“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.
Chapter Eleven
Bodytech was located on Magazine Street, just beyond Louisiana Avenue.
I pulled into the parking lot. Several other cars were there, but Allen’s white Lexus wasn’t one of them. I breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk with my ex. I pulled into a spot and got out of the car. I checked for reporters, laughing grimly to myself. But I’d lost the ones who’d tried to follow me. Hopefully, none of them would figure out where I’d gone. The cars in the lot were empty, and no other cars pulled into the lot. I locked the car and walked into the gym.
A pumping dance remix of Fergie’s “Big Girls Don’t Cry” was blaring over the stereo system. Davina, a gorgeous young woman of Middle Eastern descent, was working at the front desk. She had her back to me, her long thick bluish-black hair hanging down her back in a braid. She was folding towels. I liked her-she’d been working at Bodytech since the flood. The gym she’d worked at in Mid-City had closed. I swiped my membership card, and said, “Good morning, Davina. I have an appointment with Brett.” I glanced at the little tree with the trainer’s business cards right next to the card-reader. His card was at the top: Brett Colby, Personal Training. On the right side was a small black and white photograph of him in a white posing trunk. He looked vaguely familiar, but I’d probably just seen him around the gym. I took a card and slipped it into my pocket.
“Okay,” she said. She turned around and gave a start when she got a good look at my face. Her eyes widened. She swallowed. “Um, good morning, Chanse. My God, what happened to you? Are you all right?”
“Haven’t you been watching the news?” I gestured at my face and shrugged. “I got jumped last night.” I gave a half-hearted laugh. “I know I look awful-but it looks better today than it did last night.”
“Wow, they sure did a number on you.” She shook her head and regained her professional composure. “It just took me by surprise.” She stepped closer to the counter. “Are you okay?” She reached over and touched one of the bruises on my cheek. I flinched, and she pulled her hand back. “Sorry!”
“Ah, no problem.” I smiled at her. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’ve been better. Is Brett here?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, he’s in the trainer’s office.” She tilted her head to one side. “What are you doing making an appointment with a trainer after all these years?” She looked me up and down critically. She leaned on the counter with her elbows.
“I want to trim down some.” I lied. “I’ve put on a lot of size these last few years, and I want to drop about twenty pounds.” I winked. “That’s my fighting weight. Besides, I’ve heard really good things about Brett.”
“He’s not the one I would choose, frankly.” She rolled her eyes. “Not that he’s not a good trainer. He’s just…oh, never mind.”
“What?” I leaned on the counter and lowered my voice. “Come on, Davina, spill.”
“He’s really arrogant.” She pursed her lips. “Thinks he’s God’s gift, you know what I mean? He’s never met a mirror he didn’t like.” She waved a hand. “But he’s a good trainer. Just be prepared to know more about him than you want to.” She picked up the phone. “Go on back. I’ll let him know you’re on your way.” She pressed a button as I walked away.
The trainer’s office was in the far back corner of the gym. The building housing Bodytech had once been a small sugar warehouse, so the workout area was one big room. The wall facing the parking lot was all windows, tinted to reduce the sun’s glare. The front desk was on the right side, with the management office door to the left. The locker rooms were also on that side of the building. The opposite wall was all mirrors. The front area by the desk was where the cardio machines were, with a small aerobics room fitting into the front corner. I walked past the cardio machines, and glanced up at the huge TV screens hanging on the opposite wall. One was tuned into CNN, and I saw another view of myself standing on the front steps to my apartment, pointing at my face. Apparently, my little moment of fame was still in heavy rotation. Several people on treadmills with headphones on were staring at that television. I winced and started walking faster.