Chapter Text
“Forgive me, Detectives, but I’m getting a distinctive sense of deja vu,” Louis de Pointe du Lac smiles with an unusually sharp politeness. “Haven’t we all done this already?”
He has a point. Same group; same location; a similar sense of courteous unfreedom reinforced by the discreet presence of the unis. Only now everyone, including staff, sit together, Armand and Daniel with their arms around each other, not bothering to hide their couplehood.
“We do apologize for the inconvenience,” Detective Lafleur slides, smooth as butter, into her good cop role. “Unfortunately, solving a complex case takes time and everyone’s cooperation.”
“Which we’re all happy to give,” young Mr. De Romanus graciously ensures. “Only, please, everyone, be mindful - for their sake.” He gestures toward a translucent play tent, away from the group but clearly in his sight line; Sybelle and Benji (the former accessorized with headphones and a kiddie i-pad) happily within. Their brother, however, cannot entirely hide his exhaustion. “It’s way too much screen time for her,” he sighs wearily, “but better than what she might overhear… So, please, Detectives - is there anything else that you require?”
Bricktop, fully owning her moniker, gives everyone a rather toothy grin. “Yes. What I require is for everyone here to stop lying.”
She scans the suspects’ faces: Armand’s sphinxlike inscrutability; Louis’ cold amusement; Lestat’s dramatic indignation… She does not relent. “You heard me.” The detective plows on, allowing no interruptions. “Yes, all of you have made a great show of answering our questions, even volunteering information… but, between the lies of omission, half-truths, hints and allegations - we cannot work like this! So, starting now, let’s shine a light into everyone’s dark corners, even if it gets uncomfortable. Starting with,” Bricks pivots rapidly, “you, Mr. Lioncourt.”
The model takes a long drink from his water glass while performatively pressing varnished fingertips to his broad chest. “Moi?” He makes the most of looking righteously offended. “You think I’m still withholding? Fine! Ask away, Ma’am: I’m an open book.” Less trained observers would likely miss the brief, wary flicker in his eyes, the momentary tightening of his husband’s features.
“Right.” The detective’s tone turns professional, clipped. “You insisted that the confrontation between you and Marius the night before he died was nothing…”
“Because it was…”
“But,” Bricks soldiers on, as though not hearing him, “between evidence you actually ran from the studio crying, smashed objects, Mr. Du Lac’s violent reaction… something did not add up. Lily and I took a closer look around your room, and found some interesting things.” She checks her notes, still imperturbable. “For starters, right there on the bedside table, a bottle of Lexapro with your name on it.”
Lestat cocks a supremely unimpressed blond eyebrow. “Very well, I confess: I suffer from anxiety. Is that a crime?”
“Not at all,” Lily spreads her hands in a placating gesture. “But Marius’ attempted blackmail really dysregulated you, didn’t it? That’s why your husband was so insistent you take your medication the next day…”
A pair of blue eyes rolls toward the ceiling with performative martyrdom. “See, this is why we wished to keep it private: incredible how much stigma and judgement still surfaces as soon as mental illness gets mentioned!” Louis’ finely-shaped fingers run soothing circles across the back of the blond’s hand. “Do you consider my medicine the murder weapon, or does it merely paint me as a psycho killer?!”
“Neither.” Detective Williams assures. “Just a starting point for some inquiries. Into the prescribing psychiatrist, with whom, according to your lovely, old-fashioned datebook, you keep regular appointments, who teaches you coping techniques, encourages you to journal…” Lestat’s face has gone two shades paler; his whole body’s stiffened. Louis’ grip on him has tightened protectively. Bricks does not like herself too much for this, but she does what she must. “Now, when we called her, Dr. Goldberg made it clear - abundantly, and with some colourful Yiddish thrown in - exactly what we could do with our questions. “But she is a distinguished expert in her field, a gifted lecturer, widely published. It doesn’t take much to learn what kind of therapy she specializes in.” She pulls her chair closer to the man who now seems to be holding himself together through sheer willpower. “Mr. De Lioncourt - Lestat - we’re not trying to hurt you, but we need the truth. We know you smashed the statuettes; when we came in, we saw you drinking alcohol, which someone taking Lexapro would not do unless he was in a really bad headspace… So, whatever Marius said in his studio did more than just upset you: it triggered you, triggered you badly…” The detective searches the model’s eyes. “You told us Mr. De Romanus threatened to leak explicit photos of you. Those have not been found. And we think we know why.”
Detective Lafleur stands and indicates the now-cold fire pit. “When we arrived, we found it odd enough it should be lit - in the broad daylight of a hot July day, but then, the smell: acrid; chemical. Traditional photographic chemicals, to be precise. Prints; film; negatives, hastily turned to ash. So, help us to help you, Lestat - why did they need to be destroyed? Because, you’re right: somebody leaking pornographic images of you can’t do you any harm. So - why?”
“Les, you don’t have to answer, it’s OK, my love, it’s gonna be OK…” Louis de Pointe du Lac, clutches at his spouse, every bit of his arrogant control gone. But the latter simply looks utterly sad and tired as he kisses his hands.
“Non, cher, enough.” He sighs wearily. Speaks again, tone flat and eyes defiant. “Because,” each word falls hollow, “the other person - the one… with me in those pictures was Gabrielle. My mother.”