Chapter Text
“Ooh, how exciting!” Lestat de Lioncourt trills, gracing the detectives with a smile which could light up a concert hall. “My first role as a bona-fide murder suspect… Mon cher even suggested I ask for a lawyer before you magnificent detectives try to break me down into confessing.”
Detective Williams indulges him while mentally reviewing the limited dossier she’s been able to compile on the man. Father unknown; mother a relatively well-known (till her disappearance off the face of the Earth) writer of true-adventure, extreme-survival books; De Lioncourt generally refuses to speak of his childhood, but the little that’s known suggests instability and neglect. Got into modeling very young, quite successfully. Some highly positive press of him with the deceased from that period; recently… nothing. Reputation as a bit of an enfant terrible; some misbehaviour, but no arrests, no real violence. Known as promiscuous until his marriage to Du Lac which seems to have now become his raison d’etre, a 24-7 celebration of a glamorous, edgy power couple’s modern-fairytale romance. Recently, some rumours of them - oh, interesting… but that line of thought gets interrupted by something relevant in the Frenchman’s persistent monologue.
“Of course, you must think I have quite the motive given my set-to with the late, lamented Roman yesterday!” Somehow, the tone balances right on the edge between arrogant and charming.
Careful not to give anything away, Detective Lafleur keeps her voice neutral. “Why don’t you describe, in your own words, what led up to the altercation?”
“Of course, Madame,” the blond grins, unconcerned. “Quite simple, really. Marius lured me into his studio, supposedly to try to talk me into convincing Louis into working with him again, and promptly made a pass at me.”
The detective’s immaculately-shaped eyebrows go up. “Really? A man, frankly, old enough to be your father propositioned you - and with your husband in the house at that?”
Lestat hums. His smile never wavers. “Ah, but you see, our good Mr. De Romanus believed he had leverage.”
“What sort of leverage?”
The model doesn’t even bat an eye. “Dirty pictures. He dug up some old ones of yours truly; tried the old carrot-and-stick routine - you know, said he’d give them to me if I did what he wanted, implied he might leak them if I didn’t.”
“That sounds really upsetting,” Bricks puts on a diplomatic voice. What did you do?”
“What do you think? Knocked him on his ass, and - because how often do you get to use that phrase? - told him to ‘publish and me damned.” De Lioncourt says, as if explaining the most obvious thing in the world. “Then, got the hell out of there.”
Lily interlaces her fingers and hums. “Pardon me for saying so, but you seem rather sanguine about the whole thing. I suppose, from a certain standpoint, it must be rather a relief to find the blackmail threat so irrevocably neutralized.”
Lestat stares. “You seriously think I drowned the Roman over a bit of porn?” A nanosecond later, he lets loose a burst of loud, mirthless, disconcerting laughter, nearly making the detectives jump. “Nom de Dieu, what threat?!” He breathes in and out; continues in a somewhat calmer tone. “Look, my whole brand is edgy, decadent, chaotic - we play up the whole ‘Brat Prince’ thing on purpose - a bit of scandal wouldn’t do me any harm. And, if, against all odds, it did… Apologies for sounding crass, but… let’s just say that Louis’ and my net worth is such that I could turn stay-at-home-dad tomorrow and remain perfectly… comfortable. Do I really look stupid enough to risk having to wear a ghastly orange jumpsuit over this?”
“All right,” Detective Williams says appeasingly before, with would-be casualness, throwing out, “What about your marriage? How would Mr. Du Lac feel about…”
“Pfffttt…” the blond blows a full-on raspberry. “Either of you fans of Akasha?” Bricks (though even she has heard of the chart-topping pop star) isn’t; Lily simply won’t admit to it. “Because, in the music video for the ‘Queen of the Damned’ single… I’m literally simulating sex with a whole orgy’s worth of people. Last year, MOMA ran a much-lauded exhibit of 30 photographers under 30… Sevraine’s two entries prominently featured both my bare ass and my considerable… considerables. My Louis was delighted! Besides, the so-called blackmail pictures hardly came as a surprise: when I met the love of my life, I made a point of being an open book about my past with him, and he with me…” The irritated blond pauses to draw a breath.
“But then,” Detective Lafleur jumps right into the pause, “why did your husband get so upset that it took 2 people to pull him off the victim, whom he threatened with a knife?”
“Please!” The model’s tone stays casual, but something flickers for a second in his blue-violet eyes. “Mon cher’s a gentle soul, a Saint, most of the time, but he is ardently protective over anyone he calls his own, me above all. And he hates bullies. All he meant to do was give The Roman a good scare, but I didn’t want to provide the old goat with an excuse to make himself a nuisance… so, I got my Beautiful One in my arms, and whispered in his ear that we should go back to our bedroom, where I’d give him a much better outlet for all that aggressive energy. And, believe me… we both had a fine night between the sheets.” He ends on a salacious chuckle.
Bricktop decides to head off the unmistakably imminent detour into an unsolicited episode of “Sex Lives of the Rich and Famous.” She gives a small cough. “Could you clear up a detail for me - making sure we cross our t’s and dot our i’s, you know? Mr. Mahmoud overheard you telling your spouse you’d, quote, ‘take care of it’... What did you mean by that?”
The answer comes almost too readily. “Oh, that - Rashid must have misheard. I told Louis that I took care of it. I mean, with the lovely black eye I gave him, I daresay Marius got the message: no one will force me into anything I do not wish to do, ever again.” The scar at the corner of Lestat’s mouth tightens as his sensual mouth momentarily sets in a narrow line.
The two detectives, by unspoken agreement, lob a couple of softballs before dismissing their subject. Only then, with his hand (large, strong, the knuckles slightly bruised) already on the doorknob, does Lily add a seeming afterthought. “Oh, Mr. Lioncourt - just one more thing… You seem to be handling Mr. De Romanus’ passing remarkably well - considering the man had been a mentor, almost a father figure, in your youth.”
Lestat pauses in the doorway. Turns. Suddenly, the performance, the seduction gives way to something serious and guileless. Earnest. “Oui, Marius was kind to me - when I was lonely and I really needed it. And, yes, I truly admired him for years, before I saw another side of him. I mean, look around…” he gestures at The Palazzo’s “Caesar-by-way-of-Vegas" kitsch. “The man spent a lifetime cosplaying as a Roman patrician, till he himself believed it: truly convinced himself he was some superior creature, entitled to control and take from anyone he saw as beneath him. I am afraid, Detectives…” Lestat sighs. The handsome face immediately looks much older. “I simply cannot get on board with that.”
“Has an answer for everything, doesn’t he?” Bricks taps her pen against her teeth while gazing at the recently closed door.
“Certainly does…” Lafleur nods, slowly. “Perhaps… too much so?”
Her partner’s eyes narrow in slow consideration. “Could go either way, honestly… It’s the small inconsistencies I can’t get over. The difference between I took and I’ll take care of it, I could live with, but… Would Mr. Mahmoud really mistake, or invent, De Lioncourt running out of the vic’s office crying, knocking over statues? And, if not, how do we square that with the latter’s sanguine attitude toward the incident? Or Du Lac going postal? And yet… from a pure logic statement, Lestat’s unconcern about the pictures - which, by the way, we’ve yet to find - makes perfect sense; but then, why all the drama? No, something simply doesn’t quite add up.”
“Agreed. Well, at any rate…” Lily stretches, “let’s hear what hubby dearest has to say.”