Archive of Our Own

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.”

Chapter Text

Well, Detective Williams thinks morosely as she surveys the group before her, at least I ought to win some sort of prize for Most Fuckable Suspect Pool in Police History.  She studies them one by one.  Rashid, gathering up breakfast dishes; hands steady; face a practiced mask of polite neutrality.  Damek, over at the bar; pretty much the same.  Lestat, unabashedly taking up space, nursing what seems to be a Screwdriver while draped over his husband in a way hardly suitable to the occasion.  Glamorously, lightly bored, if anything.  Louis, hand on the blond’s thigh with a comfortable possessiveness.  At first glance, absorbed in a book, but his intelligent green eyes occasionally scan his environment; not nervous, simply prepared to handle any contingency with the air of a man used to bending the world to his will.  

Finally, the group on the swing.  The detective pays special attention to Armand de Romanus: the next of kin and, by all measures, the person most directly affected by the Roman’s passing.  But the youth gives no sign of concerning himself with anything other than the children on his lap, whom he is currently feeding from a Bento box.  Next to him, close enough for their shoulders and knees to touch, Daniel scribbles something in a small notebook, leatherbound and well-worn.  Leaning into the journalist persona, though his gaze keeps darting a bit covertly to the gorgeous man by his side.

“Thank you for your patience,” the detective begins, stepping closer to the lit fire pit at the center of the scene.  “I am sor…” a whiff of unexpectedly acrid, chemical-scented smoke assails her nostrils, causing her to cough.  “Apologies; sorry for your loss.  I am certain this is distressing for all of you, and assure you we are doing everything we can to find answers.”

“Find the murderer, you mean?”  Molloy pipes up bluntly.  “Mr. De Romanus’ death would appear to be an accident, yet we’ve been kept here together, watched, long enough for detectives to arrive and other officers to search our rooms with us out of the way.  No reason to do all that unless you suspect murder.”

Armand tuts, with a pointed gesture toward Sybelle and Benji, but it is Louis who speaks up.  “You’re probably right, Danny.  In which case, of course, all of us want nothing more than to cooperate fully with law enforcement,” he gives the detectives a courteous nod, “but, in turn, I request that we be treated with courtesy, and not as criminals?  Which begins with - since, clearly, no one could possibly leave this island undetected by your people - allowing us to move about the Palazzo at will.  For instance,” Du Lac’s smile doesn’t waver, but a sliver of steel rings in his silken voice as a protective hand squeezes Lestat’s shoulder, “my husband needs to take his medication.  I trust he may go up to our room to do so in peace?”

“Chut, cheri,” Lestat’s compelling Gallic baritone gently replies.  “It’s not as if I’ll perish without it.”  Blue eyes fill with a positively nauseating fondness.  “I’m more concerned with you not getting the chance to do your PT exercises.”

Louis du Lac answers Detective Lafleur’s silent question by pointing to an antique-looking cane leaning against the patio furniture.  “Old injury,” he shrugs, “occasionally acts up, nothing more.  Les has a tendency to get… dramatic when it comes to me.”  The detectives converse quickly with eyes alone before motioning to the couple to proceed.  Arms around each other, the two make their way upstairs.

“And I,” Armand finally breaks his silence, “fear I must respectfully insist on you conducting your interviews in a more… private location.”  A hard-to-place, posh accent; perfect diction; utterly firm yet flawlessly polite.  “You understand, I only wish to spare the poor children,” his slim arms unconsciously draw the tiny bodies closer, “as much trauma as I can… and, as they would normally spend most of the day playing out of doors…”  He pauses barely long enough to get a nod from Bricktop before continuing.  “You may use Father’s study on the second floor.  Rashid, if you would be so kind?”  The latter instantly, seamlessly carries out the instructions with a professional, “This way, please.”  

Interesting, thinks Detective Williams as she departs with a last look at the Roman’s son.  Every inch the undisputed Lord of this manor, perfectly comfortable in the role.  And yet (the thought comes quite unbidden), he looks so… young.  She files both impressions away for now, and turns her attention to one of any detective’s best treasure troves: the staff.  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Mahmoud.  I understand from your initial statement that you were the first to discover your employer’s body?  Must have been quite the shock.”

Rashid nods, slowly.  “Yes.  I went out to bring Mr. de Romanus his morning shake - as usual, after his swim, and… saw him… half-floating by the shoreline.  I did everything I could, but…”

“Of course,” Detective Lafleur hastens to assure him.  “It’s often true in such cases that, after a little time has passed, witnesses recall more than they did initially.  Can you cast your mind back for anything which might have slipped your mind?  Did you observe anything at all out of the ordinary this morning?”

Rashid doesn’t hesitate.  “Not this morning, no.”

“When, then?” Bricktop jumps on the wording.

Mr. Mahmoud seems to struggle mightily to balance his duty of discretion with the need to answer police questions.  ‘Well…  I couldn’t put my finger on it, but, ever since the guests began arriving, the atmosphere in The Palazzo has grown… tense.  Like the colour of the sky changing when a storm’s about to break.  And then, last night, with the fight…”

“What fight?” Lily and Bricks ask in perfect unison.

Chapter Text

“Dinner had already been served.”  Rashid begins, somewhat reluctantly.  “As I cleared away the dishes, Mr. De Romanus - the elder Mr. De Romanus - told me to ask Mr. De Lioncourt to join him in his studio.”

“Any idea why?” Lily inquires.

“None.”  Mr. Mahmoud shakes his head.  “I just remember Mr. De Lioncourt, well, rolling his eyes before heading up.  Shortly after that - honestly, I have no idea how long - I happened to pass through that hallway on my evening rounds of the house.  I heard some sort of ruckus within - shouting, maybe something getting thrown or knocked over.  The door flew open, and out flew Mr. Lioncourt, down the hall and down the stairs; knocked over the pair of Egyptian statuettes in the alcove, on purpose, it seemed; nearly knocked me down, too, and…”  Rashid’s dark, intelligent eyes meet the detectives’ “...look, I know the tabloid press loves to play up his bad-boy image, but…  I’ve known him since his teens, and he wouldn’t behave this way: wreck something beautiful, disrespect an employee or a staff member; not unless he was terribly upset.  I can’t be sure, but…  it seemed to me he was in tears.”

Briana takes advantage of his lapse into silence.  “Did you see Marius then?  Check on him in the studio?”

Rashid looks a bit uncomfortable.  “Detectives, for a position such as mine, an employer has an expectation of a certain - discretion.  An innate understanding of what does and what does not concern me.”

“Quite understandable.”  Ms. Williams hastens to reassure him.  “Naturally, you respect the family’s privacy.  Did you witness anything else?”

Mr. Mahmoud nods.  “I was still cleaning up the debris from the statuettes, when Mr. Du Lac came barrelling up the hall, his husband at his heels; all but kicked down the studio door.  Ordinarily, I’d mind my own business, but the look on his face…  I ran in after them.  When I got there, Mr. Du Lac had some sort of blade, was trying to slash at Mr. De Romanus, while Mr. De Lioncourt was trying to hold him back…  Everyone screaming at each other…”

“Screaming what?” Lily tries to clarify, but Rashid only sighs.

“Everyone was yelling in French, or Creole, or a mixture of the two; I don’t know either language.  Between the two of us, we managed to pull Mr. Du Lac away.  Lestat - Mr. Lioncourt - held him tight, whispering something in his ear; made him go quiet all at once, like some sort of magic charm.  I tried to see to my employer - he had some sort of rag wrapped round his hand, which he pressed to his neck; but he just snapped at me to keep my mouth shut and get out.  Out in the hall, Mr. De Lioncourt was still holding his husband, almost rocking him as he led him away.  He apologized to me, assured me everything would be all right, that he’d take care of it… got a good heart, that man, whatever people may say.  Off they went - to their guest room, I guess.  I’d have kept quiet, except -” he makes a self-explanatory gesture at the homicide detectives.  “I mean, I don’t believe either of them would ever…”

Bricktop holds up her hands to stop him.  “No one is jumping to conclusions, much less accusing anyone of anything.  But we do need as much information as we can get at this point.  Thank you so much for telling us.”

“So…” Detective Lafleur turns to her partner once Rashid has been dismissed and they’re alone in their temporary headquarters.  “Which of those cuckoo lovebirds do we want to speak with first?”

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.”

Chapter Text

“Curious customer,” Detective Lafleur had concluded while sharing what her talents as The World Wide Web Whisperer had unearthed about a certain Louis de Pointe du Lac.  “Comes from money; family, the cream of New Orleans Society, but not without its share of drama.  In fact, the ‘old injury’ he’d mentioned came about as a result of him - of all things - leaping off a small beachside cliff to save his younger brother (history of mental health issues there) who’d jumped during an episode.  Heroic, of course; as for how badly he was hurt… hard to say, honestly: some images which pop up show him using his cane, plenty of others don’t…  He and De Lioncourt married young, after a whirlwind romance; in fact, the latter can’t seem to go 2 minutes without crowing about it: ‘love at first sight’; ‘I hunted him’; ‘my Immortal Companion’...  It sounds awfully dramatic, but, if the fairytale romance they’re selling is actually some sort of Potemkin village, I can’t find a shred of evidence for it…  If some folks’ priorities are God, country, family, our Mr. Du Lac’s seem to be Lestat, Lestat, Lestat.  Even the closest thing he has to a history with violence involves coming to blows with a drunk trust fund baby who tried to feel up his hubby at a charity gala…  And that a nothingburger, likely with a side of rich-folks-making-it-go-away fries.  As I said,” she’d shrugged, “curious customer.”

Said curious customer now  regards them with something close to amusement in his green eyes.   “I’ve taken the liberty of having my attorney on standby.”  He blithely informs them, pointing to his  tablet, “ready to Zoom in should I deem it necessary.  Nothing personal, Detectives.”  A deliberately polite smile.

“As you wish, Mr. Pointe du Lac,” Detective Williams assures, “but no one is currently accused of anything.  We are simply trying to get the facts from everyone’s point of view.  I understand you and the late Mr. De Romanus had an altercation yesterday.”

“You could say that,”  Du Lac nearly smirks.  “Naturally, when someone ends up dead, you have some questions for the guy who went for him with a weapon less than 24 hours before.”

Frankly, the attitude’s begun to grate on Bricks a bit.  “All right, let’s cut to the chase.”  She puts a bit more steel into her voice.  “After you and your husband went upstairs, we made a curious discovery.”  She gestures to Lily, who produces the fancy cane Louis had left behind.  With an easy gesture, she unlocks it to reveal the blade, compact yet keen, hidden within.  “Care to explain?”

Louis’ grin widens.  “Yeah.  Gift from my husband who, bless his heart, has quite a flair for the theatrical.”

The detective quirks an unimpressed eyebrow.  “Uh-huh.  So, obviously, we’ve yet to send it to the lab for full analysis, but do you know what a quick application of Luminol revealed?”

“Of course.”  Du Lac nods, utterly unbothered.  “Traces of blood belonging to - I’ll save you the trouble of waiting for results - Marius de Romanus.  From last night, when I slashed at him…  Nicked his neck, very slightly, and grazed his hand when he tried to block me, if I recall correctly.”

“OK…  Why?” the hitherto quiet Detective Lafleur inquires.  “By your spouse’s own account, nothing happened; De Romanus’ so-called leverage was meaningless; and Lestat seems more than capable of looking after himself, so - why risk assault with a weapon charges?  And, bluntly, given Mr. Lioncourt’s career and appearance, surely this can’t have been the first time someone tried to shoot their shot?”

The businessman regards her as if forced to explain something immensely simply to someone wilfully dense.  

“Because he touched Lestat.  Without permission.  Worse than that, he tried to coerce him into doing something he didn’t want to do…”  He passes a momentarily weary hand over his eyes, only to reveal a hard, sharp glint within them.  “Les shouldn’t have to endure that.  Ever.  I won’t let anyone hurt him this way, not as long as I live.”  His fingers clench into a fist.  “I’m not gonna lie to you: at that moment, I wanted to kill Marius.  I might have killed him, had Les and Rashid not stopped me, but… clearly, I didn’t, and the murderous urge passed as soon as I calmed down.  I won’t waste time pretending to weep at his demise, but - I had nothing to do with it.”

“Help me out here…” Lily sits forward, her beautiful features hardening.  “You don’t strike me as a stupid man, Mr. Du Lac, so…  Why are you so cheerfully blabbing about this to homicide detectives?”

Unexpectedly, the potential suspect huffs out a little laugh.  “Why not?  The Roman obviously didn’t die from the couple of glorified paper cuts I gave him, and I have an alibi for his time of death - why would I possibly be scared of a murder charge?  As for assault - at this point, why would you bother?  And if you did, you know as well as I do that my lawyer would make absolute mincemeat of your case, and I would get away scot-free.  So, since you also do not strike me as stupid, Detectives…”  He trails off meaningfully.

Bricks mentally compiles a list of arguments against whacking this smug rich fucker on the head with his own cane.  Forces out a breath.  “OK, then - shifting gears.”  She hopes her voice manages to sound passably pleasant.  “Records show you recently decided to sever The Azalea’s business relationship with the decedent, after many years.  Care to tell us why?”

“Sure thing.”  Louis doesn’t even hesitate.  “We got complaints from a model that De Romanus disrespected them, made them uncomfortable, during a shoot.  Do you know why my modeling agency, despite being notoriously picky and taking larger commissions than its competitors, attracts and retains an astonishing pool of top-shelf talent?  Because we protect our own.  Parents feel comfortable placing their child and teen models’ safety in our hands; young women in our model houses can expect a collegial community, not the set of a reality show.  Our workers aren’t afraid to blow the whistle on an unprofessional client, no matter how prominent.  That is my promise for anyone at The Azalea, and I stick to it.”

“Oh, I meant to ask…” Lily intentionally barely waits for a pause.  “You’d earlier alluded to Mr. De Lioncourt’s medication, which we have since found in your room.  Could you elaborate…”

Snap.  They can practically hear the instantaneous shutdown.  “No.”  The tone flat, final, quietly vicious.  “Not without a judge’s signature.  And good luck getting that to invade someone’s medical privacy in a case of death by drowning.  In fact, without said signature…  We’re done here.”  Louis rises without waiting for permission; walks out of the room without a backward glance, merely tossing out, “And we’re not whom you should be looking at.”

“Entitled prick,” Detective Williams shrugs once safely alone with her partner.  “But I daresay we’ve got him rattled.”

Chapter Text

“You’re kind of the wild card here, Mr. Molloy,” Detective Lafleur genially states, eyeing the young man seated across from her.  “The only one with no evident connection to the family.  So - what brought you to The Palazzo for the holiday weekend in the first place?”

Daniel fidgets nervously in his chair.  It would seem more suspicious were it not for the nicotine patch visible on his arm.  Still, his face shows a certain defiance.  “Come, Detective - I know you did better research than that.  I’m not exactly Bob Woodward, but you must have found that profile I wrote on Armand?  That’s how we met; got friendly; so, he invited me.”

“A bit more than friendly, I’d say,” Bricks leans in with a rather predatory smile.  “You’re just about to propose to him, aren’t you, Mr. Molloy?”

The boy jerks forward, taken by surprise.  “How did you…”

“Easy.”  Ms. Williams smiles.  “When it comes to hiding your connection, you two aren’t nearly as slick as you seem to believe.  Also, we found the ring - lovely, by the way, but rolled-up socks aren’t exactly the world’s cleverest hiding place - and matched the size to those in young Mr. De Romanus’ room.  So, let me guess: you planned to use the holiday to get your future father-in-law’s blessing?”

Daniel sneers.  “I wouldn’t want that old vulture’s blessing even if he’d ever give it, which he wouldn’t,” his words come out clipped, unexpectedly venomous.  Then, a bit softer.  “I just… wanted him to let Armand go.  Let him, finally, live his own life.  With me.”

“Why do you need him to?” Lily takes over.  “This ain’t the middle ages: a father has no power to prevent his adult son living as he chooses.  So, what was his leverage over Armand?  Money or something?”

“Or something.”  The interviewee almost visibly clams up.  When he speaks, it is almost to himself.  “If only we could have convinced him to just let us take the kids…”

“Wait, wait…”  Bricktop frowns.  “You wanted to take Sybelle and Benji away from their own father?”

“Father, ha!”  Daniel barks out an ugly laugh.  “The Roman sees - saw - those children maybe once a week on a good week, was often not in the same country…  Armand’s already raising them, he’s the only reason they’re not cared for round the clock by someone paid to do so till they’re old enough to get shipped off to boarding school.  That’s why Armand still lives here, because he won’t abandon them!  The kids Marius only got in order to cont…  I don’t know, as pretty little trophies, walking ego trips or something!”  His passion literally brings him to his feet, clenched fist waving.

“You didn’t like Mr. De Romanus much, did you, Mr. Molloy?”  Detective Williams’ easy drawl brings him out of it.

“No; no, I didn’t.”  The young man sinks back into his chair, into himself.  “And, no, Detectives, there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for Armand.  And, yes, I often wished the Roman out of the way.  But my hands didn’t drown him.”

The two women are still wondering whether to ask any more follow-up questions when there’s a knock on the door.

Chapter Text

“Pardon the interruption, Detectives,” Damek waits politely in the doorway, “but Mr. De Romanus - er, Mr. Armand de Romanus - has asked that I (since we are currently all but stuck on the island) provide lunch to all the law enforcement personnel.”

He gestures to a fancy wheeled cart.  The two women eye the tempting offerings - everything from colourful, crisp salads and whimsical sliders to mouth-watering seasonal fruit tarts and refreshing glasses of cucumber water.  Any thoughts of a polite refusal vanish from their minds.  Daniel Molloy seizes the chance to mutter something about “checking on Armand” and beats a hasty retreat.  Quite all right: no better time to get The Palazzo’s staff to open up than in the midst of their routine duties.

“Sorry to add to your workload, Mr. Svoboda,” Lily turns on her most dazzling smile while being served, “as if you didn’t have enough to do already between the extra guests, the tragedy… and, I understand, even the night before, when the scuffle led to broken statuettes for you to clean up?”

Damek shakes his head.  “Rashid’s the one who swept up what was left of Father and Mother.  That was what the late Mr. De Romanus called them,” he clarifies, seeing two puzzled faces.  “Some sort of family joke started when Mr. Lestat stayed here, still in his teens: an insistence that - despite presumably being Egyptian - the female figure somehow resembled Gabrielle de Lioncourt, and the male, well, Mr. Marius himself.  A strange fancy, but back then, that boy - orphaned in all but name - he was quite lonely.  Impressionable.  And much in need of love.”

“Then he was lucky Marius had so much of it to provide.”  Briana adds evenly.  “I mean, besides mentoring Lestat - three adoptions?  Kind of incredible.”

Damek’s face remains impassive; anyone less observant than the detectives would miss his fingers momentarily tightening around a glass.  “So everyone says,” he responds.  “I always stay here, watching over The Palazzo, so I didn’t see him acqui - ah, forgive my English, adopt - Mr. Armand abroad.  And, both other times, too, he and Mr. Marius were away for months before returning with Ms. Sybelle and Mr. Benji.”

He stands silently, frozen in mid-motion for a long moment, as if locked in some inner struggle.  Finally, seemingly reaching a decision, Damek clears his throat.  “Detectives…”  His voice sounds tentative, and his eyes betray a brief flicker of fear.  “I assume that, in your investigation, you’ve looked into my… background.”  Every inch of that strong body tenses while awaiting a reply.

“Yes.”  Detective Lafleur nods.  “And we assure you we have no interest in pursuing anything without a bearing on our case, including, say, a past criminal record.”

Broad shoulders sag a little in relief.  “Thank you.  It’s no excuse, but my youth was… difficult.  I fell in with some bad characters.  As you already know, I never was violent, but I’m not proud of what I did back then.  So, when I got caught and managed to testify against someone worse, I seized the chance to turn my life around.  But, for someone like me, opportunities are few…  Mr. De Romanus’ offer of employment seemed a Godsend: a decent living, a way to America, a chance to save money, bring my family here.  Please understand, I couldn’t jeopardize that…”  His pale face seems overcome with some strong, not yet defined, emotion.

Bricks pounces.  “Mr. Svoboda, what did you feel when you learned of your employer’s death?”

Damek’s fingers grab convulsively at a large, austere tattoo on his left wrist.  Detective Williams’ intelligent eyes zero in on the gesture.  “That symbol…  It was in your file.  I looked it up.”  She consults her notes.  “Deuteronomy 32:35: ‘To Me belongs vengeance, and recompense; their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste’...  That’s what you felt, isn’t it, Damek?  Do you believe Marius de Romanus’ death was an act of Divine vengeance?”

The man lowers his gaze, brow clouded over, before speaking.  When he does, his voice grows gradually more resolute.  “Believe me, Ma’am, I had no actual proof, nothing I could take to those such as yourself, but…  I’ll just say this much.  There exist certain men whose urges - what they themselves might call a biological imperative - put them at odds with human morality.  With human decency.”

“And Marius was such a man?”  Detective Lafleur quietly prods.

Damek Svoboda shakes his head.  “As I said, I couldn’t prove anything… and, yes, I was afraid for my future, my family’s… so, out of fear, I said nothing, tried not to know…  But, when Rashid came running to tell me he had found him drowned…  Well…”  He draws himself up tall, defiance blazing in every feature, voice nearly a shout.  “Yes, Detectives, I felt a weight lifted off my heart!  God forgive me, but I felt so grateful he could never hurt a… an innocent person, ever again!  But…” he seems to sink, almost exhausted by his outburst, “whoever’s vengeance found him, it was not mine: part of the reason I inked that verse into my skin was to remind me not to presume on that which belongs to God.”

Bricktop asks her follow-up in a nearly gentle tone.  “You said your late employer couldn’t hurt anyone ever again.  Do you know - or at least suspect - whom he hurt in the past?”

A bone-weary, eloquent gaze sweeps the room, the large original photographs on the walls.  “The answer to your question,” Damek sighs, “is close - and hidden in plain sight.”

Chapter Text

“Seriously, Lil - would you take pictures like these of your kids and put them up around the house?”  Bricks wrinkles her nose in distaste.  Her colleague acknowledges she has a point: the framed photo on the victim’s desk, while ostensibly more normal than its counterparts on the walls (it is, at least, unlike them in being a colour image featuring all three De Romanus children), is still… something.  The central figure - a beatifically smiling, androgynous Armand - wears nothing save a drape or shawl of some sort of blue, diaphanous material which winds around his dark curls while exposing part of his chest - tenderly cradles a smaller Sybelle and infant Benji, both costumed in tiny angel wings and soft, pastel…  Cloths?  Drapes?  The sentimental, almost mawkish Madonna-and-cherubs symbolism comes through clearly enough, of course, but something in the overall effect unsettles.

Detective Lafleur wears a raw-lemon-eating look.  “Trust me, the ones over here,” she gestures at the black-and-white series on the study wall, “are way worse.”  She points her reluctant partner to a sequence depicting Armand once more; this time, “tastefully” nude and struggling, then swooning, in the grip of an older, powerful man whose face remains concealed behind an aquiline mask blending into stylized pinions.  The detective reads out the impeccably handwritten title at the bottom.  “‘The Rape of Ganymede’...  OK, Bricktop what the actual fuck was wrong with that man’s head?”

“Father always did love his Classical mythology.”  The coolly neutral voice behind them almost makes both women jump.  Its owner - the somewhat older, living version of the youth in the pictures - regards them with no sign of having taken offense, and seemingly no demand except to be spared any show of sympathy.  “That particular one was a favourite: I certainly got regaled with tales of the pretty Trojan prince turned immortal, changeless cupbearer to the king of the gods - and, as you see, played my part in representing Marius’ vision of it.  But I presume you did not wish to see me to discuss photography?”

‘All right,” Lily takes a seat opposite the primly elegant interviewee.  “Detective Williams and I were just saying that, given the events of the past 24 hours, your composure is remarkable.  Frankly, you seem to be handling your father’s death exceptionally well.”

Armand interlaces his fingers; seems to consider the question as his enormous, near-uncanny eyes bore into Detective Lafleur’s face.  “Or, perhaps, a simple explanation…  No amount of histrionics on my part can alter what’s already happened.  Meanwhile, both I and those most dear to me sit here under suspicion of murder; in fact, if such a murder did take place, most likely the perpetrator’s near us as we speak - near Sybelle and Benji, the small, innocent children for whom I am now solely responsible…  Surely you see why I simply can’t afford to fall apart right now?”

“True,” Briana concedes.  “Or, perhaps, you also have no wish to do so?  Forgive my speaking ill of the dead, but some of what I’ve learned of your late father makes him sound…”

“Complicated.”  Armand smoothly responds.  “Father was rigorously demanding, enjoyed exercising control, had his vices…  I don’t see any use in pretending what we felt for each other was the great, unconditional love society tells us to expect between a parent and his child… and yet.”  The beautiful face darkens.  “No one should have to live through the unimaginable horrors which comprised my childhood before Marius found me.  Had he not done so, it is a certainty that I’d be dead by now - and my death would have been an agonizing, drawn-out, squalid thing.  No matter what, I owe Marius my life.”

Silence lingers for a beat.  The detectives let it, confident the young man will fill it if allowed.  Sure enough…  “Of course, you suspect me.  As you should.  So, let me lay my cards on the table.  I long for a life beyond The Palazzo,” an elegant hand gestures at the surroundings, “with Daniel.  My late father was making it difficult.  At the time of his death, I was with the children in their playroom: we were practicing spending the night in an indoor ‘tent’ I’d rigged up for them as a way of preparing them for a camping trip.  Which, as an alibi, is absolutely worthless… but it is the truth.  Yes, my adoptive father was an extremely wealthy man; but he’d told me repeatedly I would inherit nothing - which, of course, I cannot prove, though it is the truth.  I welcome you to go over my personal finances with a fine-toothed comb, to demonstrate that I - doing rather well for myself and having no habits, debts or crises to fund - have no need of his money.  I can’t make you believe me, Detectives, but…  I did not do this.”

Bricktop decides to switch gears for the moment.  “OK.  The altercation Mr. De Romanus had last night with Louis and Lestat; did you witness it?”

Black curls move slightly from side to side.  “No; after dinner, I left with Sybelle and Benji: I always spend the evenings with them if I’m not working.  I didn’t even learn about all the unpleasantness till Lestat filled me in this morning, before we got the… other news.”

“Did Mr. Lioncourt mention the reason for the fight?”

“Apparently, Father had propositioned him for sexual intercourse.”  Armand’s features are a study in perfect serenity.

“Did you believe him?” Detective Williams asks.

A neutral shrug.  “I had no reason not to.”  Seeing the silent question in the detectives’ eyes, he elaborates.  “As I’ve said, Father had his vices, and - well, you’ve seen Lestat.”

“An attractive man,” Lily concedes.

For the first time, Armand gives a small snort of amusement.  “There’s an understatement.  But also - Father has always had a special fondness for Lestat.  Though Marius made much of my ‘exotic beauty’, I knew that Lestat offered him something I never could.”

To Bricktop’s raised eyebrows he simply answers, “Blonde hair.  Blue eyes.  And - well, surely professionals such as yourselves have spotted the resemblance?  Anyone who saw them together would think they were father and son.”

“Forgive me for being dense,” the detective manages, a little less coolly than she’d like, “but, shouldn’t that have negated any possibility of Mr. De Romanus feeling sexual attraction for Mr. Lioncourt?”

“Perhaps it should have, for most men.”  Armand replies with something which isn’t quite a sigh.  “But my adoptive father was not most men.”  He does not elaborate on that rather memorable pronouncement, but gazes intently toward the door, clearly longing to escape through it.

Detective Lafleur picks up on the spike in tension at once.  “Are you eager to leave, Mr. De Romanus?  Has something got you worried?”

Armand springs to his feet.  The mask falls; his lovely features (young features, the detective can’t help thinking once more) all but glow with earnestness and something close to fear, “Of course!”  For the first time, they hear him raise his voice.  “But not because, as you seem to think, of guilt or secrecy!  If I could tell you something which would help you solve this, end this - do you really think I wouldn’t?!  Detectives, every single person in this house is someone I, without a moment’s hesitation, would trust with my life… which, clearly, since apparently there’s been a murder, is a grave mistake in judgment in at least one case - and I have no idea whose!”  Like a marionette with its strings cut, the young man collapses back in his chair to finish, quietly, “All I want is for this to be over… just so I can be sure my children are safe.”

“I need a shower after that delightful conversation.”  Briana grumbles once the door is safely shut.  “What a picnic this family must have been!”

“No kidding,” Lily sympathizes.  “Best lunch I’ve had all year, and it’s curdling in my stomach.  OK, we’re firmly in the ‘too much information’ stage.  Let’s organize what we know now and see if anything jumps out at us before we go any further.”

The two get to work.  Bricks dutifully lists timelines and alibis, checks her work.  Still, the entire time, something niggles at the back of her mind, the mental equivalent of a tiny pebble in her shoe.  As though there’s something she has heard today, but cannot put her finger on.  She’s sure she’s overlooked something, but what?

Chapter Text

“Bricks, have I lost my marbles, or is there something seriously wrong with our case?” Lily groans, momentarily shutting her eyes to give them a break from the strain.

“Nope.”  Her partner concurs between bites of her leftover fruit tart.  “It’s the curse of abundance: we’ve got enough suspects to start a choir, motives coming out of our ears, opportunity as far as the eye can see… and absolutely none of it adding up for beans!”

They both turn back to their hastily improvised but factually meticulous murder board.  “OK, let’s run down our list, just the basics, see if we can at least rule out anybody…  When I say the name, give me your snap analysis, no overthinking.  Louis de Pointe du Lac.”

“Opportunity?  Sure.”  Detective Williams efficiently recites.  “His alibi is that he and Lestat were in their room, fucking like rabbits.  Which means jack-all: to protect each other, those two would lie before the Throne of Justice, never mind to us…  But good luck proving that in court, and, honestly, who’s to say they weren’t?  Motive: business and personal, even admits wanting to kill the guy, but…”

“But you don’t like him for this, Bricks?”

A shake of the head, if not a vigorous one.  “Not really…  It’s the method, Lil: I just think that, if Louis truly meant to kill the Roman, he either would’ve finished the job right then and there, stuck in that knife and bled him like a pig… or, after a decent interval, hired a hitman, kept his own hands clean and suspicion off him and his hubby.  But something in-between?  No, not his style.”

Detective Lafleur nods, moving on.  “OK.  Lestat?  Alibi’s just as flimsy and, as far as means…  He’s definitely the one I’d bet on overpowering the vic most easily.  Unless we take him completely at his word about not having enough of a motive…”

“Which I don’t think we should: De Lioncourt is definitely lying about something - even more than the rest of them - between Rashid’s statement and the room search we know that much.  And yet…”  Detective Williams frowns.

“Yes?”

“Bottom line, for me: Du Lac is shrewd, cautious; and De Lioncourt’s dumb blonde act is just that - armour, a convenient fiction.  If either of them had done this, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t speak to us without some lawyer whose firm predates the Revolution and whose outfit costs more than my monthly salary.”

“Hmm,” Lily signals a sort of non-committal acknowledgment of her colleague’s point.  “So… the staff?”

Bricks counts off the pros and cons on her fingers.  “Both Damek and Rashid say they saw the other in the kitchen at the time.  Not as bad as spouses, but still: worked and lived together for years, united in not being the only two one-percenters around - might cover for each other.  Damek’s the only one here with an actual criminal record; that bruiser, physically speaking, could’ve drowned De Romanus without batting an eye - and, quite unprompted, basically told us his employer was an evil man who deserved what he got… but, unless he’s genuinely a dumbass or a zealot…” she makes a gesture of frustration, “if he’s the murderer, why on Earth would he speak up when simply keeping quiet would have likely kept him off our radar?!”

“Exactly.”  Lafleur nods.  “Why I can’t totally rule out Mr. Mahmoud despite his lack of motive: too quick to bring up the fight, point us elsewhere… particularly if his colleague ever confided his suspicions about Marius to him…  By the way, Bricks, what do you make of those?  Any truth to them?”

The investigator sighs.  “Damek’s hints and allegations?  Vague, but…  Combined with what we’ve seen here: from photos which will haunt my nightmares for the next few nights, to everything Daniel and Armand have so carefully said - and, even more carefully, not said - put it this way: I don’t feel the need to rend my garments over the Roman’s untimely passing.”

“But did the son, the would-be son-in-law, or both of them actually do the deed?”

“Could have…”  Bricks tries to massage out an impending neck-ache.  “Certainly the weakest alibis.  Armand says he was with his siblings, which is absolutely useless - and we’ll get crucified if we even suggest questioning those little cherubs.  Daniel claims to have spent the night alone in his guest room, except when he snuck in to talk to Armand in the ensuite…”

“You believe him?”

“Not the ‘talk’ part, but that is, for our purposes, irrelevant.  And, this morning, he says he went for a walk, which no one can confirm or deny.  Same for their motive, by the way, since what we suspect, we’ve yet to prove.  So, are those two plausible as murderers?  Absolutely!  Actual murderers?  You got me there.”

Lily mimes banging her head against the wall.  “Right back where we started…”  She raises her eyes heavenwards.  “Bricks, are actually looking at some sort of ‘Murder on the Orient Express’-type deal?  Like, they all killed him and are all covering it up?”

“That’s it.”  The other detective signs “time out.”  “If this is where our brains are at, it’s time to rest them.  Get some sleep; let all the suspects stew in their box overnight.  First thing tomorrow, we shake our crate of rats a bit, and see…”

“See what?”

Detective Briana Williams’ lips form a humourless smile.  “See which of them begin to eat each other, and who tries to bolt.”

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.”

Chapter Text

No one says anything in answer to these words.  No one knows what to say.  The silence grows loud, oppressive; when Lestat speaks again, he rushes into it, desperate to fill what he can’t handle.  “It wasn’t… what you think, it wasn’t real, the-the pictures, we weren’t really…  We never - Gabrielle never…  She didn’t hurt me that way, she didn’t…”

Only Louis’ voice breaks in, matching the stroking of his palm on Lestat’s back.  “I know, honey; I believe you, it’s OK…” he murmurs as his spouse’s voice finds strength.

“You see, my… mother, in her adventure books - she always, always wrote from life, about things she had actually done.  Exciting, risky things.  While hiking the volcanic massifs in Auvergne, she fell; got badly injured.  Gabrielle recovered, but the pain… her doctor prescribed opioids, and…  She got addicted, couldn’t stop, she needed help; but the good places cost so much, and, with her struggling to work and me a teenager, just starting out modeling, we didn’t have the money.”

He pauses, breathing hard.  Louis continues his ministrations, but his face - every feature tight, mouth clamped shut, nostrils flaring - suggests a man trying hard not to scream.  Lestat resumes.  “One of the few contacts I’d already made was Magnus - you know, as in the fashion magazine…  I’d already heard rumours about him, bad ones, but we were desperate, so we went to him; I told him I’d do anything.  He took a look at me, at Gabrielle - she’s stunning, my mother, I get my looks from her - and smiled…  I still remember that crocodile smile on his old face as he assured us that, yes, he could guarantee the amount we needed: he knew ‘private, discreet art connoisseurs’ (what he called them) who’d gladly pay for ‘special’ images, the kind not found in dirty magazines, ‘the real thing’... an actual mother and son…”

Another pause.  Lestat looks down at his long fingers which open and close in time with his words.  “The Roman - Magnus used his photos for the magazine all the time - happened to overhear us talking, me losing it: I didn’t want to do this, but I couldn’t, couldn’t watch my mother suffer, bear the thought she might…”  A convulsive swallow.  Blue-violet eyes, wet and suddenly young, meet the detectives’ for a moment.  “He…  Marius was kind, you know.  Offered to take the pictures; said he could stage them to look perfectly convincing while, in reality, we’d barely need to touch.  Told me to just think of it as acting, as no different than any other posed photoshoot, like strangers in an ad pretending to be a family unwrapping empty ‘Christmas presents’ in the middle of July…  And it worked.  I got through the shoot somehow.  Magnus kept his word: we got paid.  Marius even took me in, looked out for me while Gabrielle went to rehab.  Then, unexpectedly, Magnus had a fatal heart attack; Marius claimed he managed to slip into his office and get the photos back - the old vampire lied about the ‘connoisseurs’, he wanted them for himself - swore to me he destroyed everything, even the negatives.  Only, he lied.”  A bitter laugh.

“Is that why you broke his statuettes?” Lily prompts gently.

The blond nods his head.  “I felt so… angry.  So betrayed by…”  Lestat struggles with the next words, “...both of them.  ‘Father’ - Marius was as close as I had ever come to having one, and…” his voice barely audible, “‘Mother.’  On the nose, I know, but, in the moment, I-I hated them.”

“As you should.”  Louis takes his husband firmly by the shoulders.  “What they did to you, honeychild…  It was abuse, pure and simple.  And for him to keep a record of your violation; to weaponize it against you…”

Lestat suddenly lets out a strangled little sob and buries his head in his spouse’s shoulder.  Louis keeps on massaging the model’s hunched, trembling back as he takes over the narrative.  “My man, bless his heart, is too forgiving for his own good.  I am not.  On the first of the, maybe, three occasions I spent time with Gabrielle de Lioncourt, we had a nice chat, and I told her exactly what I thought of what she’d done, and what a debt she owed her son, who had been willing to endure the unspeakable to save her…  Well, she’s not here, so never mind all that.  But De Romanus (who, by the way, could’ve helped pay for the rehab out of his vast fortune and, you know, blown the whistle on Magnus for trying to coerce a minor) - when The Azalea stopped working with him, he started dropping hints about those photos, the nasty fucker.  I wanted to take him to court, but,” he nods toward the suffering figure in his arms, “it would force Les to relive the trauma.  So, when Armand invited us to spend the holiday, we seized the opportunity to get the pictures back one way or another…  Les tried reasoning with the Roman, asking him to just do the right thing…  Well, you know how that turned out.”  Louis gives a derisive snort.  “And seeing them hit Lestat so hard…  I can’t stand anyone hurting the man I love, so…” he mimes a slashing motion.  “But then, Les whispered to me that he saw Marius hide them, knew exactly where they were.  I calmed down at once: assaulting Marius would get us nowhere - much better to wait for an opportunity and simply take those damned photos and be done with this once and for all.”

Bricks presses, unrelenting.  “Except - and this we know just from your y’all’s public social media posts - you’re trying to adopt, aren’t you?  You can’t afford this kind of scandal at the moment, so - what was your backup plan if De Romanus had other prints or negatives stashed elsewhere, and leaked them out of spite?”

Du Lac glares fiercely, but replies without a moment’s hesitation.  “He wouldn’t dare.”  His handsome features flinch in visceral distaste.  “Those dirty pictures… my husband is fifteen years old in them.  The Roman would’ve risked exposure as a child pornographer; he definitely wasn’t dumb enough for that.”

The detective gives a performative shrug.  “Still, how fortunate not to have to find out.”

“Yes.”  Lestat, voice still thick from tears, sits up.  “But that is all we did.  As soon as Rashid came running in that morning, shouting - before he’d even telephoned for the police - I ran up to the studio.  I found that filth; we burned it in the fire pit, along with…” his voice hitches; he coughs, “I mean to say, we burned all of it.  I swear, I never meant to destroy evidence,” he honestly pleads, “Right then, it never even entered my mind that Marius didn’t drown by accident.”

Both detectives sigh, praying for patience.  Exchange glances.  Years on the job have honed their instinct for knowing when a suspect’s lying.  And Monsieur de Lioncourt…

“I know that Gabrielle is not exactly what a mother should be; that what she did wasn’t… normal.  Believe me, I know…”  Lestat continues softly, no longer speaking to the investigators, but to Louis, or maybe to himself, “but she does love me, she does care what happens to me.  Just before she left for rehab, she told Marius she trusted him to care for me.  And if he broke that trust - if he ever hurt me - he’d have to answer to her.  Well, I think he believed her: back then, the Roman always did right by me.”

Silence falls again.  Lily lets it breathe for a bit before calmly inquiring, “I wonder…  Did someone else here not benefit from that sort of protection?”

Chapter Text

When no one takes the bait, the investigator fixes her stare firmly on Armand.  The youth’s face remains placidly inscrutable.  “Well?” an almost gentle prompt.  “Would you like to say anything, Mr. De Romanus, or shall Detective Williams and I share our findings so far?”  Elegant fingers motion for her to continue.

“Very well.  The oral contraceptives in your bathroom.  The, shall we say, singular photographs your adoptive father took of you.  Both of you disappearing for lengthy stays abroad just before a new baby joined the household.  Above all, the vague yet constant hints and whispers we’ve gotten from every side since we arrived…  None of these facts conclusive on their own, but in aggregate, the picture they paint is… not pretty.  So, Mr. De Romanus, if we’re mistaken - now’s the time to speak up.”

Armand slowly shakes his head, but does not speak.  Not yet.  Bricktop decides to push.

“Actually, what sealed it for me - and I cannot believe I didn’t clock it right away! - something you said, when you referred to Sybelle and Benji as…”

“My children.”  Armand finishes for her.  He gestures toward the play structure in resigned confirmation.  “My children.”

Bricks nods.  This is no time for platitudes, or even comfort: she needs facts.

“And the persistent local gossip which names Marius as Sybelle and Benji’s biological father?”

“Absolutely true.”  Armand doesn’t even flinch.  “And, before you ask the inevitable questions, my daughter is nearly five.  I - as far as my doctor can determine, and my own faulty memories confirm - am almost certainly no older than twenty.”  The young man sounds merely tired.  “I trust that sufficiently completes your picture?”  

“For what it’s worth, I am so sorry,” Detective Lafleur responds, not insincerely, while noting that the other suspects’ faces turn to the youthful father with empathy, but not an ounce of shock.  “I take it you all know.”  A statement, not a question.

Lestat gives an angry snort.  “Took me long enough.  As I said, Marius was the nearest I ever came to a father; I saw nothing, I would never have believed it…  and then, one day, I decided to pay Armand a surprise visit and walked in on him breastfeeding his baby.  A baby with The Roman’s eyes.  Even then, the little gremlin tried to spin it, but…”  He trails off, and simply puts his arm around Armand’s shoulders.

On the other side, Daniel tightens his hold as well.  “However long it took, we’re all on the same page now: helping Armand put an end to the situation on his own terms.”

“And that situation…” De Romanus continues in the same posh, tranquil tone, “was far less - dramatic - than you most likely imagine.  Marius did not beat me into submission; in fact, he never once raised a hand to me.  Nor did he starve me, lock me in a pitch-dark closet, pimp me out to his friends, force himself on me, or any of the other lurid horrors one finds in true-crime documentaries and fucked-up Gothic romances.  Everything which happened between us, I truly convinced myself I chose to do of my free will, because I was in love; I believed Marius’ promises to marry me when I was ‘old enough’ (stupid, in hindsight: even now, I am practically too old to truly interest him); my precious children are, as you see, thriving, loved and wanted.  As far as child trafficking survivors go, I’m probably the luckiest one to walk this Earth.”  His beautiful eyes blaze.  “Which, of course, hardly puts to rest the question of how I could, at the age of you-don’t-want-to-know, give informed consent to the man I called Father, or erase such inconvenient little words as ‘underage’ and ‘grooming’ from my story.  Which - though Lestat chucked them into the fire pit along with his own to spare me from anyone ever seeing them - will not make me forget a few selected photographs...  The ones Father was far too careful to display on any walls.”

“That sounds unimaginably hard,” Lily commiserates, but Detective Williams cuts her off with, “So…  Why did you stay?”  Molloy bristles, halfway out of his chair, but the youth by his side remains imperturbable.

“A fair question, Detective.”  He interlaces his long fingers.  “But the answer is simple: I stayed for my children.  Officially, Marius - wealthy, powerful, possessed of nearly every privilege imaginable - is their only parent.  What chance did I - essentially a teenager, and, on paper, not even a blood relative - have of getting custody?”

“You could have gone to the police.”  Bricktop points out.  “Compelled a DNA test; pressed charges.”

Only then does Armand’s pristine facade begin to crack.  “Why can’t you understand?!  A trial, the media attention which comes with it… all of that goes public and, in the age of the Internet, none of it ever disappears!  Do you think I want my children exposed to the circumstances of their conception?  Sybelle, learning she came to be because I bloomed late, so Marius didn’t realize he could no longer do what he wished without taking precautions?  Benji, of how I still wonder if there was more to my birth control failure than mere bad luck?  Both of them, forever branded by the knowledge that their blood was tainted by the genes of an ephebophile, a predator?!”  The living statue is gone: Armand gulps air and shakes, eyes feverish as he nearly spits the words, “I’d never put my babies through that, not if I could see any other way!”

“So, what other way,” Detective Lafleur’s voice like a scalpel, “did you find?”

Armand moves an imperious shoulder, icy and self-possessed once more.  “Blackmail.”  He states without a trace of guilt.  “Quietly, patiently gathering the evidence: I hoped to present Father with an airtight case; persuade him to discreetly allow me to move out with Sybelle and Benji… then, a quiet, private - yet perfectly legal - adoption.  No unpleasantness coming to light.  But for that, I needed a nuclear option ready to detonate.  Proof that, no matter how horrible and devastating I found disclosure, it would still hurt him more than it hurt me.”

“We all helped.”  Daniel chimes in.  “I investigated: I may write puff pieces, but my journo training’s more than solid.”

Louis calmly sits forward, chin resting on his hands.  “I put out feelers in the world we both inhabit: models, artists, businesses, galleries…  Tried to see if we could find another victim, other images, more misfeasance.”

“And if we couldn’t, I offered my own story as a last, in-case-of-emergency-break-glass resort.”  Lestat’s mouth is set in a grim line.  “Gabrielle mostly travels, rarely visiting the States, but we do keep in touch…  I filled her in, told her that, if push came to shove, I’d warn her so she could tailor her plans: go  someplace off-grid, bury herself underground for a while…  She even offered to do some investigating of her own: see if she could trace anything about Armand’s so-called ‘adoption.’”

“What a Byzantine intrigue,” Detective Williams shakes her head.  “How lucky that it wasn’t needed after all… especially for you, Mr. De Romanus.  With your abuser gone, you’re safe - and so’s your secret; as your so-called ‘siblings’’ only living relative, you, without lifting a finger, take custody both of them and The Roman’s vast fortune, which they inherit, but, of course, need someone to manage.”

An exquisite black brown quirks upward into equally black curls.  “Implying something, Detective?” the young model sardonically inquires.

Bricks draws eye-level to him; pushes on.  “Hey, I get it: even Mr. Svoboda thinks The Roman got what he had coming.  But you: victimized by him since childhood, with children of your own to think about…  Of course you didn’t want your little ones to grow up within reach of a man like that: a pervert who preyed on the young and innocent and clearly had an incest kink? You wouldn’t…”

Armand springs to his feet almost faster than the eye can see.  He doesn’t scream; he hisses like a cat, body coiled to strike.  “No; no, I wouldn’t.  Before I let my so-called Father touch Sybelle or Benji, I would have cut off both his hands; I’d have burnt him alive.  There’s nothing - nothing - I wouldn’t do to keep my children safe!”

The detectives don’t get another word in edgewise before they’re interrupted by an urgent voice, “But he didn’t do this!”

All eyes fix on Daniel Molloy as he stands up by his beloved’s side and repeats, “He didn’t.  Armand is not responsible for The Roman’s death.  I am.”

Chapter Text

OK, I need to stop you right there, Mr. Molloy,”  Detective Lafleur uses her most professional voice.  “You understand that you are under no obligation to say anything, but that we can use anything you say against you?  Are you sure you want to continue?  Do you wish to consult with an attorney?”

The young reporter fidgets; adjusts his glasses.  “No.  This isn’t a confession.  I mean, I am responsible for Marius’ death, but not the way you think.  I didn’t drown him.”

Detective Williams calmly eyes him up and down.  “Start talking.”

“I fell for Armand the moment we met for that interview,” Daniel begins, love and anxiety alternating on his face.  “Before the first question, I knew he was it for me.  I also saw the suffering beneath the self-control, the glamour.  Of course, it took time for him to trust me with his secrets, but I am nothing if not persistent.”  He frowns.  “Naturally, I wanted him - and his kids - out of here.”  The journalist makes a sweeping gesture to encompass the entire Palazzo.  “True, with Armand getting older, more able to stand up for himself, Marius no longer…” a spasm of disgust distorts his features, “but he still expected his so-called son to serve a purpose: running the household, raising Sybelle and Benji, playing the beautiful, exotic muse for The Roman’s camera…  Well, I’d had enough.  I needed the man I love, and our family, safe.  And, as you’ve already found out, Detectives, yes, I was ready to propose.”

For the first time this morning, Armand smiles.  A genuine, joyful thing lighting up his face like a sunray breaking through dark clouds.  “And I was ready to say ‘yes’, Beloved.”  Almost a cat-like purr.

“Really?” the reporter beams, then turns flummoxed.  “Wait, you knew?  How?!”

“Oh, Daniel…”  Armand shakes his head.  “The way you unpacked your suitcase - so disorganized.  I simply had to rearrange all of your belongings properly.  Including your socks.”

The boy journalist smacks his forehead, then laughs.  “But you’d say ‘yes’?  You really want to marry me?”

The two young men beam at each other.  “Of course,”  Armand takes Daniel’s hands and kisses them.  “I want you.  I want you more than I want anything in the world.”

“Aww…”  Lestat croons, then pumps his fist in the air in celebration.  “Time to plan Armand’s dream wedding, I’m his best man, obviously; Louis, cheri, you take Danny.  So exciting!”

“A-hem,” Bricktop coughs dramatically, unwilling to derail the investigation with further nuptial digressions.

Mr. Molloy snaps back to present reality.  “Right.  I already knew about the daily morning swim - quite metronomic, our late Mr. De Romanus - so, I used it as an opportunity to confront him without witnesses.  Started by telling him I love Armand, intend to marry him.  He smirked - actually inquired whether I’d come to ask for his permission.  I admit - I laughed in his face; told him neither of us needed that, nor his blessing, nor anything else from him after what he’d done.  And Marius, he didn’t even look afraid then, he just… scoffed.”  Daniel kneads his temples.  “I saw red.  I whipped out my phone; gave him a sneak peek at all the research I’d done, everything we’d learned.  Made it clear that, as soon as the scheduled supply boat from the mainland made its stop at The Palazzo, Armand and I would be on it, taking the kids with us.  He didn’t look entirely convinced, so I added that all his dirty deeds now lived in the Cloud and, right after the holiday, would find their way to multiple media outlets…  I bluffed that part, of course: I’d never have gone public without Armand’s permission, but The Roman had made me so angry…  So, I went all-out to convince him that the truth would come out, that he would lose everything: even if he managed to wiggle out of facing charges, everyone would know he was a dirtbag, no one would ever touch him with a 10-foot pole again…”  He trails off.

“OK.”  Detective Williams nods.  “What happened next?”

Daniel removes his glasses; wipes the lenses, his eyes tired yet intense.  “I couldn’t read Marius’ expression, and I didn’t bother to try: just spun on my heels and walked away.  I got the vague impression he was still standing where I left him - on the path to the beach - but I can’t be sure.  Walked around a little to calm down, then went back to the house.  Some time afterwards, Rashid came running in, yelling…”

The detectives allow the silence to linger until Daniel breaks it yet again.  “Don’t you see?  He did it himself, he must’ve - because of what I said, because he didn’t want to face the music.  And, I guess I’m responsible, and, yes, I hated him for abusing Armand, but…” a much quieter finish, “I didn’t actually mean for him to…”

Daniel puts his head in his hands.  Armand pulls him close protectively, shushing him like a child.  Seeing the couple, neither of the detectives bothers asking why he’s kept this possible suicide quiet until now.  They just catch the reporter’s quiet, “But I never laid a hand on him.  When I left, The Roman was alive and well, I swear.”

“It’s true.”  Damek chimes in unexpectedly.  I was on my way to the kitchen when I glimpsed Mr. De Romanus and Mr. Molloy on the path - looked like a heated confrontation.  I lingered, just in case, because of what had happened with Mr. Lestat and Mr. Louis the night before… but then, Mr. Molloy walked away, so I just went back to my duties.  And, yes, Mr. De Romanus was very much alive.”

Lily has just opened her mouth to unload on the lot of them, for, again, telling pointless lies and stupidly withholding information, mucking up the investigation when…

“Pardon the interruption, Detective Lafleur…  Detective Williams…”  the young uni stands in the doorway, just a bit uncertain.

“Yes, Officer Celeste?  What is it?”

“As you requested, my team did a second search of the entire beach.  We’ve found something.”

Chapter Text

“It was sort of in the reeds, some distance away from where the body was found,” Officer Celeste explains, gesturing to the object in a crime scene tech’s gloved hands.  An elegant, dark-brown bottle, uncorked.  Its pale label, though somewhat the worse for clearly having spent time in the water, still flashes a bit of ornate gilding in the sunlight.  All at once, Armand claps a hand over his mouth.  Lestat gives a dramatic gasp.

“Cocchi Vermouth di Torino!” the Frenchman cries out in instinctive recognition.  “Gabrielle gave a bottle to The Roman when she got out of rehab; ever since then, it’s been a kind of tradition between them: she’d send it whenever she was in the States.”

“Father’s particular favourite,” young Mr. De Romanus sounds a bit shaken.  “He’d drink it on special occasions…”

“I’m assuming those did not include before his daily swim?” Bricks asks.  The youth shakes his head in negation.

“Did anyone else ever partake?” Lily enquires.

Armand shakes his head.  “I don’t touch alcohol.”  A shadow passes over his features.  “Marius had me baptized within weeks of my adoption, but - in the few memories I still have of my childhood - I think my birth family was Muslim.”

“I’m not exactly welcome in the De Romanus wine cellar,” Daniel snorts rudely.

Damek and Rashid both make noises about “unprofessional.”

“I can’t anymore, not with my medication.”  Lestat states.  “That Screwdriver after the murder was my only slip-up, and,” he shudders, “I felt like I got poisoned and dumped in the swamp: not eager to try that again, merci beaucoup.”

Louis points at his own chest.  “Sober in spousal solidarity.  And, in any event, more of a dry and savoury man myself: to me, sweet booze just tastes of annihilation.”

“It’s hard to determine after the bottle’s been submerged in water, of course, but the only fingerprints appear to be the decedent’s.”  Officer Celeste points out.

“Also,” the tech cuts in eagerly, “we found this trampled into the sand, probably why we missed it initially.  Sleeping pill container - no label, so, no way to tell when the contents were taken, or by whom, but…”

“But we better get all of this over to the lab - and ask Seth to run a tox screen on the body, too.”

********

“Commendable work, Detectives,” police Chief Tom Anderson rubs his hands gleefully together.  “Just what we needed in a case like this: thorough and meticulous, but also tidy and efficient - not to mention, all wrapped up neatly with a pretty, patriotic bow before the media feeding frenzy had time to begin in earnest.  Well done, ladies!”  He tips an imaginary hat to them.

“Is it?  All wrapped up, I mean?”  Detective Williams asks, quietly yet firmly.

The police chief smiles into his moustache (in a style which was, perhaps, last in fashion sometime around 1910).  “Of course!  Everything falls into place: rich pervert thinks he’s about to get exposed, decides not to stick around to deal with the fallout; even indulges in his favourite booze as a last treat and some sleeping pills to make it easy on himself.  And that’s all she wrote, folks…  What don’t you like about it?”

“No note,”  Detective Lafleur points out.  “And, where did those sleeping pills come from?  There’s no evidence of anyone on the island having them, getting prescribed any…”

Anderson shrugs.  “Who knows where overprivileged fucks like him get their little vices?  Sure, it’s a question, but… sleeping pills ain’t exactly enriched uranium, the Roman could’ve gotten some on the sly if he wanted them for - well, honestly, given what we’ve learned about his idea of fun, I’m not even sure I wanna know.  As for the note… he hoped to make it look like an accident, didn’t he?”  He uses his most deliberately hearty voice.  “I mean, if the whole point was to avoid getting dragged for his misdeeds, you can’t expect him to confess, can you?”

Bricks concedes the point.  Still…  “Doesn’t quite seem in character, does it?  De Romanus was, by all accounts, entitled, arrogant, believed himself untouchable - wouldn’t he have thought that - with his wealth and privilege - he’d get away with it?”

“And, legally, perhaps, he would have.”  Tom nods.  “But he’d lose everything: his kids, his barely-legal boy toy (who, by the way, would easily have taken him to the cleaners and torn his reputation to shreds); he’d get so cancelled he wouldn’t dare come within 50 miles of anything with wi-fi; and professionally - no more commissions, no more shows, galleries scrambling to take his works off their walls…”  Anderson spreads his arms in a there-you-have-it gesture before adding, “Seth’s tox report, for all its caveats, did suggest alcohol and sleeping pills in the bloodstream; no signs of a struggle which we cannot reasonably attribute to the fight the night before or the body getting battered by the waves.  Looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, therefore self-inflicted.”

“I hear ya, Tom,” Lily absently strokes her chin, “and it makes sense - I guess I just have a hard time believing it: so many suspects, so many motives… but no murderer.  OK, let’s agree Louis’, Lestat’s, Rashid’s and Damek’s alibis are genuine - or at least not disprovable, would probably hold up in court.  But Armand?  Daniel?  No one can vouch for them.”

Unexpectedly, it’s Briana who challenges her.  “Still, I just don’t see either of them pulling it off…  ‘Here, Daddy dearest, we’re about to wreck your life - let’s drink to it before your morning swim.’  In those circumstances, Marius simply wouldn’t take alcohol offered by his teetotalling son or the reporter he could not abide, especially since we can somewhat confirm Daniel’s claim of having confronted the Roman, suggesting the rest of his story is true.  Plus, those two are insane about each other, so, bottom line: if either of them did it, the other one would have sworn they were screwing at the time of death…”

“There you go, then,” Anderson’s moustache rises at both corners.  “Everyone on the island, off the hook.”

“Well…  Lill and I checked it out: any strong rower with a workable boat could’ve made the trip to The Palazzo from the mainland, and the place had, like, zero security: even Damek admits no one so much as locked the doors, ever.  So, easy enough to do it undetected.  And there’s that one blond hair Seth found on the body - the rootless fragment which we presumed had to be Lestat’s, from the fight, but came back inconclusive, only a 50 or so percent match.”

Chief Anderson massages his temples in frustration.  “Detectives…”  He nearly groans.  “Even our good coroner agrees that hair is likely Blondie’s, only damaged.  If we can’t build a case against our plethora of flesh-and-blood suspects, why should we make up additional imaginary, ones?”  His eyes glint.  “I mean, this outcome is a gift: no perp means no scary murder to wreck the summer tourist season; everyone’s satisfied, so no possible blowback; taxpayer dollars saved; we look great in the process.  And…” he meets their gaze, suddenly simply earnest.  “Look, I am not a great guy - even I know that - but…  I got kids.  So, what Armand de Romanus - a literal goddam teenager with two babies to think about - had to endure… yeah, that hits home for me.  Yes, Marius (had he, in fact, been murdered) would still deserve justice.  But, since almost everything we know says he wasn’t - well, Armand deserves it more; deserves to move on with his life with a fighting chance at happiness.  We rule it suicide, we give him that.  And so I say - case closed.”

Lily and Bricks think back to the last time they saw their suspect pool - everyone crowded into the small ferry boat taking them back to the mainland.  Each man visibly standing taller, eyes brighter and smile wider as they left The Palazzo and its ghosts behind.  Rashid and Damek brainstorming a joint business venture; Louis gazing with calm fondness at Lestat’s suddenly carefree face; above all, Daniel and Armand nearly radiant with joy, reveling in every sight which met the children’s wonder-filled eyes.  Looking out at a horizon grown fresh and wide with newfound possibility.  Laughing.  For just a moment, the partners communicate without speaking, and nod, before saying, in unison,  “OK.  Case closed.”

Chapter Text

Everyone crowded into the small ferry boat taking them back to the mainland.  Each man visibly standing taller, eyes brighter and smile wider as they left The Palazzo and its ghosts behind.  Rashid and Damek brainstorming a joint business venture; Louis gazing with calm fondness at Lestat’s suddenly carefree face; above all, Daniel and Armand nearly radiant with joy, reveling in every sight which met their children’s wonder-filled eyes.  Looking out at a horizon grown fresh and wide with newfound possibility.  Laughing.  

“Oh, relax, you pair of whiny existential queens!” Daniel Molloy rolls his eyes at the married couple next to him.  “It’s done, it’s all over, no one’s gonna care about your sordid past anymore, the folks at the adoption agency will love you - you’ll be getting your little bundle of joy soon enough.”

“And if not,” Armand chimes in, teeth flashing white in mirth, “What the heck: I’ll be your surrogate… for a sufficiently obscene fee, of course.”

Lestat frowns, in obvious performance.  “With which one of us, gremlin?” he inquires.

Armand shrugs.  “One each, naturally: make it a girl for Louis and a boy for you.  And, hey,” he gestures with boundless generosity, “treat me right, and I’ll even let you put them in me the old-fashioned way.”  He winks.  “If my Beloved offers no objection.”

Daniel just grins while giving a thumbs-up.  “Go for it, Boss: after all, it’s my turn to sit in the chair and watch.”

The detectives shake their heads and sigh.  Oh, they definitely won’t miss this crew of weirdos.

********

Seven Years Later…

Detective Williams does end up seeing them again from time to time.  Not entirely intentionally, yet not entirely by accident, either - only natural for her to keep up with some local news and gossip when familiar names come up.  Thus, she knows that the young Mr. de Romanus after (quietly but respectfully) burying his adoptive father, sold the entirety of The Palazzo and used most of the profits to start a charity to help orphans in the land of his birth.  The only portion he withheld went not to him, but to provide Mr. Mahmoud and Mr. Svoboda with a generous severance package.  The two men promptly pooled their resources to purchase the building Brianna’s looking at right now.  The Azalea Bed and Breakfast is a painted lady riot of colours, her gardens laden with its namesake blossoms and her patio restaurant abuzz with holidaymakers - including some familiar faces.

Every summer, they celebrate Independence Day here: two unusual, growing families, or perhaps one very large, truly bizarre one.  Not that Bricks has time to follow celebrity goings-on, but, since she does not actually live under a rock, she did get wind of the fairytale wedding between a certain up-and-coming model and eager boy journalist; and, peering through the decorative wrought-iron fence, easily spots the crew - now all legally Molloys - complete with the newest additions: Sybelle and Benji’s little siblings Lenore and Katie.  The couple across from them is even more beloved by the camera and the media.  Lestat and Louis’ dreams of adopting have, in fact, come true.  Mr. Du Lac is currently deep in conversation with his daughter Claudia.  The precocious youngster already has a recurring role on a TV show and a reputation for nearly preternatural, method-acting maturity.  Next to them, Mr. Lioncourt seems to have grown even more breathtaking from sheer happiness, radiating love at everyone around the table, right down to the infant in his arms.  As far as the entertainment press is concerned, little Viktor Gabriel de Lioncourt’s arrival caused nearly as much furor as that of a royal baby.  Even the hardened investigator can’t help smiling at such a picture of domestic bliss… but it is the final person in the group, one she’s never seen here before, who draws her attention.  The one Bricktop has come to observe.

********

She’s certainly made a triumphant comeback from her lengthy disappearance.  Her new bestseller merges yet another rugged, human-versus-Nature globetrotting adventure with a memoir of addiction overcome, a hard-won sobriety.  Clearly a winning combo, if the long queue of eager readers lining the pavement outside the posh bookstore is any indication.  Detective Williams takes her place among them, whiling away the wait time by looking at the promo materials on the sandwich board, windows and walls.  All evolving versions of the same Superwoman, ruggedly handsome even as the elements weather her pale skin and the snow of passing years begins to rest on her distinctive golden hair.

Here she is, strong arms at the oars, rowing a frail little boat across the Channel.  In full SCUBA gear amongst the splendour of a coral reef.  Free-diving.  In heartbreaking surroundings at the Polish border, a selfless volunteer assisting medical personnel treating Ukrainian refugees.  Finally, in the flesh, busy dispensing autographs at a table piled high with hardcovers, each one gleaming with silver letters proclaiming its author as the one and only Gabrielle de Lioncourt.

At first, the writer’s eyes - a startling blue-grey-violet, nearly as beautiful as her son’s, but colder - slide over the investigator with the same polite superficiality they give to everyone in line to get their book signed, but then…  “Mademoiselle de Lioncourt,” masked by a flawless smile and equally flawless French, “Detective Briana Williams.”  A badge discreetly proffered.  “We need to talk.”  She taps meaningfully at the note she’d taped to the hardcover’s flyleaf.  The author’s features barely register a ripple before her pen inscribes, not her signature, but a time for the rendezvous.

*******

The two women regard each other across a tiny table in the hole-in-the-wall pizza joint: the sort patronized exclusively by locals, and not the literary-minded kind at that.  “All right, Detective.”  Gabrielle sounds almost amused.  “You wish to talk?  So, talk.  Explain this.”  A weathered hand produces the note from earlier.  Only 2 words: “I know.”

The amusement only grows as Ms. De Lioncourt leans forward.  “Tell me,” her blond eyebrow quirks up, “just what, exactly, do you think you know?” 

Bricks mirrors her enthusiasm, pleased to get straight to the point.  “Very well.  During the now-closed case of one Marius de Romanus, a few facts stuck out to me.  Quite the adventurous life you’ve led, Madame - remarkable, really: all those amazing skills amassed.  To pick a few at random…  You are quite the rower; proficient at SCUBA diving (old news to you of course, but I was floored to learn all that gear will function in as little as, say, 1.5 meters of water); you’ve even had some medical training… enough, I daresay, to handle a syringe, even beneath the waves?”

Gabrielle smiles.  “Detective, I can’t tell whether you’re interviewing me, or merely flattering.  Because the latter, as they say, gets you nowhere.”

A smile returned.  “Perhaps not.  All right…  How about a few facts of a different sort?”  She begins to list them on her manicured fingers.  “Cocchi Vermouth di Torino.  Well-known as The Roman’s special occasion drink; since nobody else ever touched the stuff, who could possibly vouch whether the bottle found on the beach actually came from his wine cellar?  Booze and sleeping pills, injected; risky, but you had to subdue him enough for the body to show no obvious signs of a struggle, right?  Let me guess: you’d hoped to plant the pill bottle in his bedroom, only we arrived too fast, so you had to settle for the beach?  On the other hand, a stroke of luck for you and your getaway plans: no one in town had seen you for years, you weren’t on anybody’s radar - not even ours, not with the gaggle of suspects we already had - just another small boat messing about in the bay which, over the holiday weekend around these parts, stands out about as much as a leaf in a forest…”

The writer shakes her head from side to side, not even bothering to hide her mirth.  “Mon Dieu, Detective Williams, I wish I wrote fiction: you’re giving me such spectacular ideas for a potboiler… of the fantasy kind.”

“True,” the investigator keeps her tone conciliatory, “but, in any murder plan, there is always some unexpected hiccup, a hair in the mechanism, so to speak…  In this case, quite literally: a single hair fragment, only a 50% match for Lestat, of no use to us at the time.  But, if I were to compare it to, say, another sample?”  Almost lovingly, she brushes a still-attractive strand away from Gabrielle’s face.

Only the slightest flinch.  “And yet,” the author’s hand gestures around the dingy joint.  “I see neither a police station around us, nor a court order compelling such a sample on the table.  So, what do you really want from me?  A confession?  Some dramatic declaration of my innocence?”

“You’re no innocent.”  Briana’s eyes blaze, fiercely, just for an instant.  “Not now; not years ago, when you used your own son as…”

“Addiction is a terrible disease,” Gabrielle interrupts.  “You don’t need me to tell you that.”

“But not a get-out-of-jail-free card,” Detective Williams counters, intentional in her choice of words.  “When I met Lestat, I met a very brave, loving, self-sacrificing young man… who needed therapy and medication to cope with what had been done to him.  Do you at least understand what part you played in that?”

For the first time, the author’s icy veneer cracks.  Bricks glimpses a face twisted in pain just for a moment, before Gabrielle’s head drops into her hands.  “I do.  It haunts me every day: what sort of mother I was, that I failed him…”

“You did,” Bricks confirms, unflinchingly; then, her voice softens.  “However…  After years spent doing this job, I’ve developed a kind of gift: I always know when a suspect is lying to me.  And when they’re not.  That’s why, when I interviewed him, I knew this much was true.  You do love your son, don’t you?”  Waits for the confirming nod.  “So, when he told you what was happening - with The Roman, with the photos, with Armand - you committed a new crime to atone for the old one.”

“And if - purely hypothetically, of course - a mother did so to make amends for when she failed to protect her child…  Wouldn’t people, hypothetically, understand?”  She sounds cold and controlled, but the investigator can sense the turmoil underneath.

“They might.  Certainly not a case I’d relish bringing to a jury, not if I could help it,” Bricktop admits.  Then, almost casually, “Does Lestat know?”

Gabrielle shakes her head.  “He suspects nothing.  My son is a golden child of light who, despite everything he has endured, refuses to live without believing in the possibility of goodness.  My son-in-law - well, he’s a bit more comfortable with the darker side of things; perhaps that’s why he’s finally warmed up to me a little lately.  I am - cautiously, with boundaries - allowed back into their lives, into my grandchildren’s lives…”  She falters, just a little; draws a steadying breath.  “I get to see that my son’s in good hands, that he’s finally… happy, and…”  For the first time, Gabrielle de Lioncourt regards Detective Williams with an unspoken, earnest plea.

Silence reigns heavy for a lengthy moment.  Then, Bricks gives a near-imperceptible nod.  “I’m glad everyone is doing well.”  She says almost lightly.  “I cannot guarantee that nobody will ever choose to dig through that particular cold case, but, officially, I closed it seven years ago.  I do suggest that, in the future, y’all hold your touching family reunions somewhere outside my jurisdiction: I see no need for us to speak again.  As far as I’m concerned, the matter is concluded.”

“Thank you.”  Gabrielle says very quietly.  A fleeting tremor passes through strong limbs which once wrapped ruthlessly around a drugged body, holding it beneath the water.  Before she walks away, the detective catches those beautiful blue eyes warming, making them look even more strikingly like Lestat’s; and, for a second, thinks it’s somehow fitting that they were the last thing Marius de Romanus ever saw.