I went to another site that searched for death certificates and entered Zane’s social security number. Sure enough, one popped up for a Zane Rathburn who’d been 74 when he died five years ago. I then went to a credit report site, plugged in the social security number, and brought up a credit report that showed no activity for five years. A Visa, a MasterCard, and a Discover card had all been issued to Zane Rathburn during the past summer.
“Identity theft of a dead man.” Paige whistled. “I’m calling Venus.”
“Don’t!” I was surfing to another site. “Not yet—let me check one more thing.” The directory for Houma came up. I typed in RATHBURN. No matches found.
“Why not?” Paige went back and sat on the couch, her phone still in her hand. “Come on. You’d still think she was in charge of the investigation, right? Who else would you call? Let her decide what to do with the information.”
“”The priority is finding Paul, Paige.” I went to another site.
“Chanse, listen to me.”
Her tone was strange, so I turned to look at her. She licked her top lip. “Don’t you think it’s weird that Zane doesn’t exist anywhere until he turned up in New Orleans last spring?”
“Yes.” I spun around in my chair. “It doesn’t look good for him. And he was the only person to see Ricky the day of the murder. Yes, we need to tell Venus all this—if she doesn’t already know. But my priority is Paul.”
“What does Zane have to do with finding Paul?”
I took a deep breath. “What if Paul knew something, or saw something, not realizing it? You know, like Venus’ theory about the mob hit? The only person he’d be a threat to is the killer….that’s why I want to find Zane.”
“So you think Zane has him somewhere?”
“Maybe!”
“Chanse.” Her eyes were wet, and I looked away from her. “You aren’t facing reality. Look at me.” I turned my head back. “Unless Paul went away on his own, he’s dead. If Zane killed Ricky and Mark, then he killed Paul. If it was a mob hit, the same thing.”
“No, Paige.” Even as I said it, the reality was settling in over my mind. I was finding it hard to breathe. The room swam in my vision, and I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
Paul was dead. I knew it. I’d known the moment Venus had told me about the Feds taking the case away from her. I’d just refused to accept it.
My computer dinged.
WRESTLEJUDE: Hey stud, how you doing?
I stared at the computer. The cursor blinked at me. I wiped at my eyes.
WRESTLEJUDE: You there?
I swallowed and typed. Hey there.
WRESTLEJUDE: Dude, can I call you?
CHANSEMAC: Now’s not a really good time.
The last thing I wanted to do was have another phone sex come on. I swallowed again. Paige came up behind me and started rubbing my shoulders. I reached up with my left hand and squeezed it, not saying anything.
WRESTLEJUDE: Dude, I don’t want to have phone sex. Is everything ok with Paul?
“Who’s that?” Paige asked. “You’ve had phone sex with this guy?”
“No, he’s a friend of Paul’s—the one who told me about Chris Fowler.”
CHANSEMAC: I told you he’s out of town. I haven’t heard from him. Why?
WRESTLEJUDE: I got this weird email from him today. Can I call you?
Hope dawned. “Paige, do you see that? He got an email from Paul today!”
CHANSEMAC: Yes, call me. Do you need the number again?
WRESTLEJUDE: LOL. No, I made sure I kept your number, hot stuff!
“Hot stuff?” Paige asked.
“I’ll tell you later.” The phone was ringing. I answered. “Hello?”
“Hey stud.” Maybe it was just the way he always talked, but he seemed to just purr. “You haven’t talked to Paul?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, he sent me this weird email. Hang on a second.” I heard him rattling papers, moving stuff around. “I went ahead and printed it out. Here it is.” He started reading. “Hey Jude, hope all is well. I had to get away from New Orleans for a while. Chanse was kind of being a jerk, so I left, you know, to get my head together—like that time I left Jeff, remember? So the next time you talk to Chanse, tell him I’m okay but don’t tell him where I am. Love, Paul.”
“How did he know we’d talked?” The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, despite the fact my heart was soaring. Paul was alive!
“Well—I know I promised you I wouldn’t say anything to him, but I emailed him after we talked.” Jude rushed on. “Don’t be mad, but I wanted to let him know we’d talked and things were cool, and to apologize for any trouble I might have caused, you know, when I sent the earlier email about seeing your listing on the site?”
“What time was the email sent?”
“Two o’clock this afternoon.”
I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs: He’s alive! “Cool.”
“But Chanse—you don’t get it. There has to be something wrong.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Okay, give me a minute, okay?” He took a deep breath. “Paul never left Jeff that I know of.” Jeff had been the doctor Paul had lived with for five years. “They never fought, man—it was sickening. I mean, they just didn’t fight, and Paul never left Jeff until they broke up, you know? And their breakup was amicable. They both just moved on.”
“Well, it’s possible he just thought you knew about it, right?”
“Paul also never signs his emails love. He just doesn’t do that. He signs with little x’s and o’s, you know, hugs and kisses?”
That was true. On the rare occasions when Paul emailed me, he always signed with a row of them across the bottom before his name. “I’m sure everything’s okay, Jude. But would you mind forwarding the email to me?”
“Yeah. Sure.” He sighed. “You’re probably right, it’s nothing, but still, man, it’s fucking weird.” He hung up.
Paige sat back on the couch. “So, Paul’s alive? He sent this guy an email?”
“Yeah.” I was grinning from ear to ear. “He’s alive and he’s safe, and he just went away on his own.”
“Then who beat off on his bed?” She crossed her arms. “This email was weird, wasn’t it? This ‘wrestlejude’ thought it was weird, right? Why?”
I gave her Jude’s reasons and shrugged. “So it’s different.”
“Chanse.” Paige lit a cigarette. “I don’t think it’s weird that Paul would email this guy instead of you; if he went away to think about things, you’d be the last person he’d want to contact.” She held up her hand. “Don’t interrupt—I’m sorry, but you know I’m right. But why would Paul email this guy instead of ME?”
“What?”
“Chanse, I know you find this hard to believe, but Paul and I are
friends.”
Paige shrugged. “We’ve talked a lot, we’ve hung out and had fun together, even when you weren’t there. And you know if Paul is anything, he’s thorough. Almost obsessive.”
“So?” I shrugged.
“Suppose Paul wanted to let you know he was okay and just needed space—wouldn’t it make more sense for him to email me?” Paige rolled her eyes. “Come on—he gives the message to someone you’ve never met, have only talked to once? How did he know Jude would tell you?”
“Maybe he trusts Jude?”
“It’s just not Paul.” Paige walked over to me and knelt in front of me. “Look, honey, I know you want to believe he’s still alive. Trust me, I do too. I’m still holding out hope—but we can’t grasp at straws either. Paul might not have sent that email.”
“Then who did?” I turned back to the computer and pulled up my email folder. The forwarded email from Jude was there. I opened it and read it quickly. It was exactly what Jude had read to me, and the time it was sent was in the upper right hand corner.
“Paul never left Jeff.” Paige said after scanning it quickly. “Jude was right about that.”
“How do you know that?”
“Paul and I talked about Jeff. They were still friends, you know.”
I hadn’t known. “They still talked?”
“About once a week.” Paige stared at the screen. “Paul told me part of the reason their relationship didn’t work was because they never fought. They just kept drifting apart until it was like they were just roommates. I wonder if Paul could have been trying to tell us something?”
“I thought Paul didn’t send this.” I couldn’t keep the nasty note out of my voice.
She glanced at me, then said through gritted teeth, “Operating on the assumption Paul sent this, maybe he was being coerced. So he was trying to get a message to us through Jude. Maybe it didn’t make sense to Jude because the message was meant for us, not him.”
I looked at the screen. There it was at the bottom. Love, Paul. No x’s, no o’s. “Maybe he was trying to tell me he loved me—Jude would be sure to notice he signed it love.”
She patted my leg. “Maybe. But this stuff about Jeff…I wonder…pull up the Dallas phone directory.” I obliged. She reached over me and typed Jeff’s name into the ‘search’ window. The listing popped up. She flipped open her phone and dialed. She tapped her foot while it rang. “Damn it, I’ve got the machine….um, hello, Jeff, this is Paige, a friend of Paul’s in New Orleans…would you mind giving me a call when you get this?” She left her number and hung up. “All right, I’m going to run. I’ve got some things to do before I call it a night.” She opened her purse and handed me a file folder. “I printed out everything I could find on Lexis-Nexus on Charles Wyatt. I couldn’t find anything on that Ed Smith.’”
“Thanks.” I put the folder down on my desk and walked her out to her car.
Before she left, she rolled the car window down. “Honey, I know you don’t want to hear this—but you have to prepare for the possibility—“
“You’re right. I don’t want to hear it.”
She started the car and drove off. I walked back into my apartment. No, as long as I refused to believe it, he was alive. It wasn’t rational, I knew that, but I believed it in my heart.
My phone started ringing. I picked it up. “MacLeod.”
“Mr. MacLeod, this is Lois Dahlgren. Do you have some free time tomorrow morning?” Her voice was soft. “I’d like to talk to you about my son.”
My appointment with Mrs. Dahlgren was for noon, so I set my alarm for eight and went to bed around midnight.
She hadn’t been forthcoming with much information and had evaded all of my questions—“I prefer to discuss this in person, Mr. MacLeod” was all she would say. After I got off the phone with her, my mind was fried, so I smoked some more pot and idly watched television. I looked through the folder on Wyatt that Paige left, but all I got from it was the certainty he was, indeed, a mob lawyer.
I did some meditation exercises to clear my mind, and release some of tension. I needed to relax, and somehow managed it. When I went to bed, at first I couldn’t get past its empty feel, and had to clear my mind. Eventually, I fell into a dreamless sleep.
I woke a few minutes before the alarm, showered and made coffee before calling the mechanic. They hadn’t gotten to it yet, which figured. I made a rental car reservation and called a cab to go pick it up. A half hour later I was heading home in a nice metallic blue Toyota something or another with a CD player. I still had a few hours before I had to head out to Metairie, so I decided to hit the gym.
I’d gotten so used to going with Paul, it felt strange walking through the doors of Bodytech by myself. Alan Gardner, who owns and runs the place, was working at the front desk as usual. He’s a good-looking guy with big front teeth that gives him a kind of chipmunk look, but it works for him. “Morning Chanse.” He said as I handed him my membership card. “Where’s Paul? Out of town?”
“At his parents’.” I said without even thinking twice. Alan was a notorious gossip. Telephone, telegram, tell-Alan, was the joke around the gym.
“Kind of a shock about Mark Williams, huh?”
I had started to turn away from the counter, but turned back. “Did you know him?”
“He used to work out here.” Alan leaned on the counter. “He asked me to pose for the cover of
Attitude
once.” He laughed. “Like Greg would have ever allowed me to do that!” Greg Buchmaier was his life partner.
“I only met him once.” I replied. “Did you like him?”
“Ah, he was okay.” Alan waved a hand dismissively, “He was nice, you know, but always kind of smarmy.”
“Smarmy?”
“Oily. Slick. The kind of guy who thinks everyone has to like him, so he’ll say what he thinks you want to hear. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah.” Maybe Alan liked to gossip, but he was an excellent judge of character. He’d managed to sum up exactly how I’d felt about Mark after meeting him. I couldn’t have put it better myself.
“When he started up that pr business, he was always after me to hire him.” Alan got himself a protein drink out of the cooler. “I just didn’t see how he could help me, and told him so, but he just wouldn’t take no for an answer.” He twisted off the top and tossed it in a trashcan. “Guess I don’t have to worry about that anymore. Shame.”
“Yeah.” I picked up my bag and headed for the locker room. There were about ten people working out, more women than men, which was typical for this time of day. The guy doing squats on the Smith machine looked slightly familiar. I tried to place where I saw him before as I put my bag into a locker. It’s a fun little exercise I play from time to time. You live in New Orleans long enough, you see people all the time that you’ve seen before, and I try to place them. Did he work at my favorite coffeeshop? Had I seen him in a bar sometime? Was he a waiter somewhere I’d eaten lately?