Death Before Facebook (Skip Langdon #4) (Skip Langdon Mystery) (The Skip Langdon Series)

by Julie Smith

  There were problems, with Melody being white and everyone else black, but both sides wanted to work them out.

  “Best singer I ever saw,” Tyrone said. “Ever. Well, except maybe Etta James. You like Etta?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “But you know what about Melody? She’s got to quit coming to see us in bars. One of these days she’s gonna get in trouble.”

  “I almost gave her some trouble tonight.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “But neither of us did, did we?”

  “I didn’t want to embarrass her in front of her friends.”

  “Me neither. Kids are hard, you know that?” She wanted to tell him about Sheila, but the story was so complicated—and at the moment so depressing—she didn’t feel like going into it.

  Darryl came up behind Tyrone and leaned on his shoulder. “Don’t Bogart that lady, Tyrone. When do I get to talk to her?”

  “Here, you want my stool? I got to go work out something with Louis. Why don’t you just talk to Ms. Skip a while? You might have met your match, Mr. Darryl. Go to it, now.” He walked off chuckling to himself.

  Darryl looked disconcerted. “What’d he mean by that? You don’t look a whole lot like the Bride of Frankenstein.”

  “Did anyone mention I’m a cop?”

  “Holy shit, you’re kidding! A cop?”

  “Homicide.” She tried to make her smile as dazzling as his.

  “Whoa, boy.”

  “What’s wrong? You a murderer?”

  “No, man, I love cops. That’s what I always wanted to be… just one thing and another, it didn’t work out.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Well, the family frowned on it—after they sent me to Yale and all.”

  “Yale! I thought Joel was the first Boucree—” She stopped, realizing she was blundering.

  “What? Headed for a profession? Now one thing he is: he’s the first to go to one of your fancy white folks’ private high schools. Went to Fortier myself. And, unlike Joel, I actually wanted to be a musician. Also, I’m better at it than he is. But, see, I was good at other stuff too. So they gave me this scholarship and there was no stopping the Boucrees. They wanted their little black boy to go up to New Haven, Connecticut, and freeze his scrawny butt for four years.

  “So I did it. I was a good boy. What I didn’t do, I didn’t do the rest of it.”

  “You certainly don’t talk like a Yalie.”

  “Jeez, don’t you hate the way they talk? It’s enough to make you lose your chitlins and greens. Excuse me; chitterlings and verdant vegetable matter. Anyway, I didn’t go on to better things—like law school or something.”

  “So what’s your day job?”

  “I’m back at Fortier—teaching English and creative writing, which turned out to be what I really liked. ’Course, you should hear me in the classroom—I still don’t talk like a Yalie, but I try not to drop my g’s. Those kids don’t know shit, you know that? Gotta set an example, however tiny. Anyway, when I was in high school I went to the cop lecture on career day.”

  “When did the bartending come in?”

  “Oh, well, I lied about that.”

  “You weren’t a bartender?”

  “No, I said I used to be one. Still am. You should try getting along on a schoolteacher’s salary. Besides, I like the variety.”

  “Two jobs is murder, though. You have kids?” That, she thought, might be a reason for doing it. Surely that was it, she thought. But his answer was a clear challenge:

  “Not married. You?”

  She looked into her drink and shook her head, desperately trying to think of a way to change the subject. There was something high-octane about this guy, a kind of magnetic masculine energy she couldn’t help responding to. But for one thing, she was already involved; for another, she felt slightly squeamish about the uncharted territory of dating a black man.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, she told herself. He hasn’t asked you for a date. He’s just flirting.

  Well, she could use a little male attention.

  “So what does a cop do for fun?”

  “Not that much. This is the first time I’ve been out in a couple of weeks. I read a lot, I guess.”

  “Who’s your favorite author?”

  “I don’t know. Flannery O’Connor, maybe.”

  “Whoa. Good taste. How about contemporary authors?”

  “Who do you like?”

  “Oh, Elmore Leonard sometimes. Jane Smiley; Amy Tan. Depends on the mood I’m in.”

  “No black authors?”

  “Oh, sure. But I feed ’em to the kids. That’s the job, you know? I like a break once in a while.”

  “I know men who say they don’t read women authors.”

  “Well, they didn’t go to Yale. Princeton, probably.” He took a long swig of beer. “Did you go to college?”

  Skip was surprised at the question. “You think cops don’t?”

  “Do they?”

  “To tell you the truth, I flunked out of Newcomb. Barely made it through Ole Miss.”

  “Why’d you flunk out? No, let me guess. Drinkin’, drugs, and hellin’ around. You’re one of those outlaw cops.”

  “Former outlaw. Current cop.”

  “You pretty sure about that? You never break the law anymore?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I’m just gettin’ a feel for who you are, that’s all. I bet you hate kids.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a know-it-all. I live with kids.”

  “What do you mean, you live with kids? I thought you said you didn’t have any.”

  “I don’t, but my landlord does. And he’s my best friend.”

  “Ah.” He turned back toward the bar and sipped his beer, as if chastened. “Your boyfriend.”

  “No. My best friend. Don’t you think men and women can be friends?”

  “My best friend’s a woman.”

  “Oh, yeah? Tell me about her.”

  “Lady I work with at the bar. Waitress.”

  “Well, that tells me a lot.”

  “She’s a writer, I’m a musician—we’ve got something in common, you know what I mean? Only I’ve got something she hasn’t got—’cause I’m a teacher too. Writing is her whole life—I mean, it’s gonna make her or break her. It’s her passion. Whoa. I feel for her, man. Some of the Boucrees are like that.” He gestured with his chin. “Tyrone is, really. Music’s the whole world to him. Man, it’s made him unhappy.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Why you askin’?”

  “’Cause maybe she’s not real. Maybe you made her up.”

  He looked as amazed as if she’d just told him he was under arrest. “Now, why on Earth would I do that? You are one strange chick, you know that?”

  “Sorry. I guess I am.” Can it be he really doesn’t know how appealing that little story makes him? She smiled, hoping it made her look normal. “What’s her name?”

  “Tricia.” When he smiled back, she let out her breath. She hadn’t known she was holding it.

  “Tricia who?”

  “You’re weird, you know that? Tricia Lattimore.”

  The name was as familiar as her own, but by now she was expecting it. “She was my best friend at McGehee’s.” Her high school.

  “You’re makin’ that up.”

  Once he said the first name, she had known it was going to be Tricia Lattimore, though Tricia had been in New York when last heard of. Something about Darryl Boucree was starting to look the tiniest bit inevitable.

  Watch out! she thought. Early warning signal. If he’s like a magnet, he’s got to be bad news, right? AFOG, as they say on the TOWN.

  But on the other hand, how do people ever get together at all if they aren’t attracted first?

  She tried to remember if she’d been attracted to Steve at first. She couldn’t, but one thing she recalled perfectly well: He was attracted to her. Does that mean I’m AFOG for him?

&n
bsp; She didn’t want to think about Steve. She wanted to flirt.

  Which she proceeded to do until Cindy Lou strolled up: “Come on, girlfriend. It’s a school night.”

  “I,” said Darryl, “am taking this lady home.”

  “I think I better go with Cindy Lou.”

  “Uh-uh. You live in the Quarter and it’ll be the perfect walk.”

  Skip slipped off her bar stool. “I don’t think so.”

  But Cindy Lou was already edging out the door. “Oh, you young people.” She had an evil grin on. This was a lot more her style than Skip’s.

  Darryl said, “Just a beautiful walk, I promise. Hands to myself. I’ll even put ’em in my pockets.” Instead, he hunched his shoulders, folded his hands under his arms, and thrust his head forward. He looked so endearingly goofy Skip burst out laughing.

  Well, why not? I’m a cop. I can take care of myself.

  She felt free as all outdoors.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IT WAS A brisk walk in more than one way. The wind had a bite to it, but in a way it felt festive, as if harvest balls were in the offing. On the other hand, a little body contact might have cut the chill—the hands-off policy had its down side.

  “Well, this certainly has been an interesting evening,” Darryl said as they neared her house. “You are just… interesting, you know that?”

  “I thought you thought I was weird.”

  “Uh-huh. That too.”

  She held out her hand. “I had a great time.”

  And that would have been it, if Jimmy Dee hadn’t called her name about then, so loudly they probably heard him back at The Blue Guitar. He was on his balcony.

  “Dee-Dee, what is it?”

  “Sheila’s gone.”

  “Omigod, I’ll be right up. Darryl, I’m sorry. Gotta go.”

  “What is it?”

  “His niece. She’s thirteen.” She was trying to keep the panic out of her voice.

  “I’ll help you look for her.”

  “No, that’s okay.” She turned away and started fiddling with her key.

  “No, really. I’m good with kids.”

  “Dee-Dee and I can handle it.”

  They could have argued another five minutes if Dee-Dee hadn’t said, “Bring him up, for God’s sake. Just get here.”

  Can’t hurt, she figured, and followed orders. “What happened, Dee-Dee?”

  “I don’t know. She had dinner with us—actually, she stalked off in the middle, so I just left her alone. I didn’t check on her till I went to bed, which was about eleven, and she wasn’t there.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “Threw up.” He shot her an accusing stare. “And then called you.”

  “And I wasn’t there. I’m really sorry, Dee-Dee.” She rubbed his arm absently.

  “That’s all right. You were obviously doing yourself some good.” Seeming to remember his manners, he turned to Darryl. “Sorry to speak of you in the third person.”

  “But it means he likes you.” Skip knew the whole thing had been calculated; he had quite deliberately been rude to Darryl, knowing he could get away with it if he camped it up. Sure enough, the comers of Darryl’s eyes were crinkling; in some mysterious way that had never happened with Steve, Darryl and Jimmy Dee had taken instantly to each other. But she didn’t have time to marvel about it. “Did you call the police?”

  “Yes, and they said they’d keep an eye out. Someone came over and talked to me; that was about that. And of course I couldn’t leave because of Kenny.”

  “Where would she go?” Skip knew the runaway scene pretty well, thanks to the same little Melody she’d seen tonight. There was a whole circuit, complete with bars that catered to the underage crowd.

  But not that many thirteen-year-olds. Sheila was too young even to be noticed by most kids on the streets.

  The thought of her out there made Skip shiver. Kids wouldn’t notice her, but adults would. The wrong kind of adults.

  Dee-Dee said, “She doesn’t really have any friends, but I called everyone I could think of.”

  “Did you check my house? And the courtyard?”

  “I took the liberty. You don’t mind, do you?’

  “Good God, Dee-Dee.” Each had a key to the other’s place and they went in and out like family members.

  Skip caught Darryl’s eye and saw that his whole demeanor had changed. With the merriment gone from his face, he looked incalculably sad; melancholy in a way that made Skip want to tell jokes and chatter and make soup all at once to cheer him up. “We got to get out there,” he said.

  “Oh, Darryl, it isn’t your problem. Why don’t you go home and I’ll go look for her?”

  “I’m not sleepy. I’ll go with you.”

  Jimmy Dee said, “Somebody has to stay with Kenny.” She could see he was itching to get out there, but they couldn’t leave Darryl to babysit—he might be a Boucree, but he was still a stranger—and Jimmy Dee wasn’t the right person to find Sheila, of that Skip was pretty sure.

  “I think it’s got to be you, Dad. I hate to say it, but right now I think Sheila might be happier to see Auntie than Uncle Jimmy. What did you fight about by the way?’

  “The proper way to eat spaghetti. She favored the two-finger method.”

  Darryl said, “One dinner I’m glad I missed.”

  “I’m going to take a quick spin around her room.”

  The bed was unmade, but that meant nothing—she might not have made it that day, or she might have gone to bed for a little while. Skip looked around for coats—a fleece-lined jean jacket was all that was missing. And Sheila had been wearing jeans that afternoon.

  “Okay, Dee-Dee, we’re out of here. Darryl, do you really want to come?”

  He nodded. “ ’Course I’m coming.”

  Truth to tell, she would have been disappointed if he’d given any other answer. After seeing that look of utter sadness, she knew there was only one way it was going to fade. A man who could look that way about a missing child wasn’t going to get any sleep if he went home.

  They could see their breath when they stepped out on St. Philip. “Okay, let’s think. I couldn’t stand to talk about it in front of Dee-Dee.”

  “Do I have to call him that?”

  She couldn’t help smiling. “Quit making me laugh. They say over at Covenant House that runaways don’t run to anything, they just run away.”

  “Would she go to Covenant House?”

  “I doubt she’s ever heard of it. But if she did, they can keep her for a while without letting anyone know. I think we better try the streets.”

  “Would she try to go anywhere?”

  “Like back to Minneapolis? She hasn’t got anything back there, and she hasn’t got money. I guess that’s what she’d need first.”

  “If she had a plan. My guess is she didn’t. She just split.”

  Saying to herself, ‘Everyone hates me and they’ll all be sorry.’

  They turned right on Bourbon Street. “She’d walk towards Canal Street, towards the people. Did you ever run away?”

  “Uh-uh,” said Darryl. “I was happy. You?”

  “Oh, yes. Several times, for about half an hour. I thought you might have, since you mentioned not having a plan. I always went home because I couldn’t think what to do next.”

  “It was probably quiet and dark on the street where you grew up; here, it isn’t quite so scary. But even if you weren’t scared out of your wits, you’d have to find some place to hide.”

  “Either that or depend on the kindness of strangers.”

  Despite his promise, he took her hand. “Try not to think about that.”

  They walked silently for a while, looking in doorways, scanning the crowds, which were thin now, it being almost two on a Friday morning. If people turned off Bourbon (and Sheila would follow the people), they would probably walk toward the river, maybe to the Napoleon House, the Cafe du Monde…

  “I know!” Skip shouted. “The Cafe du Mond
e. It’s open all night, a minor can go there, and it’s warm. Anyway, pretty warm.” The tables were outside, but there was heat.

  “Or Kaldi’s maybe,” said Darryl. A coffeehouse on Decatur.

  “Maybe. But the Cafe du Monde’s in the thick of things. It might seem glamorous to be there alone in the middle of the night.”

  “Let’s go.”

  It was bustling, as usual, but there was no sign of Sheila. They questioned the waiters. Sure enough, she’d been there. Not only that, she’d been there twice. Once about ten o’clock and later, around midnight. She’d had hot chocolate and beignets both times.

  “I wonder where she went in between?”

  “Kaldi’s?” said Darryl.

  “Let’s go check.”

  But it had been closed for hours.

  “She must have found some warm place close around here.”

  They walked up and down Decatur, the street where the runaways hung, talking to strollers and loiterers, asking if they’d seen a thirteen-year-old in jeans and denim jacket. One guy said he had, but he couldn’t remember where or when.

  “Know what I think I’d do?” said Darryl. “I might go over to the cathedral. They used to say in Sunday school that churches are refuges.”

  It was a good idea.

  They found her there, in one of the cavernous doorways, her head on her knees, maybe even asleep. A grown street person, a woman, Skip thought, was curled up not ten feet away.

  Skip bent over Sheila and said her name, not wanting to get too close for fear of scaring her. “Honey, let’s go home.”

  Sheila sat up and peered out of eyes so innocent they weren’t even frightened. When she had oriented herself, the fawn look turned to anger. “No way I’m going back there.”

  Skip knelt. “This is my friend Darryl.”

  “Hi, Sheila.” He held out a hand to shake. She stared at him for what seemed like a long time, and finally shook.

  “At least let’s go get something to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Well, I am,” said Darryl. “I’m having a major Big Mac attack. You don’t want some fries or anything?”