“Nothing listed, Scout’s honor.”
The evidence techs had combed the crime scene, dusted for fingerprints, taken all the necessary photographs, gathered and stored any items they considered useful. McGoo suspected a few interesting items had also found their way into the pockets of the evidence techs, but he couldn’t prove it. “We’ve got what we need from the pawnshop, and we expect to release the items to the next of kin soon enough.”
I was sure they must have missed something. “Then can I have a closer look?”
“Maybe. If no one else claims it.”
“I’ve got dibs.”
He laughed. “That’s not how the law works, Shamble.”
For now, I could see about getting the theater props back to the Shakespeare troupe. It would be nice to close one case at least.
After I pocketed the phone, I found Sheyenne drifting beside the vampire piano player, who was reveling in his cheerful performance. She had always liked the lounge lizard music at the Basilisk nightclub, and now she sang along with her knock-’em-dead voice. As they finished a song, Sheyenne leaned closer and asked him, “What’s with the rhinestones and sequins? I don’t see any sideburns, so it’s not an Elvis impersonation.”
I said, “He looks more like Liberace.”
The pianist showed his fangs in a grin and kept playing. He didn’t miss a beat as he answered, “Neither. I’m just part of the minority that thinks vampires should sparkle.”
Chapter 29
That afternoon, when Sheyenne and I got back to work, Robin was holed up in her office. She looked noticeably run-down, still wearing yesterday’s outfit, her eyes bloodshot. I’m certainly not one to talk about somebody else’s rumpled, drained, or bedraggled appearance, but I was immediately worried about Robin.
When I asked why she’d been losing sleep, she said, “I’m wrestling with my conscience, Dan, and it’s a knock-down-drag-out all-star wrestling match.”
That was quintessential Robin. I recalled her various clients, wondered what could be bothering her so much. “Which case is it?”
“Not a case I have yet . . . but one I need to take.”
From across the office, Sheyenne groaned. “More pro bono work?”
Robin shook her head. “No, this client can pay. . . . I just don’t like him—Harvey Jekyll.”
“You’re not seriously considering taking his case,” Sheyenne cried.
“I have to. He’s right, I’m sorry to say. That man has the same legal difficulties as the Pattersons. I should be taking the same moral stance against discrimination. How can I say he doesn’t deserve justice simply because I despise him? Even scumbags deserve the safety net of the law.”
“Jekyll’s broken enough laws. He was executed for it,” I pointed out.
“But not in this matter. He’s as much an innocent victim as Mr. and Mrs. Patterson. He may be a cretin, but I don’t have to be. I prefer to take the high road.”
“As long as it doesn’t lead you over a cliff,” Sheyenne commented.
“I’m going to tell him in person.” Robin sounded very brave, then her voice grew smaller. “Would you come with me, Dan?”
Going to visit Harvey Jekyll was far down on my after-death bucket list, but this was Robin, and she had asked a favor. “Whatever you need—I’m there.”
I’d been to Harvey Jekyll’s mansion during JLPN’s heyday, back when he was still human. (That’s merely a biological designation, with no editorial comment on the quality of his soul, or whether he even had one.) As the CEO of Jekyll Lifestyle Products and Necroceuticals, he had owned a large estate with guard dogs and an entire security team.
Then he’d lost everything.
Harvey Jekyll now lived in a small apartment in a run-down 1970s-era complex, the sort of place rented by starving students who saved their pennies so they could move away from there as soon as possible. Now Jekyll had gotten back on his feet enough that he longed for a home in the suburbs, and he had hired us to help him get it. On the bright side, if we succeeded, at least Jekyll would be out of the Quarter.
Robin and I stood before the apartment complex; it wasn’t hard to identify Jekyll’s mailbox and front door, since they were the only ones covered with globs of hurled mud, excrement, rotten tomatoes, and other fluid stains that I couldn’t identify. Larry stood at the front door with a bucket of soapy water and a hard-bristled scrub brush, rubbing away at the stains. The pungent pine scent of the cleaning solution only made the foul goop smell worse.
He looked at us, curled his black lips back to reveal long canine fangs. “Come to harass Mr. Jekyll like everyone else does?”
“Maybe a little bit, if it comes up in conversation,” I said.
“That’s not why we’re here,” Robin said. “I wanted to discuss his case.”
Larry let the scrub brush drop into the bucket of gray soapy water. I asked, “Do you get hazard pay for that?”
“Mr. Jekyll says it’s part of my job.” The bodyguard let out a low growl. “The employment agreement defines my job as private security and lists all the tasks I have to perform in detail. But at the end, another clause says ‘and other duties as assigned. ’ The boss insists that includes scrubbing shit off the front door.”
“You should have had a lawyer look over the agreement,” Robin said.
“I thought lawyers were scary, until I started working for Mr. Jekyll,” the werewolf answered. He let us inside. “Hey, boss—Chambeaux and Deyer are here to see you.”
The apartment was austere, and the drapes—blankets tacked above the windows—blocked most of the light. Cinder blocks and plywood served as makeshift bookshelves. The end tables were orange crates that held mismatched lamps. The coffee table was a large cable spool. The only artwork on the wall was a kitschy print of big-eyed zombie puppies painted by the famed ghost pop-culture artist Alvin Ricketts.
Other pieces of salvaged furniture were strewn with electrical components, gadgets, and countless spare parts dismantled from old motors, stereos, and television sets.
Jekyll looked up from his work and regarded us with owlish eyes. His lips drew back in a sneer, as if he expected some sort of provocation from us, but then he smiled. “Ah, I knew you’d come around, Ms. Deyer. Honorable people are so predictable. That’s what makes villains much more interesting.”
Robin screwed up her courage. “You caused me to do a lot of thinking, and I’ve decided I will indeed file your antidiscrimination complaint, just as I did for the Pattersons. Provided you have a sufficient down payment and meet the other standard loan qualifications, there is no legal reason why you should be denied the right to own a home in any part of the city you choose.”