Murder in the Rue Ursulines

circus. When she and Freddy got together, her ‘stealing’ him from Glynis was major news. Glynis was even on the cover of Vanity Fair, as the ‘wronged wife.’ Now, someone’s killed her. You may or may not have seen Freddy Bliss coming out of her house around the time she was killed. You also worked for Freddy and Jillian-and you know all about the e-mails. Hell, you were the one who found out where they came from. Yeah, you fucking need a lawyer. You needed a lawyer about an hour ago-and do not under any circumstances talk to the police without your lawyer. And I know Casanova and Tujague are your friends-but you can’t even trust them. Do you understand me?”

“I-“ I stared at him. I really hadn’t put that much thought into it. The concept that I would be a news story had never occurred to me. I’d killed two people, and both times it was maybe three paragraphs buried deep inside the pages of the newspaper. With a sinking feeling, I remembered Kato Kaelin.

Could my life bear that kind of scrutiny?

“People are going to offer you money for your story,” he went on. “That’s got Jillian and Freddy scared as hell. Sure, you signed a confidentiality agreement, and I hired you…the e-mail thing was bad enough, but you’re now a material witness in a major murder case.”

“I know what I saw.” I stuck my hands in my jacket pockets. “I saw Freddy, no matter what Jillian might say. They’re lying, Loren.”

“We shouldn’t even be having this conversation,” he replied. “I’m violating all kinds of ethics here. I’m talking to you now as a friend, not as a lawyer. Please listen to me, okay?” He ground his cigarette out with his shoe. “Depending on what evidence is in that house, those e-mails look bad for Freddy. A reputable eyewitness saw him leaving the scene of the crime around the time it may have happened. If Freddy wasn’t a major star, the police would haul him based on that alone.” He sighed. “I’m a good lawyer, but if they arrest him, they’re going to have to bring in a real heavy hitter. That lawyer is going to have to discredit you and your testimony, Chanse. I don’t doubt you can handle yourself with the police…” His voice trailed off. “I’m really not trying to scare you, Chanse…but think about it. You got a big check from Freddy and Jillian today. You were in Glynis’s house earlier today. You were in the vicinity of the house around the time she was killed. What do you think a lawyer would make of that in court?” He folded his arms. “Maybe you confronted her and there was an altercation…you see where I’m going with this?”

My fingerprints were on the murder weapon, unless the killer wiped it clean.

“She was alive when I left the house.” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Her assistant can testify to that.”

“Do yourself a favor.” He reached into his wallet and handed me a business card. “Give this guy a call. I’ll phone him and let him know you’re calling.” He nodded and shut the door behind him.

I looked at the card.

STORM BRADLEY, ATTORNEY AT LAW.

I put it in my wallet. Feeling a little nauseous, I headed back to my car.

Chapter Six

If you solve this case, you’ll be famous, I thought as I walked back to my car. I felt a little numb-and nervous. My heart was racing, and I recognized what could be the signs of an onset of an anxiety attack. My palms were damp, and I could feel wetness under my arms. My breathing was fast, so I tried to focus on slowing it down. Esplanade Avenue was deserted, no signs of life anywhere. Not even a car passing through an intersection in the distance.

Glynis was dead; and according to Loren, I was all but arrested and charged for it… But there had to be an up- side to this thing, right?

I let my imagination go. This could be the opportunity of a lifetime-solving one of the highest-profile murder cases in history. Whoever tracked down the killer would make headlines, would wind up being interviewed by the likes of Anderson Cooper and Larry King-and why shouldn’t that be me? Visions of fame and money danced through my head as I walked through the thickening fog.

I could get a book deal, and it would surely be made into a movie or a mini-series-at the very least an episode of City Confidential or American Justice. The trial would air live on Court TV.

Dream on, Chanse.

There was a piece of it that was real, though. Sure, Loren was right-I was mixed up in the middle of the whole thing. But the best way to clear everything up really would be to prove that Freddy hadn’t killed his ex-wife-and neither had I.

I was disturbed by the weak identification I was going to have to make to the police. It bothered me that Loren had so easily shaken my identification of the guy coming out of the house. I’d been completely sure it was Freddy at the time-it was only later that doubt crept in. And that doubt had been planted by Loren…

It’s pretty much taken for granted that eyewitnesses make mistakes. Defense attorneys frequently hammer that point home to juries. We see what we expect to see. Our memories are filtered by our experiences and prejudices. I’d seen someone dressed similarly to the way Freddy had been at our meeting earlier that day, and with the same kind of build, coming down the front steps of his ex-wife’s house. It was entirely possible that all of those factors had added up in my mind to recognition.

Had it really been Freddy?

If Freddy was indicted and went to trial, his attorneys would dig into my past.

Can your life bear that kind of scrutiny?

I remembered how other witnesses in major murder trials had been treated by the press. I didn’t want to be another Kato Kaelin. They would dig up everything they possibly could on me, and make it public knowledge. They’d track down my parents in Cottonwood Wells, my brother Rory, my sister Daphne in Houston-and I could be relatively certain Daphne wouldn’t appreciate the intrusion. I could give a rat’s ass about my parents-I hadn’t talked to them in years.

I imagined the look on my father’s face when some reporter asked him about his gay son, and it made me smile. The thought of how humiliated he’d be when everyone in that miserable little town found out that his big football star son was a big old homo was a very amusing one indeed. But Daphne-and my brother Rory-how would they feel about having their own lives intruded on? I hadn’t talked to Rory in years, either. I’d cut him off when I’d cut off Mom and Dad

The thought of having all the stuff about Paul dredged up also worried me. Not because it made me look bad-it might, it might not. My therapist was always telling me that the situation wasn’t as bad as I made it out to be…but there was his family to think about. How would the Maxwells, who’d taken me in as part of their family, and maintained that tie after Paul died, feel about having their beloved son’s memory tarnished and trashed on the national news?

He’d been kidnapped by an obsessed stalker, someone who’d struck him a terrible blow to the skull in order to take him from his apartment. Maybe with prompt and immediate medical attention, he would have had a chance. Instead, he’d been handcuffed to a bed, not fed or given anything to drink, and he’d begun the slow and agonizing process of dying. By the time we found him, he’d lapsed into the coma from which he’d never wake. After a few days, his family made the agonizing decision to turn off the machines that breathed for him, and he’d died. For the next year, I’d thought of my life as being clearly divided by that terrible day at Touro Hospital-before and after. In my misery and grief, I’d tried to move forward with my life.

But I felt guilty about Paul’s death; guilty because while I was looking for him I’d allowed myself to get distracted away from my primary objective-finding him-because of other things that were going on, side trails I’d followed that eventually proved to have nothing to do with him. I kept thinking, If only I were a better