All Fools' Day Foolery

"Good to see you, Manny," he said. He didn't need to get the young Hispanic's attention. Manny had been salivating over Kavanagh and posing for him since Kavanagh and Monroe had entered the room. "Been meaning to talk to you. You free for a drink and lunch today—maybe at Good Friends on Dauphine?"

"You bet," Manny asked, nearly panting like a puppy dog. "Would 1:30 be too late? I can't get off before that."

"That would be just fine. I have some fish to fry, so later is better than earlier." Kavanagh told Monroe he, indeed, had a lead or two to follow and Monroe said he'd get what Kavanagh asked for on Alba's background to him as soon as he could. Then Kavanagh left the room and went back to the living room, where the justice's aide was still sitting.

"Do you know where the justice spent the evening?" he asked.

"Right here," Worth answered, sitting up straight on the sofa and showing Kavanagh his best profile. "We went over some legal case files until he said he was tired and then he went to bed a little after midnight. I put the files in order and then I went to bed. The justice is an early riser. When he didn't come out of his room for coffee this morning, I went in and found he had passed away."

All the time Worth was saying this, he was showing mixed emotions. He clearly was nervous as hell—either overwhelmed by events or holding something back—but he also was signaling interest like mad to Kavanagh. To Kavanagh it came across as fishy as hell, though.

"So, you had a lot of legal files to work on?" He made show of looking around the room for said files.

"Yes, and I put them in order . . . in the justice's home office . . . before I went to bed."

"And you were with him all evening?"

"Yes. Here, working."

"Well, that's it for now, thank you. I'm very sorry for your loss. Looks like a simple heart attack."

"He was a great and brilliant man," Worth said, rising from the sofa. "The world will miss not having him on the Supreme Court."

Kavanagh had remained standing, indicating that the interview wouldn't be long. "Who will be making the arrangements for him?" he asked.

"The circuit court will do the detail work, I guess," Worth said. "He had no family . . . living . . . other than me. We worked so closely together that I guess you could consider me family. I'll shepherd the arrangements."

"And then what? What after he's taken care of?" Kavanagh asked.

"You mean what will I do?"

Kavanagh nodded.

"Well, I guess I'll have to find another position—law clerk for someone else, I guess," Worth said, appearing to be thinking of the matter for the first time. But there was something about him and the way he carefully presented himself that made Kavanagh think that the man had already considered all of the angles. It was certain that he was covering something else.

Kavanagh had seen him in the Frenchmen's Street brothel the previous night—most likely waiting for Alba, who was with one of the Sams—considering how close an aide he claimed to be to the justice. And Madame Zena had called Worth an aide to a client she wouldn't name as well. And Worth's scenario of the evening was a bunch of baloney. The ME estimated time of death for between 10:15 and 11:15 the previous night—near the time when Kavanagh saw Worth in the brothel, and not long before Kavanagh saw Worth and another man bundling something out of the brothel and into a black Escalade.

Kavanagh decided that Worth needed to be knocked off center. "You say you and Justice Alba were inseparable and that he had no family. The body in there has been wearing makeup and women's clothes. He was dressed for sex. Were you and Alba fucking?"

The bald question did, as expected, knock Worth off his pins, but he recovered quickly, having reviewed his options in a flash. To be a circuit court judge's law clerk, you had to be fast on your reflexes.

"Yes, Detective Kavanagh, I serviced Justice Alba in every way. I gave him whatever he wanted and expected. He was a very important and demanding man. And he didn't have time to take care of his needs himself. I gave him what he needed. Now, let me ask you something. Did you ask as part of the official investigation or because you want to fuck me too? Did you want to know what I was doing tonight rather than professionally, in the long term?"

It was Kavanagh's turn to be knocked for a loop, but he also recovered quickly and considered his options just as quickly.

"Perhaps both, but the official work takes precedence. Can I give you my card for you to contact me if anything else comes to mind that would help us . . . me."

Worth took the card, and they both permitted their hands to touch for longer than necessary on the exchange.

"Certainly. When I've done what has to be done with the arrangements for the justice, I certainly will call you," Worth said. They exchanged a meaningful look before Kavanagh withdrew.

When Kavanagh left the Garden District apartment, he didn't go straight to the police station. He walked, instead, across the French Quarter to Frenchmen's Street. Madame Zena was going to have to reveal to him who the client had been who was there with Worth the previous evening. Kavanagh bet it was Alba and also that Alba died in the brothel and Worth was helping someone cover that up.

He was out of luck when he got to the brothel, though. Sam 1 was there and apparently in charge for the moment.

"Madame Z and Sam 4 aren't here. They weren't here this morning. Her car is here, so they must have taken a taxi. But, no, that's not unusual for her to go off for a few days with one of the guys when she has the itch."

"I'll leave my card then," Kavanagh said. "It's important that she contact me. There may be some bad publicity coming her way that she'll need help tamping down."

"Thanks, I know she'll appreciate it," Sam 1 said, taking Kavanagh's card. The detective knew that, with what he'd said, Madame Zena indeed would get back to him as quickly as she could. Then he'd maybe get a two-fer: both vital information from Madame Z and, in her gratitude for the heads up, some free servicing from Sam 3.

From there he went back to the office and stewed. He didn't simmer for long, though. The information he'd requested on the recently known skeletons in Alba's closet was delivered to him and he poured over it. Reflected in the documents were some payments and perks in kind to the judge connected to rulings over the years and some contributions by him to politicians who might have helped him rise in the bench assignments. There were some questionable real estate deals, including for the St. Charles Avenue apartment, that would cause smiles but no real shock or surprise in New Orleans society. And then there were hints and more than hints of the sexual proclivities that Kavanagh had already seen firsthand. The more than hints dealt with a never-married justice and his closeness to his legal clerks. The lesser hints were attachments to other men, including another justice on the circuit court who once had been his law clerk.

As he was finishing absorbing this, Marco and Felix came into the squad room following what, as their mood and discussion indicated, was an unsuccessful morning of detection on the serial killing case.

After commiserating with them, Kavanagh asked a question that got all three of them going again. "Marco, yesterday Brent spent the afternoon couriering documents around to government offices, you said. Was one of them the building where the Fifth Circuit Court is located?"

"Sure. The Herbert Federal Building on Maestri Place. Why do you? . . . oh, shit."

"Shit is right," Kavanagh said. "That's your connection. All of the victims in your case have a connection with that building or the street in front of it."

All three detectives popped up out of their seats. Marco and Felix were off to Maestri Place.

"You coming with us, Mike?" Felix asked. "I thought the captain said you—"

"No, I've got a date with a stiff handler," Kavanagh said. "But I may have something to help you with when I get back."

* * * *

"Yes, Paul, is there? . . . you know we really shouldn't be seeing each other until this blows over. You don't really need to be here today. Everyone would understand."

"I think I do need to be here today and that we should get some things established right now," Paul Worth said, as he pulled the shade down over the window in the door to the office of Fifth Circuit Federal Court of Appeals justice Jim Peters and turned the lock. He undid and threw to the side his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt as he walked across the carpeted floor toward where Peters sat behind his vast mahogany desk. Peters watched the younger man, Justice Alba's law clerk, with bugged-out eyes. There was a deep rumble in his throat.

"I want to do it with you in your judicial robe and nothing else," Paul said in a low, hoarse voice.

Ten minutes later, just in his black judge's robe, Jim Peters was hunched down in his padded executive chair, his legs, sheathed only in his knee-high black silk stockings held up with garters, draped over the arms of his chair. He was panting heavily and moaning, as, crouched over the chair, just in his open white shirt and knee-high socks with garters, Paul Worth was gripping the arms of the chairs under the bent knees of Justice Peters and straining his pelvis forward. His cock, encased by the condom he'd walked into the office wearing, knowing what his objective was, was inside Peter's anal passage and moving deep and slow.

"Yes, yes, oh god yes," Peters croaked before Worth dipped his face down, took Peters' mouth with his, and moved into a punishing, possessive kiss.

They held there afterward after both had ejaculated.

"This is dangerous. We really shouldn't—" Peters murmured.

"But then you never could resist me, could you? Do you want me to do it again?" Worth said, his voice mocking and perhaps with an edge of hysteria to it.

"Yes, oh, yes."

"And then, later, you can fuck me."

"Yes, yes."

"We need to settle on something first then, Jim. I did you a big favor—a huge favor. And now I'm at loose ends. I need something from you to continue protecting you."

"What? What do you need?"

"I need a job, and I don't wish to take anything lower than what I have now—law clerk to a federal appellate judge."

"But all of us have law clerks already. . . maybe when Alba is replaced."

"That's not soon enough or good enough, Jim. The best way for you to keep me happy and quiet is if I am your law clerk. I can give you all of the loyalty and servicing that I gave Luca."

"But I have a law clerk already. Cary Ulster."

"And I'm sure there will be some way to create a vacancy in that position."

"I think you need to be very careful on how far you push me, Paul," Peters responded, leaving the two of them staring hard at each other, belying the position they were in, Worth still crouched over Peters in the chair, his cock going flaccid, but buried up in Peters' passage and Peters' arms and legs stretched out in supplication, clearly being dominated.

Rising from the chair, retrieving his clothes, and dressing, Worth said, "We need to discuss this further. Dinner at your house? I'll bring carryout. I'll have it warming in your oven for whenever you can make it home. Then it will be your turn."

Paul had locked the door to the justice's reception area, but he had neglected to lock the side door into the office of Peters' law clerk. Cary Ulster, young, tall and willowy, cute, and red-haired, had nearly walked in on the men having sex on Peter's chair—nearly. He'd heard the sounds of passion and had just cracked the door open enough to see what was happening. He also heard what the two were hatching on getting rid of him so that Paul could be Peters' law clerk.

"Note to self," he murmured, "bring it out into the open and have it out with him tonight." This was a man he had sex with too. He didn't appreciate the competition on that level any more than he did having his job put into jeopardy.

* * * *

At the same time, across the French Quarter, in Mike Kavanagh's hotel room, the coroner's office tech, Manny Lopez, being held captive by Kavanagh, was riding the detective's cock far more freely. He was captive in that his wrists were handcuffed behind his back as Kavanagh lay on his back on the bed and, hands on Kavanagh's sternum and facing toward his feet, the young Hispanic man moved up and down and revolved on Kavanagh's shaft. Manny's vocal responses were muted by the ball gag in his mouth as a precaution against calls to the hotel desk from hotel rooms up and down the corridor.

It wasn't Manny's idea to be bound; it admittedly was a preference by Kavanagh in maximizing his pleasure, which needed a boost in this circumstance not because Manny wasn't sexy and good at taking the fuck but because he wasn't Kavanagh's preferred type. Manny obviously didn't give a fuck how Kavanagh screwed him, however—just as long as he did.

All Manny cared about was what was happening now. All Kavanagh cared about was what he might learn afterward. Yes, Mike felt a bit guilty about this. It didn't stop him from doing it, though, which, when he thought about it, didn't make him much "holier than thou" than Captain Monroe and New Orleans City Hall. He was from the NYPD, though, so this gave him only a short pause to give play to any feelings of guilt.

Grabbing Manny's waist, Kavanagh took command, slamming the young Hispanic's channel vigorously up and down on the staff, while Manny writhed, gasped, and cried out the pain-pleasure of his rough taking through his ball gag. Manny ejaculated, but Kavanagh held off, repositioning the young man's body so that Kavanagh was sitting on the end of the bed, with Manny impaled on his dick and in his lap, facing away from him, legs streaming around and behind Kavanagh's hips, Manny's handcuffed wrists wedged behind Kavanagh's neck and his torso tautly bowed back, while Kavanagh pulled his channel on and off the cock to his first and Manny's second spouting of seed.

Twenty minutes later, the two of them stretched out against each other, Manny no longer handcuffed or gagged and each fisting and stroking the cock of the other, Kavanagh murmured, "If you want, there's time, I think for another—"

"Yes, please," the Hispanic medical technician pleaded.

"There's something you could help me with . . ." Kavanagh whispered.

"What? Anything."

"The disemboweled bodies of two young men went through the morgue recently."

"Parin and Brandon, yes. I remember them."

"And my unit's research clerk just this morning."

"Yes. He was on the table when I returned from the judge's apartment this morning."

"That was Brent. He was supposed to bring up the address for me where Steve Parin lived—in the Garden District, I think. It would make everything faster for me, and I'd show my gratitude, if someone could look in the records in your office for that address. No privacy issues involved. The guy is dead."

"Sure, no problem. As soon as I get back to work."

"Which won't be for a little while yet," Kavanagh said, as he rolled over on top of the young Hispanic, and Manny cried out at the painful angle Kavanagh imprisoned the young man's arms up his back and power with which he thrust his cock inside Manny's ass to—in gratitude for Manny's help with the address—resume the fucking.

When Kavanagh made it back to his desk it was to find that there had been three hang-up calls into his landline work telephone. He didn't have time to wonder what those were about—he was just a consultant and that was mainly used as a tip line; his colleagues called him on a cell phone—when the phone rang again.

A muffled voice said, "Can you put me in contact with someone working on the Justice Alba death?"

"Yes, that would be me, Detective Mike Kavanagh. Who is this?"

"It doesn't matter who this is. Just a heads up. Alba's death wasn't an accident. Look into the past. You might want to search Jim Peters' house."

And that was that. The caller disconnected.

"Jim Peters?" Kavanagh said out loud. "Where have I heard that name before? Oh, yes, I think . . ." He reached for the documents Monroe had sent him on the dirt dug up on Luca Alba. He'd remembered rightly. The name of the current appellate court judge and Alba's law clerk earlier for which there were rumors of a sexual relationship was . . . Jim Peters.

While digesting this, he received Manny Lopez' phone call giving him Steve Parin's address—or, as he'd previously been told, the address of the mystery man working in the Herbert Federal Building who Steve Parin lived with in the Garden District. The address was on Magazine Street, in another one of those large apartments in a refurbished old mansion in an exclusive residential area. Using a reverse telephone and address directory the police department found essential, he discovered the name of the actual owner of that address. No surprise. It was Jim Peters.

Kavanagh experienced a twinge of guilt and regret on what he'd done to get Lopez to give him information, but he needed to start somewhere in cracking this case. He did have a rule about hooking up with a work colleague, but if he worked hard at rationalizing it, he probably could convince himself that the coroner's office wasn't really the same as the police department. He couldn't lie to himself. He knew if he had an opportunity to nail Manny again, he would do so, even though Manny wasn't his favorite type. And the way Manny was purring after the second time Kavanagh had spiked him, the detective was quite sure Manny would be game for it.

The problem was that Kavanagh did like variety from time to time and he had to get his rocks off with a young man at least daily or he was a grouch. Nobody liked him when he was a grouch, so it was a favor to everyone around him when he laid someone daily. He was going for two today, he thought, as he considered his plans to nail that sweet waiter, Kyle, at the Dauphine Street coffee house tonight.

It was getting dark and he was hungry and feeling overwhelmed with easy help. When Marco and Felix returned, having spent hours canvassing those assigned to the Herbert Federal Building and working regularly on the streets surrounding it but not having come up with much that would help their investigation into the clown-face serial murders, Kavanagh sighed and rose from his desk. As he put on his suit coat, he called out, "Just a possibility, but you might check out if you can find connections between any of the victims and an appellate court justice by the name of Jim Peters, or whoever is listed as his law clerk—or anyone on Justice Alba's staff."

He knew he should follow up on the tip about Peters' place, but the information was thin and suspicious—just a bit too pat. Maybe Marco and Felix could come up with something that would justify a search warrant. He didn't have much doubt what the warrant could say they were looking for. Since the caller seemed to be so much in the know of what happened to Alba, they'd be looking for a pillow with blood and cosmetic stains and the scent of death on it. One certainly hadn't been found in Alba's apartment.

"You getting somewhere on your case, good buddy, or ours?" Marco asked, jovially enough, considering how long he and Felix had been pounding the pavement and pursuing thin air.

"Maybe both," Kavanagh said, as he headed for the door.

"You aren't holding out on us, are you?" Felix added.

"Nope," Kavanagh answered as he hit the door. "At least not any more than your system here is holding out on me," he muttered as he got out into the stair hall, where they couldn't hear him. He liked Marco and Felix. It was Monroe's idea to keep his investigation close to his chest, not his.

Getting out on the street, he had to wade his way through drunken and weaving festival revelers making the most of the last day of the All Fools' Day festival as he tried to get to the steakhouse he'd been dreaming about for hours. God, he'd be glad when tomorrow came and the street festival would be finished. With luck, he thought, this insidious clown-face serial killing would end with the end of this festival as well. But it was a double-edged sword. If the serial killings stopped, it would be that much harder to find the killer.