Detective Michaela Dee Dare’s stomach growled. Loudly. One of those deep rumbles that would’ve been heard clear to the back of church on a packed Sunday morning. If she went to church.
Micki had given up church and praying to an invisible father for help a long time ago. Now she put her faith in the tangible. Her own skills. The gun at her hip, the shield that gave her the power to protect herself.
These days, she would not go down without one hell of a fight.
Lessons learned the hard way.
Up ahead, the blue lights of a lone cruiser flashed in front of a big-ass mansion. She’d pulled a temporary assignment in the Second District. Uptown. Bounded by Louisiana and Orleans Avenues and the Mississippi River. The highest priced real estate in New Orleans. St. Charles Avenue, Tulane and Loyola Universities, Audubon Park and the Zoo.
Ritzy-titzyville.
She usually worked the Ninth District. Not quite down on its luck, not quite middle class. Which suited her just fine. People who dealt with real life everyday; people who knew who they were and where they belonged.
Here, the phony-factor ran high. Real high. Sort of like the crazy club she’d grown up in. Mama’s narcissism, Aunt Jo’s desperation. Grandma Roberta’s complete denial of reality.
And her Uncle Beau’s voice in her ear, deep and round from a third scotch: “Come, Michaela, let’s play a little game of make believe.”
Micki shoved that memory deep into the dark recesses. The place nothing good lived. Certainly, nothing she was prepared to examine in the light of day.
She reached the scene, parked behind the single cruiser. Police tape stretched across the entrance, blending weirdly with the purple, green, and gold Mardi Gras swags adorning the columned mansion’s facade. Tinsel wreaths of the same colors hung on the double doors, sparkling fingers fluttering in the breeze.
The toot of a horn startled her and she glanced in her rearview. A man climbing out of his vehicle. Like her assignment, a temporary partner. She grabbed her gear, climbed out, and went to meet him.
Her first impression was of an aging goodfella, softening around the edges but still intimidating. “Carmine Angelo,” he said, holding out a hand.
She took it. “Micki Dare.”
He smiled, a big toothy grin that changed him from crime boss to somebody’s daddy. “You’re new to the Detective Bureau.”
“I am.” They fell into step together. “Promoted the first of the year.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” She’d beat out a number of other candidates—all men, some with more time in uniform—which hadn’t made her any friends. “What do you know about the vic?” she asked.
“Besides that she was rich and now she’s dead? Nada.”
They reached the first officer; Angelo greeted him by name. “Chuckles, good to see you, man. My partner du jour, Micki Dare.”
He nodded at her. “How’re ya?”
She returned the nod. “Okay. What do we have?”
“Housekeeper called it in. Found her employer, one Vivianne Stanley, in a pool of blood in her Queen’s room.”
Micki cocked an eyebrow. “Queen’s room?”
“You know. Mardi Gras. Rex’s Royal Consort. 1969.”
Angelo unwrapped a piece of peppermint gum and folded it into his mouth. “That’s N’Awlins,” he drawled, “once a queen, always a queen.”
Rex: one of the oldest, most exclusive of the Mardi Gras organizations. More phony bullshit.
“Housekeeper’s name?”
“Margaret Cook.” He shook his head. “Looks like Stanley was beaten to death with her scepter.”
Micki looked up from her notepad. “Excuse me, did you just say—”
“Yeah, I did. Her scepter.”
Angelo snorted. “Those things aren’t much more than tin foil and paste.”
“Not this one. Like everything else, stuff was made to last in the old days.”
Micki jumped back in. “The housekeeper’s here?”
“In the kitchen with the rest of the staff. Yardman and cook. Stanley’s personal trainer. Apparently, his arrival precipitated finding the body.”
Micki glanced at Angelo. He met her eyes and nodded slightly. The coincidence of the trainer’s arrival could be nothing—or everything.
“My partner’s babysitting. Called another cruiser, got nobody. It’s that time of year, I guess.”
Angelo grinned. “You’ve got us.”
Chuckles chuckled and Micki instantly understood the nickname. “Paramedics called?”
“On their way. Supposedly. We’ll see how long that takes.”
Angelo winked at her. “Mardi Gras; can’t live with it, can’t kill it.”
“We could try,” she muttered as they entered the house.
She moved her gaze over the opulent interior, taking in details, absorbing. Waiting for that one thing to jump out and shout at her.
“Where’re you from, Dare?”
“Mobile.”
“So you’re familiar with Carnival.”
“Intimately.”
“Hence the disdain.”
“You got it.”