s a chance I can get the gig, I thought maybe it would get me on the radar, is all,” she said casually as she pulled on a pair of shorts and an oversized Meshuggah t-shirt.
“Why? Why would you want to do this? You’re supposed to stay off his radar, remember?” He leaned his elbows on his knees and laced his hands behind his head, looking at the ground.
Q knelt below him. “They’re framing you, baby. When I left the police station yesterday, Sanger gave me your car keys and tipped me off. They planted one of Beth’s bras, some her hair, her cell phone, and an empty condom wrapper in your car while you were in lock-up. Mavis, Bubbe, and I tore that car apart trying to find anything else. The phone was hidden under the jack in your trunk for Christ’s sake.”
“How do they not think I did this? How do you?” he asked, his voice breaking.
“One, I know you and they know me. Two, we all adore you. And three, there is no way you’d have fit into that teeny tiny little condom that was, incidentally, covered in spermicide.” Q smiled up at him.
Ben reached down and pulled her to him. He held onto her for several silent moments.
“Baby, you are going to get S.S.S.’d to death row if we don’t do something,” she whispered.
“Screwed Southern Style?” he guessed.
“Nobody does a frame up job like the NOPD,” she replied.
Ben resigned himself to what was about to happen. “Okay. Walk me through the plan again. I stopped paying attention when you said you were going to dangle yourself out as bait.”
“First, we get Derek Sharp’s attention so he hires me to front Rebel Angels. Michael Lopez said I was on the short list to front it,” she explained.
“Niko’s ex? The sound guy? How would he know something like that?” Ben was incredulous.
“He’s running front-of-house for the Nine Circles Ball,” she said, standing up. She offered him her hand and he took it, rising from the bed. “Now, get dressed, and I’ll lay it all out for you.”
Having an extremely low probability of success made the plan as simple as it was stupid: Add a few songs from Angie’s playlist. Hire Michael to run sound, hoping he’d get the idea to tell Derek Sharp, who would hopefully come to the show. If he were impressed enough to hire Q, she would be instantly transformed into the Archangel that closes the Nine Circles Ball. Thus, dangling herself out as bait in front of five thousand people a night with some specially invited, potentially psychotic guests.
“That’s a lot of ‘if’s’ and ‘hopefully’s,’” had been Ben’s response to her idea. And she had to admit, he had a fair point.
As they headed downstairs, he said, “So the Burlesque, tonight, is what? An audition?”
“Audition or foreplay, depending on who you’re talking about,” she said, trailing behind him on the steps.
“Let’s hope it’s the former rather than the latter,” he sighed, accepting that he’d been overruled and this was happening with or without him.
~~~
Q recognized a familiar face in the crowd. Ben’s stern glare bore into her from where he stood, leaning against the wall closest to stage left in resolute annoyance. She struggled with one of the most complex piano parts she’d played in years, try to keep up with the pseudo tribal beat that Tom was playing below the steady rhythmic pulsing of JJ’s bass:
I try to stop this tragedy
Streetlights stretch in front of me
I drive too fast just to see you again
I should stop but I know I won’t win
I try to stop but I can’t quit
Try to make my body numb
I want to stop but I can’t quit
The mind is willing but the flesh succumbs
I feel your body inside my dreams
I hear your voice whisper ‘come to me’
I told you ‘no’, what a mistake
But your kiss was just too much to take
I couldn’t stop but I had to quit
Had to go out on the run
I want to stop but I can’t quit
The mind is willing but flesh succumbs
Funny how the past still tears
Ripping through the sin I bare
Such a lovely fantasy
Me wanting you, you wanting me
It’s a battle that can’t be won
This addiction to the hunt
What I need is never what I want
The body’s willing and the flesh succumbs
She didn’t know if it was the new songs or just the time of year, but the crowd overwhelmed them with enthusiasm. With the set finally over, she sighed, satisfied, and then she saw him: Derek Sharp, the three-thousand-pound shark in the New Orleans-sized goldfish bowl, swimming through the crowd, ignoring the lesser beings, all of whom were begging to be his next prey. Unfortunately for Q, he had already located tonight’s dinner.
His black hair was shorn close to his head and was reminiscent of a nineteenth-century mental patient. The black vinyl pants and platinum-colored silk duster he was wearing were clearly chosen to attract attention rather than avoid it. As he moved, the duster pooled and undulated around him like liquid mercury. He strode up onto the stage and sat down next to Q on her piano bench. When she slid over an inch to provide some space between them, he put his arm around her hips and pulled her to him.
“Here I was thinking you were just a little one-trick trad-jazz pony with no real taste in music,” he spoke in low tones. Q could feel his breath on her ear.
There goes that idea. Fuck this dude.
Q took a long drink of the iced mineral water that sat on the music stand before replying, “Let me guess, I’m supposed to pull my panties down like…now.”
He licked his lips and smirked, “If you did, I’d be willing to take advantage.”
“You’ve obviously mistaken me for one of your groupies.... which, I am not; being a grown-ass woman and all. I stopped shopping at Hot Topic like twenty years ago,” she said, perturbed by his over-familiarity.
He caressed her lips with his thumb. “I do love a grown-ass woman.”
Q pushed his hand away and then shooed an imaginary fly, imitating her grandmother.
“What do you want?” she asked, annoyed.
“How would you feel about fronting the Rebel Angels?” he asked as if it were the greatest compliment she would receive in her entire life.
She played it off like she would with any other gig. “How much does that pay?”
Sharp was clearly taken aback when she was not overtly flattered. “It’s the biggest gig of the year, angel,” he stated in mild amusement at her naivety.
Q tilted her head from side to side, trying to stretch out the annoyance and tension from her neck. She looked at him to make sure he was listening before replying, “No, Derek, it may be your biggest gig of the year. But it sure as hell wouldn’t be mine.”
She shrugged, trying to figure out what to say to make him go away as quickly as possible. As soon as he’d sat down, she’d immediately decided that being serial killer bait, and having to deal with the arena-sized ego of Derek Sharp, was too much for any one person to bear.
“Over ten thousand people will hear that lovely voice of yours,” he cooed, his face only inches from hers.
“Ten thousand people hear my voice at Jazz Fest. Every year.” Q tried to move away before continuing, “Look, you might be able to get one of those artsy hipsters in the Bywater to play for free because they have dreams of opening up for Dark Harm. Me? I have zero delusions about my shelf-life outside of my little niche here.”
A sly smile crept across his mouth.
“I like you. You’re tough,” he said, moving closer still.
She stood up and pushed his hands away. “I thank you for the compliment, but I’m pretty good at math, and that was not a number.
He reached for her wrist. “Three thousand.”
She turned back and extracted her arm from his grasp. Folding her arms over her chest, she considered him for a moment. “I’m assuming that’s three thousand for the gigs, and not three thousand for the gigs and the rehearsals.”
“You’re pushing your luck, my angel. Those arty hipsters are starting to look more attractive than you. And that’s saying a lot.” He turned around on the bench and reclined against the piano, his arms spanning the music rest.
“Look,” she replied. “It’s nothing personal, but I’ve got a business running here. Any time I’m spending on your business, is time I’m not spending on mine. No pay, no play.”
Sharp thought for a moment before countering, “Ten thousand. Total. But you’re my angel for the entire month of October.”
A chill crept up her spine and she struggled to shake it off.
This is a bad idea, Clementine. And the four zeroes in his offer did nothing to warm her to it.
Q turned back and put both hands on her hips. “What about my boys? We have gigs booked every weekend already. I can’t leave them high and dry with no income for a month, so thanks anyway.” She turned to go.
He considered her question for a moment and called out, “The trumpeter and bassist can come along. The drummer has to sit this one out. No kits for this gig. Percussion only.”
“Sorry, we’re a package deal,” she said, relieved to find an objection he might not be able to overcome. The longer he spoke to her, the less she wanted to have anything to do with Derek Sharp. Money or no. Potential path to Angie’s killer or no.
Tom appeared from behind Q and sat down on the bench next to Derek.
“How much we talking about, pahdna?” he asked.
Damn it, Tommy.
Derek looked confused.
“How much you paying Charlie and JJ?” he clarified.
Sharp exhaled through his nose and responded angrily, “Do you know how many trumpet players and bassists there are in this city?”
Tom nodded, calmly. “Sure do, pahdna. Do you know how many of the really good ones are willing to play your little Halloween freak show? Look, man, if you want to hire some white kid from Connecticut who looks like he lost his way from a Civil War reenactment, you go right ahead. You want to hire two men with real talent, then you’ll pay. Five thousand, a piece. That’ll make a take that’s easier to split four ways.”
Derek Sharp burst out laughing. “Man, I like you people. Deal.”
He held his hand out to Q.
She took it and he pulled her close enough to whisper in her ear, “I would have paid double just to be this close to you.”
He stood up and handed her his card. “Call this number tomorrow to get the contracts and the NDA’s.”
“Creepy dude,” Tom said after Derek had left.
“You can say that again, Scare,” she replied. “I kept trying to turn him away. I kind of changed my mind about doing the gig after meeting him. I don’t want to be anywhere near him, not for any amount of cash.”
Tom put his arm around her and said, “Business is business, Q, and twenty k for a month’s work is worth some rock star getting his creepy flirt on with you. Ben won’t mind. Besides, JJ and Charlie will be there to make sure he doesn’t get out of line.”
“You sure you don’t mind us doing this without you?” she asked.
“Are you kidding? I don’t have to work a single day next month and I get paid five grand? I’m happier than a masturbating pig in shit,” he said, flashing her a wild grin.
Ben threaded his way to through the crowd and joined them on stage. “Success?” he asked.
Q futilely tried to push the exhaustion out of her eyes. “I got the gig, with Charlie and JJ in tow and twenty grand, so all in all this evening was a success.”
He let out a low whistle. “Look at you with the rock star wages.”
When she didn’t smile, he said, “If we’re being honest, I’m not such a fan of the way that middle-aged Goth boy was looking at you.”
"If we're being honest, neither am I," she responded.
~~~
As they drove uptown from the French Quarter, Q lay back in her seat, exhausted.
“Got a little surprise for you, Nancy Drew,” Ben said.
“Is that surprise in our bed? Because that’s where I’m going.” She massaged the back of her neck.
“Nope,” he said as he steered toward Tchoupitoulas. “I lined up a little after-party at the Cove to celebrate our engagement and maybe do a little detecting.”
“Oh my god, I’ve created a monster,” she joked. “You know, this whole thing would be easier if we just asked every man on that list to take their shirt off. One of them has a tattoo just like yours.”
“Count out Joe, then,” he replied. “That boy can’t keep his shirt on.”
“Tattoos?” she asked.
“Just that tribal bullshit on his arm and something on his back,” he answered. “Definitely no angel on his chest.”
“So Joe’s safe,” she sighed, mildly disappointed.
“What about Josh?” she asked, turning to look at him.
“Don’t look at me. I don’t hang out shirtless with my friends,” he said.
