Ascension Day

by John Matthews

  The sound of the siren had paused, not moving away any more, as if they were edging down the alley opposite very slowly, or perhaps they’d already stopped, realizing he wasn’t there, and were about to head back.

  Jac picked up pace again, and it was then that he noticed the boarding sheet to one side, a rusted chain looped through a hole in it, and the gap between it and the next seven-foot-high boarding sheet. Could he squeeze through it?

  The siren. Same distance away or moving closer? He had to decide quickly.

  The gap appeared too narrow, but the board looked like it might have some give. And as Jac became surer that the siren was moving closer again, he barged against it, pressing hard.

  He got a shoulder and part of one thigh through, but couldn’t get further. He pushed again, got a few more inches in, but not enough. Closer. If he didn’t hurry, he’d still be there, stuck half-in, half-out, as the squad car rolled by the alley.

  With a heavy, grunting shove, he finally felt something give, the chain biting deeper into the rotting board, and he slipped through.

  Long weeds and grass. Rubbish strewn between. Closer. Jac pushed the board back so that it was adjacent with the adjoining board, didn’t look like there’d ever been a gap, and eased out his breath. A dark, derelict building seven yards behind, an old warehouse or shop. Looked like it had been sealed off for development, then abandoned.

  The siren stopped then, but a moment later there was the sound of radio static on the night air. If they weren’t actually by the entrance of the alley, then they were very close. Jac held his breath.

  The sound of another siren. Moving closer, louder. It cut off when it was only half a block away, then seconds later there was the sound of another engine idling and more radio static on the air, voices conferring.

  Jac closed his eyes. Oh God. They’d called in support to close the net.

  The voices more urgent for a moment, one of them calling out, ‘Yeah, yeah… sure.’ Then a car door closing and an engine revving stronger. Jac not sure at first what it all meant, until he saw headlamp lights point up the alley, then the sound of the patrol-car engine edging closer, echoing slightly as it bounced off the sides of the narrow alley.

  It was moving slowly, ever so slowly, and Jac became aware of another light at that moment, shifting back and forth along each side: the patrolman obviously hanging his torch out the window, every inch of the alley being scoured and checked.

  Jac sucked in his breath as they came closer – only six or seven yards away now – but in that instant he also became aware of movement and rustling in the grass, something brushing against one leg. His first thought, with all the rubbish around, was rats, but he daren’t move. His whole body in that instant frozen, breath held, swallowing back even to try and calm the pounding of his heart in case they heard it as they edged alongside.

  The rustling moved away from his leg, but Jac was worried that even that faint sound might be heard by them, and they’d stop to investigate – his eyes wide as the torchlight hit the board at his side. It moved gradually away in a steady sweep, then suddenly returned, lingering longer this time.

  The sound of the engine idling and the radio static now seemed deafeningly loud, as if Jac was actually inside the car with them, and the torch-beam stayed on the boarding for a full eight seconds – though to Jac it felt far longer – before finally shifting.

  The car, though, didn’t start edging forward again immediately, as if the driver was more uncertain about the boarding – then its engine rattle slowly, too slowly, receded along with the fading torch-beam. Jac didn’t finally ease out his breath again until it was a good thirty yards past and he was sure that they’d gone, that one of them suddenly wasn’t going to pace back to investigate.

  The sound of radio static stayed in the background for a while longer, between anything from half a block to two blocks away it sounded to Jac, with a fresh siren joining them at one point – before it all finally faded away.

  Yet still Jac stayed where he was, breathless, body winding down, listening to the sounds of the night for almost ten minutes more – until he was sure that the police had cleared from the area and no more sirens were coming for him. Then he started thinking about what to do next.

  He looked at the bag in his hand, then the wild grass and earth at his feet. It wasn’t ideal, he’d have preferred an absolute guarantee of disappearance, but there was still a high chance that it would never be found here. And if he ran on with it, more eyes raised, more risk.

  Jac looked around briefly, then started clawing at the earth with his hands.

  But what Jac hadn’t noticed was the man at a third floor window further along, who had seen him crouched in the rough grass and wondered if he might have anything to do with the sirens he’d heard below a few minutes ago. And as he watched Jac dig and bury the bag, thought he might have his answer.

  Nel-M was late getting to the phone, slightly out of breath.

  Glenn Bateson, a harrowed edge to his voice. ‘I tried you earlier.’

  ‘I just got back in,’ Nel-M said. He’d spent half the evening waiting, tapping his fingers anxiously on his steering wheel while McElroy and the girl ate. So after phoning Roche to tell him it was all done, he felt he’d earned a celebratory meal and dived straight into a plate of crawfish and crab claws at Deanie’s, bib up to his neck, smiling and raising a glass of chilled Chablis to the air as he imagined McElroy at that moment being grilled by the police, or perhaps already in lock-up and making his one call to one of his buddies to save his sorry ass. And he’d started to feel mellow, relaxed for one of the first times in weeks. The sense that now, finally, it was the end of everything with McElroy and Durrant. But with the edge in Bateson’s voice, he could feel the first bubbles of anxiety returning. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Yes, I would – just fucking tell me.’

  ‘McElroy. He’s arranged for a psychiatrist to come and see Durrant. Some guy called Ormdern.’

  ‘When for?’

  ‘Two days time, straight after the BOP hearing, then another session the day after. McElroy will be there as well, presumably to –’

  ‘No, he won’t.’

  ‘What do you mean – no he won’t? I just picked this up fresh and hot from Haveling’s diary, and –’

  ‘Can’t say it plainer than that, my friend. McElroy won’t be there. And if you want to know why – I suggest you keep an eye on local news channels between now and tomorrow morning.’ Nel-M sniggered, but he could still feel a tightness in his chest where Bateson’s word psychiatrist had hit him, as if part of his crawfish hadn’t digested and had decided to burn a hole through his ribs. Almost certainly everything with the psychiatrist would now be axed too, but it was an uncomfortable reminder of how close they’d come. More brownie points scored with Roche when he told him, more back-pats for his timely ingenuity. ‘Or, if I were you – you know those special occasions when prisoners are allowed to watch TV? Like the World Series or President’s inauguration, or last episode of Seinfeld or Friends? And you get them all in one room looking at an oversized screen? Why don’t you arrange that now for the local news – then just watch Larry Durrant’s face when the piece about Jac McElroy comes on.’

  ‘What have you been up to?

  Nel-M had never liked Bateson, and while he’d invited the question, Bateson’s folksy, slyly gleeful tone made his skin crawl. I’m not one of your good ol’ boys, asshole! he felt like screaming. But he immediately slipped into similar sly mode for his response.

  ‘Now, that would be telling.’

  Jac went to a cash machine on Gravier Street and took out $300 to add to the fifty in his wallet, then started thinking about how to get a change of shirt. He knew he’d be hard pushed to find any shops open, his only hope was probably the French Quarter, so he’d drifted that way, trying to keep in the shadows of the buildings. A police car had passed him on the way, but he’d just kept walking nor
mally, one hand by the stain on his shirt, as if he was scratching his stomach. The car just kept drifting past, didn’t pay him any attention.

  Then, as he approached the corner of Bourbon and Iberville and saw a Lenny Kravitz look-a-like handing out promotional cards for a new club, he was struck with an idea.

  Jac took one of the cards, ‘Thanks,’ nodding towards Lenny K’s chest. ‘And have you maybe got some club t-shirts to sell, like the one you’re wearing?’

  ‘Nah. Just paid me to hand out these here cards.’

  ‘Maybe at the club itself?’

  ‘Doubt it. I think these were jus’ printed up for the bar-staff.’

  ‘Shame. They’re nice, jazzy design.’ Jac smiled tightly. ‘How about you selling me that one? Fifty bucks?’

  Lenny K smiled incredulously. ‘Man, I got another hour out here wit’ these. An’ how am I gonna explain away losing my shirt?’

  ‘Shrunk in the wash, amorous stalker ripped it off.’ Jac shrugged, smiling again. Despite the protests, there was a hint of temptation; though maybe, with the connected hassle, $50 for a ten-dollar T-shirt still wasn’t enough. ‘A hundred bucks.’

  Lenny K looked each way, as if concerned who might be viewing the transaction, and part of his eye-shuffling also took in the stain on Jac’s shirt; one last cloud of doubt before he finally nodded, ‘Okay, man, let’s do it,’ pulling back into the shadow of a shop doorway as he pulled off his shirt and held it out.

  Jac peeled five twenties from his wallet and they made the exchange, and, as soon as he was round the corner, he ducked into another shop doorway to change into the t-shirt. He bundled his old shirt in his hand and threw it in a bin halfway along North Rampart Street, then headed towards the phone kiosk fifty yards along to call John Langfranc.

  Jac checked his watch. 9.32 p.m. Just under fifty minutes since the shooting.

  Langfranc answered quickly, and equally Jac started speaking rapidly, at one point garbling and running ahead of himself with pent-up tension as he struggled to explain.

  ‘Whoa, whoa, back up a bit,’ Langfranc said. ‘So, God’s sake, I can get this clear in my mind.’ He took a heavy breath. ‘Somebody comes by and shoots dead your girlfriend’s ex, straight after you’ve just shut the door on him after an argument? And rather than run off with the gun, he drops it right there… and he’s gone before you open the door again to see what’s happened? Have I got it straight so far?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. That’s right. As I opened the door, I just heard his last few footsteps on the stairs.’

  ‘But then you picked up the gun and ran off with it? That’s the bit I don’t get. Why was that again, Jac?’

  Jac sighed, his frayed nerves riding on it wearily. ‘This is the client-confidential part, John, okay? Because as for the official line – I think we should make out that the killer ran off with the gun, as would normally happen, or just no mention of it at all.’

  ‘Goes without saying, Jac. Without saying.’ Langfranc sounded mildly offended to even be asked.

  ‘The thing is, Alaysha recognized the gun. It’s hers, or rather her mother’s – but it was at Alaysha’s apartment at the time. That’s why I ran off and dumped the gun – because I was sure it would have her prints on it. It looks like whoever did this must have broken into her apartment earlier and got the gun, and then –’ Jac was speaking rapidly again, slightly breathless as he fought to explain, and as he heard a police siren close by, his breath froze in his throat, the siren’s passage counted in tight pulse beats in his neck before his breath finally eased as it drifted past, heading away from him. ‘– then he uses it on her boyfriend, and the set-up’s complete.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, Jac, but it’s not good. Not good. I know you and so I know that you’re telling the truth. But listening to this now wearing the hats of a couple of hard-boiled homicide cops – who don’t know you and on top have heard it all before – it sounds like a story, Jac. And not even a good one at that.’

  ‘There’s a witness, too.’

  From Jac’s downbeat tone, Langfranc knew already that it was bad news. ‘And don’t tell me – they didn’t see the shooter, either?’

  ‘No. Old woman across the hallway. Opened her door a minute after the shot was fired – shooter long gone and just me and Alaysha standing by the body. Started screaming, “You’ve shot him, you’ve shot him!” ’

  Low groan from Langfranc and a throaty, doom-laden ‘Terrific.’

  ‘I need your help, John. That’s why I called now.’

  ‘Help, yeah. Miracles take longer.’

  ‘I need someone I know to represent Alaysha. I need to know what’s happening, which direction everything might go.’

  ‘I can understand that.’ Langfranc was quiet for a second. ‘But this isn’t just protectiveness for your girlfriend, is it Jac? Something else is worrying you about this.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Deflated sigh. The seed of doubt had been there from the moment he’d realized it was Alaysha’s gun, rankling deeper as he’d ducked between the shadows of the night-time streets during the past forty-five minutes. ‘The question that’s bothered me is why frame Alaysha? With everything else that’s been going on, I thought I’d have been the main target for something like that. So if they’ve gone to the trouble of lifting her gun from her apartment, what else might be waiting in the wings? Some hefty Accomplice to Murder rap, perhaps, from other evidence they’ve planted? That’s why I need to know the lay of the land, John, before coming forward.’

  ‘I can see that. There wasn’t a Times-Picayune photographer there to snap you as you left the apartment block with the gun, was there?’

  ‘No.’ Jac chuckled, and Langfranc joined him a second later, as if making sure first that Jac was ready to see the light side. Though Langfranc’s chuckle quickly died when Jac told him that he was spotted by a patrol-car a few blocks away. ‘And I ran.’ Jac sighed heavily. ‘It was dark, though, and I was probably too far away for a good ID.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Langfranc took a fresh breath as he focused on the remaining options; what few were left after Jac’s catalogue of horrors and errors. ‘Did the old girl across the hall see the gun?’

  ‘No, don’t think so.’

  ‘Okay. Hopefully then we’ll get away with the story of the killer running off with it. Or, as you say, just don’t mention the gun – because that’s what the cops will naturally assume. Hopefully, too, the story will wash that you ran off in pursuit of the shooter. As for why you’re still AWOL, I’ll think of something in the meantime.’ Langfranc sucked in his breath. ‘All will depend, though, on what Alaysha might have already told them. How long will the cops have been with her now?’

  ‘Half an hour, maybe more.’

  ‘I’d better get there. Couple of good detectives could pull her apart in that time, have her head reeling. Did you prime any sort of story with her?’

  ‘No. No time. But she’s bright – she’ll know not to mention the gun, particularly with it being hers.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. Because if she mentions the killer dropping that gun on the hall floor – we’re buried before we’ve started. And you also have to pray that the cops don’t find that gun.’

  ‘Don’t worry – where I’ve hidden it, they’re not going to find it. At least, not in a hurry.’

  ‘Remember. You didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you that.’

  29

  The first to arrive on the scene, six minutes after Mrs Orwin’s call, were two patrolmen from the Eighth District, who immediately radioed in for what else they’d need: forensics, homicide, and a meat wagon. They knocked on Mrs Orwin’s door first because she’d made the call but, with their talking and the harsh static from their communicators, Alaysha’s door opened seconds after, and, quickly sensing some unease between the two parties, the officers took one each for questioning – Mrs Orwin hastily ushering her officer in and closing her door behind him.

  Two mo
re patrolmen arrived minutes later and, having conferred with their colleagues, one yellow-taped the downstairs entrance before joining his side-kick in roaming and checking for tell-tale clues, though at all times two-yards clear of the body; the hallowed forensics-only zone.

  Questioning was basic at that point, setting the general scene, which was all dutifully relayed to Lieutenant Jerome Derminget, a bloodhound-eyed homicide detective with wavy, unkempt salt-and-pepper hair, when he arrived on the scene eighteen minutes later.

  Derminget looked like the type that Alaysha would have liked under different circumstances. While his eyes looked tired, as if he read police reports or books late into the night, at the same time they appeared warm, understanding. Though that part also unsettled Alaysha; they looked like they might easily strip away her defences, get to the truth.

  Derminget spent the first ten minutes questioning Mrs Orwin, and had been little more than that time with Alaysha when his station house called to inform him that they had Miss Reyner’s lawyer on the line, a certain John Langfranc, ‘And he insists on being present for any official questioning of his client.’

  Derminget skewed his mouth. He didn’t like the sound of the girl’s story one bit: the shooter that nobody else had seen, appearing magically and firing just seconds after them closing the door, at the end of a big argument to boot; an eye-witness that saw both the argument and then her and her boyfriend over the body, and, to cap it all, her boyfriend, having apparently run off in pursuit of the killer, for some inexplicable reason hadn’t yet returned. It sounded like a fairy story, but Derminget had so far only been filling in background, hadn’t yet got to the harder-assed questions that might put her account to the acid-test. And the involvement of a lawyer so early rang instant alarm-bells, stank of barricades being quickly, desperately put up. If he didn’t get to those questions before her lawyer showed, her story would probably forever get stuck in la-la land. He saw his escape route in official.