Chapter Text
“Ugh, Lily, just shoot me now…” Detective Briana “Bricktop” Williams groans to her partner. “What did we do to catch a case like this just in time for the holiday?”
Detective Lafleur rolls her eyes at the other officer. “We didn’t do anything. You, as I’ve told you on multiple occasions, are working off a Karmic debt for your past life spent as the Madam of a corrupt brothel. Thanks to which, we get to spend the entirety of the 4th of July weekend dealing with the death - likely homicide - of Marius de Romanus, celebrity photographer and richest man in the state. So, thanks a lot, Bricks.”
The detective sighs. The stony, determined, levelheaded intelligence which earned her that nickname revolts against the other woman’s New Age punitive reincarnation theory, but there’s no time to argue that right now. “Whatever. In any case, we have to deal with a skeleton crew at the station, closed labs, unreachable experts, and Chief Anderson breathing down our necks to get it solved and wrapped up with a patriotic bow, preferably sometime yesterday, or at least before the media feeding frenzy starts.” She rubs her temples, then looks up with a vague hopefulness. “Any chance the Roman,” she resorts to the town’s admittedly less-than-imaginative nickname for the wealthy eccentric, “maybe, took a tumble off that cliff, fell in the bay and drowned of his own accord?”
“Possible, of course.” Detective Lafleur concedes. “Although…” She ticks off the facts on her fingers. “De Romanus apparently started each morning with a solo dip off his private beach - all too easy for someone to mark that routine and take advantage of it. He was a strong, experienced swimmer and diver, in great shape for a man in his 50s. And then, of course, there are the injuries.” She consults her file. “The deceased had quite the black eye, plus shallow lacerations, consistent with a small, sharp blade, on his neck and hand; both inflicted pre-mortem. All of which means we can’t simply call it an accident and go home.”
Bricktop nods, unenthused but convinced. “Very well. At least the Palazzo’s” she waves a hand vaguely around to indicate De Romanus’ luxurious Classical/Italianate-kitsch villa, “location on this tiny private island has to narrow the suspect pool quite a bit, right?”
Lafleur gives an affirmative grunt and guides her colleague to discreetly peer over the railings of the balcony they’re standing on, down at the small group occupying the patio below. “The first responders corralled them here; no one’s been out of sight. Before you start interviewing them, let me catch you up on who’s who. First, the only two household staff members who live at The Palazzo full-time, and would thus have been present when the incident occurred. Tall, dark and handsome over there serving breakfast is Rashid Mahmoud; and the big, blond linebacker type at the bar is Damek Svoboda; both employed here for years, excellent professional reputations, discreet - which, of course, tells us nothing. Now, on to the family and guests, starting with Marius de Romanus’ son…”
“Oh, yeah, I see him,” Williams holds up the decedent’s photo for comparison. “Damn, the resemblance is uncanny!”
Lily stares in sheer incomprehension. “Bricks, what are you talking about?!”
Bricktop stares back. “Lil, can’t you see it?!” She pokes the picture in her hand. “Same build; I’d guesstimate nearly same height; both pale, with something in the features I can’t pinpoint - even the blond hair and blue eyes practically match!”
“Yeah, except… That ain’t Marius’ son. That is Lestat de Lioncourt, model (pretty big deal, apparently) trying to make the move to acting. Our late photographer did work with him rather extensively some years ago, even supposedly took him under his wing for a while when de Lioncourt’s mother - some reclusive author named Gabrielle - went off the grid without so much as a backwards glance to spare for her teenage child; but they seem to have had far less contact recently, and definitely no biological relation there. The Roman’s actual son, Armand de Romanus is on the porch swing - the guy with the two rugrats in his lap.”
Detective Williams takes in the sight. An objectively stunning young man - boy, almost, barely looks old enough to be called an adult - possibly South Asian, apparently absorbed in reading a picture book to a girl of about five and an even younger boy, both cherubic, seemingly fallen out of the pages of some ultra-diverse, super-sustainable, criminally overpriced catalogue. She turns back to her colleague.
“Yes, adopted,” the latter answers the unspoken question, “hence the different races. Somewhere overseas; so far, no one seems able to run down a single detail. Armand’s young, still lives at home, though his modeling star is rising; plays it mysterious, not much on record about him anywhere. Has been caught on camera enough with Lestat to assume a genuine friendship.”
“Hmm. And the munchkins?”
Lily spares minimal interest for those who can’t possibly make viable suspects. "Sybelle and Benji de Romanus, the deceased’s younger children. Another adoption, though even the uniform who greeted me made a point of sharing the local scuttlebutt, which is to consider it a convenient cover story to hide a rich man’s oopsies. Anyway…” a bit more enthusiastically, “flanking them is Daniel Molloy, fashion columnist. All gossip and puff pieces so far; got questioned in a drug case once, suspected of possession, but nothing came of it. Damned if I know what he’s doing here.”
The other detective takes in the bespectacled brunette next to Armand de Romanus before moving on. “And who’s the smokeshow seemingly trying to fuse with Blondie on a molecular level? Wait, let me guess: another model?”
Lily snorts. “Nope. Though I wouldn’t mind seeing him featured in an underwear ad or two, if you know what I mean. But, in addition to being Lestat’s husband, Louis de Pointe du Lac heads the Azalea Modeling Agency, among other business ventures. Worked with de Romanus for years: supplying him with models for his photography, extensive cross-promotion. Known in some corporate circles as The Cutthroat Creole (to his face, mind you), so that should give you some idea…”
Both women take a beat to silently observe, digest the facts at their disposal so far. “Hey, Bricktop…” Detective Lafleur muses. “Sometimes this job has us looking at the world through dark glasses, seeing culprits behind a random calamity. If your instincts are really telling you this was an accident…”
Slowly, Detective Williams shakes her head. “No, Lil. Just look at them… Only this morning, they learned of the sudden, tragic death of someone they all knew well; a man in his prime, with everything to live for; that man’s very small children are right in front of them. And yet… nothing but dry eyes in the house. No one - not the long-term associate; not the loyal, well-paid employees; not the mentee, not even the son - shows any sign of grief, shock, numbness. I don’t know what yet, but… Something is rotten here at the Palazzo.”