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The tigress? Really? Bentz asked, “So you knew she was seeing other men?”
He snorted. “I suspected, but didn’t want to believe it. Then my son, he showed me a link to her Web site. Helen of Joy. Oh, she was wearing a disguise, y’know, a wig and makeup, but I recognized her.”
He stared off to the middle distance again, a sadness stealing over his features. “I confronted her and she didn’t deny it, told me to ‘deal with it.’ That’s what she said, ‘deal with it’ or she’d divorce me or I could divorce her, she didn’t care. She liked the lifestyle here—well, hell, who wouldn’t—but she would give it all up because she figured I’d pay through the nose to keep the divorce clean. She had stories she could tell—remember those orgies?—and she wasn’t afraid to talk to a reporter or two.” He cleared his throat. Frowned into his empty glass. Then walked to the bar for a refill.
“There’s something more,” Montoya pressed because they both felt it.
Laroche’s shoulders slumped as he fixed his drink and he swore under his breath. “Oh, fuck, yeah, there’s more.” A muscle was working in his jaw as he started to sit, then thought better of it and stood next to the cold hearth. “She has—er, had—pictures. Videos. They would ruin me. I sit on the boards of several charities and still have a seat at Laroche Software, the company I sold. Hell, it even still has my name on it. This is New Orleans, I know. People think anything goes here, but . . . well, no . . . some of those videos.” He shook his head.
“Where are they?”
“She hid them.”
“Does anyone know where they are?”
“Not that I know of.” He took a drink.
Montoya was taking notes. “Did you know about the apartment?”
“The one she shared with the other whore?” Leaning a shoulder on the mantel, he nodded. “’Course I did. I had her followed. Private investigator.”
“We’d like to see his reports.”
They heard the front door bang open and then quick footsteps down the hall. A woman of about forty sped into the den. In shorts and a loose T-shirt, her black hair scraped into a messy bun, she slid to a stop in the middle of the room. She had to be Marianne, Hugo’s daughter. The resemblance to her father was unmistakable—intense blue eyes, strong jaw, wide shoulders and slim hips, a swimmer’s body. “Dad?” she said, catching a glimpse of her father before casting her gaze at Montoya and Bentz. “What’s going on here?”
“These are detectives from the police department,” he said. “They’re here—”
And then he caught himself. “This is my daughter, Marianne.”
She went barreling on. “This is about Helene, right? Because she was murdered?”
“Well . . .well, yes. But how did you know—?”
“And you’re talking to them? Without a lawyer?” Her eyes snapped blue fire. “Jesus Christ, Dad, for a smart man you can be so dumb sometimes.”
“I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Oh, hell, are you fucking serious?”
“How do you even know about it?”
“Geez. It’s all over the news!” She faced the cops. “This interview is over. Right now. Got it? If you want to talk to Dad again, or anyone in the family, we’ll have representation with us.” To her father, she said, “Call Alan. Tell him what’s going on, but he probably already knows. I’m surprised he hasn’t phoned you. Warned you to keep quiet.”
“I said I have nothing to hide, Marianne. Nothing.”
“Well, it’s gonna get ugly. Or uglier. Helene’s finally been exposed for the whore she is. Helen of Joy? Oh, save me!” Rolling her eyes, she let out a disgusted breath. To the detectives, she said succinctly: “Now, please, leave.”
Bentz pulled out a card, handed it to her. “We want to talk to all of Helene’s family and—”
“We arenother family. Not related to her. I wouldn’t even call her stepmom, okay. She’s over a decade younger than I am.” She threw her father a weary look. “Oh, Dad. How could you have—?” And then Marianne caught herself. She focused on Bentz. “We’ll come down to the station,” she finally said. “We’ll set it up through Alan Thayer, our attorney.”
“Okay. Good. We have more questions for your father and your brother and you, Ms. Laroche.”
“It’s Mrs. Petrocci now. And I’ll gladly give a statement, but only with my attorney present.” Her eyes narrowed. “Do we get to see the body? You know, like ID it?”
Her father’s head swiveled. “What do you mean?”
“How do we know it’s even Helene?” she demanded. “It isn’t like she hasn’t run off before and we think something horrible happened to her only to discover that oops, it was all a mistake. She was just off doing some weird thing, ‘taking me time’ or going to the mountains in fucking Kentucky to ‘clear my head,’” Marianne pointed out, making air quotes. “And she was always coming up with some weird disguise, altering her looks so she couldn’t be seen or recognized, like she was some big movie star or something. Give me a break.” She let out a breath and when her father was about to say something, added, “Or . . . or what about that time she chartered a private yacht off Miami because she wanted to experience the Bermuda Triangle? Huh? When there was worry about a damned hurricane! What about that? Every time she left without a word. To do something weird or bizarre, something to get herself noticed! Holy shit, none of us ever knew if she was alive or dead when she took off on one of her head-game trips. That’s what it was, you know. She was always playing head games!”
